Tennyson reached the door, opened it, and climbed inside.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” he said.
“Bonjour,” replied the Frenchman. “You look tired.”
“It’s been a long night. Did you bring everything I asked for? I have very little time.”
“Everything.” The Sûreté official reached for a file folder on the ledge under the dashboard and handed it to the blond man. “I think you’ll find this complete.”
“Give me a summary; I’ll read it later. I want to know quickly where we stand.”
“Very well.” The Frenchman put the folder on his lap. “First things first. The man named Werner Gerhardt in Neuchâtel cannot possibly be a functioning member of the Nachrichtendienst.”
“Why not? Von Pappen had his enemies in the diplomatic corps. Why couldn’t this Gerhardt have been one of them?”
“He may very well have been. But I use the present tense; he is no longer. He’s not only senile; he’s feebleminded. He’s been this way for years; he’s a joke in the village where he lives. The old man who mumbles to himself and sings songs and feeds pigeons in the square.”
“Senility can be faked,” said Tennyson. “And ‘feeble’ is hardly a pathological term.”
“There’s proof. He’s an outpatient at the local clinic, with a bona fide medical record. He has the mentality of a child and is barely able to care for himself.”
Tennyson nodded, smiling. “So much for Werner Gerhardt. Speaking of patients, what’s the status of the traitor in Stuttgart?”
“Cerebral cancer, final stages. He won’t last a week.”
“So the Nachrichtendienst has but one functioning leader left,” said Tennyson. “Klaus Falkenheim.”
“It would appear so. However, he may have delegated authority to a younger man. He has soldiers available to him.”
“Merely available? From the children he protects? The Verwünschte Kinder?”
“Hardly. They’re sprinkled with a few idealists, but there’s no essential strength in their ranks. Falkenheim has sympathy for them, but he keeps those interests separate from the Nachrichtendienst.”
“Then where do the Nachrichtendienst soldiers come from?”
“They’re Jews.”
“Jews!”
The Frenchman nodded. “As near as we can determine, they’re recruited as they’re needed, one assignment at a time. There’s no organization, no structured group. Beyond being Jews, they have only one thing in common: where they come from.”
“Which is?”
“The kibbutz Har Sha’alav. In the Negev.”
“Har Sha’alav?… My God, how perfect,” said Tennyson with cold, professional respect “Har Sha’alav. The kibbutz in Israel with but one requirement for residency: The applicant has to be the sole survivor of a family destroyed in the camps.”
“Right,” said the Frenchman. “The kibbutz has more than two hundred men—men, now—who can be recruited.”
Tennyson looked out the window. “ ‘Kill me, another will take my place. Kill him, another his.’ The implication was an unseen army willing to accept a collective death sentence. The commitment is understandable, but this is no army. It is a series of patrols, selected at random.” Tennyson turned back to the driver. “Are you sure of your information?”
“Yes. The breakthrough came with the two unknown men killed in Montereau. Our laboratories traced a number of things: clothing, sediment in shoes and in skin pores, the alloys used in dental work, and especially surgical history. Both men had been wounded; one had shell fragments in his shoulder. The Yom Kippur war. We narrowed the evidence to the southwest Negev and found the kibbutz. The rest was simple.”
“You sent a man to Har Sha’alav?”
The Frenchman nodded again. “One of us. His report is in here. No one talks freely at Har Sha’alav, but what’s going on is clear. Someone sends a cablegram; a few men are chosen and given orders.”
“Potential suicide squads committed to the destruction of anything related to the swastika.”
“Exactly. And to confirm our findings, we’ve established the fact that Falkenheim traveled to Israel three months ago. The computers picked up his name.”
“Three months ago.… At the time Manfredi first reached Holcroft to set up the meeting in Geneva. So Falkenheim not only knew about Wolfsschanze, he projected the schedule. He recruited and prepared his army three months in advance. It’s time he and I met each other in our proper roles: two sons of the Reich. One true, one false.”
“To what should I attribute his death?”
“To the ODESSA, of course. And call a strike on Har Sha’alav. I want every leader killed; prepare it carefully. Blame it on Rache terrorists. Let’s go.”
For the next minutes, the blond man walking down the winding dirt road would not be John Tennyson. Instead, he would be called by his rightful name, Johann von Tiebolt, son of Wilhelm, leader of the new Reich.
The cottage was in sight; the death of a traitor approached. Von Tiebolt turned and looked back up the hill. The man from the Sûreté waved. He would remain there, blocking the road until the job was done. Von Tiebolt continued walking until he was within ten yards of the stone path that led to the small house. He stopped, concealed by the foliage, and shifted his gun from the shoulder holster to his overcoat pocket Crouching, he stepped through the overgrown grass, toward the door and beyond it, then stood up, his face at the edge of the single front window.
Though the morning was bright with sunlight, a table lamp was turned on in the dark interior of the room. Beyond the lamp Klaus Falkenheim sat in his wheelchair, his back to the window.
Von Tiebolt walked silently back to the door and considered for a moment whether or not to break it down, as a killer from the ODESSA undoubtedly would do. He decided against it. Herr Oberst was old and decrepit, but he was no fool. Somewhere on his person, or in that wheelchair, was a weapon. At the first sound of a crash it would be leveled at the intruder.
Johann smiled at himself. There was no harm in a little game. One consummate actor onstage with another. Who would be applauded most enthusiastically? The answer was obvious: he who was there for the curtain call. It would not be Klaus Falkenheim.
He rapped on the door. “Mein Herr. Forgive me, it’s Johann von Tiebolt. I’m afraid my car couldn’t negotiate the hill.”
At first there was only silence. If it continued beyond five seconds, Von Tiebolt realized he would have to take sterner measures; there could be no sudden telephone calls. Then he heard the old man’s words.
“Von Tiebolt?”
“Yes. Helden’s brother. I’ve come to speak with her. She’s not at work, so I assume she’s here.”
“She’s not.” The old man was silent again.
“Then I shan’t disturb you, Mein Herr, but if I may, is it possible to use your telephone and call for a taxi?”
“The telephone?”
The blond man smiled. Falkenheim’s confusion carried through the barrier between them. “I’ll only be a moment. I really must find Helden by noon. I leave for Switzerland at two o’clock.”
Again silence, but it was short-lived. He heard a bolt slide back, and the door opened. Herr Oberst was there in the chair, wheeling backward, a blanket on his lap. There had been no blanket moments ago.
“Danke, mein Herr,” said Von Tiebolt, holding out his hand. “It’s good to see you again.”
Bewildered, the old man raised his hand in greeting. Johann wrapped his fingers swiftly around the bony hand, twisting it to the left. With his free hand, he reached down and yanked the blanket from Falkenheim’s lap. He saw what he expected: a Luger across the emaciated legs. He removed it, kicking the door shut as he did.
“Heil Hitler! General Falkenheim,” he said. “Wo ist der Nachrichtendienst?”
The old man remained motionless, staring up at his captor, no fear in his eyes. “I wondered when you would find out. I didn’t think it would be so quickly. I commend you, Sohn Wilhelm von Tiebolts.??
?
“Yes, son of Wilhelm, and something else as well.”
“Oh, yes. The new Führer. That’s your objective, but it won’t happen. We’ll stop you. If you’ve come to kill me, do so. I’m prepared.”
“Why should I? Such a valuable hostage.”
“I doubt you’d get much ransom.”
Von Tiebolt spun the old man’s chair toward the center of the room. “I imagine that’s true,” he replied, abruptly stopping the chair. “I assume you have certain funds available, perhaps solicited by the wandering children you think so much of. However, Pfennigs and francs are immaterial to me.”
“I was sure of that So fire the gun.”
“And,” said Von Tiebolt, “it’s doubtful that a man dying of cerebral cancer in a Stuttgart sanatorium could offer much. Wouldn’t you say that, too, is true?”
Falkenheim controlled his surprise. “He was a very brave man,” he said.
“I’m sure. You’re all brave men. Successful traitors must be imbued with a certain warped courage. Werner Gerhardt, for instance.”
“Gerhardt?…” This time the old man could not conceal his shock. “Where did you hear that name?”
“You wonder how I could know? How I even found out about you, perhaps?”
“Not about me. The risk I took was quite apparent. I arranged for a Von Tiebolt to be near me. I considered that risk necessary.”
“Yes, the beautiful Helden. But then, I’m told we’re all beautiful. It has its advantages.”
“She’s no part of you; she never was.”
“She’s part of your wandering garbage, die Verwünschte Kinder. A weak whore. She whores now with the American.”
“Your judgments don’t interest me. How did you find out about Gerhardt?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“I’m going to die. What difference does it make?”
“I’ll strike a bargain. Where did you learn of Wolfs-schanze?”
“Agreed. Gerhardt first.”
“Why not He’s of no value. A senile, feebleminded old man.”
“Don’t harm him!” shouted Falkenheim suddenly. “He’s been through so much … so much pain.”
“Your concern is touching.”
“They broke him. Pour months of torture; his mind snapped. Leave him in peace.”
“Who broke him? The Allies? The British?”
“ODESSA.”
“For once they served a useful purpose.”
“Where did you hear his name? How did you find him?”
Von Tiebolt smiled. “The British. They have a file on the Nachrichtendienst. You see, they’re very interested in the Nachrichtendienst right now. Their objective is to find you and destroy you.”
“Destroy? There’s no reason.…”
“Oh, but there is. They have proof you hired the Tinamou.”
“The Tinamou? Absurd!”
“Not at all. It was your final vengeance, the revenge of tired old men against their enemies. Take my word for it: The proof is irrefutable. I gave it to them.”
The old man looked at Johann, his expression filled with revulsion. “You’re obscene.”
“About Wolfsschanze!” Von Tiebolt raised his voice. “Where? How? I’ll know if you lie.”
Falkenheim sank back in the wheelchair. “It doesn’t matter now. For either of us. I’ll die, and you’ll be stopped.”
“Now it is I who am not interested in your judgments. Wolfsschanze!”
Falkenheim glanced up listlessly. “Althene Clausen,” he said quietly. “Heinrich Clausen’s nearly perfect strategy.”
Von Tiebolt’s face was frozen in astonishment. “Clausen’s wife?…” He trailed off the words. “You found out about her?”
The old man turned back to Johann. “It wasn’t difficult; we had informers everywhere. In New York as well as Berlin. We knew who Mrs. Richard Holcroft was, and because we knew, we sent out orders to protect her. That was the irony: to protect her. Then word came: At the height of the war, while her American husband is at sea, she flies in a private plane to Mexico. From Mexico she goes secretly on to Buenos Aires, where the German embassy takes over and she’s flown under diplomatic cover to Lisbon. To Lisbon. Why?”
“Berlin gave you the answer?” asked Von Tiebolt.
“Yes. Our people in the Finanzministerium. We’d learned that extraordinary sums of money were being siphoned out of Germany; it was in our interest not to interfere. Whatever helped cripple the Nazi machine, we sanctioned; peace and sanity would return sooner. But five days after Mrs. Holcroft left New York for Lisbon, by way of Mexico and Buenos Aires, Heinrich Clausen, the genius of the Finanzministerium, flew covertly out of Berlin. He stopped first in Geneva to meet with a banker named Manfredi, then he too went on to Lisbon. We knew he was no defector; above all men, he was a true believer in German—Aryan—supremacy. So much so that he couldn’t stomach the flaws in Hitler’s ranks of gangsters.” Herr Oberst paused. “We made the simple addition. Clausen and his supposedly treasonous former wife in Lisbon together; millions upon millions banked in Switzerland … and the defeat of Germany now assured. We looked for the deeper meaning and found it in Geneva.”
“You read the documents?”
“We read everything from La Grande Banque de Genève. The price was five hundred thousand Swiss francs.”
“To Manfredi?”
“Naturally. He knew who we were; he thought we’d believe—and honor—the objectives espoused in those papers. We let him think so. Wolfsschanze! Whose Wolfs-schanze? ‘Amends must be made.’ ” Falkenheim spoke the words scathingly. “The thought furthest from any of their minds. That money was to be used to revive the Reich.”
“What did you do then?”
The old soldier looked directly at Von Tiebolt. “Returned to Berlin and executed your father, Kessler, and Heinrich Clausen. They never intended to take their own lives; they expected to find sanctuary in South America, oversee their plan, watch it come to fruition. We gave them their pact with death that Clausen wrote so movingly about to his son.”
Von Tiebolt fingered the Luger in his hand. “So you learned the secret of Althene Clausen?”
“You spoke of whores. She’s the whore of the world.”
“I’m surprised you let her live.”
“A second irony: We had no choice. With Clausen gone we realized die was the key to Wolfsschanze. Your Wolfsschanze. We knew that she and Clausen had refined every move that was to be made during the coming years. We had to learn; she’d never tell us, so we had to watch. When were the millions to be taken from Geneva? How specifically were they to be used? And by whom?”
“The Sonnenkinder,” said Von Tiebolt.
The old man’s eyes were blank. “What did you say?”
“Never mind. So it was a question of waiting for Althene Clausen to make her move, whatever it might be?”
“Yes, but we learned nothing from her. Ever. As the years went by, we realized she had absorbed her husband’s genius. In thirty years she never once betrayed the cause by word or action. One had to admire the sheer discipline. Our first signal came when Manfredi made contact with the son.” Falkenheim winced. “The despicable thing is that she consented to the rape of her own child. Holcroft knows nothing.”
The blond man laughed. “You’re so out of touch. The renowned Nachrichtendienst is a collection of fools.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. You watched the wrong horse in the wrong stable!”
“What?”
“For thirty years your eyes were focused on the one person who knew absolutely nothing. The whore of the world, as you call her, is secure in the knowledge that she and her son are truly part of a great apology. She’s never thought otherwise!” Von Tiebolt’s laughter echoed off the walls of the room. “That trip to Lisbon,” he continued, “was Heinrich Clausen’s most brilliant manipulation. The contrite sinner turned holy man with a holy cause. It must have been the performance of his life. Ev
en down to his final instructions that she was not to give her instant approval. The son was to see for himself the justness of his martyred father’s cause, and, being convinced, become committed beyond anything in his life.” Von Tiebolt leaned against the table, his arms folded, the Luger in his hand. “Don’t you see? None of us could do it. The document in Geneva was utterly correct about that. The fortunes stolen by the Third Reich are legendary. There could not be a single connection between that account in Geneva and a true son of Germany.”
Falkenheim stared at Johann. “She never knew?…”
“Never! She was the ideal puppet. Even psychologically. The fact that Heinrich Clausen was revealed to be that holy man reaffirmed her confidence in her own judgments. She had married that man, not the Nazi.”
“Incredible,” whispered Herr Oberst.
“At least that,” agreed Von Tiebolt. “She followed his instructions to the letter. Every contingency was considered, including a death certificate for an infant male in a London hospital. All traces to Clausen were obliterated.” The blond man laughed again, the sound unnerving. “So you see, you’re no match for Wolfsschanze.”
“Your Wolfsschanze, not mine.” Falkenheim glanced away. “You are to be commended.”
Suddenly Von Tiebolt stopped laughing. Something was wrong. It was in the old man’s eyes—flashed briefly, clouded, deep within that emaciated skull. “Look at me!” he shouted. “Look at me!”
Falkenheim turned. “What is it?”
“I said something just now … something you knew about. You knew.”
“What are you talking about?”
Von Tiebolt grabbed the old man by the throat. “I spoke of contingencies, of a death certificate! In a London hospital! You’ve heard it before!”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Falkenheim’s trembling fingers were wrapped around the blond man’s wrists, his voice rasping under the pressure of Johann’s grip.
“I think you do. Everything I’ve just told you shocked you. Or did it? You pretended shock, but you’re not shocked. The hospital. The death certificate. You didn’t react at all! You’ve heard it before!”
“I’ve heard nothing,” gasped Falkenheim.