The Holcroft Covenant (59 page)

Walther Litvak stayed in Neuchâtel.

“Come inside, quickly,” he said to Helden. “Let me help you, I have an office here.”

He removed her coat and half carried her into a room with an examination table.

“I was shot.” It was all Helden could think of to say.

Litvak placed her on the table and removed her skirt and half slip. “Don’t waste your strength trying to talk.” He scissored the bandage and studied the wound, then took a hypodermic needle from a sterilizer. “I’m going to let you sleep for a few minutes.”

“You
can’t
. There isn’t time! I have to tell you.…”

“I said a few minutes,” interrupted the doctor, inserting the needle into Helden’s arm.

She opened her eyes, the shapes around her out of focus, a numb sensation in her leg. As her vision cleared, she saw the doctor across the room. She tried to sit up; Litvak heard her and turned.

“These are antibiotics,” he said. He was holding a bottle of pills. “Every two hours for a day, then every four. What happened? Tell me quickly. I’ll go down to the cottage and take care of things.”

“The cottage? You knew?”

“While you were under, you talked; people generally do after trauma. You repeated ‘Nachrichtendienst’ several times. Then ‘Johann.’ I assume that’s Von Tiebolt, and you’re his sister—the one who’s been with Falkenheim. It’s happening, isn’t it? The inheritors are closing ranks in Geneva.”

“Yes.”

“I thought as much this morning. The news bulletins from the Negev are horrible, They found out, God knows how.”

“What bulletins?”

“Har Sha’alav.” The doctor gripped the bottle; veins swelled on his forearm. “A raid. Houses bombed, people massacred, fields burnt to the ground. The death count isn’t complete yet, but the estimates exceed one hundred and seventy. Men mostly, but women and children too.”

Helden closed her eyes; there were no words. Litvak went on.

“To a man, the elders were killed, butchered in the gardens. They say it was the work of terrorists, of the Rache. But that’s not true. It’s Wolfsschanze. Rache fighters would never attack Har Sha’alav; they know what would happen. Jews from every kibbutz, every commando unit, would go after them.”

“Gerhardt said you were supposed to cable Har Sha’alav,” whispered Helden.

Lirvak’s eyes clouded. “There’s nothing to cable now, There’s no one left Now, tell me what happened down at the lake.”

She
did
. When she had finished, the doctor helped her off the table and carried her into the large Alpine living room. He lowered her to the couch and summarized.

“Geneva’s the battleground, and there’s not an hour to be lost. Even if Har Sha’alav could be reached, it would be useless. But there is a man from Har Sha’alav in London; he’s been ordered to stay there. He followed Holcroft to Portsmouth. He was the one who took the photograph from Holcroft’s pocket.”

“It was a picture of Beaumont,” said Helden. “O
DESSA
.”

“Wolfsschanze,” corrected Litvak. “A
Sonnenkind
. One of thousands, but also one of the few to work with VonTiebolt.”

Helden raised herself, frowning. “The records. Beaumont’s
records
. They didn’t make sense.”

“What records?”

She told the angry doctor about the obscure and contradictory information found in Beaumont’s naval records. And of the similar dossier belonging to Beaumont’s second-in-command, Ian Llewellen.

Litvak wrote down the name on a note pad. “How convenient. Two men of Wolfsschanze commanding an electronic-espionage vessel. How many more are there like them? In how many places?”

“Llewellen was quoted in the papers the other day. When Beaumont and Gretchen—” She could not finish.

“Don’t dwell on it,” said the doctor. “The
Sonnenkinder
have their own rules. Llewellen is a name to add to the list that must be found in Geneva. Gerhardt was
right: Above all, that list must be found. It’s as vital as stopping the money. In some ways, more vital.”

“Why?”

“The funds are a means to the Fourth Reich, but the people
are
that Reich; they’ll be there whether or not the funds are dispersed. We’ve got to find out who they are.”

Helden leaned back. “My … Johann von Tlebolt can be killed. So, too, can Kessler and … if it’s necessary … even Noel. The money can be stopped. But how can we be sure the list will be found?”

“The man from Har Sha’alav in London will have ideas. He has many talents.” Litvak glanced briefly away. “You should know, because you’ll have to work with him. He’s called a killer and a terrorist. He doesn’t consider himself either, but the laws he’s broken and the crimes he’s committed would tend to dispute that judgment.” The doctor glanced at his watch. “It’s three minutes of nine; he lives less than a mile from Heathrow. If I can contact him, he can be in Geneva by midnight Do you know where Holcroft is staying?”

“Yes. At the d’Accord. You understand, he knows nothing. He believes deeply in what he’s doing. He thinks it’s right.”

“I understand. Unfortunately, that may be irrelevant in terms of his life. The first thing, however, is to reach him.”

“I said I’d call him tonight.”

“Good. Let me help you to the telephone. Be careful what you say. He’ll be watched; his line will be tapped.” Litvak helped her to the table where the phone was.

“Hôtel d’Accord.
Bonsoir
,” said the operator.

“Good evening. Mr. Noel Holcroft, please?”

“Monsieur Holcroft?…” The operator hesitated. “Just one minute, madame.”

There was a silence, a click, and a man spoke. “Mrs. Holcroft?”

“What?”

“This is Mrs. Holcroft, is it not?”

Helden was surprised. Something was wrong; the switchboard had not even tried to ring Noel’s room. “You were expecting me, then?” she asked.

“But of course, madame,” replied the desk clerk
with confidentiality. “Your son was most generous. He said to tell you it’s imperative you remain out of sight, but you are to leave a telephone number where he can reach you.”

“I see. Just one minute, please.” Helden cupped the phone and turned to Litvak. “They think I’m Mrs. Holcroft. He’s paid them to take a number where he can reach her.”

The doctor nodded and walked quickly to a desk. “Keep talking. Say you want to make sure this number will not be given to anyone else. Offer money. Anything to stall them.” Litvak took out a worn address book.

“Before I give you a number, I’d like to be certain …” Helden paused; the desk clerk swore on his mother’s grave he would give the number only to Holcroft. The doctor rushed back to the table, a number written on a slip of paper. Helden repeated it to the desk clerk and hung up. “Where is this?” she asked Litvak.

“It reaches an empty apartment on the rue de la Paix, but the apartment is not at the address listed with the telephone exchange. Here it is.” Litvak wrote the address beneath the number. “Memorize them both.”

“I will.”

“Now, I’ll try our man in London,” said the doctor, heading for the staircase. “I have radio equipment here. It links me with a routine-mobile-telephone service.” He stopped on the bottom step. “I’ll get you to Geneva. You won’t be able to move around much, but the wound isn’t deep; your stitches will hold under the pressure of the bandage, and you’ll have the chance to reach Holcroft. I hope you do, and I hope you’re successful Noel Holcroft must walk away from Von Tiebolt and Kessler. If he fights you, if he even hesitates, he must be killed.”

“I know.”

“Knowing it may not be enough. I’m afraid the decision will not be yours to make.”

“Whose, then? Yours?”

“I can’t leave Neuchâtel. It will be up to the man in London.”

“The terrorist? The killer who has only to hear the word ‘Nazi’ and he fires a gun?”

“He’ll be objective,” said Litvak, continuing up the staircase. “He won’t have other pressures on him. You’ll meet him at the apartment.”

“How will I get to Geneva? I—” Helden stopped.

“What?”

“I asked how I would get to Geneva. Are there trains?”

“There’s no time for trains. You’ll fly.”

“Fine. It will be quicker.”

“Much quicker.”

And far better, thought Helden. For the one thing she had not relayed to the doctor was Werner Gerhardt’s final warning. To her.

My child. Stay away from Geneva.… Wolfsschanze has seen you
.

“Who will take me?”

“There are pilots who fly the lakes at night,” said Litvak.

Althene was irritated, but she had agreed to the condition. The pilot had asked her a single question.

“Do you know by sight the people who are looking for you?”

She had replied that she did not.

“You may before the night is over.”

Which was why she was standing now beside a tree in the dark woods above the road in sight of the car. It was a sloping forest of pine that rose above the lakeside highway. She had been guided to her watch post by the pilot.

“If your son is there, I’ll send him to you,” he had said.

“Of course he’ll be there. Why wouldn’t he?”

“We’ll see.”

For a moment his doubts had disturbed her. “If he’s not, what then?”

“Then you’ll know who it is who’s looking for you.” He had started back toward the road.

“What about you?” she had called after him. “If my son isn’t there?”

“Me?” The pilot had laughed. “I’ve been through many such negotiations. If your son isn’t there, it will mean they are desperate to find you, won’t it? Without me, they can’t have you.”

She waited now by the tree, no more than forty yards away, the line of sight reasonably clear considering the profusion of limbs and branches. The car was off the
side of the road, pointing north, its parking lights on. The pilot had told the man at the d’Accord to be there in one hour, not before, and to approach from the south, blinking his lights repeatedly within a quarter of a mile of the rendezvous.

“Can you hear me, madame?” The pilot stood by the car and spoke in a normal tone of voice.

“Yes.”

“Good. They’re coming. Lights are flashing on and off down the road. Stay where you are; watch and listen, but don’t show yourself. If your son steps out, say nothing until I send him to you.” The pilot paused. “If they force me to go with them, get to the landing on the west side of the lake, where we flew in. It’s called Atterrisage Médoc. I’ll reach you there.… I don’t like this.”

“Why? What is it?”

“There are two men in the car. The one next to the driver holds up a weapon; he checks it, perhaps.”

“How would I get there?” asked Althene.

“There’s a second set of keys in a small magnet box under the hood.” The bearded man raised one hand to his mouth, speaking loudly above the roar of the approaching automobile. “On the right side. Be still!”

A long black car came to a stop ten yards in front of the pilot. A man on the passenger side got out, but it was not her son. He was stocky, wearing an overcoat with the lapels pulled up, a heavy muffler around his throat Large-framed dark glasses covered his eyes, giving him the appearance of a huge insect. He limped as he walked into the spill of the headlights.

The driver remained behind the wheel. Althene stared at him, hoping to recognize Noel. It was not he; she could not see the man’s face clearly, but the hair was blond.

“Mrs. Holcroft is in the car, I presume,” said the man with the dark glasses to the pilot. The language was English but the accent unmistakably German.

“Her son is in yours, then?” replied the pilot.

“Please ask Mrs. Holcroft to step out.”

“Please ask her son to do the same.”

“Don’t be difficult. We have a schedule to keep.”

“So do we. There’s only one other person in your automobile, monsieur. He doesn’t fit the description of her son.”

“We’ll take Mrs. Holcroft to him.”

“We’ll take
him
to Mrs. Holcroft.”

“Stop it!”

“Stop what, monsieur? I am paid, as I’m sure you are paid. We both do our jobs, do we not?”

“I’ve no time for you!” the German shouted, limping past the pilot, toward the car.

The pilot nodded. “May I suggest you find the time. For you won’t find Mrs. Holcroft.”

“Du Sauhund! Wo ist die Frau?”

“May I further suggest, monsieur, that you don’t call me names. I come from Châlons-sur-Marne. Twice you won there, and I was brought up with a certain distaste for your name-calling.”

“Where is the
woman?
”

“Where is the son?”

The German took his right hand from his overcoat pocket. He was holding a gun. “You’re not paid so much that it’s worth your life. Where is she?”

“And you, monsieur? Perhaps you’re paid too much to shoot me and not find out.”

The gunshot was deafening. Dirt exploded at the pilot’s feet. Althene gripped the tree in shock.

“Now, Frenchman, perhaps
you
see that payment is not so important to me as the woman. Where is she?”

“Les Boches!”
said the pilot in disgust. “Give you a gun and you go mad. You never change. If you want the woman, you’ll produce the son and I will take him to her.”

“You’ll tell me where she is now!” The German raised his gun, leveling it at the pilot’s head.
“Now!”

Althene could see the car door open. A gunshot exploded, then another. The pilot lunged to the dirt. The German screamed, his eyes bulging. “Johann?
Johann!
”

There was a third explosion. The German collapsed on the road; the pilot scrambled to his feet.

“He was going to
kill
you,” yelled the driver, his voice incredulous. “We knew he was sick, but not insane. What can I say?”

“He would have killed me?…” The pilot asked the question no less incredulously. “It doesn’t make sense!”

“Of course it didn’t,” said the blond man. “Your
request
made sense. First, help me pull him into the woods and remove his identification. Then come with me.”

“Who are you?”

“A friend of Holcroft’s.”

“I’d like to believe that.”

“You will.”

It was all Althene could do to hold her place. Her legs were weak, her throat was dry, and the ache in her eyes caused her to shut them repeatedly.