Cut and Run

Eighteen

C atharina set her plastic bucket down hard on the sidewalk in front of her bakeshop. Hot soapy water splashed out onto her sneakers, but she paid no attention. It was early, just after dawn, and cold. She dropped her scrub brush into the bucket and knelt down, her heavy corduroy pants worn at the knee from this very ritual. Every other morning she scrubbed the sidewalk from the door of her shop out to the curb. It was an old Dutch custom. Adrian and Juliana teased her about having the cleanest patch of sidewalk in New York. Twice she’d almost been arrested for her odd activity. Yet Catharina was convinced a clean sidewalk helped business. And even if there was no financial gain to be made from her efforts, New York was never so quiet as it was in early morning. She could think then. Dream. Remember.

But this morning she worked quickly because it was cold and furiously because she was trying so desperately not to think, not to dream, not to remember. Rachel…Senator Ryder…Juliana…Wilhelmina…Johannes. My God, what was happening to her world?

Again…

Despite the cold and the ungodly hour, the man was out there, across the street, watching, not caring that she knew he was there. He was young, dark, and fine-featured, not very tall, and he wore clothes that didn’t make him stand out in the upper-income neighborhood. This morning’s outfit was a pair of heavy corduroy pants and a lambskin jacket. Nevertheless he looked tired and uncomfortable, and she’d thought, madly, of walking over to him and inviting him inside for coffee. But she remembered how young and innocent so many of the Nazis, Dutch as well as German, had looked, and she stopped herself.

Behind her, she heard a soft, distinctive laugh, and she paused, thinking she must have imagined it. It was a laugh of dreams and memories and a girlhood so short, so long ago, that every moment of it was etched in her mind, that much sharper, that much more bittersweet.

Hendrik…

Then the laugh came again, and Catharina tossed the brush into her bucket and rolled back onto her heels. She started to tuck a stray white-blond hair behind her ear but remembered her heavy rubber gloves, her hands warm inside them. Her nose felt cold and red. But as she looked up into the warm blue eyes of Hendrik de Geer, the years fell away. She saw none of his deep wrinkles, none of the scars the years had left, saw only the dashing, brave young man he had once been, at least to her.

“Aren’t you ever afraid?” she asked him.

“Only for you, sweet Catharina,” he’d told her, and she’d believed him.

“You’re amazingly clean,” he said now in English, “even for a Dutchwoman.”

“It’s my mother’s influence.” Her voice was hoarse and unnatural from the tension and an overwhelming sadness, not for the past that had been, but for the past that might have been. She spoke, too, in English. It helped to anchor her in the present. “Mother was always so busy with the Underground Resistance, you remember? I was the youngest, and so I kept house. I wasn’t very good at it, but Mother was an exacting woman and I learned quickly. If she found a loose button on a shirt, she would tear off all the other buttons, too, and I would have to sew them all back on.”

Hendrik laughed again, and this time she could see how his eyes crinkled up at the corners. “She always reminded me of Wilhelmina.”

Wilhelmina and their mother. Yes, they were alike, tough-minded and cynical, unwilling to give anyone the benefit of the doubt but, in their own way, loving. Realists, they called themselves. Perhaps it was so. They had guessed what Hendrik was long before anyone else.

Catharina started to her feet, the spell broken. Hendrik de Geer had never been dashing or brave, and her girlhood was long lost. She stumbled because she was stiff from kneeling and not so young anymore, and because Hendrik was there and hadn’t been in such a long, long time. From the moment she’d spotted him at Lincoln Center, she’d guessed he would come, eventually. Perhaps she’d even wished it.

He grabbed her arm and helped her up, and she stood close to him as the wind gusted down the wide empty avenue. She felt lightheaded and for no reason at all thought of the cinnamon rolls she’d planned to make that morning, an old, comfortable recipe, and wondered if she’d ever get to them.

“What are you doing here?” she asked softly.

He smiled, his hand lingering on her arm. Through her old, heavy fisherman’s sweater, she could feel the imprint of his thick fingers. He’d always been so solid. So strong. Even now, almost seventy, wearing his watch cap and old peacoat, he looked so very handsome and reliable. If only she didn’t know better.

He said, “I wanted to see you.”

“Yes.” She looked away, at nothing. “Rachel…”

“I’m sorry she’s gone.”

“You knew she was after you.”

He nodded, although she’d needed no confirmation. “Rachel wanted vengeance, Catharina.”

“No, Hendrik.” She pulled away from him, and his hand fell awkwardly to his side. “She wanted justice.”

He looked pained. “I did what I had to do in Amsterdam, to save you-”

“To save yourself! I won’t live with that guilt, Hendrik.” But she did, every day.

“They were difficult times, Catharina,” he said as if to a child. “The past is done.”

“The past isn’t over, not for any of us. It never will be, Hendrik.” Her eyes were fierce and unforgiving. “Did you kill Rachel?”

“No!” He seemed so appalled, as if he’d never contemplated such a wrong. “No, Catharina. I couldn’t.”

“Not even to save yourself?” she asked with contempt, but then fatigue crept in-and sorrow. “Oh, Hendrik, just go away. Disappear as you did before.”

He was shaking his head. “I’ve already tried. It’s what my mind tells me I should do, but my heart tells me otherwise. Catharina, the people I’m involved with have found out about the Minstrel’s Rough. They want it, and they’ll stop at nothing to get it. Believe me, my dear, I know these men.” He paused, his eyes as soft as they could ever be in a man who’d lived such a cold, hard life. “Let me take you away until I can satisfy them that the Minstrel doesn’t exist.”

Catharina blinked rapidly, over and over, but the tears flowed anyway, whipped from her eyes by the wind. She tried to brush them away but remembered the gloves and peeled them off, letting them drop onto the sidewalk. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably. My God, she thought, will they never stop? It seemed they’d been shaking since Rachel had walked into her bakeshop after forty years.

The Minstrel’s Rough…damn that horrible stone!

“No,” she said at last, in a choked whisper. “You’re not going to save me and let others suffer. I won’t let you!”

“I can save everyone.”

She scoffed, sobbing. “As you did in Amsterdam?”

“Catharina, listen to me. Nothing will happen to you or your daughter-or to Wilhelmina. I promise you.”

“And Johannes? You took him to Amsterdam, didn’t you? You tried to make him give you that damned diamond. Hendrik, Hendrik, you never change.”

“His heart was no good. There was nothing I could do.” He took her hands and held them tightly, and she was surprised his were so warm. “You don’t believe me.”

“Hendrik, please.” Her voice caught, and she was angry with herself for her tears, for thinking, hoping, he’d changed-for wanting to believe they both could pretend Amsterdam had never happened. “I can never believe you again.”

He looked wounded, and yet at the same time not surprised, almost welcoming the blow. Then the earnestness, the frustrating, endearing, appalling optimism, the unshakable belief in himself, took over. “I can stop this, Catharina. If you tell me where the Minstrel is-”

“No!” She pounded him once on the chest with her fist. “Damn you, Hendrik, no! Even if I knew I’d never tell you. The Minstrel died with Johannes. Now go-for the love of God, Hendrik go.”

“Catharina…”

She shook her head and resisted the impulse to run. Willie wouldn’t; their mother wouldn’t. And she had to protect Juliana. Catharina made herself look at him, into the eyes that had never told anything that was true. “Understand me, Hendrik; leave my daughter out of whatever trouble you’re in this time. If you touch Juliana-if anyone connected with you touches her-there’s nowhere you can go, nowhere you can hide that I won’t find you. If you should die before I do, you’ll see me in hell.”

Hendrik swallowed and licked his chapped lips, and he whispered, “Don’t hate me, sweet Catharina.”

“I don’t, Hendrik,” she said, so tired. “I never did.”

She pushed past him, knocking over the bucket as she ran inside and shut the door hard behind her, clicking shut the deadbolt lock. The sound echoed in the quiet shop.

Hendrik de Geer stood in the dirty water, and he looked without expression toward the shop. Catharina warned herself that he was the same thoughtless, selfish coward he had been in Amsterdam. How could she feel any pity for him after what he’d done? Nothing had changed. Not Hendrik, not herself, not their past.

She watched him through the window. He bent over, righting the bucket, and picked up one of her rubber gloves. He pressed it to his lips. Catharina bit back a cry as he walked over and hung the glove on the doorknob.

He said nothing, and then he walked off slowly down Madison Avenue, alone.

Juliana had changed into J.J. Pepper to keep herself from being followed to LaGuardia Airport and then changed back into herself in the Gazette ladies’ room, leaving J.J.’s clothes in a paper bag under the sink. Then she proceeded to the newsroom. She was dressed in a chocolate wool gabardine suit with a Hermès scarf at her neck and her hair pulled back. She thought she looked distinctive, if not brass tacks. A reporter pointed out Matthew’s desk, which was as yet unoccupied. She went over and sat on the straight-backed chair next to it, glancing at the notes and papers on his desk. She saw the obituaries on Rachel Stein and her uncle and felt her expression turn grim.

A tall woman with dark horn-rimmed glasses came over and asked if she could help her. Juliana introduced herself. “I’m Alice Feldon,” the editor said, eyeing her. “So you’re Stark’s piano player.”

Juliana winced. “When’s he due in?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“It’s very important I see him. I-I have new information for him; I’m sure he’ll want to know.”

“Don’t count on it.” She picked up a scrap of paper and a pencil, jotted down something, and handed both back to Juliana. “That’s his home number and his address. You decide what you want to do.”

Alice Feldon marched back to her desk, and Juliana picked up the phone but stopped herself from dialing. If Matthew answered, what would she tell him? I was just wondering when you were coming in to your office. He’d ask why; she’d tell him because she was there waiting for him. He’d tell her, “Then wait, goddamnit.”

She tucked the scrawled address in her pocket and called for a cab.

With one of his men posted on the street, Phillip Bloch grinned at his former platoon leader from the front stoop of his elegant townhouse. “Morning, Sam.”

“Bloch-what are you doing here?” Ryder went pale. “I thought we had an understanding that you would never come to Washington. For God’s sake, get inside quickly.”

“Calm down, Sam.” Bloch entered the quiet foyer. He had a plastic container of fresh fruit salad in one hand, and with a plastic fork, he stuck a hung of cantaloupe into his mouth. At one time he’d smoked cigarettes incessantly. Now he received his oral gratification from various fruits and seeds. Sometimes he felt like a goddamn squirrel. He went on pleasantly, “I love D.C. Christ, I could buy a whole case of melons for what I pay for one stinking salad here.”

Ryder bristled. “We can talk in the study, but I hardly think we should prolong this meeting, Sergeant.”

“That’s okay by me.”

Bloch followed the senator into the study at the back of the house, passing an elegant dining room done in Queen Anne. The sergeant knew it was Queen Anne because for years his mother had kept a picture of a dining set-an Ethan Allen reproduction-taped on the refrigerator. It was what she wanted some day for her dining room, which was pretty much a wreck. Nobody in their household could afford it or even gave two shits whether or not she ever got it. Losers, his mother had called them; you’re all a bunch of losers. She was an old lady now, but she probably still had that goddamn picture on her refrigerator.

The study didn’t remind Bloch of anything he’d ever known, except maybe a whorehouse or two. Oriental carpet on the hardwood floor, cherry from the looks of it, leather club chairs and sofa, brass lamps, masculine ornaments, paintings of horses. A framed picture of Sammy as a decorated first lieutenant in the U.S. Army stood on an antique secretary, but about the only thing he’d done that entitled him to be decorated, in Bloch’s estimation, was not getting any more people killed than he had. The frame, the sergeant noted, was silver, probably sterling.

“Fancy, fancy,” he said, looking around the room. “About what I expected.”

“Let’s get on with this.”

Ryder gestured nervously to the leather chairs, and they both sat. Bloch finished his salad.

“Two things,” Bloch said, still amiable. His men were feeding him nice, timely reports. He felt in control. “First, one of my men spotted Hendrik de Geer outside Catharina Fall’s bakery this morning. He ain’t out of this. We tried to take him out last night, but-”

“For God’s sake, don’t tell me anything!”

“What, the place bugged or something? Sammy, Sammy, relax. Anyway, I figure de Geer’s trying to get the diamond on his own. Not good. Second, as you well know, Matt Stark ain’t lying down on this one. My man says he was here-”

“What?”

“Listen, Lieutenant, I’ve got to keep my finger on things.”

“You’ve had me watched?”

“Don’t be such a wimp. Yeah, I’ve had you watched-for your own protection as well as mine. Will you quit interrupting? I’ll assume for now you didn’t tell Stark anything, but if he keeps digging around, you won’t need me to ruin you-he’ll be glad to do the job.”

“De Geer’s a drunk, and Stark doesn’t have a thing he can use. Just ignore them both. Sergeant, I think it’s time you accepted reality: the Minstrel’s Rough was a good idea, but it didn’t pan out. Let it go.”

“Sammy, Sammy,” Bloch said, shaking his head with feigned disappointment. “You give up too easily. We ain’t even started to look for this stone yet.”

“Not we, Sergeant.” Ryder leaned forward, looking more terrified than determined. “I’m no longer involved. I told you, I can’t be.”

“I know, you’re a United States senator. Bully, bully. Well, look, I just figured I’d be nice and let you know what’s on my mind, okay? You get this diamond before I get it myself or you give me something else I can use to pin it down, we’re square. I got commitments, you know, creditors barking up my ass. You don’t want me sitting down in Florida forever, do you? Well, help me out.” He grinned, setting his plastic container and fork on a butler’s table. “But if you can’t, I guess you might have my bones rattling around in your closet for a long, long time.”

“Sergeant, you’re not being fair.” Ryder was close to hyperventilating. “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t even know about the Minstrel. And as I told you, there’s absolutely no guarantee it even exists. It’s not worth the risk to you or to me-”

“I want the stone,” Bloch said. “And I’ll get it, with your help, Lieutenant, or without.”

Ryder was panting, obviously horrified by what the sergeant proposed. Bloch watched the former platoon leader try to figure a way out, to distance himself from the very events he’d put into motion so that later on he could deny any involvement on his part. He’d seen that look a thousand times over the years.

“I can’t help you,” the senator said.

“Sure you can.” Bloch rose, feeling full and confident. “You’re the Golden Boy, Sammy. You can do anything.”

Matthew’s Federal townhouse, simple but elegant, was a surprise, until Juliana remembered LZ. It was easy to forget that the dark, cynical reporter had produced a bestselling novel, and she made a mental note to stop at a bookstore as soon as she could and buy a copy. After all, he’d been to one of her concerts. Because of Samuel Ryder, she reminded herself, not because of you.

She slowed as she came to the front stoop. There was no front yard, and the steps ended on the brick sidewalk. The street was tree-lined and narrow, very picturesque and European; Juliana thought Aunt Willie might actually approve. Over breakfast that morning she’d complained about her niece’s German coffee maker, and Juliana had lectured her about West German democracy, the wrongness of collective guilt, the countless wonderful Germans she’d met over the years. Aunt Willie had merely grunted and said, “What do you know of the world?”

What indeed. She’d had no comeback.

As she mounted the steps, two men came up behind her, and she stiffened, turning and looking madly for a place to run. There was none, except inside. But the polished wood door was shut tightly. She paused on the second step and felt the breath go out of her. One of the men was dark-skinned and stocky, powerful, young; the other was curly-haired and very thin, also young. They wore heavy sweaters rather than coats, and no hats or gloves.

“Excuse me,” Juliana said, “I must have the wrong address-”

“What’s your name?” the darker one asked.

“J.J.”

“J.J. what?”

“Pepper.” She wished Len were here, or even Shuji with one of his short swords. “But I must be going.”

“You looking for Matt Stark?”

“Who?”

“I’ll bet he’s the type who goes for a hot number like you.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea-”

She stopped, and the darker one smiled. But he wasn’t the one who’d pulled out the gun. The curly-haired one had. Juliana didn’t know anything about guns except that she didn’t want one aimed at her.

“We want you to give Matt a message.”

The darker one was still talking. She focused on him so she wouldn’t have to look at the gun. “Okay,” she said, and hated how small her voice sounded.

He bent down close to her face, and she could feel the heat of his breath and see the tiny red veins in his eyes. “Tell him to back off,” he said, each word distinct. “Tell him Phil Bloch says so.”

She nodded. “All right.”

“Say it back to me.”

Years and years of solfeggio and memorizing countless pieces had left her with an acute ear. “‘Tell him to back off…Tell him Phil Bloch says so.’”

“Good.”

She waited for them to leave, but they lingered, watching her as she debated whether to bolt past them or to scramble into the house. She didn’t have a key, didn’t know if the door was locked, didn’t know if Matthew were there. Had he already left for the Gazette?

The darker one raised his left arm.

“No-”

But it came crashing down, swiping her across the side of the head. The blow sent her sprawling backward against the steps and crashing into the wrought-iron rail. She yelled as pain exploded in her shoulder and started to grab it, but he snatched her wrist and twisted it behind her back. She ignored the shooting pain in her shoulder and he tightened his grip. Don’t break my wrist…dear God, don’t let him do it!

“Just want him to know the sergeant’s serious.”

He released her.

She collapsed on the steps without making a sound and didn’t even attempt to look back. She didn’t want to know anything more about them; she didn’t care where they were going or what they were doing.

My wrist…

You jackass, never mind your damned wrist! The sons of bitches didn’t kill you, did they?

But she cradled her wrist in her other hand, focusing all her terror on it, and examined the bruise. There was no serious damage. She shut her eyes, shaking all over. The pain in her shoulder was already beginning to subside. You’re all right, she told herself; you’re all right.

Matthew? Had they hurt him?

Behind her, the front door opened. She whirled around, terrified, but saw instantly it was Stark. He rushed down the steps and scooped her up, and she was glad for the warmth and solidness of him.

“It’s all right, Juliana,” he said.

“All right? All right?” She pushed him away and noted he was in perfect health, looking tough and competent but not at all pleased to see her. “Goddamnit, it is not all right!”

His black eyes narrowed, taking in her hard breathing and frightened, angry look. “Good, you’re not hurt.”

“In the great, grand scheme of things, no, I am not. No thanks to you, I’m sure. What did you do, watch through the window?”

“Pretty much.”

“Thanks a lot.” Then she noticed his gun, a big ugly thing. “You had a gun? Jesus Christ, why the hell did you wait? Were you waiting for them to blow my head off?”

“I didn’t want to start firing when there was no need.”

“No need-”

“You could have gotten hit in the cross fire.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want to go inside?”

Feeling calmer, she said, “If you don’t mind.”

He led the way. They went back to his kitchen, a cheerful, cluttered room with white cabinets and white tab curtains hanging in a window that overlooked a terrace. A couple of dead plants sat outside on the cold bricks. Aunt Willie would have had a fit. A battered pine table stood in front of the window, piled with copies of various newspapers-the Post, the Times, the Christian Science Monitor-and the most recent issue of Motor Trend. There were dirty dishes in the sink and two empty Sam Adams beer bottles on the counter.

“Need ice?” Stark asked.

She shook her head, which hurt, but not as much as it might have. “Did you know those men?”

“Not personally.”

“They asked me to give you a message from Phil Bloch. He’s a sergeant, I think they said. Did you know him in Vietnam?”

Matthew got two beers out of the refrigerator, opened them both, and handed her one. He took a gulp of his and sat down as he swallowed it. “Yes.”

“You know, I’ve lived in New York all my life, and I’ve never been mugged, robbed, assaulted, or even seriously threatened.”

“That’s because you’re a rich girl,” he said.

“Well-off. I know rich girls.”

“Have some beer, Juliana.”

“I don’t usually-” She sighed, cutting herself off, and tried the beer. She knew Sam Adams was supposed to be high-quality beer, but it still tasted like beer to her. “You’re very calm, you know. I just got assaulted on your doorstep, and you’re not even upset.”

“That’s because I figure these guys did me a favor.”

“How?”

His expression didn’t change. “Maybe they knocked some sense into that dizzy brain of yours.”

She took a breath and held it, pursing her lips together.

“Not used to being called names, are you?” Stark laughed, not pleasantly. “The only child, the rich girl, the talented pianist. Everything’s gone smoothly for you your entire life. You’ve never had to get dirt under your nails or suffer a whole hell of a lot or listen to people call you things you don’t want to be called.”

“Listen, you arrogant, inconsiderate shit,” she said, her voice low and controlled, “you don’t know anything about me, and until you do I suggest you keep your remarks to yourself. I was just backhanded up your front steps because of you.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes, dammit, that’s right!”

“And I invited you here, did I? I knew you were coming, did I? I knew there might be trouble and so did you, and that’s why you played it smart like I told you and stayed the hell in New York like you were supposed to. Lady, let’s not talk about arrogance, and let’s not talk about being inconsiderate.”

She thought she took his outburst well. She didn’t cower, she didn’t run, she didn’t avert her eyes from his black stare. She just sat there and took it and even considered letting him have it right back. But she didn’t. Her shoulder and her wrist hurt, and besides, he had a point.

Instead she drank some more beer. “I found out about LZ, you know. Len told me. I’ve never read it, obviously, or seen the movie.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

She ignored him. “When the book came out, and even the movie, I didn’t have time to pay much attention to goings-on outside the world of music. I still don’t. I have so much work, so many commitments, so much I want to do, and so much everyone else wants me to do. I’ll never even come close to being the kind of pianist I want to be. I’m not saying I’m proud of being such a ding-a-ling, and I’m not saying that’s how all musicians should or do operate, just that I’ve had to be single-minded about what I do.”

“Juliana,” Stark said, “what the hell does that have to do with any of this mess? Two people are dead, and you just-” She shot him an irritated look. “I know two people are dead, damn you, and you don’t understand. Maybe you can’t. Maybe it doesn’t matter to you. I haven’t been single-minded about what I do just to make a name, to get to where I am today. I’ve just always been absolutely, compulsively driven to play piano. I don’t know why, I’ve never known. Ever since I can remember, I’ve had to play. I never imagined myself doing anything else. My status today is a result of that compulsion, not the reason for it. But I’m losing that need-no, maybe that’s not the right word. The basis for it is changing. I need to be a part of the world.”

She looked at Matthew, but he didn’t say anything. She felt pale and weak and annoyingly vulnerable. Why was she trying to explain? “Never mind,” she said. “I know Rachel Stein and Uncle Johannes are dead, and I know what happened out there just now, but I can’t back out.”

Stark settled back in his chair, one foot up on his knee, his eyes never leaving her. “You’re not going to bird-dog me so you can get excited about playing piano again.”

“That’s not what I meant!” She felt her face heat up. “I am not doing this because I’m bored. I’m doing it because I have to. I have no choice. Ten years ago maybe I wouldn’t have bothered. You and all the other jerks involved with this mess could have done as you damned well pleased. I’d have been fine. But now I can’t not act. I can’t run away. It’s not so I’ll be a better pianist.” She sat back, angry with herself. She’d stopped trying to explain herself to people years ago. If they understood her, okay. If not, to hell with them. Why was it different with Matthew Stark? “Anyway, I’m here.”

“For about five minutes.”

“Look-”

“Sweetheart, your butt’s back in New York as soon as I can get it on a plane out of here.”

She clamped her mouth shut. “I knew I shouldn’t have tried to explain.”

His expression softened, but not much. “I’m glad you tried,” he said. “It’s just that it doesn’t make any difference. Look, if it’s any consolation, I understand a lot more about where you’re coming from than I’d like to let on. I know what it’s like to be single-minded about work. I was about mine at one time-and like you say, not because I wanted to be rich and famous, but because I needed to get down on paper things that I needed to say. And I know what it’s like to get to the top and have the pressures of being there-the expectations, the goddamn effort involved-interfere with the work itself.”

“Is that why you’re at the Gazette?” she asked quietly.

He grinned. “I didn’t have a J.J. Pepper to slide into.” He finished off his beer in one long swallow, set the empty bottle on the table, and rose. “Tell you what, you be smart and don’t put up a fuss about going back to New York, I’ll tell you about Master Sergeant Phillip Bloch on the way to the airport.”

She had to ask. “If I’m not smart and do put up a fuss?”

“Darling,” he said, leaning very close, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her mouth and smell the beer, “do you really want to know?”

Sweet Catharina…

Hendrik de Geer stumbled into the Upper East Side bar and slid onto the stool as he ordered a double shot of gin. He ignored the looks he received from the well-dressed clientele. What did they know? The gin wasn’t Dutch, but it would do. Anything would.

I’d forgotten how sweet.

He filled his glass, drank down the needed liquid. How much would it take before oblivion overtook him? One bottle-two?

Breathe, Johannes…goddamn you, breathe!

They’d brought his body to the streets of the old Jewish quarter. Dumped it there among the ghosts. Hendrik had kept his face uncovered, half-hoping he’d be recognized. Not caring. But there was no one there anymore to know Hendrik de Geer and what he’d done. So many of the Jews were gone; a hundred thousand dead, it was said. He believed it. A dozen were on his conscience.

I didn’t mean for them to die!

But they did.

He poured another glass, drank it down, then another.

Bloch will go after the Minstrel. Ryder won’t stop him.

It was none of his concern. Samuel Ryder was a coward and a fool, and to save himself he would have to appease Phillip Bloch. For him, there was no other choice. He’s like me, this senator, the Dutchman thought. He would involve people he cares about in his schemes to save his own skin.

Now that Bloch knew about the diamond, he would never be satisfied until it was in his possession. Ryder would help if necessary. Bloch would know that.

They’ll go to Catharina…to her daughter…to Wilhelmina.

Willie, the wily old bitch. There was no forgiveness in her stone heart. She could always see through him. For a time, she’d been excited by what he was. Now she’d kill him without a thought.

You must stop Bloch. You know how he thinks. You can do it.

No, he couldn’t. Phillip Bloch had a stockpile of weapons, he had men who were well trained, if loyal only to themselves, and he had contacts, like Senator Ryder. He was tough, deliberate, cautious, and very dangerous. Hendrik was too old to take him on. Too tired.

And if Catharina dies?

Then she dies.

And he thought, as he refilled his glass, I’m already damned.

They took Matthew’s car, a black Porsche, to the airport. “A German car?” Juliana said. “Aunt Willie would be disgusted.”

Their shoulders almost touched in the cozy confines of the sportscar, and Matthew saw that she was still pale from her ordeal on his front steps. He glanced down at the slender, blunt-nailed hands folded on her lap. Her wrist was swollen, but she’d refused his offer of ice, assuring him and, he thought, herself that the injury was only minor. He hadn’t told her what it was like to stand there and watch her tough it out with two of Bloch’s men. Hadn’t told her how the anger had ripped through him; how he’d had to fight the impulse to go after the goddamn cowards. They wouldn’t deliver Bloch’s message to him personally but had waited for an unarmed piano player. She’d handled herself well under the circumstances.

But Juliana Fall was getting to be one hell of a distraction.

“Why would Aunt Willie be disgusted?” he asked.

“She has this thing about Germans.”

“You sent her back to Rotterdam?”

Juliana turned and looked out the passenger window. “No one sends Aunt Willie anywhere.” Then she turned back to him. Her cheeks had regained some of their color “You know, Matthew, I keep telling myself if you’d gotten yourself throttled on my doorstep, I’d have insisted you return home as well. But then again, I wonder if I might understand your need to see this thing through.”

“It’s not your fight.”

She looked at him, icy and smart and nuts and beautiful. Matthew didn’t know why the hell he hadn’t kissed her by now.

Because, jackass, you won’t stop with a kiss. And then where would you be? Stay away, my man. Stay away.

She said coolly, “Bullshit.”

“I don’t want you around.”

“And I make my own decisions.”

“Not used to considering anyone’s opinion but your own, are you?”

She gave him one of her distant, mysterious smiles. It warned him away and made him want to come closer. It made him realize how much he didn’t know about Juliana Fall, and how much he wanted to know everything. For the first time, he saw her self-awareness-her understanding of who she was and what she was.

The mystery went to her dark eyes. “An only child in a solitary profession, a woman of some means who lives alone? Of course I’m accustomed to doing as I please. And you should talk. When I left the newsroom, your editor said, and I quote, ‘Tell that independent pain in the ass to keep me posted.’ We’re not so different.”

“We are,” he said. “I know what I’m getting into. I’ve been there, Juliana.”

She scoffed. “Why is it that men who’ve been to war always think they know more than people who haven’t?”

“How the hell many ‘men who’ve been to war’ do you know?”

“Your view of the world is just as skewed as someone who has never seen combat,” she said, not backing down. “We all state our convictions from within our convictions.”

“Jesus Christ.”

She lifted her small round shoulders and gave him another of her cool smiles, but said nothing.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone accuse a Vietnam vet of being smart. We fought and died and were heroes and cowards and everything else in a war most people hated, not least of all us, in a war we didn’t win. Not smart, wouldn’t you say?”

“I wasn’t implying you were smart. I was implying you thought you were smart.”

“Just experienced.” He gave her a sideways glance. “You can be an irritating woman.”

“It’s the Peperkamp in me. The Falls are all so civilized. But never mind. Tell me about Phillip Bloch-and your friend, have you heard from him? Weaze, is it?”

“Otis,” Matthew said, a sudden feeling of hopelessness washing over him as he envisioned the emaciated former gunner, his friend. “Otis Raymond. We called him the Weasel in ’Nam. I haven’t heard from him. But, Juliana, I was wrong to suggest that you should feel responsible for anything that might or might not happen to him. I was hot; I needed someone to lash out at.”

“That’s okay. Musicians always have people screaming at them. We get used to it. You and Otis Raymond and Phillip Bloch were in Vietnam together?”

“We were there at the same time; I wouldn’t say together. Bloch was a platoon sergeant, I was a helicopter pilot, and Weasel was one of my door gunners. We transported troops into and out of combat.”

Juliana waited, but Matthew didn’t go on. Finally, she said, “You’re not a talkative person, are you? You say what you have to say and that’s it. I can see why you haven’t done much since LZ. When you have something else to say-something that you haven’t said in any of your other work-you’ll do another book. But not another LZ, even if that’s what your public wants. Anyway, what does a gunner do, exactly?”

“Kills people.”

Juliana smacked her mouth shut.

“That wasn’t fair,” he added quietly.

“No, maybe it was. I don’t like to be forced to talk, either.”

“So I’ve discovered.”

“I don’t know anything about the military. At best, my memories of Vietnam are dim. I remember catching scenes of the war on television, between homework assignments and practice sessions, and I remember debates in school about whether the U.S. had any business being there. But I was more interested in analyzing Bach cantatas.” Her expression was grimly self-critical. “The Vietnam War’s another huge gap in my knowledge.”

Matthew hadn’t expected her to be so perceptive, about herself, or, certainly, about him. He pulled back into himself, and when he went on, his tone was less personal, almost clinical.

“My first tour of duty, I flew the Bell UH-1 Iroquois in its transport role. Hueys were the warhorses. The UH-1Bs were the primary transport helicopters; we called them slicks. The UH-1Cs were fitted with armaments; they were the gunships-the hogs, we called them. As pilot, my job was to get us in and out of LZs safely; the slick itself was unarmed, but it could move faster than a gunship. I had a copilot up front with me. In back were the crew chief and door gunner; we communicated with them over radio. They both were armed with M-60 machine guns to protect themselves, the passengers, the crew, and the ship. If we came down in a hot LZ, we could expect plenty of fire. We were all vulnerable, but gunners were the most exposed. A lot of them didn’t live long.”

“But Otis Raymond survived?”

Matthew looked straight ahead. “Yeah, he survived. He was good-and he was lucky. We both were. When I went to LOHs for my second tour, he transferred with me.” He glanced at Juliana and gave her a small smile. “An LOH is a light observation helicopter. We’d draw fire to locate the enemy, and the gunships would come in and do their thing. By then the snakes had replaced Hueys as gunships.”

“Snakes?”

“The Bell AH-1G Cobra. It was heavily armed and a hell of a lot faster than the hogs. Part of the strategy behind the hunter-killer teams was to reduce troop losses; it was a numbers game.”

Juliana nodded, not so much understanding, he thought, as acknowledging that she was both interested and listening. “Why did you stay in for a second tour?”

He shrugged. “Somebody had to do the job. By the time we’d stayed in a year, Weasel and I figured we knew what we were doing and maybe could keep somebody else who didn’t have our experience from getting killed.”

“As a pilot, did you feel responsible for the men who flew with you?”

“Yes.”

“And you still fee responsible for Otis Raymond.”

He sighed, saying nothing. What the hell could he say?

“I won’t pretend I can even imagine what you went through,” Juliana told him quietly. “I’m sorry-”

“No, you’re not, Juliana.” He looked at the pale, beautiful face. “You’re damned lucky.”

Disgusted, Wilhelmina sat on the chair at the dusty Steinway concert grand in her niece’s quiet living room. The bright winter sun streamed in through the big windows, and she could hear the traffic down on Central Park West. She was tired. She had just spent the last three hours searching every corner of her niece’s monstrous apartment for the Minstrel’s Rough. Wilhelmina herself had never seen the Minstrel, but she knew enough about diamonds to feel sure she’d recognize the world’s largest uncut diamond when she saw it.

But she’d found neither the Minstrel nor any indication that Juliana had stashed it elsewhere or had even heard of the legendary stone. All she’d found of interest, minor interest at that, was a gigantic closet full of old clothes and a half-dozen different kinds of colored mousse-and cosmetics! Wilhelmina had never seen so much face paint! Such colors! And she didn’t for a moment believe they belonged to a friend, as Juliana had suggested. Juliana was too solitary a person, and somehow the things reminded Wilhelmina of her niece. Whatever the case, that was her business and of no consequence to her aging aunt.

Yet Wilhelmina was still positive that Juliana had the Minstrel’s Rough. It would explain so much. It was also logical, and the old Dutchwoman was not one to back away prematurely from what made sense.

At any rate, it had been a frustrating morning. The man posted outside the Beresford continued to stand in the cold, but Wilhelmina paid no attention to him whatever. But better to be aware of him than not.

She had made a cup of café au lait and now was tempted to play the piano. Would any of Juliana’s monumental talent seep from the ivory keys into her old bones? Bah, she thought, I must be more tired than I feel.

The Chopin Piano Concerto No. 1 was open on the rack. Wilhelmina knew it to be a difficult piece, but she’d never played it. She wondered if she should give it a try now, to clear her mind.

She pressed middle C very slowly, and no sound came out.

Hendrik…

Yes, he was in her thoughts. Catharina had called, tearfully telling her older sister about seeing him that morning. Wilhelmina wished she’d been able to speak up and ask Catharina to relate every detail of their conversation…how he’d looked, sounded, must have felt. Everything.

Not that she cared, of course.

“You’re kidding yourself, Willie,” she muttered. “You still care. You always will.”

Suddenly she felt eerily alone amidst all that space, with so many people in the city around her. At home in Rotterdam, she never thought about being alone.

“Liar,” she said aloud, with vehemence.

She jumped up, suddenly spooked, and ran around into all the rooms, pulling drapes, checking the locks on the doors and windows, and then came back to the living room, shaking. She turned on the stereo. She didn’t care what she listened to. Anything besides the cries and the screams and the prayers and the loneliness that too often whispered to her in the night.

Hendrik…may God damn you to hell!

And not just for what he’d done-but for showing her what might have been.

“You’re being unfair,” Juliana informed Matthew as he walked with her to the shuttle gate. “Unfair, unreasonable, and damned provoking.”

He grinned. “Damned provoking, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, so are you, sweet cheeks.”

“Me?”

“Uh huh. You’re holding out on me.”

She didn’t say a word.

“Maybe not much, maybe a lot. With you, it’s hard to tell. But whatever you’re not telling me, I figure I don’t need to know. It’s just not worth pulling you deeper into this mess. Whether by accident or design, two people are dead. As far as I’m concerned, that’s enough.”

“I think we should work together,” she told him as the announcement came for her flight to begin boarding.

“God save me.”

“You have no right to tell me what to do.”

“I have every right to keep you from bird-dogging me-and I can do it.”

Her dark eyes gleamed with frustration and excitement, which both worried and pleased him. But the paleness was still there, the bruise on her wrist. He admired her for not wanting to run, but he couldn’t let her determination undermine his own common sense. Having a piano player strutting around behind him wasn’t going to accomplish a damn thing. And there was no guarantee she was ever going to get around to telling him what she knew about the Minstrel’s Rough. She didn’t believe in tit for tat.

Not, of course, that he’d told her everything.

“Matthew, listen to me,” she said, “I’m involved in this whether or not you like it.”

“That’s my point: I don’t like it. Get on the plane, Juliana. Go home, go to Vermont, go to the Club Aquarian, go any goddamn place you want to-just stay the hell away from me.”

“Maybe I’ll go see Sam Ryder and find out if he’s more cooperative.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Matthew jumped forward and pulled her around by the shoulders so she faced him. “Don’t screw around with Ryder.” The words came out dark and angry, but he didn’t raise his voice and his mouth hardly moved. “He’ll eat you alive.”

His tone, his expression, his firm grip on her would have intimidated the hell out of anyone else. He knew it. But Juliana just wrinkled up her face. “That’s not your problem.”

“I’ll make it my goddamn problem.”

“I’m not your concern,” she said.

“The hell you’re not.”

She was as worn out as he was, as testy, as independent, as used to getting her own damn way. She was never nice for the sake of being nice. It wasn’t necessary in her world. Wasn’t necessary in his, either. He looked at the uncompromising set of her jaw and her lovely mouth, and he said the hell with it. He pulled her even closer and kissed her hard, briefly, tearing himself away before the warmth of her penetrated too deeply.

Just as he’d wanted himself, a kiss wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even close.

“I don’t want to see you zipped up in a body bag,” he said.

She teetered a bit, and he was pleased to note he’d had the same dizzying effect on her that she’d had on him. But she recovered. He could see her kicking herself back into gear. “So that’s it, right?” she said hotly. “You kiss me and pack me off like you’re Davy Crockett off to the Alamo or wherever he was off to.”

“That’s right,” he said.

She tossed her head back, insulted.

Stark laughed. “You liked the kiss, sweetheart, and don’t try to pretend otherwise. You kissed me back.”

“A reflex. Like playing arpeggios.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had one of my kisses compared to playing arpeggios.”

“Well.” She fell into the long line for the shuttle to New York. “If Aunt Willie and I are followed again, I’ll know who not to call.”

Matthew’s thick black brows drew together in a deep frown. Christ, if he only knew when to take her seriously. Her high cheekbones were pink, the rest of her face dead white. What the hell was she talking about this time? Followed-again? Bullshit. It was just a ploy. But Aunt Willie…

“Is that woman in New York?”

Juliana just smiled and waved.

Matthew swore, but she continued to ignore him. Finally, swearing some more, he scrambled for a ticket and got in line, at the end because she refused to let him cut in front of her.

She did, however, arrange to have him sit next to her. Their shoulders brushed lightly. Arpeggios, he thought, Jesus. She looked at him up close, her eyes sparkling. “I have an ulterior motive for permitting you to sit beside me,” she said.

He was thinking she meant their kiss had knocked some sense of fair play into her and she was going to tell him about Aunt Willie and being followed and maybe even something about the Minstrel’s Rough. She might even want another kiss.

But she went on, matter-of-fact, “Now I know about helicopters. So tell me about platoon sergeants.” She smoothed her skirt and looked over at him. “What exactly is a platoon?”