The Holcroft Covenant: A Novel

  “And I’m counting on it,” replied Yakov. “But for tomorrow. Not tonight. You’re not the one he wants tonight. Holcroft’s mother is.”

  “I’ll tell him she’s with me! It’s perfect!”

  “He’d never believe you. You, who went to Neuchâtel to meet Werner Gerhardt? Who escaped? You’re synonymous with a trap.”

  “Then at least let me go with her,” pleaded Helden. “Set up a meeting and I’ll stay out of sight. Give her some protection. I have a gun.”

  Ben-Gadíz thought a moment before answering. “I know what you’re offering, and I admire you for it. But I can’t risk the two of you. You see, I need her tonight, and I’ll need you tomorrow. She’ll draw him away tonight; you’ll draw him out tomorrow. It has to be that way.”

  “You can accomplish both tonight!” pressed Helden. “Get your list. I’ll kill him. I swear it!”

  “I believe you, but you’re missing a point. I give your brother more credit than you do. No matter how we plan, he’ll control the meeting with Mrs. Holcroft tonight. He has the numbers, the methods. We don’t.”

  Helden stared at the Israeli. “You’re not only using her; you’re sacrificing her.”

  “I’ll use each of us, sacrifice each of us, to do what has to be done. If you interfere, I’ll kill you.” Yakov walked to the bedroom door and let himself out.

  Althene was sitting at a desk at the far end of the room, its small lamp the only source of light. She wore a deep-red bathrobe that she’d found in a closet, and it fit her loosely. The drenched clothes she and Helden had worn were draped over radiators, drying out. She was writing on a sheet of stationery. At the sound of Yakov’s footsteps, she turned.

  “I borrowed some paper from your desk,” she said.

  “It’s not my paper, not my desk,” answered the Israeli. “Are you writing a letter?”

  “Yes. To my son.”

  “Why? With any luck we’ll reach him. You’ll talk.”

  Althene leaned back in the chair, her gaze steady on Ben-Gadíz. “I think we both know that there’s little chance I’ll see him again.”

  “Do we?”

  “Of course. There’s no point in my deceiving myself … or in your trying to deceive me. Von Tiebolt has to meet with me. When he does, he won’t let me go. Not alive. Why would he?”

  “We’ll take precautions as best we can.”

  “I’ll take a gun, thank you. I’ve no intention of standing there, telling him to fire away.”

  “It would be better if you were sitting.”

  They smiled at each other. “We’re both practical, aren’t we? Survivors.”

  Yakov shrugged. “It’s easier that way.”

  “Tell me. This list you want so badly. The Sonnenkinder. It must be enormous. Volumes. Names of people and families everywhere.”

  “That’s not the list we’re after; that’s the master list. I doubt we’ll ever see it. The list we can find—we’ve got to find—is the practical one. The names of the leaders who’ll receive the funds, who’ll distribute them in strategic areas. That list has to be where Von Tiebolt can get it readily.”

  “And with it, you’ll have the identity of Wolfsschanze’s leaders.”

  “Everywhere.”

  “Why are you so sure it’s at the d’Accord?”

  “It’s the only place it could be. Von Tiebolt trusts no one. He lets others deal in fragments; he controls the whole. He wouldn’t leave the list in a vault; nor would he carry it on him. It will be in his hotel room, the room itself filled with traps. And he would leave it only under the direst of circumstances.”

  “We agree I’m that circumstance.”

  “Yes. He fears you as he fears no one else, for no one else could convince your son to walk away from Geneva. They need him; they always have. The laws must be observed for the funds to be released. There was never any other way.”

  “There’s irony in that. The law is used to perpetrate the greatest illegality imaginable.”

  “It is not a new device, Mrs. Holcroft.”

  “What about my son? Will you kill him?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “I’d like something more concrete.”

  “There’ll be no reason to, if he comes with us. If he can be convinced of the truth and not think he’s being tricked, there’s good reason to keep him alive. Wolfsschanze won’t end with the collapse of the funds. The Sonnenkinder are out there. They’ll be crippled, but not exposed. Or destroyed. We’ll need every voice that can be raised against them. Your son will have a vital story to tell. Together we’ll reach the right people.”

  “How will you convince him … if I don’t come back from my meeting with Von Tiebolt?”

  The Israeli saw the hint of a smile on Althene’s lips and understood her pause. His assumption had been clear: She would not come back.

  “As the contact in Neuchâtel and I see it, we have today and tomorrow; the moves at La Grande Banque will no doubt begin Monday. They’ll keep him isolated, out of reach. It’s my job to break that isolation, get him away.”

  “And when you do, what will you say?”

  “I’ll tell him the truth, explain everything we learned at Har Sha’alav. Helden can be extremely helpful—if she’s alive, frankly. And then there’s the list. If I find it, I’ll show it to him.”

  “Show him this letter,” interrupted Althene, turning back to the paper on the desk.

  “It, too, would be helpful,” said the Israeli.

  “Erich!”

  Kessler whipped around, his obese body rigid. He started to lower the phone, but Holcroft stopped him.

  “Hold it! Who are you talking to?” Noel grabbed the telephone; he spoke into it. “Who is this?”

  Silence.

  “Who is this?”

  “Please,” said Kessler, regaining his composure. “We’re trying to protect you. You can’t be seen on the streets; you know that. They’ll kill you. You’re the key to Geneva.”

  “You weren’t talking about me!”

  “We’re trying to find your mother! You said she was traveling on a false passport, out of Lisbon. We didn’t understand that. Johann knows people who provide such papers; we were discussing it now.”

  Holcroft spoke again into the phone. “Von Tiebolt? Is that you?”

  “Yes, Noel,” came the calm reply. “Erich’s right. I have friends here who are trying to help us. Your mother could be in danger. You can’t be a part of the search. You must stay out of sight.”

  “ ‘Can’t’?” Holcroft said the word sharply. “ ‘Must’? Let’s get something straight—both of you.” Noel spoke into the phone, his eyes on Kessler. “I’ll decide what I do and what I don’t do. Is that clear?”

  The scholar nodded. Von Tiebolt said nothing. Holcroft raised his voice. “I asked you if that was clear!”

  “Yes, of course,” said Johann finally. “As Erich has told you, we only want to help. This information about your mother’s traveling on a passport that’s not her own could be helpful. I know men who deal in such matters. I’ll make calls and keep you informed.”

  “Please.”

  “If I don’t see you before morning, we’ll meet at the bank. I assume Erich’s explained.”

  “Yes, he has. And, Johann … I’m sorry I blew; I know you’re trying to help. The people we’re after are called the Nachrichtendienst, aren’t they? That’s what you found out in London.”

  There was a pause on the line. Then, “How did you know?”

  “They left a calling card. I want those bastards.”

  “So do we.”

  “Thanks. Call me the minute you hear anything.” Noel hung up. “Don’t ever do that again,” he told Kessler.

  “I apologize. I thought I was doing the right thing. Just as I think you believed you were doing the right thing to have me followed from the d’Accord.”

  “It’s a lousy world these days,” Noel said, reaching for the phone.

  “What are
you doing?”

  “There’s a man in Curaçao I want to talk to. He may know something.”

  “Oh, yes. The engineer who’s been relaying your messages.”

  “I owe him.”

  Noel reached the overseas operator and gave her the number in Curaçao. “Shall I stay on the line, or will you call me back?”

  “The cables are not crowded at this hour, sir.”

  “I’ll stay on.” He sat on the bed and waited. Before ninety seconds had passed, he heard the ring of Buonoventura’s phone.

  A male voice answered. But it was not Sam’s voice.

  “Yeah?”

  “Sam Buonoventura, please.”

  “Who wants him?”

  “A personal friend. I’m calling from Europe.”

  “He ain’t gonna come runnin’, mister. He ain’t takin’ no more phone calls.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Sam bought it, mister. Some fuckin’ nigger native put a wire through his throat. We’re beating the high grass and the beaches for that son of a bitch.”

  Holcroft lowered his head, his eyes closed, his breath suspended. His moves had been traced to Sam, and Sam’s help could not be tolerated. Buonoventura was his information center; he had to be killed, no more messages relayed. The Nachrichtendienst was trying to isolate him. He had owed Sam a debt, and that debt had been paid with death. Everything he touched was touched with death; he was its carrier.

  “Don’t bother with the high grass,” he said, barely aware he was talking. “I killed him.”

  43

  “Did your son ever mention the name ‘Tennyson’?” asked Ben-Gadíz.

  “No.”

  “Damn it! When was the last time you talked with him?”

  “After my husband’s death. He was in Paris.”

  Yakov unfolded his arms; he had heard something he wanted to hear. “Was it the first time you’d spoken since your husband’s death?”

  “His murder,” corrected Althene. “Although I didn’t know it then.”

  “Answer my question. Was it the first time you’d talked since your husband died?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was a sad conversation, then.”

  “Obviously. I had to tell him.”

  “Good. Such times cloud the mind; things are said that are rarely recalled with clarity. That’s when he mentioned the name ‘Tennyson.’ He told you he was on his way to Geneva, probably with a man named Tennyson. Can you convey that to Von Tiebolt?”

  “Certainly. But will he accept it?”

  “He has no choice. He wants you.”

  “I want him.”

  “Make the call. And remember, you’re close to hysterics; a panicked woman is unmanageable. Throw him off balance with your voice. Shout, whisper, stutter. Tell him you were to call your pilot at the seaplane base. There’s been a killing; it was swarming with police, and you’re frightened out of your mind. Can you do it?”

  “Just listen,” said Althene, reaching for the phone.

  The d’Accord switchboard connected her to the room of its very important guest Mr. John Tennyson.

  And Yakov listened in admiration as Althene performed.

  “You must get hold of yourself, Mrs. Holcroft,” said the stranger at the d’Accord.

  “Then you are the Tennyson my son referred to?”

  “Yes. I’m a friend. We met in Paris.”

  “For the love of God, can you help me?”

  “Of course. It would be a privilege.”

  “Where’s Noel?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know.… He has business in Geneva with which I’m not involved.”

  “You’re not?” A statement made in relief.

  “Oh, no. We had dinner earlier—last night, actually—and he left to see his associates.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “I’m afraid he didn’t. You see, I’m on my way to Milan.… In Paris, I told Noel I’d stop over with him in Geneva and show him the city. He’s never been here, of course.”

  “Can you meet with me, Mr. Tennyson?”

  “Certainly. Where are you?”

  “We must be careful. I can’t let you take risks.”

  “There’s no risk for me, Mrs. Holcroft. I move freely in Geneva.”

  “I don’t. That dreadful business at Médoc.”

  “Come now, you’re overwrought. Whatever it was, I’m sure it doesn’t concern you. Where are you? Where can we meet?”

  “The train station. The north entrance waiting room. In forty-five minutes. God bless you.”

  She hung up abruptly. Yakov Ben-Gadíz smiled in approval.

  “He’ll be very careful,” said the Israeli. “He’ll mount his defenses, and that will give us more time. I’ll head for the d’Accord. I’ll need every minute.”

  Von Tiebolt replaced the receiver slowly. The possibilities of a trap were greater rather than fewer, he thought, but the evidence was not conclusive. He had purposely made the statement that Holcroft had never been to Geneva; it was a lie, and the old woman knew it. On the other hand, she sounded genuinely panicked, and a woman of her age in panic did not so much listen as wish to be listened to. It was conceivable that she had not heard the remark, or, if she had, that she considered it subordinate to her own concerns.

  Holcroft’s using the name “Tennyson”—if he had—was not out of character for the American. He was subject to quick emotional outbursts, often speaking without thinking. The news of Richard Holcroft’s death in New York could easily have put him in such an emotional state that the name “Tennyson” slipped out without his realizing it.

  On the other hand, the American had displayed strengths where strengths had not been thought to exist. Giving the name to his mother contradicted the discipline he had developed. And further, Johann knew that he was dealing with a woman who was capable of obtaining false papers, who had disappeared in Lisbon. He would take extraordinary precautions. He would not be trapped by an old woman in panic—or by one who pretended to be in panic.

  The telephone rang, breaking his concentration.

  “Yes?”

  It was the first deputy. They were still trying to locate the accurate address of the telephone number given the d’Accord by Mrs. Holcroft. A bureaucrat was on his way to the state telephone office to open a file. Von Tiebolt replied icily.

  “By the time he finds it, it will be of no use to us. I’ve made contact with the woman. Send a policeman driving an official car to the d’Accord immediately. Tell him I’m a visitor of state who requires a personal courtesy. Have him in the lobby in fifteen minutes.” Von Tiebolt did not wait for a reply. He replaced the phone and went back to the table where there were two handguns. They had been broken down for cleaning; he would reassemble them quickly. They were two of the Tinamou’s favorite weapons.

  If Althene Holcroft had the audacity to bait a trap, she would learn she was no match for the leader of Wolfsschanze. Her trap would snap back, crushing her in its teeth.

  The Israeli stayed out of sight in an alleyway across from the d’Accord. On the hotel steps, Von Tiebolt was talking quietly with a police officer, giving him instructions.

  When they had finished talking, the officer ran to his car. The blond man walked to a black limousine at the curb and climbed in behind the wheel. Von Tiebolt wanted no chauffeur for the trip he was about to make.

  Both cars drove off down the rue des Granges. Yakov waited until he could see neither, then, briefcase in hand, walked across the street to the d’Accord.

  He approached the front desk, the picture of weary officialdom. He sighed as he spoke to the clerk. “Police examiners. I’ve been rousted from my bed to take additional scrapings from the dead man’s room. That Ellis fellow. The inspectors never have ideas until everyone they need is asleep. What’s the number?”

  “Third floor. Room thirty-one,” said the clerk, grinning sympathetically. “There’s an officer on duty outside.”


  “Thanks.” Ben-Gadíz walked to the elevator, pressing the button for the fifth floor. John Tennyson was registered in room 512. There was no time to indulge in games with a policeman on guard duty. He needed every minute—every second—he could get.

  The man in the uniform of the Geneva police walked through the north entrance of the railroad station, his leather heels clicking against the stone. He approached the old woman seated at the far end of the first row of benches.

  “Mrs. Althene Holcroft?”

  “Yes?”

  “Please come with me, madame.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “I’m to escort you to Mr. Tennyson.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “It is a courtesy of the city of Geneva.”

  The old woman got to her feet and accompanied the man in uniform. As they walked toward the double doors of the north entrance, four additional policemen emerged from the outside and took up positions in front of the doors. No one would pass by them until permission was granted.

  Outside, on the platform, flanking a police car at the curb, were two more uniformed men. The one near the hood opened the door for the woman. She climbed in; her escort addressed his subordinates.

  “As instructed, no private automobiles or taxis are to leave the terminal for a period of twenty minutes. Should any attempt to do so, get the identifications and have the information radioed to my car.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If there are no incidents, the men may go back to their posts in twenty minutes.” The police officer got inside the car and started the engine.

  “Where are we going?” asked Althene.

  “To a guest house on the estate of the first deputy of Geneva. This Mr. Tennyson must be a very important man.”

  “In many ways,” she replied.

  Von Tiebolt waited behind the wheel of the black limousine. He was parked fifty yards from the ramp that led out of the station’s north entrance, the limousine’s motor idling. He watched as the police car drove out into the street and turned right, then waited until he saw the two police officers take up their positions.