The Holcroft Covenant (58 page)

Johann turned back to the older Kessler. “You’ll stay here, Erich. Holcroft will start calling soon, but he won’t identify himself until he recognizes your voice. Be solicitons;
be concerned. Say I reached you in Berlin and asked you to get here early, that I tried to call
him
in Paris, but he’d gone. Then tell him that we’re both shocked at what happened here this afternoon. The man who was killed had been asking about him; we’re both concerned for his safety. He must
not
be seen at the d’Accord.”

“I could say that someone fitting his description was seen leaving by the service entrance,” added the scholar. “He was in a state of shock; he’ll accept that. It will add to his panic.”

“Excellent. Meet him and take him to the Excelsior. Register under the name of”—the blond man thought for a moment—“under the name of Fresca. If he has any lingering doubts, that will convince him. He never used the name with you; hell know we’ve met and talked.”

“Fine,” said Erich. “And at the Excelsior, I’ll explain that because of everything that’s happened, you reached the bank’s directors and set up the conference for tomorrow morning. The quicker it’s over, the quicker we can get to Zurich and set up proper security measures.”

“Excellent again, Herr Professor. Come, Hans,” Von Tiebolt said, “I’ll help you.”

“It’s not necessary,” said the bull of Munich’s district soccer, his expression belying his words. “Just get my bag.”

“Of course.” Von Tiebolt picked up the physician’s leather case. “I’m fascinated. You must tell me what you intend to inject. Remember, we want a death, but not a killing.”

“Don’t worry,” Hans said. “Everything’s clearly coded. There’ll be no mistakes.”

“After our meeting with the Holcroft woman,” said Von Tiebolt, draping an overcoat over Hans’s shoulders, “we’ll decide where Hans should stay tonight. Perhaps at the deputy’s house.”

“Good idea,” agreed the scholar. “The doctor would be available.”

“I don’t
need
him,” argued Hans, his breath escaping between clenched teeth, his walk hesitant and painful. “I could have sewn myself up; he’s not very good.
Auf wiedersehen
, Erich.”

“
Auf wiedersehen
.”

Von Tiebolt opened the door, looked back at Erich,
and escorted the wounded Hans out into the corridor. “You say each vial is coded?”

“Yes. For the woman, the serum will accelerate her heart to the point …”

The door closed. The older Kessler shifted his bulk in the chair. It was the way of Wolfsschanze; there was no other decision. The physician who had tended Hans made it clear that there was internal bleeding; the organs had been severely damaged, as if torn by claws possessing extraordinary strength. Unless Hans were taken to the hospital, he could easily die. But his brother could not be admitted to a hospital; questions would be asked. A man had been killed that afternoon at the d’Accord; the wounded patient had been at the d’Accord. Too many questions. Besides, Hans’s contributions were in the black leather case Johann carried. The Tinamou would learn everything they had to know. Hans Kessler,
Sonnenkind
, was no longer needed; he was a liability.

The telephone rang. Kessler picked it up.

“Erich?”

It was Holcroft.

“Yes?”

“I’m in Geneva. You got here early; I thought I’d try.”

“Yes, Von Tiebolt called me this morning in Berlin; he tried to reach you in Paris. He suggested—”

“Has he arrived?” interrupted the American.

“Yes. He’s out making the final arrangements for tomorrow. We’ve got a great deal to tell you.”

“And I’ve got a great deal to tell
you
,” said Holcroft. “Do you know what’s happened?”

“Yes, it’s horrible.” Where was the panic? Where was the anxiety of a man stretched to the limit of his capacities? The voice on the phone was not that of someone drowning, grasping for a lifeline. “He was a friend of yours. They say he asked for you.”

There was a pause. “He asked for my mother.”

“I didn’t understand. We know only that he used the name Holcroft.”

“What does
Nach … Nach-rich
… I can’t pronounce it.”

“ ‘Nachrichtendienst’?”

“Yes. What does it mean?”

Kessler was startled. The American was in control of himself; it was not to be expected. “What can I tell you? It’s Geneva’s enemy.”

“That’s what Von Tiebolt found out in London?”

“Yes. Where are you, Noel? I must see you, but you can’t come here.”

“I know that. Listen to me. Do you have money?”

“Some.”

“A thousand Swiss francs?”

“A thousand?… Yes, I imagine so.”

“Go downstairs to the front desk and talk to the desk clerk privately. Get his name and give him the money. Tell him it’s for me and that I’ll be calling him in a few minutes.”

“But how—”

“Let me finish. After you pay and get his name, go to the pay telephones near the elevators. Stand by the one on the left toward the entrance. When it rings, pick it up. It’ll be me.”

“How do you know the number?”

“I paid someone to go inside and
get
it.”

This was not a man in panic. It was a rational man with a deadly purpose.… It was what Erich Kessler had feared. But for the arrangement of genes—and a headstrong woman—the man on the phone might be one of them. A
Sonnenkind
.

“What will you say to the clerk?”

“I’ll tell you later; there’s no time now. How long will it take you?”

“I don’t know. Not long.”

“Ten minutes?”

“Yes, I think so. But Noel, perhaps we should wait until Johann returns.”

“When’sthat?”

“No more than an hour or two.”

“Can’t do it I’ll call you in the lobby in ten minutes. My watch says eight-forty-five. How about yours?”

“The same.” Kessler did not bother to look at his watch; his mind was racing. Holcroft’s spine was too dangerously firm. “I really think we should wait”

“I can’t. They killed him. God!
How
they killed him! They want her, but they won’t find her.”

“Her? Your mother?… Von Tiebolt told me.”

“They won’t find her,” repeated Holcroft “They’ll
find
me
; I’m who they really want. And I want
them
. I’m going to trap them, Erich.”

“Control yourself. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I know exactly.”

“The Geneva police are in the hotel. If you speak to the desk clerk, he may say something. They’ll be looking for you.”

“They can have me in a few hours. In fact, I’ll be looking for them.”

“
What?
Noel, I
must
see you!”

“Ten minutes, Erich. It’s eight-forty-six.” Holcroft went off the line.

Kessler replaced the phone, knowing that he had no choice but to follow instructions. To do anything else would be suspect. But what did Holcroft expect to accomplish? What would he say to the desk clerk? It probably did not matter. With the mother gone, it was necessary only to keep Holcroft functioning until tomorrow morning. By noon, he would be expendable.

Noel waited on the dark street corner at the base of the rue des Granges. He was not proud of what he was about to do, but the rage inside him had numbed any feelings of morality. The sight of Willie Ellis had caused something to snap in his head. That sight gave rise to other images: Richard Holcroft, crushed into a stone building by a car gone wild by design. Strychnine poisoning in an airplane, and death in a French village, and murder in Berlin. And a man who had followed his mother.… He would not let them near her! It was
over
; he would bring it to a close himself.

It was a question now of using every available resource, every bit of strength he had, every fact he could recall, that would work for him. And it was the murder in Berlin that provided him with the single fact that could work for him now. In Berlin he had led killers to Erich Kessler. Stupidly, carelessly—to a pub on the Kurfürstendamm. Kessler and Holcroft; Holcroft and Kessler. If those killers were looking for Holcroft, they would keep Kessler in their sights. And if Kessler left the hotel, they would follow him.

Holcroft looked at his watch. It was time to call; he started across the pavement toward the booth.

He hoped Erich would answer.

And later understand.

Kessler stood in the hotel lobby, in front of the pay phone, a slip of paper in his hand. On it the astonished desk clerk had written his name; the man’s hand had shaken when he had taken the money. Professor Kessler would appreciate knowing the gist of Mr. Holcroft’s message to the clerk. For Mr. Holcroft’s benefit. And for the clerk’s, insofar as an additional five hundred francs would be his.

The telephone rang; Erich had it off the hook before the ring was finished. “Noel?”

“What’s the desk clerk’s name?”

Kessler gave it.

“Fine.”

“Now, I insist we meet,” said Erich. “There’s a great deal you should know. Tomorrow’s a very important day.”

“Only if we get through tonight. If I find her tonight.”

“Where are you? We
must
meet.”

“We will. Listen carefully. Wait by that phone for five minutes. I may have to call you again. If I don’t—after five minutes—go outside and begin walking down the hill. Just keep walking. When you get to the bottom, turn left and keep going. I’ll join you in the street”

“Good! Five minutes, then.” Kessler smiled. Whatever games the amateur indulged in were worthless. He would doubtless ask the desk clerk to relay a message or a telephone number to his mother if and when she called him—the unregistered guest; so much for that Perhaps Johann was right: Perhaps Holcroft had reached the limits of his capacity. Perhaps the American was not a potential
Sonnenkind
after all.

Police were still in the d’Accord’s lobby, as well as several journalists who sensed a story behind the clouded report of robbery the police had given out This was Geneva. And there were the curious—guests milling about, talking with one another; reassuring one another, some afraid, some seeking sensation.

Erich stayed off to the side, avoiding the crowd, remaining as inconspicuous as possible. He did not like being in the lobby at all; he preferred the anonymity of the hotel room upstairs.

He looked at his watch; four minutes had passed since Holcroft’s call. If the American did not call again during the next minute, he would find the desk clerk and …

The desk clerk approached, walking on his own hot fragments of glass. “Professor?”

“Yes, my friend.” Kessler put his hand in his pocket.

The message Holcroft left was not what Erich had expected. Noel’s mother was to remain hidden and to leave a telephone number where her son could reach
her
. The clerk had sworn not to reveal that number, of course; but then, prior commitments always took precedence. When and if the lady called, the number would be left on a piece of paper in Herr Kessler’s box.

“Paging Mr. Kessler? Professor Erich Kessler.”

A bellboy was walking through the lobby, shouting his name.
Shouting
it! It was
impossible
. No one knew he was here!

“Yes? Yes, I’m Professor Kessler,” said Erich. “What
is
it?” He tried to keep his voice low, to remain inconspicuous. People were looking at him.

“The message is to be delivered orally, sir,” said the bellboy. “The caller said there was no time for a note. It’s from Mr. H. He says you’re to start out now, sir.”

“What?”

“That’s all he said, sir. I spoke to him myself. To Mr. H. You’re to start out now. That’s what he told me to tell you.”

Kessler held his breath. It was suddenly, unexpectedly clear. Holcroft was using
him
as the bait.

From the American’s point of view, whoever killed the man in the black leather jacket in Berlin knew that Noel Holcroft had been with Erich Kessler.

The strategy was simple but ingenious: Expose Erich Kessler, have Erich Kessler receive a message from Mr. H., and leave the hotel for the dark streets of Geneva.

And if no one followed, the disparity between cause and effect might be difficult to explain. So difficult that Holcroft might reexamine his bait. Questions might surface that could blow Geneva apart.

Noel Holcroft was a potential
Sonnenkind
, after all.

Helden crawled through Gerhardt’s house, over the smashed furniture and the blood on the floor, opening drawers and panels until she found a small tin box of first-aid supplies. Trying desperately not to think of anything but becoming mobile, rejecting the pain as an unwanted state of mind, she strapped her wound as tightly as she could and struggled to her feet. Using Gerhardt’s cane for support, she managed to walk up the path and north, three kilometers, to the fork.

A farmer driving a vintage automobile picked her up. Could he drive her to a Doctor Litvak on the hill near the clinic?

He could. It was not far out of his way.

Would he please
hurry?

Walther Litvak was in his late forties, with a balding head and clear eyes and a penchant for short, precise sentences. Being slender, he moved quickly, wasting as few motions as he did words; being highly intelligent, he made observations before replies; and being a Jew hidden by Dutch Catholics as a child and brought up by sympathetic Lutherans, he had no tolerance for intolerance.

He had one bias, and it was understandable. His father and mother, two sisters, and a brother, had been gassed at Auschwitz. Save for an appeal of a Swiss doctor who spoke of a district in the hills of Neuchâtel that had no medical care, Walther Litvak would be living in Kibbutz Har Sha’alav, in the Negev desert.

He had intended to spend three years at the clinic; that was five years ago. And then, after several months in Neuchâtel, he was told who his recruiter was: one of a group of men who fought the resurgence of Nazism. They knew things other men did not know: about thousands of grown-up children—everywhere; and about untold millions
that could reach those unknown people—everywhere. There was much nonmedical work to be done. His contact was a man named Werner Gerhardt, and the group was called Nachrichtendienst.