Free Hands of the Traitor by Christopher Wright Page B

wouldn't object if you prayed for me when you have a spare
five minutes."
    He watched Fergus Hawkins sit back,
his tall body crammed into the canvas deck chair under the scarlet
berries of the mountain ash. The tree just about filled the small
back garden. A smell of smoke from a neighbor's bonfire hovered in
the air. Autumn wasn't far away now.
    "I've never thought of you as a soft
touch, Alec." The Canadian reached out and touched his arm. "Not
many people are ready to admit they need God -- not when death
isn't staring them in the face. And I'm afraid it will always be
so."
    "Ah, but the difference is I mean it,
Padre." Alec could have used his fellow officer's Christian name,
but it would have destroyed the relationship. A padre was a padre,
and more than an equal. "I still can't remember what
happened."
    "It's early days yet, Alec. Perhaps
after all is said and done, the Lord has erased your memory in
order to give you peace."
    Alec lay back and watched the clouds
change shape high above. "I'm a murderer, Padre. You should be
offering me forgiveness, not platitudes. Keep those for your Sunday
sermons." He could speak his mind. The understanding between them
was good.
    Fergus Hawkins set his deck chair back
to its maximum inclination to face the low afternoon sun. "Sunny
days are like heaven," he said with a sigh of
satisfaction.
    "Not for the poor sods being shot to
hell in France."
    "You can't come to terms with killing,
can you, Alec." It was just a plain statement.
    Alec closed his eyes. In the
Pas-de-Calais, he'd been responsible for twenty or thirty deaths
within a matter of seconds.
    "I can come to terms with
killing the Nazi bastards with their flying bombs, but I can't cope
with killing an innocent French girl." He turned to face the padre.
"You're right, it is pleasant out here on a day like this, on the right side of
the Channel. Perhaps I'll retire from the army. Opt for an easy
life like yours. Take up holy orders -- in civvy street of course.
Hell!" He clutched at the padre's arm. "There was blood on that
girl's face. I can see it now."
    Fergus took his hand and held it
tightly for a moment. "Of course I'll pray for you. You need peace.
May God grant you peace."
    "May God grant me my memory,
Padre."
    "Perhaps not, Alec. Perhaps
not."
    *
    New York -- January 1945
    FRANK HEINMAN stood by his secretary's
desk, painfully aware of her heavy pregnancy. Skorensky had died in
a racing accident a month ago, driving in his usual crazy way. It
left him with the problem of finding a new chief executive officer,
and the problem of paying off Karen McDowell. He tried not to think
of his father having sex with her in this office.
    "Karen, I'm planning some major changes in
DCI now you're going." He shuffled his feet uneasily, finding the
conversation difficult. This was her last day, and he wanted to
find out just how much she knew before offering money to care for
the baby. With Skorensky out of the way -- conveniently out of the
way, although he was reluctant to admit it -- Karen was the final
link to the past.
    "Frank, you can do what you like. Only
I can't see you're ever going to get on top of the problems at
DCI."
    He recoiled at this use of his first
name. His father, Albert, had been a stickler for staff using
proper forms of address, but his secretary now spoke to him, the
president, with what sounded like contempt. "You've worked for DCI
since before the war, Karen."
    "Sure, Frank. Not that I knew much
about the war at first, what with it happening over in Europe." She
seemed tense.
    "Did my father...?" He hesitated, but
he had to know. "Back in '39, Karen, did my father ever say
anything about DCI and the Germans?"
    Karen nodded knowingly. "I think he
wondered whose side to be on, what with the money coming from the
German-American Bund. But I guess he tried to keep sort of neutral
-- like a lot of Americans at that time."
    "Do you know anything about a business
deal we did with the Germans in '37?"
    "Sure, I