The Holcroft Covenant (54 page)

The air filled her lungs. She picked up her suitcase and started for the doors of the Neuchâtel station. The village of Près-du-Lac was on the west side of the lake, no more than twenty miles south. She found a taxi driver willing to make the trip.

The ride was jarring and filled with turns, but it was like a calm, floating glide for her. She looked out the window at the rolling hills and the blue waters of the lake. The rich scenery had the effect of suspending everything. It gave her the precious moments she needed to try to understand. What had Heir Oberst meant when he wrote that he had arranged for her to be near him because he had believed she was “an arm of an enemy”? An enemy he had “waited thirty years to confront.” What enemy was that? And why had he chosen her?

What had she done? Or not done? Was it again the terrible dilemma? Damned for what she was and damned for what she wasn’t? When in God’s name would it
stop?

Herr Oberst knew he was going to die. He had prepared her for his death as surely as if he had announced it, making sure she had the money to buy secret passage to Switzerland, to a man named Werner Gerhardt in Neuchâtel. Who was he? What was he to Klaus Falkenheim that he was to be contacted only upon the latter’s death?

The coin of Wolfsschanze has two sides
.

The taxi driver interrupted her thoughts. “The inn’s down by the shoreline,” he said. “It’s not much of a hotel.”

“It will do, I’m sure.”

The room overlooked the waters of Lake Neuchâtel. It was so peaceful that Helden was tempted to sit at the window and do nothing but think about Noel, because when she thought about him, she felt … comfortable.
But there was a Werner Gerhardt to find. The telephone directory of Près-du-Lac had no such listing; God knew when it was last updated. But it was not a large village; she would begin casually with the concierge. Perhaps the name was familiar to him.

It was, but not in a way that gave her any confidence.

“Mad Gerhardt?” said the obese man, sitting in a wicker chair behind the counter. “You bring him greetings from old friends? You should bring him instead a potion to unscramble his doddering brains. He won’t understand a thing you say.”

“I didn’t know,” replied Helden, overwhelmed by a feeling of despair.

“See for yourself. It is midafternoon and the day is cool, but the sun is out. He’ll no doubt be in the square, singing his little songs and feeding the pigeons. They soil his clothes and he doesn’t notice.”

She saw him sitting on the stone ledge of the circular fountain in the village square. He was oblivious of the passersby who intermittently glanced down at him, more often in revulsion than in tolerance. His clothes were frayed, the tattered overcoat soiled with droppings, as the concierge had predicted. He was as old and as sickly as Herr Oberst, but much shorter and punier in face and body. His skin was pallid and drawn, marred by spider veins, and he wore thick steel-rimmed glasses that moved from side to side in rhythm with his trembling head. His hands shook as he reached into a paper bag, taking out bread crumbs and scattering them, attracting scores of pigeons that cooed in counterpoint to the high-pitched, singsong words that came from the old man’s lips.

Helden felt sick. He was only a remnant of a man. He was beyond senility; no other state could produce what she saw before her on the fountain’s edge.

The coin of Wolfsschanze has two sides. The time is near for the catastrophe to begin
.… It seemed pointless to repeat the words. Still, she’d come this far, knowing only that a great man had been butchered because his warning was real.

She approached the old man and sat beside him, aware that several people in the square looked at her as if she, too, were feebleminded. She spoke quietly, in German.

“Herr Gerhardt? I’ve traveled a long way to see you.”

“Such a pretty lady … a pretty, pretty lady.”

“I come from Herr Falkenheim. Do you remember him?”

“A falcon’s home? Falcons don’t like my pigeons. They hurt my pigeons. My friends and I don’t like them, do we, sweet feathers?” Gerhardt bent over and pursed his lips, kissing the air above the rapacious birds on the ground.

“You’d like this man, if you remembered him,” said Helden.

“How can I like what I don’t know? Would
you
like some bread? You can eat it, if you wish, but my friends might be hurt.” The old man sat up with difficulty and dropped crumbs at Helden’s feet.

“ ‘The coin of Wolfsschanze has two sides,’ ” whispered Helden.

And then she heard the words. There was no break in the rhythm; the quiet, high-pitched singsong was the same, but there was meaning now. “He’s dead, isn’t he?… Don’t answer me; just nod your head or shake it. You’re talking to a foolish old man who makes very little sense. Remember that.”

Helden was too stunned to move. And by her immobility, she gave the old man his answer. He continued in his singsong cadence. “Klaus is dead. So, finally, they found him and killed him.”

“It was the O
DESSA
,” she said. “The O
DESSA
killed him. There were swastikas everywhere.”

“Wolfsschanze wanted us to believe that.” Gerhardt threw crumbs in the air; the pigeons fought among themselves. “Here, sweet feathers! It’s teatime for you.” He turned to Helden, his eyes distant “The O
DESSA
, as always, is the scapegoat. Such an obvious one.”

“You say Wolfsschanze,” whispered Helden. “A letter was given to a man named Holcroft, threatening him. It was written thirty years ago, signed by men who called themselves the survivors of Wolfsschanze.”

For an instant, Gerhardt’s trembling stopped. “There were no survivors of Wolfsschanze, save one! Klaus Falkenheim. Others were there, and they lived, but they were not the eagles; they were filth. And now they think their time has come.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll explain it to you, but not here. After dark, come to my house on the lake. South on the waterfront road, precisely three kilometers beyond the fork, is a path.…” He gave her the directions as though they were words written to accompany a childish tune. When he had finished, he stood up painfully, tossing the last crumbs to the birds. “I don’t think you’ll be followed,” he said with a senile smile, “but make sure of it. We have work to do, and it must be done quickly.… Here, my sweet feathers! The last of your meal, my fluttering ones.”

A small single-engine plane circled in the night sky above the fiat pasture in Chambéry. Its pilot waited for the dual line of flares to be ignited: his signal to land. On the ground was another aircraft, a seaplane with wheels encased in its pontoons, prepared for departure. It would be airborne minutes after the first plane came to the end of the primitive runway, and would carry its valuable cargo north along the eastern leg of the Rhone River, crossing the Swiss border at Versoix, and landing on Lake Geneva, twelve miles north of the city. The cargo had no name, but that did not matter to the pilots. She had paid as well as the highest-priced narcotics courier.

Only once had she shown any emotion, and that was four minutes out of Avignon, toward Saint-Vallier, when the small plane had run into an unexpected and dangerous hailstorm.

“The weather may be too much for this light aircraft,” the pilot said. “It would be wiser to turn back.”

“Fly above it.”

“We haven’t the power, and we have no idea how extensive the front is.”

“Then go through it. I’m paying for a schedule as well as transportation. I must get to Geneva tonight.”

“If we’re forced down on the river, we could be picked up by the patrols. We have no flight registration.”

“If we’re forced down on the river, I’ll buy the patrols. They were bought at the border in Port-Bou; they can be bought again. Keep going.”

“And if we crash, madame?”

“Don’t.”

Below them in the darkness, the Chambéry flares were ignited successively, one row at a time. The pilot dipped his wing to the left and circled downward for his final approach. Seconds later they touched ground.

“You’re good,” said the valuable cargo, reaching for the buckle of her seat belt. “Is my next pilot your equal?”

“As good, madame, and with an advantage I don’t have. He knows the radar points within a tenth of an air mile in the darkness. One pays for such expertness.”

“Gladly,” replied Althene.

The seaplane lifted off against the night wind at exactly ten-fifty-seven. The flight across the border at Versoix would be made at very low altitude and would take very little time, no more than twenty minutes to a half hour. It was the specialist’s leg of the journey, and the specialist in the cockpit was a stocky man with a red beard and thinning red hair. He chewed a half-smoked cigar and spoke English in the harsh accent associated with Alsace-Lorraine. He said nothing for the first few minutes of the flight, but when he spoke, Althene was stunned.

“I don’t know what the merchandise is that you carry, madame, but there is an alert for your whereabouts throughout Europe.”

“
What?
Who put out this alert, and how would you know? My name hasn’t been mentioned; I was guaranteed that!”

“An all-Europe bulletin circulated by Interpol is most descriptive. It’s rare that the international police look for a woman of—shall we say—your age and appearance. I presume your name is Holcroft.”

“Presume nothing.” Althene gripped her seat belt, trying to control her reaction. She did not know why it startled her—the man of Har Sha’alav had said they were everywhere—but the fact that this Wolfsschanze had sufficient influence with Interpol to use its apparatus was unnerving. She had to elude not only the Nazis of Wolfs-schanze but also the network of legitimate law enforcement. It was a well-executed trap; her crimes were undeniable: traveling under a false passport, and then with none. And she could give no explanation for those crimes. To do so would link her son—the son of Heinrich Clausen—to a conspiracy so massive he’d be destroyed. That extremity had to be faced; her son might have to be sacrificed. But the irony was found in the very real possibility that Wolfsschanze itself had reached deep within the legitimate authorities.…
They were everywhere
.
Once taken, Wolfsschanze would kill her before she could say what she knew.

Death was acceptable; stilling her voice was not. She turned to the bearded pilot. “How do you know about this bulletin?”

The man shrugged. “How do I know about the radar vectors? You pay me; I pay others. There’s no such thing as a clear profit these days.”

“Does the bulletin say why this … old woman … is wanted?”

“It’s a strange alert, madame. It states clearly that she is traveling with false papers, but she is not to be picked up. Her whereabouts are to be reported to Interpol-Paris, where they will be relayed to New York.”

“New York?”

“That’s where the request originated. The police in New York, a detective-lieutenant named Miles.”

“Miles?” Althene frowned. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“Perhaps this woman has,” said the pilot, shifting the cigar in his mouth.

Althene closed her eyes. “How would you like to make a very clear profit?”

“I’m no communist; the word doesn’t offend me. How?”

“Hide me in Geneva. Help me reach someone.”

The pilot checked his panel, then banked to the right. “It will cost you.”

“I’ll pay,” she said.

Johann von Tiebolt paced the hotel suite, a graceful, angry animal, consumed. His audience was composed of the brothers Kessler; the first deputy of canton Genève had left minutes ago. The three were alone; the tension was apparent.

“She’s somewhere in Geneva,” said Von Tiebolt. “She
has
to be.”

“Obviously under an assumed name,” added Hans Kessler, his medical bag at his feet. “We’ll find her. It’s merely a question of fanning men out, after giving them a description. Our deputy has assured us it’s no problem.”

Von Tiebolt stopped his pacing. “No problem? I trust you and he have examined this ‘no problem.’ According to our deputy, the Geneva police report an Interpol bulletin on her. Quite simply, that means she’s traveled a minimum
of four thousand miles without being found. Four thousand miles through banks of computers, on aircraft crossing borders and landing with manifests, through at least two immigration points. And there’s nothing. Don’t fool yourself, Hans. She’s better than we thought she was.”

“Tomorrow’s Friday,” said Erich. “Holcroft is due tomorrow, and he’ll get in touch with us. When we have him, we have her.”

“He said he was staying at the d’Accord, but he has changed his mind. There is no reservation, and Mr. Fresca has checked out of the George Cinq.” Von Tiebolt stood by the window. “I don’t like it. Something’s wrong.”

Hans reached for his drink. “I think you’re overlooking the obvious.”

“What?”

“By Holcroft’s lights, a great deal is wrong. He thinks people are after him; he’ll be cautious, and he’ll travel cautiously. I’d be surprised if he did make a reservation in his own name.”

“I assumed the name would be Fresca, or a derivation I’d recognize,” said Von Tiebolt, dismissing the younger Kessler’s observation. “There’s nothing like it in any hotel in Geneva.”

“Is there a Tennyson,” asked Erich softly, “or anything like
it?
”

“Helden?” Johann turned.

“Helden.” The older Kessler nodded. “She was with him in Paris. It’s to be assumed she’s helping him; you even suggested it.”

Von Tiebolt stood motionless. “Helden and her filthy, wandering outcasts are preoccupied at the moment. They’re scouring the O
DESSA
for the killers of Herr Oberst.”

“Falkenheim?”
Hans sat forward. “Falkenheim’s
dead?
”

“Falkenheim was the leader of the Nachrichtendienst—the last functioning member, to be precise. With his death, Wolfsschanze is unopposed. His army of Jews will be headless; what little they know, buried with
their
leaders.”

“Jews? With Nachrichtendienst?” Erich was exasperated. “What in God’s name are you
talking
about?”