what many observers failed to learn - that it was never the acquisition of profits or material gain that mattered - they were merely the by-products. It was the acquisition of power - I wanted that power because I sincerely believed that I was equipped for the responsibility. The more convinced I became, it had to follow that others were not equipped... The quest for power becomes a personal crusade, I think. The more success one has, the more personal it becomes. Whether he understood it or not, that's what my son saw happening... There may be similarities of purpose, even of motive. But a great gulf divides us - my son and me.'
'I'll give you the four weeks. Jesus Christ only knows why. But you still haven't made it clear to me why you want to risk all this. Throw away everything.'
'I've tried to... You're slow at times. If I offend, it's because I think you do understand. You're deliberately asking me to spell out an unpleasant reality.' She carried her notes to the table by her bedroom door. As the light had grown dim, she turned on the lamp, causing the fringe on the shade to shimmy. She seemed fascinated by the movement. 'I imagine that all of us - the Bible calls us the rich and mighty - wish to leave this world somewhat different from the way it was before us. As the years go by, this vague, ill-defined instinct becomes really quite important. How many of us have toyed with the phrases of our own obituaries?' She turned from the lamp and looked at the field accountant. 'Considering everything we now know, would you care to speculate on my not-too-distant obituary?'
'No deal. That's another question.'
'It's a snap, you know... The wealth is taken for granted. Every agonizing decision, every nerve-racking gamble - they become simple, expected accomplishments. Accomplishments more to be scorned than admired because I'm both a woman and a highly competitive speculator. An unattractive combination - One son lost in the Great War. Another rapidly emerging as a pompous incompetent, sought after for every wrong reason, discarded and laughed at whenever feasible. And now this. A madman leading or at least a part of a growing band of psychopathic malcontents... This is what I bequeath. What Scarlatti bequeaths, Mr. Canfield - Not a very enviable sum, is it?'
'No, it isn't.'
'Consequently, I'll stop at nothing to prevent this final madness...' She picked up her notes and went into the bedroom. She closed the door behind her, leaving Canfield in the large sitting room by himself. He thought for a moment that the old woman was on the verge of tears.
Chapter Thirty-five
The monoplane's flight over the Channel had been uneventful - the wind calm, the visibility excellent. It was fortunate for Scarlett that such was the case, for the stinging irritation of his unhealed surgery coupled with the pitch of his fury would have made a difficult trip a disastrous one. He was hardly capable of keeping his mind on the compass bearings and when he first saw the Normandy coast, it looked unfamiliar to him. Yet he had made these very same sightings a dozen times.
He was met at the small airfield outside of Lisieux by the Paris contingent, consisting of two Germans and a French Gascon, whose guttural dialect nearly matched that of his associates.
The three Europeans anticipated that the man - they did not know his name - would instruct them to return to Paris. To await further orders.
The man had other intentions, insisting that they all sit uncomfortably together in the front seat while he occupied the entire space in the back. He ordered the car to Vernon, where two got out and were told to make their own way back to Paris. The driver was to remain.
The driver vaguely protested when Scarlett ordered him to proceed west to Montbeliard, a small town near the Swiss border.
'Mein Herr! That's a four-hundred kilometer trip! It will take ten hours or more on these abysmal roads!'
'Then we should be there by dinner time. And be quiet!'
'It might have been simpler for mein Herr to refuel and fly...'
'I do not fly when I am tired. Relax. I'll find you some "sea food" in Montbeliard. Vary your diet, Kircher. It excites the palate.'
'Javohl, mein Herr!' Kircher grinned, knowing the man was really a fine Oberluhrer.
Scarlett reflected. The misfits! One day they'd be rid of the misfits.
Montbeliard was not much more complex than an oversized village.