Blood Money

By ALLEN JAY ST.CLAIR

Set in the 1930's, Blood Money is mesmerizing historical suspense confronting hard truth on international finance, politics, persecution and espionage. Readers walk the line between free enterprise and genocide with Gordon Fraser, an ambitious yet idealistic correspondent for "the man of the century," William Randolph Hearst.

Gordon's charge was to pitch restoration of U.S. prosperity through foreign trade. But America's new trading partner was to become the butcher of the century, Adolf Hitler. Soon Gordon dangled as a puppet on devils' strings.

The devils were the elite of American business, a cartel named "New Jerusalem." They would finance, supply and provoke a war, even holocaust to leverage depression into global market dominance.

Deadline: Berlin is a disturbing account of the causes of World War II, based on world press coverage of Nazi Germany, private corporate records and declassified documents from FDR's cabinet and the FBI. War-for-profit remains front-page news today: Cloaked in the mantle of free trade, U.S. corporations are the largest arms dealers in the world, and trade with violent, tyrannical regimes who persecute their own citizens for their religious and political beliefs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 15, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469764993

ALLEN JAY ST.CLAIR

Allen Jay St.Clair has written extensively in investment and finance, and as a management consultant in aerospace he worked on ?black world? defense projects in advanced weaponry. With Congress and the Pentagon he confronted issues surrounding sale of armaments to foreign governments. Blood Money is his first work of fiction.

Book preview

PART I

SAN SIMEON

CHAPTER 1

Los Angeles, Friday, October 5, 1934

The streets were a griddle—speed the only escape. Hot wind poured into the huge Packard roadster as it gained on the square Red Car that ran along Olympic Boulevard. Waving and grinning at the conductor, Gordon Fraser swung past the electric trolley and skated over the oily tracks. He downshifted and forearmed the wide steering wheel left, the car skidding onto Alameda and bouncing into the dirt parking lot at Los Angeles’s half-built Union Station.

He jumped out and shoved his curly, wind-tangled brown hair out of his hazel eyes, remembering the flap over his story the previous May predicting that construction on the station would stall, leaving the bankrupt City of Angels praying for a financial miracle. The wooden frame reminded him of a skeleton baking in the sun.

He sprinted through a forest of two-by-fours and past renderings of the murals that would someday adorn the walls, scenes of Franciscan missionaries stationed in front of bell towers accepting offerings of sea bass from Chumash Indians.

Where was George?

There, near the tracks, barricaded behind a fortress of stacked luggage. George Chapman—balding, rotund, the managing editor of the Los Angeles Examiner, and Gordon’s boss—was fanning himself with a copy of the paper. He echoed Gordon’s wave with one of his own and motioned the waiting line of porters toward the private rail cars of their employer, William Randolph Hearst.

As Gordon reached him, George tapped his watch. The careless ease of a world traveler, I see. He clubbed Gordon in the chest with the newspaper. Here. The September 20 final. An extra copy for your grandchildren.

Thanks. I’m building a collection. Relieved that he wasn’t so late after all, Gordon eyed the departing trunks. Are you taking the entire office up the hill?

He wants to review everything! George’s jowls shook like a bloodhound’s.

Another carefree weekend, Gordon sympathized. Newsroom gossip had it that Hearst saved his real tongue-lashings for San Simeon weekends.

A glint of light caught Gordon’s eye. Through the half-lowered train window of the nearest private car he saw an elegant Negro in a pressed white jacket offer a silver tray holding a single crystal flute of champagne to a woman seated inside. Shimmering amethyst frock, white-blonde hair against fragile shoulders. When she reached for the glass with a dancer’s grace, he willed her to turn around. In vain—her back was still to him.

Here. George nudged Gordon with a metal tube containing one of his prized Havanas.

Thanks. What extravagance!

Let’s stay out here a moment, if you don’t mind.

Gordon felt his shoulders tense. The editor will now commence cutting, he thought. He tried to deflect his anxiety by reaching into his pocket for his penknife and gouging the end of his cigar. George winced at the desecration, silently offered his lighter, then kicked at his briefcase.

Gotta be the Tigers tomorrow. The smoke from his stogie encircled them as he waved away the St. Louis Cardinals’ chances in the World Series.

Nope, Dizzy Dean’s good for three games all by himself, Gordon protested.

A buck says the Tigers hit.

Done. Gordon’s shoulders eased. He tilted his head toward the Hearst cars. His Nibs aboard?

Went up Wednesday. George dabbed at his balding dome with a handkerchief. Tell me— He spoke around his cigar, the smoke wafting like incense. —did you actually hear the Chief say that this Hitler fellow was pursuing ‘peace and prosperity’?

The meeting was closed. Ernst Hanfstaengl, the press secretary, gave me the quote in Munich. The Munich paper printed it. So did the New York Times.

So you did confirm it?

George’s question brought back all of Gordon’s fears. Actually, I couldn’t reach the Chief in time to finish the story and wire it.

Did you know he denied it in yesterday’s New York Times?

Gordon felt his breath leave him. No, I didn’t. I was still on the train out from New York.

I’m sure you thought that the quote fitted the spirit of the talks, but— George grabbed back the newspaper and shook it at him. —thanks to you I ran hearsay from a German propaganda officer. Nationwide! He slapped the paper back at Gordon’s chest.

You mean Ernst? He’s a Harvard journalism graduate, for God’s sake! He knows the rules!

If you ask me, Harvard’s a first-class academy for liars.

Gordon opened his mouth but George raised a peremptory hand. Look, I’m willing to bet that the Chief really did say it. In fact, for all we know he had several purposes in mind. But, Gordie, you’re the first line of defense for the truth. Remember? ‘Quotation, corroboration, reaction, impact!’ Whatever WR says, whatever anybody says—you’ve got to follow it through all the way. Or it isn’t really true. And who’s your real employer? The truth.

Thanks, sir. Gordon met George’s eyes. You’re right.

George watched his cigar ash float to the track, then punched Gordon’s shoulder. C’mon, let’s get aboard. He hoisted himself onto the step, stopped. And the Tigers can hit anybody, Dizzy Dean included!

Want to double the bet? Gordon grinned, relieved that he could smile again.

You’re on, George said as he disappeared into the car. Gordon hesitated, glanced around for another glimpse of the woman in the car, and saw her hand reach out and replace the glass on the tray with a musical, staccato lift. He envied it her touch. For a moment he imagined her smile focused on him.

He pulled his attention from her and unfurled the newspaper. This was the reality, flapping in the hot wind. The September 20 Los Angeles Examiner story, with his byline. He had wired it direct from Germany, proudly visualizing it on the front page. Now he skimmed it once more, this time with more sober eyes.

September 20, 1934 BERLIN, Germany

William Randolph Hearst met in Berlin with Adolf Hitler, leader of Germany’s new National Socialist government.

After their discussions, Mr. Hearst emerged to say, If Hitler succeeds in pointing Germany in the way of peace, prosperity and order, he will have accomplished a measure of good not only for his own people, but for all of humanity.

The Reichkanzler himself expressed his pleasure in meeting with a great American and expressed hope that our two nations may grow in peace and prosperity.

Asked about reports of bloody political reprisals, Mr. Hitler reasserted his dismay at the necessity of quelling dissidence among violent anti-German elements living within our nation and expressed extreme sympathy for their families.

These are temporary measures, he stated, while at the same time denying that they were directed against Jews and other minorities. "We take action only against those who continue to oppose

democracy in Germany."

The Fuehrer ridiculed those abroad who have predicted the

downfall of the Nazi regime due to severe food shortages, a collapse

of foreign trade, a scarcity of raw materials, and political unrest.

"Our nation is facing hard times during the cold months to

come, he said, but the world will be amazed at the accomplish

ments of our Nazi relief agencies."

George was right, Gordon concluded. He hadn’t known for sure what the Chief had said. He stepped up onto the train feeling fearful about how Hearst would react but was reassured when George waved him over to share his banquette. Let it all go, Gordon told himself as he obeyed the summons. George, alternating gulps of champagne and bites from a ham-and-cheese sandwich, appeared to have put it behind him already.

Gordon took his seat and turned his attention to his surroundings—a row of burgundy leather banquettes, separated by lace-covered tables set with sandwiches and salads, whirring mahogany fans dangling from white ceiling moldings, windows framed in cherry and divided by panels punctuated by electric tulips on brass stalks that glowed anemically in the October glare from outside.

The cars lurched forward and the passengers clutched at their wine glasses as the train whistled its way southwest from downtown. Before long, welcoming sea breezes coiled through the windows as they passed the dingy bungalows of Venice Beach, businessman Abbot Kinney’s failed attempt to recreate the canals and cadences of Mediterranean living. No gondolas poled under these arched bridges, now only used as shelter for the desperate.

Gordon’s gaze fixed on Marion Davies, resplendent in polka dots, as she paraded her guests through the cars. Her trademark platinum curls were topped by a white derby with a trailing black grosgrain ribbon and the obligatory veil. Her smile was as reliable as the California sun, and Gordon loved to watch her shine it on each guest in careful measure. He followed her through the companionway to the second car, where she sat down—next to Gordon’s blonde and another woman.

The blonde glanced up at Marion and closed her book with a smile that flowed like music. Her skin, Nordic-pale, was dewy with the heat and delicately pink with rouge. The amethyst silk of her dress and the pearls caressing her neck intensified the vividness of her red lips and emerald-green eyes. Gordon could see now that her hair, clipped away from her face and falling to just below the nape of her neck, was actually a wavy melange of ocher, honey, and white-gold. She looked up at him, then away—a take for the camera. He flushed and busied himself selecting a ripe pear from the basket on the table.

Would you like to meet the ladies, Gordon, or have you overheated already? chided Marion. Take off your coat and bring us some fruit, won’t you?

Gordon selected a second pear and some cheese. When he approached, she gestured to the woman seated on the banquette next to his blonde.

Caroline Green, Gordon Fraser. Caroline is my totally wicked friend from London. She’s in town to do a picture with one of the Barrymores, I forget which one.

He balanced his plate and shook the hand that Caroline—willowy, with piercing blue eyes and thick auburn hair bundled in a Spanish comb—extended in obvious expectation of a kiss.

Enchantée, Mr. Fraser.

The train bucked and the pears bounced off the plate. He caught one in an off-balance lunge, but at that moment the train shook sideways and something hit him on the cheekbone. Before he knew it, he was on the floor watching the other pear roll toward the door.

A knockout blow, Nikki! Marion, laughing, told the blonde. You got him fair and square! She bent over Gordon. Are you all right down there?

I’m fine. Feeling sheepish, he got up and dusted himself off.

You certainly lost that round.

I demand a rematch.

All three women were laughing.

But first, you must congratulate the winner, Marion ruled with mock gravity, composing herself. Nicola Grosvenor, Gordon Fraser. And you can brag about this one, Nikki. Gordon was a bona-fide boxer once upon a time.

A pleasure, Nikki…and congratulations. Then he noticed that she was holding her left hand.

What’s wrong? he asked.

Oh, I just jammed my finger when I knocked you out. English like Caroline, but with an ease and assurance in her speech that set her apart.

Let me get you some ice.

You don’t freeze a million-dollar hand! Marion exclaimed. Nikki’s a concert pianist. She’s playing for my next movie."

Nikki looked up at him and smiled again. Start training, Gordon. You’ll have your rematch.

October’s slanted shafts of sunlight mottled the bright blues and muted greens of the vast kelp beds in the tranquil coastal waters of the Pacific. North of Santa Barbara, the train turned inland, tunneling through the coastal range, then speeding past quiet fields dug brown from the harvest. When the Hearst cars unloaded at the San Luis Obispo station, the guests were marched to a small motorcade of taxis for the trip up Highway 1 to San Simeon.

The ocean cool welcomed the motorcade on its descent past Morro Rock toward the pines of Cambria. Eight miles beyond, they passed the pier of the tiny port of San Simeon, then turned up a private dirt road to ascend the coastal hills on the Hearst acreage. The heat returned again as the cars climbed inland, and shadows crawled from a forest of planted trees. The travelers, straining to catch sight of the animals from Hearst’s private zoo, were satisfied when a herd of zebras galloped over the hill and then stopped to stare at the growling autos.

They rounded a curve a thousand feet above the sea, and the Castle revealed itself, immense, contented in its isolation, glowing golden in the afternoon light against a backdrop of palms and pines.

Gordon jacked himself out of the rear seat and gazed up at the fabled Hearst playground. How could one even conceive of such a place, let alone build it?

A tall and suntanned but otherwise very English gentleman was upon them immediately. Mr. Chapman, so good to see you again. He greeted George with a toothy yellow smile, but genuine. You’ll be staying in the Doge Suite, as before.

He turned to Gordon. Mr. Fraser, I presume. My name is Joseph. You’ll stay in the Gothic Suite.

The Gothic Suite? George interjected, puzzled. The Chief ’s own bedroom?

Mr. Hearst’s instructions were explicit. Joseph’s frown said he was not used to explaining his orders. It’s convenient to the library. In addition, there is some excitement at Casa Del Monte over the delivery of the Cardinal Richelieu bed.

Gordon, sufficiently confused already, remained silent.

George shrugged. Assembly Room at seven, Gordie.

Where’s that?

You’ve got three hours—find it!

Gordon followed Joseph up to the third floor. Was it really Cardinal Richelieu’s bed?

Joseph shrugged. The dealer says it’s actually from Lombardy and belonged to no one more exalted than a bishop.

By the time they reached the top of the stairs, Gordon was expecting a king’s chambers. But when Joseph opened the door, he saw instead a tiny chapel of a sitting room with an ancient, arched-stone ceiling and a fireplace. The sparse furnishings included tables and chests covered with statues of saints against a backdrop of bare stone walls hung with Biblical tapestries.

Joseph deposited Gordon’s bags in the wardrobe and they entered the bedchamber, a garret as well except for its elegant, oversized Spanish bed.

Gordon tried the knob of what appeared to be a closet door, but it was locked.

A connecting door?

That’s Miss Davies’s room, Joseph explained while cracking open a window to admit a faint ocean breeze.

It is awfully hot for October.

I remember London weather, so I have no complaints. May I suggest a dip? Many guests find a swim enjoyable about now.

Thanks, just the thing, Gordon replied with a broad smile, but in the next moment he was awestruck by the living landscape which trumped the poster fantasies of Maxfield Parrish, there outside his window. He waved goodbye to Joseph and swung open the glass. Below him formal Mediterranean gardens blazed with thousands of blossoms framed by boxwood and marble. The manicure on Hearst’s hilltop gave way on either side to the natural grandeur of canted hillside forests of the coastal range. To the west he traced the winding descent of rugged sienna ridges and canyons, to the gentle slopes of the zebra herd, to the sparkling sea and the old whaling refuge at San Simeon Harbor, now landfall for Hearst’s displaced antiquities.

The sun had begun its inevitable plummet toward the horizon, and he decided to change and get down to the pool.

He headed back down the stairs, emerging onto a wide Italianate tiled terrace bordered by stone balustrades and twenty-foot cypresses, palms, and magnolias.

A hundred or more armless stone goddesses now employed as lampposts balanced white globes on their heads. He stopped on the marble staircase. The mountains rose, serene and inspiring, behind a circular terrace of Roman columns surrounding a hotel-sized ellipse of a pool. Where the bath house might be, Hearst had instead erected a miniature Greek temple. Mount Olympus in California.

He dove into the pristine, blue-green water, bracing and sweet. The stretching, stroking repetition was luxury, he thought, pulling with measured rhythm through the water above the ebony mosaic tiles that marked the lanes. In moments the heat, George’s chastening, and his fear of Hearst were left behind. Spontaneously he began to sprint, feeling the release as his body worked.

Pushing off the far wall, he noticed that he was no longer alone in the pool. The other swimmer was a woman, lean in the water, her black suit and white limbs surging in a mass of bubbles. He stepped up his pace and soon caught her wake. It took him another lap to pull ahead, then, the race won, he stretched one more lap and coasted to a stop at the north wall.

His competitor pulled herself out of the water fifteen feet away, her head joining a row of three perfect marble nymphs silhouetted against the swollen orange sun as it sank into the ocean. Nikki. Her profile was delicate—small mouth, fragile nose adorned with crystal droplets, high cheekbones, forehead at peace with life.

Do you ever tire of Pacific sunsets, Mr. Fraser?

He never expected beautiful women to speak to him. Each one’s like my first, he managed.

Swimming is definitely your sport.

Why’s that?

She grinned. Softer landings.

Impulsively Gordon jabbed at the water, shooting a splash her way.

You missed. Her laugh was provoking and contagious.

Have you known Miss Davies long?

Only a few months. She’s an absolute gem, giving me the chance to play for her movie.

You must be very, very good.

Thank you, she smiled. But the real stamp of approval for a pianist is to tour and to play with major orchestras. I haven’t yet.

This’ll be your break, he offered. It’s sort of the same for reporters—waiting for the big story. I work for the Examiner.

Yes, I know, she said, admiring the slanting sunlight, which seemed to illuminate the temple from below.

Have we met before? Before today, I mean?

Marion showed me your story about the meeting. She hesitated. But I confess I prefer your book of poetry. She took another handful of water and watched it run through her fingers.

Impossible!

True nonetheless.

Then you have one of the six in circulation.

She laughed. Borrowed. I did read it, though.

The love sonnets are quite beautiful, but I always find myself returning to the poem about your father’s funeral, if that’s correct?

Yes.

He died in the war?

Yes, a U-boat. He was a captain in the Navy.

She went very still. How terrible, she whispered. I lost my brother at Ypres. Gas. Her eyes welled.

I’m so sorry.

With obvious effort, she summoned up a smile. Your father received the Navy Cross?

He nodded, the loss gripping him still. Posthumously. He was a hero. He noticed her shivering. It’s getting cold. Perhaps we might speak more, tonight?

I’d like that, surely. With a quick turn she pulled herself out of the water and threw on a white cotton robe. In another moment she was up the stairs and gone.

Watching the last persimmon glow of day at the end of the Pacific, he found himself reciting his poem to his father.

Your still eyes mark your coffin flag, each fold.

Your sea of blue salutes, death march, your grave. And hard, hard I wear your cross of gold.

You cradle mother now; her flag, despair.

The gunshots, snow, your hand, her head is high. Your arms around me drive fear from my eyes.

And proud, proud I wear your cross of gold.

Yes, I beg your spirit yet to leave.

Yes, your sleeping genius prods my grief. Yes, your heart remains.

As my will recants your failed faith, a lie. As destiny flays hope to bleed and die,

You touch.

A gift impossibly ideal and old,

A gift of love and courage, mine alone, A vision that has brought you smiling home,

And dear, dear, I wear your cross of gold.

CHAPTER 2

Mr. Fraser? Joseph’s clipped voice followed the hard rap on the sit-

ting-room door. Still in his swimsuit, Gordon cracked it open.

Yes?

Mr. Hearst asks that you meet him in his library.

Fine. What time?

Immediately, sir. Joseph gestured down the stone corridor. The second door. I’ll tell him you’ll be a few minutes.

Gordon closed the door, stripped off his suit, and shivered. I’m done for, he thought.

As he approached the library, muffled shouts erupted from behind the lofty door. Suddenly it flew open. A short, chubby, gray-haired man in an ill-fitting suit stormed out, turned around. Go to hell! he shouted back into the room, then slammed the door, wheeled around again, and marched straight into Gordon’s shoulder. He stepped back in shock.

Be ready to duck, he warned, and was gone before Gordon recognized him as the man in a picture in the Examiner’s trophy case. Our own Paul Shulman, George always called him, accepting a Pulitzer Prize before quitting Hearst and going over to Reuters. What was he doing here?

Gordon gathered his courage and knocked.

What now? the Chief’s voice roared.

Fraser, sir.

Wait a moment.

Seconds later, George opened the door and gestured for Gordon to come in.

Gordie, my boy! Hearst shouted, pacing along the right side of a long Spanish table of dark oak. George motioned Gordon to a chair and went back to his own.

The library was a chapel, with walls of twelve-foot shelves of books surmounted by stained-glass windows framed in Gothic stone arches. A teletype machine whirred away in the corner, printing the United Press wire. Where the altar should have stood, a purple velvet curtain hung from the ceiling, setting off a huge portrait of the great god Hearst framed in gold leaf. The face in the portrait was young, knowing, and hard, the eyes piercing in their harsh omnipotence. In contrast, the face of the man striding back and forth was a drooping and embittered double.

The center of the table was piled with copies of the Examiner plus a second stack, equally high, of the Los Angeles Times. George raked a green columnar pad toward him. Gordon took his chair and called upon his reporter’s skill of reading upside down. Two three-column tables, the first with much longer lists of numbers than the second. The Chief stopped behind George and glared at the columns, then turned his baleful glance on Gordon.

Congratulations are in order, young man, Hearst snapped. The Examiner now has the fastest-growing classified section in LA!

Gordon looked to George for help, but the editor kept his eyes on the ledger, and he realized that the columns were advertising figures.

Hearst stabbed at the Examiner column with his index finger. From September 22 on, our thirty-day average jumped to twenty-one thousand! Six hundred percent!

Sensational, Gordon admired. How? He started as George slammed his pencil on the table.

Chief, he’s a reporter, not an ad salesman.

Hearst glanced at George, seized the columnar pad, then dropped it reluctantly. No. That’s not why we called you in. You’re no doubt wondering why.

Yes, sir.

For the same reason that the renowned Paul Shulman was visiting. He passed you on his way out, I believe?

Gordon nodded.

Not a happy lad?

No, sir.

Paul wants to save the world. I want to sell ads so we can continue to employ eminent reporters such as yourself. What do you want?

Gordon felt as if he should be shaking, but his body was calm, his mind clear. I want to save the world too, sir.

Hearst angled his gaze up toward the stained-glass windows, measuring the evening sky. The Examiner’s owner has a new job for you, Gordon, if you’re interested. Berlin. And at fifty percent over your present salary.

Gordon couldn’t believe his ears. Sir?

Hearst smiled. You did well two weeks ago.

You gave me the opportunity.

And you made the most of it.

Not quite, chief. I wrote up the Hitler meeting without confirming your quotes with you first.

Your quotes were accurate.

But you denied them to the New York Times!

Hearst laughed. It was the best possible outcome—get those New York intellectuals arguing! ‘What’d the old egomaniac really say, anyway?’ That’s what sells our papers!

But, what is your view of Hitler, then?

Hearst walked over and clamped his stout hands on Gordon’s shoulders. He’s a capitalist. And a competitor to America unless we make him a partner. And the same holds for the German people. What did we come home to last week, boy? National despair! America still in the Democrats’ crapper! England’s pulled out of its depression, France and Italy are arming to the teeth, Germany’s moving, the damn Bolsheviks are poised to attack, but America’s paralyzed. Just like its damn president! He gesticulated with his long-dead cigar. Lack of national resolve is the enemy, and it’s the press that must revive it. The world’s economies are too intertwined. If we don’t catch up to Europe soon, we’ll be left behind forever. How do we participate in the world recovery?

How do we, sir?

We invest in it!

But where, chief? In Germany?

In Wall Street! Keep the profits in America! Our own companies’ll lead us back into the pink. Standard Oil’s been in Germany since 1923. Ford’s there. ITT. General Motors. And all of them are your interviews. Your features, waiting for you. The Chief pantomimed writing a story on an invisible blackboard. Germany’s our marketplace. His words reverberated against the chapel walls. That’s the story no one’s been writing.

Gordon hesitated. But—

What?

Everyone knows that the Nazi party brutalized its way into power—

Rumor, most of it! Hearst snapped.

Some of it’s been documented. By Paul Shulman, for example.

Yes. He called the Nazis thugs. And because of it he’s wasting away at Reuters instead of having a worldwide byline with me.

So it’s all rumors? Even regarding the Jews?

It’s a question of balanced reporting. Shulman tossed out the baby with the bath water.

Lose the argument or lose your job, warned a voice inside him, but he couldn’t hold back. You really believe that American investors will keep doing business with a police state?

A new message in Hearst’s eyes—respect. The older man walked over and draped a beefy arm over his shoulders. Look, I personally have no tolerance whatsoever for anti-Semitism. In fact, I appealed to Hitler in person to stop all his strong-arming if he wants America’s support. He agreed. But ultimately we must accept that Germany’s internal policies are not in our power to change. It’s not the first time a government has isolated its Jews. And it won’t be the last. Hearst pushed his face up to Gordon’s, bumping him with his huge stomach. So. Are you my man?

Gordon glanced at George and saw in his eyes that there were only two answers to the question, yes or unemployment.

Yes, sir, he said.

Good. Hearst beamed. We’ll call up a car. Back to LA tonight, then tomorrow’s Twentieth Century to New York.

The worst news of all. Sir, would it be possible for me to leave Monday morning?

Insubordinate so soon? The Chief champed at his dead cigar.

How about Sunday night? Gordon smiled. It’s my first time here at San Simeon, Sir.

Hearst’s slowly gave him mouth a twist. Ah yes. Our young pianist friend from London…News travels fast.

Guilty as charged.

You have excellent taste. Be careful not to choke on it! The Chief stared a subtle challenge. All right. Sunday morning. When you get to New York, you’ll meet with Simon Lewis. He’ll give you your list of interviews, itinerary, plus his usual list of demands.

Demands?

Every story’s got to be told his way. But he does have the ear of Wall Street. You’ll learn a lot from Simon.

Gordon knew only Simon Lewis’s name and that he was managing editor of Universal News, Hearst’s international wire service, but George’s smirk told him that they would talk more about Lewis later.

We’ll start you with three months on assignment. After that, a promotion to Berlin correspondent, and more money, if you deserve it. Hearst grinned wickedly as he watched the match ignite his cigar. Joseph will make your arrangements and advance you your expenses. And, Gordon, keep this strictly to yourself. While you fly, others fall. Now get out of here!

Gordon checked his watch. Seven o’clock, the zero hour for drinks.

A short trip down the stone spiral staircase ended at the rear entrance to the Assembly Hall—and a woman’s voice purring Gershwin to a piano.

Won’t you tell him please,

To put on some speed,

Follow my lead,

Oh how I need

Someone to watch over me.

He joined in under his breath, and with the melody came a nameless hunger.

The immensity and opulence of the Assembly Room assaulted his senses, but these dissolved with the image of Nikki in ivory silk. She looked up from the chestnut Bosendorfer and continued to sing, tossing her hair.

Do you know all the words? she asked.

It’s one of my favorites, he said truthfully.

Join me.

Not the rematch I had in mind.

You name it then. I’m ready when you are. She gave him an impish smile.

George was motioning him over. Let me go and pay my respects. I’ll be back.

You know where to find me. She laughed and returned her attention to the keyboard.

Glancing about the room, he winced at the brightness of four long rows of electric lights thirty feet above his head, starry blossoms drooping from an ornately carved wooden grid. Before him stood a baroque lectern that held a huge open hymnbook. To his right, a winged bronze Venus, breasts and thighs gleaming, turned her back on the sacred hymnal.

George was finishing his highball. All these treasures to admire, but you just chase the skirt.

I’ve got a true eye for quality.

Joseph held out a silver filigree tray with a Waterford tumbler. Glenmorangie over ice, I believe, Mr. Fraser?

Thanks, Gordon acknowledged. As the butler left, Gordon took a sip of the scotch. It was heady and sweet—everything soared. He turned to George. How did he know that?

"Marion,