"We've no time for such thoughts. Your friend Buonoventura returned your call. I wrote down the number where you can reach him. It's by the telephone."
Noel walked to the bedside table and picked up the paper. "Your brother and I were going to Saint-Tropez tomorrow. To make Beaumont tell us what he knew. The news'll be shattering to him. On both counts."
"You said you were going to call him. I think it's best that I do. He and Gretchen were very close. When they were younger, they were inseparable. Where is he?"
"Actually, I don't know; he didn't say. He just told me he'd reach me later this evening. That's what I meant." Holcroft lifted the phone and gave Buonoven-tura's number to the operator.
"I'll speak to Johann when he calls," said Helden, going to the window.
The transatlantic lines were light; the link to Curaçao was made in less than a minute.
"You're a pistol, Noley! I'm glad I don't have to pay your phone bills. You're seeing the goddamn world; I'll say that for you."
"I'm seeing a lot more than that, Sam. Did my mother call you?"
"She did. She said to tell you she'll see you in Geneva in about a week. You're to stay at the Hotel d'Accord, but you're not to say anything to anyone."
"Geneva? She's going to Geneva? Why the hell did she even leave the country?"
"She said it was an emergency. You were to keep your mouth shut, and not do anything until you see her. She was one upset lady."
"I've got to get hold of her. Did she give you a telephone number — an address — where I could reach her?"
"Not a thing, pal. She didn't have much time to talk, and the connection was rotten. It was out of Mexico. Anybody mind telling me what's going on?"
Holcroft shook his head as if Buonoventura were in
the room facing him. "Sorry, Sam. Perhaps someday. I owe you."
"I think maybe you do. We'll cut a deck for it. Take care of yourself. You got a real nice mother. Be good to her."
Holcroft hung up. Buonoventura was a good friend to have. As good a friend as the well-dressed man was to Helden, he thought. He wondered what she meant when she asked the Verwünschte Kind if she were covered. Covered for what? By whom?
"My mother's on her way to Geneva," he said.
Helden turned. "I heard you. You sounded upset"
"I am. A man followed her to Mexico. Miles had him picked up at the airport; he took a cyanide capsule before they could find out who he was or where he came from."
" 'Kill me, another will take my place. Kill him, another his.' Weren't those the words?"
"Yes. I was thinking about them on the way up."
"Does Johann know?"
"I told him everything."
"What does he think?"
"He doesn't know what to think. The key was Beaumont. I don't know where we go now, except to Geneva, with the hope that no one stops us."
Helden came toward him. "Tell me something. What can they — whoever they are — really do? Once the three of you present yourselves to the bank in Geneva, each of you in agreement, all reasonable men, it's over. So what can they actually do?"
"You said it last night."
"What?"
"They can kill us."
The telephone rang. Holcroft reached for it "Yes?"
"It's John Tennyson." The voice was strained.
"Your sister wants to talk to you," said Holcroft
"In a moment," replied Tennyson. "We must speak first. Does she know?"
"Yes. Obviously you do, too."
"My paper called me with the news. The night editor knew how close Gretchen and I were. It's horrible."
"I wish there was something I could say."
"I couldn't help you when you told me about your
stepfather. We have to live with these things by ourselves. There's nothing anyone can do or say when they happen. Helden understands."
"Then you don't believe the story that was given out? About the boat and the storm?"
"That they went out in a boat and never came back? Yes, I believe it. That he was responsible? Of course not. It's not even plausible. Whatever else he was, Beaumont was a superb sailor. He could smell a storm twenty miles away. If he was in a small craft, he'd have it in shore before any weather struck."
"Who then?"
"Come, my friend, we both know the answer. That someone else who hired him also killed him. They made him follow you to Rio. You spotted him; his usefulness had come to an end." Tennyson paused. "It was as if they'd known we were to leave for Saint-Tropez. The unpardonable act was to kill Gretchen as well. For appearances."
"I'm sorry. God, I feel responsible."
"It was totally out of your control."
"Could it have been the British?" asked Holcroft. "I told Kessler about Beaumont. He said he was going to work through channels. Bonn to London. Maybe an ODESSA agent commanding one of those reconnaissance ships was too much of an embarrassment."
"The temptation might be there, but no one in authority would grant permission. The English would put him into isolation and break him on a rack if they had to get information, but they wouldn't kill him. They had him. He and Gretchen were killed by someone who could be damaged by what he knew, not by anyone who could benefit."
Tennyson's reasoning was persuasive. "You're right. The British wouldn't gain anything. They'd keep him under wraps."
"Exactly. And there's another factor, a moral one. I think MI Six is riddled with self-seekers, but I don't believe they kill to avoid embarrassment. It's not in their nature. But they'll go to extraordinary lengths to maintain a reputation. Or revive it And I pray to God I'm right about that."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm flying to London tonight. In the morning I'll
contact Payton-Jones at MI Five. I've an exchange to offer him, one I think he'll find difficult to resist. I may be able to give him a ground-dwelling bird that moves rapidly from one place to another, its feathers blending in with the environment."
Holcroft was as surprised as he was bewildered. "I thought you said you couldn't work with them."
"Him. Only Payton-Jones, no one else. He must give me his assurance of that, or we go no farther."
"Do you think he will?"
"He really has no choice. That ground-dwelling bird has become an MI obsession."
"Suppose you do? What do you get in return?"
"Access to classified material. The British have thousands of secret files. They concern the last years of the war and are embarrassing to a lot of people. But somewhere in those files is our answer. A man, a group of men, a band of fanatics — I don't know who or what, but it's there. Someone who had a connection with the Finanzministerium thirty years ago, or with our fathers; someone they trusted and to whom they gave responsibility. It could even be a Loch Torridon infiltration."
"A what?"
"Loch Torridon. It was an espionage and sabotage operation mounted by the British from 'forty-one to 'forty-four. Hundreds of former nationals were sent back to Germany and Italy to work in factories and railroads and government offices everywhere. It's common knowledge there were Loch Torridon personnel in the Finanzministerium. ... The answer is in the archives."
"From those thousands of files, you expect to find one identity? Even if it's there, it could take months."
"Not really. I know precisely what to look for: people who may have been associated with our fathers."
Tennyson spoke so rapidly, with such assurance, that Noel found it difficult to keep up with him. "Why are you so convinced the information is there to begin with?"
"Because it has to be. You made that clear to me this afternoon. The man who called you in New York, the one who was killed — "
"Peter Baldwin?"
"Yes. MI Six. He knew about Geneva. We start with him; he's our key now."
"Then go to the file called 'Wolfsschanze,'" said Holcroft. " 'Code Wolfsschanze.' That may be it!"
Tennyson did not reply at first. He was either
thinking or startled; Noel could not tell which. "Where did you hear that?" he asked. "You never mentioned it. Neither did Helden."
"Then we both forgot," Holcroft told him.
"We should be careful," said Tennyson, when Noel had finished. "If the name 'Wolfsschanze' is tied to Geneva, we must be extremely careful. The British can't learn about Geneva. It would be disastrous."
"I agree. But what reason will you give Payton-Jones for wanting access to the archives?"
"Part of the truth," answered Tennyson. "I want Gretchen's killer."
"And for that you're willing to give up the ... ground-dwelling bird you've been tracking for six years?"
"For that and for Geneva. With all my heart."
Noel was touched. "Do you want me to talk to Pay-ton-Jones?"
"No!" Tennyson shouted; then he lowered his voice. "I mean, it would be far too dangerous. Trust me. Do as I ask you, please. You and Helden must stay out of sight. Completely. Until I contact you, Helden must not return to work. She must stay with you, and you both must remain invisible."
Holcroft looked at Helden. "I don't know if she'll agree to that."
"I'll convince her. Let me speak with her. You and I have finished our talk."
"You'll call me?"
"In a few days. If you change hotels, leave word where Mr. Fresca can be reached. Helden has my message-service number. Let me talk with her now. In spite of our differences, we need each other now, perhaps as we've never needed each other before. And ... Noel?"
"Yes?"
"Be kind to her. Love her. She needs you, too."
Holcroft stood up and handed the phone to Helden.
"Mein Bruder-----"
31
Code Wolfsschanze!
Von Tiebolt-Tennyson slammed his fist on the desk in the small out-of-the-way office he used in Paris.
Code Wolfsschanze. That sacrosanct phrase had been given to Peter Baldwin by Ernst Manfredi! The banker had played a dangerous but ingenious game. He knew that Baldwin's mere use of the phrase was enough to guarantee his death. But Manfredi would never have given the Englishman more than that; it would not have been in the banker's interests. Still, Baldwin had possessed one of the best minds in Europe. Had he pieced together more than Manfredi had considered possible? How much had he really learned? What was contained in Baldwin's file at MI Five?
Or did it matter? The British had rejected whatever it was Baldwin had to offer. One file folder among thousands upon thousands. Buried in the archives, lost because it was one more entry of rejected information.
Code Wolfsschanze. It meant nothing to those who knew nothing, and the few hundred who did — those district leaders in every country — knew only that it was a signal. They were to make themselves ready; enormous funds would soon be sent to them, to be used for the cause.
Die Sonnenkinder. All over the world, prepared to rise and assert their birthright.
Baldwin's file could not contain that information; it was not possible. But those who held that file would be used. Above all else, the British wanted the Tinamou. His capture by MI Five would reassert English supremacy in intelligence operations — a supremacy lost through years of blunders and defections.
MI Five would be handed the Tinamou, and with that gift would come an obligation to the giver. That was the
splendid irony: The hated British Intelligence, that quiet, serpentine monster that had wreaked such havoc on the Third Reich, would help create the Fourth.
For MI Five would be told that the Nachrichtendienst was involved in an extraordinary conspiracy. The British would believe the man who told them; that man was giving them the Tinamou.
Tennyson walked through the London offices of the Guardian, receiving the compliments of his colleagues and their subordinates. As always, he accepted the compliments modestly.
He studied the women casually. The secretaries and the receptionists invited this most beautiful of men to acknowledge them, invited him, actually, to take whatever he wished. It struck him that he might have to select one of these women. His beloved Gretchen was gone, but his appetites were not. Yes, thought Tennyson as he walked toward the door of the senior editor's office, he would select a woman. The excitement was mounting, the intensity of Wolfsschanze growing with every passing hour. He would need sexual release. It was always this way; Gretchen had understood.
"John, it's good to see you," said the senior editor, getting up from behind the desk and extending his hand. "We're running the Bonn article tomorrow. Fine job."
Tennyson sat down in a chair in front of the desk. "Something has come up," he said. "If my sources are accurate, and I'm sure they are, a killing — killings — will be attempted that could provoke a world crisis."
"Good heavens. Have you written it up?"
"No. We can't write about it. I don't think any responsible newspaper should."
The editor leaned forward. "What is it, John?"
"There's an economic summit conference called for next Tuesday. .. ."
"Of course. Right here in London. Leaders from the East and West."
"That's the point. East and West. They're flying in from Moscow and Washington, from Peking and Paris. The most powerful men on earth." Tennyson paused.
"And?"
"Two are to be assassinated."
"What?"
"Two are to be killed; which two is irrelevant as long as they are from opposing sides; the president of the United States and the chairman of the People's Republic; or the prime minister and the premier of the Soviet Union."
"Impossible! Security measures will be airtight."
"Not really. There'll be crowds, processions, banquets, motorcades. Where's the absolute guarantee found?"
"It has to be!"
"Not against the Tinamou."
"The Tinamou?"
"He's accepted the highest fee in history."
"Good God, from whom?"
"An organization known as the Nachrichtendienst."
Harold Payton-Jones stared across the table at Tennyson in the dimly lit room that had no other furniture but the table and two chairs. The location had been selected by MI Five; it was a deserted boardinghouse in east London.
"I repeat," said the gray-haired agent curtly. "You expect me to accept the things you say merely because you're willing to go on record? Preposterous!"
"It's my only proof," replied Tennyson. "Everything I've told you is true. We haven't time to fight each other any longer. Every hour is vital."
"Nor have I the inclination to be hoodwinked by an opportunistic journalist who may be much more than a correspondent! You're very clever. And quite possibly an outrageous liar."
"For God's sake, if that's true, why am I here? Listen to me! I'll say it for the last time: The Tinamou was trained by the ODESSA. In the hills of Rio de Janeiro! I've fought the ODESSA all my life; that's on my record, if anyone cares to examine it. The ODESSA forced us out of Brazil, cut us off from everything we'd built there. I want the Tinamou!"
Payton-Jones studied the blond man. The argument had been vicious, lasting nearly a half hour. The agent had been relentless, pounding Tennyson with a barrage of questions, lashing out at him with insults. It was a studied technique of MI Five's, designed to separate truth from falsehood. It was apparent that the Englishman was now satisfied. He lowered his voice.
"All right, Mr. Tennyson. We can stop fighting each other. I gather we owe you an apology."
"The apologies are not one-sided. It's just that I knew I could work better alone. I had to pretend to be so many things. If ever anyone had seen me with a member of your service, my effectiveness would have been destroyed."
"Then I'm sorry for the times we called you in."
"They were dangerous moments for me. I could feel the Tinamou slipping away."
"We haven't caught him yet."
"We're close. It's only a matter of days now. We'll succeed if we're painstaking in every decision we make, every street the delegations travel —
the locations of every meeting, every ceremony, every banquet. There's an advantage that's never existed before: We know he's there."
"You're absolutely convinced of your source?"
"Never more so in my life. That man in the Berlin pub was the courier. Every courier used to reach the Tinamou has been killed. His last words were 'London . . . next week . . . the summit . . . one from each side ... a man with a tattoo of a rose on the back of his hand ... Nachrichtendienst.' "
Payton-Jones nodded. "We'll put out inquiries to Berlin as to the man's identity."
"I doubt you'll find anything. From what little I know about the Nachrichtendienst, it was extremely thorough."
"But it was neutral," Payton-Jones said. "And its information was always accurate. It spared no one. The prosecutors of Nuremberg were continuously fed data by the Nachrichtendienst."
"I suggest," said Tennyson, "that the prosecutors were given only what the Nachrichtendienst wanted to give them. You can't know what was withheld."
The Britisher nodded again. "It's possible. That's something we'll never know. The question is, why? What's the motive?"
"If I may," replied the blond man. "... A few old men about to die, taking their final vengeance. The Third Reich had two specific philosophical enemies who allied themselves in spite of their antagonisms: the communists and the democracies. Now each vies for suprem-
acy. What better revenge than for each to accuse the other of assassination? For each to destroy the other?"
"If we could establish that," interrupted Payton-Jones, "it could be the motive behind a number of assassinations during the past years."
"How does one establish it beyond doubt?" asked Tennyson. "Did British Intelligence ever have a direct connection with the Nachrichtendienst?"
"Oh, yes. We insisted on identities — to be kept locked in the vaults, of course. We couldn't act on such information blindly."
"Are any alive today?"
"It's possible. It's been years since anyone has mentioned the Nachrichtendienst. I'll check, of course."
"Will you give me their names?"
The Mi-Five man leaned back in the chair. "Is this one of the conditions you spoke of, Mr. Tennyson?"
"Spoke of, but made clear that under the circumstances I could never insist upon."
The Holcroft Covenant Page 39