Hands of the Traitor Read Online Free PDF

kiddo.
You'll find an orange car in the yard. A gift from Tom Grieves. He
says you saved his company money. Ring your insurance and get it
transferred onto your policy."
    "Are you serious?"
    "It's yours. A present. You can drive down
to the Chamber of Commerce and see Louise Grantham. She'll help you
get in touch with the right people -- if you speak to her nicely."
Ken winked deliberately.
    "I'm not going near Louise. Anyway,
she won't want to see me."
    "This could be your last chance to patch
things up, kiddo. You'd better take a look at your new car or it
may disappear -- like Cinderella's coach."
    Matt caught the keys that Ken tossed
him. He moved towards the door, anxious to discover what sort of
vehicle Tom Grieves had kindly donated. The fact that the keys were
old and worn didn't register at first.
    "I don't want to patch things up," he
called back as he went down the stairs. "I'll have a look at the
car, then I'll go round to Mac's and get on the Internet. Maybe
there's something to the background of the massacre on there. If
those Heinmans have a guilty secret, I want to know what it
is."

 
     
    The Past

Chapter 4
    New York -- June 1937
    ...THEREFORE we are terminating
your financial agreement with Berlin at the end of July.
    It was a brief note on heavy paper,
deeply embossed with an eagle and a Nazi swastika. Albert Becker
Heinman swore loudly and lengthily. The Germans were about to pull
the plug on DCI. He depended on the Germans for trade, and without
their support he'd go broke.
    He joined the crowd pushing its way
into Macy's large entrance hall. One of the girls in here should
know what would excite a woman like Irena.
    "Hey, fella, who do you think you're
pushing!"
    He muttered an apology to the man he
had accidentally touched, but his voice was unheard above the noise
of customers crowding through the Manhattan department store. An
apology by Albert Becker Heinman, president of Domestic Chemicals
Incorporated? He stopped beside a perfume counter. This must be one
hell of a shopping trip if it made a man of his height apologize to
anyone.
    What had caused this sudden rejection
by the Nazis, when their joint project in the development of
artificial fibers was going so well? It had to be the pressure of
public opinion from those anti-German protestors campaigning loudly
in Madison Gardens just down the street. Did they think there was a
war coming?
    He usually made a point of keeping
well clear of the shops at any time, but especially on Saturdays.
He cursed his secretary for being away. A very convenient time for
a girl to phone in sick. Some sort of early morning nausea that had
been going on for several weeks.
    What the hell were secretaries for if they
couldn't attend to choosing a wife's birthday present -- or
remembering the birthday in the first place? Karen McDowell should
have reminded him yesterday, and today she could have come down
here to the city. A woman would even be able to buy fancy
underwear. He picked up a bottle of perfume and replaced it
immediately. Karen McDowell would have known what to choose for
Irena. A girl like Karen should stay in good health at all times,
especially on Saturdays.
    Some small kids, no doubt out to cause
trouble, began to drop stink bombs. Innocent passers-by unwittingly
crushed the thin glass capsules of glass under their feet while the
boys made good their escape. A foul stench of rotten eggs pervaded
this section of the largest store in Manhattan.
    In the vain hope of masking the odor
the counter assistants sprayed priceless fragrances into the air.
The resultant mix was an offence to both eggs and perfume. Many of
the customers simply laughed with embarrassment before moving
swiftly through to the next department. Unfortunately the brats
were just ahead, with a pocketful of the bombs.
    A few of the customers were rightly
furious. Heinman stopped, oblivious to the obnoxious blend of
sulphur dioxide and rose petals. He realized that the smell was
fuelling