The Holcroft Covenant (46 page)

“Then we both forgot,” Holcroft told him.

“We should be careful,” said Tennyson, when Noel had finished. “If the name ‘Wolfsschanze’ is tied to Geneva, we must be
extremely
careful. The British can’t learn about Geneva. It would be disastrous.”

“I agree. But what reason will you give Payton-Jones for wanting access to the archives?”

“Part of the truth,” answered Tennyson. “I want Gretchen’s killer.”

“And for that you’re willing to give up the … ground-dwelling bird you’ve been tracking for six years?”

“For that and for Geneva. With all my heart.”

Noel was touched. “Do you want me to talk to Payton-Jones?”

“No!”
Tennyson shouted; then he lowered his voice. “I mean, it would be far too dangerous. Trust me. Do as I ask you, please. You and Helden must stay out of sight. Completely. Until I contact you, Helden must not return to work. She must stay with you, and you both must remain invisible.”

Holcroft looked at Helden. “I don’t know if she’ll agree to that.”

“I’ll convince her. Let me speak with her. You and I have finished our talk.”

“You’ll call me?”

“In a few days. If you change hotels, leave word where Mr. Fresca can be reached. Helden has my message-service number. Let me talk with her now. In spite of our differences, we need each other now, perhaps as we’ve never needed each other before. And … Noel?”

“Yes?”

“Be kind to her. Love her. She needs you, too.”

Holcroft stood up and handed the phone to Helden.

“
Mein Bruder
.…”

Code Wolfsschanze!

Von Tiebolt—Tennyson slammed his fist on the desk in the small out-of-the-way office he used in Paris.

Code Wolfsschanze
. That sacrosanct phrase had been given to Peter Baldwin by Ernst Manfredi! The banker had played a dangerous but ingenious game. He knew that Baldwin’s mere use of the phrase was enough to guarantee his death. But Manfredi would never have given the Englishman more than that; it would not have been in the banker’s interests. Still, Baldwin had possessed one of the best minds in Europe. Had he pieced together more than Manfredi had considered possible? How much had he really learned? What was contained in Baldwin’s file at MI Five?

Or did it matter? The British had rejected whatever it was Baldwin had to offer. One file folder among thousands upon thousands. Buried in the archives, lost because it was one more entry of rejected information.

Code Wolfsschanze
. It meant nothing to those who knew nothing, and the few hundred who did—those district leaders in every country—knew only that it was a signal. They were to make themselves ready; enormous funds would soon be sent to them, to be used for the cause.

Die Sonnenkinder
. All over the world, prepared to rise and assert their birthright.

Baldwin’s file could not contain that information; it was not possible. But those who held that file would be used. Above all else, the British wanted the Tinamou. His capture by MI Five would reassert English supremacy in intelligence operations—a supremacy lost through years of blunders and defections.

MI Five would be handed the Tinamou, and with that gift would come an obligation to the giver. That was the
splendid irony: The hated British Intelligence, that quiet, serpentine monster that had wreaked such havoc on the Third Reich, would help create the Fourth.

For MI Five would be told that the Nachrichtendienst was involved in an extraordinary conspiracy. The British would believe the man who told them; that man was giving them the Tinamou.

Tennyson walked through the London offices of the
Guardian
, receiving the compliments of his colleagues and their subordinates. As always, he accepted the compliments modestly.

He studied the women casually. The secretaries and the receptionists invited this most beautiful of men to acknowledge them, invited him, actually, to take whatever he wished. It struck him that he might have to select one of these women. His beloved Gretchen was gone, but his appetites were not. Yes, thought Tennyson as he walked toward the door of the senior editor’s office, he would select a woman. The excitement was mounting, the intensity of Wolfsschanze growing with every passing hour. He would need sexual release. It was always this way; Gretchen had understood.

“John, it’s good to see you,” said the senior editor, getting up from behind the desk and extending his hand. “We’re running the Bonn article tomorrow. Fine job.”

Tennyson sat down in a chair in front of the desk. “Something has come up,” he said. “If my sources are accurate, and I’m sure they are, a killing—killings—will be attempted that could provoke a world crisis.”

“Good heavens. Have you written it up?”

“No. We can’t write about it. I don’t think any responsible newspaper should.”

The editor leaned forward. “What is it, John?”

“There’s an economic summit conference called for next Tuesday.…”

“Of course. Right here in London. Leaders from the East and West.”

“That’s the point. East and West. They’re flying in from Moscow and Washington, from Peking and Paris, The most powerful men on earth.” Tennyson paused.

“And?”

“Two are to be assassinated.”

“What?”

“Two are to be killed; which two is irrelevant as long as they are from opposing sides; the president of the United States and the chairman of the People’s Republic; or the prime minister and the premier of the Soviet Union.”

“Impossible! Security measures will be airtight.”

“Not really. There’ll be crowds, processions, banquets, motorcades. Where’s the absolute guarantee found?”

“It has to be!”

“Not against the Tinamou.”

“The
Tinamou?
”

“He’s accepted the highest fee in history.”

“Good God, from
whom?
”

“An organization known as the Nachrichtendienst.”

Harold Payton-Jones stared across the table at Tennyson in the dimly lit room that had no other furniture but the table and two chairs. The location had been selected by MI Five; it was a deserted boardinghouse in east London.

“I repeat,” said the gray-haired agent curtly. “You expect me to accept the things you say merely because you’re willing to go on record? Preposterous!”

“It’s my only proof,” replied Tennyson. “Everything I’ve told you is true. We haven’t time to fight each other any longer. Every hour is vital.”

“Nor have I the inclination to be hoodwinked by an opportunistic journalist who may be much more than a correspondent! You’re very clever. And quite possibly an outrageous liar.”

“For God’s sake, if that’s true, why am I
here?
Listen to me! I’ll say it for the last time: The Tinamou was trained by the O
DESSA.
In the hills of Rio de Janeiro! I’ve fought the O
DESSA
all my life; that’s on my record, if anyone cares to examine it. The O
DESSA
forced us out of Brazil, cut us off from everything we’d built there. I want the Tinamou!”

Payton-Jones studied the blond man. The argument had been vicious, lasting nearly a half hour. The agent had been relentless, pounding Tennyson with a barrage of questions, lashing out at him with insults. It was a studied technique of MI Five’s, designed to separate truth from falsehood. It was apparent that the Englishman was now satisfied. He lowered his voice.

“All right, Mr. Tennyson. We can stop fighting each other. I gather we owe you an apology.”

“The apologies are not one-sided. It’s just that I knew I could work better alone. I had to pretend to be so many things. If ever anyone had seen me with a member of your service, my effectiveness would have been destroyed.”

“Then I’m sorry for the times we called you in.”

“They were dangerous moments for me. I could feel the Tinamou slipping away.”

“We haven’t caught him yet.”

“We’re close. It’s only a matter of days now. We’ll succeed if we’re painstaking in every decision we make, every street the delegations travel—the locations of every meeting, every ceremony, every banquet. There’s an advantage that’s never existed before: We know he’s there.”

“You’re absolutely convinced of your source?”

“Never more so in my life. That man in the Berlin pub was the courier. Every courier used to reach the Tinamou has been killed. His last words were ‘London … next week … the summit … one from each side … a man with a tattoo of a rose on the back of his hand … Nachrichtendienst.’ ”

Payton-Jones nodded. “We’ll put out inquiries to Berlin as to the man’s identity.”

“I doubt you’ll find anything. From what little I know about the Nachrichtendienst, it was extremely thorough.”

“But it was neutral,” Payton-Jones said. “And its information was always accurate. It spared no one. The prosecutors of Nuremberg were continuously fed data by the Nachrichtendienst.”

“I suggest,” said Tennyson, “that the prosecutors were given only what the Nachrichtendienst wanted to give them. You can’t know what was withheld.”

The Britisher nodded again. “It’s possible. That’s something we’ll never know. The question is, why? What’s the motive?”

“If I may,” replied the blond man. “…  A few old men about to die, taking their final vengeance. The Third Reich had two specific philosophical enemies who allied themselves in spite of their antagonisms: the communists and the democracies. Now each vies for supremacy.
What better revenge than for each to accuse the other of assassination? For each to destroy the other?”

“If we could establish that,” interrupted Payton-Jones, “it could be the motive behind a number of assassinations during the past years.”

“How does one establish it beyond doubt?” asked Tennyson. “Did British Intelligence ever have a direct connection with the Nachrichtendienst?”

“Oh, yes. We insisted on identities—to be kept locked in the vaults, of course. We couldn’t act on such information blindly.”

“Are any alive today?”

“It’s possible. It’s been years since anyone has mentioned the Nachrichtendienst. I’ll check, of course.”

“Will you give me their names?”

The MI-Five man leaned back in the chair. “Is this one of the conditions you spoke of, Mr. Tennyson?”

“Spoke of, but made clear that under the circumstances I could never insist upon.”

“No civilized man would. If we catch the Tinamou, you’ll have the gratitude of world governments; the names are minor. If we have them, so will you. Do you have other requests? Should I have brought a notebook?”

“They’re limited,” answered Tennyson, overlooking the insult, “and may surprise you. Out of gratitude to my employers, I should like a five-hour advance exclusive for the
Guardian
.”

“It’s yours,” said Payton-Jones. “What else?”

“Insofar as MI Five has approached various people, implying that I was the subject of inquiries, I should like a letter from British Intelligence making it clear not only that my personal dossier is without blemish but that I’ve made an active contribution to your efforts to maintain— shall we say—‘international stability.’ ”

“Quite unnecessary,” said the Englishman. “Should the Tinamou be caught through the information you bring us, governments everywhere no doubt will decorate you with highest honors. A letter from us would be gratuitous. You won’t need it.”

“But, you see, I will,” said Tennyson. “For my next-to-last request is that my name never be mentioned.”

“Never be—” Payton-Jones was stunned. “That’s hardly in character, is it?”

“Please don’t confuse my professional endeavors with my private way of life. I seek no credit. The Von Tiebolts owe a debt; call this part payment.”

The MI-Five operative was silent for a moment “I
have
misjudged you. I apologize again. Of course you’ll have your letter.”

“Frankly, there’s another reason for wanting anonymity. I realize that the Royal Navy and the French authorities are satisfied that my sister and her husband died accidentally while on holiday, and they’re probably right. But I think you’ll agree the timing was unfortunate. I have one sister left; she and I are the last of the Von Tiebolts. If anything happened to her, I’d never forgive myself.”

“I understand.”

“I’d like to offer you whatever assistance I can. I believe I know as much about the Tinamou as anyone alive. I’ve studied him for years. Every killing, every projected move he made before and after the acts. I think I can help. I’d like to be a part of your team.”

“I’d be a damn fool to turn you down. What’s your last request?”

“We’ll get to it.” Tennyson stood up. “The thing to realize about the Tinamou is that his technique is instant variation, practiced improvisation. He doesn’t have a single strategy, but ten or twelve—each methodically conceived and rehearsed so that it can be adapted to the moment.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Let me explain. That killing in Madrid seven months ago, during the riots—do you remember?”

“Of course. The rifle was fired from a fourth-floor window, above the crowds.”

“Exactly. A government building in a government square where the demonstrations were scheduled to take place. A
government
building. That bothered me. Suppose the guards were more alert, security measures more effective, people checked thoroughly for weapons? Suppose he could
not
have gotten to that window? It was an ideal spot, incidentally, for getting the target in his gun sight; but suppose there’d been people in that room?”

“He would have moved to another location.”

“Naturally. But no matter how well concealed the
weapon—whether part of a crutch, or strapped to his leg, or sewn in sections into his clothing—it would have been awkward. He had to move quickly; timing was important; the demonstration wasn’t going to last that long. The Tinamou had to have more than one location, more than one option. And he did.”

“How do you know?” asked the MI-Five man, fascinated.

“I spent two days in Madrid, going over every building, every window, every rooftop in that square. I found four weapons intact, and three other locations where floorboards had been ripped out, window sashes removed, and moldings torn apart. Additional weapons had been concealed in those places. I even found two pounds of plastic explosives in a garbage can on the sidewalk. Fifty feet from the center of the demonstration.
Eight
positions from which to kill. Alternate selections for him to choose, each designed to fit a projected moment during a specific time span.”