Beyond the dog, at the base of the hill, Holcroft saw the huge gate beginning to move, the movement magnified in the beams of his headlights. It was starting the slow arc that would end with its closing! He pressed the accelerator against the floor, gripped the wheel until his arms were in pain, and drove at full speed, swerving to his left, through the stone pillars, missing the steel gate by inches. The dog on the hood flew off to the right in midair, yelping in shock.
The pack on the hill had pulled up behind the gate in the darkening twilight. The explanation had to be that a high-frequency whistle—beyond human ears—had caused them to stop. Perspiring, Noel held the pedal against the floorboard and sped down the road.
He came to a fork in the countryside. Did he take the right, or the left? He could not recall; absently he reached for his map on the seat.
That was what had bothered him! The map was no longer there. He took the left fork, reaching below the seat to see if the map had fallen to the floor. It had not. It had been removed from the car!
He arrived at an intersection. It was not familiar; or, if it was, the darkness obscured any familiarity. He turned right, out of instinct, knowing he had to keep going. He kept the car at high speed, looking for anything that he could relate to the drive out from Rio. But the darkness was full now; he saw nothing he remembered. The road made a wide, sweeping curve to the right and then there was a sharp, steep incline of a hill. He recalled no curve, remembered no hill. He was lost.
The top of the hill flattened out for approximately a hundred yards. On his left was a lookout, bordered by a parking area enclosed by a chest-high wall fronting the cliff. Along the wall were rows of telescopes with round casings, the type activated by coins. Holcroft pulled over and stopped the car. There were no other automobiles, but maybe one would come. Perhaps if he looked around he could get his bearings. He got out of the car and walked to the wall.
Far below in the distance were the lights of the city. Between the cliff and the lights, however, there was only darkness.… No, not total darkness; there was a winding thread of light. A road? Noel was next to one of the telescopes. He inserted a coin and peered through the sight, focusing on the weaving thread of light he presumed was a road. It was.
The lights were spaced far apart; they were street lamps, welcome but out of place in a path cut out of the Brazilian forests. If he could reach the beginning of that road.… The telescope would move no farther to his right. Goddamn it! Where did the road begin? It had to be.…
Behind him he heard the sound of an engine racing up the hill he had just climbed. Thank God! He would stop the car, if he had to stand in the middle of the road to do it. He ran from the wall, across the concrete, toward the tarred pavement.
He reached the edge and froze. The car lunging over the final incline into the lookout area was a white Mercedes limousine. The same car that stood gleaming in the afternoon sun on top of another hill. Graff’s car.
It stopped abruptly, tires screeching. The door opened and a man got out. In the reflecting spill of the headlights he was recognizable: Graff’s guard!
He reached into his belt. Holcroft stood paralyzed. The man raised a gun, aiming at him. It was unbelievable! It could not be happening!
The first gunshot was thunderous; it shook the silence like a sudden cracking of the earth. A second followed. The road several feet away from Noel exploded in a spray of rock and dust. Whatever instincts remained beyond his paralysis, his disbelief, commanded him to run, to save himself. He was going to die! He was about to be killed in a deserted tourist lookout above the city of Rio de Janeiro! It was insane!
His legs were weak; he forced himself to race toward the rented car. His feet ached; it was the strangest sensation he had ever felt. Two more gunshots filled the night; there were two more explosions of tar and concrete.
He reached the car and fell below the door panel for protection. He reached up for the handle.
Another gunshot, this one louder, the vibration deafening. Accompanying the detonation was another kind of explosion, one that rang with the violent smashing of glass. The car’s rear window had been blown out.
There was nothing else to do! Holcroft pulled the door open and leaped inside. In panic he turned the ignition key. The engine roared; his foot pressed the accelerator against the floor. He jammed the gearshift into drive; the car bolted forward in the darkness. He spun the wheel; the car swerved, narrowly missing impact with the wall. His instincts ordered him to switch on the headlights. In a blur he saw the downhill road, and in desperation he aimed for it.
The descent was filled with curves. He took them at high speed, sliding, skidding, barely able to hold the car in control, his arms aching. His hands were wet with sweat; they kept slipping. Any second he fully believed he would crash; any moment now he would die in a final explosion.
He would never remember how long it took, or precisely how he found the winding road with the intermittent streetlights, but at last it was there. A flat surface heading left, heading east, the road into the city.
He was in dense countryside; tall trees and thick forests bordered the asphalt, looming up like the sides of an immense canyon.
Two cars approached from the opposite direction; he wanted to cry with relief at the sight of them. He was approaching the outskirts of the city. He was into the suburbs. The streetlights were close together now, and suddenly there were cars everywhere, turning, blocking, passing. He never knew he could be so grateful to see traffic.
He came to a traffic light; it was red. He was again grateful—for its actually being there, and the brief rest it brought him. He reached into his shirt pocket for his cigarettes. God, he wanted a cigarette!
A car pulled alongside him on his left. He stared once more in disbelief. A man beside the driver—a man he had never seen before in his life—had rolled down his window and was raising a pistol. Around the barrel was a perforated cylinder—a silencer. The unknown man was aiming the gun at him!
Holcroft recoiled, ducking his head, spinning his neck, yanking the gearshift, plunging the accelerator to the floor. He heard the terrible spit and the crash of glass behind him. The rented car sprang forward into the intersection. Horns blew crazily; he swerved in front of an approaching automobile, turning at the last second to avoid a collision.
The cigarette had fallen from his lips, burning a hole in the seat.
He sped into the city.
The telephone was moist and glistening with sweat in Noel’s hand. “Are you listening to me?” he shouted.
“Mr. Holcroft, calm down, please.” The voice of the attaché at the American Embassy was disbelieving. “We’ll do everything we can. I have the salient facts and we’ll pursue a diplomatic inquiry as rapidly as possible. However, it is past seven o’clock; it’ll be difficult reaching people at this hour.”
“Difficult to reach people? Maybe you didn’t hear me. I was damn near killed! Take a look at that car! The windows were blown out!”
“We’re sending a man over to your hotel to take possession of the vehicle,” said the attaché matter-of-factly.
“I’ve got the keys. Have him come up to my room and get them.”
“Yes, we’ll do that. Stay where you are and we’ll call you back.”
The attaché hung up. Christ! The man sounded as if he had just heard from an irritating relative and was anxious to get off the phone so he could go to dinner!
Noel was frightened beyond any fear he had ever known. It gripped him and panicked him and made breathing difficult. Yet in spite of that sickening, all-pervasive fear, something was happening to him that he did not understand. A minute part of him was angry, and he felt that anger growing. He did not want it to grow; he was afraid of it, but he could not stop it. Men had attacked him and he wanted to strike back.
He had wanted to strike back at Graff, too. He had wanted to call him by his rightful name: monster, liar, corrupter … Nazi.
The telephone rang. He spun around as if
it were an alarm, signifying another attack. He gripped his wrist to steady the trembling and walked quickly to the bedside table.
“Senhor Holcroft?”
It was not the man at the Embassy. The accent was Latin.
“What is it?”
“I must speak with you. It is very important that I speak with you right away.”
“Who is this?”
“My name is Cararra. I am in the lobby of your hotel.”
“Cararra? A woman named Cararra called me yesterday.”
“My sister. We are together now. We must both speak with you now. May we come up to your room?”
“No! I’m not seeing anyone!” The sounds of the gunshots, the explosions of concrete and glass—they were all still too sharp in his mind. He would not be an isolated target again.
“Senhor, you must!”
“I won’t! Leave me alone or I’ll call the police.”
“They can’t help you. We can. We wish to help you. You seek information about the Von Tiebolts. We have information.”
Noel’s breathing stopped. His eyes strayed to the mouthpiece of the telephone. It was a trap. The man on the phone was trying to trap him. Yet, if that were so, why did he announce the trap?
“Who sent you here? Who told you to call me? Was it Graff?”
“Maurice Graff does not talk to people like us. My sister and I, we are beneath his contempt.”
You are contemptible! Graff held most of the world in contempt; thought Holcroft. He breathed again and tried to speak calmly. “I asked you who sent you to me. How do you know I’m interested in the Von Tiebolts?”
“We have friends at Immigration. Clerks, not important people. But they listen; they observe. You will understand when we speak.” The Brazilian’s words suddenly accelerated; the phrases tumbled awkwardly. Too awkwardly to be studied or rehearsed. “Please, senhor. See us. We have information and it is information you should have. We want to help. By helping you, we help ourselves.”
Noel’s brain raced. The lobby of the Pôrto Alegre was always crowded, and there was a certain truth in the bromide that there was safety in numbers. If Cararra and his sister really knew something about the Von Tiebolts, he had to see them. But not in an isolated situation, not alone. He spoke slowly.
“Stay by the reception desk, at least ten feet in front of it, with both hands out of your pockets. Have your sister on your left, her right hand on your arm. I’ll be down in a little while, but not in the elevator. And you won’t see me first I’ll see you.”
He hung up, astonished at himself. Lessons were being learned. They were basic, no doubt, to those abnormal men who dealt in a clandestine world, but new to him. Cararra would not have his hand gripped around a gun in his pocket; his sister—or whoever she was—would not be able to reach into a purse without his noticing. They would have their attentions on the doorways, not the elevators, which of course he would use. And he would know who they were.
He walked out of the elevator in a crowd of tourists. He stood briefly with them, as if one of the party, and looked at the man and woman by the front desk. As instructed, Cararra’s hands were at his side, his sister’s right hand linked to her brother’s arm, as if she were afraid to be set adrift. And he was her brother; there was a distinct similarity in their features. Cararra was in his early thirties, perhaps; his sister, several years younger. Both dark—skin, hair, eyes. Neither looked at all imposing; their clothes were neat but inexpensive. They were out of place among the furs and evening gowns of the hotel’s guests, aware of their awkward status, their faces embarrassed, their eyes frightened. Harmless, thought Holcroft. Then he realized he was making too fast a judgment.
They sat in a back booth of the dimly lit cocktail lounge, the Cararras across the table from Noel. Before they’d gone inside, Holcroft had remembered that the embassy was supposed to call him back. He told the desk that if the call came, it was to be relayed to him in the lounge. But only the embassy—no one else.
“Tell me first how you learned I was looking for the Von Tiebolts,” said Noel after their drinks arrived.
“I told you. A clerk at Immigration. The word was passed discreetly, last Friday, among the sections, that an American would be coming in asking about a German family named Von Tiebolt. Whoever took the request was to call in another, a man from the polícia do administração. That’s the secret police.”
“I know what it is. He called himself, a ‘translator.’ I want to know why you were told.”
“The Von Tiebolts were our friends. Very close friends.”
“Where are they?”
Cararra exchanged a brief look with his sister. The girl spoke.
“Why do you look for them?” she asked.
“I made that clear at Immigration. It’s nothing out of the ordinary. They were left some money by relatives in the United States.”
Brother and sister again looked at each other, and again the sister spoke. “Is it a large amount of money?”
“I don’t know,” replied Holcroft. “It’s a confidential matter. I’m merely a go-between.”
“A what?” Again the brother.
“Un tercero,” answered Noel, looking at the woman. “Why were you so frightened on the telephone yesterday? You left your number, and when I called you back, you told me I shouldn’t have. Why?”
“I made a … mistake. My brother said it was a bad mistake. My name, the telephone number—it was wrong to leave them.”
“It would anger the Germans,” explained Cararra. “If they were watching you, intercepting your messages, they would see that we called you. It would be dangerous to us.”
“If they’re watching me now, they know you’re here.”
“We talked it over,” continued the woman. “We made our decision; we must take the risk.”
“What risk?”
“The Germans despise us. Among other things, we are Portuguese Jews,” said Cararra.
“They think like that even now?”
“Of course they do. I said we were close to the Von Tiebolts. Perhaps I could clarify. Johann was my dearest friend; he and my sister were to be married. The Germans would not permit it.”
“Who could stop them?”
“Any number of men. With a bullet in the back of Johann’s head.”
“Good Christ, that’s crazy!” But it was not crazy, and Holcroft knew it. He had been a target high in the hills; gunshots still rang in his ears.
“For certain Germans such a marriage would be the final insult,” said Cararra. “There are those who say the Von Tiebolts were traitors to Germany. These people still fight the war three decades later. Great injustices were done to the Von Tiebolts here in Brazil. They deserve whatever can be done for them. Their lives were made most difficult for causes that should have died years ago.”
“And you figured I could do something for them? What made you think that?”
“Because powerful men wanted to stop you; the Germans have a great deal of influence. Therefore you, too, were a powerful man, someone the Graffs in Brazil wanted to keep from the Von Tiebolts. To us that meant you intended no harm to our friends, and if no harm, you meant well. A powerful American who could help them.”
“You say the ‘Graffs in Brazil.’ That’s Maurice Graff, isn’t it? Who is he? What is he?”
“The worst of the Nazis. He should have been hanged at Nürnberg.”
“You know Graff?” asked the woman, her eyes on Holcroft.
“I went out to see him. I used a client in New York as an excuse, said he wanted me to look over Graff’s house. I’m an architect. At one point, I mentioned the Von Tiebolts, and Graff went out of his mind. He began screaming and ordered me out. When I drove down the hill, a pack of attack dogs came after the car. Later, Graff’s guard followed me. He tried to kill me. In traffic, the same thing happened again. Another man shot at me from a car window.”
“Mother of God!” Cararra’s lips parted in shock.
“We
should not be seen with him,” said the woman, gripping her brother’s arm. Then she stopped, studying Noel closely. “If he’s telling the truth.”
Holcroft understood. If he was to learn anything from the Cararras, they had to be convinced he was exactly who he said he was. “I’m telling the truth. I’ve also told it to the American Embassy. They’re sending someone over to take the car as evidence.”
The Cararras looked at each other; then both turned to Holcroft. His statement was the proof they needed; it was in their eyes.
“We believe you,” said the sister. “We must hurry.”
“The Von Tiebolts are alive?”
“Yes,” said the brother. “The Nazis think they are somewhere in the southern mountains, around the Santa Catarina colonies. They’re old German settlements; the Von Tiebolts could change their names and melt in easily.”
“But they’re not there.”
“No.…” Cararra seemed to hesitate, unsure of himself.
“Tell me where they are,” pressed Noel.
“Is it a good thing you bring to them?” asked the girl, concern in her voice.
“Far better than anything you can imagine,” replied Holcroft. “Tell me.”
Once again, brother and sister exchanged glances. Their decision was made. Cararra spoke. “They are in England. As you know, the mother is dead.…”
“I didn’t know,” said Noel. “I don’t know anything.”
“They go by the name of Tennyson. Johann is known as John Tennyson; he is a journalist for a newspaper—the Guardian. He speaks several languages and covers the European capitals for the paper. Gretchen, the oldest, is married to a British naval officer. We don’t know where she lives, but her husband’s name is Beaumont; he is a commander in the Royal Navy. Of Helden, the youngest daughter, we know nothing. She was always a little distant, a bit headstrong.”