“Don’t lie to me!” Von Tiebolt whipped the Luger across Herr Oberst’s face, lacerating the cheek. “You’re not that good anymore. You’re too old. You have lapses! Your brain is atrophied. You pause at the wrong instant, Herr General.”
“You’re a maniac.…”
“You’re a liar! A poor liar at that. Traitor.” Again he struck Herr Oberst in the face with the barrel of the weapon. Blood poured from the open wounds. “You lied about her!… My God, you knew!”
“Nothing … nothing.”
“Yes! Everything! That’s why she’s flying to Geneva. I asked myself why.” Von Tiebolt struck furiously again; the old man’s lip was torn half off his face. “You! In your last desperate attempt to stop us, you reached her! You threatened her … and in those threats you told her what she never knew!”
“You’re wrong. Wrong.”
“No,” said Von Tiebolt, suddenly lowering his voice. “There’s no other reason for her to fly to Geneva.… So that’s how you think you’ll stop us. The mother reaches the child and tells him to turn back. Her covenant is a lie.”
Falkenheim shook his bloodied head. “No.… Nothing you say is true.”
“It’s all true, and it answers a last question. If you so dearly wanted to destroy Geneva, all you had to do was let the word go out. Nazi treasure. Claims would be made against it from the Black Sea to the northern Elbe, from Moscow to Paris. But you don’t do that. Again, why?” Von Tiebolt bent over farther, inches from the battered face beneath him. “You think you can control Geneva, use the millions as you want them used. ‘Amends must be made.’ Holcroft learns the truth and becomes your soldier, his anger complete, his commitment tripled.”
“He will find out,” whispered Falkenheim. “He’s better than you; we’ve both learned that, haven’t we? You should find satisfaction in that. After all, in his own way, he’s a Sonnenkind.”
“Sonnen—” Von Tiebolt swung the barrel of his pistol again across Herr Oberst’s face. “You’re filled with lies. I said the name; you showed nothing.”
“Why should I lie now? Operation Sonnenkinder,” said Falkenheim. “By ship, and plane, and submarine. Everywhere the children. We never got the lists, but we don’t need them. They’ll be stopped when you’re stopped. When Geneva’s stopped.”
“For that to happen, Althene Clausen must reach her son. She won’t expose Geneva for what it is until she’s tried everything else. To do so would destroy her son, let the world know who he is. She’ll do anything before she lets that happen. She’ll try to reach him quietly. We’ll stop her.”
“You’ll be stopped!” said Falkenheim, choking on the blood that flowed over his lips. “There’ll be no vast sums dispensed to your Sonnenkinder. We, too, have an army, one you’ll never know about. Each man will gladly give his life to stop you, expose you.”
“Of course, Herr General.” The blond man nodded. “The Jews of Har Sha’alav.”
The words were spoken softly, but they had the effect of a lash on the old man’s wounds. “No!…”
“Yes,” said Von Tiebolt. “ ‘Kill me, another will take my place. Kill him, another his.’ The Jews of Har Sha’alav. Indoctrinated by the Nachrichtendienst so thoroughly they became the Nachrichtendienst. The living remains of Auschwitz.”
“You’re an animal.…” Falkenheim’s body trembled in a spasm of pain.
“I am Wolfsschanze, the true Wolfsschanze,” said the blond man, raising the Luger. “Until you knew the truth, the Jews tried to kill the American, and now the Jews will die. Within the week Har Sha’alav will be destroyed, and with it the Nachrichtendienst. Wolfsschanze will triumph.”
Von Tiebolt held the gun in front of the old man’s head. He fired.
35
Tears streaked down Helden’s cheeks. She cradled the body of Klaus Falkenheim, but could not bring herself to look at the head. Finally, she let go of the corpse and crawled away; filled with horror … and guilt. She lay curled on the floor, her sobbing uncontrollable. In pain, she pushed herself to the wall, her forehead pressed against the molding, and let the tears pour out. Gradually it became clear to her that her screams and sobs had not been heard. She had come upon the horrible scene alone, and had found signs of the hated ODESSA everywhere: swastikas scratched into wood, scrawled with soap on the window, painted with Falkenheim’s blood on the floor. Beyond the despicable symbols, the room had been torn apart. Books ripped, shelves broken, furniture slashed; the house had been searched by maniacs. There was nothing left but ruins.
Yet there was something … not in the house. Outside. In the forest. Helden pressed her hands on the floor and raised herself against the wall, trying desperately to remember the words spoken by Herr Oberst only five mornings ago: If anything should happen to me, you must not panic.… Go alone into the woods where you took me for my brief walk the other day. Do you remember? I asked you to pick up a cluster of wildflowers, as I remained by a tree. I pointed out to you that there was a perfect V formed by the limbs. Go to that tree. Wedged into the branches is a small canister. Inside, there is a message to be read only by you.…
Helden pried the small tubular receptacle from its recess and tore open the rubber top. Inside there was a rolled-up piece of paper; attached to it were several bills, each worth ten thousand francs. She removed the money and read the message.
My dearest HELDEN—
Time and danger to your person will not permit me to write here what you must know. Three months ago I arranged for you to come to me because I believed you were an arm of an enemy I have waited thirty years to confront. I have come to know you—to love you—and with great relief to understand that you are not part of the horror that might once again be visited upon the world.
Should I be killed, it will mean I have been found out. Further, it will signify that the time is near for the catastrophes to begin. Orders must be relayed to those courageous men who will stand at the final barricade.
You must go alone—I repeat, alone—to Lake Neuchâtel, in Switzerland. Don’t let anyone follow you. I know you can do this. You have been taught. In the village of Près-du-Lac there is a man named Werner Gerhardt. Find him. Give him the following message: “The coin of Wolfsschanze has two sides.” He will know what to do.
You must go quickly. There is very little time. Again, say nothing to anyone. Raise no alarms. Tell your employers and your friends that you have personal matters in England, a logical statement considering the fact that you lived there for more than five years.
Quickly now, my dearest Helden. To Neuchâtel. To Près-du-Lac. To Werner Gerhardt. Memorize the name and burn this paper.
Godspeed,
HERR OBERST
Helden leaned against the tree and looked up at the sky. Wisps of thin clouds moved swiftly in an easterly course; the winds were strong. She wished she could be carried by them, and that she did not have to run from point to point, every move a risk, every person she looked at a potential enemy.
Noel had said it would be over soon and she would be able to stop running.
He was wrong.
* * *
Holcroft pleaded over the telephone, trying to convince her not to go—at least for another day—but Helden would not be dissuaded. Word had reached her through Gallimard that her sister’s personal effects were awaiting her inspection; decisions had to be considered, arrangements made.
“I’ll call you in Geneva, my darling. You’ll be staying at the d’Accord?”
“Yes.” What was wrong with her? She’d been so happy, so elated, barely two hours ago. She sounded tense now; her words were clear, but her voice was strained.
“I’ll phone you in a day or so. Under the name of Fresca.”
“Do you want me to go with you? I don’t have to be in Geneva until late tomorrow night. The Kesslers won’t get there till ten, your brother even later.”
“No, darling. It’s a sad trip. I’d rather make it alone. Johann’s in London now.… I’ll try to reach him.”
“You’ve got some clothes here.”
“A dress, a pair of slacks, shoes. It’s quicker for me to stop at … Herr Oberst’s … and pick up others more appropriate for Portsmouth.”
“Quicker?”
“On the way to the airport. I have to go there, at any rate. My passport, money.…”
“I have money,” interrupted Noel. “I thought you’d been to his place by now.”
“Please, darling. Don’t be difficult.” Helden’s voice cracked. “I told you, I stopped at the office.”
“No, you didn’t. You didn’t say that. You said you got word.” Holcroft was alarmed; she wasn’t making sense. Herr Oberst’s hidden cottage was not on the way to Orly. “Helden, what’s the matter?”
“I love you, Noel. I’ll call you tomorrow night. Hotel d’Accord, Geneva.” She hung up.
Holcroft replaced the phone, the sound of her voice echoing in his ears. It was possible she was going to London, but he doubted it. Where was she going? Why did she lie? God damn it! What was wrong with her? What had happened?
There was no point in staying in Paris. Since he had to reach Geneva on his own, he might as well get started.
He could not chance the airlines or the trains. Unseen men would be watching; he had to elude them. The assistant manager of the George V could hire him a car under the name of Fresca. The route would be mapped for him. He would drive through the night to Geneva.
Althene Holcroft looked out the window of the TAP airliner at the lights of Lisbon below; they would be on the ground in minutes. She had a great deal to accomplish during the next twelve hours, and she hoped to God she was capable of doing it. A man had followed her in Mexico; she knew that. But then he had disappeared at the airport, which meant that another had taken his place.
She had failed in Mexico. She had not dropped out of sight. Once in Lisbon, she would have to vanish; she could not fail again.
Lisbon.
Oh, God, Lisbon!
It had been in Lisbon where it all began. The lie of a lifetime, conceived in diabolical brilliance. What an imbecile she had been; what a performance Heinrich had given.
She had at first refused to meet with Heinrich in Lisbon, so total was her loathing, but she had gone because the threat was clear: Her son would be branded by his father. Nod Holcroft would never be left in peace, for the name Noel Clausen—only son of the infamous Nazi—would trail him throughout his life.
How relieved she’d been! How grateful that the threat had been only a device to bring her to Lisbon. And how stunned and awestruck when Heinrich calmly outlined the extraordinary plan that would take years to bring to pass, but when it did, would make the world a far better place. She listened, was convinced, and did everything he asked her to do. For amends would be made.
She had loved him again—during those brief few days in Lisbon—and in a rush of emotion had offered herself to him.
With tears in his eyes, he had refused. He was not worthy, he said.
It was the consummate deception! The ultimate irony!
For now, at this moment, the very threat that brought her to Lisbon thirty years ago was the threat that brought her here again. Noel Holcroft would be destroyed; he would become Noel Clausen, son of Heinrich, instrument of the new Reich.
A man had come to her in the middle of the night in Bedford Hills. A man who had gained entrance by invoking the name “Manfredi” behind the closed door; she had admitted him thinking perhaps her son had sent him. He had said he was a Jew from a place called Har Sha’alav, and that he was going to kill her. And then he would kill her son. There’d be no specter of Wolfsschanze—the false Wolfsschanze—spreading from Zurich out of Geneva.
Althene had been furious. Did the man know to whom he was speaking? What she had done? What she stood for?
The man knew only about Geneva and Zurich … and Lisbon thirty years ago. It was all he had to know, to know what she stood for, and that stance was an abomination to him and all men like him throughout the world.
Althene had seen the pain and the anger in the dark eyes that held her at bay as surely as if a weapon had been leveled at her. In desperation, she had demanded that he tell her what he thought he knew.
He had told her that extraordinary sums were to be funneled to committees and causes throughout all nations. To men and women who had been waiting for thirty years for the signal.
There would be killing and disruption and conflagrations in the streets; governments would be bewildered, their agencies crippled. The cries for stability and order would be heard across the lands. Strong men and women with massive sums at their disposal would then assert themselves. Within months control would be theirs.
They were everywhere. In all countries, awaiting only the signal from Geneva.
Who were they?
The Sonnenkinder. The children of fanatics, sent out of Germany more than thirty years ago by plane and ship and submarine. Sent out by men who knew their cause was lost—but believed that cause could live again.
They were everywhere. They could not be fought by ordinary men in ordinary ways through ordinary channels of authority. In too many instances the Sonnenkinder controlled those channels. But the Jews of Har Sha’alav were not ordinary men; nor did they fight in ordinary ways. They understood that to stop the false Wolfsschanze, they had to fight secretly, violently, never allowing the Sonnenkinder to know where they were—or where they would strike next. And the first order of business was to stop the massive infusion of funds.
Expose them now!
Who? Where? What are their identities? How will proof be furnished? Who can say this general or that admiral, this chief of police or that corporation president, this justice or that senator, Congressman, or governor is a Sonnenkind? Men run for office espousing clichés wrapped in code words, appealing to hatreds, and still they are not suspect. Instead, crowds cheer them and wave flags and put emblems in their lapels.
They are everywhere. The Nazi is among us and we don’t see him. He is cloaked in respectability and a pressed suit of clothes.
The Jew of Har Sha’alav had spoken passionately. “Even you, old woman. You and your son, instruments of the new Reich. Even you do not know who they are.”
I know nothing. I swear on my life I know nothing. I’m not what you think I am. Kill me. For God’s sake, kill me. Now! Take your vengeance out on me. You deserve that and so do I if what you say is true. But I implore you, reach my son. Take him. Explain to him. Stop him! Don’t kill him; don’t brand him. He’s not what you think he is. Give him his life. Take mine, but give him his!
The Jew of Har Sha’alav had spoken. “Richard Holcroft was killed. It was no accident.”
She had nearly collapsed, but she would not allow herself to fall. She could not permit the momentary oblivion that would have been so welcome.
Oh, my God.…
“Wolfsschanze killed him. The false Wolfsschanze. As surely as if they had marched him into a chamber at Auschwitz.”
What is Wolfsschanze? Why do you call it false?
“Learn for yourself. We’ll talk again. If you’ve lied, well kill you. Your son will live—for as long as the world lets him—but he will live with a swastika across his face.”
Reach him. Tell him.
The man from Har Sha’alav left. Althene sat in a chair by the window, staring out at the snow-covered grounds throughout the night. Her beloved Richard, the husband who had given her and her son their lives again.… What had she done?
But she knew what to do now.
The plane touched ground, the impact pushing Althene’s reveries out of her mind, bringing her back to the moment at hand. To Lisbon.
She stood at the railing of the ferry, the waters of the Tagus River slapping against the hull as the old ship made its way across the bay. In her left hand was a lace handkerchief, fluttering in the wind.
She thought she saw him but, as instructed, made no move until he approached her. She had never seen him before, of course,
but that was not important. He was an old man in rumpled clothes, with heavy gray sideburns that met the stubble of a white beard. His eyes searched the passengers as if he were afraid one of them might yell for the police. He was the man; he stood behind her.
“The river looks cold today,” he said.
The lace handkerchief flew away in the wind. “Oh, dear, I’ve lost it.” Althene watched it plummet into the water.
“You’ve found it,” said the man.
“Thank you.”
“Please do not look at me. Look at the skyline across the lagoon.”
“Very well,”
“You spread money too generously, senhora,” the man said.
“I’m in a great hurry.”
“You bring up names so long in the past there are no faces. Requests that have not been made in years.”
“I can’t believe times have changed that much.”
“Oh, but they have, senhora. Men and women still travel secretly, but not with such simple devices as doctored passports. It’s the age of the computer. False papers are not what they once were. We go back to the war. To the escape routes.”
“I have to get to Geneva as quickly as possible. No one must know I’m there.”
“You’ll get to Geneva, senhora, and only those you inform will know you’re there. But it will not be as quickly as you wish; it will not be a matter of a single flight on an airline.”
“How long?”
“Two or three days. Otherwise there are no guarantees. You’ll be picked up, either by the authorities or by those you care to avoid.”
“How do I get there?”
“Across borders that are unpatrolled, or where the guards can be bribed. The northern route. Sierra de Gata, across to Zaragoza, on the eastern Pyrénées. From there to Montpellier and Avignon. At Avignon a small plane will take you to Grenoble, another to Chambéry and to Genève. It will cost.”
“I can pay. When do we start?”
“Tonight.”
36
The blond man signed the Hôtel d’Accord registration card and handed it to the desk clerk.