Beads of perspiration broke out on Noel’s forehead. “What are you trying to say?”
“I don’t think that old guy was ever near Dachau. Or if he was, he was part of the management. Almost no one knew him in his apartment building; no one ever saw him in a synagogue. I think he was a Nazi.”
Holcroft swallowed. “How does that connect him to my father?”
“Through you. I’m not sure how yet, but through you.”
“Through me?” Noel felt the acceleration of his heartbeat.
“Yes. In Rio, you told Anderson that someone named Graff was a Nazi and tried to kill you. Anderson said you were crazy on both points, but I don’t. I believe you.”
“I was mad as hell. I didn’t mean to tie one into the other. It was a misunderstanding.…” Noel sought desperately to find the words. “Graff’s paranoid, a hot-tempered German, so I called him a Nazi, that’s all. He thought I was making sketches, taking pictures of his grounds.…”
“I said I believed you, Holcroft,” broke in the detective. “And I’ve got my reasons.”
“What are they?” Noel knew he could barely be heard; he was suddenly afraid. His father’s death was a warning. The Rache. The ODESSA. Whichever, it was another warning. His mother had to be protected!
Miles was talking, but Holcroft could not hear the detective; his mind raced in panic. Miles had to be stopped! He could not be allowed near Geneva!
“Those men on the plane who tried to kill you were German,” Miles explained. “They used passports taken off two Americans killed in Munich five years ago, but they were German; the dental work gave them away. They were shot at Kennedy Airport; their bodies were found in a fuel truck. The bullets that killed them came from a German Heckler and Koch nine-millimeter pistol. The silencer was made in Munich. Guess where that little old man traveled when he went to Germany—at least on the six trips we were able to trace.”
“Munich,” whispered Noel.
“That’s right. Munich. Where it all began and where it’s still going on. A bunch of Nazis are fighting among each other thirty years after that goddamn war is over, and you’re right in the middle of it. I want to know why.”
Noel felt drained, swept by exhaustion and fear. “Leave it alone. There’s nothing you can do.”
“There’s something I might be able to prevent, goddammit! Another murder.”
“Can’t you understand?” said Holcroft, in pain. “I can say it because he was my father. Nothing can be resolved in New York. It can only be resolved over here. Give me time; for the love of God, give me time. I’ll get back to you.”
“How long?”
“A month.”
“Too much. Cut it in half. You’ve got two weeks.”
“Miles, please …”
There was a click on the line; the connection in New York was severed.
Two weeks. Oh, God, it wasn’t possible!
But it had to be possible. In two weeks he had to be in a position to stop Miles from going further. He could do that with the resources in Geneva. A philanthropic agency with assets of seven hundred and eighty million dollars would be listened to—quietly, in confidence. Once the account was freed, arrangements could be made, understandings reached, cooperation given and received. The ODESSA would be exposed, the Rache destroyed.
All this would happen only when three acceptable offspring presented themselves to the bank in Geneva. It would happen, Noel was convinced of that, but until then he had to protect his mother. He had to reach Althene and convince her that for the next few weeks she had to disappear.
What could he say to her? She’d never obey him. She’d never listen to him if she believed for an instant her husband had been murdered. What in God’s name could he say to her?
“Allo? Allo, monsieur?” The voice of the operator floated out from the telephone. “Your call to New York—”
Holcroft hung up so quickly he jarred the instrument’s bell. He could not talk to his mother. Not now. In an hour or so, not now. He had to think. There was so much to think about, so much to do.
He was going mad.
19
“He’ll go mad,” said the blond-haired man into the telephone at Hellenikon Airport, in Athens. “He must have heard the news by now. It will be a strain that may tear him apart; he won’t know what to do. Tell our man in Paris to stay close to him for the next twenty-four hours. He must not return to America.”
“He won’t,” said Gretchen Beaumont, thousands of miles away.
“You can’t be sure. The psychological stresses are building properly; our subject’s in a delicate frame of mind. However, he can be guided. He’s waiting for me; he sees me now as his answer to so many things, but the string must be drawn tighter. I want him to go to Berlin first. For a day or two. To Kessler.”
“Shall we use his mother? We could plant the idea with her.”
“No. Under no circumstances must she be touched. It would be far too dangerous.”
“Then how will you suggest Berlin?” asked Gretchen Beaumont, in England.
“I won’t,” answered John Tennyson, in Athens. “I will convince our sister to lead him to that conclusion. She’s trying to reach me, of course.”
“Be careful with her, Johann.”
“I will.”
Holcroft walked along the concrete bank of the Seine, unaware of the biting winds that came off the river. An hour ago he had been filled with confidence; now he felt lost. He knew only that he had to keep moving, clear his head, make decisions.
He had to reevaluate some matters, too. An hour ago the one man he believed he could count on was Helden’s brother. That judgment was suspect now. A runaway car on a New York street that took the life of the only father he had ever known was too similar to an unexplained disaster in a London subway.
The man was killed in a most unusual accident that took five lives … MI Five.
An execution …. a freak accident in which more than the target got killed. David Miles, NYPD.
The meeting with Tennyson was suddenly not the answer to everything; the shadow of the Tinamou had appeared again. A man would come one day and talk of a strange arrangement. Tennyson was waiting for him, but perhaps he was waiting for the wrong reasons. Perhaps he had sold out their covenant for a higher price.
If he had, he was as responsible for Richard Holcroft’s death as surely as if his foot had been on the accelerator and his hands on the wheel. Should that be the case, Tennyson would not leave the meeting alive. The son would kill for the father; he owed Richard Holcroft that.
Noel stopped and put his hands on the concrete wall, astonished at himself … at his thoughts. He was actually projecting himself into the role of a killer! His covenant was extracting a cost more terrible than anything he had considered.
He would confront Tennyson with the facts as they had been given to him. He would watch the son of Wilhelm von Tiebolt closely. The truth or the lie: It would be in Tennyson’s words, in his eyes. Holcroft hoped to God he would recognize it.
One step at a time. His mind was clearing. Each move had to be considered carefully; yet that caution could not slow him down.
First things first, and first there was the indisputable fact that he could no longer move freely, carelessly. The most deadly warning of all had been given him: the killing of a loved one. He accepted that warning in fear and in rage. The fear would make him careful; the rage would give him a degree of courage. It had to; he was depending on it.
Next was his mother. What could he say that she would accept without being suspicious? Whatever it was, she had to believe him. If she thought for an instant that her husband’s death was the work of men spawned by the Third Reich, she would raise her voice in fury. And her first cry would be her last. What could he say to her that would sound plausible?
He started walking again, absently, his eyes unfocused. As a result, he collided with a short man strolling in the opposite direction.
“Excuse me. Pardon, mo
nsieur,” Noel said.
The Frenchman had been glancing at a newspaper; he shrugged, and smiled pleasantly. “Rien.”
Noel stopped. The Frenchman reminded him of someone. The round, pleasant face, the spectacles.
Ernst Manfredi.
His mother had respected Manfredi, still owed the Swiss banker a great debt. Perhaps he could speak to Althene through Ernst Manfredi, invent an explanation given him by the banker. Why not? The words would not be contradicted; Manfredi was dead.
It was Manfredi who had been concerned for his old friend Althene Clausen. He had been frightened for her. He had been afraid that during the coming weeks, while the extraordinary account in Geneva was being released, Clausen’s name would surface. There would be those who remembered a headstrong young woman who left her husband in revulsion, whose words became the basis for Heinrich Clausen’s moral conversion. A conversion that resulted in the theft of hundreds of millions. Dormant hostilities might be aroused, revenge sought against that woman.
It was Manfredi’s fear that she had to respect. The old banker knew more than either of them, and if he had thought it best that she disappear for a while, until the impact of the account’s release was diminished, she should take his advice. A sick old man about to end his life did not draw frivolous conclusions.
The explanation made sense; it was consistent with their conversation in Bedford Mills three weeks ago. His mother would see that consistency. She would listen to the “words” of Ernst Manfredi.
Instinctively, Noel glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was following him. It had become a habit. Fear made him careful; rage gave him a certain strength. He wanted very much to see an enemy. He was getting used to his unfamiliar forest.
He headed back to the hotel. He had rushed out of the George V in panic and bewilderment, avoiding the assistant manager, needing the cold air of the streets to clear his head. Now he would accept an aperitif and ask to make another transatlantic call. To his mother.
He walked faster, stopping abruptly twice, turning quickly. Was anyone there?
It was possible. A dark-green Fiat had slowed down a block behind. Good.
He crossed the street rapidly, went into the front entrance of a sidewalk café, and emerged seconds later from an exit that led out to the avenue George V. He walked up the block, stopping at a newsstand for a paper.
He could see the green Fiat careening around the corner near the café. It stopped abruptly. The driver parked at the curb and lowered his head. Good. It was suddenly made clear to Noel what he would do after the aperitif and the call to Althene.
He would see Helden. He needed a gun.
Von Tlebolt stared at the mouthpiece of the pay phone in the Athens airport, his lips parted in shock.
“What did you say?” he asked.
“It’s true, Johann,” said Helden in Paris. “British Intelligence thinks you may be the Tinamou.”
“How extraordinary.” The astonished blond man drew out the word. “And outrageous!”
“That’s what I said to Holcroft. I told him you were being hounded for the things you write … and because of who you are. Who we are.”
“Yes, I imagine so.” Von Tiebolt could not concentrate on his sister’s reasoning; he gripped the receiver in anger. An error had been made somewhere; steps had to be taken immediately to correct it. What had led MI Five to him? Every track had been covered! But then, he could produce the Tinamou at will; it was his final strategy. No one was more trusted than the suspect who produced the hunted killer. This was the ultimate tactic of his creation. He might have to employ it sooner than he thought.
“Johann, are you there?”
“Yes, sorry.”
“You must meet Holcroft as soon as possible.”
“Of course. I’ll be in Paris in four or five days.…”
“Not until then?” interrupted Helden. “He’s very anxious.”
“It’s quite impossible.”
“There’s so much more to tell you.…” She told him of the account in Geneva; of the agency in Zurich that would dispense hundreds of millions; of the American son of Heinrich Clausen; of Erich Kessler in Berlin; of the Von Tiebolts in Rio. Finally, haltingly, she repeated the words uttered by their sister: A man will come one day and talk of a strange arrangement “Did you say that?” she asked her brother.
“Yes. There’s a great deal you’ve never been told. I didn’t know when or how it would happen, only that it would. I spoke to Gretchen earlier. This Holcroft saw her the other night. I’m afraid she wasn’t much help to him. We have a commitment as profound and as moving as anything in recent history. Amends must be made.…”
“That’s what Holcroft said,” broke in Helden.
“I’m sure he did.”
“He’s frightened. He tries not to show it, but he is.”
“He should be. It’s an enormous responsibility. I have to learn what he knows in order to help.”
“Then come to Paris now.”
“I can’t. It’s only a few days.”
“I’m worried. If Noel’s what he says he is, and I see no reason to doubt him—”
“ ‘Noel’?” asked the brother, with mild surprise.
“I like him, Johann.”
“Go on.”
“If he’s the one that’s to bring the three of you to the directors of La Grande Banque, then nothing can happen in Geneva without him.”
“So?”
“Others know that. I think they know about the account in Switzerland. Terrible things have happened. They’ve tried to stop him.”
“Who?”
“My guess would be the Rache. Or the ODESSA.”
“That’s doubtful,” said John Tennyson. “Neither is capable of keeping such extraordinary news quiet. Take a newspaperman’s word for it.”
“The Rache kills; so does the ODESSA. Someone tried to kill Noel.”
Tennyson smiled to himself; errors had been made, but the primary strategy was working. Holcroft was being pounded on all sides. When everything came together in Geneva, he’d be exhausted, completely malleable. “He must be very cautious, then. Teach him the things you know, Helden. As much as you can. The tricks we’ve all learned from one another.”
“He’s seen some of those tricks,” said the girl, a soft, compassionate laugh in her voice. “He hates using them.”
“Better than ending up dead.” The blond man paused. The transition had to be casual. “Gretchen mentioned a photograph, a picture of Beaumont. She thinks Holcroft took it.”
“He did. He’s convinced he saw Beaumont on the plane from New York to Rio. He thinks he was following him. It’s part of what he’ll tell you.”
So it was the plane, thought Tennyson. The American was more observant than Beaumont had wanted to believe. Beaumont’s disappearance would be explained in a matter of days, but it would be difficult to explain the photograph in Holcroft’s possession if he showed it to the wrong people in Switzerland. The fanatic commander had left too obvious a trail, from Rio to the Admiralty. They had to get the photograph back. “I don’t know what to say to that, Helden. I never liked Beaumont. I never trusted him. But he’s been in the Mediterranean for months. I don’t see how he could have left his ship and turned up on a plane out of New York. Holcroft’s wrong.” Tennyson paused again. “However, I think Noel should bring the photograph with him when we meet. He shouldn’t be carrying it around. Nor should he talk about Beaumont. Tell him that. It could lead people to Gretchen. To us. Yes, I think it would be a good idea if he brought the photograph with him.”
“He can’t do that. It was stolen from him.”
The blond man froze. It was impossible. None of them had taken the photograph! No Sonnenkind. He’d be the first to know. Someone else? He lowered his voice. “What do you mean, ‘stolen from him’?”
“Just that. A man chased him, beat him unconscious, and took the picture. Nothing else, just the photograph.”
“What man!”
/>
“He didn’t know. It was night; he couldn’t see. He woke up in a field miles away from Portsmouth.”
“He was attacked in Portsmouth?”
“About a mile from Gretchen’s house, as I gather.”
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. “Are you sure Holcroft wasn’t lying?”
“Why should he?”
“What exactly did he tell you?”
“That he was chased by a man in a black sweater. The man hit him with a blunt weapon and took the photograph out of his pocket when he was unconscious. Just the photograph. Not his money or anything else.”
“I see.” But he did not see! And it was the unseen that disturbed him. He could not convey his fears to Helden; as always, he had to appear in total control. Yet he had to search out this unseen, unknown disturbance. “Helden, I’d like you to do something … for all of us. Do you think you could arrange to take a day off from work?”
“I imagine so. Why?”
“I think we should try and find out who it is that has so much interest in Holcroft. Perhaps you might suggest a drive in the country, to Fontainebleau or Barbizon.”
“But why?”
“I have a friend in Paris; he often does odd jobs for me. I’ll ask him to follow you, very discreetly, of course. Perhaps we’ll learn who else takes the trip.”
“One of our people could do it.”
“No, I don’t think so. Don’t involve your friends. Herr Oberst should not be a part of this.”
“All right. We’ll start out around ten in the morning. From his hotel. The Douzaine Heures, rue Chevalle. How will I know the man?”
“You won’t. He’ll pick you up. Say nothing to Holcroft; it would upset him needlessly.”
“Very well. You’ll call me when you get to Paris?”
“The minute I arrive, meine Schwester.”