Chapter Forty-four

‘Against my wishes and my better judgment, Madame Scarlatti, my associates are determined to hear what you have to say.’ The grotesque shaven-headed Heinrich Kroeger spoke. ‘My position has been made clear to you. I trust your memory serves you well about it.’

There were whispers around the table. Looks were exchanged. None of the men were prepared for the news that Heinrich Kroeger had had prior contact with Elizabeth Scarlatti.

‘My memory serves me very well. Your associates represent an aggregate of much wisdom and several centuries of experience. I suspect far in excess of your own on both counts—collectively and individually.’

Most of the men simply lowered their eyes, some pressing their lips in slight smiles. Elizabeth slowly looked at each face around the table.

‘We have an interesting board here, I see. Well represented. Well diversified. Some of us were enemies in war a few short years ago, but such memories, by necessity, are short—Let’s see.’ Without singling out any one individual, Elizabeth Scarlatti spoke rapidly, almost in a cadence. ‘My own country has lost two members, I’m sad to note. But I don’t believe prayers are in order for Messrs. Boothroyd and Thornton. If they are, I’m not the one to deliver them. But still, the United States is splendidly represented by Mr. Gibson and Mr. Landor. Between them, they account for nearly twenty percent of the vast oil interests in the American Southwest. To say nothing of a joint expansion in the Canadian Northwest Territories. Combined personal assets—two hundred and twenty-five million—Our recent adversary, Germany, brings us Herr von Schnitzler, Herr Kindorf, and Herr Thyssen. I. G. Farben; the baron of Ruhr coal; the great steel companies. Personal assets? Who can really tell these days in the Weimar? Perhaps one hundred and seventy-five million, at the outside—But someone’s missing from this group. I trust he’s successfully being recruited. I speak of Gustave Krupp. He would raise the ante considerably—England sends us Messrs. Masterson, Leacock, and Innes-Bowen. As powerful a triumvirate as can be found in the British Empire. Mr. Masterson with half of the India imports, also Ceylon now, I understand; Mr. Leacock’s major portion of the British Stock Exchange; and Mr. Innes-Bowen. He owns the largest single textile industry throughout Scotland and the Hebrides. Personal assets I place at three hundred million—-

France has been generous, too. Monsieur D’Almeida; I now realize that he is the true owner of the Franco-Italian rail system, partially due to his Italian lineage, I’m sure. And Monsieur Daudet. Is there any among us who have not used some part of his merchant fleet? Personal assets, one hundred and fifty million… And lastly, our neighbors to the north, Sweden. Herr Myrdal and Herr Olaffsen. Understandably’—here Elizabeth looked pointedly at the strange-faced man, her son, at the head of the table—‘one of these gentlemen, Herr Myrdal, has controlling interest in Donnenfeld, the most impressive firm on the Stockholm exchange. While Herr Olaffsen’s many companies merely control the export of Swedish iron and steel. Personal assets are calculated at one hundred and twenty-five million—Incidentally, gentlemen, the term personal assets denotes those holdings which can be converted easily, quickly, and without endangering your markets—Otherwise, I would not insult you by placing such meager limits on your fortunes.’

Elizabeth paused to place her briefcase directly in front of her. The men around the table were aroused, apprehensive. Several were shocked at the casual mention of what they believed was highly confidential information. The Americans, Gibson and Landor, had quietly gone into the Canadian venture unannounced, without legal sanction, violating the U.S.-Canadian treaties. The Germans, von Schnitzler and Kindorf, had held secret conferences with Gustave Krupp—who was fighting desperately to remain neutral for fear of a Weimar takeover. If these conferences were made known, Krupp had sworn to expose them. The Frenchman, Louis Francois D’Almeida, guarded with his very life the extent of his ownership of the Franco-Italian rails. If it were known, it might well be confiscated by the republic. He had purchased the majority shares from the Italian government through plain bribery.

And Myrdal, the heavyset Swede, bulged his eyes in disbelief when Elizabeth Scarlatti spoke so knowingly about the Stockholm exchange. His own company had covertly absorbed Donnonfeld in one of the most complicated mergers imaginable, made possible by the illegal transaction of the American securities. If it became public knowledge, the Swedish law would step in, and he’d be ruined. Only the Englishmen seemed totally poised, totally proud of their achievements. But even this measure of equanimity was misleading. For Sydney Masterton, undisputed heir to the merchant domain of Sir Robert Clive, had only recently concluded the Ceylon arrangements. They were unknown in the import-export world and there were certain agreements subject to question. Some might even say they constituted fraud.

Huddled, quiet-toned conferences took place around the table in the four languages. Elizabeth raised her voice sufficiently to be heard.

‘I gather some of you are conferring with your aides—I assume they are your aides. If I’d realized this meeting made provisions for second-level negotiators, I’d have brought along my attorneys. They could have gossiped among themselves while we continue. The decisions we reach tonight, gentlemen, must be our own!’

Heinrich Kroeger sat on the edge of his chair. He spoke harshly, unpleasantly. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure of any decisions. There are none to be made! You’ve told us nothing which couldn’t be learned by any major accounting firm!’

A number of the men around the table—specifically the two Germans, D’Almeida, Gibson, Landor, Myrdal, and Masterson—avoided looking at him. For Kroeger was wrong.

‘You think so? Perhaps. But then I’ve overlooked you, haven’t I?… I shouldn’t do that, you’re obviously terribly important.’ Again, a number of the men around the table—excluding those mentioned—had traces of smiles on their lips.

‘Your wit is as dull as you are.’ Elizabeth was pleased with herself. She was succeeding in this most important aspect of her appearance. She was reaching, provoking Ulster Stewart Scarlett. She continued without acknowledging his remark.

‘Strangely obtained assets of two hundred and seventy million sold under the most questionable circumstances would necessitate a loss of at least fifty percent, possibly sixty percent of market value. I’ll grant you the least, so I shall hazard an estimate of one hundred and thirty-five million dollars at the current rates of exchange. One hundred and eight, if you’ve been weak.’

Matthew Canfield lurched from the wall, then held his place.

The men around the table were astonished. The hum of voices increased perceptibly. Aides were shaking their heads, nodding in agreement, raising their eyebrows unable to answer. Each participant thought he knew something of the others. Obviously, none were this knowledgeable of Heinrich Kroeger. They had not even been sure of his status at this table. Elizabeth interrupted the commotion.

‘However, Mister Kroeger, surely you know that theft, when eminently provable, is merely subject to proper identification before steps can be taken. There are international courts of extradition. Therefore, it is conceivable that your assets might be calculated at… zero!’

A silence fell over the table as the gentlemen, along with their assistants, gave Heinrich Kroeger their full attention. The words, theft, courts, and extradition were words they could not accept at this table. They were dangerous words. Kroeger, the man many of them vaguely feared for reasons solely associated with his enormous influence within both camps, was now warned.

‘Don’t threaten me, old woman.’ Kroeger’s voice was low, confident. He sat back in his chair and glared at his mother at the opposite end of the long table. ‘Don’t make charges unless you can substantiate them. If you’re prepared to attempt that, I’m ready to counter—If you or your colleagues were out-negotiated, this is no place to cry. You won’t get sympathy here! I might even go so far as to say you’re on treacherous ground. Remember that!’ He kept staring until Elizabeth could no longer stand the sight of his eyes. She looked away.

She was not prepared to do anything—not with him, not with Heinrich Kroeger. She would not gamble the lives of her family more than she had already. She would not wager at this table the name of Scarlatti. Not that way. Not now. There was another way.

Kroeger had won the point. It was obvious to all, and Elizabeth had to rush headlong on so that none would dwell upon her loss.

‘Keep your assets. They are quite immaterial.’

Around the table the phrase ‘quite immaterial’ when applied to such millions was impressive. Elizabeth knew it would be.

‘Gentlemen. Before we were interrupted, I gave you all, by national groupings, the personal assets calculated to the nearest five million for each contingent. I felt it was more courteous than breaking down each individual’s specific worth—some things are sacred, after all. However, I was quite unfair, as several of you know. I alluded to a number of—shall we say, delicate negotiations, I’m sure you believed were inviolate. Treacherous to you—to use Mr. Kroeger’s words—if they were known within your own countries.’ Seven of the Zurich twelve were silent. Five were curious. ‘I refer to my cocitizens, Mr. Gibson and Mr. Landor. To Monsieur D’Almeida, Sydney Masterson, and of course, to the brilliant Herr Myrdal. I should also include two-thirds of Germany’s investors—Herr von Schnftzler and Herr Kindorf, but for different reasons, as I’m sure they realize.’

No one spoke. No one turned to his aides. All eyes were upon Elizabeth.

‘I don’t intend to remain unfair in this fashion, gentlemen. I have something for each of you.’

A voice other than Kroeger’s spoke up. It was the Englishman, Sydney Masterson.

‘May I ask the point of all this? All this… incidental intelligence? I’m sure you’ve been most industrious—highly accurate, too, speaking for myself. But none of us here have entered the race for a Jesus medal. Surely, you know that.’

‘I do, indeed. If it were otherwise, I wouldn’t be here tonight.’

‘Then why? Why this?’ The accent was German. The voice belonged to the blustering baron of the Ruhr Valley, Kindorf.

Masterson continued. ‘Your cablegram, madame—we all received the same—specifically alluded to areas of mutual interest. I believe you went so far as to say the Scarlatti assets might be at our joint disposal. Most generous, indeed… But now I must agree with Mr. Kroeger. You sound as though you’re threatening us, and I’m not at all sure I like it.’

‘Oh, come, Mr. Masterson! You’ve never held out promises of English gold to half the minor potentates in the backwaters of India? Herr Kindorf has not openly bribed his unions to strike with pledges of increased wages once the French are out of the Ruhr? Please! You insult all of us! Of course, I’m here to threaten you! And I can assure you, you’ll like it less as I go on!’

Masterson rose from the table. Several others moved their chairs. The air was hostile. ‘I shall not listen further,’ said Masterson.

‘Then tomorrow at noon the Foreign Office, the British Stock exchange, and the board of directors of the Collective will receive detailed specifics of your highly illegal agreements in Ceylon! Your commitments are enormous! The news might just initiate a considerable run on your holdings!’

Masterson stood by his chair. ‘Be damned!’ were the only words he uttered as he returned to his chair. The table once again fell silent. Elizabeth opened her briefcase.

‘I have here an envelope for each of you. Your names are typed on the front. Inside each envelope is an accounting of your individual worths. Your strengths. Your weaknesses… There is one envelope missing. The… influential, very important Mr. Kroeger does not have one. Frankly, it’s insignificant.’

‘I warn you!’

‘So very sorry, Mr. Kroeger.’ Again the words were rapidly spoken, but this time no one was listening. Each one’s concentration was on Elizabeth Scarlatti and her briefcase. ‘Some envelopes are thicker than others, but none should place too great an emphasis on this factor. We all know the negligibility of wide diversification after a certain point.’ Elizabeth reached into her leather case.

‘You are a witch!’ Kindorf’s heavy accent was now guttural, the veins stood out in his temples.

‘Here. I shall pass them out. And as each of you peruse your miniature portfolios I shall continue talking, which, I know, will please you.’

The envelopes were passed down both sides of the table. Some were torn open immediately, hungrily. Others, like the cards of experienced poker players, were handled carefully, cautiously.

Matthew Canfield stood by the wall, his left arm smarting badly in the sling, his right hand in his pocket, sweatily clutching his revolver. Since Elizabeth had identified Ulster Scarlett with the 270 million, he could not take his eyes off him. This man called Heinrich Kroeger. This hideous, arrogant son of a bitch was the man he wanted! This was the filthy bastard who had done it all! This was Janet’s personal hell.

‘I see you all have your envelopes. Except, of course, the ubiquitous Mr Kroeger. Gentlemen, I promised you I would not be unfair and I shan’t be. There are five of you who cannot begin to appreciate the influence of Scarlatti unless you have, as they say in cheap merchandising, samples applicable to you alone. Therefore, as you read the contents of your envelopes, I shall briefly touch on these sensitive areas.’

Several of the men who had been reading shifted their eyes toward Elizabeth without moving their heads. Others put the papers down defiantly. Some handed the pages to aides and stared at the old woman. Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder at Matthew Canfield. She was worried about him. She knew he at last, faced Ulster Scarlatti, and the pressure on him was immense. She tried to catch his eye. She tried to reassure him with a look, a confident smile.

He would not look at her. She saw only the hatred in his eyes as he stared at the man called Heinrich Kroeger.

‘I shall delineate alphabetically, gentlemen Monsieur Daudet, the Republic of France would be reluctant to continue awarding franchises to your fleet if they were aware of those ships under Paraguayan flag which carried supplies to France’s enemies in time of war.’ Daudet remained motionless, but Elizabeth was amused to see the three Englishmen bristle at the Frenchman.

‘The predictable, contradictory British.’

‘Oh, come, Mr Innes-Bowen. You may not have run ammunition, but how many neutral ships were loaded off how many piers in India with textile cargoes bound for Bremerhaven and Cuxhaven during the same period. And Mr Leacock. You can’t really forget your fine Irish heritage, can you? The Sinn Fein has proposed well under your tutelage. Moneys funneled through you to the Irish rebellion cost the lives of thousands of British soldiers at a time when England could least afford them! And quiet, calm Herr Olaffsen. The crown prince of Swedish steel. Or is he the king now? He might well be, for the Swedish government paid him several fortunes for untold hundreds of tons of low carbon ingot. However, they didn’t come from his own superior factories. They were shipped from inferior mills half a world away—from Japan.’

Elizabeth reached into her briefcase once again. The men around the table were like corpses, immobile, only their minds were working. For Heinrich Kroeger, Elizabeth Scarlatti had placed the seal of approval on her own death warrant. He sat back and relaxed. Elizabeth withdrew a thin booklet from her briefcase.

‘Lastly we come to Herr Thyssen. He emerges with the least pain. No grand fraud, no treason, only minor illegality and major embarrassment. Hardly a fitting tribute to the house of August, Thyssen.’ She threw the booklet into the center of the table. ‘Filth, gentlemen, just plain filth. Fritz Thyssen, pornographer. Purveyor of obscenity. Books, pamphlets, even motion pictures. Printed and filmed in Thyssen warehouses in Cairo. Every government on the Continent has condemned the unknown source. There he is, gentlemen. Your associate.’

For a long moment no one spoke. Each man was concerned with himself. Each calculated the damage that could result from old Scarlatti’s disclosures. In every instance the loss was accompanied by degrees of disgrace. Reputations could hang in balance. The old woman had issued twelve indictments and personally returned twelve verdicts of guilty. Somehow, no one considered the thirteenth, Heinrich Kroeger.

Sydney Masterson pierced the belligerent air with a loud, manufactured cough. ‘Very well, Madame Scarlatti, you’ve made the point I referred to earlier. However, I think I should remind you that we are not impotent men. Charges and counter charges are parts of our lives. Solicitors can refute every accusation you’ve made, and I can assure you that lawsuits for unmitigated slander would be in the forefront. After all, when gutter tactics are employed there are expedient replies. If you think we fear disdain, believe me when I tell you that public opinion has been molded by far less money than is represented at this table.’

The gentlemen of Zurich took confidence in Masterson’s words. There were nods of agreement.

‘I don’t for one second doubt you, Mr Masterson. Any of you. Missing personnel files, opportunistic executives—sacrificial goats. Please, gentlemen! I only contend that you wouldn’t welcome the trouble. Or the anxiety which goes with such distasteful matters.’

‘Won, madame’ Claude Daudet was outwardly cool but inwardly petrified. Perhaps his Zurich associates did not know the French people. A firing squad was not out of the question. ‘You are correct. Such troubles are to be avoided. So, then what is next? What is it you prepare for us eh?’

Elizabeth paused. She wasn’t quite sure why. It was an instinct, an intuitive need to turn around and look at the field accountant.

Matthew Canfield had not budged from his position by the wall. He was a pathetic sight. His jacket had fallen away from his left shoulder revealing the dark black sling, his right hand still plunged in his pocket. He seemed to be swallowing continuously, trying to keep himself aware of his surroundings, Elizabeth noticed that he now avoided looking at Ulster Scarlett. He seemed, in essence, to be trying to hang on to his sanity.

‘Excuse me, gentlemen.’ Elizabeth rose from her chair and crossed to Canfield. She whispered quietly to him. ‘Take hold of yourself. I demand it! There’s nothing to fear. Not in this room!’

Canfield spoke slowly, without moving his lips. She could barely hear him, but what she heard startled her. Not for its content, but for the way in which he said it. Matthew Canfield was now among the ranks in this room in Zurich. He had joined them; he had become a killer, too.

‘Say what you have to say and get it over with—I want him. I’m sorry, but I want him. Look at him now, lady, because he’s a dead man.’

‘Control yourself! Such talk will serve neither of us.’ She turned and walked back to her chair. She stood behind it while she spoke. ‘As you may have noticed, gentlemen, my young friend has been seriously wounded. Thanks to all of you… or one of you, in an attempt to prevent my reaching Zurich. The act was cowardly and provocative in the extreme.’

The men looked at each other.

Daudet, whose imagination would not stop conjuring pictures of national disgrace or the firing squad, answered quickly. ‘Why would any here take such action, Madame Scarlatti? We are not maniacs. We are businessmen. No one sought to prevent your coming to Zurich. Witness, madame, we are all here.’

Elizabeth looked at the man called Kroeger.

‘One of you violently opposed this conference. We were fired upon less than a half hour ago.’

The men looked at Heinrich Kroeger. Some were becoming angry. This Kroeger was, perhaps, too reckless.

‘No.’ He answered simply and emphatically, returning their stares. ‘I agreed to your coming. If I’d wanted to stop you, I’d have stopped you.’

For the first time since the meeting began, Heinrich Kroeger looked at the sporting goods salesman, at the far end of the room, half concealed in the poor light. He had reacted with only moderate surprise when he realized Elizabeth Scarlatti had brought him to Zurich. Moderate because he knew Elizabeth’s penchant for employing the unusual, both in methods and personnel, and because she probably had no one else around she could browbeat into silence as easily as this money-hungry social gadfly. He’d be a convenient chauffeur, a manservant. Kroeger hated the type.

Or was he anything else?

Why had the salesman stared at him? Had Elizabeth told him anything? She wouldn’t be that big a fool. The man was the sort who’d blackmail in a minute.

One thing was sure. He’d have to be killed.

But who had tried to kill him previously? Who had tried to stop Elizabeth? And why?

The same question was being considered by Elizabeth Scarlatti. For she believed Kroeger when he disavowed the attempts on their lives.

‘Please continue, Madame Scarlatti.’ It was Fritz Thyssen, his cherubic face still flushed with anger over Elizabeth’s disclosure of his Cairo trade. He had removed the booklet from the center of the table.

‘I shall.’ She approached the side of her chair but did not sit down. Instead, she reached once more into her briefcase. ‘I have one thing further, gentlemen. With it we can conclude our business, and decisions can be made. There is a copy for each of the twelve remaining investors. Those with aides will have to share them. My apologies, Mr. Kroeger, I find I haven’t one for you.’ From her position at the end of the table she distributed twelve slender manila envelopes. They were sealed, and as the men passed them down, the investors taking one apiece, it was apparent that each found it difficult not to rip open the top and withdraw the contents at once. But none wished to betray such obvious anxiety.

Finally, as each of the twelve held his envelope in front of him, one by one the men began to open them.

For nearly two minutes the only sound was the rustling of pages. Otherwise, silence. Even breathing was seemingly suspended. The men from Zurich were mesmerized by what they saw. Elizabeth spoke.

‘Yes, gentlemen. What you hold in your hands is the scheduled liquidation of the Scarlatti Industries… So that you have no illusions of doubt concerning the validity of this document, you will note that after each subdivision of holdings is typed the names of the individuals, corporations, or syndicates who are the purchasers… Every one of those mentioned, the individuals as well as the organizations, are known to each of you. If not personally, then certainly by reputation. You know their capabilities, and I’m sure you’re not unaware of their ambitions. Within the next twenty-four hours they will own Scarlatti.’

For most of the Zurich men Elizabeth’s sealed information was the confirmation of the whispered rumors. Word had reached them that something unusual was taking place at Scarlatti. Some sort of unloading under strange circumstances.

So this was it. The head of Scarlatti was getting out.

‘A massive operation, Madame Scarlatti.’ Olaffsen’s low Swedish voice vibrated throughout the room. ‘But to repeat Daudet’s question, what is it you prepare us for?’

‘Please take note of the bottom figure on the last page, gentlemen. Although I’m quite sure you all have.’ The rustle of pages. Each man had turned swiftly to the final page. ‘It reads seven hundred and fifteen million dollars—The combined, immediately convertible assets of this table, placed at the highest figure is one billion, one hundred and ten million… Therefore, a disparity of three hundred and ninety-five million exists between us… Another way to approach this difference is to calculate it from the opposite direction. The Scarlatti liquidation will realize sixty-four point four percent of this table’s holdings—if, indeed, you gentlemen could convert your personal assets in such a manner as to preclude financial panics.’

Silence.

A number of the Zurich men reached for their first envelopes. The breakdowns of their own worth.

One of these was Sydney Masterson, who turned to Elizabeth with an unamused smile. ‘And what you’re saying, I presume, Madame Scarlatti, is that this sixty-four point plus percent is the club you hold over our heads?’

‘Precisely, Mr. Masterson.’

‘My dear lady, I really must question your sanity—-’

‘I wouldn’t, if I were you.’

‘Then I shall, Frau Scarlatti.’ I. G. Farben’s von Schnitzler spoke in a disagreeable manner, lounging back in his chair as if toying verbally with an imbecile. ‘To accomplish what you have must have been a costly sacrifice… I wonder to what purpose? You cannot buy what there is not to sell… We are not a public corporation. You cannot force into defeat something which does not exist!’ His German lisp was pronounced, his arrogance every bit as unattractive as reputed. Elizabeth disliked him intensely.

‘Quite correct, von Schnitzler.’

‘Then, perhaps’—the German laughed—’you have been a foolish woman. I would not wish to absorb your losses. I mean, really, you cannot go to some mythical Baumeister and tell him you have more funds than we—therefore, he must drive us out into the streets!’

Several of the Zurich men laughed.

‘That, of course, would be the simplest, would it not? The appeal to one entity, negotiating with one power. It’s a shame that I can’t do that. It would be so much easier, so much less costly… But I’m forced to take another road, an expensive one… I should put that another way. I have taken it, gentlemen. It has been accomplished. The time is running out for its execution.’

Elizabeth looked at the men at Zurich. Some had their eyes riveted on her—watching for the slightest waver of confidence, the smallest sign of bluff. Others fixed their stares on inanimate objects—caring only to filter the words, the tone of her voice, for a false statement or a lapse of judgment. These were men who moved nations with a single gesture, a solitary word.

‘At the start of tomorrow’s business, subject to time zones, enormous transfers of Scarlatti capital will have been made to the financial centers of the five nations represented at this table. In Berlin, Paris, Stockholm, London, and New York, negotiations have already been completed for massive purchases on the open market of the outstanding shares of your central companies… Before noon of the next business day, gentlemen, Scarlatti will have considerable, though, of course, minority ownership in many of your vast enterprises… Six hundred and seventy million dollars’ worth!… Do you realize what this means, gentlemen?’

Kindorf roared, ‘You will drive up the prices and makes us fortunes! You will own nothing!’

‘My dear lady, you are extraordinary.’ Innes-Bowen’s textile prices had remained conservative. He was overjoyed at the prospects.

D’Almeida, who realized she could not enter his Franco-Italian rails, took another view. ‘You cannot purchase one share of my property, madame!’

‘Some of you are more fortunate than others, Monsieur D’Almeida.’

Leacock, the financier, the gentlest trace of a brogue in his cultivated voice, spoke up. ‘Granting what you say, and it is entirely possible, Madame Scarlatti, what have we suffered?… We have not lost a daughter, but gained a minor associate.’ He turned to the others who, he hoped, could find humour in his analogy.

Elizabeth held her breath before speaking. She waited until the men of Zurich were once again focused on her.

‘I said before noon Scarlatti would be in the position I outlined… One hour later a tidal wave will form in the Kurfuerstendamm in Berlin and end in New York’s Wall Street! One hour later Scarlatti will divest itself of these holdings at a fraction of their cost! I have estimated three cents on the dollar—Simultaneously, every bit of information Scarlatti has learned of your questionable activities will be released to the major wire services in each of your countries… You might sustain slander by itself, gentlemen. You will not be the same men when it is accompanied by financial panic! Some of you will remain barely intact. Some will be wiped out. The majority of you will be affected disastrously!’

After the briefest moment of shocked silence, the room exploded. Aides were questioned peremptorily. Answers were bellowed to be heard.

Heinrich Kroeger rose from his chair and screamed at the men. ‘Stop! Stop! You damn fools, stop it! She’d never do it! She’s bluffing!’

‘Do you really think so?’ Elizabeth shouted above the voices.

‘I’ll kill you, you bitch!’

‘You are demented, Frau Scarlatti!’

‘Try it… Kroeger! Try it!’ Matthew Canfield stood by Elizabeth, his eyes bloodshot with fury as he stared at Ulster Stewart Scarlett.

‘Who the hell are you, you lousy peddler?’ The man called Kroeger, hands gripping the table, returned Canfield’s stare and screeched to be heard by the salesman.

‘Look at me good! I’m your executioner!’

‘What!’

The man called Heinrich Kroeger squinted his mis-shapen eyes. He was bewildered. Who was this parasite? But he could not take the time to think. The voices of the men of Zurich had reached a crescendo. They were now shouting at each other.

Heinrich Kroeger pounded the table. He had to get control. He had to get them quiet. ‘Stop it!… Listen to me! If you’ll listen to me, I’ll tell you why she can’t do it! She can’t do it, I tell you!’

One by one the voices became quieter and finally trailed off into silence. The men of Zurich watched Kroeger. He pointed at Elizabeth Scarlatti.

‘I know this bitch-woman! I’ve seen her do this before! She gets men together, powerful men, and frightens them. They go into panic and sell out! She gambles on fear, you cowards! On fear!’

Daudet spoke quietly. ‘You have answered nothing. Why can’t she do as she says?’

Kroeger did not take his eyes off Elizabeth Scarlatti as he replied. ‘Because to do it would destroy everything she’s ever fought for. It would collapse Scarlatti!’

Sydney Masterson spoke just above a whisper. ‘That would appear to be obvious. The question remains unanswered.’

‘She couldn’t live without that power! Take my word for it! She couldn’t live without it!’

‘That’s an opinion,’ said Elizabeth Scarlatti facing her son at the opposite end of the table. ‘Do you ask the majority of those at this table to risk everything on your opinion?’

‘God damn you!’

‘This Kroeger’s right, honey.’ The Texas drawl was unmistakable. ‘You’ll ruin yourself. You won’t have a pot to piss in.’

‘Your language matches the crudity of your operations, Mr. Landor.’

‘I don’t give pig piss for words, old lady. I do about money, and that’s what we’re talkin’ about. Why do you want to pull this here crap?’

‘That I’m doing it is sufficient, Mr. Landor—Gentlemen, I said time was running out. The next twenty-four hours will either be a normal Tuesday or a day which will never be forgotten in the financial capitals of our world—Some here will survive. Most of you will not. Which will it be, gentlemen?… I submit that in light of everything I’ve said, it’s a poor fiscal decision wherein the majority allows the minority to cause its destruction.’

‘What is it you want of us?’ Myrdal was a cautious bargainer. ‘A few might rather weather your threats than accept your demands—Sometimes I think it is all a game. What are your demands?’

‘That this… association be disbanded at once. That all financial and political ties in Germany with whatever factions be severed without delay! That those of you who have been entrusted with appointments to the Allied Controls Commission resign immediately!’

‘No! No! No! No!’ Heinrich Kroeger was enraged. He banged his fist with all his might upon the table. This organization has taken years to build! We will control the economy of Europe. We will control all Europe! We will do it!’

‘Hear me, gentlemen! Mr. Myrdal said it’s a game! Of course, it’s a game! A game we expend our lives on. Our souls on! It consumes us, and we demand more and more and more until, at last, we crave our own destruction—Herr Kroeger says I can’t live without the power I’ve sought and gained. He may be right, gentlemen! Perhaps it’s time for me to reach that logical end, the end which I now crave and for which I’m willing to pay the price… Of course, I’ll do as I say, gentlemen. I welcome death!’

‘Let it be yours, then, not ours.’ Sydney Masterson understood.

‘So be it, Mr. Masterson. I’m not overwhelmed, you know. I leave to all of you the necessity of coping with this strange new world we’ve entered. Don’t think for a minute, gentlemen, that I can’t understand you! Understand what you’ve done. Most horridly, why you’ve done it!… You look around your personal kingdoms and you’re frightened. You see your power threatened—by theories, governments, strange-sounding concepts which eat away at your roots. You have an overpowering anxiety to protect the feudal system which spawned you. And well you should, perhaps. It won’t last long… But you will not do it this way!’

‘Since you understand so, why do you stop us? This undertaking protects all of us. Ultimately yourself as well. Why do you stop us?’ D’Almeida could lose the Franco-Italian rails and survive, if only the remainder could be saved.

‘It always starts that way. The greater good—Let’s say I stop you because what you’re doing is a far greater blemish than it is a cure. And that’s all I’ll say about it!’

‘From you, that’s ludicrous! I tell you again, she won’t do it!’ Kroeger pounded the flat of his hand on the table, but no one paid much attention to him.

‘When you say time is running out, Madame Scarlatti, how do you mean it? From what you said, I gathered time had run out. The expensive road had been taken…’

‘There’s a man in Geneva, Mr. Masterson, who’s awaiting a phone call from me. If he receives that phone call, a cable will be sent to my offices in New York. If that cable arrives, the operation is canceled. If it doesn’t, it’s executed on schedule.’

‘That’s impossible! Such complexity untangled with a cablegram? I don’t believe you.’ Monsieur Daudet was certain of ruin.

‘I assume considerable financial penalties by the action.’

‘You assume more than that, I would suspect, madame, You’ll never be trusted again. Scarlatti will be isolated!’

‘It’s a prospect, Mr. Masterson. Not a conclusion. The marketplace is flexible… Well, gentlemen? Your answer?’

Sydney Masterson rose from his chair. ‘Make your phone call. There’s no other choice, is there, gentlemen?’

The men of Zurich looked at each other. Slowly they began to get out of their chairs, gathering the papers in front of them.

‘It’s finished. I am out of it.’ Kindorf folded the manila envelope and put it in his pocket.

‘You’re a beastly tiger. I shouldn’t care to meet you in the arena with an army at my back.’ Leacock stood erect.

‘You may be bullshitter, but I’m not gonna slip on it!’ Landor nudged Gibson, who found it difficult to adjust.

‘We can’t be sure—That’s our problem. We can’t be sure,’ said Gibson.

‘Wait! Wait! Wait a minute!’ Heinrich Kroeger began to shout. ‘You do this! You walk out! You’re dead!… Every God damn one of you leeches is dead! Leeches! Yellow-bellied leeches!… You suck our blood; you make agreements with us. Then you walk out?… Afraid for your little businesses? You God damn Jew bastards! We don’t need you! Any of you! But you’re going to need us! We’ll cut you up and feed you to dogs! God damn swine!’ Kroeger’s face was flushed. His words spewed out, tumbling over one another.

‘Stop it, Kroeger!’ Masterson took a step toward the raving man with the splotched face. ‘It’s finished! Can’t you understand? It’s finished!’

‘Stay where you are, you scum, you English fairy!’ Kroeger drew the pistol from his holster. Canfield, standing by Elizabeth, saw that it was a long-barreled forty-five and would blast half a man’s body off with one shot.

‘Stay where you are!… Finished! Nothing’s finished until I say it’s finished. God damn filthy pigs! Frightened little slug worms! We’re too far along!… No one will stop us now!…’ He waved the pistol toward Elizabeth and Canfield. ‘Finished! I’ll tell you who’s finished! She is!… Get out of my way.’ He started down the left side of the table as the Frenchman, Daudet, squealed.

‘Don’t do it, monsieur! Don’t kill her! You do, and we are ruined!’

‘I warn you, Kroeger! You murder her and you’ll answer to us! We’ll not be intimidated by you! We’ll not destroy ourselves because of you!’ Masterson stood at Kroeger’s side, their shoulders nearly touching. The Englishman would not move.

Without a word, without warning, Heinrich Kroeger pointed his pistol at Masterson’s stomach and fired. The shot was deafening and Sydney Masterson was jackknifed into the air. He fell to the floor, blood drenching his entire front, instantaneously dead.

The eleven men of Zurich gasped, some screamed in horror at the sight of the bloody corpse. Heinrich Kroeger kept walking. Those in his path got out of his way.

Elizabeth Scarlatti held her place. She locked her eyes with those of her killer son. ‘I curse the day you were born. You revile the house of your father. But know this, Heinrich Kroeger, and know it well!’ The old woman’s voice filled the cavernous room. Her power was such that her son was momentarily stunned, staring at her in hatred as she pronounced his sentence of execution. ‘Your identity will be spread across every front page of every newspaper in the civilized world after I’m dead! You will be hunted down for what you are! A madman, a murderer, a thief! And every man in this room, every investor in Zurich, will be branded your associate if they let you live this night!’

An uncontrollable rage exploded in the misshapen eyes of Heinrich Kroeger. His body shook with fury as he lashed at a chair in front of him sending it crashing across the floor. To kill was not enough. He had to kill at close range, he had to see the life and mind of Elizabeth Scarlatti detonated into oblivion in front of his eyes.

Matthew Canfield held the trigger of his revolver in his right-hand pocket. He had never fired from his pocket and he knew that if he missed he and Elizabeth would die. He was not sure how long he could wait. He would aim in the vicinity of the approaching man’s chest, the largest target facing him. He waited until he could wait no longer.

The report of the small revolver and the impact of the bullet into Scarlett’s shoulder was so much of a shock that Kroeger, for a split second, widened his eyes in disbelief.

It was enough, just enough for Canfield.

With all his strength he crashed into Elizabeth with his right shoulder sending her frail body toward the floor out of Kroeger’s line of sight as he, Canfield, flung himself to the left. He withdrew his revolver and fired again, rapidly, into the man called Heinrich Kroeger.

Kroeger’s huge pistol went off into the floor as he crumpled over.

Canfield staggered up, forgetting the unbearable pain in his left arm, which had been crushed under the weight of his own body. He leaped on Ulster Stewart Scarlett, wrenching the pistol from the iron grip. He began hitting the face of Heinrich Kroeger with the barrel. He could not stop.

Destroy the face! Destroy the horrible face!

Finally he was pulled off.

‘Gotto! He’s dead! Halt! Stop! You can do no more!’ The large, strong Fritz Thyssen held him.

Matthew Canfield felt weak and sank to the floor.

The men of Zurich had gathered around. Several helped Elizabeth, while the others bent over Heinrich Kroeger.

Rapid knocking came from the door leading to the hall.

Von Schnitzler took command. ‘Let them in!’ he ordered in his thick German accent.

D’Almeida walked swiftly to the door and opened it. A number of chauffeurs stood at the entrance. It occurred to Canfield as he watched them that these men were not simply drivers of automobiles. He had good reason. They were armed.

As he lay there on the floor in terrible pain and shock, Canfield saw a brutish-looking blond man with close-cropped hair bent over the body of Heinrich Kroeger. He pushed the others away for the briefest instant while he pulled back the mis-shapen lid of one eye.

And then Canfield wondered if the agony of the last hours had played tricks with his sight, corrupted the infallible process of vision.

Or had the blond man bent his head down and whispered something into Heinrich Kroeger’s ear?

Was Heinrich Kroeger still alive?

Von Schnitzler stood over Canfield. ‘He will be taken away. I have ordered a coup de grace. No matter, he is dead. It is finished.’ The obese von Schnitzler then shouted further commands in German to the uniformed chauffeurs around Kroeger. Several started to lift up the lifeless form but they were blocked by the blond man with the close-cropped hair. He shouldered them out of the way, not letting them touch the body.

He alone lifted Heinrich Kroeger off the floor and carried him out the door. The others followed.

‘How’s she?’ Canfield gestured toward Elizabeth, who was seated in a chair. She was staring at the door through which the body had been taken, staring at the man no one knew was her son.

‘Time! She can make her call now!’ Leacock was trying his best to be decisive.

Canfield rose from the floor and crossed to Elizabeth. He put his hand on her wrinkled cheek. He could not help himself.

Tears were falling down the ridges of her face.

And then Matthew Canfield looked up. He could hear the sound of a powerful automobile racing away. He was bothered.

Von Schnitzler had told him he’d ordered a coup de grace.

Yet no shot was fired.

A mile away, on the Winterhurstrasse, two men dragged the body of a dead man to a truck. They weren’t sure what to do. The dead man had hired them, hired them all to stop the automobile heading to Falke Haus. He had paid them in advance, they had insisted upon it. Now he was dead, killed by a bullet meant for the driver of the automobile an hour ago. As they dragged the body over the rocky incline toward the truck, the blood from the mouth spewed onto the perfectly matted waxed moustache.

The man named Poole was dead.

PART FOUR