The Holcroft Covenant: A Novel

  The line was busy. All around he could hear the sounds of the German language—emphatic conversations as couples and roving packs of pleasure seekers passed the telephone booth.

  He wondered. If his mother had been anyone but Althene, would he be one of those outside the glass booth right now? Not where he was right now, but somewhere in Berlin, or Bremerhaven, or Munich? Noel Clausen. German.

  What would his life have been like? It was an eerie feeling. Fascinating, repulsive … and obsessive. As if he had gone back in time, through the layers of his personal mist, and found a fork in a fog-bound road he might have taken but did not. That fork was reexamined now; where would it have led?

  Helden? Would he have known her in that other life? He knew her now. And he knew that he wanted to get back to her as soon as he could; he wanted to see her again, and hold her again, and tell her that … things … were going to be all right. He wanted to see her laugh and have a life in which three changes of outer clothing and guns with silencers were not crucial to survival. Where the Rache and the ODESSA were no longer threats to sanity and existence.

  A man answered the telephone, the voice deep and soft.

  “Mr. Kessler? Doctor Kessler?”

  “I shan’t cure any diseases, sir,” came the pleasant reply in English, “but the title is correct, if abused. What can I do for you?”

  “My name is Holcroft. Noel Holcroft. I’m from New York. I’m an architect.”

  “Holcroft? I have a number of American friends and, of course, university people with whom I correspond, but I don’t recognize the name.”

  “No reason for you to; you don’t know me. However, I have come to Berlin to see you. There’s a confidential matter to discuss that concerns the two of us.”

  “Confidential?”

  “Let’s say … a family matter.”

  “Hans? Did something happen to Hans?”

  “No.…”

  “I have no other family, Mr. Holcroft.”

  “It goes back a number of years. I’m afraid I can’t say any more over the telephone. Please, trust me; it’s urgent. Could you possibly meet me tonight?”

  “Tonight?” Kessler paused. “Did you arrive in Berlin today?”

  “Late this afternoon.”

  “And you want to see me tonight … This matter must, indeed, be urgent. I have to return to my office for an hour or so this evening. Would nine o’clock be satisfactory?”

  “Yes,” said Noel, relieved. “Very satisfactory. Anyplace you say.”

  “I’d ask you to my house, but I’m afraid I have guests. There’s a Lokal on the Kurfürstendamm. It’s often crowded, but they have quiet booths in the back and the manager knows me.”

  “It sounds perfect.”

  Kessler gave him the name and address. “Ask for my table.”

  “I will. And thanks very much.”

  “You’re quite welcome. I should warn you: I keep telling the manager that the food is grand. It isn’t, really, but he’s such a pleasant fellow and good to the students. See you at nine o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there. Thanks again.” Holcroft put the phone back in its cradle, swept by a sudden feeling of confidence. If the man matched the voice over the telephone. Erich Kessler was intelligent, humorous, immensely likable. What a relief!

  Noel hung up and smiled at the woman. “Thanks,” he said, giving her an additional ten marks.

  “Auf wiedersehen.” The whore turned and walked off. Holcroft watched her for a moment, but his attention was suddenly drawn to a man in a black leather jacket halfway down the short block. He stood in front of a bookstore, but he was not interested in the pornography displayed in the window. Instead, he was staring directly at Noel. As their eyes met, the man turned away.

  Was he one of the enemy? A fanatic from the Rache? A maniac of the ODESSA? Or perhaps someone assigned to him from the ranks of Wolfsschanze? He had to find out.

  A confrontation is often the last thing surveillance wants. But if he does want it, you might as well know it.…

  Helden’s words. He would try to remember the tactics; he would use them now. He felt the bulges in the cloth of his mackinaw; weapon and silencer were there. He pulled the visor of his cap free of its snap, gripped the handle of his attaché case, and walked away from the man in the black leather jacket.

  He hurried down the street, staying close to the curb, prepared to race out into the traffic. He reached the corner and turned right, walking swiftly into a crowd of spectators watching two life-size plastic manikins performing the sex act on a black bearskin rug. Holcroft was jostled; his attaché case was crushed against his leg, then pulled, as if being yanked aside by a victim of its sharp corners.… Yanked, pulled—taken; his attaché case could be taken, the papers inside read by those who should never read them. He had not been totally stupid; he had removed Heinrich Clausen’s letter and the more informative sections of the Geneva document. No figures, no sources, only the bank’s letterhead and the names—meaningless legal gibberish to an ordinary thief, but something else entirely to the extraordinary one.

  Helden had warned him about carrying even these, but he had countered with the possibility that the unknown Erich Kessler might think him a madman, and he needed fragments, at least, to substantiate his incredible story.

  But now, if he was being followed, he had to leave the case in a place where it would not be stolen. Where? Certainly not at the hotel. A locker in a train station or bus depot? Unacceptable, because both were accessible; such places would be child’s play for the experienced thief.

  Besides, he needed those papers—those fragments—for Erich Kessler. Kessler. The “Lokal.” The manager there knows me. Ask for my table.

  The pub on the Kurfürstendamm. Going there now would serve two purposes: On the way, he could see if he was actually being followed; once there, he could either stay or leave his case with the manager.

  He pushed his way into the street, looking for an empty taxi, glancing behind him for signs of surveillance—for a man in a black leather jacket. There was a cab in the middle of the block. He ran toward it.

  As he entered, he spun around quickly. And he saw the man in the black leather jacket. He was not walking now. Instead, he was in the saddle of a small motorbike, propelling it along the curb with his left foot. There were a number of other bikes in the street, cruising in and out between the traffic.

  The man in the black leather jacket stopped pushing his machine, turned away, and pretended to be talking with someone on the sidewalk. The pretense was too obvious; there was no one responding to his conversation. Noel climbed in the cab and gave the name and address of the pub. They drove off.

  So did the man in the black leather jacket. Noel watched him through the rear window. Like the man in the green Fiat in Paris, this Berliner was an expert. He stayed several car lengths behind the taxi, swerving quickly at odd moments to make sure the object of his surveillance was still there.

  It was pointless to keep watching. Holcroft settled back in the seat and tried to figure out his next move.

  A confrontation is often the last thing surveillance wants.… If he does … you might as well know it.

  Did he want to know it? Was he prepared for confrontation? The answers were not easy. He was not someone who cared to test his courage deliberately. But in the forefront of his imagination was the sight of Richard Holcroft crushed into a building on a sidewalk in New York.

  Fear provided caution; rage provided strength. The single answer was clear. He wanted the man in the black leather jacket. And he would get him.

  24

  He paid the driver and got out of the cab, making sure he could be seen by the man on the motorbike, who had stopped down the block.

  Noel walked casually across the pavement to the pub and went inside. He stood on a platformed staircase and studied the restaurant. The ceilings were high, the dining area on a lower floor. The place was half full; layers of smoke were suspended in the air, and th
e pungent smell of aromatic beer drifted up the staircase. From the speaker system, Bavarian Biermusik could be heard. The wooden tables were placed in ranks throughout the central area. The furnishings were heavy, massive.

  He saw the booths Kessler had described. They were along the rear wall and the sides: tables flanked by high-backed seats. Running across the fronts of the booths were brass rods holding red-checked curtains. Each booth could be isolated from its surroundings by drawing a curtain across the table, but with the curtains open one could sit at almost any booth and observe whoever came through the door at the top of the staircase.

  Holcroft descended the stairs to a lectern at the bottom and spoke to a heavyset man behind it. “Pardon me, do you speak English?”

  The man looked up from the reservation book in front of him. “Is there a restaurateur in Berlin who doesn’t, sir?”

  Noel smiled. “Good. I’m looking for the manager.”

  “You’ve found him. What can I do for you? Do you wish a table?”

  “I think one’s been reserved. The name is Kessler.”

  The manager’s eyes showed immediate recognition. “Oh, yes. He called not fifteen minutes ago. But the reservation was for nine o’clock. It is only—”

  “I know,” interrupted Holcroft. “I’m early. You see, I’ve got a favor to ask.” He held up the attaché case. “I brought this for Professor Kessler. Some historical papers lent him by the university in America where I teach. I have to meet some people for an hour or so, and wondered if I could leave it here.”

  “Of course,” said the manager. He held out his hand for the case.

  “You understand, these are valuable. Not in terms of money, just academically.”

  “I’ll lock them in my office.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “Bitte schön. Your name, sir?”

  “Holcroft.”

  “Thank you, Herr Holcroft. Your table will be ready at nine o’clock.” The manager nodded, turned, and carried the attaché case toward a closed door under the staircase.

  Noel stood for a moment considering what to do next. No one had entered since he had arrived. That meant the man in the leather jacket was outside, waiting for him. It was time to bait the trap, time to corner that man.

  He started up the staircase, suddenly struck by a thought that made him sick. He had just done the most stupid thing he could think of! He had led the man in the black leather jacket directly to the spot where he was making contact with Erich Kessler. And to compound that enormous mistake, he had given his own name to the manager.

  Kessler and Holcroft. Holcroft and Kessler. They were tied together. He had revealed an unknown third of Geneva! Revealed it as clearly as if he had taken out a newspaper ad.

  It was no longer a question of whether he was capable of setting the trap. He had to do it. He had to immobilize the man in the black leather jacket.

  He pushed open the door and walked on to the sidewalk. The Kurfürstendamm was lit up. The air was cold, and in the sky above, the moon was circled by a rim of mist. He started walking to his right, his hands in his pockets to ward off the chill. He passed the motorbike at the curb and continued to the corner. Ahead, perhaps three blocks away, on the left side of the Kurfürstendamm, he could see the outlines of the enormous Kaiser Wilhelm Church, floodlights illuminating the never-to-be-repaired, bombed-out tower, Berlin’s reminder to itself of Hitler’s Reich. He would use the church as his landmark.

  He continued walking along the tree-lined pavement, slower than most of the strollers around him, stopping frequently in front of store windows. He checked his watch at regular intervals, hoping to give the impression that the minutes were important, that perhaps he was pacing himself to reach a rendezvous at a specific time.

  Directly opposite the Kaiser Wilhelm Church, he stood for a while at the curb, under the glare of a streetlight. He glanced to his left. Thirty yards away the man in the black leather jacket turned around, his back to Holcroft, watching the flow of traffic.

  He was there; that was all that mattered.

  Noel started up again, his step faster now. He came to another corner and looked up at the street sign: SCHÖNBERGSTRASSE. It angled off the Kurfürstendamm and was lined with shops on both sides. The sidewalks seemed more crowded, the strollers less hurried than those on the Kurfürstendamm.

  He waited for a break in the traffic and crossed the street. He turned right on the sidewalk, staying close to the curb, excusing himself through the strollers. He reached the end of the block, crossed over into the next, and slowed his walk. He stopped, as he had stopped on the Kurfürstendamm, to gaze into the storefront windows, and he checked his watch with growing concentration.

  He saw the man in the leather jacket twice.

  Noel proceeded into the third block. No more than fifty feet from the corner there was a narrow alley, a thoroughfare between the Schönbergstrasse and a parallel street about a hundred yards away. The alley was dark and dotted along its sides with shadowed doorways. The darkness and the length were uninviting, obvious deterrents for pedestrians during the evening hours.

  But this alley, at this time, was the trapping ground, an unlit stretch of concrete and brick into which he’d lead the man who followed him.

  He continued walking down the block, past the alley, toward the corner, his pace quickening with every stride, Helden’s words resounding in his ears.

  The amateur does the unexpected, not because he’s clever or experienced but because he doesn’t know any better.… Do the unexpected rapidly, obviously, as if confused.…

  He reached the end of the block and stopped abruptly under a streetlight. As if startled, he looked around, pivoting on the sidewalk, a man undecided but one who knew a decision must be made. He stared back toward the alleyway and suddenly broke into a run, colliding with pedestrians, entering the alley—a man in panic.

  He ran until the darkness was nearly full, until he was at midpoint in the alley, shadows upon shadows, the lights at either end distant. There was a delivery entrance of some sort—a wide metal door. He lunged toward it, spinning into the corner, his back pressed against steel and brick. He put his hand into his jacket pocket and gripped the handle of the automatic. The silencer was not attached; it was not necessary. He had no intention whatsoever of firing the weapon. It was to be but a visible threat and, at first, not even that.

  The wait was not long. He could hear racing footsteps and thought as he heard them that the enemy, too, knew about rubber-soled shoes.

  The man ran by; then, as if sensing a trick, he slowed down, looking about in the shadows. Noel stepped out of his hidden corner, his hand in his jacket pocket.

  “I’ve been waiting for you. Stay right where you are.” He spoke intensely, frightened at his own words. “I’ve got a gun in my hand. I don’t want to use it, but I will if you try to run.”

  “You did not hesitate two days ago in France,” said the man in a thick accent, his calm unnerving. “Why should I expect you to stop now? You’re a pig. You can kill me, but we will stop you.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Does it matter? Just know that we will stop you.”

  “You’re with the Rache, aren’t you?”

  In spite of the darkness, Noel could see an expression of contempt on the man’s face. “The Rache?” he said. “Terrorists without a cause, revolutionaries no one wants in his camp. Butchers. I’m no part of the Rache!”

  “The ODESSA, then.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll use the ODESSA when the time comes. It can be blamed for so much. You can kill so easily in its name. I suppose the irony is that we’d kill the ODESSA as quickly as you would. But you’re the ones we want; we know the difference between clowns and monsters. Believe me, well stop you.”

  “You’re not making sense! You’re not part of Wolfsschanze; you couldn’t be!”

  The man lowered his voi
ce. “But we are all part of Wolfsschanze, aren’t we? In one way or another,” he said, a challenge in his eyes. “I say it again. You can kill me, but another will take my place. Kill him, another his. We will stop you. So shoot, Herr Clausen. Or should I say, son of Reichsführer Heinrich Clausen.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? I don’t want to kill you. I don’t want to kill anybody!”

  “You killed in France.”

  “If I killed a man, it was because he tried to kill me.”

  “Aber natürlich, Herr Clausen.”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “Why? It’s your name, isn’t it?”

  “No! My name is Holcroft.”

  “Of course,” said the man. “That was part of the plan. The respected American with no discernible ties to his past. And if anyone traced them, it would be too late.”

  “Too late for what? Who are you? Who sent you?”

  “There is no way you can force that from me. We are not part of your plan.”

  Holcroft took the gun from his pocket and stepped closer. “What plan?” he asked, hoping to learn something, anything.

  “Geneva.”

  “What about Geneva? It’s a city in Switzerland.”

  “We know everything, and it’s finished. You won’t stop the eagles. Not this time. We will stop you!”

  “Eagles? What eagles! Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Never. Pull the trigger. I won’t tell you. You won’t trace us.”

  Noel was perspiring, though the winter night was cold. Nothing this enemy said made sense. It was possible that an enormous error had been made. The man in front of him was prepared to die, but he was not a fanatic; there was too much intelligence behind the eyes. “Not with the Rache, not with the ODESSA. For God’s sake, why do you want to stop Geneva? Wolfsschanze doesn’t want to stop it; you must know that!”

  “Not your Wolfsschanze. But we can put that fortune to great use.”

  “No! If you interfere, there won’t be anything. You’ll never get the money.”