The Holcroft Covenant (49 page)

“Es ist Von Tiebolt!”
he shouted.
“Bleib beim Fenster!”

“Herein!”
was the reply.

Tennyson angled his shoulder, rushed forward, and slammed his body against the fragile door; the door flew open, revealing the man in the raincoat, crouched in front of the window, a long-barreled rifle in his hands. His hands were encased in sheer, flesh-colored gloves.

“Johann?”

“They found
everything
,” said the blond man. “Every weapon, every location!”

“Impossible!” yelled the man in the raincoat. “One or two, perhaps. Not all!”

“Every one,” said Tennyson, kneeling behind the man in front of the window. The advance-security car had passed through Admiralty Arch; they would see the first limousine in seconds. The cheers from the crowds lining the Mall swelled like a mammoth chorus. “Give me the rifle!” Tennyson said. “Is the sight calibrated?”

“Of course,” said the man, handing over the weapon.

Tennyson thrust his left hand through the strap, lashing it taut, then raised the rifle to his shoulder, the telescopic
sight to his eye. The first limousine moved into the light-green circle, the prime minister of Great Britain in the cross hairs. Tennyson moved the rifle slightly; the smiling face of the president of the United States was now in the gunsight, the cross hairs bisecting the American’s left temple. Tennyson shifted the weapon back and forth. It was important for him to know that with two squeezes of the trigger he could eliminate them both.

A third limousine came slowly into the green circle. The chairman of the People’s Republic of China was in the gunsight, the cross hairs centered below the visor of his peasant’s cap. A slight pressure against the trigger would blow the man’s head apart

“What are you
waiting
for?” asked the Tinamou’s apprentice.

“I’m making my decision,” replied Tennyson. “Time is relative. Half seconds become half hours.” The fourth limousine was there now, the premier of the Soviet Union in the lethal green circle.

The exercise was over. In his mind he had done it. The transition between desire and the reality was minor. It would have been so simple to pull the trigger.

But this was not the way to destroy the Nachrichtendienst. The killing would come later; it would commence in a matter of weeks and continue for a matter of weeks. It was part of the Wolfsschanze covenant, an intrinsic part. So many of the leaders would die. But not now, not this afternoon.

The motorcade stopped; Payton-Jones had relayed Tennyson’s instructions. No limousine entered the Mall. Dozens of agents began fanning out over the grass, guns drawn but held unobtrusively as they raced through the foliage, their eyes on the trees.

Tennyson held the rifle in the grip of his left hand, the strap taut from barrel to shoulder. He removed his finger from the trigger housing and lowered his right hand to his wrist, pulling the revolver from his belt.

“
Now
, Johann! They’ve stopped,” whispered the apprentice. “Now, or they’ll start up again. You’ll lose them!”

“Yes, now,” said Tennyson softly, turning to the man crouched beside him. “And I lose nothing.”

He fired the gun, the explosion echoing through the
deserted office. The man spun wildly off his feet, blood erupting from his forehead. He fell to the floor, his eyes wide and staring.

It was doubtful that the gunshot was heard for any distance over the noise of the outside crowds, but it didn’t really matter. In seconds there’d be gunfire no one would miss. Tennyson sprang to his feet, removed the rifle from his arm, and took a folded slip of paper from his pocket. He knelt beside the dead man and shoved the paper into the bloodied, lifeless mouth, pushing it as far as he could down the throat.

Strapping the weapon back on its owner’s arm, he dragged the body over to the window. Pulling out a handkerchief, he wiped the rifle clean and forced the dead fingers into the trigger housing, tearing the fabric of the right-hand glove so he could see the tattoo.

Now
.

He took out the radio and leaned out the window.

“I think I’ve spotted him! It’s the same as Madrid. That’s it! Madrid!”

“Madrid? Tennyson, where—”

“Sector Thirteen, sir. East flank.”

“
Thirteen? Specify. Madrid?
…”

Tennyson pushed himself off the sill and back into the deserted office. It would be only seconds now. Seconds until the connection was made by Payton-Jones.

Tennyson placed the radio on the floor and knelt by the dead man. He edged the dead arm and weapon up into the open window. He listened to the excited voices over the radio.

“Sector Thirteen. East flank. Beyond the Arch to the left, heading south.”

“All agents concentrate on Sector Thirteen. East flank. Converge.”

“
All personnel converging, sir. Sector
—”

“Madrid!… The Government Building. It’s the Government Building.”

Now.

The blond man yanked at the dead finger four times, firing indiscriminately into the crowds near the motorcade. He could hear the screams, see the bodies fall.

“Get out. All vehicles move out. Alert One. Move out.”

The engines of the limousines roared; the cars
lurched forward. The sounds of sirens filled Saint James’s Park.

Tennyson let the dead man fall back to the floor and sprang toward the doorway, the pistol in his hand. He pulled the trigger repeatedly until there were no more shells left in the chamber. The body of the dead man jerked as each new bullet hit.

The voices on the radio were now indistinguishable, He could hear the sounds of racing footsteps in the corridor.

Johann von Tiebolt walked to the wall and sank to the floor, his face drawn in exhaustion. It was the end of his performance. The Tinamou had been caught.

By the Tinamou.

Their final meeting took place twenty-seven and a half hours after the death of the unknown man presumed to be the Tinamou.

Since the first account of the momentous event—initially reported by the
Guardian
and subsequently con-finned by Downing Street—the news had electrified the world. And British Intelligence, which refused all comment on the operation other than to express gratitude to sources it would not reveal, regained the supremacy it has lost through years of defections and ineptitude.

Payton-Jones took two envelopes from his pocket and handed them to Tennyson. “These seem such inadequate compensation. The British government owes you a debt it can never repay.”

“I never sought payment,” said Tennyson, accepting the envelopes. “It’s enough that the Tinamou is gone. I assume one of these is the letter from MI Five, and the other the names pulled from the Nachrichtendienst file?”

“They are.”

“And my name has been removed from the operation?”

“It was never there. In the reports you are referred to as ‘Source Able.’ The letter, a copy of which remains in the files, states that your dossier is unblemished.”

“What about those who heard my name used over the radios?”

“Indictable under the Official Secrets Act should they reveal it. Not that it makes much difference; they heard only the name ‘Tennyson.’ There must be a dozen Tennysons under deep cover in British Intelligence, tiny one of which can be mocked up in the event it’s necessary.”

“Then I’d say our business is concluded.”

“I imagine so,” agreed Payton-Jones. “What will you do now?”

“Do? My job, of course. I’m a newspaperman. I might request a short leave of absence, however. My older sister’s effects, sadly, must be taken care of, and then I’d like a brief holiday. Switzerland, perhaps. I like to ski.”

“It’s the season for it.”

“Yes.” Tennyson paused. “I hope it won’t be necessary to have me followed any longer.”

“Of course not. Only if you request it.”

“Request it?”

“For protection.” Payton-Jones gave Tennyson a photocopy of a note. “The Tinamou was professional to the end; he tried to get rid of this, tried to swallow it. And you were right. It’s the Nachrichtendienst.”

Tennyson picked up the copy. The words were blurred but legible.

NACHRICHT
. 1360.78
K
.
AU
23°.22°.

“What does it mean?” he asked.

“Actually, it’s rather simple,” replied the agent “The Nachncht is obviously the Nachrichtendienst. The figure ‘1360.78
K
’ is the metric equivalent of three thousand pounds, or one and a half tons. ‘Au’ is the chemical symbol for gold. The ‘23°.22°’ we believe are the map coordinates of Johannesburg. The Tinamou was being paid out of Johannesburg in gold for his work yesterday. Something in the neighborhood of three million, six hundred thousand pounds sterling, or more than seven million American dollars.”

“It’s frightening to think the Nachrichtendienst has that kind of money.”

“More frightening when one considers how it was being used.”

“You’re not going to release the information? Or the note?”

“We’d rather not. However, we realize we have no right to prevent you—especially you—from revealing it. In your
Guardian
story, you alluded to an unknown group of men who might have been responsible for the assassination attempt.”

“I speculated on the possibility,” corrected Tennyson, “insofar as it was the Tinamou’s pattern. He was a hired
assassin, not an avenger. Did you learn anything about the man himself?”

“Virtually nothing. The only identification on him, unfortunately, was an excellent forgery of an MI-Five authorization card. His fingerprints aren’t in any files anywhere—from Washington to Moscow. His suit was off a rack; we doubt it’s English. There were no laundry marks on his underclothing, and even his raincoat, which we traced to a shop in Old Bond Street, was paid for in cash.”

“But he traveled continuously. He must have had papers.”

“We don’t know where to look. We don’t even know his nationality. The laboratories have worked around the clock for something to go on: dental work, evidence of surgery, physical marks that a computer might pick up somewhere.
Anything
. So far, nothing.”

“Then maybe he wasn’t the Tinamou. The only evidence is the tattoo on the back of his hand and a similar caliber of weapons. Will it be enough?”

“It is now; you can add it to your story tomorrow. The ballistics tests are irrefutable. Two of the concealed rifles that were removed, plus the one on his person, match three guns used in previous assassinations.”

Tennyson nodded. “There’s a certain comfort in that, isn’t there?”

“There certainly is.” Payton-Jones gestured at the copy of the note. “What’s your answer?”

“About what? The note?”

“The Nachrichtendienst. You brought it to us, and now it’s confirmed. It’s an extraordinary story. You unearthed it; you have every right to print it.”

“But you don’t want me to.”

“We can’t stop you.”

“On the other hand,” said the blond man, “there’s nothing to prevent you from including my name in your reports, and that’s one thing
I
don’t want.”

The MI-Five man cleared his throat. “Well, actually, there is something. I gave you my word, Mr. Tennyson. I’d like to think it’s good.”

“I’m sure it is, but I’m equally sure your giving it could be reappraised should the situation warrant it. If not by you, then by someone else.”

“I see no likelihood of that. You’ve dealt only with me; that was our understanding.”

“So ‘Source Able’ is anonymous. He has no identity.”

“Right. Nor is it unusual at the levels in which I negotiate. I’ve spent my life in the service. My word’s not questioned when it’s given.”

“I see.” Tennyson stood. “Why don’t you want the Nachrichtendienst identified?”

“I want time. A month or two. Time to get closer without alarming it.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to?” Tennyson pointed to one of the envelopes on the table. “Will those names help?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve just begun. There are only eight men listed; we’re not even certain they’re all alive. There’s been no time to check them out.”

“
Someone’s
alive. Someone very wealthy and powerful.”

“Obviously.”

“So the compulsion to catch the Tinamou is replaced by an obsession with the Nachrichtendienst.”

“A logical transfer, I’d say,” agreed Payton-Jones. “And I should add, there’s another reason—quite professional, but also part personal. I’m convinced the Nachrichtendienst killed a young man I trained.”

“Who was he?”

“My assistant. As committed as any man I’ve ever met in service. His body was found in a small village called Montereau some sixty miles south of Paris. He went to France initially to track Holcroft, but found that Holcroft was a dead end.”

“What do you think happened?”

“I
know
what happened. Remember, he was after the Tinamou. When Holcroft proved to be only what he said he was—a man looking for you because of a minor inheritance—”

“Very minor,” interrupted Tennyson.

“…  our young man went underground. He was a first-rate professional; he made progress. More than that, he made a connection. He
had
to have made a connection. The Tinamou, the Nachrichtendienst … Paris. Everything fits.”

“Why does it fit?”

“There’s a name on that list. A man living near Paris—we don’t know where—who was a general in the German High Command. Klaus Falkenheim. But he was more than that. We believe he was a prime mover of the Nachrichtendienst, one of the original members. He’s known as Herr Oberst.”

John Tennyson stood rigidly by the chair. “You have my word,” he said. “I’ll print nothing.”

Holcroft sat forward on the couch, the newspaper in his hand. The headline reached from border to border. It said it all.

ASSASSIN TRAPPED, KILLED IN LONDON

Nearly every article on the page was related to the dramatic capture and subsequent death of the Tinamou. There were stories reaching back fifteen years, linking the Tinamou to both Kennedys and to Martin Luther King, as well as to Oswald and Ruby; more recent speculations touched on killings in Madrid and Beirut, Paris and Lisbon, Prague and even Moscow itself.