This struck Holcroft as being not only unusual but mathematically impossible. He stared at the pages of faded ink, at the often illegible entries made by harried immigration officials thirty-odd years ago.
Something was wrong; his architect’s eye was troubled. He had the feeling he was studying blueprints that had not been finished, that were filled with minute alterations—tiny lines erased and changed, but very delicately, so as not to disturb the larger design.
Erased and changed. Chemically erased, delicately changed. That was what bothered him! The birthdates! Page after page of miniature figures, digits subtly altered! A 3 became an 8, a 1 a 9, a 2 a 0, the curve retained, a line drawn down, a zero added. Page after page in the ledgers, for the weeks of June and July of 1945, the birthdates of all the children entering Brazil had been changed so that none was born prior to 1938!
It was a painstakingly clever ruse, one that had to be thought out carefully, deliberately. Stop the hunt at the source. But do it in a way that appeared above suspicion. Small numbers faithfully—if hastily—recorded by unknown immigration personnel more than thirty years ago. Recorded from documents, the majority of which had been long since destroyed, for most were false. There was no way to substantiate, to confirm or deny the accuracy. Time and conspiracies had made that impossible. Of course there was no one resembling the Von Tiebolts! Good Lord, what a deception!
Noel pulled out his lighter; its flame would provide more light on a page where his eye told him there were numerous minute alterations.
“Senhor! That is forbidden!” The harsh command was delivered in a loud voice by the translator. “Those old pages catch fire easily. We cannot take such risks.”
Holcroft understood. It explained the inadequate light, the windowless cubicle. “I’ll bet you can’t,” he said, extinguishing his lighter. “And I suppose these ledgers can’t be removed from this room.”
“No, senhor.”
“And, of course, there are no extra lamps around, and you don’t have a flashlight. Isn’t that right?”
“Senhor,” interrupted the translator, his tone now courteous, even deferential. “We have spent nearly three hours with you. We have tried to cooperate fully, but as I’m sure you’re aware, we have other duties to perform. So, if you have finished …”
“I think you made sure of that before I started,” broke in Holcroft. “Yes, I’m finished. Here.”
He walked in the bright afternoon sunlight, trying to make sense out of things, the soft ocean breezes caressing his face, calming his anger and his frustration. He strolled on the white boardwalk overlooking the immaculate sand of Guanabara Bay. Now and then he stopped and leaned against the railing, watching the grown-up children at their games. The beautiful people, sunning and stunning. Grace and arrogance coexisted with artifice. Money was everywhere, evidenced by the golden, oiled bodies, too often too perfectly formed, too pretty, all flaws concealed. But again, where was character? It was somehow absent on the Copacabana this afternoon.
He passed that section of the beach that fronted his hotel and glanced up at the windows, trying to locate his room. For a moment he thought he had found it, then realized he was wrong. He could see two figures behind the glass, beyond the curtains.
He returned to the railing and lit a cigarette. The lighter made him think about the thirty-year-old ledgers’ so painstakingly doctored. Had they been altered just for him? Or had there been others over the years looking for the Von Tiebolts? Regardless of the answer, he had to find another source. Or other sources.
La comunidad alemana. Holcroft recalled the words of the attaché in New York. He remembered the man’s saying there were three or four families who were the arbiters of the German community. It followed that such men had to know the most carefully guarded secrets. Identities are concealed every day.… A stranger coming to Rio looking for Germans who have disappeared is undertaking a potentially dangerous search … “la otra cara de los alemanes.” They protect each other.
There was a way to eliminate the danger, Noel thought. It was found in the explanation he had given the translator at the Ministry of Immigration. He traveled a great deal, so it was plausible that someone somewhere had approached him, knowing he was flying to Brazil, and asked him to locate the Von Tiebolts. It had to be a person who dealt in legitimate confidentiality, a lawyer or a banker. Someone whose own reputation was above reproach. Without analyzing it deeply, Holcroft knew that whoever he decided upon would be the key to his explanation.
An idea for a candidate struck him, the risks apparent, the irony not lost. Richard Holcroft, the only father he had ever known. Stockbroker, banker, naval officer … father. The man who had given a wild young mother and her child a chance to live again. Without fear, without the stain.
Noel looked at his watch. It was ten minutes past five—past three in New York. Midafternoon on a Monday. He did not believe in omens, but he had just come upon one. Every Monday afternoon Richard Holcroft went to the New York Athletic Club, where old friends played gentle squash and sat around thick oak tables in the bar and reminisced. Noel could have him paged, talk to him alone—ask for help. Help that was to be rendered confidentially, for confidentiality was not only the essence of the cover but the basis of his protection. Someone, anyone, had contacted Richard Holcroft—man of stature—and asked him to locate a family named Von Tiebolt in Brazil. Knowing his son was going to Rio, he quite logically asked his son to make inquiries. It was a confidential matter; it would not be discussed. No one could turn away the curious with greater authority than Dick Holcroft.
But Althene was not to be told. That was the hardest part of the request. Dick adored her; there were no secrets between them. But his father—damn it, stepfather—would not refuse him if the request was based in genuine need. He never had.
He crossed the smooth marble floor of the hotel lobby toward the bank of elevators, oblivious of sights and sounds, his concentration on what he would say to his stepfather. As a result, he was startled when an obese American tourist tapped his shoulder.
“They calling you, Mac?” The man pointed toward the front desk.
Behind the counter the clerk was looking at Noel. In his hand was the familiar yellow message envelope; he gave it to a bellhop, who started across the lobby.
The single name on the slip of paper was unknown to him: CARARRA. There was a telephone number below, but no message. Holcroft was bewildered. The lack of a message was unusual; it was not the Latin way of doing things. Senhor Cararra could phone again; he had to reach New York. He had to build another cover.
Yet, in his room, Holcroft read the name again: CARARRA. His curiosity was aroused. Who was this Cararra that he expected to be called back on the basis of a name alone, a name the man knew meant nothing to Holcroft? In South American terms it was discourteous to the point of being insulting. His stepfather could wait a few minutes while he found out. He dialed the number.
Cararra was not a man but a woman, and from the sound of her low, strained voice she was a frightened woman. Her English was passable but not good; it did not matter. Her message was as clear as the fear she conveyed.
“I cannot talk now, senhor. Do not call this number again. It is not necessary.”
“You left it with the operator. What did you expect me to do?”
“It was a … êrro.”
“Yerro? Mistake?”
“Yes. A mistake. I will call you. We will call.”
“What about? Who are you?”
“Mas tarde!” The voice descended to a harsh whisper and was abruptly gone with the click of the line.
Mas tarde … mas tarde. Later. The woman would call him again. Holcroft felt a sudden hollowness in his stomach, as sudden as the abrupt disappearance of the frightened whisper. He could not recall when he had heard a woman’s voice so filled with fear.
That she was somehow connected with the missing Von Tiebolts was the first thought that came to his mind. But in what way? And how in God’s
name would she know about him? The feeling of dread came over him again … and the image of the horrible face contorted in death, thirty thousand feet in the air. He was being observed; strangers were watching him.
The whine of the telephone receiver interrupted his thoughts; he had forgotten to hang up. He depressed the button, released it, and made the call to New York. He needed his protection quickly; he knew that now.
He stood by the window, staring out at the beachfront, waiting for the operator to call him back. There was a flash of light from the street below. The chrome of a car grille had caught the rays of the sun and reflected them skyward. The car had passed that section of the boardwalk where he had been standing only minutes ago. Standing and absently glancing up at the hotel windows, trying to spot his room.
The windows.… The angle of sight. Noel moved closer to the panes and studied the diagonal line from the spot below—where he had been standing—to where he stood now. His architect’s eye was a practiced eye; angles did not deceive him. Too, the windows were not that close to one another, befitting the separation of rooms in an oceanfront hotel on the Copacabana. He looked up at this window, thinking it was not his room because he saw figures inside, behind the glass. But it was his room. And there had been people inside.
He walked to his closet and stood looking at his clothes. He trusted his memory for detail as much as he trusted his eye for angular lines. He pictured the closet where he had changed clothes that morning. He had fallen asleep in the suit he had worn from New York. His light-tan slacks had been on the far right, almost against the closet wall. It was habit: trousers on the right, jackets on the left. The slacks were still on the right, but not against the wall. Instead, they were several inches toward the center. His dark-blue blazer was in the center, not on the left side.
His clothes had been searched.
He crossed to the bed and his open attaché case. It was his office when he traveled; he knew every millimeter of space, every compartment, the position of every item in every slot. He did not have to look long.
His attaché case had been searched as well.
The telephone rang, the sound an intrusion. He picked it up and heard the voice of the Athletic Club’s operator, but he knew he could not now ask for Richard Holcroft; he could not involve him. Things were suddenly too complicated. He had to think them through.
“New York Athletic Club. Hello? Hello?… Hello, Rio operator? There’s no one on the line, Rio. Hello? New York Athletic Club.…”
Noel replaced the receiver. He had been about to do something crazy. His room had been searched! In his need for a cover in Rio de Janeiro, he had been about to lead someone directly to the one person closest to his mother, once the wife of Heinrich Clausen. What had he been thinking of?
And then he realized that nothing was wasted. Instead, another lesson had been learned. Carry out the lie logically, then reexamine it, and use the most credible part. If he could invent a reason for such a man as Richard Holcroft to conceal the identity of those seeking the Von Tiebolts, he could invent the man himself.
Noel was breathing hard. He had almost committed a terrible error, but he was beginning to know what to look for in the unfamiliar forest. The paths were lined with traps; he had to keep his guard up and move cautiously. He could not permit himself a mistake like the one he had nearly made. He had come very close to risking the life of the father that was, for one he had never known.
Very little of value or truth ever came from anything he touched. His mother’s words, and. like Manfredi’s, meant as a warning. But his mother—unlike Manfredi—was wrong. Heinrich Clausen was as much a victim as he was a villain of his time. The anguished letter he had written while Berlin was falling confirmed it, and what he had done confirmed it. Somehow his son would prove it.
La comunidad alemana. Three, four families in the German community, the arbiters who made irreversible decisions. One of them would be his source. And he knew exactly where to look.
The old, heavy-set man with thick jowls and steel-gray hair, cut short in the fashion of a Junker, looked up from the huge dining-room table at the intruder. He ate alone, no places set for family or guests. It seemed strange, for as the door was opened by the intruder, the voices of other people could be heard; there were family and guests in the large house, but they were not at the table.
“We have additional information on Clausen’s son, Herr Graff,” said the intruder, approaching the old man’s chair. “You know about the Curaçao communication. Two other calls were made this afternoon. One to the woman, Cararra, and the second to a men’s club in New York.”
“The Cararras will do their job well,” said Graff, his fork suspended, the puffed flesh around his eyes creased. “What is this club in New York?”
“A place called the New York Athletic Club. It is—”
“I know what it is. A wealthy membership. Whom was he calling?”
“The call was placed to the location, not to a person. Our people in New York are trying to find out.”
The old man put down his fork. He spoke softly, insultingly. “Our people in New York are slow, and so are you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Undoubtedly among the members will be found the name of Holcroft. If so, Clausen’s son has broken his word; he’s told Holcroft about Geneva. That is dangerous. Richard Holcroft is an old man, but he is not feeble. We always knew that if he lived long enough, he might be a stumbling block.” Graff shifted his large head and looked at the intruder. “The envelope arrived in Sesimbra; there is no excuse. The events of the other night had to be clear to the son. Cable the Tinamou. I don’t trust his associate here in Rio. Use the eagle code and tell him what I believe. Our people in New York will have another task. The elimination of a meddling old man. Richard Holcroft must be taken out. The Tinamou will demand it.”
8
Noel knew what he was looking for: a bookstore that was more than a place to buy books. In every resort city there was always one major shop that catered to the reading requirements of a specific nationality. In this case, its name was A Livraria Alemão: the German Bookshop. According to the desk clerk, it carried all the latest German periodicals, and Lufthansa flew newspapers in daily. That was the information Holcroft sought. Such a store would have accounts; someone there would know the established German families in Rio. If he could get just one or two names.… It was a place to start.
The store was less than ten minutes from the hotel. “I’m an American architect,” he said to the clerk, who was halfway up a ladder, rearranging books on the top shelf. “I’m down here checking out the Bavarian influence on large residential homes. Do you have any material on the subject?”
“I didn’t know it was a subject,” replied the man in fluent English. “There’s a certain amount of Alpine design, chalet-style building, but I wouldn’t call it Bavarian.”
Lesson six, or was it seven? Even if the lie is based in an aspect of truth, make sure the person you use it on knows less than you do.
“Alpine, Swiss, Bavarian. They’re pretty much the same thing.”
“Really? I thought there were considerable differences.”
Lesson eight or nine. Don’t argue. Remember the objective.
“Look, to tell you the truth, a rich couple in New York are paying my way here to bring back sketches. They were in Rio last summer. They rode around and spotted some great homes. They described them as Bavarian.”
“Those would be in the northwest countryside. There are several marvelous houses out there. The Eisenstat residence, for example; but then, I think they’re Jewish. There’s an odd mixture of Moorish, if you can believe it. And, of course, there’s the Graff mansion. That’s almost too much, but it’s really spectacular. To be expected, I imagine. Graff’s a millionaire many times over.”
“What’s the name again? Graff?”
“Maurice Graff. He’s an importer; but then, aren’t they all?”
“Who?”
r /> “Oh, come now, don’t be naive. If he wasn’t a general, or a muckedy-muck in the High Command, I’ll piss port wine.”
“You’re English.”
“I’m English.”
“But you work in a German bookstore.”
“Ich spreche gut Deutsch.”
“Couldn’t they find a German?”
“I suppose there are advantages hiring someone like myself,” said the Britisher cryptically.
Noel feigned surprise. “Really?”
“Yes,” replied the clerk, scaling another rung on the ladder. “No one asks me questions.”
The clerk watched the American leave and stepped quickly down from the ladder, sliding it across the shelf track with a shove of his hand. It was a gesture of accomplishment, of minor triumph. He walked rapidly down the book-lined aisle and turned so abruptly into an intersecting stack that he collided with a customer examining a volume of Goethe.
“Verzeihung,” said the clerk under his breath, not at all concerned.
“Schwesterchen,” said the man with the thick black-and-white eyebrows.
At the reference to his lack of masculinity, the clerk turned. “You!”
“The friends of Tinamou are never far away,” replied the man.
“You followed him?” asked the clerk.
“He never knew. Make your call.”
The Englishman continued on his way to the door of an office at the rear of the store. He went inside, picked up the telephone, and dialed. It was answered by the aide of the most powerful man in Rio.
“Senhor Graff’s residence. Good afternoon.”
“Our man at the hotel deserves a large tip,” said the clerk. “He was right. I insist on talking to Herr Graff. I did precisely as we agreed, and I did it superbly. I’ve no doubt he’ll be calling. Now, Herr Graff, please.”