The Holcroft Covenant (25 page)

Holcroft watched her closely. There was no hint of a lie. “To start a new life under the name of Tennyson,” he said.

“Yes. Completely new. We’d left everything behind us.” She smiled. “I sometimes think with very little time to spare.”

“He’s quite a man. Why haven’t you stayed in touch? You obviously don’t hate him.”

Helden frowned, as if she were unsure of her own answer. “Hate him? No. I resent him, perhaps, but I don’t hate him. Like most brilliant men, he thinks he should take charge of everything. He wanted to run my life, and I couldn’t accept that.”

“Why is he a newspaperman? From all I’ve learned about him, he could probably own one.”

“He probably will one day, if that’s what he wants. Knowing Johann, I suspect it’s because he thought that writing for a well-known newspaper would give him a certain prominence. Especially in the political field, where he’s very good. He was right.”

“Was he?”

“Certainly. In a matter of two or three years, he was considered one of the finest correspondents in Europe.”

Now
, thought Noel. MI Five meant nothing to him; Geneva was everything. He leaned forward.

“He’s considered something else, too.… I said in the Montmartre that I would tell you—and
only
you—why the British questioned me. It’s your brother. They think I’m trying to reach him for reasons that have nothing to do with Geneva.”

“What reasons?”

Holcroft kept her eyes engaged. “Have you ever heard of a man they call the Tinamou?”

“The assassin? Certainly. Who hasn’t?”

There was nothing in her eyes. Nothing but vague bewilderment. “I, for one,” said Noel. “I’ve read about killers for hire and assassination conspiracies but I’ve never heard of the Tinamou.”

“You’re an American. His exploits are more detailed in the European press than in yours. But what has he got to do with my brother?”

“British Intelligence thinks he may
be
the Tinamou.”

The expression on Helden’s face was arrested in shock. So complete was her astonishment that her eyes were suddenly devoid of life, as noncommittal as a blind man’s. Her lips trembled and she tried to speak, unable
to find the words. Finally, the words came. They were barely audible.

“You can’t be
serious.
”

“I assure you, I am. What’s more to the point, the British are.”

“It’s outrageous. Beyond anything I’ve ever heard! On what basis can they possibly
reach
such a conclusion?”

Noel repeated the salient points analyzed by MI Five.

“My
God,
” said Helden when he had finished. “He covers all of Europe, as well as the Middle East! Certainly the English could check with his editors. He doesn’t
choose
the places they send him to. It’s preposterous!”

“Newspapermen who write interesting copy, who file stories that sell papers, are given a very free hand when it comes to the places they cover. That’s the case with your brother. It’s almost as though he knew he’d gain that prominence you spoke of; knew that in a few short years he’d be given a flexible schedule.”

“You cant
believe
this.”

“I don’t know what to believe,” said Holcroft. “I only know that your brother could jeopardize the situation in Geneva. The mere fact that he’s under suspicion by MI Five could be enough to frighten the bankers. They don’t want that kind of scrutiny where the Clausen account is concerned.”

“But it’s unjustified!”

“Are you sure?”

Helden’s eyes were angry. “Yes, I’m sure. Johann may be a number of things, but he’s no killer. The viciousness starts again: The Nazi child is hounded.”

Noel remembered the first statement made by the gray-haired MI-Five man:
For starters, you know about the father
.… Was it possible Helden was right? Did MI Five’s suspicions come from memories and hostilities that went back thirty years to a brutal enemy?
Tennyson is the personification of arrogance
.… It was possible.

“Is Johann political?”

“Very, but not in the usual sense. He doesn’t stand for any particular ideology. Instead, he’s highly critical of them all. He attacks their weaknesses, and he’s vicious about hypocrisy. That’s why a lot of people in government can’t stand him. But he’s no assassin!”

If Helden was right, Noel thought, Johann von Tiebolt could be an enormous asset to Geneva, or, more
specifically, to the agency that was to be established in Zurich. A multilingual journalist whose judgments were listened to, who had experience in finance … could be eminently qualified to dispense millions throughout the world.

If the shadow of the Tinamou could be removed from Johann von Tiebolt, there was no reason for the directors of La Grande Banque de Genève ever to learn of MI Five’s interest in John Tennyson. The second child of Wilhelm von Tiebolt would be instantly acceptable to the bankers. He might not be the most personable man alive, but Geneva was not sponsoring a personality contest. He could be an extraordinary asset. But first the Tinamou’s shadow
had
to be removed, British Intelligence suspicions laid to rest.

Holcroft smiled.
A man would come one day and talk of a strange arrangement
.… Johann von Tiebolt—John Tennyson—was waiting for him!

“What’s funny?” said Helden, watching him.

“I have to meet him,” answered Noel, ignoring the question. “Can you arrange it?”

“I imagine so. It’ll take a few days. I don’t know where he is. What will you say to him?”

“The truth; maybe he’ll reciprocate. I’ve got a damn good idea he knows about Geneva.”

“There’s a telephone number he gave me to call if I ever needed him. I’ve never used it.”

“Use it now. Please.”

She nodded. Noel understood that there were questions left unanswered. Specifically, a man named Beaumont, and an event in Rio de Janeiro that Helden would not discuss. An event connected to the naval officer with the heavy black-and-white eyebrows. And it was possible that Helden knew nothing about that connection.

Perhaps John Tennyson did. He certainly knew a lot more than he told either sister.

“Does your brother get along with Beaumont?” asked Holcroft.

“He despises him. He refused to come to Gretchen’s wedding.”

What
was
it? wondered Noel. Who was the enigma that was Anthony Beaumont?

Outside the small inn, in the far corner of the parking area, a dark sedan rested in the shadow of a tall oak tree. In the front seat were two men, one in the uniform of the English navy, the other in a charcoal-gray business suit, his black overcoat opened, the edge of a brown leather holster visible beneath his unbuttoned jacket.

The naval officer was behind the wheel. His blunt features were tense. The eyebrows of black-and-white hair arched just noticeably every now and then, as if prodded by a nervous tic.

The man beside him was in his late thirties. He was slender but he was not thin; his was the tautness that comes with discipline and training. The breadth of his shoulders, the long muscular neck, and the convex line of a chest that stretched his tailored shirt were evidence of a body honed to physical precision and strength. Each feature of his face was refined and each coordinated with the whole. The result was striking, yet cold, as if the face were chiseled in granite. The eyes were light blue, almost rectangular, their gaze steady and noncommittal; they were the eyes of a confident animal, quick to respond, the response unpredictable. The sculptured head was covered by a glistening crown of blond hair that reflected the light of the distant parking-lot lamps; above this face, his hair had the appearance of pale-yellow ice. The man’s name was Johann von Tiebolt, for the past five years known as “John Tennyson.”

“Are you satisfied?” asked the naval officer, obviously apprehensive. “There’s no one.”

“There
was
someone,” replied the blond man. “Considering the precautions taken since Montmartre, it’s not entirely surprising there’s no one now. Helden and the other children are quite effective.”

“They run from idiots,” said Beaumont. “The Rache is filled with Marxist subhumans.”

“When the time comes, the Rache will serve its purpose. Our purpose. But it’s not the Rache I’m concerned with. I want to know who tried to kill him.” Tennyson turned in the shadows, his cold eyes glaring. He slammed his hand on the top of the leather dashboard. “Who tried to
kill Clausen’s son?
”

“I swear to you, I’ve told you everything we know! Everything we’ve learned. It was
not
a mistake on our part.”

“It was a mistake because it nearly happened,” replied Tennyson, his voice quiet again.

“It was Manfredi; it
had
to be Manfredi,” continued Beaumont. “It’s the only explanation, Johann.…”

“My name is John. Remember that.”

“Sorry. It
is
the only explanation. We don’t know what Manfredi said to Holcroft on that train in Geneva. It’s possible he tried to convince him to walk away. And when Holcroft refused, he sent out the orders for his execution. They failed in the station because of me. I think you should remember that.”

“You won’t let me forget it,” interrupted Tennyson. “You may be right. He expected to control the agency in Zurich; that could never be. So the removal of assets totaling seven hundred and eighty million dollars became too painful an exercise.”

“Just as the promise of two million is an irresistible temptation to Holcroft, perhaps.”

“Two million he banks only in his mind. But his death will come at
our
hands, no one else’s.”

“Manfredi acted alone, believe that. His executioners have no one to take orders from now. Since the hotel room in Zurich, there’ve been no further attempts.”

“That’s a statement Holcroft would find impossible to accept … There they
are.
” Tennyson sat forward. Through the windshield, across the parking area, he could see Noel and Helden coming out of the door. “Do the colonel’s children meet here frequently?”

“Yes,” answered Beaumont. “I learned of it from an O
DESSA
agent who followed them one night.”

The blond man coughed a quiet laugh; his words were scathing. “O
DESSA!
Caricatures, who weep in cellars over too many steins of beer! They’re laughable.”

“They’re persistent.”

“And they, too, will be useful,” said Tennyson, watching Noel and Helden get into the car. “As before, they will be the lowest foot soldiers, fed to the enemy’s cannon. First seen, first sacrificed. The perfect diversion for more serious matters.”

The Citroën’s loud, outsized engine was heard. Holcroft backed the car out of its slot, then drove through the entrance posts onto the country road.

Beaumont turned on the ignition. “I’ll stay a fair distance behind. He won’t spot me.”

“No, don’t bother,” said Tennyson. “I’m satisfied. Take me to the airport. You’ve made the arrangements?”

“Yes. You’ll be flown on a Mirage to Athens. The Greeks will get you back to Bahrain. It’s all military transport, UN-courier status, Security Council immunity. The pilot of the Mirage has your papers.”

“Well done, Tony.”

The naval officer smiled, proud of the compliment. He pressed the accelerator; the sedan roared out of the parking lot into the darkness of the country road. “What will you do in Bahrain?”

“Make my presence known by filing a story on an oil-field negotiation. A prince of Bahrain has been most cooperative. He has had no choice. He made an arrangement with the Tinamou. The poor man lives in terror that the news will get out.”

“You’re extraordinary.”

“And you’re a devoted man. You always have been.”

“After Bahrain, what?”

The blond man leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. “Back to Athens and on to Berlin.”

“Berlin?”

“Yes. Things are progressing well. Holcroft will go there next. Kessler’s waiting for him.”

There was a sudden burst of static from a radio speaker beneath the dashboard. It was followed by four short, high-pitched hums. Tennyson opened his eyes; the four hums were repeated.

“There are telephone booths on the highway. Get me to one. Quickly!”

The Englishman pressed the accelerator to the floor; the sedan sped down the road, reaching seventy miles an hour in a matter of seconds. They came to an intersection.
“If I’m not mistaken, there’s a petrol station around here.”

“Hurry!”

“I’m sure of it,” said Beaumont, and there it was, at the side of the road, dark, no light in the windows. “Damn, it’s closed!”

“What did you expect?” asked Tennyson.

“The phone’s inside.…”

“But there
is
a phone?”

“Yes.…”

“Stop the car.”

Beaumont obeyed. The blond man got out and walked to the door of the station. He took out his pistol and broke the glass with the handle.

A dog leaped up at him, barking and growling, fangs bared, jaws snapping. It was an old animal of indeterminable breed, stationed more for effect than for physical protection. Tennyson reached into his pocket, pulled out a perforated cylinder, and spun it on to the barrel of his pistol. He raised the gun and fired through the shattered glass into the dog’s head. The animal fell backward. Tennyson smashed the remaining glass by the latch above the doorknob.

He let himself in, adjusted his eyes to the light, and stepped over the dead animal to the telephone. He reached an operator and gave her the Paris number that could connect him to a man who would, in turn, transfer his call to a telephone in England.

Twenty seconds later he heard the breathless, echoing voice. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Johann, but we have an emergency.”

“What is it?”

“A photograph was taken. I’m very concerned.”

“What photograph?”

“A picture of Tony.”

“Who took it?”

“The American.”

“Which means he recognized him. Graff was right: Your devoted husband can’t be trusted. His enthusiasm outweighs his discretion. I wonder where Holcroft saw him?”

“On the plane, perhaps. Or through the doorman’s description. It doesn’t matter. Kill him.”