Bad Company

Germany
4.

IT WAS THE following year and von Berger was in Brazil on business when he heard of the appalling tragedy that had befallen the Rashid family, the deaths of the brothers George and Michael and Paul. The news came too late for him to fly back for the funeral, and what would have been the point?

Because of the particular nature of the peerage, Kate Rashid inherited, and was now Countess of Loch Dhu. But the rule still held: There was no public connection between the Baron and the Rashid empire.

At that stage, von Berger knew nothing of the reasons for the deaths or of the Rashid feud with Western interests or the cause for it. It was only later that he would hear of the failed assassination attempt on the life of President Jake Cazalet at his weekend retreat on Nantucket by Irish mercenaries, instigated by Paul Rashid. Then there was the successful assassination of the Sultan of Hazar himself, followed by the failed attempt on the lives of the entire Council of Elders in Hazar, again, by Irish mercenaries.

It was only later that von Berger realized how important in all this had been Blake Johnson, who ran the Basement at the White House. And then there was General Charles Ferguson, who did the same thing for the British Prime Minister, seconded by his right-hand man, Sean Dillon. Dillon, who had personally killed Paul Rashid and his two brothers.

But all this knowledge was in the future. For the present, Max von Berger had to be content to follow Kate Rashid’s activities from afar. He was aware of the arrival in her life of Rupert Dauncey, an American cousin of some kind, once a major in the Marine Corps, and was also aware of a certain jealousy. But life went on and he busied himself in business as usual, until that evening, staying for a few days at the Schloss, when on a whim, he decided to have supper at the inn, the Eagle.

It was crowded, a Friday night, snow falling, winter beginning. When he went in, he received his usual welcome, and the innkeeper, Meyer, hurried to meet him. “Baron, are you dining with us tonight?”

“I think so. I’ll take your special hotpot with potatoes and dumplings. How could I do better?”

“You honor us.”

He led the way to a booth in the far corner and nodded to the two men sitting there, who jumped up and ducked their heads.

“Thank you, my friends.” The Baron took off his hat, and Meyer helped with the heavy coat and seated him. “It’s a bad night, so I’ll have champagne. It’ll liven things up a little.”

Meyer departed, and the Baron took out his case, selected a cigarette and lit it, aware of the man standing at the bar drinking beer and scowling at him. This was one Hans Klein, a huge brute, a local farmer and drunkard. He was seriously in arrears with his rent, had failed to pay again and again. At the town appeals court the previous month, the Baron had given him three months until eviction.

As Meyer brought the champagne in a bucket and a glass, Klein said loudly, “That’s all right for the high and bloody mighty.” He turned to the barmaid and slammed his hand on the bar. “Schnapps, and be quick about it, or do we all have to stand in line for him?”

Conversation faltered and Meyer, thumbing off the cork, looked agitated. “Baron, I’m so sorry.”

“Just pour.”

It was at that moment the door opened, snow whirled in, and the stranger appeared.

He was wearing a hunting jacket with a fur collar, and a tweed cap covered with snow, which he took off and beat against his thigh. Strangers were not usual in Neustadt and he attracted immediate attention. He had black hair, not quite to his shoulders, but long enough, and a handsome wedge-shaped face with a broken nose, with the look of some medieval brave about him. He unbuttoned his coat.

“Good evening,” he said. “A bad night for it.”

His German was almost flawless, but as von Berger recognized, there was a hint of Italian there.

Meyer said, “Welcome, Mein Herr, you’ve come far?”

“You could say that. All the way from Sicily.”

Klein turned to those nearest him. “Italian,” and there was contempt in his voice.

The stranger ignored him and said to Meyer, “I need something to warm me up. You look as if you’ve got every drink in the world back there. Would you have grappa?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Meyer took a bottle down from the shelf and held it up.

The stranger read the label aloud. “‘Grappa Di Brunello di Montalcino.’ Jesus, that stuff is firewater. Pour me one now.” He took it straight down and coughed. “Wonderful. I’ll hang on to it.”

He turned, saw a small table vacant and, in the same glance, the Baron in his booth, amused. The stranger stopped smiling and almost stepped back, as if recoiling physically. He paused, then went to the vacant table, sat down, opened the bottle and poured another one. He glanced at the Baron again, then lowered his eyes.

The Baron frowned, strangely uncomfortable. There was something familiar there. It was as if he knew him, but how could that be? Not that it mattered, for it was at that moment that Klein, drunker than ever, erupted. He reached over the bar, grabbed the bottle of schnapps, pulled the cork with his teeth and drank deeply, then he slammed the bottle down and turned.

“You think you’re God Almighty, Baron, but I’ll tell you what you are. You’re a bastard.” He was so drunk he didn’t know what he was saying. “And I know how to treat bastards like you. Try to come onto my farm, I’ll take my shotgun to you.”

There was total silence from everyone there. The Baron stayed quite calm, sat there, his hands folded over his cane.

“Go home, Klein, you are not yourself.”

Klein lurched forward and swept the champagne from the Baron’s table. “You old swine. I’ll show you.”

“You’ll show no one,” the stranger said, and poured another glass of grappa. “And I suggest you apologize to a great man for insulting him so.”

The Baron glanced up at him, a slight frown on his face, and Klein turned, lurched across and leaned on the table. “Italian pretty boy, eh? I’m going to break both your arms.”

“Really?” The stranger reversed his grip on the bottle and smacked it across the side of Klein’s skull. The big man fell to one knee, and the stranger stood, picked up his chair and smashed it across Klein’s shoulders.

He backed away and Klein reached for the table and hauled himself up slowly. He turned, blood on his face, and the stranger said, “You are an animal, my friend. Someone should have taught you this a long time ago.”

Klein roared with anger and staggered forward, the great hands reaching to destroy. The stranger swayed to one side, tripped him expertly, then kicked him in the side of the head. Klein rolled over, groaned and passed out.

There was an excited murmur and Meyer rushed from behind the bar. “Baron, all this is terrible. What can I say?”

“Very little. Just get him to the police station. They can hold him in a cell overnight.”

Half a dozen men carried Klein out, while the crowd discussed the events excitedly, turning to look at the stranger, who watched as the barmaid brought a broom and cleaned up. He poured another glass of grappa and drank it down in another single swallow. The girl went away.

The Baron said, “You handle yourself well. Brutal and effective.”

“I was raised in Palermo.”

“You speak excellent German.”

“My mother raised me to.”

“I see. You looked at me as if you knew me.”

“Your photo, yes. I would have searched you out at the Schloss tomorrow. This meeting is by chance.”

“And to what purpose? We could start with your name.”

“Rossi – Marco Rossi. My mother was Maria Rossi. She was once in your employ.”

Max von Berger was aware of a slight trembling, a faintness. “Sit down and give me some of that firewater.” Rossi filled the glass again and gave it to him and sat. “Why are you here?”

“She died after a losing fight with cancer. I was a captain in the Italian air force until six months ago. A Tornado pilot. I resigned so that I could be close to her. We lived with my uncle in Palermo, but he died a year ago, so she was alone.”

“But I don’t understand. How can you be called Rossi?”

“Because my mother never married. She made me swear to bring her ashes to you, so here I am.” He took out a packet of cigarettes and the Baron said, “I’ll have one.” His hand shook as he accepted the light. “That’s better.” He pulled himself together. “Why did she leave me? Do you know?”

“Oh, yes. She loved you deeply, but realized how much the memory of your wife remained with you, and I know that terrible story. When she found herself pregnant, she didn’t want you to feel beholden or trapped in any way, so she went home to Palermo to the protection of my uncle, Tino Rossi. He was an important figure in the Mafia.”

“There was something about you when you came in, something familiar. It was as if I knew you,” the Baron said. “Now I know why, but I can hardly take it all in. It’s not every day a man finds he has a son. The same for you, I think.”

“Not exactly. I’ve known you were my father for the last twenty years.” Rossi stood up. “I’ll fix up a room here for tonight and bring the ashes in the morning, then I’m going home to see if the air force will take me back.”

“No, there’s only one place you stay tonight, Schloss Adler. We must talk,” the Baron said, and he led the way out.

In the chapel at the Schloss, it was winter-cold and, as always, the candles guttered and there was the smell of incense. The Baron had personally carried the casket with Maria Rossi’s ashes and now he placed it in front of the family mausoleum.

“I will have her interred with my first wife and…” He broke then and sobbed deeply. “Your brother.”

And Marco Rossi, the hard man, harder than even Max von Berger imagined at that time, was immensely moved, put an arm around him, held him close.

“It’s all right, Father, it’s all right. Don’t worry. I’m here. For this moment, I’m here. We mourn together. She loved you very much, believe me. She made a huge sacrifice for that love.”

Von Berger said, “Because of me, my attitudes, my pride, the stupid von Berger seven-hundred-year-old pride.”

“Hey,” Marco said, “that applies to me, too, doesn’t it?”

Von Berger wiped a tear from his eye and smiled. “Quite true. Now let’s go and perhaps have some supper, a drink, but most of all a chat.”

Later, in the Great Hall in front of a blazing log fire, the butler served coffee brandy.

“That’s fine, Otto,” von Berger told him. “We’ll manage. You’ve made arrangements for Herr Rossi?”

“Yes, Baron, the Imperial Suite.”

“Fine. Good night.”

The butler disappeared into the gloom of the hall, footsteps echoing. Rossi said, “Before anything else is said, I must tell you one thing.”

“And what is that?”

“As I told you, my uncle, Tino Rossi, was Mafia, but there’s more to it than that. He was an important capo. You know what that means?”

“Of course.”

“When he died, he left my mother hugely wealthy, and with her death, that all comes to me. I need nothing from you. That’s not why I’m here. I’m here for my mother and out of respect for my father. I know all about you. You were a great soldier and a great man.”

Von Berger waved it off. “Tell me about yourself.”

“I spent my early years in Palermo, of course. Neither my mother nor my uncle wanted me in the Mafia, which was difficult, because all my extended family, my cousins, were.”

“Judging by the way you demolished a brute like Klein, they failed in their wishes.”

“I spent too much time as a boy on the Palermo streets. You learn fast there. I had a fine education, the best, but I suppose the Mafia was somehow in my blood. A kind of arrogance.” His hand came out of his pocket holding an ivory Madonna; he pressed a button and a blade flashed. “And this… I keep it always. My uncle gave it to me for my tenth birthday.” He folded it.

Von Berger said, “So what came with maturity?”

“I was sent to Yale University at seventeen, studied economics, business. I did well enough, had a flair for computers. Then I went home and joined the Italian air force, and ended up getting shot down and on the run behind Serb lines in Bosnia.”

“That must have been difficult.”

“You could say that.”

“And you want to go back to it?”

“Why not? Within three months of qualifying, I was in the Gulf War, attacking Basra. Bosnia a few years later, Kosovo. It has a special feel, life on the edge. I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment. A little action and passion wouldn’t come amiss.”

“I can understand that. Pour me another brandy.”

Marco did so, lit a cigarette and said calmly, “As I’ve said, I didn’t come to seek any advantage from you. In your position, however, I’d be wanting a DNA test.”

“And that might be a good idea,” the Baron said. “But only for one reason – to secure the line, to legitimize you. You’re quite obviously my son. I have no dispute with it; in fact, I welcome it. I only dispute this nonsense of you returning to the air force. You’ve taken the pitcher to the well far too often. Enough is enough.”

“So what do I do?”

“You’ve got a first-class business background, you’re a war hero, and it appears you’re a rather ruthless young man if someone crosses you. A street fighter.”

“What did my father do to the Ukrainians who butchered his wife and my half-brother? I come from a long line of warriors.”

“Exactly, which is why I wish you to choose to stay with me. To be my right hand.” The Baron shook his head. “Dammit, I’ll be eighty next year and to have my son beside me would be such a benison. I realize you are wealthy and…”

Marco Rossi, filled with an emotion he had only experienced with his mother, said, “No – please.” He dropped to one knee, took the Baron’s hand and kissed it. “You have no idea what this means. To be the son of a man like you.”

“But I do.” Von Berger put a hand to Marco’s head. “Because I am the father of a man like you.”

And Marco took to his new position in life like a duck to water. From then on, wherever the Baron went, so did he. It became common knowledge that he was, in fact, von Berger’s son.

And in intimate moments, the Baron told him everything. About the Führer Bunker and the last interview with Hitler and the source of his enormous wealth; he even told him of the Hitler diary and showed him where he kept it, the secret compartment at the back of the mausoleum with the eternal flame burning in an open bowl. Yet he never let him read it – the secret of Hitler’s overtures to Roosevelt to end the Second World War was von Berger’s alone.

He explained the special and secret relationship with Rashid Investments, how Kate Rashid had saved his life, his blood bond with her. All this, Marco took on board and understood. And then came that dreadful morning in his suite at the Grand Hotel in Berlin, sitting down to breakfast, when Marco joined him and handed him the early copy of the London Times.

“I think you’d better read this.”

It was a front-page account of Kate Rashid’s final tragic flight from Dauncey Place. Max von Berger had seldom felt such anguish. He slammed a hand on the table.

“But what went wrong, for God’s sake? She was a fine pilot.”

“No one knows. Engine failure, probably. I did some NATO training there with the RAF. I know that coast. Sussex, the marshes, the mudflats, then that damned English weather. From the report, it was a dawn flight, with mist and rain, and according to air traffic control, her plane was on the screen for a short while, then vanished. As you can see, they’ve begun searching off the coast.” Marco went to the bar, poured a brandy and brought it to him. “Drink it down.”

The Baron did as he was told. “I owed her so much. My very life.”

Marco felt strangely detached, in a way almost jealous. He lit two cigarettes and passed one to his father. “She must have gone down close in. That means reasonably shallow water. They’ll find her, and this cousin you told me about, Rupert Dauncey.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” He held out his glass. “I’d better have another.”

Marco went and got it and brought it back. “What happens now?”

Von Berger had not even thought of it until now. “The legal agreements with Paul Rashid passed to Kate, and now, on her death, they will come into force for me. I will assume control of the Rashid empire.” He took a deep breath, stunned. He had never actually considered it, not with four Rashids so vital and healthy. “We must alert our people in Geneva, here in Berlin, London. Everything must be put into motion.”

“They’ve still got to find her body. That will take time. Then there needs to be a pathologist’s report, a coroner’s inquest.”

The old man, strangely tranquil, said, “Yes, of course, but we must begin now. There will be no need for secrecy any longer. I’ll speak to the chief executives of Rashid in New York and London, so they know what to expect. They’ll come to heel. They will have no option.”

“And me? What do you want me to do?”

“Ah, for you I have a special task. You will take over all of the security operations for Rashid worldwide. There was a lot going on there, particularly in Arabia and Hazar, and I want to know what it was. How did the three Rashid brothers come to die, and why, and now Kate? It’s a remarkable coincidence.”

“Whatever you say.”

“You’re a genius with a computer, Marco, and you’ll be able to access everything they have. You’ll have the authority.”

“London first?”

“I suppose so. I’ll speak to the Rashid people there, then New York. By that time, they’ll have either found her or declared her dead.”

“Can I do anything for you?”

“Arrange for the Gulfstream to London Northolt.”

“I’ll get on it.”

He went out, and Max von Berger sat there, thinking. Life, he thought, was always so unexpected, one different journey after another, and this one, he told himself with a heavy heart, was to end in only one place. In the churchyard of the village of Dauncey.