Grainex, their New York subsidiary, had first alerted her to the probability that not only was her husband dealing with the Russians, but that there was also a connection between Captain Perés and the Soviets. Perés had been seen on at least one occasion meeting with a known Russian sympathizer.
Also, Lydia had heard that Perés had meant to kill Kenneth, but that the operation had been botched and Paul Saratt had died instead.
She had heard about the plot from one of Perés’ own people who was on the Vance-Ehrhardt payroll. But her informant did not know exactly who had ordered the assassination. Had it been Perés himself, or someone else? She was determined to find that out as well.
Someone knocked at her office door, and Lydia turned away from the window. “Come,” she called out.
Francisco Belgrano, her father’s personal secretary, came in. He was an older, distinguished-looking man who walked with a limp. Her father had trusted him implicitly, and so did she. “If I were to lose my mental capacities, Belgrano could step in and take over the entire business tomorrow,” her father had once said.
During the past weeks she had relied heavily on his abilities and judgment.
He seemed distraught now. “You are simply going to have to leave this instant, my dear,” he clucked, beginning to gather up papers from her desk.
“Has the messenger returned from police headquarters yet?” she asked. The telephone system was out; the revolutionaries had blown up the main exchange as one of their first acts. She had sent a messenger to ask Perés for a meeting.
“No,” Belgrano said without looking up.
“Then we will wait.”
“But his driver is back.”
“His driver?” Lydia asked.
Belgrano looked up from what he was doing. “Your messenger was killed.”
“The fighting has come that far?”
Belgrano shook his head. “No, madam. The driver informs me that Capitán Perés himself shot and killed poor Hernández.”
Lydia’s nostrils flared. She could feel the color coming to her cheeks. “Was there a message?”
“No, madam. None that I was told of.”
“Where is the driver now?” Lydia asked, coming over to the desk.
“In the garage, waiting to take you to the airport.”
Lydia opened a desk drawer and pulled out a .380 Beretta automatic. She checked the clip to make sure it was loaded, then levered a round into the chamber. “How about you, Francisco? Will you be coming with me?”
“No,” the man said, straightening up. “I will remain. When the fighting dies down, they will need a maintenance staff here. Just until you return.”
And if I never return, Lydia thought, you would do quite nicely as the head of Vance-Ehrhardt. But she didn’t give voice to the thought.
She stuffed the gun in her purse, came around the desk, and gave Belgrano a kiss on the cheek. “I’m sorry it ended this way, Francisco,” she said softly.
His eyes were suddenly moist. “I can understand the revolution, but I cannot fathom the murders of Sir and Madam.”
“Take care,” she said, stepping back.
He handed her the thin briefcase into which he had stuffed the papers. “You may need this,” he said.
She took it, turned on her heel, and left the office. She went down to the brightly lit subbasement parking garage. The electricity was off in much of the city, but this building had its own emergency generating system, as did many buildings. Her father had had it installed years ago.
The young driver who had been leaning against the hood of her Citroen sedan straightened up as she approached.
“Are you sure it was Capitan Perés, and no one else, who shot Hernández?”
“Si, señora,” the frightened young man said.
“But then he let you go. Why?”
“He told me to come back and tell you… and you alone… what happened. He said you would understand his answer to your question.”
The answer was loud and clear. Perés had killed Saratt, after all. But what else? How deep did his involvement with the Russians go? And would he try again to kill Kenneth? “Let’s go,” she said, climbing in the back seat. The driver jumped in behind the wheel, started the car, and headed out.
“The main highway out to the airport is still clear, señora,” he said.
“First we will stop at Police headquarters,” Lydia said.
The driver looked at her in the rearview mirror.
“I’ll only be a minute or two. Then we will go straight out to the airport.”
“But señora, Capitán Perés… he is still there.”
“I hope so,” Lydia said, smiling. “I hope so.”
It took less than five minutes to reach the police building, but already the fighting was closer. As the driver parked at the side of the building, Lydia could hear gunfire less than two blocks away. The driver was obviously frightened half out of his mind.
“If they come too close, take the car and drive like hell,” she said, getting out. “I’ll find a ride out to the airport with one of the policemen.”
“But, señora.”
“Wait only as long as you can, then get out of here,” Lydia shouted, and she strode across the sidewalk and entered the building.
Just inside were three wide, marble steps that led up to the lobby. Sandbags had been placed across the steps, and she stood at the bottom looking up into the muzzles of a dozen rifles.
“Do not fire!” someone shouted.
“I want to see Capitán Perés,” Lydia called up.
A police lieutenant with greasy hair stood and waved her up the stairs. She picked her way through the sandbags; at the top he helped her over.
“I am Lieutenant Martinez. I will escort you up to the capitan.”
“I can find my own way, thank you,” Lydia said.
“I will escort you,” the lieutenant said firmly. He took her arm and led her across the lobby to the bank of elevators. Only one, apparently, was working. There were sandbags everywhere. They were waiting for the siege to begin.
They entered the elevator, and when the lieutenant turned his back to Lydia to press the floor button, she quickly opened her purse and pulled out the Beretta.
He turned around and his eyes went wide. He started to reach for the pistol at his side.
“I will shoot you without hesitation, lieutenant,” Lydia said. The elevator doors closed and they started up.
“What do you want?”
“How many people does Perés have up there with him?” she asked.
Something flashed in the lieutenant’s eyes. “A dozen soldiers. Maybe more. Give me your gun.”
“If you are lying to me, I will kill you the moment the doors open.”
He stepped back. “There is no one there with him. He is alone.”
“No one is watching the elevator?” Lydia asked. Something was wrong. The lieutenant was hiding something. She raised the gun so that it pointed at his head. “Quickly,” she said.
“Whoever comes up must call on the elevator telephone. Otherwise the doors will never open. He has the master switch up there.”
“Call him!”
He picked up the telephone.
“Make a mistake and I will kill you,” Lydia said. “You have a message for him that must be delivered in person.”
“Capitán, it is me… I, we must talk, sir,” the lieutenant said. He was sweating. “Yes, sir, I am alone.” He looked at Lydia, then shouted, “It is Lydia Vance-Ehrhardt…”
Lydia fired, the shot hitting him just above the right eye. His head snapped back, and he dropped the phone and crumpled to the floor.