from him again?"
"No, not so far."
"We ought to talk to him."
"We'll talk, but it's useless. He's clearly going his own way. He wants to play the game by his own rules, and we can't allow that. He's given us no choice—he's put his granddaughter out in front on this and we have to keep her in check. I've got her monitored wherever she goes. They're not going to take what's rightfully ours."
"You're right, George, but I'm not looking forward to a confrontation with Alfred. There has to be some way to make him listen to reason."
"After all these years, my friend, Alfred has decided not to listen to reason. It's a complete betrayal of everything we pledged to each other. Treason. There's no way around it."
Enrique ran his hand over his head again as Wagner terminated the call. He looked up as his grandson, Alvaro, dressed in riding clothes, burst into the room. In spite of the troubling phone call, Enrique smiled at the sight of the tall, thin, nice-looking young man.
"Hello, abueh. I stopped by to see if you'd like to have lunch with me." Alvaro ran his arm across his forehead and laughed. "Gosh, am I sweaty."
"So I see. Not too bright, my boy, going riding in this heat. Where's your father?" "In his office."
"All right. And thank you for the invitation, but I need to work." "But, abuelo, you should retire! Let it go. Come to the club with me for lunch."
"You know I hate those people at the club."
"You hate everyone in Seville. You don't go anywhere anymore, abuelo—abuela is right, you're an old bore."
"Your grandmother is always right. And I am an old bore, but I can't bear those people."
"That's because of your English upbringing, old man."
"Where's your sister?" "She's gone to Marbella. She was invited to stay with the Kholls." "And she couldn't be bothered to say good-bye. You two are worse every day."
"Don't be so old-fashioned! Besides, Elena hates being in the country. You, Papa, and I are the only ones who like the house here— abuela, Mama, and Elena can't abide it. They hate all the bulls and horses." Enrique nodded in rueful agreement as Alvaro returned to his original entreaty. "So, will you come to the club, then, or not?"
"Not. I'll stay here, thanks. As hot as it is, I've no interest in going out anyway. Now leave me be—I have to think."
When the old gentleman was alone again, he smiled to himself. His grandson was a good boy, not nearly so scatterbrained as his sister. The only thing he reproached them for was their all-too-frequent involvement in the social whirl of Seville. He had always made it a point not to socialize too much and focused almost exclusively on his business.
In that respect, his wife Rocio had been a blessing. She was the daughter of a provincial representative to the Spanish parliament in the Franco regime, who had gotten rich after the war through the black market. Over time, his father-in-law had reluctantly brought Enrique into the business, though Enrique had later broken away into import-export, where he'd become a very wealthy man. He would always be grateful to his wife. Without her, he'd never have gotten where he was today. But whatever his success, Enrique Gomez Thomson had always been careful to call as little attention to himself as humanly possible. His was a respectable Sevillan family that had never allowed itself to be the butt of gossip. No scandal had ever touched any of them. Nor would one, if he had his way.
His thoughts turned to Frankie and George. They had been fortunate too, although in truth, no one had ever given them a thing. They'd just been smarter than the others.
Robert Brown slammed his fist down so hard on the desk that he hurt his hand. He'd been on the phone for over an hour. First Ralph had called to tell him about Clara Tannenberg's little speech at the conference in Rome. Just thinking about it gave him a pain in his stomach. Then he'd had to break the news to George Wagner, who'd dressed him down for not having prevented the
"No, not so far."
"We ought to talk to him."
"We'll talk, but it's useless. He's clearly going his own way. He wants to play the game by his own rules, and we can't allow that. He's given us no choice—he's put his granddaughter out in front on this and we have to keep her in check. I've got her monitored wherever she goes. They're not going to take what's rightfully ours."
"You're right, George, but I'm not looking forward to a confrontation with Alfred. There has to be some way to make him listen to reason."
"After all these years, my friend, Alfred has decided not to listen to reason. It's a complete betrayal of everything we pledged to each other. Treason. There's no way around it."
Enrique ran his hand over his head again as Wagner terminated the call. He looked up as his grandson, Alvaro, dressed in riding clothes, burst into the room. In spite of the troubling phone call, Enrique smiled at the sight of the tall, thin, nice-looking young man.
"Hello, abueh. I stopped by to see if you'd like to have lunch with me." Alvaro ran his arm across his forehead and laughed. "Gosh, am I sweaty."
"So I see. Not too bright, my boy, going riding in this heat. Where's your father?" "In his office."
"All right. And thank you for the invitation, but I need to work." "But, abuelo, you should retire! Let it go. Come to the club with me for lunch."
"You know I hate those people at the club."
"You hate everyone in Seville. You don't go anywhere anymore, abuelo—abuela is right, you're an old bore."
"Your grandmother is always right. And I am an old bore, but I can't bear those people."
"That's because of your English upbringing, old man."
"Where's your sister?" "She's gone to Marbella. She was invited to stay with the Kholls." "And she couldn't be bothered to say good-bye. You two are worse every day."
"Don't be so old-fashioned! Besides, Elena hates being in the country. You, Papa, and I are the only ones who like the house here— abuela, Mama, and Elena can't abide it. They hate all the bulls and horses." Enrique nodded in rueful agreement as Alvaro returned to his original entreaty. "So, will you come to the club, then, or not?"
"Not. I'll stay here, thanks. As hot as it is, I've no interest in going out anyway. Now leave me be—I have to think."
When the old gentleman was alone again, he smiled to himself. His grandson was a good boy, not nearly so scatterbrained as his sister. The only thing he reproached them for was their all-too-frequent involvement in the social whirl of Seville. He had always made it a point not to socialize too much and focused almost exclusively on his business.
In that respect, his wife Rocio had been a blessing. She was the daughter of a provincial representative to the Spanish parliament in the Franco regime, who had gotten rich after the war through the black market. Over time, his father-in-law had reluctantly brought Enrique into the business, though Enrique had later broken away into import-export, where he'd become a very wealthy man. He would always be grateful to his wife. Without her, he'd never have gotten where he was today. But whatever his success, Enrique Gomez Thomson had always been careful to call as little attention to himself as humanly possible. His was a respectable Sevillan family that had never allowed itself to be the butt of gossip. No scandal had ever touched any of them. Nor would one, if he had his way.
His thoughts turned to Frankie and George. They had been fortunate too, although in truth, no one had ever given them a thing. They'd just been smarter than the others.
Robert Brown slammed his fist down so hard on the desk that he hurt his hand. He'd been on the phone for over an hour. First Ralph had called to tell him about Clara Tannenberg's little speech at the conference in Rome. Just thinking about it gave him a pain in his stomach. Then he'd had to break the news to George Wagner, who'd dressed him down for not having prevented the
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