The Holcroft Covenant (20 page)

“On second thought, perhaps you should bring the photograph to us.”

“I can’t. I don’t have it.”

“I thought you said you took it.”

“I don’t have it now. I … I just don’t have it.”

“Where are you, Holcroft? I think you should drop in and see us.”

Without consciously making the decision, Noel pressed down the lever, severing the connection. The act preceded the thought, but once it was done, he understood clearly why he did it. He could not ally himself with MI Five, he could not solidify any relationship whatsoever. On the contrary, he had to get as far away from British Intelligence as was possible. There could be no association at
all
. MI Five had
followed
him. After they had told him they would leave him alone, they had gone back on their word.

The survivors of Wolfsschanze had spelled it out:
There are those who may learn of the work in Geneva … who will try to stop you, deceive you … kill you
.

Holcroft doubted that the British would kill him, but
they
were
trying to stop him. If they succeeded, it was as good as killing him. The men of Wolfsschanze did not hesitate.
Peter Baldwin, Esq. Ernst Manfredi. Jack
. All dead.

The men of Wolfsschanze would kill him if he failed. And that was the terrible irony. He did not
want
to fail. Why couldn’t they understand that? Perhaps more than the survivors of Wolfsschanze, he wanted to see Heinrich Clausen’s dream realized.

He thought of Gretchen Beaumont, follower of instincts, opportunities, and men. And of her brother, the arrogant, brilliant multilingual newspaperman who was suspected of being an assassin. Neither would be remotely acceptable to Geneva.

There was one child left. Helden von Tiebolt—now Helden Tennyson—currently living in Paris. Address unknown. But he had a name. “Gallimard.”

Paris.

He had to get to Paris. He had to elude MI Five.

There was a man in London, a stage designer, who’d had a brief vogue as a decorator among the wealthy on both sides of the Atlantic. Noel suspected that Willie Ellis was more often hired for his outrageous personality and his talents as a raconteur than for any intrinsic abilities as an interior decorator. He had worked with Willie on four occasions, vowing each time never to do it again but knowing each time that he probably would. For the truth was that Noel liked Willie immensely. The mad Englishman was not all artifice and elegance. Underneath, in quiet moments, there was a thinking, talented man of the theater who knew more about the history of design than anyone Holcroft had ever met. He could be fascinating.

When he was not outrageous.

They had kept in touch over the years, and whenever Noel was in London, there was always time for Willie. He had thought there would be no time this trip, but that was changed now. He needed Willie. He got the number from London information and dialed.

“Noel, my friend, you’re out of your mind! No one’s up but those stinking birds and street cleaners.”

“I’m in trouble, Willie. I need help.”

Ellis knew the small village where Holcroft was calling from and promised to be there as soon as he could, which he estimated would be something close to an hour. He arrived thirty minutes late, cursing the idiots on the road. Noel climbed into the car, taking Willie’s outstretched hand as well as his characteristic abuse.

“You’re an absolute mess and you smell like a barmaid’s armpit. Keep the window open and tell me what the hell happened.”

Holcroft kept the explanation simple, giving no names
and obscuring the facts. “I have to get to Paris, and there are people who want to stop me. I can’t tell you much more than that except to say that I haven’t done anything wrong, anything illegal.”

“The first is always relative, isn’t it? And the second is generally subject to interpretation and a good barrister. Shall I assume a lovely girl and an irate husband?”

“That’s fine.”

“That keeps me clean. What stops you from going to the airport and taking the next plane to Paris?”

“My clothes, briefcase, and passport are at my hotel in London. If I go there to get them, the people who want to stop me will find me.”

“From the looks of you, they’re quite serious, aren’t they?”

“Yes. That’s about it, Willie.”

“The solution’s obvious,” said Ellis. “I’ll get your things and check you out. You’re a wayward colonial I found in a Soho gutter. Who’s to argue with my preferences?”

“There may be a problem with the front desk.”

“I can’t imagine why. My money’s coin of the realm, and you’ll give me a note; they can match signatures. We’re nowhere near as paranoid as our cousins across the sea.”

“I hope you’re right, but I’ve got an idea the clerks have been reached by the people who want to find me. They may insist on knowing where I am before they let you have my things.”

“Then I’ll tell them,” said Willie, smiling. “I’ll leave them a forwarding address and a telephone number where your presence can be confirmed.”

“What?”

“Leave it to me. By the way, there’s some cologne in the glove compartment. For Christ’s sake, use it.”

Ellis made arrangements for the whiskey-soaked clothes to be picked up by the cleaners and returned by midafternoon, then left the Chelsea flat for the Belgravia Arms.

Holcroft showered, shaved, put the soiled clothes in a hamper outside the door, and called the car-rental agency. He reasoned that if he went for the car in Aldershot, MI
Five would be there. And when he drove away, the British would not be far behind.

The rental agency was not amused, but Holcroft gave them no choice. If they wanted the automobile back, they would have to pick it up themselves. Noel was sorry, but there was an emergency; the bill could be sent to his office in New York.

He had to get out of England with as little notice as possible. Undoubtedly, MI Five would have the airports and the Channel boats watched. Perhaps the solution was to be found in a last-minute ticket on a crowded plane to Paris. With any luck, he’d reach Orly Airport before MI Five knew he had left England. The shuttles to Paris were frequent, the customs procedures lax. Or he could buy two tickets—one to Amsterdam, one to Paris—go through the KLM gates, then on some pretext come back outside and rush to the Paris departure area, where Willie held his luggage.

What was he
thinking
of? Ruses, evasions, deceptions. He was a criminal without a crime, a man who could not tell the truth, because in that truth was the destruction of so much.

He began to perspire again, and the pain returned to his stomach. He felt weak and disoriented. He lay down on Willie’s couch in Willie’s bathrobe and closed his eyes. The image of melting flesh came back into focus. The face emerged; he heard the cry clearly, and he fell asleep, the plaintive sound in his ears.

He woke suddenly, aware that someone was above him, looking down at him. Alarmed, he whipped over on his back, then sighed in relief at the sight of Willie standing by the couch.

“You’ve had some rest, and it shows. You look better, and God knows you smell better.”

“Did you get my things?”

“Yes, and you were right. They were anxious to know where you were. When I paid the bill, the manager came out and behaved like a rep-company version of Scotland Yard. He’s mollified, if confused. He’s also got a telephone number where you’re currently in residence.”

“La residence?”

“Yes. I’m afraid your reputation hasn’t been vastly improved, unless you’ve had a change of heart. The
number’s for a hospital in Knightsbridge that doesn’t get a
P
from National Health. It specializes in venereal diseases. I know a doctor there quite well.”

“You’re too much,” said Noel, standing, “Where are my things?”

“In the guest room. I thought you’d want to change.”

“Thanks.” Holcroft started toward the door.

“Do you know a man named Buonoventura?” Ellis asked.

Noel stopped. He had sent Sam a three-word cablegram from the airport in Lisbon:
BELGRAVIA ARMS LONDON.
“Yes. Did he call?”

“Several times. Quite frantically, I gather. The hotel switchboard said the call came from Curaçao.”

“I know the number,” said Holcroft. “I have to get in touch with him. I’ll put the call on my credit card.”

It was five minutes before he heard Sam’s rasping voice and less than five seconds before he realized it was not fair to ask the construction engineer to lie any longer.

“Miles isn’t fooling around anymore, Noley. He told me he’s getting a court order for your return to New York. He’s going to serve it on the owners down here, figuring they’re American. He knows they can’t force you to go back, but he says they’ll know you’re wanted. It’s a little rough, Noley, because you’re not on any payroll.”

“Did he say why?”

“Only that he thinks you have information they need.”

If he could get to Paris, Noel thought, he would want Buonoventura to be able to reach him, but he did not want to burden him with an address. “Listen, Sam. I’m leaving for Paris later today. There’s an American Express office on the Champs-Elysées, near the avenue George Cinq. If anything comes up, cable me there.”

“What’ll I tell Miles if he calls again? I don’t want to get my ass burned.”

“Say you reached me and told me he was trying to find me. Tell him I said I’d get in touch with him as soon as I could. That’s all you know.” Noel paused. “Also tell him I had to get to Europe. Don’t volunteer, but if he presses, let him know about the American Express office. I can phone for messages.”

“There’s something else,” said Sam awkwardly.
“Your mother called, too. I felt like a goddamned idiot lying to her; you shouldn’t lie to your mother, Noley.”

Holcroft smiled. A lifetime of deviousness had not taken the basic Italian out of Sam. “When did she call?”

“Night before last. She sounds like a real lady. I told her I expected to hear from you yesterday; that’s when I started phoning.”

“I’ll call her when I get to Paris,” said Noel. “Anything else?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“Plenty. I’ll be in touch in a few days, but you know where to cable me.”

“Yeah, but if your mother calls, I’m going to let her know, too.”

“No sweat. And thanks, Sam. I owe you.”

He hung up, noticing that Willie Ellis had gone into the kitchen, where he had turned on the radio. One of Willie’s attributes was that he was a gentleman. Noel sat by the phone for several moments, trying to figure things out. His mother’s call was not surprising. He had not spoken with her since that Sunday morning in Bedford Hills nearly two weeks ago.

Miles was something else again. Holcroft did not think of the detective as a person; he had no face or voice. But Miles had arrived at certain conclusions; he was certain of that. And those conclusions tied him to three deaths connected with British Airways Flight 591 from London to New York. Miles was not letting go; if he persisted, he could create a problem Noel was not sure he could handle. The detective could ask for international police cooperation. And if he did, attention would be drawn to the activities of a United States citizen who had walked away from a homicide investigation.

Geneva would not tolerate that attention; the covenant would be destroyed. Miles had to be contained. But
how?

His unfamiliar forest was lined with traps; every protective instinct he possessed told him to turn back. Geneva needed a man infinitely more cunning and experienced than he. Yet he could not turn back. The survivors of Wolfsschanze would not permit it. And deep in his own consciousness he knew he did not want to. There was the face that came into focus in the darkness. He had to find
his father and, in the finding, show the world a man in agony who was brave enough and perceptive enough to know that amends must be made. And brilliant enough to make that credo live.

Noel walked to the kitchen door. Ellis was at the sink, washing teacups.

“I’ll pick up my clothes in a couple of weeks, Willie. Let’s go to the airport.”

Ellis turned, concern in his eyes. “I can save you time,” he said, reaching for a china mug on a shelf. “You’ll need some French money until you can convert. I keep a jarful for my bimonthly travels to the fleshpots. Take what you need.”

“Thanks.” Holcroft took the mug, looking at Willie’s exposed arms beneath rolled-up sleeves. They were as powerful and muscular as any two arms he’d ever seen. It struck Noel that Willie could break a man in half.

The madness started at Heathrow and gathered momentum at Orly.

In London he bought a ticket on KLM to Amsterdam, on the theory that the story he gave MI Five had been checked out and considered plausible. He suspected it had been both, for he saw a bewildered man in a raincoat watch him in astonishment as he raced out of the KLM departure gates back to Air France. There Willie was waiting for him with a ticket for a crowded plane to Paris.

Immigration procedure at Orly was cursory, but the lines were long. As he waited, Noel had time to study the milling crowds in the customs area and beyond the swinging doors that led to the terminal proper. Beyond those doors he could see two men; there was something about them that caught his attention. Perhaps it was their somber faces, joyless expressions that did not belong in a place where people greeted one another. They were talking quietly, their heads immobile, as they watched the passengers walk out of customs. One held a piece of paper in his hand; it was small, shiny. A photograph? Yes. A photograph of
him
.

These were not the men of Wolfsschanze. The men of Wolfsschanze knew him by sight; and the men of Wolfsschanze were never seen. MI Five had reached its agents in Paris. They were waiting for him.

“Monsieur.” The customs clerk stamped Holcroft’s passport routinely. Noel picked up his luggage and started toward the exit, feeling the panic of a man about to walk into an unavoidable trap.

As the doors parted, he saw the two men turn away to avoid being noticed. They were not going to approach him; they were going to … 
follow
him.