Tennyson’s eyes were suddenly cold again. “It was a shock. I’ll never get over it. What is your question?”
“There was another accident. In New York. Only days ago. A number of innocent people were killed then, too, but one of them was the target. Someone I loved very much.”
“I repeat! What’s your point, Holcroft?”
“There’s a certain similarity, wouldn’t you say? MI Five doesn’t know anything about the accident in New York, but it has very specific ideas about the one in London. I’ve put them together and come up with a disturbing connection. What do you know about that accident five years ago in London?”
Tennyson’s body was rigid. “Watch out,” he said. “The British go too far. What do you want of me? How far will you go to discredit me?”
“Cut the bullshit!” said Noel. “What happened in that subway?”
“I was there!” The blond man thrust his hand up to his collar beneath the pinstriped suit. He yanked furiously, ripping his shirt half off his chest, exposing a scar that extended from the base of his throat to his breast “I don’t know anything about New York, but the experience in Charing Cross five years ago is one I’ll live with for the rest of my life! Here it is; there’s not a day when I’m not reminded of it. Forty-seven stitches, neck to thorax. I thought for a few moments—five years ago in London— that my head had been half cut off from the rest of me. And that man you speak of so enigmatically was my dearest friend in England! He helped get us out of Brazil. If someone killed him, they tried to kill me, too! I was with him.”
“I didn’t know.… The British didn’t say anything. They didn’t know you were there.”
“Then I suggest someone look. There’s a hospital record around somewhere. It shouldn’t be hard to find.” Tennyson shook his head in disgust. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be angry at you. It’s the British; they’ll use anything.”
“It’s possible they really didn’t know.”
“I suppose so. Hundreds of people were taken off that train. A dozen clinics in London were filled that night; no one paid much attention to names. But you’d think they would have found mine. I was in the hospital for several days.” Tennyson stopped abruptly. “You said someone you loved was killed in New York only a few days ago? What happened?”
Noel told him how Richard Holcroft had been run down in the streets, and of the theory conceived by David Miles. It was pointless to withhold anything from this man he had come close to misjudging so completely.
In the telling was the conclusion both men had arrived at.
In my judgment, our checkmated pig was reached by a third party.
Who?
I wish to heaven I knew.…
Someone else.
A man in a black leather jacket. Defiant in a dark alley in Berlin. Willing to die … asking to be shot. Refusing to say who he was or where he came from. Someone or something more powerful, more knowledgeable, than the Rache or the ODESSA.
Someone else.
Noel told Tennyson everything, relieved that he could say it all. The relief was heightened by the way the blond man listened. His speckled gray eyes never wavered from Holcroft’s face; they were riveted, totally absorbed. When he had finished, Noel felt exhausted. “That’s all I know.”
Tennyson nodded. “We’ve finally met, haven’t we? We both had to say what was on our minds. We both thought the other was the enemy, and we were both wrong. Now, we have work to do.”
“How long have you known about Geneva?” asked Holcroft. “Gretchen told me that you said a man would come one day and speak of a strange arrangement.”
“Since I was a child. My mother told me there was an extraordinary sum of money that was to be used for great works, to make amends for the terrible things done in Germany’s name, but not by true Germans. But only that fact, no specifics.”
“You don’t know Erich Kessler, then.”
“I remember the name, but only vaguely. I was very young.”
“You’ll like him.”
“As you describe him, I’m sure I will. You say he’s bringing his brother to Geneva? Is that allowed?”
“Yes. I said I’d telephone him in Berlin and give him dates.”
“Why not wait until tomorrow or the day after? Call him from Saint-Tropez?”
“Beaumont?”
“Beaumont,” said Tennyson, his mouth set. “I think we should meet with our checkmated pig. He has something to tell us. Specifically, who was his latest employer? Who sent him to that train station in Geneva? Who paid him for—or blackmailed him into—following you to New York and then to Rio de Janeiro? When we find this out, we’ll know where your man in the black leather jacket came from.”
Someone else.
Noel looked at his watch. It was nearly six o’clock; he and Tennyson had talked for more than two hours, yet there was still a great deal more to say. “Do you want to have dinner with your sister and me?” he asked.
Tennyson smiled. “No, my friend. We’ll talk on our way south. I’ve calls to make and copy to file. I mustn’t forget I’m a newspaperman. Where are you staying?”
“At the George Cinq. Under the name of Fresca.”
“I’ll phone you later this evening.” Tennyson extended his hand. “Until tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Incidentally, if my fraternal blessings mean anything, you have them.”
Johann von Tiebolt stood at the railing of the terrace in the cold air of the early evening. Below, on the street, he could see Holcroft emerge from the building and walk east on the sidewalk.
It had all been so easy. The orchestration of lies had been studiously thought out and arranged, the rendering underpinned with outraged conviction and sudden revelation that led to acceptance. An old man would be alerted in Rio; he knew what to say. A medical record would be placed in a London hospital, the dates and information corresponding to a tragic accident on the Charing Cross underground five years ago. And if all went according to schedule, a news item would be carried in the evening papers reporting another tragedy. A naval officer and his wife had disappeared in a small pleasure boat off the Mediterranean coast.
Von Tiebolt smiled. Everything was going as it had been projected thirty years ago. Even the Nachrichtendienst could not stop them now. In a matter of days the Nachrichtendienst would be castrated.
It was time for the Tinamou.
30
Noel hurried through the lobby of the George V, eager to get to his room, to Helden. Geneva was closer now; it would be closer still when they met Anthony Beaumont in Saint-Tropez and forced the truth from him.
Too, he was anxious to learn whether Buonoventura had returned his call. His mother had said she would let Sam know her plans. All Miles knew in New York was that Althene had left Mexico City for Lisbon. Why Lisbon? And who had followed her?
The image of the man in the black leather jacket came back to Holcroft. The steady look in his eyes, the acceptance of death … kill me and another will take my place. Kill him, another his.
The elevator was empty, the ascent swift. The door opened; Noel caught his breath at the sight of the man standing in the corridor facing him. It was the Verwünschte Kind from Sacré-Coeur, the fashion plate who had searched him in front of the candles.
“Good evening, monsieur.”
“What are you doing here? Is Helden all right?”
“She can answer your questions.”
“So can you.” Holcroft grabbed the man’s arm and turned him forcefully toward the door of the room.
“Take your hands off me!”
“When she tells me to let you go, I’ll let you go. Come on.” Noel propelled the man down the corridor to the door, and knocked.
In seconds the door opened. Helden stood there, startled at the sight of the two of them. In her hand was a folded newspaper; in her eyes was something beyond her astonishment: sadness.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“That’s wh
at I wanted to know, but he wouldn’t tell me.” Holcroft pushed the man through the door.
“Noel, please. He’s one of us.”
“I want to know why he’s here.”
“I called him; he had to know where I was. He told me he had to see me. I’m afraid he’s brought us dreadful news.”
“What?”
“Read the papers,” said the man. “There are both French and English.”
Holcroft picked up a copy of the Herald Tribune from the coffee table.
“Page two,” said the man. “Top left.”
Noel turned the page, snapping it flat. He read the words, a sense of anger… and fear … sweeping over him.
NAVAL OFFICER AND WIFE LOST IN MEDITERRANEAN
St.-Tropez—Commander Anthony Beaumont, captain of the patrol ship Argo and a highly decorated officer of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, along with his wife, who had joined him in this resort town for the weekend, were feared drowned when their small boat foundered in an angry squall several miles south along this rock-bound coast. A capsized craft fitting the description of the small boat was sighted by low-flying coastal search planes. The commander and his wife had not been heard from in over forty-eight hours, prompting second-in-command of the Argo, Lt. Morgan Llewellen, to issue search directives. The Admiralty has concluded that Commander and Mrs. Beaumont lost their lives in the tragic accident. The couple had no children.
“Oh, God,” whispered Holcroft. “Did your brother tell your?”
“About Gretchen?” Helden asked. “Yes. She suffered so much, gave so much. It’s why she wouldn’t see me or talk to me. She never wanted me to know what she did, why she married him. She was afraid I might sense the truth.”
“If what you say is true,” said the well-dressed man, “that Beaumont was ODESSA, we don’t believe that newspaper story for a minute.”
“He means your friend in Berlin,” interrupted Helden. “I told him that you had a friend in Berlin who said he would transmit your suspicions to London.”
Noel understood. She was telling him she had said nothing about Geneva. Noel turned to the man. “What do you think happened?”
“If the British discovered an ODESSA agent in the upper ranks of the navy, especially one commanding a coastal-patrol vessel—a euphemism for an espionage ship—it would mean they had been duped again. There’s just so much they can take; there’d be no inquiries. A swift execution is preferable.”
“That’s a pretty rough indictment,” said Holcroft.
“It’s an embarrassing situation.”
“They’d kill an innocent woman?”
“Without thinking twice—on the possibility that she might not be innocent. The message would be clear, at any rate. The ODESSA network would have its warning.”
Noel turned away in disgust and put his arms around Helden. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know how you must feel, and I wish there was something I could do. Outside of reaching your brother, I’m not sure there is.”
Helden turned and looked at him, her eyes searching. “You trust each other?”
“Very much. We’re working together now.”
“Then there’s no time for mourning, is there? I’m going to stay here tonight,” she told the well-dressed man. “Is it all right? Can I be covered?”
“Of course,” said the man. “I’ll arrange it.”
“Thank you. You’re a good friend.”
He smiled. “I don’t think Mr. Holcroft believes that. But then, he’s got a great deal to learn.” The man nodded and went to the door; he stopped, his hand on the knob, and turned to Noel. “I apologize if that appears cryptic to you, but be tolerant, monsieur. What’s between you and Helden also seems cryptic to me, but I don’t inquire. I trust. But, if that trust is found to be misplaced, we’ll kill you. I just thought you ought to know.”
The Verwünschte Kind left quickly. Noel took an angry step after him, but Helden touched his arm. “Please, darling. He, too, has a lot to learn, and we can’t tell him. He is a friend.”
“He’s an insufferable little bastard.” Holcroft paused. “I’m sorry. You’ve got enough on your mind; you don’t need foolishness from me.”
“A man threatened your life.”
“Someone took your sister’s. Under the circumstances, I was foolish.”
“We’ve no time for such thoughts. Your friend Buonoventura returned your call. I wrote down the number where you can reach him. It’s by the telephone.”
Noel walked to the bedside table and picked up the paper. “Your brother and I were going to Saint-Tropez tomorrow. To make Beaumont tell us what he knew. The news’ll be shattering to him. On both counts.”
“You said you were going to call him. I think it’s best that I do. He and Gretchen were very close. When they were younger, they were inseparable. Where is he?”
“Actually, I don’t know; he didn’t say. He just told me he’d reach me later this evening. That’s what I meant.” Holcroft lifted the phone and gave Buonoventura’s number to the operator.
“I’ll speak to Johann when he calls,” said Helden, going to the window.
The transatlantic lines were light; the link to Curaçao was made in less than a minute.
“You’re a pistol, Noley! I’m glad I don’t have to pay your phone bills. You’re seeing the goddamn world; I’ll say that for you.”
“I’m seeing a lot more than that, Sam. Did my mother call you?”
“She did. She said to tell you she’ll see you in Geneva in about a week. You’re to stay at the Hôtel d’Accord, but you’re not to say anything to anyone.”
“Geneva? She’s going to Geneva? Why the hell did she even leave the country?”
“She said it was an emergency. You were to keep your mouth shut, and not do anything until you see her. She was one upset lady.”
“I’ve got to get hold of her. Did she give you a telephone number—an address—where I could reach her?”
“Not a thing, pal. She didn’t have much time to talk, and the connection was rotten. It was out of Mexico. Anybody mind telling me what’s going on?”
Holcroft shook his head as if Buonoventura were in the room facing him. “Sorry, Sam. Perhaps someday. I owe you.”
“I think maybe you do. We’ll cut a deck for it. Take care of yourself. You got a real nice mother. Be good to her.”
Holcroft hung up. Buonoventura was a good friend to have. As good a friend as the well-dressed man was to Helden, he thought. He wondered what she meant when she asked the Verwünschte Kind if she were covered. Covered for what? By whom?
“My mother’s on her way to Geneva,” he said.
Helden turned. “I heard you. You sounded upset.”
“I am. A man followed her to Mexico. Miles had him picked up at the airport; he took a cyanide capsule before they could find out who he was or where he came from.”
“ ‘Kill me, another will take my place. Kill him, another his.’ Weren’t those the words?”
“Yes. I was thinking about them on the way up.”
“Does Johann know?”
“I told him everything.”
“What does he think?”
“He doesn’t know what to think. The key was Beaumont. I don’t know where we go now, except to Geneva, with the hope that no one stops us.”
Helden came toward him. “Tell me something. What can they—whoever they are—really do? Once the three of you present yourselves to the bank in Geneva, each of you in agreement, all reasonable men, it’s over. So what can they actually do?”
“You said it last night.”
“What?”
“They can kill us.”
The telephone rang. Holcroft reached for it “Yes?”
“It’s John Tennyson.” The voice was strained.
“Your sister wants to talk to you,” said Holcroft.
“In a moment,” replied Tennyson. “We must speak first. Does she know?”
“Yes. Obviously you do, too.”
&
nbsp; “My paper called me with the news. The night editor knew how close Gretchen and I were. It’s horrible.”
“I wish there was something I could say.”
“I couldn’t help you when you told me about your stepfather. We have to live with these things by ourselves. There’s nothing anyone can do or say when they happen. Helden understands.”
“Then you don’t believe the story that was given out? About the boat and the storm?”
“That they went out in a boat and never came back? Yes, I believe it. That he was responsible? Of course not. It’s not even plausible. Whatever else he was, Beaumont was a superb sailor. He could smell a storm twenty miles away. If he was in a small craft, he’d have it in shore before any weather struck.”
“Who then?”
“Come, my friend, we both know the answer. That someone else who hired him also killed him. They made him follow you to Rio. You spotted him; his usefulness had come to an end.” Tennyson paused. “It was as if they’d known we were to leave for Saint-Tropez. The unpardonable act was to kill Gretchen as well. For appearances.”
“I’m sorry. God, I feel responsible.”
“It was totally out of your control.”
“Could it have been the British?” asked Holcroft. “I told Kessler about Beaumont. He said he was going to work through channels. Bonn to London. Maybe an ODESSA agent commanding one of those reconnaissance ships was too much of an embarrassment.”
“The temptation might be there, but no one in authority would grant permission. The English would put him into isolation and break him on a rack if they had to get information, but they wouldn’t kill him. They had him. He and Gretchen were killed by someone who could be damaged by what he knew, not by anyone who could benefit.”
Tennyson’s reasoning was persuasive. “You’re right. The British wouldn’t gain anything. They’d keep him under wraps.”
“Exactly. And there’s another factor, a moral one. I think MI Six is riddled with self-seekers, but I don’t believe they kill to avoid embarrassment. It’s not in their nature. But they’ll go to extraordinary lengths to maintain a reputation. Or revive it. And I pray to God I’m right about that.”