The Scarlatti Inheritance(130)
The young man next to Matthew Canfield had said very little since their takeoff from Shannon. A number of times the major tried to explain that they were taking air routes out of range of the Luftwaffe, and that there was nothing to worry about. Andrew Scarlett had merely mumbled understood approval and had gone back to his magazines.
The car at the Lisbon airport was an armored Lincoln with two OSS personnel in the front. The windows could withstand short-range gunfire, and the automobile was capable of 120 miles an hour. They had to drive thirty-two miles up the Tejo River road to an airfield in Alenguer.
At Alenguer the man and boy boarded a low-flying, specially constructed Navy TBF with no markings for the trip to Bern. There would be no stops. Throughout the route, English, American, and Free French fighters were scheduled to intercept and protect to the destination.
At Bern they were met by a Swiss government vehicle, flanked by a motorcycle escort of eight men—one at the front, one at the rear, and three on each side. All were armed in spite of the Geneva pact, which prohibited such practices.
They drove to a village twenty-odd miles to the north, toward the German border. Kreuzlingen.
They arrived at a small inn, isolated from the rest of civilization, and the man and boy got out of the car. The driver sped the automobile away, and the motorcycle complement disappeared.
Matthew Canfield led the boy up the steps to the entrance of the inn.
Inside the lobby could be heard the wailing sound of an accordion, echoing from what was apparently a sparsely populated dining room. The high-ceilinged entry room was inhospitable, conveying the feeling that guests were not welcome.
Matthew Canfield and Andrew Scarlett approached the counter, which served as a front desk.
“Please, ring through to room six that April Red is here.”
As the clerk plugged in his line, the boy suddenly shook. Canfield grabbed his arm and held him.
They walked up the stairs, and the two men stood in front of the door marked with the numeral six.
“There’s nothing I can tell you now, Andy, except that we’re here for one person. At least that’s why I’m here. Janet. Your mother. Try to remember that.”
The boy took a deep breath. “I’ll try, Dad. Open the door! Jesus! Open the door!”
The room was dimly lit by small lamps on small tables. It was ornate in the fashion the Swiss felt proper for tourists—heavy rugs and solid furniture, overstuffed chairs and much antimacassar.
At the far end sat a man in half shadow. The spill of light angled sharply down across his chest but did not illuminate his face. The figure was dressed in brown tweeds, the jacket a combination of heavy cloth and leather.
He spoke in a throaty, harsh voice. “You are?”
“Canfield and April Red. Kroeger?”
“Shut the door.”
Matthew Canfield closed the door and took several steps forward in front of Andrew Scarlett. He would cover the boy. He put his hand in his right coat pocket.
“I have a gun pointed at you, Kroeger. Not the same gun but the same pocket as last time we met. This time I won’t take anything for granted. Do I make myself clear?”
“If you like, take it out of your pocket and hold it against my head.… There’s not much I can do about it.”
Canfield approached the figure in the chair.
It was horrible.
The man was a semi-invalid. He seemed to be paralyzed through the entire left portion of his body, extending to his jaw. His hands were folded across his front, his fingers extended as though spastic. But his eyes were alert.
His eyes.
His face.… Covered over by white splotches of skin graft below gray short-cropped hair. The man spoke.
“What you see was carried out of Sevastopol. Operation Barbarossa.”
“What do you have to tell us, Kroeger?”
“First, April Red.… Tell him to come closer.”
“Come here, Andy. By me.”
“Andy!” The man in the chair laughed through his half-closed mouth. “Isn’t that nice! Andy! Come here, Andy!”
Andrew Scarlett approached his stepfather and stood by his side, looking down at the deformed man in the chair.
“So you’re the son of Ulster Scarlett?”
“I’m Matthew Canfield’s son.”
Canfield held his place, watching the father and son. He suddenly felt as though he didn’t belong. He had the feeling that giants—old and infirm, young and scrawny—were about to do battle. And he was not of their house.
“No, young man, you’re the son of Ulster Stewart Scarlett, heir to Scarlatti!”
“I’m exactly what I want to be! I have nothing to do with you.” The young man breathed deeply. The fear was leaving him now, and in its place Canfield saw that a quiet fury was taking hold of the boy.