The Holcroft Covenant: A Novel

  “Good evening, Herr Oberst,” said Helden. “I hope we didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

  “Good evening, Helden,” replied the old man, putting the book to one side. “You’re here and obviously safe, That’s all that matters.”

  Noel watched, mesmerized, as the gaunt figure put his hands on the arms of the wheelchair and rose slowly. He was extremely tall, over six feet two or three. He continued speaking in an accent obviously German and just as obviously aristocratic.

  “You’re the young man who telephoned Miss Tennyson,” he said, not asking a question. “I’m known simply as Oberst—colonel—which was not my rank, but I’m afraid it will have to do.”

  “This is Noel Holcroft. He is an American, and he is the man.” Helden took a step to her left, revealing the gun in her hand. “He is here against his will. He did not want to talk with you.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Holcroft?” The colonel nodded, offering no hand. “May I ask why you’re reluctant to speak to an old man?”

  “I don’t know who you are,” replied Noel as calmly as he could. “Further, the matters I’ve discussed with Miss … Tennyson … are confidential.”

  “Does she agree?”

  “Ask her.” Holcroft held his breath. In seconds he would know how convincing he had been.

  “They are,” said Helden, “if they are true. I think they are true.”

  “I see. But you must be convinced, and I am the devil’s advocate without a brief.” The old man lowered himself back into the wheelchair.

  “What does that mean?” asked Noel.

  “You won’t discuss these confidential matters, yet I must ask questions, the answers to which could allay our anxieties. You see, Mr. Holcroft, you have no reason to be afraid of me. On the contrary, we may have a great deal to fear from you.”

  “Why? I don’t know you; you don’t know me. Whatever it is you’re involved with has nothing to do with me.”

  “We must all be convinced of that,” said the old man. “Over the telephone you spoke to Helden of urgency, of a great deal of money, of concerns that go back more than thirty years.”

  “I’m sorry she told you that,” interrupted Noel. “Even that’s too much.”

  “She said very little else,” continued the colonel. “Only that you saw her sister, and that you’re interested in her brother.”

  “I’ll say it again. It’s confidential.”

  “And finally,” said the old man, as if Holcroft had not spoken, “that you wished to meet secretly. At least, you implied as much.”

  “For my own reasons,” said Noel. “They’re none of your business.”

  “Aren’t they?”

  “No.”

  “Let me summarize briefly, then.” The colonel pressed the fingers of his hands together, his eyes on Holcroft. “There’s urgency, a great sum of money, matters traced back three decades, interest in the offspring of a ranking member of the Third Reich’s High Command, and—most important, perhaps—a clandestine meeting. Doesn’t all this suggest something?”

  Noel refused to be drawn into speculation. “I have no idea what it suggests to you.”

  “Then I’ll be specific. A trap.”

  “A trap?”

  “Who are you, Mr. Holcroft? A disciple of ODESSA? Or a soldier of the Rache, perhaps?”

  “The ODESSA?… or the … what?” asked Holcroft.

  “The Rache,” replied the old man sharply, pronouncing the word with phonetic emphasis.

  “The ‘Rah-kuh’?…” Noel returned the cripple’s penetrating stare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Oberst glanced at Helden, then pulled his eyes back to Holcroft. “You’ve heard of neither?”

  “I’ve heard of the ODESSA. I don’t know anything about the … ‘Rah-kuh’ … or whatever you call it.”

  “Recruiters and killers. Yet both recruit. Both kill. The ODESSA and the Rache. The pursuers of children.”

  “Pursuers of children?” Noel shook his head. “You’ll have to be clearer, because I haven’t the vaguest idea what you’re saying.”

  Again, the old man looked at Helden. What passed between them Holcroft could not decipher, but Oberst turned back to him, the hard eyes boring in as if studying a practiced liar, watching for signs of deception—or recognition. “I’ll put it plainly to you,” he said. “Are you one of those who seek out the children of Nazis? Who pursue them wherever they can be found, killing them for revenge—for crimes they never committed—making examples of the innocent? Or forcing them to join you. Threatening them with documents portraying their parents as monsters, promising to expose them as offspring of psychopaths and murderers if they refuse to be recruited—destroying what lives they have for the insanity of your cause? These are the people who seek the children, Mr. Holcroft. Are you one of them?”

  Noel closed his eyes in relief. “I can’t tell you how wrong you are. I won’t tell you any more than that, but you’re so wrong it’s incredible.”

  “We have to be sure.”

  “You can be. I’m not involved in things like that. I’ve never heard of those kind of things before. People like that are sick.”

  “Yes, they’re sick,” agreed Oberst. “Don’t mistake me. The Wiesenthals of this world search out the real monsters, the unpunished criminals who still laugh at Nürnberg, and we can’t object; that’s another war. But the persecution of the children must stop.”

  Noel turned to Helden. “Is this what you’re running from? After all these years, they’re still after you?”

  The old man answered. “Acts of violence take place every day. Everywhere.”

  “Then why doesn’t anyone know about it?” demanded Holcroft. “Why aren’t there stories in the newspapers? Why are these things kept quiet?”

  “Would … ‘anyone,’ as you put it, really care?” asked the colonel. “For the children of Nazis?”

  “For God’s sake, they were kids.” Again Noel looked at Helden. “Is what I saw tonight part of this? You have to protect each other? Is it so widespread?”

  “We’re called the ‘children of hell,’ ” said the Von Tiebolt daughter simply. “Damned for what we are and damned for what we’re not.”

  “I don’t understand it,” protested Holcroft.

  “It’s not vital that you do.” The old soldier once again got up slowly, trying, thought Noel, to rise to his former imposing height. “It’s only important that we be convinced you are from neither army. Are you satisfied, Helden?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s nothing more you wish me to know?”

  The woman shook her head. “I’m satisfied,” she repeated.

  “Then so am I.” The colonel extended his hand to Noel. “Thank you for coming. As Helden will explain, my existence is not widely known; nor do we want it to be. We would appreciate your confidence.”

  Holcroft took the hand, surprised at the old man’s firm grip. “If I can count on yours.”

  “You have my word.”

  “Then you have mine,” Noel said.

  They drove in silence, headlights knifing the darkness. Holcroft was behind the wheel, Helden in the front seat, beside him, directing him by nodding wearily, pointing to the turns. There was no screaming now; there were no harsh commands barked at the last second. Helden seemed as exhausted from the events of the night as was he. But the night was not over; they had to talk.

  “Was all that necessary?” he asked. “Was it so important for him to see me?”

  “Very much so. He had to be convinced you weren’t part of the ODESSA. Or the Rache.”

  “What exactly are they? He spoke as if I should know, but I don’t. I didn’t really understand him.”

  “They’re two extremist organizations, sworn enemies of each other. Both fanatic, both after us.”

  “Us?”

  “The children of Party leaders. Wherever we are; wherever we’ve scattered to.”

  “Why?”

&nbs
p; “The ODESSA seeks to revive the Nazi party. The disciples of ODESSA are everywhere.”

  “Seriously? They’re for real?”

  “Very real. And very serious. The ODESSA’S recruiting methods range from blackmail to physical force. They’re gangsters.”

  “And this … ‘Rah-kuh’?”

  “Rache. The German word for ‘vengeance.’ In the beginning it was a society formed by the survivors of the concentration camps. They hunted the sadists and the killers, those thousands who were never brought to trial.”

  “It’s a Jewish organization, then?”

  “There are Jews in the Rache, yes, but now they’re a minority. The Israelis formed their own groups and operated out of Tel Aviv and Haifa. The Rache is primarily Communist; many believe it was taken over by the KGB. Others think Third World revolutionaries gravitated to it. The ‘vengeance’ they spoke of in the beginning has become something else. The Rache is a haven for terrorists.”

  “But why are they after you?”

  Helden looked at him through the shadows. “To recruit us. Like everyone else, we have our share of revolutionaries. They’re drawn to the Rache; it represents the opposite of what they’re running from. For most of us, however, it’s no better than the Party at its worst. And on those of us who won’t be recruited, the Rache uses its harsher tactics. We’re the scapegoats, the fascists they’re stamping out. They use our names—often our corpses—to tell people Nazis still live. Not unlike the ODESSA, it’s frequently ‘recruit or kill.’ ”

  “It’s insane,” said Noel.

  “Insane,” agreed Helden. “But very real. We say nothing; we’re not anxious to call attention to ourselves. Besides, who would care? We’re Nazi children.”

  “The ODESSA, the Rache.… No one I know knows anything about them.”

  “No one you know has any reason to.”

  “Who’s Oberst?”

  “A great man who must remain in hiding for the rest of his life because he had a conscience.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was a member of the High Command and saw the horrors. He knew it was futile to object; others had, and they were killed. Instead, he remained, and used his rank to countermand order after order, saving God knows how many lives.”

  “There’s nothing dishonorable in that.”

  “He did it the only way he could. Quietly, within the bureaucracy of command, without notice. When it was over, the Allies convicted him because of his status in the Reich; he spent eighteen years in prison. When what he did finally came out, thousands of Germans despised him. They called him a traitor. What was left of the Officer Corps put a price on his head.”

  Noel, remembering Helden’s words, said, “Damned for what he was and damned for what he wasn’t.”

  “Yes,” she answered, pointing suddenly to a turn in the road she’d nearly missed.

  “In his own way,” said Noel, turning the wheel, “Oberst is like the three men who wrote the Geneva document. Didn’t it occur to you?”

  “It occurred to me.”

  “You must have been tempted to tell him.”

  “Not really. You asked me not to.”

  He looked at her; she was looking straight ahead, through the windshield. Her face was tired and drawn, her skin pale, accentuating the dark hollows beneath her eyes. She seemed alone, and that aloneness was not to be intruded upon lightly. But the night was not over. They had things to say to each other; decisions had to be made.

  For Noel was beginning to think that this youngest child of Wilhelm von Tiebolt would be the one selected to represent the Von Tiebolt family in Geneva.

  “Can we go someplace where it’s quiet? I think a drink would do us both good.”

  “There’s a small inn about four or five miles from here. It’s out of the way; no one will see us.”

  As they swung off the road, Noel’s eyes were drawn to the rearview mirror. Headlights shone in the glass. It was an odd turn off the Paris highway, odd in the sense that there were no signs; an unmarked exit. The fact that a driver behind them had a reason to take this particular exit at this particular time seemed too coincidental for comfort. Holcroft was about to say something when a strange thing happened.

  The lights in the mirror went out. They simply were not there any longer.

  The inn had once been a farmhouse; part of the grazing field was now a graveled parking lot bordered by a post-and-rail fence. The small dining room was through an archway off the bar. Two other couples were inside; the people were distinctly Parisian, and just as obviously having discreet dinners with companions they could not see in Paris. Eyes shot up at the newcomers, no signs of welcome in the glances. A fireplace filled with flaming logs was at the far end of the room. It was a good place to talk.

  They were shown to a table to the left of the fire. Two brandies were ordered and delivered.

  “It’s nice here,” said Noel, feeling the warmth of the flames and the alcohol. “How did you find it?”

  “It’s on the way to the colonel’s. My friends and I often stop here to talk among ourselves.”

  “Do you mind if I ask you questions?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “When did you leave England?”

  “About three months ago. When the job was offered.”

  “Were you the Helen Tennyson in the London directory?”

  “Yes. In English, the name ‘Helden’ seems to require an explanation, and I was tired of having to give one. It’s not the same in Paris. The French don’t have much curiosity about names.”

  “But you don’t call yourself ‘Von Tiebolt.’ ” Holcroft saw the flash of resentment on her face.

  “No.”

  “Why ‘Tennyson’?”

  “I think that’s rather obvious. ‘Von Tiebolt’ is extremely German. When we left Brazil for England, it seemed a reasonable change.”

  “Just a change? Nothing else?”

  “No.” Helden sipped her brandy and looked at the fire. “Nothing else.”

  Noel watched her; the lie was in her voice. She was not a good liar. She was hiding something, but to call her on it now would only provoke her. He let the lie pass. “What do you know about your father?”

  She turned back to him. “Very little. My mother loved him, and from what she said, he was a better man than his years in the Third Reich might indicate. But then, you’ve confirmed that, haven’t you? At the end, he was a profoundly moral man.”

  “Tell me about your mother.”

  “She was a survivor. She fled Germany with nothing but a few pieces of jewelry, two children, and a baby inside her. She had no training, no skills, no profession, but she could work, and she was … convincing. She started selling in dress shops, cultivated customers, used her flair for clothes—and she had that—as the basis for her own business. Several businesses, actually. Our home in Rio de Janeiro was quite comfortable.”

  “Your sister told me it was … a sanctuary that turned into a kind of hell.”

  “My sister is given to melodramatics. It wasn’t so bad. If we were looked down upon, there was a certain basis for it.”

  “What was that?”

  “My mother was terribly attractive.…”

  “So are her daughters,” interrupted Noel.

  “I imagine we are,” said Helden matter-of-factly. “It’s never concerned me. I haven’t had to use it—whatever attractiveness I may have. But my mother did.”

  “In Rio?”

  “Yes. She was kept by several men.… We were kept, actually. There were two or three divorces, but she wouldn’t marry the husbands involved. She broke up marriages, extracting money and business interests as she did. When she died, we were quite well off. The German community considered her a pariah. And, by extension, her children.”

  “She sounds fascinating,” said Holcroft, smiling. “How did she die?”

  “She was killed. Shot through the head while she was driving one night.”

  The smile fad
ed abruptly. Images returned: a deserted lookout high above the city of Rio; the sounds of gunfire and the explosions of cement; the shattering of glass.… Glass. A car window blown out with the spit of silenced gunshot; a heavy black pistol leveled at his head.…

  Then the words came back to him, spoken in the booth of a cocktail lounge. Words Holcroft had believed were ridiculous, the products of unreasonable fear.

  The Cararras, brother and sister. The sister, dearest friend and fiancée of Johann von Tiebolt.

  He and my sister were to be married. The Germans would not permit it.

  Who could stop them?

  Any number of men. With a bullet in the back of Johann’s head.

  The Cararras. Dear friends and supplicants for the ostracized Von Tiebolts. It suddenly struck Noel that if Helden knew how the Cararras had helped him, she might be more cooperative. The Cararras had risked their lives to send him to the Von Tiebolts. She would have to respond to that confidence with her own.

  “I think I should tell you,” he said. “In Rio it was the Cararras who contacted me. They told me where to start looking for you. They were the ones who told me your new name was Tennyson.”

  “Who?”

  “Your friends, the Cararras. Your brother’s fiancée.”

  “The Cararras? In Rio de Janeiro?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never heard of them. I don’t know any Cararras.”

  16

  The tactic blew up in his face with the impact of a backfired rifle. Suddenly Helden was wary of him, apprehensive of saying anything further about her family.

  Who were the Cararras?

  Why had they told him things that were not true?

  Who sent them to him? Her brother had no fiancée, nor any best friend whom she could recall.

  He did not claim to understand; he could only speculate as truthfully as possible. No one else had come forward. For reasons known only to them, the Cararras had created a relationship that did not exist; still, it made no sense to call them enemies of the Von Tiebolts. They had reached him for the purpose of helping the two sisters and the brother who had been driven from Brazil. There were those in Rio—a powerful man named Graff, for one—who would pay a great deal of money to locate the Von Tiebolts. The Cararras, who had much to gain and very little to lose, had not told him.