The Holcroft Covenant: A Novel

  “Helden? It’s an odd name.”

  “It fits her,” said Cararra’s sister softly.

  “The story is that her birth certificate was filled out by a doctor who did not speak German, who did not understand the mother. According to Senhora von Tiebolt, she gave the child’s name as ‘Helga,’ but the hospital staff was rushed. They wrote down ‘Helden.’ In those days, one did not argue with what was written on papers. The name stayed with her.”

  “Tennyson, Beaumont.…” Holcroft repeated the names. “England? How did they get out of Brazil and over to England without Graff finding out? You say the Germans have influence. Passports were needed; transportation had to be arranged. How did they do it?”

  “Johann … John … he’s a remarkable man, a brilliant man.”

  “A homen talentoso,” added his sister, her strained features softening with the words. “I love him very much. After five years we still love each other.”

  “Then you’ve heard from him? From them?”

  “Every now and then,” said Cararra. “Visitors from England get in touch with us. Never anything written on paper.”

  Noel stared at this man riddled with fear. “What kind of world do you live in?” he asked incredulously.

  “One where your own life can be taken,” answered Cararra.

  It was true, thought Noel, as a knot of pain formed in his stomach. A war that was lost thirty years ago was still being fought by those who had lost it. It had to be stopped.

  “Mr. Holcroft?” The greeting was tentative, the stranger standing by the table not sure he had the right party.

  “Yes, I’m Holcroft,” said Noel warily.

  “Anderson, American Embassy, sir. May I speak with you?”

  The Cararras rose as one from the table and sidestepped out of the booth. The embassy man stepped back as Cararra approached Holcroft.

  Cararra whispered, “Adeus, senhor.”

  “Adeus,” the woman whispered also, reaching out to touch Noel’s arm.

  Without looking at the man from the embassy, brother and sister walked rapidly out of the lounge.

  * * *

  Holcroft sat beside Anderson in the embassy car. They had less than an hour to get to the airport; if the ride took any longer, he would miss the Avianca flight to Lisbon, where he could transfer to a British Airways plane for London.

  Anderson had agreed—reluctantly, petulantly—to drive him.

  “If it’ll get you out of Rio,” Anderson had drawled, “I’ll go like a greased pig in a slaughterhouse and pay the speeding tickets from my per diem. You’re trouble.”

  Noel grimaced. “You don’t believe a word I’ve said, do you?”

  “Goddamn it, Holcroft, do I have to tell you again? There’s no car at the hotel; no window’s been blown out. There’s no record of your even renting a car!”

  “It was there! I rented it! I saw Graff!”

  “You called him. You didn’t see him. To repeat, he says he got a call from you—something about looking at his house—but you never showed up.”

  “That’s a lie! I was there! After I left, two men tried to kill me. One of them I saw … hell, I fought with … inside his place!”

  “You’re juiced, man.”

  “Graff’s a fucking Nazi! After thirty years, he’s still a Nazi, and you people treat him like he’s some kind of statesman.”

  “You’re damn right,” said Anderson. “Graff’s very special material. He’s protected.”

  “I wouldn’t brag about it.”

  “You’ve got it all backward, Holcroft. Graff was at a place called Wolfsschanze in Germany in July in 1944. He’s one of the men who tried to kill Hitler.”

  10

  There was no blinding sunlight outside his hotel window now; no golden, oiled bodies of grown-up children playing in the white sands of the Copacabana. Instead, the London streets were mottled with drizzle, and gusts of wind swept between the buildings and through the alleys. Pedestrians rushed from doorways to bus queues, train stations, pubs. It was that hour in London when Englishmen felt sprung from the coils of daylight drudgery; making a living was not living. In Noel’s experience no other city in the world took such pleasure at the end of the workday. There was a sense of controlled exhilaration in the streets, even with the rain and the wind.

  He turned from the window and went to the bureau and his silver flask. It had taken nearly fifteen hours of flying to reach London, and now that he was here, he was not sure how to proceed. He had tried to think on the planes, but the events in Rio de Janeiro were so stunning, and the information gathered so contradictory, that he felt lost in a maze. His unfamiliar forest was too dense. And he had just begun.

  Graff, a survivor of Wolfsschanze? One of the men of Wolfsschanze? It wasn’t possible. The men of Wolfsschanze were committed to Geneva, to the fulfillment of Heinrich Clausen’s dream, and the Von Tiebolts were an integral part of that dream. Graff wanted to destroy the Von Tiebolts, as he had ordered the death of Heinrich Clausen’s son on a deserted lookout above Rio and from a car window in a city street at night. He was no part of Wolfsschanze. He could not be.

  The Cararras. They were complicated, too. What in heaven’s name prevented them from leaving Brazil? It was not as though the airports or the piers were closed to them. He believed what they had told him, but there were too many elementary questions that needed answers. No matter how he tried to suppress the idea, there was something contrived about the Cararras. What was it?

  Noel poured himself a drink and picked up the telephone. He had a name and a place of work: John Tennyson; the Guardian. Newspaper offices did not close down at the end of the day. He would know in minutes if the initial information given him by the Cararras was true. If there was a John Tennyson writing for the Guardian, then Johann von Tiebolt had been found.

  If so, the next step according to the Geneva document was for John Tennyson to take him to his sister Gretchen Beaumont, wife of Commander Beaumont, Royal Navy. She was the person he had to see; she was the oldest surviving issue of Wilhelm von Tiebolt. The key.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Holcroft,” said the polite voice over the phone at the Guardian’s news desk, “but I’m afraid we can’t give out the addresses or telephone numbers of our journalists.”

  “But John Tennyson does work for you.” It was not a question; the man had already stated that Tennyson was not in the London office. Holcroft merely wanted a direct confirmation.

  “Mr. Tennyson is one of our people on the Continent.”

  “How can I get a message to him? Immediately. It’s urgent.”

  The man at the desk seemed to hesitate. “That would be difficult, I think. Mr. Tennyson moves around a great deal.”

  “Come on, I can go downstairs, buy your paper, and see where his copy’s filed from.”

  “Yes, of course. Except that Mr. Tennyson does not use a byline. Not in daily dispatches; only in major retrospectives.…”

  “How do you get in touch with him when you need him?” broke in Holcroft, convinced the man was stalling.

  Again there was the hesitation, a clearing of the throat Why? “Well … there’s a message pool. It could take several days.”

  “I don’t have several days. I’ve got to reach him right away.” The subsequent silence was maddening. The man at the Guardian had no intention of offering a solution. Noel tried another trick. “Listen, I probably shouldn’t say this … it’s a confidential matter … but there’s money involved. Mr. Tennyson and his family were left a sum of money.”

  “I wasn’t aware that he was married.”

  “I mean his family. He and his two sisters. Do you know them? Do you know if they live in London? The oldest is—”

  “I know nothing of Mr. Tennyson’s personal life, sir. I suggest you get in touch with a solicitor.” Then, without warning, he hung up.

  Bewildered, Holcroft replaced the phone. Why such a deliberate lack of cooperation? He had identified himself, given th
e name of his hotel, and for several moments the man at the Guardian seemed to listen, as if he might offer help. But no offers came, and suddenly the man had ended their conversation. It was all very strange.

  The telephone rang; he was further bewildered. No one knew he was at this hotel. On the immigration card he’d filled out on the phone he had purposely listed the Dorchester as his London residence, not the Belgravia Arms, where he was staying. He did not want anyone—especially anyone from Rio de Janeiro—to be able to trace his whereabouts. He picked up the receiver, trying to suppress the pain in his stomach.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Holcroft, this is the front desk, sir. We’ve just learned that your courtesy basket was not delivered in time. We’re dreadfully sorry. Will you be in your room for a while, sir?”

  For God’s sake, thought Noel. Millions upon millions were being held in Geneva, and a desk clerk was concerned about a basket of fruit. “Yes, I’ll be here.”

  “Very good, sir. The steward will be there shortly.”

  Holcroft replaced the phone, the pain in his stomach subsiding. His eyes fell on the telephone directories on the bottom shelf of the bedside table. He picked one up and turned the pages to the letter T.

  There was an inch and a half of Tennysons, about fifteen names, no John but three J’s. He’d start with those. He lifted up the phone and made the first call.

  “Hello, John?”

  The man on the line was Julian. The other two J’s were women. There was a Helen Tennyson, no Helden. He dialed the number. An operator told him the phone was disconnected.

  He turned to the directory with the letter B. There were six Beaumonts in London, none indicating any rank or affiliation with the Royal Navy. But there was nothing to lose; he picked up the phone and started dialing.

  Before he finished the fourth call, there was a knock at the door; his basket of English courtesy had arrived. He swore at the interruption; put the phone down, and walked to the door, reaching into his pocket for some change.

  Two men stood outside, neither in steward’s uniform, both in overcoats, each with hat in hand. The taller of the two was in his fifties, straight gray hair above a weathered face; the younger man was about Noel’s age, with clear blue eyes, curly reddish hair, and a small scar on his forehead.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Holcroft?”

  “Yes.”

  “Noel Holcroft, United States citizen, passport number F-two-zero-four-seven-eight—”

  “I’m Noel Holcroft. I’ve never memorized my passport number.”

  “May we come in, please?”

  “I’m not sure. Who are you?”

  Both men held black identification cases in their hands; they opened them unobtrusively. “British Military Intelligence, Five branch,” the older man said.

  “Why do you want to see me?”

  “Official business, sir. May we step inside?”

  Noel nodded uncertainly, the pain returning to his stomach. Peter Baldwin, the man who had ordered him to “cancel Geneva,” had been with MI Six. And Baldwin had been killed by the men of Wolfsschanze because he had interfered. Did these two British agents know the truth about Baldwin? Did they know Baldwin had called him? Oh, God, telephone numbers could be traced through hotel switchboards! They had to know!… Then Holcroft remembered: Baldwin had not called him; he had come to his apartment. Noel had called him.

  You don’t know what you’re doing. I’m the only one who does.

  If Baldwin was to be believed, he had said nothing to anyone. If so, where was the connection? Why was British Intelligence interested in an American named Holcroft? How did it know where to find him? How?

  The two Englishmen entered. The younger, red-haired man crossed rapidly to the bathroom, looked inside, then turned and went to the window. His older associate stood by the desk, his eyes scanning the walls, the floor, and the open closet.

  “All right, you’re inside,” Noel said. “What is it?”

  “The Tinamou, Mr. Holcroft,” said the gray-haired man.

  “The what?”

  “I repeat. The Tinamou.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “According to any standard encyclopedia, the Tinamou is a ground-dwelling bird whose protective coloring makes him indistinguishable from his background; whose short bursts of flight take him swiftly from one location to another.”

  “That’s very enlightening, but I haven’t the vaguest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “We think you do,” said the younger man by the window.

  “You’re wrong. I’ve never heard of a bird like that, and don’t know any reason why I should have. Obviously, you’re referring to something else, but I don’t make the connection.”

  “Obviously,” interrupted the agent by the desk, “we’re not referring to a bird. The Tinamou is a man; the name is quite applicable, however.”

  “It means nothing to me. Why should it?”

  “May I give you some advice?” The older man spoke crisply, with an edge to his voice.

  “Sure. I probably won’t understand it anyway.”

  “You’d do far better cooperating with us than not. It’s possible you’re being used, but frankly we doubt it. However, if you help us now, we’re prepared to assume that you were being used. I believe that’s eminently fair.”

  “I was right,” said Holcroft. “I don’t understand you.”

  “Then let me clear up the details and perhaps you will. You’ve been making inquiries about John Tennyson, born Johann von Tiebolt, immigrant to the UK roughly six years ago. He is currently employed as a multilingual correspondent for the Guardian.”

  “The man at the Guardian desk,” interrupted Noel. “He called you—or had someone call. That’s why he stalled, why he went on the way he did, then cut me off. And that goddamned fruit; it was to make sure I didn’t go out. What is this?”

  “May we ask why you’re trying to find John Tennyson?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve stated, both here and in Rio de Janeiro, that a sum of money is involved.…”

  “Rio de!… Jesus!”

  “That you’re an ‘intermediary,’ ” continued the Englishman. “That was the term you used.”

  “It’s a confidential matter.”

  “We think it’s an international one.”

  “Good God, why?”

  “Because you’re trying to deliver a sum of money. If the ground rules are followed, it amounts to three quarters of the full payment.”

  “For what?”

  “For an assassination.”

  “Assassination?”

  “Yes. In the data banks of half the civilized world, the Tinamou has a single description: ‘assassin.’ ‘Master assassin,’ to be precise. And we have every reason to believe that Johann von Tiebolt, alias John Tennyson, is the Tinamou.”

  Noel was stunned. His mind raced furiously. An assassin! Good God! Was that what Peter Baldwin had been trying to tell him? That one of the Geneva inheritors was an assassin?

  No one knows but me. Baldwin’s words.

  If they were true, under no condition could he reveal his real reason for wanting to find John Tennyson. Geneva would explode in controversy; the massive account would be frozen, thrown into the international courts, his covenant destroyed. He could not allow that to happen; he knew it now.

  Yet it was equally vital that his reasons for seeking Tennyson be above suspicion, beyond any relationship to—or cognizance of—the Tinamou.

  The Tinamou! An assassin! It was potentially the most damaging news possible. If there was any truth in what MI Five believed, the bankers in Geneva would suspend all discussions, close the vaults, and wait for another generation. Yet any decision to abort the covenant would be for appearance’s sake. If Tennyson was this Tinamou, he could be exposed, caught, severed from all association with the Geneva account, and the covenant would remain intact. Amends would be made. According to the conditions of the do
cument, the older sister was the key—she was the eldest surviving child—not the brother.

  An assassin! Oh, God!

  First things first. Holcroft knew he had to dispel the convictions of the two men in his room. He walked unsteadily to a chair, sat down, and leaned forward.

  “Listen to me,” he said, his voice weak in astonishment. “I’ve told you the truth. I don’t know anything about any Tinamou, any assassin. My business is with the Von Tiebolt family, not a particular member of the family. I was trying to find Tennyson because I was told he was Von Tiebolt and worked at the Guardian. That’s all there is to it.”

  “If so,” said the red-haired man, “perhaps you’ll explain the nature of your business.”

  Base the lie in an aspect of truth.

  “I’ll tell you what I can, which isn’t a great deal. Some of it I pieced together myself from what I learned in Rio. It is confidential, and it does concern money.” Noel took a deep breath, and reached for his cigarettes. “The Von Tiebolts were left an inheritance—don’t ask me by whom, because I don’t know, and the lawyer won’t say.”

  “What’s the name of this lawyer,” asked the gray-haired man.

  “I’d have to get his permission to tell you,” answered Holcroft, lighting his cigarette, wondering whom in New York he could call from an untraceable pay phone in London.

  “We may ask you to do that,” said the older agent. “Go on, please.”

  “I found out in Rio that the Von Tiebolts were despised by the German community there. I have an idea—and it’s only an idea—that somewhere along the line they opposed the Nazis in Germany, and someone, perhaps an anti-Nazi German—or Germans—left them the money.”

  “In America?” asked the red-haired man.

  Noel sensed the trap and was prepared for it. Be consistent. “Obviously, whoever left the Von Tiebolts money has been living there for a long time. If he, or they, came to the United States after the war, that could presume they had a clean bill of health. On the other hand, they could be relatives who came to the States years ago. I honestly don’t know.”