“I see the present I want to get you!” he shouted.
“Don’t be silly.…”
“Wait here! I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“I’ll be over there”—she pointed to her right—“at the pewter display.”
“Fine. See you soon.”
Noel began edging his way through the crowd. If he could weave enough, slouch enough, and make sufficiently quick movements, he could reach the edge of the mass of colliding bodies without the light-haired man’s seeing him. Once on the cobblestone sidewalk beyond the crowd, he could inch his way around to within yards of the pastry stall.
He reached the sidewalk; the man had not seen him get there. He had ordered another piece of pastry and was eating it absently, rising on the balls of his feet, peering anxiously over the heads of the crowd. Abruptly, he seemed to relax and settle back, his attention only half on his targets. He had spotted Helden; apparently he was convinced that if he could see her, her companion would not be far away.
Noel feigned a suddenly lame ankle and limped around the border of the crowd, his new injury allowing him to bend over in pain. There was no way the man could see him now.
Noel was directly behind the pastry stall, no more than ten yards from it. He watched the man closely. There was something primitive about him as he stood there motionless, eating deliberately, every now and then stretching to make sure his quarry was still in sight. It struck Holcroft that he was watching a predator. He could not see its eyes, but somehow he knew they were cold and alert. The thought made him angry, raising images in his mind of such a man seated behind a driver, a gun perhaps at the driver’s head, waiting for Richard Holcroft to emerge on a New York sidewalk. It was the sense of ice-cold, deadly manipulation that enraged him.
Noel lunged into the crowd, his right hand gripping the automatic in his pocket, his left extended in front of him, fingers taut. When Noel touched him, it would be a grip the light-haired man would never forget.
Suddenly he was blocked. Blocked! As he parted the shoulders of a man and a woman in front of him, a third figure met him head on, cross-checking him with its body, its face turned away. He was being stopped deliberately!
“Get out of my way! Goddammit, let go of me!”
He could see that his shouts, or his English, or both, had alarmed the light-haired man, just feet away, who spun in place, dropping his pastry. His eyes were wild; his face was flushed. He spun again and forced his way through the crowd, away from Noel.
“Get out of—!” Holcroft could feel it before he saw it. Something had sliced through his jacket, ripping the lining above his left pocket. He looked down, his eyes unbelieving. A knife had been thrust at his side; had he not twisted his body, it would have penetrated!
He grabbed the wrist holding the knife, pushing it away, afraid to let go, crashing his shoulder up into the chest of the man who held it. Still the man kept his face hidden. Who was he? There was no time to think or wonder; he had to get the terrible knife away!
Noel screamed. He bent over, his enemy’s wrist vised in both his hands, the blade thrusting about in the crowded space, his whole body writhing, twisting into those surrounding him. He yanked the fist with the blade extending from it, then smashed it down with his full weight, falling to the street as he did so. The blade fell away, clattering on the stone.
Something crashed into his neck. Suddenly dazed, he still knew what it was; he had been hit with an iron pipe. He lay curled up in terror and confusion, but he could not stay down! Instinct made him lurch up; fear made him hold his place, waiting for an attack, prepared to fend it off. And rage made him seek out his attackers.
They were gone. The body that belonged to the unseen face was gone. The knife on the ground was gone! And all around him people backed away, staring at him as if he were deranged.
My God! he thought, with a terrible awareness. If they would kill him, they would kill Helden! If the man with the pockmarked face was protected by killers, and those killers knew he had spotted their charge, they would assume that Helden had spotted him, too. They would go after her! They would kill her, because she was part of his trap!
He broke his way through the circle of onlookers, and dodged a hundred angry arms and hands in the direction he instinctively remembered she’d indicated only minutes before. A stall that was selling some kind of pitchers, or plates, or … pitchers, plates, pewter. That was it! A stall with pewter. Where was it?
It was there, but she was not. She was nowhere to be seen. He ran up to the counter of the stall and shouted.
“A woman! A blond woman was here!”
“Pardon? Je ne parle pas—”
“Une femme.… Aux cheveux blonds. Elle a été ici!”
The vendor shrugged and continued polishing a small bowl.
“Oùest elle?” shouted Holcroft.
“Vous êtes fou! Fou!” yelled the stallkeeper. “Voleur! Police!”
“Non! S’il vous plaît! Une femme aux—”
“Ah,” broke in the vendor. “Une blonde. Dans ce sens.” He gestured to his left.
Holcroft pushed himself away from the stall and raced into crowds again. He pulled at overcoats and jackets, making a path for himself. Oh, Christ, he had killed her! His eyes searched everywhere, every corridor, every pair of eyes, every thatch of hair. She was nowhere.
“Helden!”
Suddenly, a fist hammered into his right kidney, and an arm shot over his shoulder, locking itself around his neck, choking the air out of his throat. He slammed his right elbow into the body of his assailant, now behind him, now dragging him backward through the crowd. Gasping for air, he jammed his left elbow into the hard, twisting figure holding him, then his right again. He had caught his attacker in the rib cage; the lock around his throat loosened for an instant, and that instant was enough. He spun to his left, his fingers digging into the forearm around his neck, and pulled downward, throwing his assailant over his hip. Both men fell to the ground.
Noel saw the face! Beneath the unruly crop of red hair was the small scar on the forehead, and beneath it the angry blue eyes. The man was the younger of the two MI-Five agents who had questioned him in his London hotel. Noel’s rage was complete; the madness based in a terrible error had gone unchecked. British Intelligence had intruded, and that intrusion might well have cost Helden her life.
But why? Why here in an obscure French village? He had no answers. He knew only that this man whose throat he now clutched was his enemy, as dangerous to him as the Rache or the ODESSA.
“Get up!” Holcroft struggled to his feet and pulled at the man. His mistake was in momentarily releasing the agent. Without warning, a paralyzing blow hammered into his stomach. His eyes spun out of focus, and for several moments he was aware only of being yanked through a sea of astonished faces. Suddenly he was slammed against the wall of a building; he could hear the impact of his head on the hard surface.
“You goddamn fool! What the devil do you think you’re doing? You were nearly killed back there!”
The MI-Five man did not scream, but he might as well have, so intense was his tone. Noel focused his eyes; the agent had him pinned. The man’s forearm was again pressed against his throat.
“You son of a bitch!” He could barely whisper the words. “You’re the ones who tried to kill me.…”
“You’re a certifiable lunatic, Holcroft! The Tinamou wouldn’t touch you. I’ve got to get you out of here.”
“The Tinamou? Here?”
“Let’s go!”
“No! Where’s Helden?”
“Certainly not with us! Do you think we’re crazy?”
Noel stared at the man; he was telling the truth. It was all insane. “Then someone’s taken her! She’s gone!”
“If she’s gone, she went willingly,” said the agent. “We tried to warn you. Leave it alone!”
“No, you’re wrong! There was a man—with pockmarks on his face …”
“The Fiat?”
?
??Yes! Him. He was following us. I went after him and his men caught me. They tried to kill me!”
“Come with me,” ordered the agent, grabbing Holcroft’s arm and propelling him down the sidewalk.
They reached a dark narrow alleyway between two buildings. No ray of sunlight penetrated; everything was in shadow. The alley was lined with garbage cans. Beyond the third garbage can on the right Noel could see a pair of legs. The rest of the figure was hidden by the receptacle.
The agent pushed Noel into the alley; four or five steps were all that were needed to get a clear view of the upper part of the body.
At first glance, the man with the pockmarked face appeared to be drunk. In his hand he clutched a bottle of red wine; it had spilled into the crotch of his trousers. But it was a different red from the stain that had spread over his chest.
The man had been shot.
“There’s your killer,” said the agent. “Now will you listen to us? Go back to New York. Tell us what you know and leave it alone.”
Noel’s mind churned; mists of confusion enveloped him. There was violent death in the skies, death in New York, death in Rio, death here in a small French village. The Rache, the ODESSA, the survivors of Wolfsschanze.…
Nothing is as it was for you.…
He turned to the MI-Five man, his voice no more than a whisper. “Don’t you understand? I can’t….”
There was a sudden skirmish at the end of the alleyway. Two figures raced by, one propelling the other. Commands were shouted—guttural, harsh, the words not distinguishable but the violence clear. Cries for help were cut short by the sound of flesh against flesh, vicious slaps repeated again and again. And then the blurred figures were gone, but Holcroft could hear the scream.
“Noel! Noel!…”
It was Helden! Holcroft found his mind again and knew what he had to do. With all his strength, he slammed his shoulder into the side of the agent, sending him crashing over the garbage can that concealed the dead body of the man with the pockmarked face.
He ran out of the alley.
21
The screams continued, how far away he could not tell, so boisterous were the crowds in the village square. Music issued from a number of concertinas and cornets. Pockets of space were formed for couples, skipping, twirling, turning, in countryside dances. The fête d’hiver was now a carnival.
“Noel! Noel.…”
Up the curving sidewalk to the left of the square—the cries came from that direction! Holcroft ran wildly, colliding with a pair of lovers embracing against a wall. There.
“Noel!”
He was on a side street lined with three-story buildings. He raced down it, hearing the scream again, but no words, no name, only a scream cut short by the impact of a blow that produced a cry of pain.
Oh, God, he had to find—
A door! A door was partially open; it was the entrance to the fourth building on the right. The scream had come from there!
He ran to it, remembering as he drew near that he had a gun in his pocket. He reached in and pulled it out, thinking as he held it awkwardly in his hand that he had never really looked at the weapon. He did so now, and for an instant he stopped and stared at it.
He knew little about handguns, but he knew this one. It was a Budischowsky TP-70 Autoloading Pistol, the same type of gun Sam Buonoventura had lent him in Costa Rica. The coincidence gave him no confidence; rather, it made him sick. This was not his world.
He checked the safety and pulled the door open, staying out of sight. Inside was a long, narrow, dimly lit corridor. On the left wall, spaced perhaps twelve feet from each other, were two doors. From what he remembered of this type of structure he had to presume that there were identically spaced doors on the right wall; he could not see them from where he stood.
He darted into the entrance, the gun held steady in front of him. There were the two doors on the right wall. Four doors. Behind one of them Helden was a captive. But which one? He walked to the first door on the left and put his ear to it.
There was a scratching sound, erratic, unfamiliar. He had no idea what it was. Cloth, fabric … the tearing of cloth? He put his hand on the knob and twisted it; the door swung free and he opened it, his weapon in firing position.
Across the dark room was an old woman on her knees, scrubbing the floor. She was in profile, her gaunt features sagging, her arm working in circles on the soft wood. She was so old she neither saw him nor heard him, He closed the door.
A black ribbon was nailed to the door on the right. A death had taken place behind that door; a family was in mourning. A death behind that door. The thought was too unnerving; he listened.
This was it! A struggle was going on. Heavy breathing, movement, tension; inside that room there was desperation. Helden was behind that door!
Noel stepped back, his automatic leveled, his right foot raised. He took a deep breath, and, as if his foot were a battering ram, he drove it into the wood to the left of the knob. The force of the blow sent the door crashing inward.
Inside, on a filthy bed, were two naked teenagers, a dark-haired boy on top of a fat, fair-skinned girl, the girl’s legs spread up toward the ceiling, the boy lying between them, both hands on her breasts. At the sound of the crash and the sight of the stranger, the girl screamed. The boy spun off her, rolling onto the floor, his mouth open in shock.
The crash! The sound of the crash was an alarm. Holcroft ran into the corridor and raced to the next door on the left. There was no time to be concerned about anything but finding Helden. He slammed his shoulder into the door, twisting the knob awkwardly with his left hand, his right gripping the handle of the gun. There was no need for force; the door gave way.
Noel stood in the door frame, for an instant feeling ashamed. Against the wall by a window was a blind man. He was an old man and he was trembling at the unseen, unknown violence that had invaded his dark privacy.
“Nom de Dieu …” he whispered, holding his hands in front of him.
The sound of racing footsteps came from the hallway, footsteps that grew louder—the sound of a man not simply running but running frantically, leather slapping against wood. Holcroft turned quickly, in time to see the figure of the MI-Five agent rush past. There was a crash of glass from somewhere outside. Noel lurched out of the blind man’s room, looking to the left, where the crash had come from; there was sunlight streaming through an open door at the end of the corridor. Its panes of glass had been painted black; he had not seen it in the dim light.
How did the agent know a door was there? Why had he kicked it open and raced outside? Did the MI-Five man think he had gone out that way? Instinct told him the agent would not give him that much credit; he was an amateur, a lunatic. No, he was after someone else.
It could be only Helden! But Helden was behind the door across from the blind man’s room; it was the only place left. It had to be. The agent was wrong!
Holcroft kicked the door in front of him; the lock broke, the door swung open, and he rushed inside.
It was empty, had been empty a very long time. Layers of dust were everywhere … and there were no footprints. No one had been inside that room for weeks.
The MI-Five man had been right. The amateur had not known something that the professional had perceived.
Noel ran out of the empty room, down the dark corridor, through the shattered door, and out into a courtyard. On the left was a heavy wooden door that led back to the side street. It was open, and Holcroft raced through it. He could hear sounds of the carnival from the square, but they were not the only sounds. Far down the deserted street to his right he could hear a scream, cut off now as it had been cut off before. He ran in the direction of the scream, in Helden’s direction, but he could see no one.
“Get back!” The command came from a recessed doorway.
There was a gunshot; above him stone shattered and he could hear the sickening whine of a ricocheting bullet.
Noel threw himself to the ground, onto the h
ard, irregular surface of the cobblestones. As he broke his fall, his finger touched the trigger of his gun. It fired, the explosion next to his face. In panic, he rolled over and over toward the recessed doorway. Hands grabbed him, pulling his body into the shadows. The man from British Intelligence, the young man with the scar on his forehead, yanked him back against the stone entranceway.
“I repeat! You’re a goddamned fool! I should kill you myself and save them the trouble.” The agent was crouched against the wall; he inched his face to the edge.
“I don’t believe you,” said Noel. “I don’t believe any of this. Where is she?”
“The bastard’s holding her across the way, about twenty yards down. My guess is he’s got a radio and has contacted a car.”
“They’re going to kill her!”
“Not now they won’t. I don’t know why, but that’s not what they have in mind. Perhaps because she’s his sister.”
“Get off that! It’s wrong: it’s crazy! I told her; she reached him. He’s no more this Tinamou than you are. And he’s mad as hell. He’ll probably write something for his paper, make you, the Foreign Office, the whole damned British government, look like assholes!”
The MI-Five agent stared at Holcroft. His look was that of a man studying the ravings of a psychopath, equal parts curiosity, revulsion, and astonishment. “He what? You what?”
“You heard me.”
“My God.… Whoever you are, whatever you’re involved with, you’re not remotely connected with any of this.”
“I told you that in London,” said Noel, struggling to sit up, trying to find his breath again. “Did you think I was lying?”
“We knew you were lying; we just didn’t know why. We thought you were being used by men wanting to reach Von Tiebolt.”
“For what?”
“Make a blind contact, neither side exposing itself. It was a fair cover: money in America, left for the family.”
“But for what?”
“Later! You want the girl, I want the bastard who’s got her. Listen to me.” The agent gestured at the automatic in Noel’s hand. “Do you know how to use that?”