"There would be no reluctance," said Graff, his bearing and intensity a reflection of a military past
. . . If he wasn't a general, or a muckedy-muck in the High Command, I'll piss port -wine....
"It's not important, sir. I've got what I came for."
"I see." Graff shifted his heavy frame in the chair. It was the movement of a weary old man toward the end of a long afternoon. Yet the eyes were not weary; they were strangely alert "An hour's conference would be sufficient then?"
"Easily."
"I'll arrange it."
"You're very kind."
"Then you can return to New York."
"Yes." It was the moment to mention the Von Tie bolts. Now. "Actually, there's one other thing I should do while I'm here in Rio. It's not terribly important but I said I'd try. I'm not sure where to begin. The police, I imagine."
"That sounds ominous. A crime?"
"Quite the contrary. I meant whichever department of the police it is that could help locate some people. They're not in the telephone directory. I even checked unlisted numbers; they don't have one."
"Are you sure they're in Rio?"
"They were when last heard from. And I gather the other cities in Brazil were checked out again through the telephone companies."
"You intrigue me, Mr. Holcroft Is it so important these people be found? What did they do? But then you said there was no crime."
"None. I know very little. A friend of mine in New York, an attorney, knew I was coming here and asked me to do what I could to locate this family. Apparently it was left some money by relatives in the Midwest"
"An inheritance?"
"Yes."
"Then perhaps legal counsel here in Rio ..."
"My friend sent what he termed 'inquiries of record' to several law firms down here," said Noel, remembering the words of the attache in New York. "There weren't any satisfactory responses."
"How did he explain that?"
"He didn't. He was just annoyed. I guess the money wasn't enough for three attorneys to get involved."
"Three attorneys?"
"Yes," replied Noel, astonished at himself. He was filling a gap instinctively, without thinking. "There's the lawyer in Chicago — or St. Louis — my friend's firm in New York, and the one down here in Rio. I don't imagine what's confidential to an outsider is confidential between attorneys. Perhaps splitting a fee three ways wasn't worth the trouble."
"But your friend is a man of conscience." Graff arched his brows in appreciation. Or something else, Holcroft thought.
"I'd like to think so."
"Perhaps I can help. I have friends."
Holcroft shook his head. "I couldn't ask you. You've done enough for me this afternoon. And, as I said, it's not that important."
"Naturally," said Graff, shrugging. "I wouldn't care to intrude in confidential matters." The German looked over at the windows, squinting. The sun was settling above the western mountains; shafts of orange light streamed through the glass, adding a rich hue to the dark wood of the study.
"The name of the family is Von Tiebolt," said Noel, watching the old man's face. But whatever he expected to find, nothing could have prepared him for what he saw.
Old Graffs eyes snapped open, their glance shooting over at Holcroft, filled with loathing. "You are a pig," said the German, his voice so low it could barely be heard. "This was a trick, a devious ruse to come into my house! To come to me!"
"You're wrong, Mr. Graff. You can call my client in New York...."
"Pig! . . ." the old man screamed. "The Von Tie bolts! Verräter! Below filth! Cowards! Schweinhunde! How dare you!"
Noel watched, mesmerized and helpless. Graffs face
was discolored with rage; the veins in his neck were at the surface of his flesh, his eyes red and furious, his hands trembling, gripping the arms of the chair.
"I don't understand," said Holcroft, getting to his feet
"You understand . . . you garbage! You are looking for the Von Tiebolts! You want to give them life again!"
"They're dead?"
"Would to the Almighty they were!" "Graff, listen to me. If you know something — "
"Get out of my house!" The old man struggled up from the chair and screamed at the closed door of the study. "Werner! Komm' her!"
Graffs aide burst through the door. "Mein Herr? Was ist — "
'Take this impostor away! Get him out of my house!" The aide looked at Holcroft "This way. Quickly!" Noel reached down for his attache case and walked swiftly toward the door. He stopped and turned to look once more at the enraged Graff. The old German stood like a bloated, grotesque manikin, yet he could not control his trembling.
"Get out! You are contemptible!"
The final, searing accusation shattered Noel's self-control. It was not he who was contemptible; it was the figure of arrogance in front of him, this swollen image of indulgence and brutality. This monster who betrayed, then destroyed, a man in agony thirty years ago ... and thousands like him. This Nazi.
"You're in no position to call me names."
"We'll see who's in what position. Get out!"
"I'll get out General, or whatever the hell you are. I can't get out fast enough, because now I understand. You don't know me from the last corpse you bastards burned, but I mention one name and you can't stand it. You're torn apart because you know — and I know — that Von Tiebolt saw through you thirty years ago. When the bodies piled up. He saw what you really were."
"We did not conceal what we were! The world knew. There was no deception on our part!"
Holcroft stopped and swallowed involuntarily. In his burst of anger, he had to seek justice for the men who had cried out to him from the grave; he had to strike back at this symbol of the once-awesome might and decay that had stolen a father from him. He could not help himself.
"Get this clear," said Noel. 'Tm going to find the Von Tiebolts, and you're not going to stop me. Don't think you can. Don't think you've got me marked. You haven't I've got you marked. For exactly what you are. You wear your Iron Cross a little too obviously."
Graff had regained control. "Find the Von Tiebolts, by all means. We'll be there!"
"I'll find them. And when I do, if anything happens to them, I'll know who did it. I'll brand you for what you are. You sit up here in this castle and bark your orders. You're still pretending. You were finished years ago — before the war was over — and men like Von Tiebolt knew it They understood, but you never did. You never will."
"Get out!"
A guard raced into the room; hands grabbed Noel from behind. An arm plunged over his right shoulder and down across his chest. He was yanked briefly off his feet and pulled backward out of the room. He swung his attaché case and felt the impact on the large, weaving body of the man dragging him through the door. He rammed his left elbow into the stomach of that unseen body and kicked viciously, jabbing his heel into his attacker's shin bone. The response was immediate; the man yelped; the grip across Noel's chest was momentarily lessened. It was enough.
Holcroft shot his left hand up, grabbing the cloth of the extended arm, and pulled forward with all his strength. He angled his body to the right; his right shoulder jammed into the chest that rose behind him. His assailant stumbled. Noel rammed a last shoulder block into the elevated chest, throwing his attacker into an antique chair against the wall. Man and delicate wood met in a crushing impact; the frame of the chair collapsed under the weight of the body. The guard was stunned, his wide eyes blinking, his focus temporarily lost.
Holcroft looked down at the man. The guard was large, but his bulk was the most threatening part of him. And the bulk was just that; like old Graff, a mountain of flesh packed under a tight-fitting jacket.
Through the open door Holcroft could see Graff start
for the telephone on his desk. The aide he had called Werner took an awkward step toward Noel.
"Don't," said Holcroft. He walked across the large hallway toward the front entran
ce. On the opposite side of the foyer several men and women stood in an open archway. None made a move toward him; none even raised his voice. The German mentality was consistent, thought Noel, not unhappy with the realization. These minions were awaiting orders.
"Do as I've instructed," said Graff into the telephone, his voice calm, with no trace of the fury he had exhibited only minutes ago. He was now the general officer issuing commands to an attentive subordinate. "Wait until he's halfway down the hill, then throw the gate switch. It's vital that the American thinks he has escaped." The old German hung up and turned to his aide. "Is the guard hurt?"
"Merely stunned, mein Herr. He's walking around, shaking off the effects of the blow."
"Holcroft is angry," mused Graff. "He's filled with himself, exhilarated, consumed with purpose. That's good. Now he must be frightened, made to tremble at the unexpected, at the sheer brutality of the moment. Tell the guard to wait five minutes and then take up pursuit. He must do his job well."
"He has his orders; he's an expert marksman."
"Good." The former Wehrmachtsgeneral walked slowly to the window and squinted into the final rays of the sun. "Soft words, lover's words . . . and then sharp, hysterical rebukes. The embrace, and the knife. One must follow the other in rapid succession until Holcroft has no judgment left. Until he can no longer distinguish between ally and enemy, knowing only that he must press forward. When finally he breaks, we'll be there and he'll be ours."
9
Noel slammed the huge door behind him and walked down the marble steps to the car. He swung the automobile into reverse, so that his hood faced the downhill drive out of the Graff estate, pressed the accelerator and headed for the exit
Several things occurred to him. The first was that the afternoon sun had descended behind the western mountains, creating pockets of shadows on the ground. Daylight was disappearing; he needed his headlights. Another concern was that Graff's reaction to the mention of the Von Tiebolts had to mean two things: The Von Tie-bolts were alive, and they were a threat. But a threat to what? To whom? And where were they?
A third was more of a feeling than a specific thought. It was his reaction to the physical encounter he had just experienced. Throughout his life he had taken whatever size and strength he possessed as a matter of course. Because he was large and relatively well coordinated, he never felt the need to seek physical challenge except in competition against himself, in bettering a tennis game or besting a ski slope. As a result, he avoided fights; they struck him as unnecessary.
It was this general attitude that had made him laugh when his stepfather had insisted he join him at the club for a series of lessons in self-defense. The city was turning into a jungle; Holcroft's son was going to learn how to protect himself.
He took the course, and promptly forgot everything he had learned when it was over. If he had actually absorbed anything, he had done it subconsciously.
He had absorbed something, reflected Noel, pleased with himself. He remembered the glazed look in the eyes of the guard.
The last thought that crossed his mind as he turned
into the downhill drive was also vague. Something was wrong with the front seat of the car. The furious activity of the last minutes had blurred his usually acute eye for such things, but something about the checkered cloth of the seat cover bothered him....
Terrible sounds interrupted his concentration: the barking of dogs. Suddenly, the menacing faces of enormous long-haired black shepherds lunged at the windows on both sides of the car. The dark eyes glistened with hatred and frustration; the fur-lined, saliva-soaked jaws slapped open and shut, emitting the shrill, vicious sounds of animals reaching a quarry but unable to sink their teeth into flesh. It was a pack of attack dogs — five, six, seven — at all windows now, their paws scratching against the glass. An animal leaped up on the hood, its face and teeth against the windshield.
Beyond the dog, at the base of the hill, Holcroft saw the huge gate beginning to move, the movement magnified in the beams of his headlights. It was starting the slow arc that would end with its closing! He pressed the accelerator against the floor, gripped the wheel until his arms were in pain, and drove at full speed, swerving to his left, through the stone pillars, missing the steel gate by inches. The dog on the hood flew off to the right in midair, yelping in shock.
The pack on the hill had pulled up behind the gate in the darkening twilight. The explanation had to be that a high-frequency whistle — beyond human ears — had caused them to stop. Perspiring, Noel held the pedal against the floorboard and sped down the road.
He came to a fork in the countryside. Did he take the right, or the left? He could not recall; absently he reached for his map on the seat.
That was what had bothered him! The map was no longer there. He took the left fork, reaching below the seat to see if the map had fallen to the floor. It had not. It had been removed from the car!
He arrived at an intersection. It was not familiar; or, if it was, the darkness obscured any familiarity. He turned right, out of instinct, knowing he had to keep going. He kept the car at high speed, looking for anything that he could relate to the drive out from Rio. But the darkness was full now; he saw nothing he remembered. The road made a wide, sweeping curve to the right and
then there was a sharp, steep incline of a hill. He recalled no curve, remembered no hill. He was lost.
The top of the hill flattened out for approximately a hundred yards. On his left was a lookout, bordered by a parking area enclosed by a chest-high wall fronting the cliff. Along the wall were rows of telescopes with round casings, the type activated by coins. Holcroft pulled over and stopped the car. There were no other automobiles, but maybe one would come. Perhaps if he looked around he could get his bearings. He got out of the car and walked to the wall.
Far below in the distance were the lights of the city. Between the cliff and the lights, however, there was only darkness. . . . No, not total darkness; there was a winding thread of light. A road? Noel was next to one of the telescopes. He inserted a coin and peered through the sight, focusing on the weaving thread of light he presumed was a road. It was.
The lights were spaced far apart; they were street lamps, welcome but out of place in a path cut out of the Brazilian forests. If he could reach the beginning of that road. . . . The telescope would move no farther to his right. Goddamn it! Where did the road begin? It had to be-----
Behind him he heard the sound of an engine racing up the hill he had just climbed. Thank God! He would stop the car, if he had to stand in the middle of the road to do it. He ran from the wall, across the concrete, toward the tarred pavement
He reached the edge and froze. The car lunging over the final incline into the lookout area was a white Mercedes limousine. The same car that stood gleaming in the afternoon sun on top of another hill. Graff's car.
It stopped abruptly, tires screeching. The door opened and a man got out. In the reflecting spill of the headlights he was recognizable: Graff's guard!
He reached into his belt. Holcroft stood paralyzed. The man raised a gun, aiming at him. It was unbelievable! It could not be happening!
The first gunshot was thunderous; it shook the silence like a sudden cracking of the earth. A second followed. The road several feet away from Noel exploded in a spray of rock and dust. Whatever instincts remained beyond his paralysis, his disbelief, commanded him to run,
to save himself. He was going to die! He was about to be killed in a deserted tourist lookout above the city of Rio de Janeiro! It was insane!
His legs were weak; he forced himself to race toward the rented car. His feet ached; it was the strangest sensation he had ever felt. Two more gunshots filled the night; there were two more explosions of tar and concrete.
He reached the car and fell below the door panel for protection. He reached up for the handle.
Another gunshot, this one louder, the vibration deafening. Accompanying the detonation was another kind of explosion, on
e that rang with the violent smashing of glass. The car's rear window had been blown out.
There was nothing else to do! Holcroft pulled the door open and leaped inside. In panic he turned the ignition key. The engine roared; his foot pressed the accelerator against the floor. He jammed the gearshift into drive; the car bolted forward in the darkness. He spun the wheel; the car swerved, narrowly missing impact with the wall. His instincts ordered him to switch on the headlights. In a blur he saw the downhill road, and in desperation he aimed for it.
The descent was filled with curves. He took them at high speed, sliding, skidding, barely able to hold the car in control, his arms aching. His hands were wet with sweat; they kept slipping. Any second he fully believed he would crash; any moment now he would die in a final explosion.
He would never remember how long it took, or precisely how he found the winding road with the intermittent streetlights, but at last it was there. A flat surface heading left, heading east, the road into the city.
He was in dense countryside; tall trees and thick forests bordered the asphalt, looming up like the sides of an immense canyon.
Two cars approached from the opposite direction; he wanted to cry with relief at the sight of them. He was approaching the outskirts of the city. He was into the suburbs. The streetlights were close together now, and suddenly there were cars everywhere, turning, blocking, passing. He never knew he could be so grateful to see traffic.
He came to a traffic light; it was red. He was again grateful — for its actually being there, and the brief rest it
brought him. He reached into his shirt pocket for his cigarettes. God, he wanted a cigarette!
A car pulled alongside him on his left. He stared once more in disbelief. A man beside the driver — a man he had never seen before in his life — had rolled down his window and was raising a pistol. Around the barrel was a perforated cylinder — a silencer. The unknown man was aiming the gun at hunt
The Holcroft Covenant Page 10