The Holcroft Covenant: A Novel

  Noel waited on the dark street corner at the base of the rue des Granges. He was not proud of what he was about to do, but the rage inside him had numbed any feelings of morality. The sight of Willie Ellis had caused something to snap in his head. That sight gave rise to other images: Richard Holcroft, crushed into a stone building by a car gone wild by design. Strychnine poisoning in an airplane, and death in a French village, and murder in Berlin. And a man who had followed his mother.… He would not let them near her! It was over; he would bring it to a close himself.

  It was a question now of using every available resource, every bit of strength he had, every fact he could recall, that would work for him. And it was the murder in Berlin that provided him with the single fact that could work for him now. In Berlin he had led killers to Erich Kessler. Stupidly, carelessly—to a pub on the Kurfürstendamm. Kessler and Holcroft; Holcroft and Kessler. If those killers were looking for Holcroft, they would keep Kessler in their sights. And if Kessler left the hotel, they would follow him.

  Holcroft looked at his watch. It was time to call; he started across the pavement toward the booth.

  He hoped Erich would answer.

  And later understand.

  Kessler stood in the hotel lobby, in front of the pay phone, a slip of paper in his hand. On it the astonished desk clerk had written his name; the man’s hand had shaken when he had taken the money. Professor Kessler would appreciate knowing the gist of Mr. Holcroft’s message to the clerk. For Mr. Holcroft’s benefit. And for the clerk’s, insofar as an additional five hundred francs would be his.

  The telephone rang; Erich had it off the hook before the ring was finished. “Noel?”

  “What’s the desk clerk’s name?”

  Kessler gave it.

  “Fine.”

  “Now, I insist we meet,” said Erich. “There’s a great deal you should know. Tomorrow’s a very important day.”

  “Only if we get through tonight. If I find her tonight.”

  “Where are you? We must meet.”

  “We will. Listen carefully. Wait by that phone for five minutes. I may have to call you again. If I don’t—after five minutes—go outside and begin walking down the hill. Just keep walking. When you get to the bottom, turn left and keep going. I’ll join you in the street”

  “Good! Five minutes, then.” Kessler smiled. Whatever games the amateur indulged in were worthless. He would doubtless ask the desk clerk to relay a message or a telephone number to his mother if and when she called him—the unregistered guest; so much for that Perhaps Johann was right: Perhaps Holcroft had reached the limits of his capacity. Perhaps the American was not a potential Sonnenkind after all.

  Police were still in the d’Accord’s lobby, as well as several journalists who sensed a story behind the clouded report of robbery the police had given out This was Geneva. And there were the curious—guests milling about, talking with one another; reassuring one another, some afraid, some seeking sensation.

  Erich stayed off to the side, avoiding the crowd, remaining as inconspicuous as possible. He did not like being in the lobby at all; he preferred the anonymity of the hotel room upstairs.

  He looked at his watch; four minutes had passed since Holcroft’s call. If the American did not call again during the next minute, he would find the desk clerk and …

  The desk clerk approached, walking on his own hot fragments of glass. “Professor?”

  “Yes, my friend.” Kessler put his hand in his pocket.

  The message Holcroft left was not what Erich had expected. Noel’s mother was to remain hidden and to leave a telephone number where her son could reach her. The clerk had sworn not to reveal that number, of course; but then, prior commitments always took precedence. When and if the lady called, the number would be left on a piece of paper in Herr Kessler’s box.

  “Paging Mr. Kessler? Professor Erich Kessler.”

  A bellboy was walking through the lobby, shouting his name. Shouting it! It was impossible. No one knew he was here!

  “Yes? Yes, I’m Professor Kessler,” said Erich. “What is it?” He tried to keep his voice low, to remain inconspicuous. People were looking at him.

  “The message is to be delivered orally, sir,” said the bellboy. “The caller said there was no time for a note. It’s from Mr. H. He says you’re to start out now, sir.”

  “What?”

  “That’s all he said, sir. I spoke to him myself. To Mr. H. You’re to start out now. That’s what he told me to tell you.”

  Kessler held his breath. It was suddenly, unexpectedly clear. Holcroft was using him as the bait.

  From the American’s point of view, whoever killed the man in the black leather jacket in Berlin knew that Noel Holcroft had been with Erich Kessler.

  The strategy was simple but ingenious: Expose Erich Kessler, have Erich Kessler receive a message from Mr. H., and leave the hotel for the dark streets of Geneva.

  And if no one followed, the disparity between cause and effect might be difficult to explain. So difficult that Holcroft might reexamine his bait. Questions might surface that could blow Geneva apart.

  Noel Holcroft was a potential Sonnenkind, after all.

  40

  Helden crawled through Gerhardt’s house, over the smashed furniture and the blood on the floor, opening drawers and panels until she found a small tin box of first-aid supplies. Trying desperately not to think of anything but becoming mobile, rejecting the pain as an unwanted state of mind, she strapped her wound as tightly as she could and struggled to her feet. Using Gerhardt’s cane for support, she managed to walk up the path and north, three kilometers, to the fork.

  A farmer driving a vintage automobile picked her up. Could he drive her to a Doctor Litvak on the hill near the clinic?

  He could. It was not far out of his way.

  Would he please hurry?

  Walther Litvak was in his late forties, with a balding head and clear eyes and a penchant for short, precise sentences. Being slender, he moved quickly, wasting as few motions as he did words; being highly intelligent, he made observations before replies; and being a Jew hidden by Dutch Catholics as a child and brought up by sympathetic Lutherans, he had no tolerance for intolerance.

  He had one bias, and it was understandable. His father and mother, two sisters, and a brother, had been gassed at Auschwitz. Save for an appeal of a Swiss doctor who spoke of a district in the hills of Neuchâtel that had no medical care, Walther Litvak would be living in Kibbutz Har Sha’alav, in the Negev desert.

  He had intended to spend three years at the clinic; that was five years ago. And then, after several months in Neuchâtel, he was told who his recruiter was: one of a group of men who fought the resurgence of Nazism. They knew things other men did not know: about thousands of grown-up children—everywhere; and about untold millions that could reach those unknown people—everywhere. There was much nonmedical work to be done. His contact was a man named Werner Gerhardt, and the group was called Nachrichtendienst.

  Walther Litvak stayed in Neuchâtel.

  “Come inside, quickly,” he said to Helden. “Let me help you, I have an office here.”

  He removed her coat and half carried her into a room with an examination table.

  “I was shot.” It was all Helden could think of to say.

  Litvak placed her on the table and removed her skirt and half slip. “Don’t waste your strength trying to talk.” He scissored the bandage and studied the wound, then took a hypodermic needle from a sterilizer. “I’m going to let you sleep for a few minutes.”

  “You can’t. There isn’t time! I have to tell you.…”

  “I said a few minutes,” interrupted the doctor, inserting the needle into Helden’s arm.

  She opened her eyes, the shapes around her out of focus, a numb sensation in her leg. As her vision cleared, she saw the doctor across the room. She tried to sit up; Litvak heard her and turned.

  “These are antibiotics,” he said. He was holding a bottl
e of pills. “Every two hours for a day, then every four. What happened? Tell me quickly. I’ll go down to the cottage and take care of things.”

  “The cottage? You knew?”

  “While you were under, you talked; people generally do after trauma. You repeated ‘Nachrichtendienst’ several times. Then ‘Johann.’ I assume that’s Von Tiebolt, and you’re his sister—the one who’s been with Falkenheim. It’s happening, isn’t it? The inheritors are closing ranks in Geneva.”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought as much this morning. The news bulletins from the Negev are horrible, They found out, God knows how.”

  “What bulletins?”

  “Har Sha’alav.” The doctor gripped the bottle; veins swelled on his forearm. “A raid. Houses bombed, people massacred, fields burnt to the ground. The death count isn’t complete yet, but the estimates exceed one hundred and seventy. Men mostly, but women and children too.”

  Helden closed her eyes; there were no words. Litvak went on.

  “To a man, the elders were killed, butchered in the gardens. They say it was the work of terrorists, of the Rache. But that’s not true. It’s Wolfsschanze. Rache fighters would never attack Har Sha’alav; they know what would happen. Jews from every kibbutz, every commando unit, would go after them.”

  “Gerhardt said you were supposed to cable Har Sha’alav,” whispered Helden.

  Lirvak’s eyes clouded. “There’s nothing to cable now, There’s no one left Now, tell me what happened down at the lake.”

  She did. When she had finished, the doctor helped her off the table and carried her into the large Alpine living room. He lowered her to the couch and summarized.

  “Geneva’s the battleground, and there’s not an hour to be lost. Even if Har Sha’alav could be reached, it would be useless. But there is a man from Har Sha’alav in London; he’s been ordered to stay there. He followed Holcroft to Portsmouth. He was the one who took the photograph from Holcroft’s pocket.”

  “It was a picture of Beaumont,” said Helden. “ODESSA.”

  “Wolfsschanze,” corrected Litvak. “A Sonnenkind. One of thousands, but also one of the few to work with VonTiebolt.”

  Helden raised herself, frowning. “The records. Beaumont’s records. They didn’t make sense.”

  “What records?”

  She told the angry doctor about the obscure and contradictory information found in Beaumont’s naval records. And of the similar dossier belonging to Beaumont’s second-in-command, Ian Llewellen.

  Litvak wrote down the name on a note pad. “How convenient. Two men of Wolfsschanze commanding an electronic-espionage vessel. How many more are there like them? In how many places?”

  “Llewellen was quoted in the papers the other day. When Beaumont and Gretchen—” She could not finish.

  “Don’t dwell on it,” said the doctor. “The Sonnenkinder have their own rules. Llewellen is a name to add to the list that must be found in Geneva. Gerhardt was right: Above all, that list must be found. It’s as vital as stopping the money. In some ways, more vital.”

  “Why?”

  “The funds are a means to the Fourth Reich, but the people are that Reich; they’ll be there whether or not the funds are dispersed. We’ve got to find out who they are.”

  Helden leaned back. “My … Johann von Tlebolt can be killed. So, too, can Kessler and … if it’s necessary … even Noel. The money can be stopped. But how can we be sure the list will be found?”

  “The man from Har Sha’alav in London will have ideas. He has many talents.” Litvak glanced briefly away. “You should know, because you’ll have to work with him. He’s called a killer and a terrorist. He doesn’t consider himself either, but the laws he’s broken and the crimes he’s committed would tend to dispute that judgment.” The doctor glanced at his watch. “It’s three minutes of nine; he lives less than a mile from Heathrow. If I can contact him, he can be in Geneva by midnight Do you know where Holcroft is staying?”

  “Yes. At the d’Accord. You understand, he knows nothing. He believes deeply in what he’s doing. He thinks it’s right.”

  “I understand. Unfortunately, that may be irrelevant in terms of his life. The first thing, however, is to reach him.”

  “I said I’d call him tonight.”

  “Good. Let me help you to the telephone. Be careful what you say. He’ll be watched; his line will be tapped.” Litvak helped her to the table where the phone was.

  “Hôtel d’Accord. Bonsoir,” said the operator.

  “Good evening. Mr. Noel Holcroft, please?”

  “Monsieur Holcroft?…” The operator hesitated. “Just one minute, madame.”

  There was a silence, a click, and a man spoke. “Mrs. Holcroft?”

  “What?”

  “This is Mrs. Holcroft, is it not?”

  Helden was surprised. Something was wrong; the switchboard had not even tried to ring Noel’s room. “You were expecting me, then?” she asked.

  “But of course, madame,” replied the desk clerk with confidentiality. “Your son was most generous. He said to tell you it’s imperative you remain out of sight, but you are to leave a telephone number where he can reach you.”

  “I see. Just one minute, please.” Helden cupped the phone and turned to Litvak. “They think I’m Mrs. Holcroft. He’s paid them to take a number where he can reach her.”

  The doctor nodded and walked quickly to a desk. “Keep talking. Say you want to make sure this number will not be given to anyone else. Offer money. Anything to stall them.” Litvak took out a worn address book.

  “Before I give you a number, I’d like to be certain …” Helden paused; the desk clerk swore on his mother’s grave he would give the number only to Holcroft. The doctor rushed back to the table, a number written on a slip of paper. Helden repeated it to the desk clerk and hung up. “Where is this?” she asked Litvak.

  “It reaches an empty apartment on the rue de la Paix, but the apartment is not at the address listed with the telephone exchange. Here it is.” Litvak wrote the address beneath the number. “Memorize them both.”

  “I will.”

  “Now, I’ll try our man in London,” said the doctor, heading for the staircase. “I have radio equipment here. It links me with a routine-mobile-telephone service.” He stopped on the bottom step. “I’ll get you to Geneva. You won’t be able to move around much, but the wound isn’t deep; your stitches will hold under the pressure of the bandage, and you’ll have the chance to reach Holcroft. I hope you do, and I hope you’re successful Noel Holcroft must walk away from Von Tiebolt and Kessler. If he fights you, if he even hesitates, he must be killed.”

  “I know.”

  “Knowing it may not be enough. I’m afraid the decision will not be yours to make.”

  “Whose, then? Yours?”

  “I can’t leave Neuchâtel. It will be up to the man in London.”

  “The terrorist? The killer who has only to hear the word ‘Nazi’ and he fires a gun?”

  “He’ll be objective,” said Litvak, continuing up the staircase. “He won’t have other pressures on him. You’ll meet him at the apartment.”

  “How will I get to Geneva? I—” Helden stopped.

  “What?”

  “I asked how I would get to Geneva. Are there trains?”

  “There’s no time for trains. You’ll fly.”

  “Fine. It will be quicker.”

  “Much quicker.”

  And far better, thought Helden. For the one thing she had not relayed to the doctor was Werner Gerhardt’s final warning. To her.

  My child. Stay away from Geneva.… Wolfsschanze has seen you.

  “Who will take me?”

  “There are pilots who fly the lakes at night,” said Litvak.

  Althene was irritated, but she had agreed to the condition. The pilot had asked her a single question.

  “Do you know by sight the people who are looking for you?”

  She had replied that she did not. br />
  “You may before the night is over.”

  Which was why she was standing now beside a tree in the dark woods above the road in sight of the car. It was a sloping forest of pine that rose above the lakeside highway. She had been guided to her watch post by the pilot.

  “If your son is there, I’ll send him to you,” he had said.

  “Of course he’ll be there. Why wouldn’t he?”

  “We’ll see.”

  For a moment his doubts had disturbed her. “If he’s not, what then?”

  “Then you’ll know who it is who’s looking for you.” He had started back toward the road.

  “What about you?” she had called after him. “If my son isn’t there?”

  “Me?” The pilot had laughed. “I’ve been through many such negotiations. If your son isn’t there, it will mean they are desperate to find you, won’t it? Without me, they can’t have you.”

  She waited now by the tree, no more than forty yards away, the line of sight reasonably clear considering the profusion of limbs and branches. The car was off the side of the road, pointing north, its parking lights on. The pilot had told the man at the d’Accord to be there in one hour, not before, and to approach from the south, blinking his lights repeatedly within a quarter of a mile of the rendezvous.

  “Can you hear me, madame?” The pilot stood by the car and spoke in a normal tone of voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. They’re coming. Lights are flashing on and off down the road. Stay where you are; watch and listen, but don’t show yourself. If your son steps out, say nothing until I send him to you.” The pilot paused. “If they force me to go with them, get to the landing on the west side of the lake, where we flew in. It’s called Atterrisage Médoc. I’ll reach you there.… I don’t like this.”

  “Why? What is it?”

  “There are two men in the car. The one next to the driver holds up a weapon; he checks it, perhaps.”

  “How would I get there?” asked Althene.

  “There’s a second set of keys in a small magnet box under the hood.” The bearded man raised one hand to his mouth, speaking loudly above the roar of the approaching automobile. “On the right side. Be still!”