“I’ll pass along your message, butterfly,” said the aide.
“You’ll do no such thing! I have other news I’ll tell only to him.”
“What does it concern? I don’t have to tell you he’s a busy man.”
“Shall we say a countryman of mine? Do I make myself clear?”
“We know he’s in Rio; he’s already made contact. You’ll have to do better than that.”
“He’s still here. In the store. He may be waiting to talk to me.”
The aide spoke to someone nearby. The words, however, were distinct. “It’s the actor, mein Herr. He insists on speaking to you. Everything went as scheduled during the past hour, but there seems to be a complication. His countryman is in the bookshop.”
The phone passed hands. “What is it?” asked Maurice Graff.
“I wanted you to know that everything went exactly as we anticipated.…”
“Yes, yes, I understand that,” interrupted Graff. “You do excellent work. Now, what’s this about the Engländer? He’s there?”
“He followed the American. He was no more than ten feet from him. He’s still here, and I expect he’ll want me to tell him what’s happening. Should I?”
“No,” replied Graff. “We are perfectly capable of running things here without interference. Say to him that we’re concerned he’ll be recognized; that we suggest he remain out of sight. Tell him I do not approve of his methods. You may say you heard it from me personally.”
“Thank you, Herr Graff! It will be a pleasure.”
“Yes, I know it will.”
* * *
Graff handed the telephone back to his aide. “The Tinamou must not let this happen,” he said. “It starts again.”
“What, mein Herr?”
“All over again,” continued the old man. “The interference, the silent observations, one upon the other. Authority becomes divided, everyone’s suspect.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t. You weren’t there.” Graff leaned back in his chair. “Send a second cable to the Tinamou. Tell him that we request he order his wolf back to the Mediterranean. He’s taking too many risks. We object, and cannot be responsible under the circumstances.”
It took several phone calls and the passage of twenty-four hours, but word that Graff would see him finally came, shortly past two o’clock the next afternoon. Holcroft leased a car at the hotel and drove northwest out of the city. He stopped frequently, studying the tourist map provided by the rental agency. He finally found the address, and swung through the iron gates into the ascending drive that led to the house at the top of the hill.
The road leveled off into a large parking area of white concrete, bordered by green shrubbery that was broken up by flagstone paths leading through groves of fruit trees on either side.
The clerk at the bookstore had been right. The Graff estate was spectacular. The view was magnificent: plains nearby, mountains in the distance, and far to the east the hazy blue of the Atlantic. The house itself was three stories high. A series of balconies rose on both sides of the central entrance: a set of massive double doors—oiled mahogany, hinged with large, pitted triangles of black iron. The effect was Alpine, as if a geometric design of many Swiss chalets were welded into one and set down on a tropical mountain.
Noel parked the car to the right of the front steps and got out. There were two other automobiles in the parking area—a white Mercedes limousine and a low-slung, red Maserati. The Graff family traveled well. Holcroft gripped his attaché case and camera and started up the marble steps.
* * *
“I’m flattered our minor architectural efforts are appreciated,” said Graff. “It’s natural, I suppose, for transplanted people to create a touch of their homeland in new surroundings. My family came from the Schwarzwald.… The memories are never far away.”
“I appreciate your having me out here, sir.” Noel put the five hastily drawn sketches back into his attaché case and closed it. “I speak for my client as well, of course.”
“You have everything you need?”
“A roll of film and five elevation sketches are more than I had hoped for. Incidentally, the gentleman who showed me around will tell you the photographs were limited to the exterior structural detail.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“I wouldn’t want you to think I was taking pictures of your private grounds.”
Maurice Graff laughed softly. “My residence is very well protected, Mr. Holcroft. Besides, it never crossed my mind that you were examining the premises for purposes of theft. Sit down, please.”
“Thank you.” Noel sat opposite the old man. “These days some people might be suspicious.”
“Well, I won’t mislead you. I did call the Pôrto Alegre Hotel to see if you were registered. You were. You are a man named Holcroft from New York whose reservation was made by a reputable travel agency that obviously knows you, and you use credit cards cleared by computers. You entered Brazil with a valid passport. What more did I need? The times are technically too complicated for a man to pretend to be someone he’s not, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes, I guess I would,” replied Noel, thinking that it was the moment perhaps to shift to the real purpose of his visit. He was about to speak, but Graff continued, as if filling an awkward silence.
“How long will you be in Rio?” he asked.
“Only a few more days. I have the name of your architect, and naturally I’ll consult with him when he’s free to see me.”
“I’ll have my secretary telephone; there’ll be no delay. I have no idea how such financial arrangements are made—or, indeed, if there are any—but I’m quite sure he’d let you have copies of the plans if they would be helpful to you.”
Noel smiled, the professional in him aroused. “It’s a question of selective adaptation, Mr. Graff. My calling him would be as much a matter of courtesy as anything else. I might ask where certain materials were purchased, or how specific stress problems were solved, but that’d be it. I wouldn’t ask for the plans, and I think he’d be reluctant to say yes if I did.”
“There would be no reluctance,” said Graff, his bearing and intensity a reflection of a military past.
… If he wasn’t a general, or a muckedy-muck in the High Command, I’ll piss port wine.…
“It’s not important, sir. I’ve got what I came for.”
“I see.” Graff shifted his heavy frame in the chair. It was the movement of a weary old man toward the end of a long afternoon. Yet the eyes were not weary; they were strangely alert. “An hour’s conference would be sufficient, then?”
“Easily.”
“I’ll arrange it.”
“You’re very kind.”
“Then you can return to New York.”
“Yes.” It was the moment to mention the Von Tiebolts. Now. “Actually, there’s one other thing I should do while I’m here in Rio. It’s not terribly important, but I said I’d try. I’m not sure where to begin. The police, I imagine.”
“That sounds ominous. A crime?”
“Quite the contrary. I meant whichever department of the police it is that could help locate some people. They’re not in the telephone directory. I even checked unlisted numbers; they don’t have one.”
“Are you sure they’re in Rio?”
“They were when last heard from. And I gather the other cities in Brazil were checked out, again through the telephone companies.”
“You intrigue me, Mr. Holcroft. Is it so important these people be found? What did they do? But then you said there was no crime.”
“None. I know very little. A friend of mine in New York, an attorney, knew I was coming here and asked me to do what I could to locate this family. Apparently it was left some money by relatives in the Midwest.”
“An inheritance?”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps legal counsel here in Rio …”
“My friend sent what
he termed ‘inquiries of record’ to several law firms down here,” said Noel, remembering the words of the attaché in New York. “There weren’t any satisfactory responses.”
“How did he explain that?”
“He didn’t. He was just annoyed. I guess the money wasn’t enough for three attorneys to get involved.”
“Three attorneys?”
“Yes,” replied Noel, astonished at himself. He was filling a gap instinctively, without thinking. “There’s the lawyer in Chicago—or St. Louis—my friend’s firm in New York, and the one down here in Rio. I don’t imagine what’s confidential to an outsider is confidential between attorneys. Perhaps splitting a fee three ways wasn’t worth the trouble.”
“But your friend is a man of conscience.” Graff arched his brows in appreciation. Or something else, Holcroft thought.
“I’d like to think so.”
“Perhaps I can help. I have friends.”
Holcroft shook his head. “I couldn’t ask you. You’ve done enough for me this afternoon. And, as I said, it’s not that important.”
“Naturally,” said Graff, shrugging. “I wouldn’t care to intrude in confidential matters.” The German looked over at the windows, squinting. The sun was settling above the western mountains; shafts of orange light streamed through the glass, adding a rich hue to the dark wood of the study.
“The name of the family is Von Tiebolt,” said Noel, watching the old man’s face. But whatever he expected to find, nothing could have prepared him for what he saw.
Old Graff’s eyes snapped open, their glance shooting over at Holcroft, filled with loathing. “You are a pig,” said the German, his voice so low it could barely be heard, “This was a trick, a devious ruse to come into my house! To come to me!”
“You’re wrong, Mr. Graff. You can call my client in New York.…”
“Pig!…” the old man screamed. “The Von Tiebolts! Verräter! Below filth! Cowards! Schweinhunde! How dare you!”
Noel watched, mesmerized and helpless. Graff’s face was discolored with rage; the veins in his neck were at the surface of his flesh, his eyes red and furious, his hands trembling, gripping the arms of the chair.
“I don’t understand,” said Holcroft, getting to his feet.
“You understand … you garbage! You are looking for the Von Tiebolts! You want to give them life again!”
“They’re dead?”
“Would to the Almighty they were!”
“Graff, listen to me. If you know something—”
“Get out of my house!” The old man struggled up from the chair and screamed at the closed door of the study. “Werner! Komm’ her!”
Graff’s aide burst through the door. “Mein Herr? Was ist—”
“Take this impostor away! Get him out of my house!”
The aide looked at Holcroft. “This way. Quickly!”
Noel reached down for his attaché case and walked swiftly toward the door. He stopped and turned to look once more at the enraged Graff. The old German stood like a bloated, grotesque manikin, yet he could not control his trembling.
“Get out! You are contemptible!”
The final, searing accusation shattered Noel’s self-control. It was not he who was contemptible; it was the. figure of arrogance in front of him, this swollen image of indulgence and brutality. This monster who betrayed, then destroyed, a man in agony thirty years ago … and thousands like him. This Nazi.
“You’re in no position to call me names.”
“We’ll see who’s in what position. Get out!”
“I’ll get out, General, or whatever the hell you are. I can’t get out fast enough, because now I understand. You don’t know me from the last corpse you bastards burned, but I mention one name and you can’t stand it. You’re torn apart because you know—and I know—that Von Tiebolt saw through you thirty years ago. When the bodies piled up. He saw what you really were.”
“We did not conceal what we were! The world knew. There was no deception on our part!”
Holcroft stopped and swallowed involuntarily. In his burst of anger, he had to seek justice for the men who had cried out to him from the grave; he had to strike back at this symbol of the once-awesome might and decay that had stolen a father from him. He could not help himself.
* * *
“Get this clear,” said Noel. “I’m going to find the Von Tiebolts, and you’re not going to stop me. Don’t think you can. Don’t think you’ve got me marked. You haven’t. I’ve got you marked. For exactly what you are. You wear your Iron Cross a little too obviously.”
Graff had regained control. “Find the Von Tiebolts, by all means. We’ll be there!”
“I’ll find them. And when I do, if anything happens to them, I’ll know who did it. I’ll brand you for what you are. You sit up here in this castle and bark your orders. You’re still pretending. You were finished years ago—before the war was over—and men like Von Tiebolt knew it. They understood, but you never did. You never will.”
“Get out!”
A guard raced into the room; hands grabbed Noel from behind. An arm plunged over his right shoulder and down across his chest. He was yanked briefly off his feet and pulled backward out of the room. He swung his attaché case and felt the impact on the large, weaving body of the man dragging him through the door. He rammed his left elbow into the stomach of that unseen body and kicked viciously, jabbing his heel into his attacker’s shin bone. The response was immediate; the man yelped; the grip across Noel’s chest was momentarily lessened. It was enough.
Holcroft shot his left hand up, grabbing the cloth of the extended arm, and pulled forward with all his strength. He angled his body to the right; his right shoulder jammed into the chest that rose behind him. His assailant stumbled. Noel rammed a last shoulder block into the elevated chest, throwing his attacker into an antique chair against the wall. Man and delicate wood met in a crushing impact; the frame of the chair collapsed under the weight of the body. The guard was stunned, his wide eyes blinking, his focus temporarily lost.
Holcroft looked down at the man. The guard was large, but his bulk was the most threatening part of him. And the bulk was just that; like old Graff, a mountain of flesh packed under a tight-fitting jacket.
Through the open door Holcroft could see Graff start for the telephone on his desk. The aide he had called Werner took an awkward step toward Noel.
“Don’t,” said Holcroft. He walked across the large hallway toward the front entrance. On the opposite side of the foyer several men and women stood in an open archway. None made a move toward him; none even raised his voice. The German mentality was consistent, thought Noel, not unhappy with the realization. These minions were awaiting orders.
“Do as I’ve instructed,” said Graff into the telephone, his voice calm, with no trace of the fury he had exhibited only minutes ago. He was now the general officer issuing commands to an attentive subordinate. “Wait until he’s halfway down the hill, then throw the gate switch. It’s vital that the American thinks he has escaped.” The old German hung up and turned to his aide. “Is the guard hurt?”
“Merely stunned, mein Herr. He’s walking around, shaking off the effects of the blow.”
“Holcroft is angry,” mused Graff. “He’s filled with himself, exhilarated, consumed with purpose. That’s good. Now he must be frightened, made to tremble at the unexpected, at the sheer brutality of the moment. Tell the guard to wait five minutes and then take up pursuit. He must do his job well.”
“He has his orders; he’s an expert marksman.”
“Good.” The former Wehrmachtsgeneral walked slowly to the window and squinted into the final rays of the sun. “Soft words, lover’s words … and then sharp, hysterical rebukes. The embrace, and the knife. One must follow the other in rapid succession until Holcroft has no judgment left. Until he can no longer distinguish between ally and enemy, knowing only that he must press forward. When finally he breaks, we’ll be there and he’ll be ours.”
<
br /> 9
Noel slammed the huge door behind him and walked down the marble steps to the car. He swung the automobile into reverse, so that his hood faced the downhill drive out of the Graff estate, pressed the accelerator and headed for the exit.
Several things occurred to him. The first was that the afternoon sun had descended behind the western mountains, creating pockets of shadows on the ground. Daylight was disappearing; he needed his headlights. Another concern was that Graff’s reaction to the mention of the Von Tiebolts had to mean two things: The Von Tiebolts were alive, and they were a threat. But a threat to what? To whom? And where were they?
A third was more of a feeling than a specific thought. It was his reaction to the physical encounter he had just experienced. Throughout his life he had taken whatever size and strength he possessed as a matter of course. Because he was large and relatively well coordinated, he never felt the need to seek physical challenge except in competition against himself, in bettering a tennis game or besting a ski slope. As a result, he avoided fights; they struck him as unnecessary.
It was this general attitude that had made him laugh when his stepfather had insisted he join him at the club for a series of lessons in self-defense. The city was turning into a jungle; Holcroft’s son was going to learn how to protect himself.
He took the course, and promptly forgot everything he had learned when it was over. If he had actually absorbed anything, he had done it subconsciously.
He had absorbed something, reflected Noel, pleased with himself. He remembered the glazed look in the eyes of the guard.
The last thought that crossed his mind as he turned into the downhill drive was also vague. Something was wrong with the front seat of the car. The furious activity of the last minutes had blurred his usually acute eye for such things, but something about the checkered cloth of the seat cover bothered him.…
Terrible sounds interrupted his concentration: the barking of dogs. Suddenly, the menacing faces of enormous long-haired black shepherds lunged at the windows on both sides of the car. The dark eyes glistened with hatred and frustration; the fur-lined, saliva-soaked jaws slapped open and shut, emitting the shrill, vicious sounds of animals reaching a quarry but unable to sink their teeth into flesh. It was a pack of attack dogs—five, six, seven—at all windows now, their paws scratching against the glass. An animal leaped up on the hood, its face and teeth against the windshield.