Cut And Run

“Something to do while I’m in town. I figure the paper can afford to spring me a ticket.”

“You’re checking out something this Weaze character said, aren’t you? He gave you a hot tip.”

“I just like music.”

“Then who’s playing?”

“Has to be someone good.” He grinned. “It’s Lincoln Center, right?”

“Stark, damn you.”

But he ducked out for his coffee, leaving Alice Feldon sputtering.

Juliana immediately sensed her mother’s tension when she came to the table, but Catharina smiled tenderly and introduced her friend. Rachel Stein rose, also smiling. “Ahh, Juliana, I’m so happy to meet you at last. You could only be a Peperkamp.”

“You know my mother’s family?” Juliana was surprised: she had never met anyone who did. She knew Aunt Willie and Uncle Johannes, of course, but none of their friends, none of the people who’d known her mother when she had lived in The Netherlands. “You’re Dutch, aren’t you? I detect an accent.”

“We knew Rachel in Amsterdam,” Catharina supplied quickly.

“Yes, and I’m sorry I can’t stay,” Rachel said. “A pleasure meeting you, Juliana.”

“Likewise. You’re sure you can’t stay another minute? I’d love to talk.”

But Rachel hurried out, and Catharina swept away the remains of their tray and had a fresh one brought over. “It’s so good to see you, Juliana. I missed you. Now,” she said, filling two porcelain cups with hot tea, “tell me about your tour. Was it successful?”

“Yes, but, Mother—”

“A friend of mine heard you in Vienna. She said you were magnificent.”

Juliana sighed. She wasn’t going to hear about Rachel Stein. She considered asking but knew it would do no good. Only on rare occasions would her mother discuss her life in The Netherlands, and then in the most general terms. Even her father remained relatively ignorant of that phase of his wife’s life. Catharina Peperkamp Fall had survived five years of Nazi occupation when she was little more than a girl, and she’d left her homeland not on the best of terms with her family, especially Aunt Willie, who was, to say the least, difficult. She hadn’t seen her older brother and sister since the concert in Delftshaven seven years ago, and neither Wilhelmina nor Johannes would travel to the United States. But no matter how deep her own curiosity, Juliana hated to pry into a past her mother obviously didn’t want to discuss. In any case, she knew better. Catharina would only tell her daughter precisely what she wanted her to know, no more.

Already, simply by changing the subject she was exerting her will. If Juliana pressed for information on Rachel Stein, her mother would only get upset—and still would not talk about Rachel and how they’d known each other in Amsterdam and what she was doing in New York. You don’t need to know these things, her mother would say; they are of no consequence. You shouldn’t worry. You should be happy. They were the refrains, well-meaning but maddening, of Juliana’s childhood. She’d learned not to argue and, eventually, to keep quiet about her own problems, because they would always cause her mother more grief than they did herself. As a result, Catharina Fall had no idea her daughter was playing jazz incognito in a SoHo nightclub, no idea Shuji thought she was in a funk, no idea she both dreaded and looked forward to her long-awaited performance at Lincoln Center tomorrow night, her final concert of the year. Juliana wouldn’t tell her. Her mother would worry that something wasn’t quite perfect in her daughter’s world. And Juliana didn’t want her mother to worry.

“Tell me everything,” Catharina said.

Juliana did. At least everything her mother would want to hear.

When Stark returned to his desk an hour later, Alice Feldon had left a note on his keyboard. “I want a story out of this. You can pick up your ticket at Lincoln Center before the concert. By the way, Juliana Fall will be performing the Beethoven Piano Concerto No. 1 in C Major, Opus 15, with the New York Philharmonic. That’s Beethoven as in Ludwig van.”

Matthew grimaced. “Sounds like a yawner.”

Four

Master Sergeant (ret.) Phillip Bloch settled back in the oak swivel chair and watched a fat cockroach scurry across the pine floor of the rustic fishing camp he was using as his temporary headquarters. A rich man’s idea of country living. There was natural pine paneling on all the walls, a big fieldstone fireplace, lots of dark, sturdy furniture. He had a little fire going now, just to take the edge off, and the place glowed. It was a hell of a lot nicer than anything Bloch had ever known. But you couldn’t keep out the cockroaches. They crawled over a fancy hand-braided rug just as easily as over some old rag. Didn’t make no never-mind to them. Sometimes Bloch liked to catch the cockroaches, especially the fat ones, and squeeze them between his fingers. It was something to do to pass time. He’d hung around in enough of the cesspools of the world to have learned to amuse himself.

He pressed one knee up against the rolltop desk, a giant hunk of furniture, probably worth four thousand dollars. It was pushed up against a paneled wall, just beyond a double window with a view of the lake and a stand of tall, gangly yellow pine. Bloch was a tall, muscular man in his early fifties, gray-haired, square-jawed, a maniac about fitness and nutrition. His men called him a nuts and seeds freak. That was all right with him; he could kill ninety-nine percent of them with his bare hands. He made sure they knew it.

Right now he was listening to Sam Ryder whine to him from his office on Capitol Hill. United States Senator Ryder. Twenty years ago in Vietnam, Block had known Ryder would go far, and he’d cultivated his relationship with his platoon leader. Kept his eyes open. Listened. Ryder had a unique gift for making people think they were hearing what they wanted to hear when what he was telling them was damn near nothing. But Sammy Ryder did aim to please. At first Block had thought the handsome young lieutenant from central Florida and Georgetown knew exactly how he was wagging folks’ tails, but after a couple of months on patrol, the sergeant realized Ryder wasn’t talking in circles on purpose. It was just the way the poor dope thought. He believed what he was saying; he believed he was being forthright. He was absolutely, A-plus, fucking sincere.

“Don’t ever send Otis Raymond to me again,” Ryder said, but his words came out more as a plea than an order. He knew where he stood with Phillip Bloch. Never mind who had outranked whom; they’d straightened all that out twenty years ago. “If you have something to say to me, then say it yourself. I think that would be a more appropriate method of operation.”

“Okay, Sam. Fair enough.”

“Good.”

Bloch chuckled to himself: the stupid fuck thought he’d gotten his way. He kept his eyes on the cockroach, still moving slowly, and said congenially, “I like the idea of this diamond, Lieutenant.”

“I’m glad you do,” Ryder replied, obviously relieved. It was a crazy idea, that was for sure, but Bloch liked crazy ideas. No risk, no gain.

“I think you’re right: it could solve your problems and mine. So I wouldn’t screw up this opportunity if I were you, Lieutenant.”

“I have no intention of screwing up anything. Give me some time, Sergeant. I have no proof this diamond even exists, much less where it is. And—for the record—I’m a United States senator.”

Ryder knew who had the upper hand, but that didn’t stop him from using that cold, superior tone Bloch had always hated. It emphasized the class gulf between them. Ryder had everything: money, looks, power, reputation. But in Phil Bloch’s opinion, that didn’t change a damn thing. Maybe in other people’s eyes it did, but not in his. If Ryder had a reason to act superior, maybe Bloch wouldn’t have minded so much. But as far as he was concerned, Samuel Ryder, Jr., didn’t amount to a pile of cold shit.

“Yeah, you’re a senator all right,” the sergeant said, “for the time being.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The superior tone had vanished, and the awe and dread that had always been there underneath surfaced. Now that’s the real Sammy Ryder, Bloch thought. No backbone. It made him easier to manipulate than he liked to think. Bloch had gotten to be a master sergeant—had stayed alive—because he knew how to read people. He’d been a career military man, but from the beginning he’d planned for this day. Now that he was retired, he was finally able to set up a military camp the way he thought one ought to be set up. He’d already begun training and dispatching mercenaries. Ryder knew about that. But the good senator didn’t know about the arms dealing. During his army years, Bloch had managed to pull together a small, illegal arsenal of weapons and ammunition, which he was now using as his nest egg. If Sammy found out about that part of his business, he’d start screaming about scruples and the law and all that bullshit, mostly because he’d be scared shitless he’d get caught. Bloch didn’t want to have to listen to any more whining. The arsenal was only the beginning. He had bigger and better plans for the future. And he’d get there, no question about that. He just had to watch for opportunities, know how to capitalize on them—and know just when to turn the screws on “friends” in high places.

“Just stating the facts,” Bloch said, scratching the back of his neck. Damned bugs. He’d never get used to them. “You ain’t going to be a senator forever, Sam. Thinking about the White House one of these days, aren’t you? Be interesting, won’t it, having an ol’ skeleton like me rattling around in one of your closets. Better deal with me straight now, don’t you think?”

“I’m doing the best I can!”

“That’s what I like to hear. So tell me.” Bloch leaned back as the cockroach veered suddenly and started plodding across the huge, round braided rug toward the rolltop desk. “Is the Stein woman still on your ass?”

There was a shocked, horrified silence on the other end. No ragged breathing, no cry of outrage or despair, and no—thank God—whining. Bloch waited patiently, his eyes on the cockroach. It had slowed up, as if it knew where it was heading, but it didn’t change course, incapable, apparently, of doing anything now but move ahead.

“You know about her?”

“Sure, Sam.”

“But how? I never mentioned anything to you—or to Raymond. Was it de Geer? I can’t believe—”

“Hell, no, it wasn’t that damned Dutchman. I ain’t heard shit out of him since he left for New York. He’s an independent sonofabitch. I hope to hell this whole thing’s not riding on him. No, Sam, I heard about the Stein woman and her little visit to you from some people I have in Washington who let me know what’s going on. She spotted de Geer, recognized him, wants his ass for some crap that went on forty years ago. She’s been making a pain in the ass of herself. It got back to me.”

“You’ve got spies in my office?” Ryder’s voice squeaked with fear and indignation. “Damn it, Sergeant, I won’t stand for this! It’s bad enough you’re holed up in my fishing camp like a pack of rats, jeopardizing me and everything I and my family stand for, bad enough you send de Geer to me in the first place as your ‘intermediary’ to squeeze me dry when all I’ve ever done is cooperate with you, do everything in my power to accommodate you, but spies I will not tolerate!”

“Catch your breath and save the speech, Sammy. Way I see it, you don’t have much say-so about what I do or what I don’t do. Answer the question: is she or isn’t she still on your ass?”

Ryder was silent, and Bloch had no trouble envisioning Mr. Golden Boy weighing all his options. He always took his sweet time. Even in combat, no one could rush Sam Ryder when he had to make up his mind. So long as he saved his own butt, he didn’t worry about any other consequences of his stalling.

Finally, he said cautiously, “She thinks I’m going to help her. I don’t know what she’ll do when she finds out I have no intention of doing so. If I turn in de Geer—well, it’s unthinkable. At the moment all she can do is make accusations. She has no proof of a direct connection between me and de Geer. However, if she goes to the press with this, and they decide to investigate, anything could happen. They could even end up on your doorstep, Sergeant. Ryder hesitated. “I’m not sure it’s wise to say where you are—for your sake.”

“Oh, hell, Sammy, don’t deny me my fun. Wouldn’t it be a sight?” Bloch snorted. “A bunch of reporters’ coffins all lined up, ready to go in the ground, for messing with old Phil Bloch. Look, I want you to let me worry about Rachel Stein.”

“She’s not your problem, Sergeant. Don’t get involved. Let me handle things on this end.”