The Scarletti Inheritance - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,83

said. 'It'll ring only once. It's merely a signal that my wife - the devoted whore - and her newest bedmate have left Claridge's.'

'Then I assume our meeting is adjourned.' She saw to her great relief that he accepted the statement. She noted also that in such a position he was dangerous. A tick was developing on the surface of his skin above his right eye. He again stretched his fingers in a slow deliberate motion.

'Remember what I say. You make one mistake...'

She interrupted before he could finish. 'Remember who I am, young man! You're speaking to the wife of Giovanni Merighi Scarlatti! There is no need to repeat yourself. You have your agreement. Go about your filthy business. I have no further interest in you!'

The man in black strode rapidly to the door. 'I hate you, Mother.'

'I hope you benefit as much from those you hold less dear.'

'In ways you'd never understand!'

He opened the door and slipped out, slamming it harshly behind him.

Elizabeth Scarlatti stood by the window and pulled apart the drapes. She leaned against the cold glass for support. The city of London was asleep, and only a scattering of lights dotted its concrete facade.

What in God's name had he done?

More important, who was paying attention to him?

What might have been mere horror turned into terror for he had the weapon. The weapon of power - which she and Giovanni innocently, productively provided.

They were, indeed, beyond sums.

Tears fell from her old eyes and that inner consciousness, which afflicts all human beings, was taken by surprise. She had not cried in over thirty years.

Elizabeth pushed herself away from the window and slowly wandered about the room. She had a great deal of thinking to do.
Chapter Twenty-eight
In a room in the Home Office, James Derek took out a file. 'Jacques Louis Bertholde, The Fourth Marquis of Chatellerault.'

The dossier custodian entered the room. 'Hello, James. Late hours tonight, I see.'

'I'm afraid so, Charles. I'm taking out a copy. Did you get my request?'

'Right here. Fill me in and I'll sign for it. But please make it short. I've a card game in my office.'

'Short and simple. The Americans suspect their embassy personnel of selling Yank securities undercover over here. This Bertholde travels in the diplomatic circles. There could be a connection with the Scarlatti fellow.'

The dossier custodian made his appropriate notes. 'When did this all take place?'

'About a year ago, as I understand it.'

The custodian stopped writing and looked at James Derek. 'A year ago?'

'Yes.'

'And this American chap wants to confront embassy personnel now? Over here?'

'That's right.'

'He's on the wrong side of the Atlantic. All American embassy personnel were transferred four months ago. There's no one there now - not even a secretary - who was in London a year ago.'

'That's very strange,' said Derek quietly.

'I'd say your American friend has a rather poor connection with his State Department.'

'Which means he's lying.'

Janet and Matthew, laughing, got off on the seventh floor and started down the corridor toward Elizabeth's suite. The length of their walk was approximately one hundred feet and they stopped four times to embrace and exchange kisses.

The girl took a key out of her purse and handed it to the field accountant.

He inserted it and simultaneously turned the knob before making any lateral motion with the key. The door opened and in a split second, the field accountant was more sober than drunk.

He practically fell into the room.

Elizabeth Scarlatti was sitting on the Victorian couch in the dim light emanating from the single lamp. She did not move other than to look up at Canfield and her daughter-in-law.

'I heard you in the hallway.'

'I told you to lock these doors!'

'I'm sorry, I forgot.'

'The hell you did! I waited until I heard the latch and the bolt!'

'I ordered some coffee from room service.'

'Where's the tray?'

'In my bedroom, which I presume to be private.'

'Don't you believe it!' The field accountant ran toward the bedroom door.

'I apologize again! I called to have it taken away. I'm quite confused. Forgive me.'

'Why? What's the matter?'

Elizabeth Scarlatti thought quickly and looked at her daughter-in-law as she spoke. 'I had a most distressing telephone call. A business matter completely unrelated to you. It entails a great deal of money and I must make a decision before the British exchange opens.' She looked at the field accountant.

'May I ask what's so important that you don't follow my instructions?'

'Several million dollars. Perhaps you'd care to help me. Should the Scarlatti Industries conclude the purchase of the remaining convertible