The Holcroft Covenant (26 page)

“Yes, of course.” The blond man paused, then spoke thoughtfully. “You have the bank books?”

“Yes.”

“Deposit ten thousand pounds. Let the transfer be traced through Prague.”

“KGB? Very good, Johann.”

“The British will suffer another defection. Friendly diplomats will argue among themselves, each accusing the other of a lack of candor.”

“
Very
good.”

“I’ll be in Berlin next week. Reach me there.”

“So soon Berlin?”

“Yes, Kessler’s waiting.
Neuaufbau oder Tod
.”

“
Oder der Tod
, my brother.”

Tennyson hung up and stared through the night light at the dead animal on the floor. He had no more feeling for the clump of lifeless fur than for the man waiting in the car. Feelings were kept for more important things, not for animals and misfits—regardless of how devoted either might be.

Beaumont was a fool, a judgment contained in a dossier sent from Scotland to Brazil years ago. But he had a fool’s energy and a fool’s sense of surface accomplishment. He had actually become an outstanding naval officer. This son of a
Reichsoberführer
had climbed the ladder of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy to the point where he was given vital responsibility. Too much for his intellect; that intellect needed to be directed. In time, they had projected that Beaumont might become a power within the Admiralty, an expert consulted by the Foreign Office. It was an optimum situation; extraordinary advantages could be handed to them through Beaumont. He had remained a
Sonnenkind
; he was permitted to live.

But no more. With the theft of a photograph, Beaumont was finished, for in that theft was the threat of scrutiny. There could be no scrutiny whatsoever; they were too close, and there was still too much to accomplish. If Holcroft gave the photograph to the wrong people in Switzerland, told them of Beaumont’s presence in New York or Rio, military authorities might be alerted. Why was this outstanding officer so interested in the Geneva document? The question could not arise. This son of the
Reichsoberführer
had to be removed. In a way, it was a pity. The
commander would be missed; at times he’d been invaluable.

Gretchen knew that value. Gretchen was Beaumont’s teacher, his guide … his intellect. She was enormously proud of her work, and now she called for Beaumont’s death. So be it. They’d find another to take his place.

They were everywhere, thought Johann von Tiebolt as he walked to the door. Everywhere.
Die Sonnenkinder
. The Children of the Sun, never to be confused with the damned. The damned were wandering refuse, entitled to nothing.

Die Sonnenkinder
. Everywhere. In all countries, in all governments, in armies and navies, in industry and trade unions, commanding intelligence branches and the police. All quietly waiting. Grown-up children of the New Order.
Thousands
. Sent out by ship and plane and submarine to all points of the civilized world. So
far
above the average-confirmed every day by their progress everywhere. They were the proof that the concept of racial superiority was undeniable. Their strain was pure, their excellence unquestioned. And the purest of all, the most excellent of all, was the Tinamou.

Von Tiebolt opened the door and stepped outside. Beaumont had driven the sedan fifty yards down the country road, headlights out. The commander went by the book; his training was apparent in everything he did—except when his enthusiasm overrode his discretion. That enthusiasm would now cost him his life.

Tennyson walked slowly toward the sedan. He wondered absently how it all had begun for Anthony Beaumont. The son of the
Reichsoberführer
had been sent to a family in Scotland; beyond that Tennyson had never inquired. He had been told of Beaumont’s tenacity, his stubbornness, his singleness of purpose, but not of how he had been sent out of Germany. It was not necessary to know. There’d been thousands; all records were destroyed.

Thousands
. Selected genetically, the parents studied, families traced back several generations for organic and psychological frailties. Only the purest were sent out, and everywhere these children were watched closely, guided, trained, indoctrinated—but told nothing until they grew up. And even then, not all. Those who failed to live up to their birthright, who showed weakness or gave evidence of being compromised, were never told, only weeded out.

Those that remained were the true inheritors of the Third Reich. They were in positions of trust and authority everywhere. Waiting … waiting for the signal from Switzerland, prepared to put the millions to immediate use.

Millions funneled judiciously,
politically
. One by one, nations would fall in line, shaped internally by the
Sonnenkinder
, who would have at their disposal extraordinary sums to match and consolidate their influence. Ten million here, forty million there, one hundred million where it was necessary.

In the free world the election processes would be bought, the electorates having fewer and fewer choices, only echoes. It was nothing new; successful experiments had already taken place. Chile had cost less than twenty-seven million, Panama no more than six. In America, Senate and congressional seats were to be had for a few hundred thousand. But when the signal came from Switzerland, the millions would be dispensed scientifically, the art of demographics employed. Until the Western world was led by the grown-up children of the Reich.
Die Sonnenkinder
.

The Eastern bloc would be next, the Soviet Union and its satellites succumbing to the blandishments of their own emerging bourgeoisie. When the signal came, promises would be made and people’s collectives everywhere would suddenly realize there was a better way. Because, suddenly, extraordinary funds would be available; austerity could be replaced by the simple dislocation of loyalties.

The Fourth Reich would be born, not confined to the borders of one or two countries but spread all over the world. The Children of the Sun would be the rightful masters of the globe.
Die Sonnenkinder
.

Some might say it was preposterous, inconceivable. It was not; it was happening. Everywhere.

But mistakes were made, thought Tennyson, as he approached the sedan. They were inevitable, and just as inevitable was the fact that they had to be corrected. Beaumont was a mistake. Tennyson put the pistol back in his holster; it would not stay there long.

He walked around the car to the driver’s window; it was rolled down, the commander’s face turned in concern. “What was it? Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing that can’t be fixed. Move over, I’ll drive. You can direct me.”

“Where to?”

“They said there’s a lake somewhere in the vicinity, not more than eight or ten kilometers away. It was difficult to hear; it was a bad connection.”

“Only lake near here is just east of Saint-Gratien. It’s nearer twelve to fifteen.”

“That must be the one. There are forests?”

“Profuse.”

“That’s the one,” said Tennyson, getting into the car as Beaumont moved over on the seat. “I know the headlight codes. You tell me where to go; I’ll concentrate on the lamps.”

“Seems odd.”

“Not odd. Complicated. They may pick us up along the way. I’ll know what to look for. Quickly, now. Which direction do we go?”

“Turn around, to begin with. Head back to that dreadful road; then turn left.”

“Very well.” Tennyson started the engine.

“What
is
it?” Beaumont asked. “It must be a bloody emergency. I’ve heard a four-dash signal only once before, and
that
was our man at Entebbe.”

“He wasn’t our man. Tony. He was our puppet.”

“Yes, of course. The Rache terrorist. Still, he was our
connection
, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I know. Turn here? Left?”

“That’s it. Well, for God’s sake,
tell
me! What the devil’s going on?”

Tennyson steadied the car and accelerated. “Actually, it may concern you. We’re not sure, but it’s a possibility.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Did Holcroft ever spot you? See you more than once? Be aware that you were following him?”

“
Spot
me? Never! Never, never,
never!
I
swear
it.”

“In Geneva? Think.”

“Certainly not.”

“In New York?”

“I was never within a mile of him! Impossible.”

“On the plane to Rio de Janeiro?”

Beaumont paused. “No.… He came through a curtain; he was quite drunk, I think. But he took no notice, no notice at all. I saw him; he didn’t see me.”

That was it, thought Tennyson. This devoted child of the Reich believed what he had to believe. There was no point in discussing the matter any further.

“Then it’s all a mistake, Tony. A wasted half hour. I talked with your wife, my dear sister. She said you were much too discreet for such a thing to have happened.”

“She was right. She’s
always
right, as you well know. Remarkable girl. Regardless of what you may think, ours was not purely a marriage of convenience.”

“I know that, Tony. It makes me very happy.”

“Take the next right. It goes north, toward the lake.”

It was cold in the forest, colder by the water. They parked at the end of a dirt road and walked up the narrow path to the edge of the lake. Tennyson carried a flashlight he had taken from the glove compartment of the sedan. In Beaumont’s hand was a narrow shovel; they had decided to build a small pit fire to ward off the chill.

“Will we be here that long?” Beaumont asked.

“It’s possible. There are other matters to discuss, and I’d like your advice. This is the east shore of the lake?”

“Oh, yes. A good rendezvous. No one here this time of year.”

“When are you due back at your ship?”

“Have you forgotten? I’m spending the weekend with Gretchen.”

“Monday, then?”

“Or Tuesday. My exec’s a good chap. He simply assumes I’m prowling around on business. Never questions if I’m a day or so late.”

“Why should he? He’s one of us.”

“Yes, but there are patrol schedules to be observed. Can’t muck them up.”

“Of course not. Dig here, Tony. Let’s have the fire not too near the water. I’ll go back and watch for the signals.”

“Good.”

“Make the hole fairly deep. We wouldn’t want the flames too obvious.”

“Righto.”

Fire. Water. Earth. Burned clothing, charred flesh, smashed and scattered bridgework. John Tennyson walked back over the path and waited. Several minutes later he removed his pistol from the holster and took a long-bladed hunting knife from his overcoat pocket. It would
be a messy job, but necessary. The knife, like the shovel, had been in the trunk of the sedan. They were emergency tools, and always there.

A mistake had been revealed. It would be rectified by the Tinamou.

Holcroft sipped coffee and looked out at the cold, bright Paris morning. It was the second morning since he had seen Helden, and she was no nearer reaching her brother than she was the night before last.

“He’ll call me; I know he will,” she had told him over the phone minutes ago.

“Suppose I go out for a while?” he had asked.

“Don’t worry. I’ll reach you.”

Don’t worry
. It was an odd remark for her to make, considering where he was and how he got there—how
they
got there.

It had been an extension of the madness. They had left the country inn and driven back to Montmartre, where a man had come out of a doorway and relieved them of the Citroën; they had walked through the crowded streets, past two sidewalk cafés where successive nods meant they could return to Noel’s rented car.

From Montmartre she had directed him across Paris, over the Seine, into Saint-Germain-des-Prés, where they had stopped at a hotel; he had registered and paid for the night. It was a diversion; he did not go to his room. Instead, they had proceeded to a second hotel on the rue Chevalle, where a soft-drink sign provided him with a name for the registry: N. Fresca.

She had left him in the lobby, telling him she would call him when she had news of her brother.

“Explain something,” he had said. “Why are we doing all this? What difference does it make where I stay or whether or not I use my own name?”

“You’ve been seen with me.”

Helden. Strange name, strange woman. An odd mixture of vulnerability and strength. Whatever pain she had endured over the years she refused to turn into self-pity. She recognized her heritage; understood that the children
of Nazis were hounded by the O
DESSA
and the Rache and they had to live with it: damned for what they were and damned for what they were not.

Geneva could help these children;
would
help them. Noel had settled that for himself. He identified with them easily. But for the courage of an extraordinary mother, he could be one of them.

But there were other, more immediate concerns. Questions that affected Geneva. Who was the elusive Anthony Beaumont? What did he stand for? What really happened to the Von Tiebolts in Brazil? How much did Johann von Tiebolt know about the covenant?

If anyone had the answers it was Johann … John Tennyson.

Holcroft walked back to the window; a flock of pigeons flew over a nearby roof, fanning up into the morning wind. The Von Tiebolts. Three weeks ago he had never heard the name, but now his life was inextricably involved with theirs.

Helden. Strange name, strange girl. Filled with complications and contradictions. He had never met anyone like her. It was as if she were from another time, another place, fighting the legacies of a war that had passed into history.

The Rache. The O
DESSA
 … 
Wolfsschanze
. All fanatics. Adversaries in a bloodbath that had no meaning now. It was over,
had
been over for thirty years. It was dead history, finished.

The pigeons swooped down again, and in their mass attack on the rooftop, Noel suddenly saw something—understood something—he had not before. It had been there since the other night—since his meeting with Herr Oberst—and he had not perceived it.