Mila 18 - Leon Uris [78]
Chris pulled away. “I’ll wait. I’ve got time on my side now. Something will happen.”
“Drink some tea. Momma will be offended.”
Chris drank slowly, drowning his churning anger.
“So long as you are going to Krakow, would you see Thompson at the American Embassy? He has a package for us.”
“I wish you wouldn’t ask me to carry any more packages,” Chris said sharply.
“I don’t think I understand you.”
“I made a deal with Von Epp.”
“My, you’re a regular boy scout. You don’t mind being a messenger boy for Paul Bronski.”
“That’s different. It’s coming through on company funds—it can’t be traced.”
“So what are we doing with the money from Thompson? Feeding orphans. This has become a crime?”
“Rosy, this Bathyran business is your own fault. I don’t want to know anything about it. I’m not getting involved.”
Chris got up from the table. Rosy wanted to rip the Kennkarte in half and throw it in his face, but he could not. It was too important to all of them. He had to continue working on the outside as long as he was able.
“See you in the office in the morning,” Chris said.
“Good night, boss.”
Chris flopped on his bed and gazed into nothingness. The soft melodiousness of Chopin on Radio Polskie had been largely replaced by a thumping, clanging Wagner. Chris snapped the radio off.
He walked to the window. Only a few blocks away from Deborah. What was she doing now? Combing Rachael’s hair ... keeping time as Rachael played the piano ... helping Stephan with his studies? No, it was late. Almost one o’clock. She and Paul would be in bed together.
He closed the curtains abruptly.
He lay back on the bed again. Andrei! Good old Andrei! We’ll hang one on! He rolled over and had a hand on his phone. No ... wait Andrei was wearing that damned Star of David. He couldn’t go into any of the hotels or bars. What’s the difference? Andrei could take off the armband. They could hit some dives, have a real blowout. Hell, Andrei would get mad and try to take on the German army. He let his hand drop from the phone.
Maybe I should have stayed with Von Epp, Chris thought. Hildie Solna is good for a few laughs. Von Epp is good company. If I had met Von Epp anywhere else in the world, we would have been friends. Isn’t that reason enough to trust a man? No ... Von Epp couldn’t be trusted.
Just how much does he really know about me? He knows about mother. ... They must have a file on me a foot thick.
Chris’s thoughts began to drift back and back and back in time. All the way back to the beginning.
Chapter Nine
FLORA SLOAN HAD BEEN described at various times as enchanting, fetching, witty and gay, terribly, terribly chic, charming, clever, empty-headed, flighty, hyperthyroid, and so forth. All of these descriptions fitted in one way or another, at one time or another. She was never still long enough for a comprehensive composite to be made.
Her background was mysterious. Midwesterner, most people thought Indiana ... small town in Wisconsin ... or something like that.
No one knew when she came to Manhattan or about her early failures and affairs. She was suddenly there. Eminently successful as a fashion executive, a financial wizard, a magazine editor, and later as the queen bee in a hive of social-climbers.
The most successful of her profitable ventures was a pair of marriages and subsequent divorce settlements, first with her magazine-publishing husband, then with a real estate operator from whom she extracted a commendable hunk of mid-Manhattan. After the second coup she retired to become a patron of the arts and grand matron of the Flora Sloan clique.
She did nothing worthy with her independent wealth, but Flora had the ability to do nothing in extremely good taste. Her only true dedication was to keep her face unwrinkled and her body beautiful. She ran through a succession of lovers, with whom she became bored in days, weeks, and occasionally months. The moment they began to ooze around to talking stocks and bonds, they were through.
It was inevitable