The Holcroft Covenant (57 page)

“
You
will send it. A while ago, I mentioned a Dr. Litvak at the clinic. He keeps my medical records for any who may be curious. He’s one of us; he has long-range-radio equipment and checks with me every day. It’s too dangerous to have a telephone here. Go to him tonight. He knows the codes and will reach Har Sha’alav. A team must be sent to Geneva; you must tell them what to do. Johann, Kessler, even Noel Holcroft, if he’s beyond pulling out, must be killed. Those funds must not be dispersed.”

“I’ll convince Noel.”

“For your sake, I hope you can. It may not be as simple as you think. He’s been manipulated brilliantly. He believes deeply, even to the point of vindicating a father he never knew.”

“How did you learn?”

“From his mother. For years we believed she was part of Clausen’s plan, and for years we waited. Then we confronted her and learned she was never part of it. She was the bridge to—as well as the source of—the perfect conduit. Who else but a Noel Clausen-Holcroft, whose origins had been obliterated from every record but his own mind, would accept the conditions of secrecy demanded by the Geneva document? A normal man would have asked for legal and financial advice. But Holcroft, believing in his covenant, kept everything to himself.”

“But he had to be
convinced
,” said Helden. “He’s a strong man, a very moral man. How could they do it?”

“How is anyone convinced his cause is just?” asked the old man rhetorically. “By seeing that there are those who desperately wish to stop him. We’ve read the reports out of Rio. Holcroft’s experience with Maurice Graff, the charges he registered with the embassy. It was all a charade; no one tried to kill him in Rio, but Graff wanted him to think so.”

“He’s O
DESSA.
”

“Never. He’s one of the leaders of the false Wolfsschanze… the only Wolfsschanze now. I should say he was; he’s dead.”

“What?”

“Shot yesterday by a man who left a note claiming vengeance from Portuguese Jews. Your brother’s work, of course. Graff was too old, too cantankerous. He’d served his purpose.”

Helden placed the glass of brandy on the floor. The question had to be asked. “Herr Gerhardt, why haven’t you ever exposed Geneva for what it was?”

The old man returned her inquisitive stare. “Because exposing Geneva would be only half the story. As soon as we did, we’d be killed; but that’s inconsequential. It’s the rest.”

“The rest?”

“The second half. Who are the
Sonnenkinder?
What are their names? Where are they? A master list was made thirty years ago; your brother must have it. It’s huge—hundreds of pages—and has to be hidden somewhere. Von Tiebolt would die in fire before revealing its whereabouts. But there
has
to be another list! A short one—a few pages, perhaps. It’s either on his person or near
him. The identities of all those receiving funds. These will be the trusted manipulators of Wolfsschanze. This is the list that can and must be found. You must tell the soldiers of Har Sha’alav to find it. Stop the money and find the list. It’s our only hope.”

“I’ll tell them,” said Helden. “They’ll find it.” She looked away, lost in another thought. “Wolfsschanze. Even the letter written to Noel Holcroft more than thirty years ago—pleading with him, threatening him—was part of it.”

“They appealed and threatened in the name of eagles, but their commitment was to animals.”

“He couldn’t know that.”

“No, he couldn’t. The name ‘Wolfsschanze’ is awesome, a symbol of bravery. That was the only Wolfsschanze Holcroft could relate to. He had no knowledge of the other Wolfsschanze, the filth. No one did. Save one.”

“Herr Oberst?”

“Falkenheim, yes.”

“How did he escape?”

“By the most basic of coincidences. A confusion of identities.” Gerhardt walked to the fireplace and prodded the logs with a poker. “Among the giants of Wolfsschanze was the commander of the Belgian sector, Alexander von Falkenhausen. Falken
hausen
, Falken
heim
. Klaus Falkenheim had left East Prussia for a meeting in Berlin. When the assassination attempt failed, Falkenhausen somehow managed to reach Falkenheim by radio to tell him of the disaster. He begged Klaus to stay away. He would be the ‘falcon’ who was caught. The other ‘falcon’ was loyal to Hitler; he would make that clear. Klaus objected, but understood. He had work to do. Someone had to survive.”

“Where is Noel’s mother?” Helden asked. “What has she learned?”

“She knows everything now. Let’s hope she hasn’t panicked. We lost her in Mexico; we think she’s trying to reach her son in Geneva. She’ll fail. The instant she’s spotted, she’s a dead woman.”

“We’ve got to find her.”

“Not at the expense of the other priorities,” said the old man. “Remember, there is only one Wolfsschanze now. Crippling it is all that matters.” Gerhardt put the poker down. “You’ll see Dr. Litvak tonight. His house is near the clinic, above it, on a hill two kilometers north. The
hill is quite steep; the radio functions well there, I’ll give you—”

A sharp humming sound filled the room. It echoed off the walls so loudly that Helden felt the vibrations going through her and jumped to her feet. Gerhardt turned from the fireplace and stared up at a narrow window high in the left wall. He seemed to be studying the panes of glass that were too far above him to see through.

“There’s a night mirror that picks up images in the black light,” he said, watching intently. “It’s a man. I recognize him, but I don’t know him.” He walked to the desk, took out a small pistol, and handed it to Helden.

“What should I do?” she asked.

“Hide it under your skirt.”

“You don’t know who it is?” Helden lifted her skirt and sat down in a chair facing the door, the weapon hidden.

“No. He arrived yesterday; I saw him in the square. He may be one of us; he may not I don’t know.”

Helden could hear footsteps outside the door. They stopped; there was a moment of silence, then rapid knocking.

“Herr Gerhardt?”

The old man answered, his voice now high pitched and in the singsong cadence he had used in the square. “Good heavens, who is it? It’s very late; I’m in the middle of my prayers.”

“I bring you news from Har Sha’alav.”

The old man exhaled in relief, and nodded to Helden. “He’s one of us,” he said, unlatching the bolt “No one but us knows about Har Sha’alav.”

The door opened. For the briefest instant Helden froze, then spun out of the chair and lunged for the floor. The figure in the doorway held a large-barreled gun in his hand; its explosion was thunderous. Gerhardt arched backward, blown off his feet, his body a contorted bloody mass, suspended in the air before it fell into the desk.

Helden lurched behind the leather armchair, reaching for the pistol under her skirt.

There was another gunshot as thunderous as the first. The leather back of the chair exploded out of its shell.
Another
, and she felt an icelike pain in her leg. Blood spread over her stocking.

She raised the pistol and squeezed the trigger repeatedly, aiming—and not aiming—at the huge figure in shadows by the door.

She heard the man scream. In panic, she crashed into the wall, a cornered insect, trapped, about to lose its insignificant life. Tears streamed down her face as she aimed again and pulled the trigger until the firing stopped, replaced by the sickening clicks of the empty gun. She screamed in terror; there were no bullets left She hoped to God her death would come quickly.

She heard her screams—she
heard
them—as if she were floating in the sky, looking below at chaos and smoke.

There
was
smoke. Everywhere. It filled the room, the acrid fumes stinging her eyes, blinding her. She did not understand; nothing happened.

Then she heard faint, whispered words.

“My child.…”

It was Gerhardt! Sobbing, she pressed her hand against the wall and pushed herself away. Dragging her bloodied leg, she crawled toward the source of the whisper.

The smoke was beginning to clear. She could see the figure of the killer. He was lying on his back, small red circles in his throat and forehead. He was dead.

Gerhardt was dying. She crept to him and put her face on his face, her tears falling on his flesh.

“My child… get to Litvak. Cable Har Sha’alav. Stay away from Geneva.”

“Stay
away?
…”

“You, child. They know you came to me. Wolfsschanze has seen you.… You’re all that’s left. Nachricht—”

“What?”

“You are … Nachrichtendienst.”

Gerhardt’s head slipped away from her face. He was gone.

The red-bearded pilot walked rapidly down the rue des Granges toward the parked car. Inside, Althene saw him approaching. She was alarmed. Why hadn’t the pilot brought her son with him? And why was he hurrying so?

The pilot climbed in behind the wheel, pausing for a moment to catch his breath.

“There’s great confusion at the d’Accord, madame. A killing.”

Althene gasped. “
Noel?
Is it my
son?
”

“No. An Englishman.”

“Who was it?”

“A man named Ellis. A William Ellis.”

“Dear God!” Althene gripped her purse. “Noel had a friend in London named Ellis. He talked about him frequently. I’ve got to reach my son!”

“Not in there, madame. Not if there’s a connection between your son and the Englishman. The police are everywhere, and there’s an alert out for you.”

“Get to a telephone.”

“I’ll make the call. It may be the last thing I do for you, madame. I have no wish to be associated with killing; that’s not part of any agreement between us.”

They drove for nearly fifteen minutes before the pilot was satisfied no one had followed them.

“Why should anyone follow us?” Althene asked. “Nobody saw me; you didn’t mention my name. Or Noel’s.”

“Not you, madame. Me. I don’t make it a point to fraternize with the Geneva police. I have run into a few now and then, off and on. We don’t get along very well.”

They entered the lakefront district, the pilot scanning the streets for an out-of-the-way telephone. He found one, swerved the car to the curb, and dashed outside to the booth. Althene watched him make the call.
Then he returned, got behind the wheel more slowly than he had left it, and sat for a moment, scowling.

“For heaven’s sake, what happened?”

“I don’t like it,” he said. “They expected a call from you.”

“Of course. My son arranged it.”

“But it was not you on the phone. It was me.”

“What difference does it make? I had someone call for me. What did they say?”

“Not they. He. And what he said was far too specific. In this city, one is not that free with information. Specifics are exchanged when ears recognize voices, or when certain words are used that mean the caller has a right to know.”

“What
was
the information,” asked Althene, irritated.

“A rendezvous. As soon as possible. Ten kilometers north, on the road to Vésenaz. It’s on the east side of the lake. He said your son would be there.”

“Then we’ll go.”

“ ‘We,’ madame?”

“I’d like to negotiate further with you.”

She offered him five hundred American dollars. “You’re crazy,” he said.

“We have an agreement, then?”

“On the condition that until you and your son are together, you do exactly as I say,” he replied. “I don’t accept such money for failure. However, if he’s not there, that’s no concern of mine. I get paid.”

“You’ll be paid. Let’s go.”

“Very well.” The pilot started the car.

“Why are you suspicious? It all seems quite logical to me,” said Althene.

“I told you. This city has its own code of behavior. In Geneva, the telephone is the courier. A second number should have been given, so that you yourself could talk with your son. When I suggested it, I was told there wasn’t time.”

“All quite possible.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t like it. The switchboard said they were connecting me to the front desk, but the man I talked with was no clerk.”

“How do you know that?”

“Desk clerks can be arrogant and often are, but
they aren’t demanding. The man I spoke with was. And he wasn’t from Geneva. He had an accent I couldn’t place. You’ll do exactly as I say, madame.”

Von Tiebolt replaced the phone and smiled in satisfaction. “We have her,” he said simply, walking to the couch where Hans Kessler lay holding an ice pack to his right cheek, his face bruised where it had not been stitched by the first deputy’s personal physician.

“I’ll go with you,” said Hans, his voice strained in anger and pain.

“I don’t think so,” interjected his brother from a nearby armchair.

“You can’t be seen,” added Von Tiebolt. “We’ll tell Holcroft you were delayed.”

“No!” roared the doctor, slamming his fist on the coffee table. “Tell Holcroft anything you like, but I’m going with you tonight. That bitch is responsible for this!”

“I’d say
you
were,” said Von Tiebolt “There was a job to do and you wanted to do it. You were most anxious. You always are in such matters; you’re a very physical man.”

“He wouldn’t die! That faggot wouldn’t
die!
” Hans yelled. “He had the strength of five lions. Look at my stomach!” He ripped the shirt below his face, revealing a curving pattern of crisscrossed black threads. “He tore it with his hands! With his
hands!
”

Erich Kessler turned his eyes from his brother’s wound. “You were lucky to get away without being seen. And now we must get you out of this hotel. The police are questioning everyone.”

“They won’t come here,” countered Hans angrily. “Our deputy’s taken care of that.”

“Nevertheless, one curious policeman walking through the door could lead to complications,” Von Tiebolt said, looking at Erich. “Hans must go. Dark glasses, a muffler, his hat. The deputy’s in the lobby.” The blond man shifted his gaze to the wounded brother. “If you can move, you’ll have your chance at the Holcroft woman. That may make you feel better.”

“I can move,” said Hans, his face contorted in pain.