Destroyer - The Empire Dreams Part 2

Today the thickness of the vault didn't matter. Today the ma.s.sive door was wide open.

Ordinarily the whirring, remorseless eyes of surveillance cameras scanned the interior of the bank. This afternoon they had been disabled. Every precaution had been taken to ensure that there would be no evidence of what would transpire here today.

Monsieur d'Ailerons, the manager of the Banque de Richelieu for the past thirty years, had seen the last of his employees through the doors at a little after ?ve that afternoon. When he was alone, clucking and fretting, he had moved nervously about the building, disabling security systems with a quick professionalism.

He had ?nished early.

Taking a seat in a hard-backed chair near the door, Monsieur d'Ailerons waited. Legs crossed sharply, back straight, eyes forward, d'Ailerons was one of those rare people who appeared to be standing at attention even when sitting down.

He was panting lightly, though not from his exertions. Nerves made his heart and lungs thunder in his chest.

It didn't take long before he started to wish he had gone through his routine more slowly. He had nothing more to do now but sit.

And wait.

As he studied the front door, Monsieur d'Ailerons drew a precisely folded silk handkerchief from the interior pocket of his impeccably tailored suit bought in a small medium-priced shop on the Rue de la Verriere. Dabbing with slender ?ngers, he mopped away the sheen of nervous sweat that had formed on his pale, broad forehead.

The cloth came back drenched. He hadn't realized he was perspiring so much. With a crisp snap of his wrist he replaced the handkerchief in his suit pocket. He checked his Swiss watch.

It was time-6:00 p.m. sharp.

Unusual. They were always on time. Perhaps something had happened to them.

Pushing his small bifocals back up his long nose, Monsieur d'Ailerons allowed himself the hope that they wouldn't arrive after all.

His hopes were dashed two seconds later when there came a sharp rap of knuckles on the gla.s.s at the front door. It was not yet 6:01 p.m. They were still on time.

A fresh stream of sweat began trickling from beneath his arms. Moving swiftly on short legs, he went to answer the door.

In the hallway between the two sets of double doors, the banker drew a key from the pocket of his trousers. Reaching up, he quickly unlocked the dead bolt at the top of the door frame. Squatting, he ?icked open the hand lock at the door's base.

He opened the door, stepping back obsequiously. Nils Schatz and his ragged entourage bustled into the ornate entryway of the Banque de Richelieu. The IV renegade didn't even look at the Frenchman as his group moved into the depths of the bank.

Rapidly d'Ailerons relocked the doors. He hurried back inside the bank. As expected, the men were waiting for him in his of?ce.

It was the same procedure they had gone through every time during the past several months of secret meetings. Tonight it would be different, however. Monsieur d'Ailerons need only work up the courage to make it so.

"Hurry up, d'Ailerons," Nils Schatz demanded impatiently.

The German was standing in front of d'Ailerons's spotless desk. He held his walking stick in one hand and was tapping it relentlessly on the faded carpeting.

Schatz's men stood behind him. There were six of them altogether. Four were of Schatz's generation-though like their leader they were in remarkable physical condition. The other pair was much younger. Though concealed mostly by black winter hats, the heads of these two were shaved and spotted with tattoos.

It had been d'Ailerons who had suggested to Schatz that the young men wear some sort of hats when accompanying the old German on these trips to the bank. After all, they hardly looked like ordinary Banque de Richelieu patrons. Surprisingly Schatz had agreed.

Ordinarily d'Ailerons would peer disapprovingly down his long nose at such a lowly twosome. But under the circ.u.mstances he wouldn't dare. Not considering the company they kept.

The banker crossed behind his desk and carefully unlocked the long top drawer. He removed a few slips of paper tucked deep in the back and pa.s.sed them across the desk to Schatz.

Schatz examined the slips of paper. Bank notes. As good as cash. Withdrawn from several special accounts. This was the way the transactions had been conducted all along. Schatz was holding several hundred thousand dollars in his hands. It was the most he had ever gotten at one time.

Monsieur d'Ailerons was blinking and swallowing like mad. He wanted to speak-knew he should speak-but no words would come.

He twitched and perspired, struggling with how he should broach the subject.

He ?nally gave up the thought that he would mention the irregularities to Schatz. Let the others ?nd them. It would be their problem, not his.

No, it would be his. That was what had been troubling him since he found out. He must ?nd the courage to speak. Must tell what ha-"You are more ?dgety than usual," Schatz said abruptly.

The banker jumped in his seat, shaken from his trance.

When he looked over, he saw that Schatz was peering up at him. The German didn't lift his head from the handful of checks, but had merely rolled his eyes up to the tops of their sockets. His eyes, hooded beneath his brow, lent his face a demonic cast. The banker glanced at the others. They were all staring at him, expecting him to speak, but he wasn't sure he wanted to any longer.

He swallowed again, hard.

"It is just-" D'Ailerons hesitated, fearful of what he was about to say. He closed his eyes. Perhaps it would be easier if he didn't have to look at Nils Schatz. "Does Mr. Kluge know of all this?" he blurted.

His question was met with silence. After what seemed like an eternity of utter quiet, Monsieur d'Ailerons opened his eyes. Nils Schatz was staring at him with those icy, washed-out blue eyes.

"What do you mean?" the German asked ?atly. D'Ailerons swallowed again. His throat had turned to dust.

"With respect, Herr Schatz, you informed me when we began these transactions many months ago that this operation had the blessing of Herr Kluge," the banker said.

"And?"

"I have learned of some irregularities in the accounting methods of my subordinates. These were per your speci?c instructions, I am told."

"And?" Schatz repeated coldly.

"The way it has been done lends one the impression of someone attempting to cover his tracks," d'Ailerons suggested. "There has been much money taken from IV accounts but in a most secretive manner. It is almost as if you are...embezzling the funds, Herr Schatz."

Schatz ?nally lifted his head completely. Frigid eyes stared fully at Monsieur d'Ailerons.

"That is a very interesting conjecture," Schatz said thoughtfully. "Do you realize, d'Ailerons, that in my younger days I might have killed you with my own hands for even suggesting that I was a thief?" Some might have treated the words as a joke. Not Nils Schatz. Schatz never joked. He stared, unsmiling, at the banker.

D' Ailerons shrugged helplessly. "I did not mean to insult, surely. If you give your word that Herr Kluge knows of this, then I consider the matter settled." He nodded emphatically. He suddenly noticed that his desk drawer was still open. He made a great show of closing and locking it once more.

"I have already told you Herr Kluge approved of the appropriation of funds," Schatz said slowly.

"Indeed," d'Ailerons said with a carefree motion of one shaking hand. "Absolutely. That is that." He clapped his hands together to brush off the last remnants of some imaginary dust.

"Who have you mentioned this to?" Schatz pressed.

"Pardon me?"

"This-" Schatz waved his cane in the air "-this notion of yours?"

D'Ailerons was suddenly deeply offended.

"No one, sir, certainly. It was only a thought. I am certain Herr Kluge has his reasons for conducting business in this manner.

Remember, the Banque de Richelieu has had a history with IV going back to the war."

"I am aware of your ?ne history, Frenchman," Schatz offered contemptuously."Yes." The banker fussed with his desktop, not making eye contact with any of the men in the room. D'Ailerons was uncomfortable now for an altogether other reason. He knew of the bank's shaky history prior to World War II and of its sudden revival immediately after the war. Back then, through circuitous means, IV had bailed the bank out of its immediate ?nancial dif?culties. In the time since, the Banque de Richelieu had been more indebted than its owners would have liked to the secret organization.

"I will let you in on a little secret, d'Ailerons," Nils Schatz whispered. He leaned over the desk. His cane-clenched in his ?st-rested parallel to the desk surface. "Your a.s.sumptions are correct. The money you have given me these many months? All stolen from the coffers of IV."

D'Ailerons was taken aback by Schatz's candor. He began fussing at his desk more furiously. He straightened his blotter, pen and pencil holder, and a small bronze barometer that had been a gift from his sister.

"I am certain you have your reasons." The banker nodded sharply. The pounding of his heart made his ears ring.

He had suspected Schatz was stealing. Now, confronted with an admission of guilt, he wished more than anything he had kept his suspicions to himself.

"Oh, I have a reason," Schatz said, voice still low.

"Of course," d'Ailerons agreed. He studied the corners of his blotter.

"Look at me!" Schatz screamed, his voice suddenly loud and shrill in the tiny of?ce. Even his own men were startled by the sudden jarring change.

D'Ailerons's head snapped up as if shocked by electricity. Schatz leaned back and aimed the bronze end of his walking stick accusingly at d'Ailerons.

"I mean to ?nish what was started more than ?fty years ago by a visionary the world has chosen to blindly vilify. Kluge does not appreciate the importance of the goal. We do," he said, indicating with a swirl of his cane the other men in the room. "You have given us the funds we need to see this vision to fruition."

Schatz still clenched the bank notes in his other hand. He held them aloft. One of the older men dutifully collected them and tucked them away in the pocket of his black suit jacket.

D'Ailerons didn't know how to respond. In the next moment it didn't matter.

"I suppose I should thank you for your generous help these many months," Schatz said with an indifferent shrug. "I think, however, that I will not."

The cane was up in an instant, held ?rmly in the German's hands. Using a batter's grip, he swung the metal tip at the man behind the desk. It met with the side of Monsieur d'Ailerons's head with a resounding crack.

The banker's bifocals were thrown from the tip of his nose. They clattered across the ?oor.

Schatz brought the cane back and swung. Another crack. This shattered the bone into the brain and brought blood to the surface.

D'Ailerons fell forward.

Again.

Swing and hit.

D'Ailerons was sprawled across his desk by now. Blood seeped out, staining his blotter.

Feverishly, wildly, Schatz pounded him again and again. His eyes sparked with an internal rage as he brought the cane repeatedly down atop the battered head of the banker, dead now for minutes.

Blood spattered across Schatz's clothes and around the walls of the of?ce. His men backed away at ?rst, avoiding the spray.

Eventually they stepped in, pulling Schatz away from the mangled corpse.He allowed himself to be restrained.

The end of the cane was covered with blood and gore. D'Ailerons's face was an unrecognizable pulp. Panting, catching his breath, Schatz went around the desk. He used the tail of the banker's jacket to clean the reddish slush from his walking stick. Once it was clean, he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket.

"The Frenchman always shuts off all of the alarms and cameras. Perhaps now we should liberate what we can from the vault?" He wiped at the blood on his face with his handkerchief. "I believe, after all, that this may be our last chance for a withdrawal."

"Go," one of the older men ordered. The two young men with the shaved heads left as directed. One of the older men went along, as well, in order to keep an eye on them.

As the rest of them were leaving the of?ce, Schatz cast a last glance at the late Monsieur d'Ailerons. He tipped his head pensively.

"I have always found the company of the French to be invigorating," he said without malice or humor. He glanced at his men. "For their sakes let us hope they feel the same."

Still breathing heavily, Schatz left the of?ce.

The lifeblood of Monsieur d'Ailerons ran in drizzly red rivulets from the gleaming desk surface.

Chapter 4.

Before the morning sun had even peeked over the easternmost horizon of the continental United States, Harold W. Smith was snapping off his alarm clock. As usual, he had shut off the alarm a minute before it was due to sound.

Sitting up on the edge of the bed, Smith slipped his feet into his ratty slippers. Behind him his wife continued to snore lazily beneath the covers. He left her there in the dark, oblivious to her husband's movements.

While his wife and his nation slept on, Smith made his careful way across the cold ?oor to the bathroom. As a boy there was an expression common to his native Vermont. "Up with the sun," people used to say. Even as a child Smith had always considered to be slugabeds those whose day began only with the inevitable arrival of a star.

Smith was always up before the sun. After all, there was always much to be done.

This had been Smith's guiding principle his entire life. There was always much to be done. And, he noted ruefully, more and more these days there seemed less time in which to do it.

He shut the creaking bathroom door behind him. Only then did he turn on the light.

For a time a few years before, he had thought that the dull ?uorescent glow of the light was casting un?attering shadows across his gray features. It was giving him the appearance of an old man. Eventually he had realized that the light was only re?ecting reality.

Smith was old.

Somehow age had taken ?rm hold of Dr. Harold W. Smith and-like a dog with a tattered rag-refused to let go.

He felt old now as he took his antiquated straight razor from the medicine cabinet.

Smith wasn't a man given to extravagances of any kind. He considered shaving cream to be just such an unnecessary expense. First lathering up his face with soap, he went to work with the sharp edge of the razor.

The cost of heating the water was avoided simply enough. Harold Smith set the tap on Cold. Miraculously Smith somehow managed to get through the same ritual every morning without slicing in his gaunt, gray ?esh. It required a knack that few men had. Nor were there many men who would want to develop this skill.

He allowed himself tepid water in the shower. Smith had had dif?culties with his pacemaker-equipped heart in recent years and didn't wish to jar his system any more than was absolutely necessary. Ice water from the showerhead-no matter how bracing he had claimed it to be in youth-could easily give him a heart attack at his age.His morning bathroom ritual over, Smith reentered the bedroom.

As always he had laid his clothes out the night before. It was easy enough getting dressed in the dark.