The Holcroft Covenant (2 page)

“Come in, Herr Holcroft,” said Manfredi, smiling. Then his expression changed abruptly; the smile disappeared. “Do forgive me. I should say
Mister
Holcroft. The
Herr
may be offensive to you. My apologies.”

“None necessary,” replied Noel, stepping into the well-appointed compartment. There was a table, two chairs, no bed in evidence. The walls were wood-paneled; dark-red velvet curtains covered the windows, muffling the sounds of the figures rushing by outside. On the table was a small lamp with a fringed shade.

“We have about twenty-five minutes before departure,” the banker said. “It should be adequate. And don’t be concerned—we’ll be given ample warning. The train won’t start until you’ve disembarked. You’ll not have to travel to Zurich.”

“I’ve never been there.”

“I trust that win be changed,” said the banker enigmatically, gesturing for Holcroft to sit opposite him at the table.

“I wouldn’t count on it.” Noel sat down, unbuttoning his raincoat but not removing it.

“I’m sorry, that was presumptuous of me.” Manfredi took his seat and leaned back in the chair. “I must apologize once again. I’ll need your identification. Your passport, please. And your international driver’s license. Also, whatever documents you have on your person that describe physical markings, vaccinations, that sort of thing.”

Holcroft felt a rush of anger. The inconvenience to his life aside, he disliked the banker’s patronizing attitude. “Why should I? You know who I am. You wouldn’t have opened that door if you didn’t. You probably have more photographs, more information on me, than the State Department.”

“Indulge an old man, sir,” said the banker, shrugging in self-deprecation, his charm on display. “It will be made clear to you.”

Reluctantly, Noel reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew the leather case that contained his passport, health certificate, international license, and two A.I.A. letters that stated his qualifications as an architect. He handed the case to Manfredi. “It’s all there. Help yourself.”

With seemingly greater reluctance, the banker opened the case. “I feel as though I’m prying, but I think …”

“You should,” interrupted Holcroft. “I didn’t ask for this meeting. Frankly, it comes at a very inconvenient time. I want to get back to New York as soon as possible.”

“Yes. Yes, I understand,” said the Swiss quietly, perusing the documents. “Tell me, what was the first architectural commission you undertook outside the United States?”

Noel suppressed his irritation. He had come this far; there was no point in refusing to answer. “Mexico,” he replied. “For the Alvarez hotel chain, north of Puerto Vallarta.”

“The second?”

“Costa Rica. For the government. A postal complex in 1973.”

“What was the gross income of your firm in New York last year? Without adjustments.”

“None of your damned business.”

“I assure you, we know.”

Holcroft shook his head in angry resignation. “A hundred and seventy-three thousand dollars and change.”

“Considering office rental, salaries, equipment and expenses, that’s not an altogether impressive figure, is it?” asked Manfredi, his eyes still on the papers in his hands.

“It’s my own company and the staff is small. I have no partners, no wife, no heavy debts. It could be worse.”

“It could be better,” said the banker, looking up at Holcroft. “Especially for one so talented.”

“It could be better.”

“Yes, I thought as much,” continued the Swiss, putting the various papers back in the leather case and handing it to Noel. He leaned forward. “Do you know who your father was?”

“I know who my father
is
. Legally, he’s Richard Holcroft, of New York, my mother’s husband. He’s very much alive.”

“And retired,” completed Manfredi. “A fellow banker, but hardly a banker in the Swiss tradition.”

“He was respected.
Is
respected.”

“For his family’s money or for his professional acumen?”

“Both, I’d say. I love him. If you have reservations, keep them to yourself.”

“You’re very loyal; that’s a quality. I admire. Holcroft came along when your mother—an incredible woman, incidentally—was most despondent. But we split definitions. Holcroft is once removed. I referred to your natural father.”

“Obviously.”

“Thirty years ago, Heinrich Clausen made certain arrangements. He traveled frequently between Berlin, Zurich, and Geneva, beyond official scrutiny, of course. A document was prepared that we as”—Manfredi paused and smiled—“…  as biased neutrals could not oppose. Attached to the document is a letter, written by Clausen in April of 1945. It is addressed to you. His son.” The banker reached for a thick manila envelope on the table.

“Just a minute,” said Noel. “Did those certain arrangements concern money?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not interested. Give it to charity. He owed it.”

“You may not feel that way when you’ve heard the amount.”

“What is it?”

“Seven hundred and eighty million dollars.”

Holcroft stared at the banker in disbelief; the blood drained from his head. Outside, the sounds of the huge station were a cacophony of muted chords, barely penetrating the thick walls of the car.

“Don’t try to absorb it all at once,” said Manfredi, placing the letter to one side. “There are conditions, none of them, incidentally, offensive. At least, none we’re aware of.”

“Conditions?…” Holcroft knew he could hardly be heard; he tried to find his voice. “What conditions?”

“They’re spelled out very clearly. These vast sums are to be channeled into a great good for people everywhere. And, of course, there are certain benefits to yourself personally.”

“What do you mean there’s nothing offensive that you’re … ‘aware of’?”

The banker’s magnified eyes blinked behind his glasses; he looked away briefly, his expression troubled. He reached into his brown leather briefcase, which lay at the corner of the table, and pulled out a long, thin envelope with curious markings on the back side; they were a series of four circles and appeared to be four dark coins affixed to the border of the flap.

Manfredi held the envelope across the table, under the light. The dark circles were not coins but waxed seals. All were intact.

“Following the instructions given to us thirty years ago, this envelope—unlike your father’s letter here—was not to be opened by directors in Geneva. It is separate from the document we prepared, and to the best of our knowledge, Clausen was never aware of it. His own words to you would tend to confirm that. It was brought to us within hours after the courier delivered your
father’s letter, which was to be our final communication from Berlin.”

“What is it?”

“We don’t know. We were told it was written by several men aware of your father’s activities. Who believed in his cause with great fervor; who considered him in many ways a true martyr of Germany. We were instructed to give it to you with the seals unbroken. You were to read it before you saw your father’s letter.” Manfredi turned the envelope over. There was writing on the front side. The words were in German and written by hand. “You are to sign below, so to state that you received it in the proper condition.”

Noel took the envelope and read the words he could not understand.

“What does it say?”

“That you’ve examined the seals and are satisfied.”

“How can I be sure?”

“Young man, you’re talking with a director of La Grande Banque de Genève.” The Swiss did not raise his voice but the rebuke was clear. “You have my word. And, in any event, what difference does it make?”

None, reasoned Holcroft, yet the obvious question bothered him. “If I sign the envelope, what do you do with it?”

Manfredi was silent for several moments, as if deciding whether or not to answer. He removed his glasses, took a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, and cleaned them. Finally he replied. “That is privileged information.…”

“So’s my signature,” interrupted Noel. “Privileged, that is.”

“Let me finish,” protested the banker, putting back his glasses. “I was about to say it was privileged information that can’t possibly be relevant any longer. Not after so many years. The envelope is to be sent to a post-office box in Sesimbra, Portugal. It is south of Lisbon, on the Cape of Espichel.”

“Why isn’t it relevant?”

Manfredi held up the palms of his hands. “The post-office
box no longer exists. The envelope will find its way to a dead-letter office and eventually be returned to us.”

“You’re sure?”

“I believe it, yes.”

Noel reached into his pocket for his pen, turning the envelope over to look once again at the waxed seals. They had not been tampered with; and, thought Holcroft, what difference
did
it make? He placed the envelope in front of him and signed his name.

Manfredi held up his hand. “You understand, whatever is contained in that envelope can have no bearing on our participation in the document prepared by La Grande Banque de Genève. We were not consulted; nor were we apprised of the contents.”

“You sound worried. I thought you said it didn’t make any difference. It was too long ago.”

“Fanatics always worry me, Mr. Holcroft. Time and consequence cannot alter that judgment. It’s a banker’s caution.”

Noel began cracking the wax; it had hardened over the years and took considerable force before it fell away. He tore the flap open, removed the single page, and unfolded it.

The paper was brittle with age; the white had turned to a pale brownish yellow. The writing was in English, the letters printed in an odd block lettering that was Germanic in style. The ink was faded but legible. Holcroft looked at the bottom of the page for a signature. There was none. He started reading.

The message was macabre, born in desperation thirty years ago. It was as though unbalanced men had sat in a darkened room, studying shadows on the wall for signs of the future, studying a man and a life not yet formed.

Noel shoved the chair back and stood up.
“What the hell is this?”

“I’ve no idea,” replied Manfredi quietly, his voice calm but his large, cold blue eyes conveying his alarm. “I told you we were not apprised.…”

“Well,
get
apprised!” shouted Holcroft. “Read it! Who
were
these clowns? Certifiable
lunatics
?”

The banker began reading. Without looking up, he answered softly. “First cousins to lunatics. Men who’d lost hope.”

“What’s
Wolfsschanze?
What does it mean?”

“It was the name of Hitler’s staff headquarters in East Prussia, where the attempt to assassinate him took place. It was a conspiracy of the generals: Von Stauffenberg, Kluge, Höpner—they were all implicated. All shot. Rommel took his own life.”

Holcroft stared at the paper in Manfredi’s hands. “You mean it was written thirty years ago by people like that?”

The banker nodded, his eyes narrowed in astonishment. “Yes, but it’s not the language one might have expected of them. This is nothing short of a threat; it’s unreasonable.
Those men were not unreasonable. On the other hand, the times
were
unreasonable. Decent men, brave men, were stretched beyond the parameters of sanity. They were living through a hell none of us can picture today.”

“Decent men?” asked Noel incredulously.

“Have you any idea what it meant to be a part of the Wolfsschanze conspiracy? A bloodbath followed, thousands massacred everywhere, the vast majority never having heard of Wolfsschanze. It was yet another final solution, an excuse to still all dissent throughout Germany. What began as an act to rid the world of a madman ended in a holocaust all its own. The survivors of Wolfsschanze saw that happen.”

“Those survivors,” replied Holcroft, “followed that madman for a long time.”

“You must understand. And you will. These were desperate men. They were caught in a trap, and for them it was cataclysmic. A world they had helped create was revealed not to be the world they envisioned. Horrors they never dreamed of were uncovered, yet they couldn’t avoid their responsibility for them. They were appalled at what they saw but couldn’t deny the roles they played.”

“The well-intentioned Nazi,” said Noel. “I’ve heard of that elusive breed.”

“One would have to go back in history, to the economic disasters, to the Versailles Treaty, the Pact of Locarno, the Bolshevik encroachments—to a dozen different forces—to understand.”

“I understand what I just read,” Holcroft said. “Your poor misunderstood storm troopers didn’t hesitate to threaten someone they couldn’t know! ‘He will have no life … no one spared … family, friends, children.’ That spells out murder. Don’t talk to me about well-intentioned killers.”

“They’re the words of old, sick, desperate men. They have no meaning now. It was their way of expressing their own anguish, of seeking atonement. They’re gone. Leave them in peace. Read your father’s letter …”