“I used it. I wore it when I picked up a whore. Are you jealous?”
“Not of anyone accepting an offer from you dressed like that.”
“She was a vision of loveliness.”
“You’re lucky. She was probably an ODESSA agent and you’ve come down with a social disease, as planned. See a doctor before you see me again.”
Noel took her hand. There was no humor in his voice when he spoke. “The ODESSA’S no concern of ours. Neither is the Rache. That’s one—or two—of the things I learned in Berlin. It’s doubtful either of them knows anything about Geneva.”
Helden was stunned. “But what about Beaumont? You said he was ODESSA, that he followed you to Rio.”
“I think he is ODESSA, and he did follow me, but not because of Geneva. He’s tied in with Graff. Somehow he found out I was looking for Johann von Tiebolt; that was why he followed me. Not Geneva. I’ll know more when I speak to your brother tomorrow. Anyway, Beaumont’ll be out of the picture in a few days. Kessler’s taking care of it. He said he’d make a call to someone in the Bonn government.”
“It’s that simple?”
“It’s not that difficult. Any hint of ODESSA, especially in the military, is enough to start a battery of inquiries. Beaumont’ll be pulled in.”
“If it’s not the ODESSA, or the Rache, who is it?”
“That’s part of what I’ve got to tell you. I had to get rid of the mackinaw and the cap.”
“Oh?” Helden was confused by the non sequitur.
He told her why, playing down the violence in the dark alleyway. Then he described the conversation with Kessler, realizing as he came to the end that he could not omit the murder of the unknown man in the leather jacket. He would tell her brother about it tomorrow; to withhold it from Helden now would serve no purpose. When he had finished, she shuddered, pressing her fingers into the palm of her hand.
“How horrible. Did Kessler have any idea who he was, where he came from?”
“Not really. We went over everything he said a half-dozen times, trying to figure it out, but there wasn’t that much. In Kessler’s opinion he was part of a neo-Nazi group—descendants of the party, Kessler called them. A splinter faction that has no use for the ODESSA.”
“How would they know about the account in Geneva?”
“I asked Kessler that. He said that the sort of manipulations required to get that money out of Germany couldn’t have been kept as quiet as we think; that someone somewhere could have learned about it.”
“But Geneva is based on secrecy. Without it, it would collapse.”
“Then it’s a question of degree. When is a secret a secret? What separates confidential information from highly classified data? A handful of people found out about Geneva and want to stop us from getting the money and using it the way it’s supposed to be used. They want it for themselves, so they’re not going to expose it.”
“But if they’ve learned that much, they know they can’t get it.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Then they should be told!”
“I said as much to the man in the alley. I didn’t convince him. Even if I had, it wouldn’t make any difference now.”
“But don’t you see? Someone has to reach these people—whoever they are—and convince them they gain nothing by stopping you and my brother and Erich Kessler.”
Holcroft drank. “I’m not sure we should do that. Kessler said something that bothered me when I heard it, and it bothers me now. He said that we—the ‘we,’ I guess, meaning all of us who haven’t studied the subject that closely—never understood the hard-core Nazi. From the Nazi’s point of view, it wasn’t simply a question of how he could benefit; it was just as important to him that others do not benefit. Kessler called it the ‘essential de-structiveness.’ ”
Helden’s frown returned. “So if they’re told, they’ll go after you. They’ll kill the three of you, because without you, there’s no Geneva.”
“Not for another generation. That’s motive enough. The money goes back into the vaults for another thirty years.”
Helden brought her hand to her mouth. “Wait a minute; there’s something terribly wrong. They’ve tried to kill you. You. From the beginning … you.”
Holcroft shook his head. “We can’t be certain—”
“Not certain?” broke in Helden. “My God, what more do you want? You showed me your jacket. There was the strychnine on that plane, the shots in Rio. What more do you want?”
“I want to know who was really behind those things. That’s why I have to talk to your brother.”
“What can Johann tell you?”
“Whom he killed in Rio.” Helden started to object; he took her hand again. “Let me explain. I think we’re in the middle—I’m in the middle—of two fights, neither having anything to do with the other. Whatever happened to your brother in Rio has nothing to do with Geneva. That’s where I made my mistake. I tied everything into Geneva. It’s not; it’s separate.”
“I tried to tell you that,” said Helden.
“I was slow. But then, no one’s ever fired a gun at me, or tried to poison me, or shoved a knife in my stomach. Those kinds of things play hell with your thinking process. At least they do mine.”
“Johann is a man of many interests, Noel,” she said. “He can be very charming, very personable, but he can also be reticent. It’s part of him. He’s lived a strange life. Sometimes I think of him as a gadfly. He darts quickly from one place to another, one interest to another, always brilliantly, always leaving his mark, but not always wishing that mark to be recognized.”
“ ‘He’s here, he’s there, he’s everywhere,’ ” interrupted Holcroft “You’re describing some sort of Scarlet Pimpernel.”
“Exactly. Johann may not tell you what happened in Rio.”
“He has to. I have to know.”
“Since it has nothing to do with Geneva, he may disagree.”
“Then I’ll try to convince him. We have to find out how vulnerable he is.”
“Let’s say he is vulnerable. What happens then?”
“He’d be disqualified from taking part in Geneva. We know he killed someone. You heard a man—a wealthy, influential man, you thought—say he wanted to see your brother hanged for murder. I know he tangled with Graff, and that means the ODESSA. He ran for his life. He took you and your sister with him, but he ran for his life. He’s mixed up in a lot of complications; people are after him, and it’s not unreasonable to think he could be blackmailed. That could shake Geneva; it could corrupt it.”
“Do the bankers have to be told?” asked Helden.
Noel touched her cheek, forcing her to look at him. “I’d have to tell them. We’re talking about seven hundred and eighty million dollars; about three men who did something remarkable. It was their gesture to history; I really believe that. If your brother puts it in jeopardy, or causes it to be misused, then maybe it’s better that those millions get locked up for the next generation. But it doesn’t have to be that way. According to the rules, you’re the one who’d be the Von Tiebolt executrix.”
Helden gazed at him. “I can’t accept that, Noel. It must be Johann. Not only is he more qualified to be a part of Geneva; he deserves it. I can’t take that from him.”
“And I can’t give it to him. Not if he can hurt the covenant Let’s talk about it after I see him.”
She studied his face; he felt awkward. She took his hand from her cheek and held it “You’re a moral man, aren’t you?”
“Not necessarily. Just angry. I’m sick of corruption in the rarefied circles of finance. There’s been an awful lot of it in my country.”
“ ‘Rarefied circles of finance’?”
“It’s a phrase my father used in his letter to me.”
“That’s odd,” said Helden.
“What is?”
“You’ve always called him Clausen, or Heinrich Clausen. Formal, rather distant.”
Holcroft nodded, ackno
wledging the truth of her remark. “It’s funny, because I really don’t know any more about him now than I did before. But he’s been described to me. The way he looked, the way he talked, how people listened to him and were affected by him.”
“Then you do know more about him.”
“Not actually. Only impressions. A child’s impressions, at that. But in a small way I think I’ve found him.”
“When did your parents tell you about him?”
“Not my parents, not my … stepfather. Just Althene. It was a couple of weeks after my twenty-fifth birthday. I was working then, a certified professional.”
“Professional?”
“I’m an architect, remember? I’ve almost forgotten.”
“Your mother waited until you were twenty-five before she told you?”
“She was right. I don’t think I could have handled it when I was younger. Good Lord. Noel Holcroft, American boy. Hot dogs and french fries, Shea Stadium and the Mets, the Garden and the Knicks; and college and friends whose fathers were soldiers in the big war, each one winning it in his own way. That fellow’s told his real father was one of those heel-clicking sadists in the war movies, Christ, that kid would flip out.”
“Why did she tell you at all, then?”
“On the remote chance that I’d find out for myself one day, and she didn’t want that. She didn’t think it would happen. She and Dick had covered the traces right down to a birth certificate which said I was their son. But there was another birth certificate. In Berlin. ‘Clausen, male child. Mother—Althene. Father—Heinrich.’ And there were people who knew she’d left him, left Germany. She wanted me to be prepared if it ever surfaced, if anyone for any reason ever remembered and tried to use the information. Prepared, incidentally, to deny it. To say there’d been another child—never mentioned in the house—who had died in infancy in England.”
“Which means there was another certificate. A death certificate.”
“Yes. Properly recorded somewhere in London.”
Helden leaned back against the booth. “You and we are not so different after all. Our lives are full of false papers. What a luxury it must be not to live that way.”
“Papers don’t mean much to me. I’ve never hired anyone because of them, and I’ve never fired anyone because someone else brought them to me.” Noel finished his drink. “I ask the questions myself. And I’m going to ask your brother some very tough ones. I hope to God he has the answers I want to hear.”
“So do I.”
He leaned toward her, their shoulders touching. “Love me a little?”
“More than a little.”
“Stay with me tonight.”
“I intend to. Your hotel?”
“Not the one in rue Chevalle. That Mr. Fresca we invented the other night has moved to better lodgings. You see, I’ve got a few friends in Paris, too. One’s an assistant manager at the George Cinq.”
“How extravagant.”
“It’s allowed. You’re a very special woman, and we don’t know what’s going to happen, starting tomorrow. By the way, why couldn’t we go to Argenteuil? You said you’d tell me.”
“We were seen there.”
“What? By whom?”
“A man saw us—saw you, really. We don’t know his name, but we know he was from Interpol. We have a source there. A bulletin was circulated from the Paris headquarters with your description. A trace was put out for you from New York. From a police officer named Miles.”
28
John Tennyson walked out into Heathrow Airport’s crowded arrivals area. He walked to a black Jaguar sedan waiting at the curb. The driver was smoking a cigarette and reading a book. At the sight of the approaching blond man, the driver got out of the car.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Tennyson,” said the man, in a throaty Welsh accent.
“Have you been waiting long?” asked Tennyson, without much interest.
“Not very,” answered the driver, taking Tennyson’s briefcase and overnight bag. “I presume you wish to drive.”
“Yes, I’ll drop you off along the way. Someplace where you can find a taxi.”
“I can get one here.”
“No, I want to talk for a few minutes.” Tennyson climbed in behind the wheel; the Welshman opened the rear door and put the luggage inside. Within minutes they had passed the airport gates and were on the highway to London.
“Did you have a good trip?” asked the Welshman.
“A busy one.”
“I read your article about Bahrain. Most amusing.”
“Bahrain’s amusing. The Indian shopkeepers are the only economists on the archipelago.”
“But you were kind to the sheikhs.”
“They were kind to me. What’s the news from the Mediterranean? Have you stayed in touch with your brother on board Beaumont’s ship?”
“Constantly. We use a radiophone off Cap Camarat. Everything’s going according to schedule. The rumor circulated on the pier that the commander was seen going out in a small boat with a woman from Saint-Tropez. Neither the boat nor the couple have been heard from in over forty-eight hours, and there were offshore squalls. My brother will report the incident tomorrow. He will assume command, of course.”
“Of course. Then it all goes well. Beaumont’s death will be clear-cut. An accident in bad weather. No one will question the story.”
“You don’t care to tell me what actually happened?”
“Not specifically; it would be a burden to you. But basically, Beaumont overreached himself. He was seen in the wrong places by the wrong people. It was speculated that our upstanding officer was actually connected to the ODESSA.”
The Welshman’s expression conveyed his anger. “That’s dangerous. The damn fool.”
“There’s something I must tell you,” said Tennyson. “It’s almost time.”
The Welshman replied in awe. “It’s happened, then?”
“Within two weeks, I’d guess.”
“I can’t believe it!”
“Why?” asked Tennyson. “Everything’s on schedule. The cables must begin to go out. Everywhere.”
“Everywhere …” repeated the man.
“The code is ‘Wolfsschanze.’ ”
“Wolfsschanze?… Oh God, it’s come!”
“It’s here. Update a final master list of district leaders, one copy only, of course. Take all the microdot files—country by country, city by city, each political connection—and seal them in a steel case. Bring the case personally to me, along with the master list, one week from today. Wednesday. We’ll meet on the street outside my flat in Kensington. Eight o’clock at night.”
“A week from today. Wednesday. Eight o’clock. With the case.”
“And the master list. The leaders.”
“Of course.” The Welshman brought the knuckle of his index finger to his teeth. “It’s really come,” he whispered.
“There’s a minor obstacle, but we’ll surmount it.”
“Can I help? I’ll do anything.”
“I know you will, Ian. You’re one of the best. I’ll tell you next week.”
“Anything.”
“Of course.” Tennyson slowed the Jaguar at the approach of an exit “I’d drive you into London, but I’m heading toward Margate. It’s imperative that I get there quickly.”
“Don’t worry about me. God, man, you must have so much on your mind!” Ian kept his eyes on Tennyson’s face, on the strong, chiseled features that held such promise, such power. “To be here now; to have the privilege to be present at the beginning. At the rebirth. There’s no sacrifice I wouldn’t make.”
The blond man smiled. “Thank you,” he said.
“Leave me anywhere. I’ll find a taxi.… I didn’t know we had people in Margate.”
“We have people everywhere,” said Tennyson, stopping the car.
Tennyson sped down the familiar highway toward Portsea. He would reach Gretchen’s house before eight o’clock, and that was as it should
be; she expected him at nine. He’d be able to make sure she had no visitors, no friendly male neighbors who might have dropped in for a drink.
The blond man smiled to himself. Even in her mid-forties, his sister drew men as the proverbial flame drew moths: they, scorched into satiety by the heat, saved from themselves by their inability to reach the flame itself. For Gretchen did not fulfill the promise of her sexuality unless told to do so. It was a weapon to be used, as all potentially lethal weapons were to be used—with discretion.
Tennyson did not relish what he had to do, but he knew he had no choice. All threads that led to Geneva had to be cut, and his sister was one of them. As Anthony Beaumont had been one. Gretchen simply knew too much; Wolfsschanze’s enemies could break her—and they would.
There were three items of information the Nachrichtendienst did not have: the timetable, the methods of dispersing the millions, and the lists. Gretchen knew the timetable; she was familiar with the methods of dispersal; and, as the methods were tied to the names of recipients all over the world, she was all too aware of the lists.
His sister had to die.
As the Welshman had to make the sacrifice he spoke of so nobly. Once the airtight carton and the master list were delivered, the Welshman’s contributions were finished. He remained only a liability; for, except for the sons of Erich Kessler and Wilhelm von Tiebolt, no one else alive would ever see those lists. Thousands of names, in every country, who were the true inheritors of Wolfs-schanze, the perfect race, the Sonnenkinder.
PORTSEA—15 M
The blond man pressed the accelerator; the Jaguar shot forward.
“So, at last it’s here,” said Gretchen Beaumont, sitting next to Tennyson on the soft leather couch, her hand caressing his face, her fingers darting in and out between his lips, arousing him as she was always able to do since they were children. “And you’re so beautiful. There’s no other man like you; there never will be.”
She leaned forward, her unbuttoned blouse exposing her breasts, inviting his caress. She opened her mouth and covered his, groaning in that throaty way that drove him wild.