The Holcroft Covenant

by Robert Ludlum

  "I'm a newspaperman now. I wouldn't be a very good one if I didn't have sources."

  She had been stunned. He insisted on seeing her in the late morning, before meeting Holcroft in the afternoon. He would not meet with the American unless and until he saw her. Perhaps Herr Oberst could help clarify the situation. Perhaps the old gentleman might allay sudden fears that had arisen.

  He reached the dirt road that led through the overgrown grass into the untamed glen that protected Herr Oberst's house from prying eyes. Three minutes later he stopped in front of the path that led to the cottage. The

  door opened; Helden came out to greet him. How lovely she looked, so like Gretchen.

  They exchanged a brother-and-sister embrace, both anxious to begin the meeting with Herr Oberst. Helden's eyes conveyed her bewilderment. She led him inside the small, spartan house. Herr Oberst stood by the fireplace. Helden introduced the two men.

  "This is a moment I shall treasure throughout my life," said Tennyson. "You've earned the gratitude of Germans everywhere. If I can ever be of service to you, tell Helden, and I'll do whatever you ask."

  "You're too kind, Herr von Tiebolt," replied the old man. "But according to your sister, it's you who seek something from me, and I can't imagine what it is. How can I help you?"

  "My problem is the American. This Holcroft"

  "What about him?" asked Helden.

  "Thirty years ago a magnificent thing was done, an incredible feat engineered by three extraordinary men who wished to make restitution for the anguish inflicted by butchers and maniacs. Through circumstances that seemed right at the time, Holcroft was projected to be a key factor in the distribution of millions throughout the world. I'm now asked to meet with him, cooperate with him. . . ." Tennyson stopped, as if the words eluded him.

  "And?" Herr Oberst moved forward.

  "I don't trust him," said the blond man. "He's met with Nazis. Men who would kill us, Helden. Men like Maurice Graff, in Brazil."

  "What are you saying?"

  "The bloodlines reemerge. Holcroft is a Nazi."

  Helden's face was stretched in shock, her eyes a mixture of anger and disbelief. "That's absurd! Johann, that's insane!"

  "Is it? I don't think so."

  Noel waited until Helden left for work before placing the phone call to Miles, in New York. Their night had been filled with love and comfort. He knew he had to convince her they would go on; there was no predetermined ending to their being together. He would not accept that now.

  The telephone rang. "Yes, operator, this is the Mr. Fresca calling Lieutenant Miles."

  "I thought it had to be you," said the man whose voice had no matching face for Noel. "Interpol reach you?"

  "Reach me? There are men following me, if that's what you mean. I think it's called a 'trace.' Put out by you?"

  "That's right."

  "You gave me two weeks! What the hell are you doing?"

  "Trying to find you. Trying to get you information I think you should have. It concerns your mother."

  Noel felt a sharp pain in bis chest "What about my mother?"

  "She ran." Miles paused. "I'll give her credit; she's damned good. It was a very professional skip. She went the Mexican route, and before you could say 'Althene Holcroft,' she was a little old lady on her way to Lisbon with a new name and a new passport courtesy of dealers in Tulancingo. Unfortunately, those tactics are outdated. We know them all."

  "Maybe she thought you were harassing her," said Noel, with little conviction. "Maybe she just wanted to get away from you."

  "There's no harassment And whatever her reasons, she'd better realize that someone else is aware of them. Someone very serious."

  "What are you telling me?"

  "She was being followed by a man we couldn't place in any file anywhere. His papers were as counterfeit as hers. We had him picked up at the airport in Mexico City. Before anyone could question him, he slipped a cyanide capsule in his mouth."

  29

  A meeting ground was chosen. There was a vacant flat in Montmartre, on the top floor of an old building, its owner an artist now in Italy. Helden telephoned, gave Noel the address and the time. She would be there to introduce her brother, but would not stay.

  Noel climbed the last step and knocked on the door. He heard hurrying footsteps; the door opened; Helden was in the narrow foyer. "Hello, my darling," she said.

  "Hello," he answered awkwardly as he met her lips, his eyes glancing behind her.

  "Johann's on the terrace," she said, laughing. "A kiss is permitted, in any event. I told him . . . how fond I am of you."

  "Was that necessary?"

  "Strangely enough, it was. I'm glad I did. It made me feel good." She closed the door, holding his arm. "I can't explain this," she said. "I haven't seen my brother in over a year. But he's changed. The situation in Geneva has affected him; he's profoundly committed to its success. I've never seen him so ... oh, I don't know ... so thoughtful."

  "I still have questions, Helden."

  "So does he. About you."

  "Really?"

  "At one point this morning, he didn't want to meet with you. He didn't trust you. He believed you'd been reached, paid to betray Geneva."

  "Me?"

  "Think about it. He learned from people in Rio that you'd met with Maurice Graff. From Graff you went straight to London, to Anthony Beaumont You were right about him: He's ODESSA." Helden stopped briefly. "He said you . .. spent the night with Gretchen, went to bed with her."

  "Wait a minute," interrupted Noel.

  "No, darling, it's not important. I told you, I know my sister. But there's a pattern, don't you see? To the ODESSA, women are only conveniences. You were a friend of ODESSA; you'd had a long, exhausting trip. It was perfectly natural that your needs should be fulfilled."

  "That's barbaric!"

  "It's the way Johann saw it."

  "He's wrong."

  "He knows that now. At least, I think he does. I told him about the things that had happened to you — to us — and how you'd nearly been killed. He was amazed. He may still have questions to ask you, but I think he's convinced."

  Holcroft shook his head in bewilderment. Nothing is as it was for you . . . nothing can ever be the same. Not only was nothing the same, it wasn't even what it appeared not to be. There was no straight line from point A to point B.

  "Let's get this over with," he said. "Can we meet later?"

  "Of course."

  "Are you going back to work?"

  "I haven't been to work."

  "I forgot. You were with your brother. You said you were going to work, but you were with him."

  "It was a necessary lie."

  "They're all necessary, aren't they?"

  "Please, Noel. Shall I come back for you? Say, in two hours?"

  Holcroft considered. Part of his mind was still on the startling news Miles had given him. He had tried to reach Sam Buonoventura in Curaçao, but Sam had been in the field. "You could do me a favor instead," he said to Hel den. "I've told you about Buonoventura, in the Caribbean. I put in a call to him from the hotel; he hasn't returned it. If you're free, would you wait in the room in case he does call? I wouldn't ask you, but it's urgent. Something happened; I'll tell you about it later. Will you?"

  "Certainly. What shall I say to him?"

  "Tell him to stay put for a few hours. Or to give you a number where I can call him later. Six to eight, Paris time. Tell him it's important." Noel reached in his pocket. "Here's the key. Remember, my name's Fresca."

  Helden took the key and then his arm, leading him into the studio. "And you remember, my brother's name is Tennyson. John Tennyson."

  Holcroft saw Tennyson through thick panes of leaded glass windows that looked out on the terrace. He wore a dark pinstriped suit, no overcoat or hat; his hands were on the railing as he peered out at the Paris skyline. He was tall and slender, the body tapered almost too perfectly; it was the body of an athlete, a series of coiled springs, taut
and contained. He turned slightly to his right, revealing his face. It was a face like no other Noel had seen. It was an artist's rendering, the features too idealized for actual flesh and blood. And because it did not accept blemish, the face was cold. It was a face cast in marble, topped by glistening light-blond hair, perfectly groomed, matching the stone.

  Then Von Tiebolt — Tennyson saw him through the window; their eyes met, and the image of marble collapsed. The blond man's eyes were alive and penetrating. He pushed himself away from the railing and walked toward the terrace door.

  Stepping inside, he extended his hand. "I am the son of Wilhelm von Tiebolt."

  "I'm . . . Noel Holcroft. My . .. father was Heinrich Clausen."

  "I know. Helden has told me a great deal about you. You've been through a lot."

  "We both have," agreed Holcroft. "I mean, your sister and I. I gather you've had your share, too."

  "Our legacy, unfortunately." Tennyson smiled. "It's awkward meeting like this, isn't it?"

  "I've been more comfortable."

  "And I've not said a word," interjected Helden. "You were both quite capable of introducing yourselves. I'll leave now."

  "You certainly don't have to," said Tennyson. "What we have to say to each other concerns you, I think."

  "I'm not sure it does. Not for the moment. Besides, I have something to do," replied Helden. She started toward the foyer. "I think it's terribly important — for a great many people — that you trust each other. I hope you can." She opened the door and left.

  Neither man spoke for several moments; each looked toward the spot where Helden had stood.

  "She's remarkable," said Tennyson. "I love her very much."

  Noel turned his head. "So do I."

  Tennyson acknowledged the look as well as the statement. "I hope it's not a complication for you."

  "It isn't, although it may be for her."

  "I see." Tennyson walked to the window and gazed outside. "I'm not in a position to give you my blessing — Helden and I live very separate lives — and even if I could, I'm not sure I would."

  "Thanks for your frankness."

  The blond man turned. "Yes, I'm frank. I don't know you. I know only what Helden has told me about you, and what I've learned for myself. What she tells me is basically what you've told her, colored by her feelings, of course. What I've learned is not so clear-cut. Nor does the composite fit my sister's rather enthusiastic picture."

  "We both have questions. Do you want to go first?"

  "It doesn't really matter, does it? Mme are very few and very direct." Tennyson's voice was suddenly harsh. "What was your business with Maurice Graff?"

  "I thought Helden told you."

  "Again it was what you told her. Now, tell me. I'm somewhat more experienced than my sister. I don't accept things simply because you say them. Over the years, I've learned not to do that. Why did you go to see Graff?"

  "I was looking for you."

  "For me?"

  "Not you, specifically. For the Von Tiebolts. For information about any of you."

  "Why Graff?"

  "His name was given to me."

  "By whom?"

  "I don't remember...."

  "You don't remember? Of thousands and thousands of men in Rio de Janeiro, the name of Maurice Graff just happens to be the one casually given to you."

  "It's the truth."

  "It's ludicrous."

  "Wait a minute." Noel tried to reconstruct the sequence of events that led him to Graff. "It started in New York . . . "

  "What started? Graff was in New York?"

  "No, the consulate. I went to the Brazilian consulate

  and spoke to an attache. I wanted to find out how I'd go about locating a family that had immigrated to Brazil in the forties. The attache put the facts together and figured out I was looking for Germans. He gave me a lecture about . . . well, there's a Spanish phrase for it. La otra cara de los alemanes. It means the other side of the German; what's beneath his thinking."

  "I'm aware of that. Go on."

  "He told me there was a strong, close-knit German community in Rio run by a few powerful men. He warned me about looking for a German family that had disappeared; he said it could be dangerous. Maybe he exaggerated because I wouldn't give him your name."

  "Thank God you didn't."

  "When I got to Rio, I couldn't find out anything. Even the immigration records were doctored."

  "At great cost to a great many people," said Tennyson bitterly. "It was our only protection."

  "I was stuck. Then I remembered what the attache had said about the German community being run by a few powerful men. I went to a German bookstore and asked a clerk about the houses. Large ones, mansions with a lot of acreage. I called them 'Bavarian,' but he knew what I meant I'm an architect and I figured — "

  "I understand." Tennyson nodded. "Large German estates, the most influential leaders in the German communi ty."

  "That's right. The clerk gave me a couple of names. One was Jewish, the other was Graff. He said Graff's estate was among the most impressive in Brazil."

  "It is."

  "And that's it. That's how I came to go to Graff."

  Tennyson stood motionless, his expression noncommittal. "It's not unreasonable."

  "I'm glad you think so," said Noel.

  "I said it was reasonable; I didn't say I believed you."

  "I've no reason to lie."

  "Even if you do, I'm not sure you have the talent. I'm very good at seeing through liars."

  Noel was struck by the statement. "That's practically what Helden said the night I met her."

  "I've trained her well. Lying is a craft; it must be developed. You're out of your depth."

  "What the hell are you trying to say?"

  "I'm saying you're a very convincing amateur. You built your story well, but it is not sufficiently professional. Your keystone is missing. As an architect, I'm sure you understand."

  "I'll be goddamned if I do. Tell me."

  "With pleasure. You left Brazil knowing the name Von Tiebolt You arrive in England and within twelve hours you're in a suburb of Portsmouth with my sister, sleeping with my sister. You didn't even have the name of Tennyson. How could you possibly have known about Beaumont?"

  "But I did have the name of Tennyson."

  "How? How did you get it?"

  "I told Helden. This couple, a brother and sister named Cararra, came to see me at the hotel."

  "Oh, yes. Cararra. A very common name in Brazil. Did it mean anything to you?"

  "Of course not."

  "So these Cararras come to see you, out of nowhere, claiming to be dear friends of ours. But as Helden told you, we've never heard of them. Come, Mr. Holcroft, you'll have to do better than that." Tennyson raised his voice. "Graff gave you Beaumont's name, didn't he? ODESSA to ODESSA."

  "No! Graff didn't know. He thinks you're still hiding somewhere in Brazil."

  "He Said that?"

  "He implied it. The Cararras confirmed it. They mentioned some colonies in the south — 'Catarinas,' or something. A mountain region settled by Germans."

  "You've done your homework well. The Santa Catarinas are German settlements. But again, we're back to the elusive Cararras."

  Noel remembered clearly the fear in the faces of the young brother and sister in Rio. "Maybe they're elusive to you, but not to me. You've either got a lousy memory or you're a lousy friend. They said they barely knew Helden, but knew you very well. They risked a hell of a lot to come and see me. Portuguese Jews who — "

  "Portuguese . . ." interrupted Tennyson, suddenly alarmed. "Oh, my God! And they used the name Cararra. ... Describe them!"

  Holcroft did. When he had finished, Tennyson said,

  in a whisper, "Out of the past. . . . Out of the past, Mr. Holcroft. It all fits. The use of the name Cararra. Portuguese Jews. Santa Catarina. . . . They came back to Rio."

  "Who came back?"

  "The Montealegres — that's their
real name. Ten, twelve years ago. . . . What they told you was a cover, so you'd never be able to reveal their identities, even unconsciously."

  "What happened twelve years ago?"

  "The details aren't important, but we had to get them out of Rio, so we sent them to the Catarinas. Their parents helped the Israelis; they were killed for it. The two children were hunted; they would have been shot, too. They had to be taken south."

  "Then there are people in the Catarinas who know about you?"

  "Yes, a few. Our base of operations was in Santa Catarina. Rio was too dangerous."

  "What operations? Who's 'we'?"

  "Those of us in Brazil who fought the ODESSA." Tennyson shook his head. "I have an apology to make. Helden was right: I did you an injustice. You've told the truth."

  Noel had the sensation of having been vindicated when vindication had not been sought. He felt awkward questioning a man who had fought the ODESSA; who had rescued children from death as surely as if he'd taken them out of Auschwitz, or Belsen; who had trained the woman he loved to survive. But he had questions; it was no time to forget them.

  "It's my turn now," said Noel. "You're very quick, and you know about things I've never heard of, but I'm not sure you^ve said a hell of a lot."

  "If one of your questions concerns the Tinamou," said Tennyson, "I'm sorry, but I won't answer you. I won't even discuss it."

  Holcroft was stunned. "You won't what?"

  "You heard me. The Tinamou is a subject I won't discuss. It's not your business."

  "I think it is! For starters, let's put it this way: If you won't discuss the Tinamou, we haven't anything to discuss."

  Tennyson paused, startled. "You mean that, don't you?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Then try to understand me. Nothing can be left to chance now, to the offhand possibility — no matter how remote — that the wrong word might be dropped to the wrong person. If I'm right, and I think I am, you'll have your answer in a matter of days."

  "That's not good enough!"

  "Then I'll go one step further. The Tinamou was trained in Brazil. By the ODESSA. I've studied him as thoroughly as any man on earth. I've been tracking him for six years."