The Holcroft Covenant: A Novel

  “She may not listen.”

  “She has to. You’ll have your transportation.”

  Helden went back outside as quickly as her wound permitted. Mrs. Holcroft was not on the bench, and for an instant Helden panicked. Then she saw her, out on the now-deserted dock, standing motionless in the moonlight. Helden started toward her.

  The old woman turned at the sound of Helden’s footsteps. She held her place and offered no greeting.

  “You’re Mrs. Holcroft,” said Helden. “Noel’s mother.”

  At the mention of her son’s name, Althene Holcroft brought her hands together; she seemed to stop breathing. “Who are you?”

  “A friend. Please believe that. More than you know.”

  “Since I know nothing, it can be neither more nor less.”

  “My name is Von Tiebolt.”

  “Then get out of my sight!” The old woman’s words were lashes in the night air. “Men here have been paid. They’ll not let you interfere with me. They’ll kill you first. Go join your wolfpack!”

  “I’m no part of Wolfsschanze, Mrs. Holcroft.”

  “You’re a Von Tiebolt!”

  “If I were part of Wolfsschanze, I wouldn’t come near you. Surely you understand that.”

  “I understand the filth you represent.…”

  “I’ve lived with that judgment in one form or another all my life, but you’re wrong! You must believe me. You can’t stay here; it’s not safe for you. I can hide you; I can help you.…”

  “You? How? Through the barrel of a gun? Under the wheels of a car?”

  “Please! I know why you’ve come to Geneva. I’m here for the same reason. We’ve got to reach him, tell him before it’s too late. The funds must be stopped!”

  The old woman seemed stunned by Helden’s words. Then she frowned, as if the words were a trap.

  “Must they? Or must I? Well, I won’t be. I’m going to call out, and when I do, men will come. If they kill you, it means nothing to me. You’re thirty years of a lie! All of you! You won’t reach anyone.”

  “Mrs. Holcroft! I love your son. I love him so much … and if we don’t reach him, he’ll be killed. By either side! Neither can let him live! You’ve got to understand.”

  “Liar!” said Althene. “You’re all liars!”

  “Damn you!” cried Helden. “No one will come to help you. They want you out of here! And I’m not a cripple. This is a bullet in my leg! It’s there because I’m trying to reach Noel! You don’t know what we’ve been through! You have no right to—”

  There was a loud commotion from the small building on the waterfront. The two women could hear the words … as they were meant to hear them.

  “You’re not welcome here, monsieur! There’s no such woman as you describe! Please leave.”

  “Don’t give me orders! She’s here!”

  Helden gasped. It was a voice she’d heard all her life.

  “This is a private marina. I ask you again to leave!”

  “Open that door!”

  “What? What door?”

  “Behind you!”

  Helden turned to Althene Holcroft. “I’ve no time to explain. I can only tell you I’m your friend. Get into the water! Out of sight. Now!”

  “Why should I believe you?” The old woman stared beyond Helden, to the base of the dock and the building; she was alarmed, indecisive. “You’re young and strong. You could easily kill me.”

  “That man wants to kill you,” whispered Helden. “He tried to kill me.”

  “Who is he?”

  “My brother. In the name of God, be quiet!”

  Helden grabbed Althene around the waist and forced the old woman down to the wood of the dock. As gently as possible, she rolled both of them over the edge and into the water. Althene trembled, her mouth full of water; she coughed and thrashed her hands. Helden kept her arm around the old woman’s waist, holding her up, scissoring the water below.

  “Don’t cough! We can’t make noise. Put the strap of your purse around your neck. I’ll help you.”

  “Dear God, what are you doing?”

  “Be quiet.”

  There was a small outboard motorboat moored thirty feet from the dock. Helden pulled Althene toward the protective shadows of its hull. They were halfway there when they heard the crash of a door and saw the beam of a powerful flashlight. It danced in ominous figures as the blond man ran toward the pier, then stopped and shot the light out at the water. Helden struggled, her leg an agony now, trying to reach the boat.

  She could not do it; she had no strength in the leg, and the weight of the wet clothes was too much.

  “Try to get to the boat,” she whispered. “I’ll head back … he’ll see me and—”

  “Be still!” said the old woman, her arms now spreading out in quick, floating motions, easing the burden on Helden. “It’s the same man. Your brother. He has a gun. Hurry.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You will.”

  Together, each supporting the other, they propelled themselves toward the boat.

  The blond man was on the dock, the beam of the flashlight crisscrossing the water’s surface in methodical patterns. In seconds the light would hit them; it was moving out like a deadly laser beam. The instant it centered on them, a fusillade of bullets would come and it would all be over.

  Johann von Tiebolt was a superb marksman, and his sister knew it.

  The blinding beam came; the hull was above them. Instinctively, both women put their faces in the water and surged underneath. The beam passed; they were behind the boat, the chain tangled in their clothes. They held on to it, a lifeline, filling their exhausted lungs with air.

  Silence. Footsteps, at first slow and deliberate, then suddenly gathering momentum as Johann von Tiebolt left the dock. And then the crash of a door again, and voices again.

  “Where did she go?”

  “You’re mad!”

  “You’re dead!”

  A gunshot echoed through the waterfront. It was followed by a scream of pain, then a second gunshot. And then silence.

  Minutes passed; the two women in the water looked at each other under the wash of moonlight. Tears filled the eyes of Helden von Tiebolt. The old woman touched the girl’s face and said nothing.

  The roar of an engine broke the terror of the silence. Then spinning tires and the sound of erupting gravel from an unseen drive came from the shore. The two women nodded at each other, and, once more, each holding the other, started for the dock.

  They crawled up a ladder and knelt in the darkness, breathing deeply.

  “Isn’t it odd,” said Althene. “At one point I thought about my shoes. I didn’t want to lose them.”

  “Did you?”

  “No. That’s even stranger, I imagine.”

  “Mine are gone,” said Helden aimlessly. She stood up. “We must leave. He may come back.” She looked toward the building. “I don’t want to go in there, but I think we have to. There was a set of car keys.…?” She reached down to help the old woman up.

  Helden opened the door and instantly closed her eyes. The man was slumped over the counter, his face blown off. For a moment the image of the mutilated head of Klaus Falkenheim flashed across her mind, and she wanted to scream. Instead, she whispered.

  “Mein Bruder.…”

  “Come, child. Quickly now!” Unbelievably, it was the old woman who spoke, giving the order with authority. She had spotted a ring of keys. “It’s better to take their car. I have one, but it’s been seen.”

  And then Helden saw the word, printed clearly in a heavy crayon on the floor beneath the dead man.

  “No! It’s a lie!”

  “What is it?” The old woman grabbed the keys and rushed over to the girl.

  “There. It’s a lie!”

  The word on the floor was written hastily, the letters large.

  NACHRICHTENDIENST

  Helden limped toward it, sank to her knees, and tried to rub the letters away, her hands
moving furiously, the tears streaming down her face. “A lie! A lie! They were great men!”

  Althene touched the hysterical girl’s shoulder, then took her arm and pulled her off the floor. “There’s no time for this! You said it yourself. We must leave here.”

  Gently but firmly, the older woman led the younger out to the drive. A single light was on above the door, creating as much shadow as illumination. There were two cars—the one Althene had driven and a gray automobile with a license plate wired to the bumper. She guided Helden toward the latter.

  And then stopped. Whatever control she had managed to summon was shattered.

  The body of her red-haired pilot lay in the gravel. He was dead, his hands tied behind his back. All over his face—around his eyes and mouth—were slashes made by the blade of a knife.

  He had been tortured and shot.

  They drove in silence, each with her own agonizing thoughts. “There’s an apartment,” said Helden finally. “I’ve been given directions. We’ll be safe there. A man has flown in from London to help us. He should be there by now.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A Jew from a place called Har Sha’alav.”

  Althene looked at the girl through the racing shadows. “A Jew from Har Sha’alav came to see me. It’s why I’m here.”

  “I know.”

  The door of the apartment was opened by a slender man with dark skin and very dark eyes. He was neither tall nor short, but he emanated raw physical power. This was conveyed by his enormous shoulders, accentuated by the stretched cloth of his white shirt, open at the neck, with the sleeves rolled up, displaying a pair of muscular arms. His black hair was trimmed, his face striking, as much for its rigid solemnity as for its features.

  He studied the two women, then nodded, gesturing them inside. He watched Helden’s limp without comment; observed their drenched clothing in the same manner.

  “I am Yakov Ben-Gadíz,” he said. “So that we understand one another, it is I who will make the decisions.”

  “On what basis?” asked Althene.

  Ben-Gadíz looked at her. “You are the mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t expect you.”

  “I didn’t expect to be here. I’d be dead if it weren’t for this girl.”

  “Then you have a further obligation, in addition to your overwhelming one.”

  “I asked you a question. On whose authority do you make decisions for me? No one does.”

  “I’ve been in contact with Neuchâtel. There’s work to be done tonight.”

  “There’s only one thing I must do. That’s reach my son.”

  “Later,” said Yakov Ben-Gadíz. “There’s something else first. A list must be found. We think it is in the Hôtel d’Accord.”

  “It’s vital,” interrupted Helden, her hand on Althene’s arm.

  “As vital as reaching your son,” continued Yakov, staring at the Holcroft woman. “And I need a decoy.”

  42

  Von Tiebolt spoke into the telephone, Kessler’s note in his free hand. On the other end of the line was the first deputy of canton Genève. “I tell you, the address is wrong! It’s an old deserted building, no telephone wires going through it. I’d say the Nachrichtendienst rather successfully invaded your state telephone service. Now, find me the right one!”

  The blond man listened for several moments and then exploded. “You idiot, I can’t call the number! The clerk swore he’d give it to no one but Holcroft. No matter what I might say, she’d be alarmed. Now, find me that address! I don’t care if you have to wake up the president of the Federal Council to do it. I expect you to call me back within the hour.” He slammed down the phone and looked again at Kessler’s note.

  Erich had gone to meet Holcroft. Undoubtedly they were at the Excelsior by now, registered under the name of Fresca. He could phone to make sure, but calling might lead to complications. The American had to be pushed to the edge of sanity. His friend from London murdered, his mother nowhere to be found; it was even possible he’d heard of Helden’s death in Neuchâtel. Holcroft would be close to breaking; he might demand a meeting.

  Johann was not prepared to agree to one yet. It was shortly past three o’clock in the morning, and the mother had not been located. He had to find her, kill her. There were six hours to go before the conference at the bank. At any moment—from out of a crowd, from a taxi in traffic, on a staircase or in a corner—she might confront her son and scream the warning: Betrayal! Stop! Abandon Geneva!

  That could not happen! Her voice had to be stilled, the programming of her son carried out. Quite simply, she had to die tonight, all risks eliminated with her death. And then another death would follow quickly, quietly. The son of Heinrich Clausen would have fulfilled his function.

  But first, his mother. Before daybreak. What was infuriating was that she was out there. At the end of a telephone line whose accurate address was buried in some bureaucrat’s file!

  The blond man sat down and took a long, double-edged knife from a scabbard sewn into his coat. He’d have to wash it. The red-bearded pilot had soiled it.

  Noel opened his suitcase on the luggage rack and looked at the rumpled mass of clothes inside. Then his eyes scanned the white walls with the flock paper and the French doors and the small, overly ornate chandelier in the ceiling. Hotel rooms were all beginning to look alike; he remembered the seedy exception in Berlin with a certain fondness. That he even remembered it under the circumstances was a little startling. He had settled into his unsettling new world with his faculties intact. He was not sure whether that was good or bad, only that it was so.

  Erich was on the phone, trying to reach Von Tiebolt at the d’Accord. Where the hell was Johann? It was three-thirty in the morning. Kessler hung up and turned to Noel. “He left a message saying we weren’t to be alarmed. He’s with the first deputy. They’re doing everything they can to find your mother.”

  “No call from her, then?”

  “No.”

  “It doesn’t make sense. Is the desk clerk still there?”

  “Yes. You paid him two weeks’ wages. The least he could do is to stay through the night.” Kessler’s expression grew pensive. “You know, it’s quite possible she’s simply delayed. Missed connections, a fog-bound airport, difficulties with immigration somewhere.”

  “Anything’s possible, but it still doesn’t make sense. I know her; she’d get word to me.”

  “Perhaps she’s being detained.”

  “I thought about that; it’s the best thing that could happen. She’s traveling under a false passport. Let’s hope she’s arrested and thrown into a cell for a couple of days. No call from Helden, either?”

  “No calls at all,” replied the German, his eyes suddenly riveted on Noel.

  Holcroft stretched, shaving kit in hand. “It’s the waiting without knowing that drives me crazy.” He gestured at the bathroom door. “I’m going to wash up.”

  “Good idea. Then why don’t you rest for a while? You must be exhausted. We have less than five hours to go, and I do believe Johann’s a very capable man.”

  “I’m banking on it,” said Noel.

  He took off his shirt and ran the hot water at full force, generating steam. The vapor rose, clouding the mirror and fogging the area above the sink. He put his face into the moist heat, supporting himself on the edge of the basin, and stayed there until sweat poured down his forehead. The practice was one he had learned from Sam Buonoventura several years ago. It was no substitute for a steam bath, but it helped.

  Sam? Sam! For Christ’s sake, why hadn’t he thought of him? If his mother had changed her plans, or something had happened, it was entirely possible she’d call Sam. Especially if there was no one at the d’Accord named Noel Holcroft.

  He looked at his watch; it was three-thirty-five, Geneva time, ten-thirty-five, Caribbean. If Sam had something to tell him, he’d stay by the telephone.

  Noel turned off the faucet. He could hear Kessler?
??s voice from the bedroom, but there was no one else there. Whom was he talking to, and why was he keeping his voice so low?

  Holcroft turned to the door and opened it less than an inch. Kessler was across the room, his back to the bathroom door, speaking into the telephone. Noel heard the words and stepped out.

  “I tell you, that’s our answer. She’s traveling with a false passport. Check immigration records for—”

  “Erich!”

  Yakov Ben-Gadíz closed the first-aid kit, stood up beside the bed, and surveyed his handiwork. Helden’s wound was inflamed, but there was no infection. He had replaced the soiled bandage with a clean one.

  “There,” he said, “that will do for a while. The swelling will go down in an hour or so, but you must stay off your feet. Keep the leg elevated.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re a doctor,” said Helden.

  “One doesn’t have to be a doctor to treat bullet wounds. You just have to get used to them.” The Israeli crossed to the door. “Stay here. I want to talk to Mrs. Holcroft.”

  “No!”

  Ben-Gadíz stopped. “What did you say?”

  “Don’t send her out alone. She’s beside herself with guilt and frightened for her son. She can’t think clearly; she won’t have a chance. Don’t do it.”

  “And if I do, you’ll stop me?”

  “There’s a better way. You want my brother. Use me.”

  “I want the Sonnenkinder list first. We’ve got three days to kill Von Tiebolt.”

  “Three days?”

  “Banks are closed tomorrow and Sunday. Monday would be the earliest they could meet with the Grande Banque’s directors. The list comes first. I agree with Litvak; it is the priority.”

  “If it’s so important, he’s surely got it with him.”

  “I doubt it. Men like your brother don’t take chances like that. An accident, a robbery in the streets … someone like me. No, he wouldn’t carry that list around. Nor would he put it in a hotel vault. It’s in his room. In a better vault. I want to get in that room, get him out of there for a while.”

  “Then all the more reason to use me!” said Helden. “He thinks I’m dead. He didn’t see me at the seaplane base; he was looking for her, not me. The shock will stun him; he’ll be confused. He’ll go anywhere I say to find me. All I have to do is say the word ‘Nachrichtendienst.’ I’m sure of it.”