He pulled out into the street. As planned, he would follow the police car at a discreet distance, keeping alert for signs of other automobiles showing interest in that vehicle. All contingencies had to be considered, including the possibility that somewhere on her person the old woman had concealed an electronic homing device that would send out signals attracting the carrion she employed.
The last obstacle to Code Wolfsschanze would be eliminated within the hour.
Yakov Ben-Gadíz stood in front of Von Tiebolt’s door. The “do not disturb” sign was posted. The Israeli knelt down and opened his briefcase. He took out an odd-shaped flashlight and snapped it on; the glow was a barely perceptible light green. He pointed the light at the bottom left of the door, worked across, and up, and over the top. He was looking for strands of thread or of human hair—tiny alarms that if removed told the occupant his room had been entered. The light identified two threads stretched below, then three vertically, and one above. Yakov removed a tiny pin recessed in the handle of the flashlight. Delicately, he touched the wood beside each thread; the pin markings were infinitesimal—unseen by the naked eye but picked up by the green light. He then knelt again and took a small metal cylinder from his briefcase. It was a highly sophisticated electronic lock-picking instrument developed in the counterterrorist laboratories at Tel Aviv.
He placed the mouth of the cylinder over the lock and activated the tumbler probes. The lock sprung, and Yakov carefully slid the fingers of his left hand along the borders of the door, removing the threads. Slowly, he pushed the door open. He reached for his briefcase, stepped inside, and closed the door. There was a small table by the wall; he put the threads down carefully on it, weighting them with the cylinder, and again snapped on the flashlight.
He looked at his watch. Conservatively, he had no more than thirty minutes to deactivate whatever alarms Von Tiebolt had set and to find the Sonnenkinder list. The fact that threads had been planted in the door was a good sign. They were there for a reason.
He angled the beam of green light around the sitting room. There were two closets and the bedroom door, all closed. He eliminated the closets first. No threads, no bolted locks, nothing.
He approached the door to the bedroom and threw the beam along the edges. There were no threads, but there was something else. The wash of green light picked up the reflection of a tiny yellow light recessed between the door and the frame, approximately two feet above the floor. Ben-Gadíz knew immediately what he was looking at: a miniature photoelectric cell, making contact with another drilled into the wood of the door’s edging.
If the door was opened, the contact would be broken and the alarm triggered. It was as foolproof as modern technology allowed; there was no way to immobilize the device. Yakov had seen them before, tiny cells with built-in timers. Once implanted, they were there for the specific durations called for, rarely less than five hours. No one, including the person who set them, could neutralize them before the timers ran down.
Which meant that Johann von Tiebolt expected to break the contact if he wanted to enter the room. Emergencies might arise that required his tripping the alarm.
What kind of alarm was it? Sound had to be ruled out; any loud noise would draw attention to the room. Radio signals were a possibility, but signals had too limited a range.
No, the alarm itself had to release a deterrent within the immediate vicinity of the protected area. A deterrent that would immobilize an intruder but could be defused by Von Tiebolt himself.
Electric shock was not dependable. Acid was uncontrollable; Von Tiebolt might sustain permanent injury and disfigurement. Was it a gas? A vapor?…
Toxin. A vaporized poison. Toxic fumes. Powerful enough to render a trespasser unconscious. An oxygen mask would be protection against the vapor. If Von Tiebolt used one, he could enter the room at will.
Tear gas and Mace were not unknown in Yakov’s line of work. He returned to his briefcase, knelt down, and pulled out a gas mask with a small canister of oxygen. He put it on, inserted the mouthpiece, and went back to the door. He pushed the door open quickly, and stepped back.
A burst of vapor filled the door frame. It was suspended for several seconds and then evaporated rapidly, leaving the space as clear as if it had never appeared. Ben-Gadíz felt a minor stinging around his eyes. It was an irritant, not blinding, but Yakov knew that if inhaled, the chemicals that produced that stinging would inflame the lungs and cause his instant collapse. It was the proof he was looking for. The Sonnenkinder list was somewhere in that room.
He stepped through the doorway, past a tripod with a cylinder of gas attached to the top. To remove whatever traces might remain of the fumes, he opened a window; cold winter air rushed in, billowing the curtains.
Ben-Gadíz went back into the sitting room, picked up his briefcase, and returned to the bedroom to begin the search. Assuming that the list would be protected by a fire-resistant steel container of some sort, he took out a small metal scanner with a luminous dial. He started at the bed area and began working his way around the room.
The needle of the detector leaped forward in front of the clothes closet. The green light picked up the familiar tiny yellow dots in the door frame.
He had found the vault.
He opened the door; vapor burst forth, filling the closet as it had filled the space of the bedroom door. Only now it remained longer than before, the cloud denser. If the first alarm had malfunctioned, this one contained enough toxin to kill a man. On the floor of the closet was an overnight suitcase, its dark-brown leather soft and expensive, but Yakov knew it was not an ordinary piece of luggage. There were no wrinkles on the front or back, as there were across the top and down the sides. The leather was reinforced with steel.
He checked for threads and markings with the green light; there were none. He lifted the suitcase to the bed, then pushed a second button on the flashlight. The green light was replaced with a sharp beam of yellowish white. He studied the two locks. They were different; doubtless each triggered a different alarm.
He removed a thin pick from his pocket and inserted it in the lock on the right, careful to keep his hand as far back as possible.
There was a rush of air; a long needle shot out from the left of the lock. Fluid oozed from the point, globules dripping to the carpet. Yakov took out a handkerchief, wiped the needle clean, and slowly, cautiously, pushed it back into its recess, using his pick to press it through the tiny orifice.
He turned his attention to the lock on the left. Standing to the side he repeated the manipulations with the pick; the latch snapped up; there was a second rush of air. Instead of a needle, something shot out, embedding itself in the fabric of an armchair across the room. Ben-Gadíz rushed over, shining the light on the point of entry. There was a circle of dampness where the object had entered the cloth. With the pick, he dug it out.
It was a gelatinous capsule, its tip made of steel. It would enter flesh as easily as it had broken the threads of fabric. The fluid was a powerful narcotic of some sort.
Satisfied, Ben-Gadíz put the capsule in his pocket, returned to the suitcase, and opened it. Inside was a flat metal envelope attached to the steel reinforcement. He had reached the safety box beyond the alarms, within the successive deadly vaults, and it was his.
He looked at his watch; the operation had taken eighteen minutes.
He lifted the flap of the metal envelope and took out the papers. There were eleven pages, each page containing six columns—names, cable addresses, and cities—perhaps one hundred fifty entries per page. Approximately sixteen hundred and fifty identities.
The elite of the Sonnenkinder. The manipulators of Wolfsschanze.
Yakov Ben-Gadíz knelt down over his open briefcase and removed a camera.
“Vous êtes très aimable. Nous vous téléphonons dans une demi-heure. Merci.” Kessler hung up the telephone, shaking his head at Noel, who stood by the window of the Excelsior suite. “Nothing. Your mother didn’t call the d’Ac
cord.”
“They’re certain?”
“There’ve been no calls at all for a Mr. Holcroft. I even checked the switchboard, in case the desk clerk had stepped out for a moment or two. You heard me.”
“I don’t understand her. Where is she? She should have called hours ago. And Helden. She said she’d phone me Friday night; goddammit, it’s Saturday morning!”
“Nearly four o’clock,” said Erich. “You really should get some rest. Johann’s doing everything he can to find your mother. He’s got the best people in Geneva working for us.”
“I can’t rest,” said Noel. “You forget: I just killed a man in Curaçao. His crime was helping me, and I killed him.”
“You didn’t. The Nachrichtendienst did.”
“Then let’s do something!” cried Holcroft “Von Tiebolt has friends in high places. Tell them about it! British Intelligence owes him one hell of a debt; he gave them the Tinamou! Call in that debt! Now! Let the whole goddamn world know about those bastards! What are we waiting for?”
Kessler took several steps toward Noel, his eyes level and compassionate. “We’re waiting for the most important thing of all. The meeting at the bank. The covenant. Once that’s over with, there’s nothing we can’t do. And when we do it, the ‘whole goddamn world,’ as you put it, will have to listen. Look to our covenant, Noel. It’s the answer to so much. For you, your mother, Helden … so much. I think you know that.”
Holcroft nodded slowly, his voice tired, his mind exhausted. “I do. It’s the not knowing, not hearing, that drives me crazy.”
“I know it’s been difficult for you. But it will be over soon; everything will be fine.” Erich smiled. “I’m going to wash up.”
Noel went to the window. Geneva was asleep—as Paris had been asleep, and Berlin and London and Rio. Through how many windows had he looked out at the sleeping cities at night? Too many. Nothing is as it was for you.…
Nothing.
Holcroft frowned. Nothing. Not even his name. His name. He was registered as Fresca. Not Holcroft, but Fresca! That was the name Helden was to call!
Fresca.
He spun around toward the telephone. There was no point in having Erich make the call; the d’Accord operator spoke English, and he knew the number. He dialed.
“Hôtel d’Accord. Bonsoir.”
“Operator, this is Mr. Holcroft. Dr. Kessler spoke to you a few minutes ago about the messages I was expecting.”
“I beg your pardon, monsieur. Dr. Kessler? You wish Dr. Kessler?”
“No, you don’t understand. Dr. Kessler spoke to you just a few minutes ago about my messages. There’s another name I want to ask you about. ‘Fresca.’ ‘N. Fresca.’ Have there been any messages for N. Fresca?”
The operator paused. “There’s no Fresca at the d’Accord, monsieur. Do you wish me to ring Dr. Kessler’s room?”
“No, he’s here. He just spoke to you!” Goddammit, thought Noel, the woman could speak English, but she couldn’t seem to understand it. Then he remembered the name of the desk clerk; he gave it to the operator. “May I speak with him, please?”
“I’m sorry, monsieur. He left over three hours ago. He’s off duty at midnight.”
Holcroft held his breath, his eyes on the bathroom door. He could hear water running; Erich could not hear him. And the operator understood English perfectly. “Wait a minute, miss. Let me get this straight. You didn’t talk with Dr. Kessler a few minutes ago?”
“No, monsieur.”
“Is there another operator on the switchboard?”
“No. There are very few calls during these hours.”
“And the desk clerk left at midnight?”
“Yes, I just told you.”
“And there’ve been no calls for Mr. Holcroft?”
Again the operator paused. When she spoke, she was hesitant, as if remembering. “I think there was, monsieur. Shortly after I came on duty. A woman called. I was instructed to give the call to the head clerk.”
“Thank you,” said Noel softly, hanging up.
The water in the bathroom stopped running. Kessler stepped out. He saw Holcroft’s hand on the telephone. The scholar’s eyes were no longer gentle.
“What the hell’s going on?” asked Noel. “You didn’t talk to the clerk. Or the switchboard. My mother called hours ago. You never told me. You lied.”
“You must not get upset, Noel.”
“You lied to me!” roared Holcroft, grabbing his jacket off the chair and going to the bed where he had thrown his raincoat—the raincoat with the gun in the pocket. “She called me, you son of a bitch!”
Kessler ran to the foyer and placed himself in front of the door. “She wasn’t where she said she would be! We are worried. We are trying to find her, protect her. Protect you! Von Tiebolt understands these things; he’s lived with them. Let him make the decisions.”
“Decisions? What goddamn decisions? He doesn’t make decisions for me! Neither do you! Get out of my way!”
Kessler did not move, so Noel grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him across the room.
Holcroft raced into the hallway, toward the staircase.
44
The gates of the estate parted; the official vehicle drove through. The policeman nodded to the guard and glanced warily through the window at the Doberman, straining on its leash, prepared to attack. He turned to Mrs. Holcroft.
“The guest house is four kilometers from the gate. We take the road that veers to the right, off the main drive.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” said Althene.
“I tell you because I’ve never been here before, madame. I trust I’ll find my way in the dark.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“I’m to leave you there and return to my official duties,” he said. “There’s no one at the guest house, but the front entrance, I’m told, will be open.”
“I see. Mr. Tennyson is waiting for me?”
The police officer seemed to hesitate. “He’ll be along shortly. He’ll drive you back, of course.”
“Of course. Tell me, do your orders come from Mr. Tennyson?”
“My present instructions, yes. Not the orders. They come from the first deputy, through the prefect of police.”
“The first deputy? The prefect? They’re friends of Mr. Tennyson’s?”
“I imagine so, madame. As I mentioned, Mr. Tennyson must be a very important man. Yes, I’d say they are friends.”
“But you’re not?”
The man laughed. “Me? Oh, no, madame. I only met the gentleman briefly. As I said to you, this is merely a municipal courtesy.”
“I see. Do you think you might extend a courtesy to me?” asked Althene, pointedly opening her purse. “On a confidential basis.”
“That would depend, madame.…”
“It’s only a telephone call to a friend who may be worried about me. I forgot to call her from the railroad station.”
“Gladly,” said the officer. “As a friend of Mr. Tennyson, I assume you’re also an important visitor to Genève.”
“I’ll write out the number. A young lady will answer. Tell her exactly where you’ve taken me.”
The guest house was high ceilinged, with tapestries on the walls and French-provincial furniture. It belonged in the Loire Valley, an adjunct to a great château.
Althene sat in a large chair, the pistol belonging to Yakov Ben-Gadíz wedged between the pillow and the base of the arm. The police officer had left five minutes ago; she waited now for Johann von Tiebolt.
The almost overpowering temptation to shoot the instant Von Tiebolt walked through the door had to be controlled. If there were things she could learn, she had to learn them. If only on the possibility she could relay them to the Israeli, or to the girl. Somehow …
He had arrived; the low, vibrating sound of a car motor outside was proof. She had heard that powerful engine hours before as it came to a stop on a deserted stretch of highway above Lake Geneva. She had w
atched through the trees as the blond man killed. As he had killed ruthlessly hours later at Atterrisage Médoc. To bring about his death would be a privilege. She touched the handle of the gun, secure in her purpose.
The door opened, and the tall man with the shining blond hair and the sculptured features walked inside. He closed the door; his movements in the soft, indirect lighting were supple.
“Mrs. Holcroft, how good of you to come.”
“It was I who asked for the meeting. How good of you to arrange it. Your precautions were commendable.”
“You seemed to feel they were called for.”
“No automobile could have followed us from the station.”
“None did. We’re alone.”
“This is a pleasant house. My son would find it interesting. As an architect, he’d call it an example of something or other, and point out the various influences.”
“I’m sure he would; his mind works that way.”
“Yes,” said Althene, smiling. “He’ll be walking down a street and suddenly stop and stare up at a window or a cornice, seeing a detail others don’t see. He’s quite devoted to his work. I never knew where he got it from. I have no talents in that direction, and his late father was a banker.”
The blond man stood motionless. “Then both fathers were associated with money.”
“You know, then?” Althene asked.
“Of course. Heinrich Clausen’s son. I think we can stop lying to each other, Mrs. Holcroft.”
“I understood it was a lie on your part, Herr von Tiebolt. I wasn’t sure you knew it was one on mine.”
“To be frank, until this moment I didn’t. If your objective was to set a trap, I’m sorry to have spoiled it for you. But then, I’m sure you knew the risk.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why did you take it? You must have considered the consequences.”
“I considered them. But I felt it was only fair to let you know the consequences of a previous action on my part. Knowing it, perhaps an accommodation can be reached between us.”