The Holcroft Covenant (15 page)

“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.”

“Helden? It’s an odd name.”

“It fits her,” said Cararra’s sister softly.

“The story is that her birth certificate was filled out by a doctor who did not speak German, who did not understand the mother. According to Senhora von Tiebolt, she gave the child’s name as ‘Helga,’ but the hospital staff was rushed. They wrote down ‘Helden.’ In those days, one did not argue with what was written on papers. The name stayed with her.”

“Tennyson, Beaumont.…” Holcroft repeated the names. “England? How did they get out of Brazil and over to England without Graff finding out? You say the Germans have influence. Passports were needed; transportation had to be arranged. How did they do it?”

“Johann … John … he’s a remarkable man, a brilliant man.”

“
A homen talentoso
,” added his sister, her strained features softening with the words. “I love him very much. After five years we still love each other.”

“Then you’ve heard from him? From them?”

“Every now and then,” said Cararra. “Visitors from England get in touch with us. Never anything written on paper.”

Noel stared at this man riddled with fear. “What kind of world do you live in?” he asked incredulously.

“One where your own life can be taken,” answered Cararra.

It was true, thought Noel, as a knot of pain formed in his stomach. A war that was lost thirty years ago was still being fought by those who had lost it. It had to be stopped.

“Mr. Holcroft?” The greeting was tentative, the stranger standing by the table not sure he had the right party.

“Yes, I’m Holcroft,” said Noel warily.

“Anderson, American Embassy, sir. May I speak with you?”

The Cararras rose as one from the table and sidestepped out of the booth. The embassy man stepped back as Cararra approached Holcroft.

Cararra whispered, “
Adeus, senhor
.”

“
Adeus
,” the woman whispered also, reaching out to touch Noel’s arm.

Without looking at the man from the embassy, brother and sister walked rapidly out of the lounge.

*  *  *

Holcroft sat beside Anderson in the embassy car. They had less than an hour to get to the airport; if the ride took any longer, he would miss the Avianca flight to Lisbon, where he could transfer to a British Airways plane for London.

Anderson had agreed—reluctantly, petulantly—to drive him.

“If it’ll get you out of Rio,” Anderson had drawled, “I’ll go like a greased pig in a slaughterhouse and pay the speeding tickets from my per diem. You’re trouble.”

Noel grimaced. “You don’t believe a word I’ve said, do you?”

“Goddamn it, Holcroft, do I have to tell you again? There’s no car at the hotel; no window’s been blown out. There’s no record of your even renting a car!”

“It was there! I rented it! I saw Graff!”

“You
called
him. You didn’t
see
him. To repeat, he says he got a call from you—something about looking at his house—but you never showed up.”

“That’s a lie! I was there! After I left, two men tried to kill me. One of them I saw … hell, I
fought
with … inside his place!”

“You’re juiced, man.”

“Graff’s a fucking Nazi! After thirty years, he’s
still
a Nazi, and you people treat him like he’s some kind of statesman.”

“You’re damn right,” said Anderson. “Graff’s very special material. He’s protected.”

“I wouldn’t brag about it.”

“You’ve got it all backward, Holcroft. Graff was at a place called Wolfsschanze in Germany in July in 1944. He’s one of the men who tried to kill Hitler.”

There was no blinding sunlight outside his hotel window now; no golden, oiled bodies of grown-up children playing in the white sands of the Copacabana. Instead, the London streets were mottled with drizzle, and gusts of wind swept between the buildings and through the alleys. Pedestrians rushed from doorways to bus queues, train stations, pubs. It was that hour in London when Englishmen felt sprung from the coils of daylight drudgery; making a living was not living. In Noel’s experience no other city in the world took such pleasure at the end of the workday. There was a sense of controlled exhilaration in the streets, even with the rain and the wind.

He turned from the window and went to the bureau and his silver flask. It had taken nearly fifteen hours of flying to reach London, and now that he was here, he was not sure how to proceed. He had tried to think on the planes, but the events in Rio de Janeiro were so stunning, and the information gathered so contradictory, that he felt lost in a maze. His unfamiliar forest was too dense. And he had just begun.

Graff, a survivor of Wolfsschanze? One of the
men of Wolfsschanze?
It wasn’t possible. The men of Wolfsschanze were committed to Geneva, to the fulfillment of Heinrich Clausen’s dream, and the Von Tiebolts were an integral part of that dream. Graff wanted to destroy the Von Tiebolts, as he had ordered the death of Heinrich Clausen’s son on a deserted lookout above Rio and from a car window in a city street at night. He was no part of Wolfsschanze. He could not be.

The Cararras. They were complicated, too. What in heaven’s name prevented them from leaving Brazil? It was not as though the airports or the piers were closed to them. He believed what they had told him, but there were
too many elementary questions that needed answers. No matter how he tried to suppress the idea, there was something contrived about the Cararras. What
was
it?

Noel poured himself a drink and picked up the telephone. He had a name and a place of work: John Tennyson; the
Guardian
. Newspaper offices did not close down at the end of the day. He would know in minutes if the initial information given him by the Cararras was true. If there was a John Tennyson writing for the
Guardian
, then Johann von Tiebolt had been found.

If so, the next step according to the Geneva document was for John Tennyson to take him to his sister Gretchen Beaumont, wife of Commander Beaumont, Royal Navy. She was the person he had to see; she was the oldest surviving issue of Wilhelm von Tiebolt. The key.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Holcroft,” said the polite voice over the phone at the
Guardian
’s news desk, “but I’m afraid we can’t give out the addresses or telephone numbers of our journalists.”

“But John Tennyson does work for you.” It was not a question; the man had already stated that Tennyson was not in the London office. Holcroft merely wanted a direct confirmation.

“Mr. Tennyson is one of our people on the Continent.”

“How can I get a message to him? Immediately. It’s urgent.”

The man at the desk seemed to hesitate. “That would be difficult, I think. Mr. Tennyson moves around a great deal.”

“Come on, I can go downstairs, buy your paper, and see where his copy’s filed from.”

“Yes, of course. Except that Mr. Tennyson does not use a byline. Not in daily dispatches; only in major retrospectives.…”

“How do
you
get in touch with him when you need him?” broke in Holcroft, convinced the man was stalling.

Again there was the hesitation, a clearing of the throat
Why?
“Well … there’s a message pool. It could take several days.”

“I don’t
have
several days. I’ve got to reach him right away.” The subsequent silence was maddening. The man at the
Guardian
had no intention of offering a solution.
Noel tried another trick. “Listen, I probably shouldn’t say this … it’s a confidential matter … but there’s money involved. Mr. Tennyson and his family were left a sum of money.”

“I wasn’t aware that he was married.”

“I mean
his
family. He and his two sisters. Do you know them? Do you know if they live in London? The oldest is—”

“I know nothing of Mr. Tennyson’s personal life, sir. I suggest you get in touch with a solicitor.” Then, without warning, he hung up.

Bewildered, Holcroft replaced the phone. Why such a deliberate lack of cooperation? He had identified himself, given the name of his hotel, and for several moments the man at the
Guardian
seemed to listen, as if he might offer help. But no offers came, and suddenly the man had ended their conversation. It was all very strange.

The telephone rang; he was further bewildered. No one knew he was at this hotel. On the immigration card he’d filled out on the phone he had purposely listed the Dorchester as his London residence, not the Belgravia Arms, where he was staying. He did not want anyone—especially anyone from Rio de Janeiro—to be able to trace his whereabouts. He picked up the receiver, trying to suppress the pain in his stomach.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Holcroft, this is the front desk, sir. We’ve just learned that your courtesy basket was not delivered in time. We’re dreadfully sorry. Will you be in your room for a while, sir?”

For God’s sake, thought Noel. Millions upon millions were being held in Geneva, and a desk clerk was concerned about a basket of fruit. “Yes, I’ll be here.”

“Very good, sir. The steward will be there shortly.”

Holcroft replaced the phone, the pain in his stomach subsiding. His eyes fell on the telephone directories on the bottom shelf of the bedside table. He picked one up and turned the pages to the letter
T
.

There was an inch and a half of Tennysons, about fifteen names, no John but three
J
’s. He’d start with those. He lifted up the phone and made the first call.

“Hello, John?”

The man on the line was Julian. The other two
J
’s were women. There was a Helen Tennyson, no Helden. He
dialed the number. An operator told him the phone was disconnected.

He turned to the directory with the letter
B
. There were six Beaumonts in London, none indicating any rank or affiliation with the Royal Navy. But there was nothing to lose; he picked up the phone and started dialing.

Before he finished the fourth call, there was a knock at the door; his basket of English courtesy had arrived. He swore at the interruption; put the phone down, and walked to the door, reaching into his pocket for some change.