The Holcroft Covenant (53 page)

Althene had seen the pain and the anger in the dark eyes that held her at bay as surely as if a weapon had been leveled at her. In desperation, she had demanded that he tell her what he thought he knew.

He had told her that extraordinary sums were to be funneled to committees and causes throughout all nations. To men and women who had been waiting for thirty years for the signal.

There would be killing and disruption and conflagrations in the streets; governments would be bewildered, their agencies crippled. The cries for stability and order would be heard across the lands. Strong men and women with massive sums at their disposal would then assert themselves. Within months control would be theirs.

They were everywhere. In all countries, awaiting only the signal from Geneva.

Who were they?

The
Sonnenkinder
. The children of fanatics, sent out of Germany more than thirty years ago by plane and ship and submarine. Sent out by men who knew their cause was lost—but believed that cause could live again.

They were everywhere. They could not be fought by ordinary men in ordinary ways through ordinary channels of authority. In too many instances the
Sonnenkinder
controlled those channels. But the Jews of Har Sha’alav were not ordinary men; nor did they fight in ordinary
ways. They understood that to stop the false Wolfsschanze, they had to fight secretly, violently, never allowing the
Sonnenkinder
to know where they were—or where they would strike next. And the first order of business was to stop the massive infusion of funds.

Expose them now!

Who? Where? What are their identities? How will proof be furnished? Who can say this general or that admiral, this chief of police or that corporation president, this justice or that senator, Congressman, or governor is a Sonnenkind?
Men run for office espousing clichés wrapped in code words, appealing to hatreds, and still they are not suspect. Instead, crowds cheer them and wave flags and put emblems in their lapels.

They are everywhere. The Nazi is among us and we don’t see him. He is cloaked in respectability and a pressed suit of clothes
.

The Jew of Har Sha’alav had spoken passionately. “Even you, old woman. You and your son, instruments of the new Reich. Even you do not know who they are.”

I know nothing. I swear on my life I know nothing. I’m not what you think I am. Kill me. For God’s sake, kill me. Now! Take your vengeance out on me. You deserve that and so do I if what you say is true. But I implore you, reach my son. Take him. Explain to him. Stop him! Don’t kill him; don’t brand him. He’s not what you think he is. Give him his life. Take mine, but give him his!

The Jew of Har Sha’alav had spoken. “Richard Holcroft was killed. It was no accident.”

She had nearly collapsed, but she would not allow herself to fall. She could not permit the momentary oblivion that would have been so welcome.

Oh, my God
.…

“Wolfsschanze killed him. The false Wolfsschanze. As surely as if they had marched him into a chamber at Auschwitz.”

What is Wolfsschanze? Why do you call it false?

“Learn for yourself. We’ll talk again. If you’ve lied, well kill you. Your son will live—for as long as the world lets him—but he will live with a swastika across his face.”

Reach him. Tell him
.

The man from Har Sha’alav left. Althene sat in a chair by the window, staring out at the snow-covered
grounds throughout the night. Her beloved Richard, the husband who had given her and her son their lives again.… What had she done?

But she knew what to do now.

The plane touched ground, the impact pushing Althene’s reveries out of her mind, bringing her back to the moment at hand. To Lisbon.

She stood at the railing of the ferry, the waters of the Tagus River slapping against the hull as the old ship made its way across the bay. In her left hand was a lace handkerchief, fluttering in the wind.

She thought she saw him but, as instructed, made no move until he approached her. She had never seen him before, of course, but that was not important. He was an old man in rumpled clothes, with heavy gray sideburns that met the stubble of a white beard. His eyes searched the passengers as if he were afraid one of them might yell for the police. He was the man; he stood behind her.

“The river looks cold today,” he said.

The lace handkerchief flew away in the wind. “Oh, dear, I’ve lost it.” Althene watched it plummet into the water.

“You’ve found it,” said the man.

“Thank you.”

“Please do not look at me. Look at the skyline across the lagoon.”

“Very well,”

“You spread money too generously, senhora,” the man said.

“I’m in a great hurry.”

“You bring up names so long in the past there are no faces. Requests that have not been made in years.”

“I can’t believe times have changed that much.”

“Oh, but they have, senhora. Men and women still travel secretly, but not with such simple devices as doctored passports. It’s the age of the computer. False papers are not what they once were. We go back to the war. To the escape routes.”

“I have to
get
to Geneva as quickly as possible. No one must know I’m there.”

“You’ll get to Geneva, senhora, and only those you inform will know you’re there. But it will not be as quickly
as you wish; it will not be a matter of a single flight on an airline.”

“How long?”

“Two or three days. Otherwise there are no guarantees. You’ll be picked up, either by the authorities or by those you care to avoid.”

“How do I get there?”

“Across borders that are unpatrolled, or where the guards can be bribed. The northern route. Sierra de Gata, across to Zaragoza, on the eastern Pyrénées. From there to Montpellier and Avignon. At Avignon a small plane will take you to Grenoble, another to Chambéry and to Genève. It will cost.”

“I can pay. When do we start?”

“Tonight.”

The blond man signed the Hôtel d’Accord registration card and handed it to the desk clerk.

“Thank you, Mr. Tennyson. You’ll be staying fourteen days?”

“Perhaps longer, certainly no less. I appreciate your making a suite available.”

The clerk smiled. “We received a call from your friend, the first deputy of canton Genève. We assured him we would do everything to make your stay pleasant.”

“I’ll inform him of my complete satisfaction.”

“You’re most kind.”

“Incidentally, I’m expecting to meet an old friend here during the next few days. A Mrs. Holcroft. Could you tell me when she’s expected?”

The clerk took up a ledger and thumbed through the pages. “Did you say the name was Holcroft?”

“Yes. Althene Holcroft. An American. You might also have a reservation for her son, Mr. N. Holcroft.”

“I’m afraid we have no reservations in that name, sir. And I know there’s no one named Holcroft presently a guest.”

The muscles of the blond man’s jaw tensed. “Surely an error has been made. My information is accurate. She’s expected at this hotel. Perhaps not this evening, but certainly tomorrow or the day after. Please check again. Is there a confidential listing?”

“No, sir.”

“If there were, I’m quite certain my friend, the first deputy, would ask you to let me see it.”

“If there were, that wouldn’t be necessary, Mr. Tennyson. We understood fully that we are to cooperate with you in all requests.”

“Perhaps she’s traveling incognito. She’s been known to be eccentric that way.”

The clerk turned the ledger around. “Please, look for yourself, sir. It’s possible you’ll recognize a name.”

Tennyson did not. It was infuriating. “This is the complete list?” he asked again.

“Yes, sir. We are a small and, if I may say, rather exclusive hotel. Most of our guests have been here previously. I’m familiar with nearly every one of those names.”

“Which ones aren’t you familiar with?” pressed the blond man.

The clerk placed his finger on two. “These are the only names I don’t know,” he said. “The gentlemen from Germany, two brothers named Kessler, and a Sir William Ellis, from London. The last was made only hours ago.”

Tennyson looked pointedly at the desk clerk. “I’m going to my rooms, but I need to ask you for an example of that cooperation the first deputy spoke of. It’s most urgent that I find out where Mrs. Holcroft is staying in Geneva. I’d appreciate your calling the various hotels, but under no circumstances should my name be mentioned.” He took out a one-hundred-franc note. “Locate her for me,” he said.

By midnight Noel reached Châtillon-sur-Seine, where he made the phone call to an astonished Ellis in London.

“You’ll do
what?
” Ellis said.

“You heard me, Willie. I’ll pay you five hundred dollars and your expenses for one, maybe two days in Geneva. All I want you to do is take my mother back to London.”

“I’m a dreadful nanny. And from what you’ve told me about your mother, she’s the last person in the world who needs a traveling companion.”

“She does now. Someone was following her. I’ll tell you about it when I see you in Geneva. How about it, Willie? Will you do it?”

“Of course. But stuff your five hundred. I’m sure your mother and I will have far more in common than we ever did. You may, however, pick up the tabs. I travel well, as you know.”

“While we’re on the subject, travel with a little cool, will you, please? I want you to call the Hôtel d’Accord in Geneva and make a reservation for late this morning. The first plane should get you there by nine-thirty.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior, befitting Louis Vuitton luggage. Perhaps a minor title.…”

“Willie!”

“I know the Swiss better than you. They adore titles; they reek of money, and money’s their mistress.”

“I’ll phone you around ten, ten-thirty. I want to use your room until I know what’s going on.”

“That’s extra,” said Willie Ellis. “See you in Geneva.”

Holcroft had decided to call on Willie because there was no one else he could think of who would not ask questions. Ellis was not the outrageous fool he pretended to be. Althene could do far worse for an escort out of Switzerland.

And she had to get out. The covenant’s enemy had killed her husband; it would kill her, too. Because Geneva was where it was going to happen. In two or three days a meeting would take place, and papers would be signed, and money would be transferred to Zurich. The covenant’s enemy would try everything to abort those negotiations. His mother could not stay in Geneva. There would be violence in Geneva; he could feel it.

He drove south to Dijon, arriving well after midnight. The small city was asleep, and as he passed through the dark streets, he knew he needed sleep, too; tomorrow he had to be alert. More alert than he had ever been in his life. He continued driving until he was back in the countryside and stopped the rented car on the side of a road. He smoked a cigarette, then crushed it out and put his feet on the seat his head against the window, cushioned by his raincoat.

In a few hours he’d be at the border, crossing into Switzerland with the first wave of morning traffic. Once in Switzerland … He couldn’t think anymore. The mist was closing in on him; his breathing was low and heavy. And then the face appeared, strong, angular, so unfamiliar yet so recognizable to him now.

It was the face of Heinrich Clausen, and he was calling to him, telling him to hurry. The agony would be over soon; amends would be made.

He slept.

Erich Kessler watched as his younger brother, Hans, showed the airline security officer his medical bag. Since the Olympics of ’72, when the Palestinians were presumed
to have flown into Munich with dismantled rifles and submachine guns, the airport’s security measures had tripled.

It was a wasted effort, mused Erich. The Palestinians’ weapons had been brought to Munich by Wolfsschanze—
their
Wolfsschanze.

Hans laughed with the airline official, sharing a joke, But, thought Erich, there would be no such jokes in Geneva, for there would be no inspection by the airlines or by customs or by anyone else. The first deputy of canton Genève would see to it. One of Munich’s most highly regarded doctors, a specialist in internal medicine, was arriving as his guest.

Hans was all that and more, thought Erich, as his brother approached him at the gate. Hans was a medium-sized bull with enormous charm. A superb soccer player who captained his district team and later ministered to the opponents he had injured.

It was odd, thought Erich, but Hans was far better equipped than he to be the elder son. Save for the accident of time, it would have been Hans who worked with Johann von Tiebolt, and Erich, the quiet scholar, would have been the subordinate. Once, in a moment of self-doubt, he had said as much to Johann.

Von Tiebolt would not hear of it. A pure intellectual was demanded. A man who lived a bloodless life—someone never swayed by reasons of the heart, by intemperance. Had that not been proved by those infrequent but vital moments when he—the quiet scholar—had stood up to the Tinamou and stated his reservations? Reservations that resulted in a change of strategy?

Yes, it was true, but it was not the essential truth. That truth was something Johann did not care to face: Hans was nearly Von Tiebolt’s equal. If they clashed, Johann might die.

That was the opinion of the quiet, bloodless intellectual.

“Everything proceeds,” said Hans, as they walked through the gate to the plane. “The American is as good as dead, and no laboratory will trace the cause.”

Helden got off the train at Neuchâtel. She stood on the platform, adjusting her eyes to the shafts of sunlight that shot down from the roof of the railroad station.
She knew she should mingle with the crowds that scrambled off the train, but for a moment she had to stand still and breathe the air. She had spent the past three hours in the darkness of a freight car, crouched behind crates of machinery. A door had been opened electronically for precisely sixty seconds at Besançon, and she had gone inside. At exactly five minutes to noon the door was opened again; she had reached Neuchâtel unseen. Her legs ached and her head pounded, but she made it. It had cost a great deal of money.