The Holcroft Covenant (16 page)

Two men stood outside, neither in steward’s uniform, both in overcoats, each with hat in hand. The taller of the two was in his fifties, straight gray hair above a weathered face; the younger man was about Noel’s age, with clear blue eyes, curly reddish hair, and a small scar on his forehead.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Holcroft?”

“Yes.”

“Noel Holcroft, United States citizen, passport number F-two-zero-four-seven-eight—”

“I’m Noel Holcroft. I’ve never memorized my passport number.”

“May we come in, please?”

“I’m not sure. Who are you?”

Both men held black identification cases in their hands; they opened them unobtrusively. “British Military Intelligence, Five branch,” the older man said.

“Why do you want to see me?”

“Official business, sir. May we step inside?”

Noel nodded uncertainly, the pain returning to his stomach. Peter Baldwin, the man who had ordered him to “cancel Geneva,” had been with MI Six. And Baldwin had been killed by the men of Wolfsschanze because he had interfered. Did these two British agents know the truth about Baldwin? Did they know Baldwin had
called
him? Oh,
God
, telephone numbers could be traced through hotel switchboards! They
had
to know!… Then Holcroft remembered: Baldwin had
not
called him; he had come to his apartment. Noel had called
him
.

You don’t know what you’re doing. I’m the only one who does
.

If Baldwin was to be believed, he had said nothing to
anyone. If so, where was the connection? Why was British Intelligence interested in an American named Holcroft? How did it know where to find him?
How?

The two Englishmen entered. The younger, red-haired man crossed rapidly to the bathroom, looked inside, then turned and went to the window. His older associate stood by the desk, his eyes scanning the walls, the floor, and the open closet.

“All right, you’re inside,” Noel said. “What is it?”

“The Tinamou, Mr. Holcroft,” said the gray-haired man.

“The what?”

“I repeat. The Tinamou.”

“What the hell is that?”

“According to any standard encyclopedia, the Tinamou is a ground-dwelling bird whose protective coloring makes him indistinguishable from his background; whose short bursts of flight take him swiftly from one location to another.”

“That’s very enlightening, but I haven’t the vaguest idea what you’re talking about.”

“We think you do,” said the younger man by the window.

“You’re wrong. I’ve never heard of a bird like that, and don’t know any reason why I should have. Obviously, you’re referring to something else, but I don’t make the connection.”

“Obviously,” interrupted the agent by the desk, “we’re not referring to a bird. The Tinamou is a man; the name is quite applicable, however.”

“It means nothing to me. Why should it?”

“May I give you some advice?” The older man spoke crisply, with an edge to his voice.

“Sure. I probably won’t understand it anyway.”

“You’d do far better cooperating with us than not. It’s possible you’re being used, but frankly we doubt it. However, if you help us now, we’re prepared to assume that you
were
being used. I believe that’s eminently fair.”

“I was right,” said Holcroft. “I don’t understand you.”

“Then let me clear up the details and perhaps you will. You’ve been making inquiries about John Tennyson, born Johann von Tiebolt, immigrant to the UK roughly six years ago. He is currently employed as a multilingual correspondent for the
Guardian
.”

“The man at the
Guardian
desk,” interrupted Noel. “He called you—or had someone call. That’s why he stalled, why he went on the way he did, then cut me off. And that goddamned fruit; it was to make sure I didn’t go out. What
is
this?”

“May we ask why you’re trying to find John Tennyson?”

“No.”

“You’ve stated, both here and in Rio de Janeiro, that a sum of money is involved.…”

“
Rio de!
… Jesus!”

“That you’re an ‘intermediary,’ ” continued the Englishman. “That was the term you used.”

“It’s a confidential matter.”

“We think it’s an international one.”

“Good God, why?”

“Because you’re trying to deliver a sum of money. If the ground rules are followed, it amounts to three quarters of the full payment.”

“For what?”

“For an assassination.”

“Assassination?”

“Yes. In the data banks of half the civilized world, the Tinamou has a single description: ‘assassin.’ ‘Master assassin,’ to be precise. And we have every reason to believe that Johann von Tiebolt, alias John Tennyson, is the Tinamou.”

Noel was stunned. His mind raced furiously. An assassin! Good God! Was that what Peter Baldwin had been trying to tell him? That one of the Geneva inheritors was an assassin?

No one knows but me
. Baldwin’s words.

If they were true, under no condition could he reveal his real reason for wanting to find John Tennyson. Geneva would explode in controversy; the massive account would be frozen, thrown into the international courts, his covenant destroyed. He could not allow that to happen; he knew it now.

Yet it was equally vital that his reasons for seeking Tennyson be above suspicion, beyond any relationship to—or cognizance of—the Tinamou.

The Tinamou! An assassin! It was potentially the most damaging news possible. If there was any truth in
what MI Five believed, the bankers in Geneva would suspend all discussions, close the vaults, and wait for another generation. Yet any decision to abort the covenant would be for appearance’s sake. If Tennyson
was
this Tinamou, he could be exposed, caught, severed from all association with the Geneva account, and the covenant would remain intact. Amends
would
be made. According to the conditions of the document, the older
sister
was the key—she was the eldest surviving child—not the brother.

An assassin! Oh,
God!

First things first. Holcroft knew he had to dispel the convictions of the two men in his room. He walked unsteadily to a chair, sat down, and leaned forward.

“Listen to me,” he said, his voice weak in astonishment. “I’ve told you the truth. I don’t know anything about any Tinamou, any assassin. My business is with the Von Tiebolt
family
, not a particular member of the family. I was trying to find Tennyson because I was told he was Von Tiebolt and worked at the
Guardian
. That’s all there is to it.”

“If so,” said the red-haired man, “perhaps you’ll explain the nature of your business.”

Base the lie in an aspect of truth
.

“I’ll tell you what I can, which isn’t a great deal. Some of it I pieced together myself from what I learned in Rio. It
is
confidential, and it
does
concern money.” Noel took a deep breath, and reached for his cigarettes. “The Von Tiebolts were left an inheritance—don’t ask me by whom, because I don’t know, and the lawyer won’t say.”

“What’s the name of this lawyer,” asked the gray-haired man.

“I’d have to get his permission to tell you,” answered Holcroft, lighting his cigarette, wondering whom in New York he could call from an untraceable pay phone in London.

“We may ask you to do that,” said the older agent. “Go on, please.”

“I found out in Rio that the Von Tiebolts were despised by the German community there. I have an idea—and it’s only an idea—that somewhere along the line they opposed the Nazis in Germany, and someone, perhaps an anti-Nazi German—or Germans—left them the money.”

“In America?” asked the red-haired man.

Noel sensed the trap and was prepared for it.
Be
consistent
. “Obviously, whoever left the Von Tiebolts money has been living there for a long time. If he, or they, came to the United States after the war, that could presume they had a clean bill of health. On the other hand, they could be relatives who came to the States years ago. I honestly don’t know.”

“Why were you chosen as the intermediary? You’re not a lawyer.”

“No, but the lawyer’s a friend of mine,” replied Holcroft. “He knows I travel a lot, knew I was going to Brazil for a client … I’m an architect. He asked me to call around, gave me some names, including Rio’s Immigration people.”

Keep it simple; avoid complication
.

“That was asking quite a bit of you, wasn’t it?” The red-haired agent’s disbelief was in his question.

“Not really. He’s done me favors; I can do him one.” Noel drew on his cigarette. “This is crazy. What started out as a simple … well, it’s just crazy.”

“You were told Johann von Tiebolt was John Tennyson and that he worked in London, or was based in London,” said the older man, his hands in his overcoat pockets, looking down at Noel. “So, as a favor, you decided to make the trip from Brazil to the UK to find him. As a
favor
.… Yes, Mr. Holcroft, I’d say it was crazy.”

Noel glared up at the gray-haired man. He remembered Sam Buonoventura’s words:
I got hot myself.… It’s the only way to handle angry cops
.

“Now just a minute! I didn’t make a special trip from Rio to London for the Von Tiebolts. I’m on my way to Amsterdam. If you check my office in New York, you’ll find that I’m doing some work in Curaçao. For your benefit, it’s Dutch, and I’m going to Amsterdam for design conferences.”

The look in the older man’s eyes seemed to soften. “I see,” he said quietly. “It’s quite possible we drew the wrong conclusions, but I think you’ll agree the surface facts led us to them. We may owe you an apology.”

Pleased with himself, Noel suppressed the urge to smile. He had adhered to the lessons, handled the lie with his guard up.

“It’s okay,” he replied. “But now I’m curious. This Tinamou. How do you know it’s Von Tiebolt?”

“We’re not certain,” replied the gray-haired agent.
“We were hoping you’d provide that certainty. I think we were wrong about that.”

“You certainly were. But why Tennyson? I guess I should tell the lawyer in New York.…”

“No,” interrupted the Englishman. “Don’t do that. You must not discuss this with anyone.”

“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?” Holcroft said, gambling. “The ‘matter’
has
been discussed. I’m under no obligation to you, but I do have an obligation to that lawyer. He’s a friend.”

The MI-Five men looked at each other, their mutual concern in the exchange.

“Beyond an obligation to a friend,” the older man said, “I suggest that you have a far greater responsibility. One that can be substantiated by your own government. This is a highly classified, intensely sensitive investigation. The Tinamou is an international killer. His victims include some of the world’s most distinguished men.”

“And you believe he’s Tennyson?”

“The evidence is circumstantial, but very, very strong.”

“Still, not conclusive.”

“Not conclusive.”

“A few minutes ago you sounded positive.”

“A few minutes ago we tried to trap you. It’s merely a technique.”

“It’s damned offensive.”

“It’s damned effective,” said the red-haired man with the scar on his forehead.

“What’s the circumstantial evidence against Tennyson?”

“Will you hold it in the strictest confidence?” asked the older agent. “That request can be transmitted by the highest law-enforcement officials in your country, if you wish.”

Holcroft paused. “All right, I won’t call New York; I won’t say anything. But I want information.”

“We don’t bargain.” The younger man spoke offensively, cut off by a look from his associate.

“It’s not a question of a bargain,” said Noel. “I said I’d reach
a
member of the family, and I think I should. Where can I contact Tennyson’s sisters? One’s married to a commander in the navy named Beaumont. The lawyer
in New York knows that; he’ll try to find her if I don’t. It might as well be me.”

“Far better that it’s you,” agreed the gray-haired man. “We’re convinced that neither woman is aware of her brother’s activities. As near as we can determine, the family are estranged from one another. How seriously, we don’t know, but there’s been little or no communication. Frankly, your showing up is a complication we’d rather not be burdened with. We don’t want alarms raised; a controlled situation is infinitely preferable.”

“There won’t be any alarms,” said Noel. “I’ll deliver my message and go about my business.”

“To Amsterdam?”

“To Amsterdam.”

“Yes, of course. The older sister is married to Commander Anthony Beaumont; she’s his second wife. They live near Portsmouth, several miles north of the naval base, in a suburb of Portsea. He’s in the telephone directory. The younger girl recently moved to Paris. She’s a translator for Gallimard Publishers, but she’s not at the address listed with the company. We don’t know where she lives.”

Holcroft rose from the chair and walked between the two men to the desk. He picked up the hotel pen and wrote on a page of stationery.

“Anthony Beaumont … Portsmouth.… Gallimard Publishers.… How do you spell ‘Gallimard’?”

The red-haired agent told him.

Noel finished writing. “I’ll make the calls in the morning and send a note to New York,” he said, wondering to himself how long it would take to drive to Portsmouth. “I’ll tell the lawyer I reached the sisters but was unable to contact the brother. Is that all right?”

“We couldn’t persuade you to drop the entire matter?”

“No. I’d have to say why I dropped it, and you don’t want that.”

“Very well. It’s the best we can hope for, then.”

“Now, tell me why you think John Tennyson is this Tinamou. You owe me that.”

The older man paused. “Perhaps we do,” he said. “I reemphasize the classified nature of the information.”

“Whom would I tell it to? I’m not in your line of work.”

“All right,” said the gray-haired man. “As you say, we owe you. But you should know that the fact that you’ve been told gives us a certain insight. Very few people have been.”