The Holcroft Covenant

by Robert Ludlum

  It took several seconds for Noel to find his voice. "You've been... for six years?"

  "Yes. It's time for the Tinamou to strike; there'll be another assassination. It's why the British contacted you; they know it, too."

  "Why don't you work with them? For God's sake, do you know what they think!"

  "I know what someone's tried to make them think. It's why I can't work with them. The Tinamou has sources everywhere; they don't know him, but he uses them."

  "You said a matter of days."

  "If I'm wrong, I'll tell you everything. I'll even go to the British with you."

  "A matter of days. . . . Okay. We'll pass on the Tinamou — for a matter of days."

  "Whatever else I can tell you, I will. I've nothing to hide."

  "You knew Beaumont in Rio, knew he was part of the ODESSA. You even accused me of having gotten his name from Graff. Yet in spite of all this, he married your sister. ODESSA to ODESSA? Are you one of them?"

  Tennyson did not waver. "A question of priorities. Put simply, it was planned. My sister Gretchen is not the woman she once was, but she's never lost her hatred of the Nazis. She's made a sacrifice greater than any of us. We know every move that Beaumont makes."

  "But he knows you're Von Tiebolt! Why doesn't he tell Graff?"

  "Ask him, if you like. He may tell you."

  "You tell me."

  "He's afraid to," replied Tennyson. "Beaumont is a pig. Even his commitments lack cleanliness. He works less and less for the ODESSA, and only then when they threaten him."

  "I don't understand."

  "Gretchen has her own . . . shall we say, persuasive powers; I think you're aware of them. Beyond these, a large sum of untraceable money found its way into Beaumont's account. In addition to these circumstances, he fears exposure from Graff on one side . . . and from me on the other. He's useful to us both, more so to me than to Graff, of course. He's checkmated."

  "If you knew every move he made, you had to know he was on that plane to Rio. You had to know he was following me."

  "How could I? I didn't know you"

  "He was there. Someone sent him!"

  "When Helden told me, I tried to find out who. What I learned was very little, but enough to alarm me. In my judgment, our checkmated pig was reached by a third party. Someone who had unearthed his ODESSA connection and was using him — as Graff used him. As I used him."

  "Who?"

  "I wish to heaven I knew! He was granted an emergency leave from his ship in the Mediterranean. He went to Geneva."

  "Geneva?" Noel's memory raced back. To a fragment of time obscured by swift movement, and rushing crowds, and screams ... on a station platform. On a concrete station platform. A fight had broken out; a man had arched backward with blood on his shirt, another had gone after a third. ... A man in panic had raced by, his eyes wide in fright, beneath . . . thick eyebrows of black and white hair. "That was it," said Holcroft, astonished. "Beaumont was in Geneva."

  "I just told you that."

  "That's where I saw him! I couldn't remember where before. He followed me from Geneva."

  "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Where's Beaumont now?" asked Noel.

  "Back on board ship. Gretchen left several days ago to join him. In Saint-Tropez, I think."

  Tomorrow I go to the Mediterranean. To a man I loathe. . . . Everything made so much more sense now. Perhaps Tennyson was not the only man in that room who had been unfair in his judgments.

  "We've got to find out who sent Beaumont after me,"

  said Noel, picturing the man in a black leather jacket. Tennyson was right; their conclusions were the same. There was someone else.

  "I agree," said the blond man. "Shall we go together?"

  Holcroft was tempted. But he had not finished. There could be no unanswered questions later. Not once the commitment had been made between them.

  "Maybe," he replied. "There are two other things I want to ask you about. And I warn you, I want the answers now, not in a 'matter of days.' "

  "All right"

  "You killed someone in Rio."

  Tennyson's eyes narrowed. "Helden told you."

  "I had to know; she understood that. There are conditions in Geneva that won't allow surprises. If you can be blackmailed, I can't let you go on."

  Tennyson nodded. "I see."

  "Who was it? Whom did you kill?"

  "You mistake my reticence," replied the blond man. "I've no compunction whatsoever about telling you who it was. I'm trying to think how you can check up on what I say. There's no blackmail involved. There couldn't be; but how can you be sure?"

  "Let's start with a name."

  "Manuel Cararra."

  "Cararra?..."

  "Yes. It's why those two young people used it They knew I'd see the political connection. Cararra was a leader in the Chamber of Deputies, one of the most powerful men in the country. But his allegiance was not to Brazil; it was to Graff. To the ODESSA. I killed him seven years ago, and I'd kill him tomorrow."

  Noel studied Tennyson's face. "Who knew?"

  "A few old men. Only one's still alive. I'll give you his name, if you like. He'd never say anything about the killing."

  "Why notr

  "The shoe, as they say, was on the other foot. Before I left Rio de Janeiro, I met with them. My threat was clear. If ever they pursued me, I would make public what I knew about Cararra. The long-revered image of a conservative martyr would be shattered. The conservative cause in Brazil can't tolerate that."

  "I want the name."

  "I'll write it out for you." Tennyson did. "I'm sure you can reach him by transatlantic telephone. It won't take much; my name coupled with Cararra's should be enough."

  "I may do that."

  "By all means," said Tennyson. "He'll confirm what I've told you."

  The two men faced each other, only feet apart. "There was a subway accident in London," Noel went on. "A number of people were killed, including a man who worked for the Guardian. He was the man whose signature was on your employment records. The man who interviewed you, the only one who could shed any light on how or why you were hired."

  Tennyson's eyes were suddenly cold again. "It was a shock. I'll never get over it. What is your question?"

  "There was another accident. In New York. Only days ago. A number of innocent people were killed then, too, but one of them was the target. Someone I loved very much."

  "I repeat! What's your point, Holcroft?"

  "There's a certain similarity, wouldn't you say? MI Five doesn't know anything about the accident in New York, but it has very specific ideas about the one in London. I've put them together and come up with a disturbing connection. What do you know about that accident five years ago in London?"

  Tennyson's body was rigid. "Watch out," he said. "The British go too far. What do you want of me? How far will you go to discredit me?"

  "Cut the bullshit!" said Noel. "What happened in that subway?"

  "I was there!" The blond man thrust his hand up to his collar beneath the pinstriped suit. He yanked furiously, ripping his shirt half off his chest, exposing a scar that extended from the base of his throat to his breast. "I don't know anything about New York, but the experience in Charing Cross five years ago is one I'll live with for the rest of my life! Here it is; there's not a day when I'm not reminded of it. Forty-seven stitches, neck to thorax. I thought for a few moments — five years ago in London — that my head had been half cut off from the rest of me. And that man you speak of so enigmatically was my dearest friend in England! He helped get us out of Brazil.

  If someone killed him, they tried to kill me, too! I was with him."

  "I didn't know. . . . The British didn't say anything. They didn't know you were there."

  "Then I suggest someone look. There's a hospital record around somewhere. It shouldn't be hard to find." Tennyson shook his head in disgust. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be angry at you. It's the British; they'll use any
thing."

  "It's possible they really didn't know."

  "I suppose so. Hundreds of people were taken off that train. A dozen clinics in London were filled that night; no one paid much attention to names. But you'd think they would have found mine. I was in the hospital for several days." Tennyson stopped abruptly. "You said someone you loved was killed in New York only a few days ago? What happened?"

  Noel told him how Richard Holcroft had been run down in the streets, and of the theory conceived by David Miles. It was pointless to withhold anything from this man he had come close to misjudging so completely.

  In the telling was the conclusion both men had arrived at.

  In my judgment, our checkmated pig was reached by a third party.

  Who?

  I wish to heaven 1 knew....

  Someone else.

  A man in a black leather jacket. Defiant in a dark alley in Berlin. Willing to die . . . asking to be shot. Refusing to say who he was or where he came from. Someone or something more powerful, more knowledgeable, than the Rache or the ODESSA.

  Someone else.

  Noel told Tennyson everything, relieved that he could say it all. The relief was heightened by the way the blond man listened. His speckled gray eyes never wavered from Holcroft's face; they were riveted, totally absorbed. When he had finished, Noel felt exhausted. "That's all I know."

  Tennyson nodded. "We've finally met, haven't we? We both had to say what was on our minds. We both thought the other was the enemy, and we were both wrong. Now, we have work to do."

  "How long have you known about Geneva?" asked

  Holcroft. "Gretchen told me that you said a man would come one day and speak of a strange arrangement."

  "Since I was a child. My mother told me there was an extraordinary sum of money that was to be used for great works, to make amends for the terrible things done in Germany's name, but not by true Germans. But only that fact, no specifics."

  "You don't know Erich Kessler, then."

  "I remember the name, but only vaguely. I was very young."

  "You'll like him."

  "As you describe him, I'm sure I will. You say he's bringing his brother to Geneva? Is that allowed?"

  "Yes. I said I'd telephone him in Berlin and give him dates."

  "Why not wait until tomorrow or the day after? Call him from Saint-Tropez?"

  "Beaumont?"

  "Beaumont," said Tennyson, his mouth set. "I think we should meet with our checkmated pig. He has something to tell us. Specifically, who was his latest employer? Who sent him to that train station in Geneva? Who paid him for — or blackmailed him into — following you to New York and then to Rio de Janeiro? When we find this out, we'll know where your man in the black leather jacket came from."

  Someone else.

  Noel looked at his watch. It was nearly six o'clock; he and Tennyson had talked for more than two hours, yet there was still a great deal more to say. "Do you want to have dinner with your sister and me?" he asked.

  Tennyson smiled. "No, my friend. We'll talk on our way south. I've calls to make and copy to file. I mustn't forget I'm a newspaperman. Where are you staying?"

  "At the George Cinq. Under the name of Fresca."

  "I'll phone you later this evening." Tennyson extended his hand. "Until tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow."

  "Incidentally, if my fraternal blessings mean anything, you have them."

  Johann von Tiebolt stood at the railing of the terrace in the cold air of the early evening. Below, on the

  street, he could see Holcroft emerge from the building and walk east on the sidewalk.

  It had all been so easy. The orchestration of lies had been studiously thought out and arranged, the rendering underpinned with outraged conviction and sudden revelation that led to acceptance. An old man would be alerted in Rio; he knew what to say. A medical record would be placed in a London hospital, the dates and information corresponding to a tragic accident on the Charing Cross underground five years ago. And if all went according to schedule, a news item would be carried in the evening papers reporting another tragedy. A naval officer and his wife had disappeared in a small pleasure boat off the Mediterranean coast.

  Von Tiebolt smiled. Everything was going as it had been projected thirty years ago. Even the Nachrichten dienst could not stop them now. In a matter of days the Nachrichtendienst would be castrated.

  It was time for the Tinamou.

  30

  Noel hurried through the lobby of the George V, eager to get to his room, to Helden. Geneva was closer now; it would be closer still when they met Anthony Beaumont in Saint-Tropez and forced the truth from him.

  Too, he was anxious to learn whether Buonoventura had returned bis call. His mother had said she would let Sam know her plans. All Miles knew in New York was that Althene had left Mexico City for Lisbon. Why Lisbon? And who had followed her?

  The image of the man in the black leather jacket came back to Holcroft. The steady look in his eyes, the acceptance of death . . . kill me and another will take my place. Kill him, another his.

  The elevator was empty, the ascent swift. The door opened; Noel caught his breath at the sight of the man standing in the corridor facing him. It was the Verwünschte Kind from Sacré-Coeur, the fashion plate who had searched him in front of the candles.

  "Good evening, monsieur."

  "What are you doing here? Is Helden all right?"

  "She can answer your questions."

  "So can you." Holcroft grabbed the man's arm and turned him forcefully toward the door of the room.

  "Take your hands off me!"

  "When she tells me to let you go, I'll let you go. Come on." Noel propelled the man down the corridor to the door, and knocked.

  In seconds the door opened. Helden stood there, startled at the sight of the two of them. In her hand was a folded newspaper; in her eyes was something beyond her astonishment: sadness.

  "What's the matter?" she asked.

  "That's what I wanted to know, but he wouldn't tell me." Holcroft pushed the man through the door.

  "Noel, please. He's one of us."

  "I want to know why he's here."

  "I called him; he had to know where I was. He told me he had to see me. I'm afraid he's brought us dreadful news."

  "What?"

  "Read the papers," said the man. "There are both French and English."

  Holcroft picked up a copy of the Herald Tribune from the coffee table.

  "Page two," said the man. "Top left."

  Noel turned the page, snapping it flat. He read the words, a sense of anger . . . and fear . . . sweeping over him.

  NAVAL OFFICER AND WIFE LOST IN MEDITERRANEAN

  St.-Tropez — Commander Anthony Beaumont, captain of the patrol ship Argo and a highly decorated officer of Her Majesty's Royal Navy, along with his wife, who had joined him in this resort town for the weekend, were feared drowned when their small boat foundered in an angry squall several miles south along this rock-bound coast. A capsized craft fitting the description of the small boat was sighted by low-flying coastal search planes. The commander and his wife had not been heard from in over forty-eight hours, prompting second-in-command of the Argo, Lt. Morgan Llewellen, to issue search directives. The Admiralty has concluded that Commander and Mrs. Beaumont lost their lives in the tragic accident. The couple had no children.

  "Oh, God," whispered Holcroft. "Did your brother tell you?"

  "About Gretchen?" Helden asked. "Yes. She suffered so much, gave so much. It's why she wouldn't see me or talk to me. She never wanted me to know what she did, why she married him. She was afraid I might sense the truth."

  "If what you say is true," said the well-dressed man, "that Beaumont was ODESSA, we don't believe that newspaper story for a minute."

  "He means your friend in Berlin," interrupted Hel den. "I told him that you had a friend in Berlin who said he would transmit your suspicions to London."

  Noel understood. She was telling him she h
ad said nothing about Geneva. Noel turned to the man. "What do you think happened?"

  "If the British discovered an ODESSA agent in the upper ranks of the navy, especially one commanding a coastal-patrol vessel — a euphemism for an espionage ship — it would mean they had been duped again. There's just so much they can take; there'd be no inquiries. A swift execution is preferable."

  "That's a pretty rough indictment," said Holcroft.

  "It's an embarrassing situation."

  "They'd kill an innocent woman?"

  "Without thinking twice — on the possibility that she might not be innocent. The message would be clear, at any rate. The ODESSA network would have its warning."

  Noel turned away in disgust and put his arms around Helden. "I'm sorry," he said. "I know how you must feel, and I wish there was something I could do. Outside of reaching your brother, I'm not sure there is."

  Helden turned and looked at him, her eyes searching. "You trust each other?"

  "Very much. We're working together now."

  "Then there's no time for mourning, is there? I'm going to stay here tonight," she told the well-dressed man. "Is it all right? Can I be covered?"

  "Of course," said the man. "I'll arrange it."

  "Thank you. You're a good friend."

  He smiled. "I don't think Mr. Holcroft believes that. But then, he's got a great deal to learn." The man nodded and went to the door; he stopped, his hand on the knob, and turned to Noel. "I apologize if that appears cryptic to you, but be tolerant, monsieur. What's between you and Helden also seems cryptic to me, but I don't inquire. I trust. But, if that trust is found to be misplaced, well kill you. I just thought you ought to know."

  The Verwünschte Kind left quickly. Noel took an angry step after him, but Helden touched his arm. "Please, darling. He, too, has a lot to learn, and we can't tell him, He is a friend."

  "He's an insufferable little bastard." Holcroft paused.

  "I'm sorry. You've got enough on your mind; you don't need foolishness from me."

  "A man threatened your life."

  "Someone took your sister's. Under the circumstances, I was foolish."