“They wanted to help,” Noel said. “They weren’t lying about that. They said you’d been persecuted; they did want to help you.”
“It’s possible,” said Helden. “Rio is filled with people who are still fighting the war, still hunting for those they call traitors. One is never sure who is a friend and who is an enemy. Not among the Germans.”
“Did you know Maurice Graff?”
“I knew who he was, of course. Everyone did. I never met him.”
“I did,” Noel said. “He called the Von Tiebolts traitors.”
“I’m sure he did. We were pariahs, but not in the nationalistic sense.”
“What sense, then?”
The girl looked away again, lifting the brandy glass to her ups. “Other things.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes,” replied Helden. “It was my mother. I told you, the German community despised her.”
Again Holcroft had the feeling she was telling him only part of the truth. He would not pursue it now. If he gained her confidence, she would tell him later. She had to tell him; whatever it was might have an affect on Geneva. Everything affected Geneva now.
“You said your mother broke up marriages,” he said. “Your sister used almost the same words about herself. She said she was shunned by the officers and their wives in Portsmouth.”
“If you’re looking for a pattern, I won’t try to dissuade you. My sister is quite a bit older than I. She was closer to my mother, watched her progress, saw the advantages that came mother’s way. It wasn’t as if she was oblivious of such things. She knew the horror of Berlin after the war. At the age of thirteen she slept with soldiers for food. American soldiers, Mr. Holcroft.”
It was all he had to know about Gretchen Beaumont. The picture was complete. A whore, for whatever reasons, at fourteen. A whore—for whatever other reasons—at forty-five-plus. The bank’s directors in Geneva would rule her out on grounds of instability and incompetence.
But Noel knew there were stronger grounds. The man Gretchen Beaumont said she loathed, but lived with. A man with odd, heavy eyebrows who had followed him to Brazil.
“What about her husband?”
“I barely know him.”
She looked away again at the fire. She was frightened; she was hiding something. Her words were too studiedly nonchalant. Whatever it was she would not talk about had something to do with Beaumont. There was no point in evading the subject any longer. Truth between them had to be a two-way matter; the sooner she learned that, the better for both of them.
“Do you know anything about him? Where he came from? What he does in the navy?”
“No, nothing. He’s a commander on a ship; that’s all I know.”
“I think he’s more than that, and I think you know it. Please don’t lie to me.”
At first, her eyes flashed with anger; then, just as rapidly, the anger subsided. “That’s a strange thing to say. Why would I lie to you?”
“I wish I knew. You say you barely know him, but you seem scared to death. Please.”
“What are you driving at?”
“If you know something, tell me. If you’ve heard about the document in Geneva, tell me what you’ve heard.”
“I know nothing. I’ve heard nothing.”
“I saw Beaumont two weeks ago on a plane to Rio. The same plane I took from New York. He was following me.”
He could see fear in Helden’s eyes. “I think you’re wrong,” she said.
“I’m not. I saw his photograph in your sister’s house. His house. It was the same man. I stole that photograph and it was stolen from me. After someone beat the hell out of me for it.”
“Good lord.… You were beaten for his photograph?”
“Nothing else was missing. Not my wallet or my money or my watch. Just his picture. There was writing on the back of it.”
“What did it say?”
“I don’t know. It was in German, and I can’t read German.”
“Can you remember any of the words?”
“One, I think. The last word. T-O-D. Tod.”
“ ‘Ohne dich sterbe ich.’ Could that be it?”
“I don’t know. What does it mean?”
“ ‘Without you I die.’ It’s the sort of thing my sister would think of. I told you, she’s melodramatic.” She was lying again; he knew it!
“An endearment?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what the British said, and I didn’t believe them either. Beaumont was on that plane. That picture was taken from me because there was some kind of message on it. For Christ’s sake, what’s going on?”
“I don’t know!”
“But you know something.” Noel tried to control himself. Their voices were low, almost whispers, but their argument carried over to the other diners. Holcroft reached across the table and covered her hand. “I’m asking you again. You know something. Tell me.”
He could feel a slight tremble in her hand. “What I know is so confusing it would be meaningless. It’s more what I sense than what I know, really.” She took her hand from his. “A number of years ago Anthony Beaumont was a naval attaché in Rio de Janeiro. I didn’t know him well, but I remember him coming to the house quite often. He was married at the time, but interested in my sister—a diversion, I suppose you might call it. My mother encouraged it. He was a high-ranking naval officer; favors could be had. But my sister argued violently with my mother. She despised Beaumont and would have nothing to do with him. Yet only a few years later we moved to England and she married him. I’ve never understood.”
Noel leaned forward, relieved. “It may not be as difficult to understand as you think. She told me she married him for the security he could give her.”
“And you believed her?”
“Her behavior would seem to confirm what she said.”
“Then I can’t believe you met my sister.”
“She was your sister. You look alike: both beautiful.”
“It’s my turn to ask you a question. Given that beauty, do you really think she would settle for a naval officer’s salary and the restricted life of a naval officer’s wife? I can’t. I never have.”
“What do you think, then?”
“I think she was forced to marry Anthony Beaumont.”
Noel leaned back in the chair. If she was right, the connection was in Rio de Janeiro. With her mother, perhaps. With her mother’s murder.
“How could Beaumont force her to marry him? And why?”
“I’ve asked myself both questions a hundred times. I don’t know.”
“Have you asked her?”
“She refuses to talk to me.”
“What happened to your mother in Rio?”
“I told you: She manipulated men for money. The Germans despised her, called her immoral. Looking back, it’s hard to refute.”
“Was that why she was shot?”
“I guess so. No one really knows; the killer was never found.”
“But it could be the answer to the first question, couldn’t it? Isn’t it possible that Beaumont knew something about your mother that was so damaging he could blackmail your sister?”
Helden turned her palms up in front of her. “What could possibly be so damaging? Accepting everything that was said about my mother as being true, why would it have any effect on Gretchen?”
“That would depend on what it was.”
“There’s nothing conceivable. She’s in England now. She’s her own person, thousands of miles away. Why should she be concerned?”
“I have no idea.” Then Noel remembered. “You used the words ‘children of hell.’ Damned for what you were, and damned for what you weren’t. Couldn’t that apply to your sister as well?”
“Beaumont isn’t interested in such things. It’s an entirely different matter.”
“Is it? You don’t know that. It’s your opinion he forced her to marry him. If it isn’t something like that, what is it?”
Helde
n looked away, deep in thought now, not in a lie. “Something much more recent.”
“The document in Geneva?” he asked. Manfredi’s warning repeated in his ears, the specter of Wolfsschanze in his mind.
“How did Gretchen react when you told her about Geneva?” asked Helden.
“As if it didn’t matter.”
“Well?…”
“It could have been a diversion. She was too casual—just as you were too casual when I mentioned Beaumont a few minutes ago. She could have expected it and steeled herself.”
“You’re guessing.”
It was the moment, thought Noel. It would be in her eyes—the rest of the truth she would not talk about. Did it come down to Johann von Tiebolt?
“Not really guessing. Your sister said that her brother told her a man would ‘come one day and talk of a strange arrangement.’ Those were her words.”
Whatever he was looking for—a flicker of recognition, a blink of fear—it was not there. There was something, but nothing he could relate to. She looked at him as if she herself were trying to understand. Yet there was a fundamental innocence in her look, and that was what he could not understand.
“ ‘A man would come one day.’ It doesn’t make sense,” she said.
“Tell me about your brother.”
She did not answer for several moments. Instead, her eyes strayed to the red tablecloth; her lips parted in astonishment. Then, as if she were coming out of a trance, she said, “Johann? What’s there to say?”
“Your sister told me he got the three of you out of Brazil. Was it difficult?”
“There were problems. We had no passports, and there were men who tried to stop us from obtaining them.”
“You were immigrants. At least, your mother, brother, and sister were. They had to have papers.”
“Whatever papers there were in those days were burned as soon as they served their purpose.”
“Who wanted to stop you from leaving Brazil?”
“Men who wanted to bring Johann to trial.”
“For what?”
“After mother was killed, Johann took over her business interests. She never allowed him to do much when she was alive. Many people thought he was ruthless, even dishonest. He was accused of misrepresenting profits, withholding taxes. I don’t think any of it was true; he was simply faster and brighter than anyone else.”
“I see,” said Noel, recalling MI-Five’s evaluation—“overachiever.” “How did he avoid the courts and get you out?”
“Money. And all-night meetings in strange places with men he never identified. He came home one morning and told Gretchen and me to pack just enough things for a short overnight trip. We drove to the airport and were flown in a small plane to Recife, where a man met us. We were given passports; the name on them was Tennyson. The next thing Gretchen and I knew we were on a plane for London.”
Holcroft watched her closely. There was no hint of a lie. “To start a new life under the name of Tennyson,” he said.
“Yes. Completely new. We’d left everything behind us.” She smiled. “I sometimes think with very little time to spare.”
“He’s quite a man. Why haven’t you stayed in touch? You obviously don’t hate him.”
Helden frowned, as if she were unsure of her own answer. “Hate him? No. I resent him, perhaps, but I don’t hate him. Like most brilliant men, he thinks he should take charge of everything. He wanted to run my life, and I couldn’t accept that.”
“Why is he a newspaperman? From all I’ve learned about him, he could probably own one.”
“He probably will one day, if that’s what he wants. Knowing Johann, I suspect it’s because he thought that writing for a well-known newspaper would give him a certain prominence. Especially in the political field, where he’s very good. He was right.”
“Was he?”
“Certainly. In a matter of two or three years, he was considered one of the finest correspondents in Europe.”
Now, thought Noel. MI Five meant nothing to him; Geneva was everything. He leaned forward.
“He’s considered something else, too.… I said in the Montmartre that I would tell you—and only you—why the British questioned me. It’s your brother. They think I’m trying to reach him for reasons that have nothing to do with Geneva.”
“What reasons?”
Holcroft kept her eyes engaged. “Have you ever heard of a man they call the Tinamou?”
“The assassin? Certainly. Who hasn’t?”
There was nothing in her eyes. Nothing but vague bewilderment. “I, for one,” said Noel. “I’ve read about killers for hire and assassination conspiracies but I’ve never heard of the Tinamou.”
“You’re an American. His exploits are more detailed in the European press than in yours. But what has he got to do with my brother?”
“British Intelligence thinks he may be the Tinamou.”
The expression on Helden’s face was arrested in shock. So complete was her astonishment that her eyes were suddenly devoid of life, as noncommittal as a blind man’s. Her lips trembled and she tried to speak, unable to find the words. Finally, the words came. They were barely audible.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I assure you, I am. What’s more to the point, the British are.”
“It’s outrageous. Beyond anything I’ve ever heard! On what basis can they possibly reach such a conclusion?”
Noel repeated the salient points analyzed by MI Five.
“My God,” said Helden when he had finished. “He covers all of Europe, as well as the Middle East! Certainly the English could check with his editors. He doesn’t choose the places they send him to. It’s preposterous!”
“Newspapermen who write interesting copy, who file stories that sell papers, are given a very free hand when it comes to the places they cover. That’s the case with your brother. It’s almost as though he knew he’d gain that prominence you spoke of; knew that in a few short years he’d be given a flexible schedule.”
“You cant believe this.”
“I don’t know what to believe,” said Holcroft. “I only know that your brother could jeopardize the situation in Geneva. The mere fact that he’s under suspicion by MI Five could be enough to frighten the bankers. They don’t want that kind of scrutiny where the Clausen account is concerned.”
“But it’s unjustified!”
“Are you sure?”
Helden’s eyes were angry. “Yes, I’m sure. Johann may be a number of things, but he’s no killer. The viciousness starts again: The Nazi child is hounded.”
Noel remembered the first statement made by the gray-haired MI-Five man: For starters, you know about the father.… Was it possible Helden was right? Did MI Five’s suspicions come from memories and hostilities that went back thirty years to a brutal enemy? Tennyson is the personification of arrogance.… It was possible.
“Is Johann political?”
“Very, but not in the usual sense. He doesn’t stand for any particular ideology. Instead, he’s highly critical of them all. He attacks their weaknesses, and he’s vicious about hypocrisy. That’s why a lot of people in government can’t stand him. But he’s no assassin!”
If Helden was right, Noel thought, Johann von Tiebolt could be an enormous asset to Geneva, or, more specifically, to the agency that was to be established in Zurich. A multilingual journalist whose judgments were listened to, who had experience in finance … could be eminently qualified to dispense millions throughout the world.
If the shadow of the Tinamou could be removed from Johann von Tiebolt, there was no reason for the directors of La Grande Banque de Genève ever to learn of MI Five’s interest in John Tennyson. The second child of Wilhelm von Tiebolt would be instantly acceptable to the bankers. He might not be the most personable man alive, but Geneva was not sponsoring a personality contest. He could be an extraordinary asset. But first the Tinamou’s shadow had to be removed, British Intelligence suspicions laid to rest.
r /> Holcroft smiled. A man would come one day and talk of a strange arrangement.… Johann von Tiebolt—John Tennyson—was waiting for him!
“What’s funny?” said Helden, watching him.
“I have to meet him,” answered Noel, ignoring the question. “Can you arrange it?”
“I imagine so. It’ll take a few days. I don’t know where he is. What will you say to him?”
“The truth; maybe he’ll reciprocate. I’ve got a damn good idea he knows about Geneva.”
“There’s a telephone number he gave me to call if I ever needed him. I’ve never used it.”
“Use it now. Please.”
She nodded. Noel understood that there were questions left unanswered. Specifically, a man named Beaumont, and an event in Rio de Janeiro that Helden would not discuss. An event connected to the naval officer with the heavy black-and-white eyebrows. And it was possible that Helden knew nothing about that connection.
Perhaps John Tennyson did. He certainly knew a lot more than he told either sister.
“Does your brother get along with Beaumont?” asked Holcroft.
“He despises him. He refused to come to Gretchen’s wedding.”
What was it? wondered Noel. Who was the enigma that was Anthony Beaumont?
17
Outside the small inn, in the far corner of the parking area, a dark sedan rested in the shadow of a tall oak tree. In the front seat were two men, one in the uniform of the English navy, the other in a charcoal-gray business suit, his black overcoat opened, the edge of a brown leather holster visible beneath his unbuttoned jacket.
The naval officer was behind the wheel. His blunt features were tense. The eyebrows of black-and-white hair arched just noticeably every now and then, as if prodded by a nervous tic.
The man beside him was in his late thirties. He was slender but he was not thin; his was the tautness that comes with discipline and training. The breadth of his shoulders, the long muscular neck, and the convex line of a chest that stretched his tailored shirt were evidence of a body honed to physical precision and strength. Each feature of his face was refined and each coordinated with the whole. The result was striking, yet cold, as if the face were chiseled in granite. The eyes were light blue, almost rectangular, their gaze steady and noncommittal; they were the eyes of a confident animal, quick to respond, the response unpredictable. The sculptured head was covered by a glistening crown of blond hair that reflected the light of the distant parking-lot lamps; above this face, his hair had the appearance of pale-yellow ice. The man’s name was Johann von Tiebolt, for the past five years known as “John Tennyson.”