The Holcroft Covenant (67 page)

“We’ve had no time to talk. Is Monday inconvenient for you?”

“Not at all. Maybe I’ll have heard from her by then.”

“What?”

“My mother. Or even Helden. She should be calling.”

“Yes, of course. I’m sure they’ll both reach you.”

The last article of record was the formal release of the account. A computer had been preset. Upon the signatures of everyone in the room, the codes would be punched, the funds made liquid and transferred to a bank in Zurich.

All signed. The director on the right picked up a telephone. “Enter the following numbers on computer bank eleven. Are you ready?… Six, one, four, four, two. Break four. Eight, one, zero, zero. Break zero.… Repeat, please.” The director listened, then nodded. “Correct. Thank you.”

“Is it complete, then?” asked his colleague.

“It is,” answered the director. “Gentlemen, as of this moment, the sum of seven hundred and eighty million American dollars is in your collective names at La Banque du Livre, Zurich. May you have the wisdom of prophets, and may your decisions be guided by God.”

Outside, on the street, Von Tiebolt turned to Holcroft. “What are your plans, Noel? We must still be careful, you know. The Nachrichtendienst won’t take this easily.”

“I know.… Plans? I’m going to keep trying to find my mother. She’s somewhere; she’s got to be.”

“I’ve arranged through my friend, the first deputy, for the three of us to receive police protection. Your detail will pick you up at the Excelsior, ours at the d’Accord. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to move in with us.”

“That’s too much work,” said Holcroft. “I’m half settled now. I’ll stay at the Excelsior.”

“Shall we go to Zurich in the morning?” asked Kessler, deferring the decision to Von Tiebolt.

“It might be a good idea for us to travel separately,”
said Holcroft. “If the police have no objections, I’d just as soon go by car.”

“Very good thinking, my friend,” said Von Tiebolt. “The police won’t object, and traveling separately makes sense. You take the train, Erich; I’ll fly; and Noel will drive. I’ll make us reservations at the Columbine.”

Holcroft nodded. “If I don’t hear from my mother or Helden by tomorrow, I’ll leave word for them to reach me there,” he said. “I’ll grab a cab.” He walked rapidly to the corner. Another minute and the rage within him would have exploded. He would have killed Von Tiebolt with his bare hands.

Johann spoke quietly. “He knows. How much, I’m not certain. But he knows.”

“How can you be sure?” Kessler asked.

“At first I merely sensed it; then I knew. He asked about Hans and accepted your answer that he was still in München. He knows that’s not true. A clerk at the d’Accord offered to ring Hans’s room for him last night.”

“Oh, my God.…”

“Don’t be upset. Our American colleague will die on the road to Zurich.”

The attempt on Noel’s life—if it was going to be made—would take place on the roads north of Fribourg, south of Köniz. That was the judgment of Yakov Ben-Gadíz. The distance was something more than twenty kilometers, with stretches in the hills that rarely had traffic this time of year. It was winter, and although the climate was not Alpine, light snows were frequent, the roads not the best; drivers were discouraged from them. But Holcroft had mapped out a route that avoided the highways, concentrating on rural towns with architecture he claimed he wanted to see.

That was to say, Yakov mapped it out, and Noel had delivered it to police who were under orders from the first deputy to act as his escort north. The fact that no one discouraged Holcroft from this chosen route lent substance to the Israeli’s judgment.

Yakov further speculated on the method of killing. Neither Von Tiebolt nor Kessler would be near the area. Each would be very much in evidence somewhere else. And if there was to be an execution, it would be carried out by as few men as possible—paid killers in no way associated with Wolfsschanze. No chances would be taken so soon after the meeting at La Grande Banque Genève. The killer, or killers, would in turn be murdered by
Sonnenkinder
; all traces to Wolfsschanze would be obliterated.

That was the strategy as Ben-Gadíz saw it, and a counterstrategy had to be mounted. One that got Noel to Zurich; that was all that mattered. Once in Zurich, it would be
their
strategy. There were a dozen ways to kill in a large city, and Yakov was an expert in all of them.

The trip began, the counterstrategy put into play. Holcroft drove a heavy car rented from Bonfils, Geneva, the most expensive leasing firm in Switzerland, specializing in the unusual automobile for the unusual client. It
was a Rolls-Royce, outfitted with armor plate, bulletproof glass, and tires that could withstand successive punctures.

Helden was a mile in front of Noel, driving a nondescript but maneuverable Renault; Ben-Gadíz was behind, never more than half a mile, and his car was a Maserati, common among the wealthy of Geneva and capable of very high speeds. Between Yakov and Holcroft was the two-man police car assigned to the American as protection. The police knew nothing.

“They’ll be immobilized en route,” the Israeli had said while the three of them studied maps in Noel’s hotel room. “They won’t be sacrificed; there’d be too many questions. They’re legitimate police. I got the numbers off their helmets and called Litvak. We checked. They’re first-year men from the central headquarters’ barracks. As such, not very experienced.”

“Will they be the same men tomorrow?”

“Yes. Their orders read that they’re to stay with you until the Zurich police take over. Which I think means that they’ll find themselves with a malfunctioning vehicle, call their superiors, and be told to return to Geneva. The order for your protection will evaporate.”

“Then they’re just window dressing.”

“Exactly. Actually, they’ll serve a purpose. As long as you can see them, you’re safe. No one will try anything.”

They were in sight now, thought Noel, glancing at the rearview mirror, applying the brakes of the Rolls-Royce for the long curving descent at the side of the hill. Far below, he could see Helden’s car come out of a turn. In two more minutes she would slow down and wait until they were in plain sight of each other before resuming speed; that, too, was part of the plan. She had done so three minutes ago. Every five minutes they were to be in eye contact. He wished he could
speak
with her. Just talk … simple talk, quiet talk … having nothing to do with death or the contemplation of death, or the strategies demanded to avoid it.

But that talk could only come after Zurich. There would be death in Zurich, but not like any death Holcroft had ever thought about. Because he would be the killer; no one else.
No one
. He demanded the right. He would look into the eyes of Johann von Tiebolt and tell him he was about to die.

He was going too fast; his anger had caused him to
press too hard on the accelerator. He slowed down; it was no time to do Von Tiebolt’s work for him. It had started to snow, and the downhill road was slippery.

Yakov cursed the light snowfall, not because it made the driving difficult but because it reduced visibility. They relied on sight; radio communication was out of the question, the signals too easily intercepted.

The Israeli’s hand touched several items on the seat beside him; similar items were in Holcroft’s Rolls. They were part of the counterstrategy—the most effective part.

Explosives. Eight in all. Four charges, wrapped in plastic, timed to detonate precisely three seconds after impact; and four antitank grenades. In addition there were two weapons: a U.S. Army Colt automatic and a carbine rifle, each loaded, safeties off, prepared for firing. All had been purchased through Litvak’s contacts in Geneva. Peaceful Geneva, where such arsenals were available in quantities smaller than terrorists believed but greater than the Swiss authorities thought conceivable.

Ben-Gadíz peered through the windshield. If it happened, it would happen shortly. The police car several hundred yards in front would be immobilized, the result, probably, of cleats coated with acid, timed to eat through tires; or a defective radiator filled with a coagulant that would clog the hoses.… There were so many ways. But the police car would suddenly not be there, and Holcroft would be isolated.

Yakov hoped Noel remembered precisely what he was to do if a strange car approached. He was to start zigzagging over the road while Yakov accelerated, braking his Maserati within feet of the unknown automobile, hurling the plastic charges at it, waiting the precious seconds for the explosions to take place as Holcroft got out of firing range. If there were problems—defective charges, no explosives—the grenades were a backup.

It would be enough. Von Tiebolt would not risk more than one execution car. The possibility of stray drivers, unwitting observers, would be considerable; the killers would be few and professional. The leader of the
Sonnenkinder
was no idiot; if Holcroft’s death did not take place on the road to Köniz, it would take place in Zurich.

That was the
Sonnenkinder
’s mistake, thought the
Israeli, filled with a sense of satisfaction. Von Tiebolt did not know about Yakov Ben-Gadíz. Also no idiot, also professional. The American
would
get to Zurich, and once in Zurich, Johann von Tiebolt was a dead man, as Erich Kessler was a dead man, killed by a man filled with rage.

Yakov cursed again. The snow was heavier and the flakes were larger. The latter meant the snowfall would not last long, but for the time being it was an interruption he did not like.

He could not see the police car! Where was it? The road was filled with sharp curves and offshoots. The police car was nowhere to be seen. He had lost it! How in God’s name
could
he have?

And then it was there, and he breathed again, pressing his foot on the accelerator to get closer. He could not allow his mind to wander so; he was not in the Symphony Hall in Tel Aviv. The police car was the key; he could not let it out of his sight for a moment.

He was going faster than he thought; the speedometer read seventy-three kilometers, much too fast for this road. Why?

Then he knew why. He was closing the gap between himself and the Geneva police car, but the police car was accelerating. It was going faster than it had before; it was racing into the curves, speeding through the snowfall … closing in on Holcroft!

Was the driver
insane?

Ben-Gadíz stared through the windshield, trying to understand. Something bothered him, and he was not sure what it was. What were they
doing?

Then he saw it; it had not been there before.

A dent in the trunk of the police car. A dent! There’d been no dent in the trunk of the car he had followed for the past three hours!

It was a different police car!

From one of the offshoots on the maze of curves a radio command had been given ordering the original car off the road. Another had taken its place. Which meant the men in that car now were aware of the Maserati, and, infinitely more dangerous, Holcroft was not aware of
them
.

The police car swung into a long curve; Yakov could hear continuous blasts of its horn through the snow and the wind. It was
signaling
Holcroft. It was pulling alongside.

“No! Don’t do it!” screamed Yakov at the glass, holding his thumbs on the horn, gripping the wheel as his tires skidded over the surface of the curve. He hurled the Maserati toward the police car, fifty yards away. “Holcroft! Don’t!”

Suddenly, his windshield shattered.
Tiny
circles of death appeared everywhere; he could feel glass slice his cheeks, his fingers. He was hit. A submachine gun had fired at him from the smashed rear window of the police car.

There was a billow of smoke from the hood; the radiator exploded. An instant later the tires were pierced, strips of rubber blown off. The Maserati lurched to the right, crashing into an embankment.

Ben-Gadíz roared to the heavens, hammering his shoulder against a door that would not open. Behind him, the gasoline fires started.

Holcroft saw the police car in the rearview mirror. It was suddenly coming closer, its headlights flickering on and off. For some reason the police were signaling him.

There was no place to stop on the curve; there had to be a straightaway several hundred yards down the road. He slowed the Rolls as the police car came alongside, the figure of the young officer blurred by the snow.

He heard the blasts of the horn and saw the continuous rapid flashing of the lights. He rolled down the window.

“I’ll pull over as soon as—”

He saw the face. And the expression on that face. It was not one of the young policemen from Geneva! It was a face he had never seen before. Then the barrel of a rifle was there.

Desperately, he tried to roll up the window. It was too late. He heard the gunfire, saw the blinding flashes of light, could feel a hundred razors slashing his skin. He saw his own blood splattered against glass and sensed his own screams echoing through a car gone wild.

Metal crunched against metal, groaning under the force of a thousand impacts. The dashboard was upside down; the pedals were where the roof should be; and he was against that roof; and then he was not; now plummeted over the back of the seat, now hurled against glass
and away from glass, now impaled on the steering wheel, then lifted in space and thrown into more space.

There was peace in that space. The pain of the razors went away, and he walked through the mists of his mind into a void.

Yakov smashed the glass of the remaining windshield with his pistol. The carbine had been jarred to the floor; the plastic explosives remained strapped in their box; the grenades were nowhere to be seen.

All the weapons were useless save one, because it was available, and in his hand, and he would use it until the ammunition was gone—and until his life was gone.

There were three men in the false police car, the third, the marksman, once again crouched in back. Ben-Gadíz could see his head in the rear window! Now! He took careful aim through the blankets of steam and squeezed the trigger. The face whipped diagonally up and then fell back into the jagged glass of the window.