The Holcroft Covenant: A Novel

  “It’s nearly six. It’ll be light soon. Hurry.”

  They sliced through the forest, sidestepping branches, leaping over the tangled foliage, until they found the dirt road that led toward the guest house. In the distance they could see a dim glow of lights that shone from small cathedral windows.

  “Stop!” Ben-Gadíz said.

  “What?” Yakov’s hand gripped Noel’s shoulder. The Israeli fell on him, dragging Holcroft to the ground. “What are you doing?”

  “Be still! There’s activity in the house. People.”

  Noel peered through the grass at the house no more than a hundred yards away. He could see no movement, no figures in the windows. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “Look at the lights. They’re not steady. People are moving in front of lamps.”

  Holcroft saw instantly what Ben-Gadíz had seen. There were subtle changes of shading. The normal eye—especially the normal eye of an anxious runner—would not notice them, but they were there. “You’re right,” he whispered.

  “Come,” said Yakov. “We’ll cut through the woods and approach from the side.”

  They went back into the forest and emerged at the edge of a small croquet course, grass and wickets cold and rigid in the winter night. Beyond the flat ground were the windows of the house.

  “I’ll run across and signal you to follow,” Yakov whispered. “Remember, no noise.”

  The Israeli dashed across the lawn and crouched at the side of a window. Slowly he stood up and peered inside. Noel got to his knees, prepared to race out from the foliage.

  The signal did not come. Ben-Gadíz stood motionless at the side of the window, but made no move to raise his hand. What was wrong? Why didn’t the signal come?

  Holcroft could wait no longer. He sprang up and ran over the stretch of grass.

  The Israeli turned, his eyes glaring. “Get away!” he whispered.

  “What are you talking about? She’s in there!”

  Ben-Gadíz grabbed Holcroft by the shoulders, pushing him backward. “I said go back! We must get out of here.…”

  “The hell we will!” Noel swung both arms up violently, breaking the Israeli’s grip. He leaped to the window and looked inside.

  The universe went up in fire. His mind burst open. He tried to scream, but no scream would come, only pure, raw horror, beyond sound, beyond sanity.

  Inside the dimly lit room he saw the body of his mother arched diagonally in death across the back of a chair. The graceful, wondrous head was streaked with blood, scores of red rivers over wrinkled flesh.

  Noel raised his hands, his arms, his whole being in the process of exploding. He could feel the air. His fists plunged toward the panes of glass.

  The impact never came. Instead, an arm was around his neck, a hand clasped over his mouth; both were giant tentacles pulling his head back viciously, lifting him off his feet, his spine arching, his legs crumbling beneath him as he was forced to the ground. His face was being pushed into dirt until there was no air. And then a sharp agonizing pain shot through his throat, and the fire returned.

  He knew he was moving, but he did not know how or why. Branches kept slapping his face, hands hammered at his back, propelling him forward into the darkness. He could not know how long he was in the suspended state of chaos, but finally there was a stone wall. Harsh commands barked into his ear.

  “Get up! Over the wire!”

  Cognizance began to return. He felt the sharp metal points stabbing him, scraping his skin, ripping his clothes. Then he was being dragged across a hard surface and slammed against the door of an automobile.

  The next thing he knew he was in the seat of a car, staring through the glass of a windshield. Dawn was coming up.

  He sat in the chair, drained, numb, and read the letter from Althene.

  Dearest NOEL—

  It is unlikely that we shall see each other, but I beg you, do not mourn me. Later, perhaps, but not now. There is no time.

  I do what I have to do for the simple reason that it must be done and I am the most logical person to do it. Even if there were another, I’m not at all sure I would allow him to do what has been reserved for me.

  I’ll not dwell on the lie I have lived for over thirty years. My new friend, Mr. Ben-Gadíz, will explain it fully to you. Suffice it to say I was never aware of the lie, nor—God in heaven—the terrible role you would be called upon to play.

  I come from another era, one in which debts were called by their rightful name, and honor was not held to be an anachronism. I willingly pay my debt in hopes that a vestige of honor may be restored.

  If we do not meet again, know that you have brought great joy to my life. If ever man needed proof that we are better than our sources, you are that proof.

  I add a word about your friend Helden. I think she is the lovely daughter I might have had. It’s in her eyes, in her strength. I’ve known her but a few hours, during which time she saved my life, prepared to sacrifice her own in doing so. It is true that we often perceive a lifetime in a moment of clarity. The moment was there for me, and she has my deep affection.

  God speed you, my Noel.

  My love,

  ALTHENE

  Holcroft looked up at Yakov, who was standing by the apartment window looking out at the gray light of the early winter morning.

  “What was it she wouldn’t let anyone else do?” he asked.

  “Meet with my brother,” answered Helden from across the room.

  Noel clenched his fist and closed his eyes. “Ben-Gadíz said he ordered you killed.”

  “Yes. He’s had many people killed.”

  Holcroft turned to the Israeli. “My mother wrote that you would explain the lie.”

  “I defer to Helden. I know a great deal of the story, but she knows it all.”

  “This is what you went to London for?” asked Noel.

  “It’s why I left Paris,” she replied. “But it wasn’t to London; it was to a small village on Lake Neuchâtel.”

  She told him the story of Werner Gerhardt, of Wolfsschanze, of the coin that had two sides. She tried to remember every detail given her by the last of the Nachrichtendienst.

  When she had finished, Holcroft got out of the chair. “So all along I’ve been the figurehead for the lie. For the other side of Wolfsschanze.”

  “You are the code numbers that open the Sonnenkinder vaults,” said Ben-Gadíz. “You were the one who made all the laws work for them. Such massive funds cannot spring from the earth without a structure. The chain of legalities must be met, or they are challenged. Wolfsschanze could not afford that. It was a brilliant deception.”

  Noel stared at the wall by the bedroom door. He stood facing it, facing the dimly lit wallpaper, the obscure figures in the pattern of a series of concentric circles engulfing themselves. The muted light—or his own unbalanced sight—made them spin with dizzying speed, black dots disappearing, only to become large circles again. Circles. Circles of deception. There were no straight lines of truth in those circles, only deceit. Only lies!

  He heard the scream come out of his throat and felt the impact of his hands upon the wall, pounding furiously, wanting only to destroy the terrible circles.

  Other hands touched him. Gentle hands.

  A man in agony had cried out to him. And that man was false!

  Where was he? What had he done?

  He felt tears in his eyes and knew they were there because the circles became blurs, meaningless designs. And Helden was holding him, pulling his face to hers, her gentle fingers brushing away the tears.

  “My darling. My only darling.…”

  “I … will … kill!” Again, he heard the sound of his own scream, the horrible conviction of his own words.

  “You will,” a voice answered, echoing in the chambers of his mind. It was loud and resonant, and it belonged to Yakov Ben-Gadíz, who had pushed Helden aside and had spun him around, pinning his shoulders to the wall. “You will!”

  Noel trie
d to focus his burning eyes, tried to control his trembling. “You tried to stop me from seeing her!”

  “I knew I couldn’t,” said Yakov quietly. “I knew it when you lunged. I’ve been trained as few others on this earth, but you have something extraordinary inside you. I’m not sure I care to speculate, but I’m grateful you’re not my enemy.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “I give you the option of Har Sha’alav. It will demand the most extraordinary discipline of which you are capable. I’ll be frank: I couldn’t do it, but perhaps you can.”

  “What is it?”

  “Go through with the meeting at the bank. With the killers of your mother, with the man who ordered Helden’s death, Richard Holcroft’s death. Face him; face them. Sign the papers.”

  “You’re out of your mind! Out of your fucking mind!”

  “I’m not! We’ve studied the laws. You’ll be required to sign a release. In it, in the event of your death, you assign all rights and privileges to the coinheritors. When you do, you’ll sign a death warrant. Sign it! It won’t be your death warrant, but theirs!”

  Noel looked into Yakov’s dark, imploring eyes. There it was again: the straight line of truth. Neither spoke for a while, and slowly Holcroft began to find the control he had lost. Ben-Gadíz released his shoulders; balance returned.

  “They’ll be looking for me,” said Noel. “They think I went to Von Tiebolt’s rooms.”

  “You did; the door wasn’t rethreaded. You saw that no one was there, so you left.”

  “Where did I go? They’ll want to know.”

  “Are you familiar with the city?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then you took taxis; you traveled along the waterfront, stopping at a dozen piers and marinas, looking for anyone who might have seen your mother. It’s plausible; they think you were in panic.”

  “It’s almost seven-thirty,” Noel said. “An hour and a half left. I’ll go back to the hotel. We’ll meet after the conference at the bank.”

  “Where?” asked Yakov.

  “Take a room at the Excelsior in the name of a married couple. Get there after nine-thirty, but long before noon. I’m in four-eleven.”

  He stood outside the hotel door; it was three minutes past eight. He could hear angry voices from inside. Von Tiebolt dominated whatever conversation was taking place, his tone incisive, on the edge of violence.

  Violence. Holcroft took a deep breath and forced himself to reject the instincts that seared through him. He would face the man who killed his mother and his father and look that man in the eyes and not betray his rage.

  He knocked on the door, grateful that his hand did not tremble.

  The door opened, and he stared into the eyes of the blond-haired killer of loved ones.

  “Noel! Where have you been? We’ve been looking everywhere!”

  “So have I,” said Holcroft, the weariness not difficult to feign, the control of outrage nearly impossible. “I’ve spent the night looking for her. I couldn’t find her. I don’t think she ever got here.”

  “Well keep trying,” said Von Tiebolt. “Have some coffee. We’ll be off to the bank soon, and it will all be over.”

  “Yes, it will, won’t it?” said Noel.

  The three of them sat on one side of the long conference table, Holcroft in the center, Kessler on his left, Von Tiebolt on his right. Facing them were the two directors of La Grande Banque de Genève.

  In front of each man was a neat pile of legal papers, all identical and arranged in sequence. Eyes followed the typed words, pages were turned, and more than an hour passed before the precious document had been read aloud in its entirety.

  There were two remaining articles of record, their cover pages bordered in dark blue. The director on the left spoke.

  “As I’m sure you’re aware, with an account of this magnitude and the objectives contained therein, La Grande Banque de Genève cannot legally assume responsibility for disbursements once the funds are released and are no longer under our control. The document is specific as to the burden of that responsibility. It is equally divided among the three participants. Therefore, the law requires that each of you assign all rights and privileges to your coinheritors-in-trust in the event you predecease them. These rights and privileges, however, do not affect the individual bequests; they are to be distributed to your estates in the event of your death.” The director put on his spectacles. “Please read the pages in front of you to see that they conform to what I’ve represented, and sign above your names in the presence of one another. Exchange papers so that all signatures appear on each.”

  The reading was rapid; the signatures followed, and the pages were exchanged. As Noel handed his signed paper to Kessler, he spoke casually.

  “You know, I forgot to ask you, Erich. Where’s your brother? I thought he was going to be here in Geneva.”

  “With all the excitement, I forgot to tell you,” Kessler said, smiling. “Hans was delayed in München. I’m sure we’ll see him in Zurich.”

  “Zurich?”

  The scholar looked past Holcroft toward Von Tiebolt. “Well, yes. Zurich. I thought we planned to be there Monday morning.”

  Noel turned to the blond man. “You didn’t mention it.”

  “We’ve had no time to talk. Is Monday inconvenient for you?”

  “Not at all. Maybe I’ll have heard from her by then.”

  “What?”

  “My mother. Or even Helden. She should be calling.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sure they’ll both reach you.”

  The last article of record was the formal release of the account. A computer had been preset. Upon the signatures of everyone in the room, the codes would be punched, the funds made liquid and transferred to a bank in Zurich.

  All signed. The director on the right picked up a telephone. “Enter the following numbers on computer bank eleven. Are you ready?… Six, one, four, four, two. Break four. Eight, one, zero, zero. Break zero.… Repeat, please.” The director listened, then nodded. “Correct. Thank you.”

  “Is it complete, then?” asked his colleague.

  “It is,” answered the director. “Gentlemen, as of this moment, the sum of seven hundred and eighty million American dollars is in your collective names at La Banque du Livre, Zurich. May you have the wisdom of prophets, and may your decisions be guided by God.”

  Outside, on the street, Von Tiebolt turned to Holcroft. “What are your plans, Noel? We must still be careful, you know. The Nachrichtendienst won’t take this easily.”

  “I know.… Plans? I’m going to keep trying to find my mother. She’s somewhere; she’s got to be.”

  “I’ve arranged through my friend, the first deputy, for the three of us to receive police protection. Your detail will pick you up at the Excelsior, ours at the d’Accord. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to move in with us.”

  “That’s too much work,” said Holcroft. “I’m half settled now. I’ll stay at the Excelsior.”

  “Shall we go to Zurich in the morning?” asked Kessler, deferring the decision to Von Tiebolt.

  “It might be a good idea for us to travel separately,” said Holcroft. “If the police have no objections, I’d just as soon go by car.”

  “Very good thinking, my friend,” said Von Tiebolt. “The police won’t object, and traveling separately makes sense. You take the train, Erich; I’ll fly; and Noel will drive. I’ll make us reservations at the Columbine.”

  Holcroft nodded. “If I don’t hear from my mother or Helden by tomorrow, I’ll leave word for them to reach me there,” he said. “I’ll grab a cab.” He walked rapidly to the corner. Another minute and the rage within him would have exploded. He would have killed Von Tiebolt with his bare hands.

  Johann spoke quietly. “He knows. How much, I’m not certain. But he knows.”

  “How can you be sure?” Kessler asked.

  “At first I merely sensed it; then I knew. He asked about Hans and accept
ed your answer that he was still in München. He knows that’s not true. A clerk at the d’Accord offered to ring Hans’s room for him last night.”

  “Oh, my God.…”

  “Don’t be upset. Our American colleague will die on the road to Zurich.”

  46

  The attempt on Noel’s life—if it was going to be made—would take place on the roads north of Fribourg, south of Köniz. That was the judgment of Yakov Ben-Gadíz. The distance was something more than twenty kilometers, with stretches in the hills that rarely had traffic this time of year. It was winter, and although the climate was not Alpine, light snows were frequent, the roads not the best; drivers were discouraged from them. But Holcroft had mapped out a route that avoided the highways, concentrating on rural towns with architecture he claimed he wanted to see.

  That was to say, Yakov mapped it out, and Noel had delivered it to police who were under orders from the first deputy to act as his escort north. The fact that no one discouraged Holcroft from this chosen route lent substance to the Israeli’s judgment.

  Yakov further speculated on the method of killing. Neither Von Tiebolt nor Kessler would be near the area. Each would be very much in evidence somewhere else. And if there was to be an execution, it would be carried out by as few men as possible—paid killers in no way associated with Wolfsschanze. No chances would be taken so soon after the meeting at La Grande Banque Genève. The killer, or killers, would in turn be murdered by Sonnenkinder; all traces to Wolfsschanze would be obliterated.

  That was the strategy as Ben-Gadíz saw it, and a counterstrategy had to be mounted. One that got Noel to Zurich; that was all that mattered. Once in Zurich, it would be their strategy. There were a dozen ways to kill in a large city, and Yakov was an expert in all of them.

  The trip began, the counterstrategy put into play. Holcroft drove a heavy car rented from Bonfils, Geneva, the most expensive leasing firm in Switzerland, specializing in the unusual automobile for the unusual client. It was a Rolls-Royce, outfitted with armor plate, bulletproof glass, and tires that could withstand successive punctures.