Willie had reserved a suite on the third floor; its entrance was the last door in the corridor toward the street. Noel walked through a dark hallway that led to a darker staircase. At the landing, there was a cart against the wall, three small, unopened cases of hotel soap beneath one that was half empty. He removed the top carton, picked up the remaining three, and proceeded up the marble steps, hoping he looked even vaguely like someone who might belong there.
“Jacques? C’est vous?” The caller spoke from below, his voice pleasant.
Holcroft turned and shrugged.
“Pardon. Je croyais que c’était Jacques qui travaille chez la fleuriste.”
“Non,” said Noel quickly, continuing up the stairs.
He reached the third floor, put the cartons of soap on the staircase, and removed the smock. He put on his raincoat, felt the revolver, and opened the door slowly; there was no one in the corridor.
He walked to the last door on the right, listening for sounds; there were none. He remembered listening at another door in another hallway light-years away from this ivoried, ornamental corridor in which he now stood. In a place called Montereau.… There had been gunfire then. And death.
Oh, God, had anything happened to Willie? Willie, who had not refused him, who had been a friend when others could not be found. Holcroft took out the gun and reached for the knob. He stepped back as far as he could.
In one motion he twisted the knob and threw his full weight against the door, his shoulder a battering ram. The door sprang open unimpeded, crashing into the wall behind it; it had not been locked.
Noel crouched, the weapon leveled in front of him. There was no one in the room, but a window was open, the cold winter air billowing the curtains. He walked to it bewildered; why would a window be open in this weather?
Then he saw them: circles of blood on the sill. Someone had bled profusely. Outside the window was a fire escape. He could see streaks of red on the steps. Whoever had run down them had been severely wounded.
Willie?
“Willie? Willie, are you here?”
Silence.
Holcroft ran into the bedroom.
No one.
“Willie?”
He was about to turn around when he saw strange markings on the paneling of a closed door. The paneling was profuse with gold fluting and ornate fleurs-de-lis, pink and white and light blue. But what he saw was not part of the rococo design.
They were blurred handprints outlined in blood.
He raced to the door, kicking it in with such force that the paneling cracked and splintered.
What he saw was the horror of a lifetime. Arched over the rim of the empty bathtub was the mutilated body of Willie Ellis, soaked in blood. There were huge punctures in his chest and stomach, intestines protruding over his red-drenched shirt, his throat slashed so deeply that his head was barely attached to his neck, his eyes wide open, glaring upward in agony.
Noel collapsed, trying to swallow the air that would not fill his lungs.
And then he saw the word, scrawled in blood on the tiles above the mutilated corpse.
NACHRICHTENDIENST
38
Helden found the path three kilometers beyond the fork in the road leading out of Près-du-Lac. She had borrowed a flashlight from the concierge, and now she had angled the beam of light in front of her as she began to trek through the woods to Werner Gerhardt’s house.
It was not so much a house, thought Helden as she reached the strange-looking structure, as a miniature stone fortress. It was very small—smaller than Herr Oberst’s cottage—but from where she stood the walls appeared to be extremely thick. The beam of the flashlight caught bulging rocks that had been cemented together along the two sides she could see; and the roof, too, was heavy. The few windows were high off the ground and narrow. She had never seen a house like it before. It seemed to belong in a children’s fairy tale, subject to magic incantations.
It answered a question provoked by the concierge’s remarks when she had returned from the village square several hours ago.
“Did you find Mad Gerhardt? They say he was once a great diplomat before the marbles rattled in his head. It’s rumored old friends still care for him, although none come to see him anymore. They cared once, though. They built him a strong cottage on the lake. No Christmas wind will ever knock it down.”
No wind, no storm, no winter snows, could have any effect on this house. Someone had cared deeply.
She heard the sound of a door opening. It startled Helden, because there was no door at the side or rear walls. Then the beam of light caught the short figure of Werner Gerhardt; he stood on the edge of the lakeside porch and raised his band.
How could the old man possibly have heard her?
“You’ve come, I see,” said Gerhardt, no madness in his voice. “Quickly now, these woods are cold. Get inside, in front of the fire. We’ll have tea.”
The room seemed larger than the outside structure would indicate. The heavy furniture was old but comfortable, a profusion of leather and wood. Helden sat on an ottoman, warmed by the fire and the tea. She had not realized how cold she’d been.
They had talked for a few minutes, Gerhardt answering the first question before she’d had a chance to ask it.
“I came here from Berlin five years ago, by way of München, where my cover was established. I was a ‘victim’ of ODESSA, a broken man living out his years in senility and solitude. I am a figure of ridicule; a doctor at the clinic keeps my records. His name is Litvak, should you ever need him. He’s the only one who knows I’m perfectly sane.”
“But why was your cover necessary?”
“You’ll understand as we talk. Incidentally, you were surprised that I knew you were outride.” Gerhardt smiled. “This primitive lakeside cottage is very sophisticated. No one approaches without my knowing it A hum is heard.” The old man’s smile vanished. “Now, what happened to Klaus?”
She told him. Gerhardt was silent for a while, pain in his eyes.
“Animals,” he said. “They can’t even execute a man with any semblance of decency; they must mutilate. May God damn them!”
“Who?”
“The false Wolfsschanze. The animals. Not the eagles.”
“Eagles? I don’t understand.”
“The plot to kill Hitler in July of ’forty-four was a conspiracy of the generals. Military men—by and large, decent men—who came to see the horrors committed by the Führer and his madmen. It was not the Germany they cared to fight for. Their objective was to assassinate Hitler, sue for a just peace, and expose the killers and sadists who’d functioned in the name of the Reich. Rommel called these men ‘the true eagles of Germany.’ ”
“The eagles.…” Helden repeated. “ ‘You won’t stop the eagles …’ ”
“I beg your pardon?” asked the old man.
“Nothing. Go on, please.”
“Of course, the generals failed, and a bloodbath followed. Two hundred and twelve officers, many only vaguely suspect, were tortured and put to death. Then, suddenly, Wolfsschanze became the excuse to still all dissent within the Reich. Thousands who had voiced even the most minor political or military criticisms were arrested on fabricated evidence and executed. The vast majority had never heard of a staff headquarters called Wolfsschanze, much less any attempt on Hitler’s life. Rommel was ordered to kill himself, the penalty for refusal to carry out an additional five thousand indiscriminate executions. The worst fears of the generals were borne out: the maniacs were in total control of Germany. It was what they had hoped to stop at Wolfsschanze. Their Wolfsschanze: the true Wolfsschanze.”
“Their… Wolfsschanze?” asked Helden. “ ‘The coin of Wolfsschanze has two sides.’ ”
“Yes,” said Gerhardt. “There was another Wolfsschanze, another group of men who also wanted Hitler killed. But for an entirely different reason. These men thought he had failed. They saw his weaknesses, his diminished capacities. They wanted to supplant the madness
that was with another madness, far more efficient. There were no appeals for peace in their plans, only the fullest prosecution of the war. Their strategies included tactics unheard of since the Mongol armies swept through Asia centuries ago. Whole peoples held as hostages, mass executions for the slightest infractions, a reign of abuse so terrible the world would seek a truce, if only in the name of humanity.” Gerhardt paused; when he continued, his voice was filled with loathing. “This was the false Wolfsschanze, the Wolfsschanze that was never meant to be. They—the men of that Wolfsschanze—are committed still.”
“Yet these same men were part of the conspiracy to kill Hitler,” Helden said. “How did they escape?”
“By becoming the fiercest of Hitler’s loyalists. They regrouped quickly, feigned revulsion at the treachery, and turned on the others. As always, zealousness and ferocity impressed the Führer; he was essentially a physical coward, you see. He put some of them in charge of the executions and delighted in their devotion.”
Helden moved to the edge of the seat. “You say these men—this other Wolfsschanze—are still committed. Surely most of them are dead by now.”
The old man sighed. “You really don’t know, do you? Klaus said you didn’t”
“You know who I am?” asked Helden.
“Of course. You yourself mailed the letters.”
“I mailed a lot of letters for Herr Oberst. But none to Neuchâtel.”
“Those that were meant for me, I received.”
“He wrote you about me?”
“Often. He loved you very much.” Gerhardt’s smile was warm. It faded as he spoke. “You asked me how the men of the false Wolfsschanze could still be committed after so many years. You’re right, of course. Most of them are dead. So it’s not they; it’s the children.”
“The children?”
“Yes. They’re everywhere—in every city, province, and country. In every profession, every political group. Their function is to apply pressure constantly, convincing people that their lives could be so much better if strong men protested weakness. Angry voices are being substituted for genuine remedies; rancor supplants reason. It’s happening everywhere, and only a few of us know what it is: a massive preparation. The children have grown up.”
“Where did they come from?”
“Now we come to the heart of the matter. It will answer other questions for you.” The old man leaned forward. “It was called ‘Operation Sonnenkinder,’ and it took place in 1945. Thousands of children between the ages of six months and sixteen years were sent out of Germany. To all parts of the world.…”
As Gerhardt told the story, Helden felt ill, physically ill.
“A plan was devised,” continued Gerhardt, “whereby millions upon millions of dollars would be available to the Sonnenkinder after a given period of time. The time was calculated by projections of the normal economic cycles; it was thirty years.”
Helden’s sharp intake of breath interrupted him, but only briefly.
“It was a plan conceived by three men.…”
A cry emerged from Helden’s throat.
“These three men had access to funds beyond calculation, and one of them was perhaps the most brilliant financial manipulator of our time. It was he and he alone who brought the international economic forces together that insured the rise of Adolf Hitler. And when his Reich failed him, he set about creating another.”
“Heinrich Clausen.…” whispered Helden. “Oh, God, no!… Noel! Oh, God, Noel!”
“He was never more than a device, a conduit for money. He knows nothing.”
“Then …” Helden’s eyes grew wide; the pain in her temples sharpened.
“Yes,” said Gerhardt, reaching for her hand. “A young boy was chosen, another of the sons. An extraordinary child, a fanatically devoted member of the Hitler Youth. Brilliant, beautiful. He was watched, developed, trained for his mission in life.”
“Johann.… Oh, God in heaven, it’s Johann.”
“Yes. Johann von Tiebolt. It is he who expects to lead the Sonnenkinder into power all over the world.”
The sound of an echoing drum inside her temples grew louder, the percussive beats jarring and thunderous. Images went out of focus; the room spun and darkness descended. Helden fell into a void.
She opened her eyes, not knowing how long she had been unconscious. Gerhardt had managed to prop her up against the ottoman and was holding a glass of brandy beneath her nostrils. She gripped the glass and swallowed, the alcohol spreading quickly, bringing her back to the terrible moment.
“Johann,” she whispered, the name itself a cry of pain. “That’s why Herr Oberst—”
“Yes,” said the old man, anticipating her. “It’s why Klaus had you brought to him. The rebellious Von Tiebolt daughter, born in Rio, estranged from her brother and sister. Was that estrangement real, or were you being used to infiltrate the ranks of wandering, disaffected German youth? We had to know.”
“Used, then killed,” added Helden, shuddering. “They tried to kill me in Montereau. Oh, God, my brother.”
The old man stood up with difficulty. “I’m afraid you’re wrong,” he said. “It was a tragic afternoon, filled with errors. The two men who came after you were from us. Their instructions were clear: Learn everything there was to learn about Holcroft. He was still an unknown factor then. Was he part of Wolfsschanze—their Wolfsschanze? If an unknowing conduit, he was to live, and we would convince him to come with us. If part of Wolfsschanze, he was to be killed. If that was the case, you were to be taken away before you were harmed, before you were implicated. For reasons we don’t know, our men decided to kill him.”
Helden lowered her eyes. “Johann sent a man to follow us that afternoon. To find out who was so interested in Noel.”
Gerhardt sat down. “So our people saw that man and thought it was a rendezvous with Von Tiebolt, with an emissary of the Sonnenkinder. For them it meant Holcroft was part of Wolfsschanze. They needed nothing else.”
“It was my fault,” said Helden. “When that man took my arm in the crowd, I was frightened. He told me I had to go with him. He spoke German. I thought he was ODESSA.”
“He was the furthest thing from it. He was a Jew from a place called Har Sha’alav.”
“A Jew?”
Gerhardt told her briefly of the strange kibbutz in the Negev desert. “They are our small army. A cable is sent; men are dispatched. It’s as simple as that.”
Orders must be relayed… to the courageous men who will stand at the final barricade. Helden understood Herr Oberst’s words. “You’ll send that cable now?”
“You will send it. A while ago, I mentioned a Dr. Litvak at the clinic. He keeps my medical records for any who may be curious. He’s one of us; he has long-range-radio equipment and checks with me every day. It’s too dangerous to have a telephone here. Go to him tonight. He knows the codes and will reach Har Sha’alav. A team must be sent to Geneva; you must tell them what to do. Johann, Kessler, even Noel Holcroft, if he’s beyond pulling out, must be killed. Those funds must not be dispersed.”
“I’ll convince Noel.”
“For your sake, I hope you can. It may not be as simple as you think. He’s been manipulated brilliantly. He believes deeply, even to the point of vindicating a father he never knew.”
“How did you learn?”
“From his mother. For years we believed she was part of Clausen’s plan, and for years we waited. Then we confronted her and learned she was never part of it. She was the bridge to—as well as the source of—the perfect conduit. Who else but a Noel Clausen-Holcroft, whose origins had been obliterated from every record but his own mind, would accept the conditions of secrecy demanded by the Geneva document? A normal man would have asked for legal and financial advice. But Holcroft, believing in his covenant, kept everything to himself.”
“But he had to be convinced,” said Helden. “He’s a strong man, a very moral man. How could they do it?”
“How is anyone co
nvinced his cause is just?” asked the old man rhetorically. “By seeing that there are those who desperately wish to stop him. We’ve read the reports out of Rio. Holcroft’s experience with Maurice Graff, the charges he registered with the embassy. It was all a charade; no one tried to kill him in Rio, but Graff wanted him to think so.”
“He’s ODESSA.”
“Never. He’s one of the leaders of the false Wolfsschanze… the only Wolfsschanze now. I should say he was; he’s dead.”
“What?”
“Shot yesterday by a man who left a note claiming vengeance from Portuguese Jews. Your brother’s work, of course. Graff was too old, too cantankerous. He’d served his purpose.”
Helden placed the glass of brandy on the floor. The question had to be asked. “Herr Gerhardt, why haven’t you ever exposed Geneva for what it was?”
The old man returned her inquisitive stare. “Because exposing Geneva would be only half the story. As soon as we did, we’d be killed; but that’s inconsequential. It’s the rest.”
“The rest?”
“The second half. Who are the Sonnenkinder? What are their names? Where are they? A master list was made thirty years ago; your brother must have it. It’s huge—hundreds of pages—and has to be hidden somewhere. Von Tiebolt would die in fire before revealing its whereabouts. But there has to be another list! A short one—a few pages, perhaps. It’s either on his person or near him. The identities of all those receiving funds. These will be the trusted manipulators of Wolfsschanze. This is the list that can and must be found. You must tell the soldiers of Har Sha’alav to find it. Stop the money and find the list. It’s our only hope.”
“I’ll tell them,” said Helden. “They’ll find it.” She looked away, lost in another thought. “Wolfsschanze. Even the letter written to Noel Holcroft more than thirty years ago—pleading with him, threatening him—was part of it.”
“They appealed and threatened in the name of eagles, but their commitment was to animals.”
“He couldn’t know that.”