The Scarletti Inheritance - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,20

not concern him.

And yet he was troubled.

Strasser was not an ordinary man. The arrogant German officer hated the ordinary man as much as he did. 'What are you going to do when you shovel these people under ground? Play king of the mountain?'

'Of many mountains - Of many, many mountains.'

Scarlett rolled over away from the German officer.

But he did not close his eyes.

Of many, many mountains.

Ulster Scarlett had never thought of such a domain... Scarlatti made millions upon millions but Scarlatti did not rule. Especially the sons of Scarlatti. They would never rule... Elizabeth had made that clear.

'Strasser?'

'Yah?'

'Who are these people? Your people?'

'Dedicated men. Powerful men. The names cannot be spoken of. Committed to rise out of defeat and unite the elite of Europe.'

Scarlett turned his face up to the sky. Stars flickered through the low-flying gray clouds. Gray, black, dots of shimmering white.

'Strasser?'

'Was ist?'

'Where will you go? After it's over, I mean.'

To Heidenheim. My family lives there.'

'Where is it?'

'Halfway between Munich and Stuttgart.' The German officer looked at the strange, huge American deserter. Deserter, murderer, aider and abettor of his enemy.

'We'll be in Paris tomorrow night. I'll get you your money. There's a man in Argenteuil who keeps money for me.'

'Danke.'

Ulster Scarlett shifted his body. The earth was next to his face, and the smell was clean.

'Just... Strasser, Heidenheim. That's all?'

'That's all.'

'Give me a name, Strasser.'

'What do you mean? Give you a name?'

'Just that. A name you'll know is me when I get in touch with you.'

Strasser thought for a moment. 'Very well, Amerikaner. Let's choose a name you should find hard to forget - Kroeger.'

'Who?'

'Kroeger - Corporal Heinrich Kroeger, whose head you shot off in the Meuse-Argonne.'

On November 10 at three o'clock in the afternoon the ceasefire order went out.

Ulster Stewart Scarlett bought a motorcycle and began his swift journey to La Harasee and beyond. To B Company, Fourteenth Battalion.

He arrived in the area where most of the battalion was bivouacked and started his search for the company. It was difficult. The camp was filled with drunken, glassy-eyed, foul-breathed soldiers of every description. The order-of-the-early-morning was mass alcoholic hysteria.

Except for Company B.

B Company was holding a religious service. A commemoration for a fallen comrade.

For Lieutenant Ulster Stewart Scarlett, AEF.

Scarlett watched.

Captain Jenkins finished reading the beautiful Psalm for the Dead in a choked voice and then led the men in the Lord's Prayer.

'Our Father Who art in heaven...' Some of the men were weeping unashamedly.

It was a pity to spoil it all, thought Scarlett.

His citation read in part.

... after single-handedly destroying three enemy machine-gun nests, he took out in pursuit of a fourth dangerous emplacement, destroying that also and thereby saving many Allied lives. He did not return and was presumed dead. However, until the fighting ceased a week hence, Second Lieutenant Scarlett provided B Company with an inspiring cry of battle. 'For Old Roily!' struck terror in the hearts of many an enemy. Through God's infinite wisdom, Second Lieutenant Scarlett rejoined his platoon the day following the cessation of hostilities. Exhausted and weak, he returned to glory. Through presidential order we hereby bestow -
Chapter Six
Matthew Canfield, field accountant, lay in his Pullman berth, and smoked the next to last thin cigar in his pack. They had no thin cigars on the New York-Chicago Limited and he inhaled each breath of smoke with a degree of sacrifice.

In the early morning he would reach New York, transfer to the next train south, and be in Washington ahead of schedule. That would make a better impression on Reynolds than arriving in the evening. That would show that he, Canfield, could close a problem quickly, with no loose ends left dangling. Of course, with his current assignment it was difficult. He had completed it several days ago but had remained in Chicago as the guest of the senator he had been sent to confront about payroll allocations to nonexistent employees.

He wondered why he had been called back to Washington. He always wondered why he was called back. Probably because he believed deeply that it was never just another job but, instead, that someday, somehow Washington would be on to him. Group Twenty would be on to him.

They would confront him.

With evidence.

But it was unlikely. It hadn't happened. Matthew Canfield was a professional - minor level, he granted to himself - but still a professional. And he had no regrets whatsoever. He was entitled to every wooden nickel he could dig up.

Why not? He never took much. He and his mother deserved something.