Free Hands of the Traitor by Christopher Wright

You wait until you're properly
better before you worry your young head about the business. That
damage to your arm ain't gonna heal overnight. And your chin still
looks a mess, if you'll excuse me saying it."
    Frank began to feel anxious again.
"But you've covered up the death of my father in
France?"
    "It's like I told you, Mr. Heinman.
Officially, your father disappeared on a hunting trip up in Alaska.
A good one that, seeing as there's no body. And you got those
injuries when you fell trying to rescue him. There'll be no big
deal made if you stick to the script."
    Frank breathed more easily. The
tightness in his chest eased slightly. "You're a reliable man,
Skorensky." He wiped his hands again in his handkerchief and
noticed a small ink stain on his father's ... on his desk. "I guess our
troubles didn't disappear with Jacco Morell."
    "You're right there, Mr.
Heinman."
    Skorensky had the facial expression of a
devoted and trustworthy servant. Frank recognized it as the
expression that had caused his father so much pleasure. It was a
false servitude, and it brought little relief now. He rubbed the
ink mark with his thumb but it stayed put. "They can't touch us for
what happened in France."
    "That's correct, Mr. Heinman. Not if
you've got it right. Some big explosion, and all the Berlitzan oil
destroyed."
    Frank nodded. "You're right,
Skorensky."
    "And Mr. Heinman beyond recognition -- if
you'll excuse me saying so."
    "Totally beyond recognition. Even if
the American GIs dig him up, they'll never know who it is. Not
after what that grenade did."
    "What about the signet rings, Mr.
Heinman?"
    He knew! The rat knew! The expression
on Skorensky's face gave him away. He just sat there, with those
stupid innocent eyes, asking about the rings. How the hell had
Skorensky found out?
    "I fancied there had to be more to it,
Mr. Heinman. Your father told me those rings were the badges of
office, for the head of DCI to wear. Only you've not put them on
since you came back from France, so I thought
perhaps..."
    "Shut up, Skorensky."
    So oily, so suave, and so cocksure of
his position. The man was a threat to the company. It all came back
to the Berlitzan Project. The Feds could wipe DCI off America if
one whisper of their Nazi involvement got out.
    "I'm going to need your help,
Skorensky." Frank knew he was failing to impress. This small,
dark-haired man who'd been at his father's right hand for years
probably still saw him as a podgy school kid.
    "You ... you don't know the half of
the problems ahead, Mr. Heinman."
    Frank took one look at his
father's choice of company chief executive officer. The man had
glanced suggestively at the outer office where the glass screen
allowed the secretary's head to be seen at the typewriter.
" Karen
McDowell? "
    "Afraid so, Mr. Heinman. Your father's
put one up her, so to speak. Not the first time either, so she
claims. It seems he arranged things for her with money in
'37."
    It was as though one of those German
flying bombs had smashed into the Manhattan office. "She's ...
she's not serious?"
    Skorensky's eyes told Frank that Karen
was serious. They also told him that the chief executive officer
was rather enjoying this moment.
    He jumped to his feet. "She has
proof?"
    Skorensky tipped his chair back slowly.
"She has what she calls ample proof -- about both occasions. I also
think she knows something about the Project."
    He took out his white handkerchief
again, still damp from the sweat on his hands. "Who else knows
about this?"
    "She's very discreet, Mr. Heinman. She
thinks it might help the company if you dealt with it
informally."
    Frank rubbed his chin, cautiously feeling
the fresh scar. As president he needed to act with authority -- and
the lack of that damn Heinman beard wasn't helping. He twisted the
handkerchief round his fingers, and the vomit rising in his throat
now reached his mouth. "Skorensky, you've got to help me, before
she goes public."

Chapter 9
    London
    THE FIRST V2 rocket blasted