The Holcroft Covenant (64 page)

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’Accord.”

“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.

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 watched 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.”

“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.”