He walked by the planter and nodded at the two men and the woman seated at the table beyond. They nodded back; he proceeded to the entrance, walked in, and returned to the “familiar faces, not necessarily friends.” He sat down in the empty chair; it was beside the dark-haired woman with the tortoise-shell glasses.
“I’m Noel Holcroft,” he said to no one in particular.
“We know,” answered the man in the field jacket, his eyes on the crowds in the square.
Noel turned to the woman. “Are you Helden von—? Excuse me, Helen Tennyson?”
“No, I’ve never met her,” replied the dark-haired woman, looking intently at the man in the field jacket. “But I will take you to her.”
The man in the expensive overcoat turned to Holcroft. “You alone?”
“Of course. Can we get started? Helden … Tennyson … said I’d be given instructions. I’d like to see her, talk for a while, and then find a hotel. I haven’t had much sleep during the past few days.” He started to get up from the table.
“Sit down!” The woman spoke sharply.
He sat, more out of curiosity than in response to command. And then he had the sudden feeling that these three people were not testing him; they were frightened. The elegantly dressed man was biting the knuckle of his index finger, staring at something in the middle of the square. His companion in the field jacket had his hand on his friend’s arm, his gaze leveled in the identical direction. They were looking at someone, someone who disturbed them profoundly.
Holcroft tried to follow their line of sight, tried to peer between the crisscrossing figures that filled the street in front of the café. He stopped breathing. Across the street were the two men he thought he had eluded at Le Mans. It didn’t make sense! No one had followed him off the plane.
“It’s them,” he said.
The elegantly dressed man turned his head swiftly; the man in the field jacket was slower, his expression disbelieving; the dark-haired woman studied him closely.
“Who?” she asked.
“Those two men over there, near the entrance to the restaurant. One’s in a light topcoat, the other’s carrying a raincoat over his arm.”
“Who are they?”
“They were at Orly this afternoon; they were waiting for me. I flew to Le Mans to get away from them. I’m almost sure they’re British agents. But how did they know I was here? They weren’t on the plane. No one followed me; I’d swear to it!”
The three exchanged glances; they believed him, and Holcroft knew why. He had picked out the two Englishmen himself, volunteered the information before being confronted with it.
“If they’re British, what do they want with you?” asked the man in the field jacket.
“That’s between Helden von Tiebolt and myself.”
“But you think they are British?” pressed the man in the jacket.
“Yes.”
“I hope you’re right.”
The man in the overcoat leaned forward. “What do you mean you flew to Le Mans? What happened?”
“I thought I could throw them off. I was convinced I had. I bought a ticket to Marseilles. I made it clear to the girl at the counter that I had to get to Marseilles, and then picked a flight that had stops. The first was Le Mans, and I got off. I saw them questioning her. I never said anything about Le Mans!”
“Don’t excite yourself,” said the man in the field jacket. “It only draws attention.”
“If you think they haven’t spotted me, you’re crazy! But how did they do it?”
“It’s not difficult,” said the woman.
“You rented a car?” asked the elegantly dressed man.
“Of course. I had to drive back to Paris.”
“At the airport?”
“Naturally.”
“And naturally, you asked for a map. Or at least directions, no doubt mentioning Paris. I mean, you were not driving to Marseilles.”
“Certainly, but lots of people do that.”
“Not so many, not at an airport that has flights to Paris. And none with your name. I can’t believe you have false papers.”
Holcroft was beginning to understand. “They checked,” he said in disgust.
“One person on a telephone for but a few minutes,” said the man in the field jacket. “Less, if you were reported having left the plane at Le Mans.”
“The French would not miss the opportunity of selling an empty seat,” added the man in the elegant coat. “Do you see now? There are not so many places that rent cars at airports. The make, the color, the license, would be given. The rest is simple.”
“Why simple? In all Paris, to find one car?”
“Not in Paris, monsieur. On the road to Paris. There is but one main highway; it is the most likely to be used by a foreigner. You were picked up outside of Paris.”
Noel’s astonishment was joined by a sense of depression. His ineptness was too apparent. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
“You did nothing intentionally,” said the elegant man, his concentration back on the Englishmen, who were now seated in the first booth of the restaurant in the middle of the square. He touched the arm of the man in the field jacket. “They’ve sat down.”
“I see.”
“What are we going to do?” asked Holcroft.
“It’s being done,” answered the dark-haired woman. “Do exactly what we tell you to do.”
“Now,” said the man in the expensive coat.
“Get up!” ordered the woman. “Walk with me out into the street and turn right. Quickly!” Bewildered, Holcroft rose from his chair and left the café, the woman’s fingers clasped around his arm. They stepped off the curb.
“To the right!” she repeated.
He turned to his right.
“Faster!” she said.
He heard a crash of glass behind them, then angry shouts. He turned and looked back. The two Englishmen had left the booth, colliding with a waiter. All three were covered with wine.
“Turn right again!” commanded the woman. “Into the doorway!”
He did as he was told, shouldering his way past a crowd of people in the entrance of yet another café. Once inside, the woman stopped him; he whirled around instinctively and watched the scene in the square.
The Englishmen were trying to disengage themselves from the furious waiter. The man in the topcoat was throwing money on the table. His companion had made better progress; he was under the trellis, looking frantically to his left—in the direction Holcroft and the girl had taken.
Noel heard shouts; he stared in disbelief at the source. Not twenty feet from where the agents stood was a dark-haired woman in a shiny black raincoat, wearing thick tortoise-shell glasses and a white scarf around her neck. She stood yelling at someone loudly enough to draw the attention of everyone around her.
Including the Englishmen.
She stopped abruptly and began running up the crowded street, toward the south end of Montmartre. The British agents took up the chase. Their progress was slowed unexpectedly by a number of young people in jeans and jackets who seemed to be purposely blocking the Englishmen. Furious shouts erupted; then he could hear the shrill whistles of the gendarmes.
Montmartre became pandemonium.
“Come! Now!” The dark-haired woman—the one at his side—grabbed Noel’s arm again, and again propelled him into the street. “Turn left!” she ordered, pushing him through the crowds. “Back where we were.”
They approached the table behind the planter box. Only the man in the expensive overcoat remained; he stood up as they drew near.
“There may be others,” he said. “We don’t know. Hurry!”
Holcroft and the woman continued running. They reached a side street no wider than a large alley; it was lined with small shops on both sides, the dimly lit storefronts providing the only light in the block.
“This way!” said the woman, now holding Noel’s hand, running beside him. “The car is on the right. The first one by
the corner!”
It was a Citroën; it looked powerful but undistinguished. There were layers of dirt on the body, the wheels were filthy and caked with mud. Even the windows had a film of dust on them.
“Get in the front! Drive,” commanded the woman, handing him a key. “I’ll stay in the back seat.”
Holcroft climbed in, trying to orient himself. He started the engine. The vibrations caused the chassis to tremble. It had an outsized motor, designed for a heavier car, guaranteeing enormous speed for a lighter one.
“Go straight toward the bottom of the hill!” said the woman behind him. “I’ll tell you where to turn.”
The next forty-five minutes were blurred into a series of plunges and sudden turns. The woman issued directions at the last second, forcing Noel to turn the wheel violently in order to obey. They sped into a highway north of Paris from a twisting entrance road that caused the Citroën to lurch sideways, careening off the mound of grass that was the center island. Holcroft held the wheel with all his strength, first straightening the car and then weaving between two nearly parallel cars ahead.
“Faster!” screamed the dark-haired woman in the back seat. “Can’t you go faster?”
“Jesus! We’re over ninety-five!”
“Keep looking in your mirrors! I’ll watch the side roads! And go faster!”
They drove for ten minutes in silence, the wind and the steady high-pitched hum of the tires maddening. It was all maddening, thought Noel as he shifted his eyes from the windshield to the rearview mirror to the side-view mirror, which was caked with dirt. What were they doing? They were out of Paris; whom were they running from now? There was no time to think; the woman was screaming again.
“The next exit; that’s the one!”
He barely had time to brake and turn the car into the exit. He screeched to a halt at the stop sign.
“Keep going! To the left!”
The split seconds of immobility were the only pause in the madness. It began again: the accelerated speed over the dark country roads, the sudden turns, the commands barked harshly in his ear.
The moonlight that had washed over the splendor of Sacré-Coeur now revealed stretches of rock-hewn farmland. Barns and silos loomed in irregular silhouettes; small houses with thatched roofs appeared and disappeared.
“There’s the road!” yelled the woman.
It was a dirt road angling off the tarred surface over which they traveled; the trees would have concealed it if one did not know where or when to look. Noel slowed the Citroën and turned in. The entire car shook, but the voice behind him did not permit more cautious driving.
“Hurry! We have to get over the hill so our lights won’t be seen!”
The hill was steep, the road too narrow for more than one vehicle. Holcroft pressed the accelerator; the Citroën lurched up the primitive road. They reached the crest of the hill, Noel gripping the steering wheel as if it were uncontrollable. The descent was rapid; the road curved to the left and flattened out. They were level again.
“No more than a quarter of a mile now,” said the woman.
Holcroft was exhausted; the palms of his hands were soaked. He and the woman were in the loneliest, darkest place he could imagine. In a dense forest, on a road unlisted on any map.
Then he saw it. A small thatched house on a flat plot of ground dug out of the forest. There was a dim light on inside.
“Stop here,” was the command, but it was not rendered in the harsh voice that had hammered into his ears for nearly an hour.
Noel stopped the car directly in front of the path that led to the house. He took several deep breaths and wiped the sweat from his face, closing his eyes briefly, wishing the pain would leave his head.
“Please turn around, Mr. Holcroft,” said the woman, no stridency in her tone.
He did so. And he stared through the shadows at the woman in the back seat. Gone were the shining black hair and the thick-rimmed glasses. The white scarf was still there, but now it was partially covered by long blond hair that cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face—a very lovely face—he had seen before. Not this face, but one like it; delicate features modeled lovingly in clay before a chisel was put to stone. This face was not cold and the eyes were not distant. There was vulnerability and involvement. She spoke quietly, returning his stare through the shadows.
“I am Helden von Tiebolt, and I have a gun in my hand. Now, what do you want of me?”
15
He looked down and saw a tiny reflection of light off the barrel of the automatic. The gun was pointed at his head, the bore only inches away, her fingers curved around the trigger.
“The first thing I want,” he said, “is for you to put that thing away.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“You’re the last person on earth I’d want to see hurt. You’ve got nothing to fear from me.”
“Your words are reassuring, but I’ve heard such words before. They were not always true.”
“Mine are.” He looked into her eyes through the dim light, holding his gaze steady. The tenseness of her expression diminished. “Where are we?” Noel asked. “Was all that craziness necessary? The riot in Montmartre, racing around the country like maniacs. What are you running from?”
“I might ask the same question of you. You’re running, too. You flew to Le Mans.”
“I wanted to avoid some people. But I’m not afraid of them.”
“I also avoid people, and I am afraid of them.”
“Who?” The specter of the Tinamou intruded on Noel’s thoughts; he tried to push it away.
“You may or may not be told, depending upon what you have to say to me.”
“Fair enough. Right now you’re the most important person in my life. That may change when I meet your brother, but right now, it’s you.”
“I can’t imagine why. We’ve never met. You said you wanted to see me over matters that could be traced back to the war.”
“ ‘Traced back to your father’ would be more specific.”
“I never knew my father.”
“Both our fathers. Neither of us knew them.”
He told her what he had told her sister, but he did not mention the men of Wolfsschanze; she was frightened enough. And he heard his words again, as if echoes from last night, in Portsea. It was only last night, and the woman he spoke to now was like the woman then—but only in appearance. Gretchen Beaumont had listened in silence; Helden did not. She interrupted him quietly, continuously, asking questions he should have asked himself.
“Did this Manfredi show you proof of his identity?”
“He didn’t have to; he had the papers from the bank. They were legitimate.”
“What are the names of the directors?”
“The directors?”
“Of the Grande Banque de Genève. The overseers of this extraordinary document.”
“I don’t know.”
“You should be told.”
“I’ll ask.”
“Who will handle the legal aspects of this agency in Zurich?”
“The bank’s attorneys, I imagine.”
“You imagine?”
“Is it important?”
“It’s six months of your life. I’d think it would be.”
“Our lives.”
“We’ll see. I’m not the oldest child of Wilhelm von Tiebolt.”
“I told you when I called you from Le Mans,” said Holcroft, “that I’d met your sister.”
“And?” asked Helden.
“I think you know. She’s not capable. The directors in Geneva won’t accept her.”
“There’s my brother, Johann. He’s next in age.”
“I know that. I want to talk about him.”
“Not now. Later.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mentioned on the phone that there had been an excess of urgencies in my life. There has also been an excess of lies. I’m an expert in that area; I know a liar when I hear his
words. You don’t lie.”
“Thank you for that.” Noel was relieved; they had a basis for talking. It was his first concrete step. In a way, in spite of everything, he felt exhilarated. She lowered the gun to her lap.
“Now we must go inside. There’s a man who wants to speak with you.”
Holcroft’s exhilaration crashed with her words. He could not share Geneva with anyone but a member of the Von Tiebolt family. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not talking with anyone. What I’ve discussed with you is between us. No one else.”
“Give him a chance. He must know that you don’t mean to hurt me. Or hurt others. He must be convinced that you are not part of something else.”
“Part of what?”
“He’ll explain.”
“He’ll ask questions.”
“Say only what you wish to say.”
“No! You don’t understand. I can’t say anything about Geneva, and neither can you. I’ve tried to explain—”
He stopped. Helden raised the automatic. “The gun is still in my hand. Get out of the car.”
He preceded her up the short path to the door of the house. Except for the dim light in the windows, it was dark. The surrounding trees filtered the moonlight to such a degree that only muted rays came through the branches, so weak they seemed to disintegrate in the air.
Noel felt her hand reaching around his waist, the barrel of the gun in the small of his back.
“Here’s a key. Open the door. It’s difficult for him to move around.”
Inside, the small room was like any other one might imagine in such a house deep in the French countryside, with one exception: Two walls were lined with books. Everything else was simple to the point of primitiveness—sturdy furniture of no discernible design, a heavy old-fashioned desk, several unlit lamps with plain shades, a wood floor, and thick, plastered walls. The books were somehow out of place.
In the far corner of the room sat an emaciated man in a wheelchair. He was between a floor lamp and a short table, the light over his left shoulder, a book in his lap. His hair was white and thin, combed carefully over his head. Holcroft guessed he was well into his seventies. In spite of his gaunt appearance, the face was strong, the eyes behind the steel-rimmed spectacles alert. He was dressed in a cardigan sweater buttoned to the throat, and a pair of corduroy trousers.