family burial will take place on the residential grounds.
A corporate statement is expected shortly, but none from Walther Verachten who is reported to be seriously ill.
Odile Verachten was a dramatically attractive addition to the boardrooms of this city of coldly efficient executives. She was mercurial, and when younger, given to displays of exhibitionism often at odds with the behaviour of Essen's business leaders. But no one doubted her ability to run the vast Verachten Works....
Scofield's eyes quickly scanned the biographical hyperbole that was an obituary editor's way of describing a spoiled, headstrong bitch who undoubtedly slept around with the frequency if not the delicacy of a Soho whore.
There was a follow-up story directly beneath. Bray began reading and knew instantly, instinctively that another fragment of the elusive truth was being revealed.
VERACHTEN DFATH CONCERNS TRANS-COMM New York, N.Y. In a move that took Wall Street by surprise, it was learned today that a team of management consultants from Trans-Communications, In- corporated, was flying to Essen, Germany, for conferences with executives of the Verachten Works. The untimely death of Fraulein Odile Verachten, and the virtual seclusion of her father, Walther, 76, has left the Verachten companies without an authoritative voice at the top. What astonished supposedly well-informed sources here was the extent of Trans-Comm's holdings in Verachten. In the legal labyrinths of Essen, American investments are often beyond scrutiny, but rarely when those holdings exceed twenty percent. Rumours persist that TransComm's are in excess of fifty percent, although denials labelling such figures as ridiculous have been issued by the Boston headquarters of the conglom- erate....
The words sprang up from the page at Scofield. The Boston headquarters.
Were two fragments of their elusive truth being revealed? Joshua Appleton, IV, was the Senator from Massachusetts, the Appleton family the most powerful political entity in the state. They were the Episcopal Kennedys, far more restrained in self-evocation, but every bit as in- fluential on the national scene. Which was intrinsic to the international financial scene.
Would a retrospective of the Appletons include conneCtions-covert or otherwise-with Trans-Communications? It was something that would have to be learned.
The telephone on the wall behind him rang; he checked his watch. It was eight minutes past ten; another seven and he would call Symonds at MI-Six headquarters. He glanced at the phone, annoyed to see the Cockney waitress wincing into the mouthpiece, a groan or an expletive forming at her lips. He hoped her conversation would not last long.
"Mister Hagate? Is there a Mister B. Hagate 'ere?" The question was shouted angrily.
Bray froze. B. Hagate 'ere?
Agate, B.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Beowulf Agate.
Was Symonds playing some insane game of one-upmanship? Had the Englishman decided to prove the superior quality of British Intelligence's tracking techniques? Was the damn fool so egotistical he could not leave well enough alone?
God, what a fool!
Scofield rose as unobtrusively as possible, holding his attach6 case. He went to the phone and spoke.
"What is it?" "Good morning, Beowulf Agate," said a male voice with vowels so full and consonants so sharp they could have been formed at Oxford. "We trust you've rested since your arduous joumey from Rome." "Who's this?" "My name's irrelevant; you don't know me. We merely wanted you to understand. We found you; we'll always be able to find you. But it's all so tedious. We feel that it would be far better for everyone concerned if we sat down and thrashed out the differences between us. You may dis- cover they're not so great after all." "I don't feel comfortable with people who've tried to kill me." "I must correct you. Some have tried to kill you. Others have tried to save you." "For what? A session of chemical therapy? To find out what I've learned, what I've done?" "What you've learned is meaningless, and you can't do anything. If your own people take you, you know what you can expect. There'll be no trial, no public hearing; you're far too dangerous to too many people. You've collaborated with the enemy, killed a young man your superiors believe was a fellow intelligence officer in Rock Creek Park, and fled the country. You're a traitor; you'll be executed at the first opportune moment. Can you doubt it after the events on Nebraska Avenue? We can execute you the instant you walk out of that restauranL Or before you leave." Bray looked around, studying the faces at the tables, looking for the inevitable pair of eyes, a glance behind a folded newspaper, or above the rim of a coffee cup. There