The Holcroft Covenant: A Novel

  “Really? And what would this accommodation entail?”

  “Abandoning Geneva. Dismantling Wolfsschanze.”

  “Is that all?” The blond man smiled. “You’re mad.”

  “Suppose I told you that I had written a very long letter detailing a lie I have lived with for over thirty years. A letter in which I identify the participants and their strategy by name and family and bank.”

  “And destroyed your son in so doing.”

  “He’d be the first to agree with what I did, if he knew.”

  Von Tiebolt folded his arms. “You said, ‘Suppose I told you’ … about this letter of yours. Well, you’ve told me. And I’m afraid I’d have to say that you wrote about something you know nothing about. All the laws have been observed, and the pitifully few facts you claim to have would be called the ramblings of a crazy old woman who’s been the object of official surveillance for a very long time. But this is irrelevant. You never wrote such a letter.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Please,” said Von Tiebolt “We have copies of every bit of correspondence, every will, every legal document you’ve written … as well as the substance of every phone call you’ve made during the past five years.”

  “You’ve what?”

  “There’s a file at your Federal Bureau of Investigation with the code name ‘Mother Goddamn.’ It’s one that will never be released under the Freedom of Information Act, because it deals with national security. No one’s quite sure why, but it does, and certain latitudes are permitted. That file is also at the Central Intelligence Agency and the Defense Intelligence Agency and in the computer banks of Army G-Two.” Von Tiebolt smiled again. “We are everywhere, Mrs. Holcroft. Can’t you understand that? You should know it before you leave this world; your remaining here would change nothing. You can’t stop us. No one can.”

  “You’ll be stopped because you offer lies! You always did. And when the lies fail, you kill. It was your way then; it’s your way now.”

  “Lies are palliatives; death is often the answer for irritating problems that interfere with progress.”

  “The problems being people.”

  “Always.”

  “You are the most contemptible man on earth. You’re insane!”

  The blond killer put his hand in his jacket pocket. “You make my work pleasant,” he said, withdrawing a pistol. “Another woman said those words to me. She was no less headstrong than you. I put a bullet in her head—through a car window. At night. In Rio de Janeiro. She was my mother, and she called me insane, called our work contemptible. She never grasped the necessity—the beauty—of our cause. She tried to interfere.” The blond man raised the gun. “A few old men—devoted lovers of the whore—suspected me of killing her and in their feeble way tried to have me charged. Can you imagine? Have me charged. It sounds so official. What they didn’t realize was that we controlled the courts. No one can stop us.”

  “Noel will stop you!” cried Althene, her hand edging toward the concealed weapon at her side.

  “Your son will be dead in a day or two. But even if we don’t kill him, others will. He’s left a trail of murder from which he can never extricate himself. A former member of British Intelligence was garroted in New York. His last conversation was with your son. A man named Graff was killed in Rio; your son threatened him. A construction engineer in the Caribbean died tonight, also garroted. He relayed confidential messages to Noel Holcroft from Rio to Paris and stops in between. Tomorrow morning a New York detective named Miles will be slain in the streets. The current case file that obsesses him has been altered somewhat, but not its subject—Noel Holcroft. In fact, for Noel’s own peace of mind it would probably be better if we killed him after all. He has no life now.” Von Tiebolt raised his weapon higher, then stretched out his arm slowly, his target the woman’s head. “So you see, Mrs. Holcroft, you can’t possibly stop us. We are everywhere.”

  Althene suddenly twisted in her chair, thrusting her hand toward the gun.

  Johann von Tiebolt fired. Then he fired again. And again.

  Yakov Ben-Gadíz rearranged Von Tiebolt’s suite, leaving it exactly as he had found it, airing out the rooms so that there was no evidence of entry.

  Were he alive, Klaus Falkenheim would be appalled at what Yakov was doing. Get the list. The identities. Once the names are yours, expose the account for what it is. Cause the distribution of the millions to be abandoned. Cripple the Sonnenkinder. Those had been Falkenheim’s instructions.

  But there was another way. It had been discussed quietly among the elders at Har Sha’alav. They’d never had time to bring it to Falkenheim’s attention, but it was their intention to do so. They called it the option of Har Sha’alav.

  It was dangerous, but it could be done.

  Get the list and control the millions. Don’t expose the account; steal it. Use the great fortune to fight the Sonnenkinder. Everywhere.

  The strategy had not been perfected, because not enough was known. But Yakov knew enough now. Of the three sons who would present themselves to the bank, one was not what the others were.

  In the beginning, Noel Holcroft was the key to fulfilling the Wolfsschanze covenant. At the end, he would be its undoing.

  Fatkenheim was dead, Yakov reflected. The elders of Har Sha’alav were dead; there was no one else. The decision was his alone.

  The option of Har Sha’alav.

  Could it be done?

  He would know within the next twenty-four hours.

  His eyes fell on every object in the room. Everything was in place, everything as it had been. Except that in his briefcase now were eleven photographs that could signify the beginning of the end of Wolfsschanze. Eleven pages of names, the identities of the most trusted, most powerful Sonnenkinder across the world. Men and women who had lived the Nazi lie in deep cover for thirty years.

  Never again.

  Yakov picked up his briefcase. He would rethread the outer door and …

  He stopped all movement, all thought, and concentrated on the sudden intrusion from beyond the door. He could hear footsteps, racing footsteps, muffled by the carpet but distinguishable, running up the hotel corridor. They drew near, then came to an abrupt stop. Silence, followed by the sound of a key in the lock and the frantic turning of both knob and key. The inside latch held firm. A fist pounded against the door inches from Ben-Gadíz.

  “Von Tiebolt! Let me in!”

  It was the American. In seconds he would break down the door.

  Kessler crawled to the bed, held on to the post, and pulled his large frame off the floor. His glasses had flown off his face under the force of Holcroft’s attack. He would find them in a few minutes, but right now he had to think, to analyze his immediate course of action.

  Holcroft would go to the d’Accord to confront Johann; there was nothing else he could do. But Johann was not there, and it was no time for the American to create a scene.

  Nor would he, thought Kessler, smiling in spite of his anxiety. Holcroft had only to gain admittance to Von Tiebolt’s suite. A simple hotel key was the answer. Once inside, the American would open the bedroom door. The instant he did, he would collapse, no longer an immediate problem.

  An antidote and several ice packs would revive him sufficiently for the conference at the bank; a dozen explanations would be given to him. It was only a matter of getting Johann’s room key to him.

  The clerks at the d’Accord would not give him one on the strength of another guest’s request, but they would if the first deputy told them to. Von Tiebolt was his personal friend; accommodations were to be granted in all things.

  Kessler picked up the phone.

  Helden limped about the apartment, forcing her leg to get used to the pain, angry that she had been left behind, but knowing it was the sensible thing to do—the only thing. The Israeli did not think Noel would call, but it was a contingency that had to be considered. Yakov was convinced Noel was being isolated, all messages intercepted; bu
t there was a remote chance …

  The telephone rang; Helden thought the blood would burst from her throat She swallowed, and limped across the room to pick it up. Oh, God! Let it be Noel!

  It was an unfamiliar voice belonging to someone who would not identify himself.

  “Mrs. Holcroft was driven to a guest house on an estate thirteen kilometers south of the city. I’ll give you directions.”

  He did. Helden wrote them down. When he had finished, the stranger added, “There is a guard at the main gate. He has an attack dog.”

  Yakov could not let the pounding continue, nor Holcroft’s shouted demands. The disturbance would draw attention.

  The Israeli twisted the latch and pressed himself against the wall. The door crashed open, the figure of the tall American filling the frame. He lunged into the room, his arms in front of him as if prepared to repel an assault.

  “Von Tiebolt! Where are you?”

  Holcroft was obviously startled by the darkness. Ben-Gadíz stepped silently to the side, the flashlight in his hand. He spoke rapidly, completing two sentences in a single breath.

  “Von Tiebolt’s not here and I mean you no harm. We are not on opposite sides.”

  Holcroft spun around, his hands extended. “Who are you? What the hell are you doing here? Turn on the light!”

  “No lights! Just listen.”

  The American stepped forward angrily. Yakov pressed the button on his flashlight; the wash of green spread over Holcroft, causing him to cover his eyes. “Turn that off!”

  “No. Listen to me first.”

  Holcroft lashed his right foot out, catching Ben-Gadíz in the knee; at contact, Noel sprang forward, his eyes shut, his hands clutching for the Israeli’s body.

  Yakov crouched and threw his shoulder up into the American’s chest; Holcroft would not be stopped. He brought his knee into Ben-Gadíz’s temple; his fist smashed into Yakov’s face.

  There could be no lacerations! No traces of blood on the floor! Yakov dropped the light and held on to the American’s arms; he was amazed at Holcroft’s strength. He spoke as loudly as he dared to.

  “You must listen! I’m not your enemy. I’ve got news of your mother. I have a letter. She’s been with me.”

  The American struggled; he was breaking the grip. “Who are you?”

  “Nachrichtendienst,” whispered Ben-Gadíz.

  At the sound of the name, Holcroft went wild. He roared, his arms and legs battering rams that would not, could not, be repulsed.

  “I’ll kill you.…”

  Yakov had no choice. He surged through the hammering attack, his fingers centering in on the American’s neck, his thumbs grinding into the pronounced veins of the stiffened throat. By touch, he found a nerve and pressed with all his strength. Holcroft collapsed.

  Noel opened his eyes in the darkness, but the darkness was not complete. Angled against the wall was a wash of green light—the same green light that had blinded him earlier—and at the sight of it his outrage returned.

  He was being pressed against the floor, a knee sunk into his shoulder, the barrel of a gun against his head. His throat was in agony but still he twisted, trying to rise from the carpet, away from the weapon. His neck could not take the strain. He fell back, and heard the intense whisper of the man above him.

  “Be very clear in this. If I were your enemy, I would have killed you. Can you understand that?”

  “You are my enemy!” answered Noel, barely able to speak through the bruised muscles about his throat. “You said you were Nachrichtendienst. Geneva’s enemy … my enemy!”

  “The first, absolutely; but not the second. Not yours.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “Think! Why haven’t I pulled this trigger? Geneva is stopped; you are stopped; no funds are transferred. If I’m your enemy, what prevents me from blowing your head off? I can’t use you as a hostage; there’s no point. You have to be there. So I gain nothing by letting you live … if I am your enemy.”

  Holcroft tried to grasp the words, tried to find the meaning behind them, but he could not. He wanted only to strike out at the man holding him captive. “What do you want? Where have you got my mother? You said you had a letter.”

  “We’ll take all things in order. What I want first is to leave here. With you. Together we can do what Wolfsschanze never believed possible.”

  “Wolfsschanze?… Do what?”

  “Make the laws work for us. Make amends.”

  “Make—Whoever you are, you’re out of your mind!”

  “It’s the option of Har Sha’alav. Control the millions. Fight them. Everywhere. I’m prepared to offer you the only proof I have.” Yakov Ben-Gadíz took the pistol away from Noel’s head. “Here’s my gun.” He offered it to Holcroft.

  Noel studied the stranger’s face in the odd shadows produced by the macabre green light. The eyes above him belonged to a man who was speaking the truth.

  “Help me up,” he said. “There’s a back staircase. I know the way.”

  “First we have to straighten up anything that’s out of place. Everything must be as it was.”

  Nothing is as it was.…

  “Where are we going?”

  “To an apartment in rue de la Paix. The letter’s there. So is the girl.”

  “The girl?”

  “Von Tiebolt’s sister. He thinks she’s dead. He ordered her killed.”

  “Helden?”

  “Later.”

  45

  They raced out of the alley and down the rue des Granges to the Israeli’s car. They climbed in, Ben-Gadíz behind the wheel. Holcroft held his throat; he thought the veins were ruptured, so intense was the pain.

  “You left me no choice,” said Yakov, seeing Holcroft’s agony.

  “You left me one,” replied Noel. “You gave me the gun. What’s your name?”

  “Yakov.”

  “What kind of name is that?”

  “Hebrew.… Jacob, to you. Ben-Gadíz.”

  “Ben who?”

  “Gadíz.”

  “Spanish?”

  “Sephardic,” said Yakov, speeding down the street, across the intersection, toward the lake. “My family immigrated to Krakow in the early nineteen hundreds.” Yakov swung the car to the right in a small, unfamiliar square.

  “I thought you were Kessler’s brother,” said Holcroft. “The doctor from Munich.”

  “I know nothing about a doctor from Munich.”

  “He’s here somewhere. When I got to the d’Accord, the front desk gave me Von Tiebolt’s key, then asked if I wanted Hans Kessler.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “The clerk knew that the Kesslers and Von Tiebolt had dinner together in Johann’s suite. He thought Kessler’s brother was still there.”

  “Wait a minute!” broke in Yakov. “The brother is a stocky man? Short? Strong?”

  “I’ve no idea. Could be; Kessler said he was a soccer player.”

  “He’s dead. Your mother told us. Von Tiebolt killed him. I think he was injured by your friend Ellis; they couldn’t carry him any longer.”

  Noel stared at the Israeli. “Are you saying he was the one who did that to Willie? Killed him and knifed him like that?”

  “It’s only a guess.”

  “Oh, Christ!… Tell me about my mother. Where is she?”

  “Later.”

  “Now.”

  “There’s a telephone. I have to call the apartment. Helden’s there.” Ben-Gadíz swung the car to the curb.

  “I said now!” Holcroft leveled the gun at Yakov.

  “If you decide to kill me now,” said Yakov, “I deserve to die, and so do you. I’d ask you to make the call yourself, but we haven’t time for emotion.”

  “We’ve all the time we need,” answered Noel. “The bank can be postponed.”

  “The bank? La Grande Banque de Genève?”

  “Nine o’clock this morning.”

  “My God!” Ben-Gadíz gripped Holcroft?
??s shoulder and lowered his voice; it was the voice of a man pleading for more than his life. “Give the option of Har Sha’alav a chance. It will never come again. Trust me. I’ve killed too many people not to have killed you twenty minutes ago. We must know every moment where we stand. Helden may have learned something.”

  Again Noel studied the face. “Make the call. Tell her I’m here and I want explanations from both of you.”

  They sped down the country road past the gates of the estate, driver and passenger oblivious to the sounds of an angry dog suddenly disturbed from its sleep by the racing car. The road curved to the left. Gradually, Yakov coasted to a stop off the shoulder, into the underbrush.

  “Dogs’ ears pick up engines that stop quickly. A diminuendo is much more difficult for them.”

  “Are you a musician?”

  “I was a violinist.”

  “Any good?”

  “Tel Aviv Symphony.”

  “What made you—”

  “I found more suitable work,” interrupted Ben-Gadíz. “Get out quickly. Remove your overcoat; take your weapon. Press the door closed; make no sound. The guest house will be back quite a way, but we’ll find it.”

  There was a thick brick wall bordering the grounds, a string of coiled barbed wire on the top of it. Yakov scaled a tree to study the wire and the wall. “There are no alarms,” he said. “Small animals would trigger them too frequently. But it’s messy; the coil’s nearly two feet wide. We’ll have to jump.”

  The Israeli came down, crouched next to the wall, and cupped his hands. “Step up,” he ordered Noel.

  The ring of wire barbs on the top of the wall was impossible to avoid; there was no space on the ledge untouched by it.

  Straining, Holcroft managed to get his left toe on the edge, then sprang up, vaulting the ominous coil and plummeting to the ground. His jacket had been caught, his ankles badly scraped, but he had made it. He stood up, only vaguely aware that he was breathing heavily, the pain in his throat and shins merely irritations. If the stranger had given Helden the right information on the phone, he was within a few hundred yards of Althene.

  On top of the wall, the silhouette of the Israeli loomed like a large bird in the night sky; he vaulted over the coiled wire and spun down to the ground. He rolled once, as a tumbler might roll to break a fall, and sprang up next to Noel, raising his wrist in front of him to look at his watch.