Brigadier General Ellis replaced the pages in the white folder, picked up the attaché case at his feet, and walked to the large black door. As he closed it behind him, he saw that Hull was staring at him. He had an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Hull was not thinking about the general, however. He was remembering that warm afternoon long ago in the House of Representatives. Member after member had gotten up and read glowing tributes into the Congressional Record eulogizing a brave young American who was presumed dead. Everyone from both parties had expected him, the honorable member from the great state of Tennessee, to add his comments. Heads kept turning toward his desk in anticipation.
Cordell Hull was the only member of the house who was on a first-name basis with the renowned Elizabeth Scarlatti, that legend in her own time. The mother of the brave young man being glorified for posterity in the Congress of the United States.
For in spite of their political differences, Hull and his wife had been friends with Elizabeth Scarlatti for years.
Yet he had remained silent that warm afternoon.
He had known Ulster Stewart Scarlett, and he had despised him.
CHAPTER 2
The brown sedan with the United States Army insignia on both doors turned right on Twenty-second Street and entered Gramercy Square.
In the back seat Matthew Canfield leaned forward, taking the briefcase off his lap and placing it at his feet. He pulled the right sleeve of his overcoat down to conceal the thick silver chain, which was tightly wound around his wrist and looped through the metal handle of the case.
He knew that the contents of the briefcase, or more specifically, his possession of its contents, signified the end for him. When it was all over, and if he were still alive, they would crucify him if a way could be found that would exonerate the military.
The army car made two left turns and stopped by the entrance of the Gramercy Arms Apartments. A uniformed doorman opened the rear door and Canfield stepped out.
“I want you back here in half an hour,” he told his driver. “No later.”
The pale sergeant, obviously conditioned by his superior’s habits, replied, “I’ll be back in twenty minutes, sir.”
The major nodded appreciatively, turned, and went into the building. As he rode the elevator up, the major numbly realized how tired he was. Each number seemed to stay lighted far longer than it should have; the time lapse between the floors seemed interminable. And yet he was in no hurry. No hurry, whatsoever.
Eighteen years. The end of the lie but not the end of the fear. That would come only when Kroeger was dead. What would be left was guilt. He could live with the guilt, for it would be his alone and not the boy’s or Janet’s.
It would be his death, too. Not Janet’s. Not Andrew’s. If death was called for, it would be his. He’d make sure of that.
He would not leave Bern, Switzerland, until Kroeger was dead.
Kroeger or himself.
In all likelihood, both of them.
Out of the elevator he turned left and stepped down the short hallway to a door. He unlocked the door and stepped into a large, comfortable living room, furnished in Italian provincial style. Two huge bay windows over-looked the park, and various doors led to the bedrooms, dining room, the pantry, and the library. Canfield stood for a moment and thought unavoidably that all this, too, went back eighteen years.
The library door opened and a young man walked out. He nodded to Canfield without enthusiasm. “Hello, Dad.”
Canfield stared at the boy. It took a great deal of strength not to rush to his son and hold him.
His son.
And not his son.
He knew if he attempted such a gesture it would be rejected. The boy was wary now and, although he tried not to show it, afraid.
“Hello,” said the major. “Give me a hand with all this, will you?”
The young man crossed to the older one and mumbled, “Sure thing.”
Between them they unfastened the primary lock on the chain, and the younger man held the briefcase out straight so Canfield could manipulate the secondary combination lock, which was secured on the flat of his wrist. The briefcase came loose, and Canfield removed his hat overcoat and uniform jacket throwing them on an easy chair.
The boy held the briefcase, standing motionless before the major. He was extraordinarily good looking. He had bright blue eyes below very dark eyebrows, a straight but slightly upturned nose, and black hair combed neatly back. His complexion was swarthy as though he had a perpetual tan. He stood just over six feet and was dressed in gray flannels, a blue shirt, and a tweed jacket.
“How do you feel?” asked Canfield.
The young man paused and replied softly. “Well, on my twelfth birthday you and Mother got me a new sailboat. I liked that better.”