A long black car came to a stop ten yards in front of the pilot. A man on the passenger side got out, but it was not her son. He was stocky, wearing an overcoat with the lapels pulled up, a heavy muffler around his throat Large-framed dark glasses covered his eyes, giving him the appearance of a huge insect. He limped as he walked into the spill of the headlights.
The driver remained behind the wheel. Althene stared at him, hoping to recognize Noel. It was not he; she could not see the man’s face clearly, but the hair was blond.
“Mrs. Holcroft is in the car, I presume,” said the man with the dark glasses to the pilot. The language was English but the accent unmistakably German.
“Her son is in yours, then?” replied the pilot.
“Please ask Mrs. Holcroft to step out.”
“Please ask her son to do the same.”
“Don’t be difficult. We have a schedule to keep.”
“So do we. There’s only one other person in your automobile, monsieur. He doesn’t fit the description of her son.”
“We’ll take Mrs. Holcroft to him.”
“We’ll take him to Mrs. Holcroft.”
“Stop it!”
“Stop what, monsieur? I am paid, as I’m sure you are paid. We both do our jobs, do we not?”
“I’ve no time for you!” the German shouted, limping past the pilot, toward the car.
The pilot nodded. “May I suggest you find the time. For you won’t find Mrs. Holcroft.”
“Du Sauhund! Wo ist die Frau?”
“May I further suggest, monsieur, that you don’t call me names. I come from Châlons-sur-Marne. Twice you won there, and I was brought up with a certain distaste for your name-calling.”
“Where is the woman?”
“Where is the son?”
The German took his right hand from his overcoat pocket. He was holding a gun. “You’re not paid so much that it’s worth your life. Where is she?”
“And you, monsieur? Perhaps you’re paid too much to shoot me and not find out.”
The gunshot was deafening. Dirt exploded at the pilot’s feet. Althene gripped the tree in shock.
“Now, Frenchman, perhaps you see that payment is not so important to me as the woman. Where is she?”
“Les Boches!” said the pilot in disgust. “Give you a gun and you go mad. You never change. If you want the woman, you’ll produce the son and I will take him to her.”
“You’ll tell me where she is now!” The German raised his gun, leveling it at the pilot’s head. “Now!”
Althene could see the car door open. A gunshot exploded, then another. The pilot lunged to the dirt. The German screamed, his eyes bulging. “Johann? Johann!”
There was a third explosion. The German collapsed on the road; the pilot scrambled to his feet.
“He was going to kill you,” yelled the driver, his voice incredulous. “We knew he was sick, but not insane. What can I say?”
“He would have killed me?…” The pilot asked the question no less incredulously. “It doesn’t make sense!”
“Of course it didn’t,” said the blond man. “Your request made sense. First, help me pull him into the woods and remove his identification. Then come with me.”
“Who are you?”
“A friend of Holcroft’s.”
“I’d like to believe that.”
“You will.”
It was all Althene could do to hold her place. Her legs were weak, her throat was dry, and the ache in her eyes caused her to shut them repeatedly.
The blond man and the pilot dragged the body into the woods not twenty feet below her. The pilot’s instructions meant a great deal to her now. He had been right.
“Shall I take my car, monsieur?”
“No. Shut off the lights and come with me. Well pick it up in the morning.”
The pilot did as he was told, then hesitated. “I don’t like to leave it so near a corpse.”
“We will get it before daybreak. Have you your keys?”
“Yes.”
“Hurry!” said the blond man.
The pilot’s relief was in his silence; he made no further protest. In seconds, they had sped away.
Althene pushed herself away from the tree. She tried to recall the pilot’s exact words. There’s a second set of keys … a small magnet box … under the hood … get to the landing … where we flew in. Atterrisage Médoc.
Atterrisage Médoc. On the west side of the lake.
Five minutes later, her hands covered with grease, she was traveling south on the lakeside highway, toward Geneva. As the moments passed, her foot became firmer on the gas pedal, her grip on the steering wheel more relaxed. She began to think again.
Atterrisage Médoc. On the west side of the lake … ten or twelve miles north of the city. If she thought only of that, of the small, obscure stretch of lakefront with the gas pumps on the single dock, she might slow her heartbeat and breathe again.
Atterrisage Médoc. Please, God, let me find it! Let me live to find it and reach my son! Dear God! What have I done? A lie of thirty years… a betrayal so horrible, a stigma so terrifying.… I must find him!
Helden sat directly behind the pilot in the small seaplane. She felt the bandage beneath her skirt; it was tight, but did not cut off circulation. The wound throbbed now and then, but the pills reduced the pain; she could walk adequately. Even if she could not, she would force herself to.
The pilot leaned back toward her. “A half hour after landing you’ll be driven to a restaurant on the lake where you can get a taxi into the city,” he said. “Should you require our services within the next, two weeks, our base for this period is a private marina called Atterrisage Médoc. It’s been a pleasure having you on board.”
41
Erich Kessler was not a physical man, yet he approved of physical violence when that violence brought about practical objectives. He approved of it as observer and theoretician, not as participant. However, there was no alternative now, and no time to seek one. He would have to become a part of the violence.
Holcroft had left him no choice. The amateur had sorted out his own priorities and acted on them with alarming perception. The chromosomes of Heinrich Clausen were in the son. He had to be controlled again, remaneuvered again.
Erich chose the person he needed from among the clusters of people in the lobby: a newspaperman, and, from the ease of his manner and his expertness with notebook and pencil, probably a good one.
Kessler approached the man, keeping his voice low. “You’re the journalist from … what paper is it?”
“Genève Soir,” said the reporter.
“Dreadful, what happened. That poor man. A tragedy. I’ve been standing here for quite a while trying to decide whether to say anything. But I simply can’t get involved.”
“You’re staying at the hotel?”
“Yes. I’m from Berlin. I come to Geneva often. My conscience tells me to go right over to the police and tell them what I know. But my attorney says it could be misconstrued. I’m here on business; it could be detrimental. Still, they should have it.”
“What kind of information?”
Erich looked at the journalist sadly. “Let’s say I knew the man who was killed very well.”
“And?”
“Not here. My attorney says I should stay out of it.”
“Are you telling me you were involved?”
“Oh, good heavens, no. Not like that, not at all. It’s just that I have … information. Perhaps even a name or two. There are … reasons.”
“If you’re not involved, I’ll protect you as a source.”
“That’s all I ask. Give me two or three minutes to go upstairs and get my coat. I’ll come down and head outside. Follow me down the hill. I’ll find a secluded spot where we can talk. Don’t approach me until I call for you.”
The journalist nodded. Kessler turned toward the elevators. He would get his overcoat and two revolvers, both untraceable. The minor delay would height
en Holcroft’s anxieties, and that was fine.
Noel waited in the doorway across the street from the Hôtel d’Accord. Kessler should have received the message five minutes ago. What was holding him up?
There he was! The corpulent figure walking slowly down the short steps of the d’Accord’s entrance could be no one else’s. The bulk, the deliberate pace, the heavy overcoat. That was it; Kessler had gone back to his room for the coat.
Holcroft watched as Erich made his stately way down the hill, nodding pleasantly to the passersby. Kessler was a gentle person, thought Noel, and probably would not understand why he was being used as the lure; it wasn’t in his nature to think that way. Nor had it ever been in Holcroft’s to use a man this way, but nothing is as it was. It was natural for him now.
And it was successful. God damn it, it worked! A man in his mid-thirties, perhaps, reached the bottom step of the d’Accord and looked directly at Kessler’s receding figure. He began walking slowly—too slowly for someone going somewhere—and took up his position far enough behind Erich not to be seen.
Now, if only Kessler would do as he was told. The intersecting avenue at the bottom of the rue des Granges was made up of old three-story office buildings, manicured and expensive, but, after five o’clock in the evening, essentially deserted. Noel had done his homework; on it depended his trapping a killer from the Nachrichtendienst. Just one killer was enough; he’d lead him to others. It was not out of the question to break that man’s neck to get the information. Or to fire bullets across that man’s eyes.
Noel felt the gun in his pocket and took up slow pursuit, staying on his side of the street.
Four minutes later Kessler reached the bottom of the hill and turned left. The man behind him did the same. Holcroft waited until the traffic passed and both men were out of sight. Then he crossed the intersection, still keeping on the opposite side, his view clear.
Suddenly he stopped. Kessler was nowhere in sight.
Neither was the man who had followed him.
Noel began running.
Kessler turned left into a dimly lit street, walked about a hundred and fifty feet, and held up a small mirror. The journalist was behind him; Holcroft was not. It was the moment to move quickly.
On the left was a cul-de-sac, designed to accommodate two or three parked automobiles, a chain across the front denoting its private ownership. There were no cars, and it was dark. Very dark. Ideal. With difficulty, he stepped over the chain and walked rapidly to the wall at the rear. He put his hand into his right pocket and took out the first gun—the first gun he would use. He had to tug at it; the silencer was caught momentarily in the cloth.
“In here!” he said, loud enough to be heard by the newspaperman. “We can talk here and no one will see us.”
The journalist climbed over the chain, his eyes squinting into the shadows. “Where are you?”
“Over here.” Erich raised the gun as the journalist approached. When he was within several feet, Kessler fired into the dim silhouette of the man’s neck. The spit had a hollow sound; the expulsion of air from the punctured throat echoed between the two buildings. The newspaperman collapsed. Erich pulled the trigger once again, shooting him in the head.
He unscrewed the silencer from the pistol, rummaged through the dead man’s clothes, extracting a billfold and the notebook, throwing them into the shadows. He took out the second gun from his left pocket and pressed the weapon into the reporter’s hand, the index finger around the trigger.
Still kneeling, Kessler tore the front of his shirt and ripped two buttons off his overcoat. He rubbed the flat of his hand harshly over the oil and dirt of the parking lot and soiled his face with the residue.
He was ready. He rose to his feet and lurched toward the chain. At first he could not see Holcroft, but then he did. The American was running in the street; he stopped briefly in front of a streetlight.
Now.
Kessler walked back to the dead man, leaned over, and grabbed the hand with the gun, holding it up toward the sky and pressing the dead finger against the trigger.
The small-caliber gunshot was amplified by the surrounding stone. Erich yanked at the frozen finger twice more, let it drop, and swiftly removed the gun from his own pocket.
“Noel! Noel!” he screamed, throwing himself against the wall, his heavy body sinking to the concrete. “Noel, where are you?”
“Erich?! For God’s sake … Erich?” Holcroft’s voice was not far off; in seconds it was closer.
Kessler aimed his unsilenced gun toward the clump of dead flesh in the shadows. It was the last shot he would have to fire … and he did so the instant he saw the silhouette of Noel Holcroft in the dim spill of the light.
“Erich!”
“Here. He tried to kill me! Noel, he tried to kill me!”
Holcroft felt the chain, jumped over it, and raced to Kessler. He knelt down in the darkness. “Who? Where?”
“Over there! Johann made me carry a gun.… I had to shoot it. I had no choice!”
“Are you all right?”
“I think so. He came after me. He knew about you. ‘Where is he?’ he kept saying. ‘Where is H? Where’s Holcroft?’ He threw me to the ground.…”
“Oh, Christ!” Noel leaped up and lunged toward the body in the shadows. He pulled his lighter from his pocket and snapped it on; the flame spread light over the corpse. Noel searched the pockets of the outer clothes, then rolled the body over to check the trousers. “Goddammit, there’s nothing!”
“Nothing? What do you mean, nothing? Noel, we have to get out of here. Think of tomorrow!”
“There’s no wallet, no license, nothing!”
“Tomorrow. We must think about tomorrow!”
“Tonight!” roared Holcroft. “I wanted them tonight!”
Kessler was silent for several seconds, then spoke softly, incredulity in his voice. “You planned this.…”
Holcroft got up angrily, the anger lessened by Erich’s words. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t want you to get hurt. I thought I had everything under control.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Because they’ll kill her if they find her. Just as they killed Willie Ellis and … Richard Holcroft So many others.”
“Who?”
“Geneva’s enemy. This. Nachrichtendienst. I wanted just one of them! Alive, goddammit!”
“Help me up,” said Kessler.
“Can you understand?” Holcroft found Erich’s hand and lifted him up.
“Yes, of course. But I don’t think you should have acted alone.”
“I was going to trap him, get the names of others from him if I had to blind him for them. Then turn him over to the police, ask them to help me find my mother, protect her.”
“We can’t do that now. He’s dead; there’d be too many questions we can’t answer. But Johann can help.”
“Von Tiebolt?”
“Yes. He told me he had an influential friend here in Geneva. A first deputy. He said when I found you to take you to the Excelsior. Register under the name of Fresca. I don’t know why that name.”
“It’s one we’re used to,” said Noel. “He’ll reach us there?”
“Yes. He’s making the final arrangements for tomorrow. At the bank.”
“The bank?”
“It’ll be over tomorrow; that’s what I tried to tell you. Come, we must hurry. We can’t stay here; someone may pass by. Johann told me to tell you that if your mother was in Geneva, we’ll find her. She’ll be protected.”
Holcroft helped Kessler toward the chain. The scholar looked back into the dark recesses of the walled enclosure and shuddered.
“Don’t think about it,” said Noel.
“It was horrible.”
“It was necessary.”
Yes, it was, thought Kessler.
Helden saw the old woman sitting on a bench at the base of the dock, looking out at the water, oblivious of the few mechanics and passengers who walked to and fr
om the seaplanes.
As Helden drew near, she noticed the woman’s face in the moonlight, the angular features and the high cheekbones that set off the wide eyes. The woman was lost in thought, strong and distant, she was so alone, so out of place, so …
Helden limped in front of the bench and stared at the face below. My God! She was looking down at a face that but for years and gender could belong to Noel Holcroft. It was his mother!
What was she doing here? Of all the places in the world, why here? The answer was obvious: Noel’s mother was flying into Geneva secretly!
The old woman looked up, then looked away, uninterested, and Helden hurried as best she could across the path that led to a small building that was both waiting room and radio base. She went inside and approached a man standing behind a makeshift counter beyond which were telephones and radio equipment. “The woman outside. Who is she?”
The man looked up briefly from a clipboard, studying her. “No names are mentioned here,” he said. “You should know that.”
“But it’s terribly important! If she’s who I think she is, she’s in great danger. I say this to you because I know you know Dr. Litvak.”
At the name, the man looked up again. It was apparent that at Atterrisage Médoc, they lived with risk and danger but avoided both where possible. And Dr. Litvak was obviously a trusted customer. “She’s waiting for a phone call.”
“From whom?”
The man studied her again. “From one of our pilots: ‘Le Chat rouge.’ Has she trouble with the police?”
“No.”
“The Corsicans? Mafia?”
Helden shook her head. “Worse.”
“You’re a friend of Dr. Litvak?”
“Yes. He booked the flight from Neuchâtel for me. Check if you like.”
“I don’t have to. We don’t want trouble here. Get her out.”
“How? A car’s supposed to drive me to a restaurant on the lake where I’m to wait for a taxi. It’ll be a half hour, I’m told.”
“Not now.” The man looked past her. “Henri, come here.” He took a set of car keys from under the counter. “Go talk to the old woman. Tell her she must leave. Henri will drive you.”