Holcroft recoiled, ducking his head, spuming his neck, yanking the gearshift, plunging the accelerator to the floor. He heard the terrible spit and the crash of glass behind him. The rented car sprang forward into the intersection. Horns blew crazily; he swerved in front of an approaching automobile, turning at the last second to avoid a collision.
The cigarette had fallen from his lips, burning a hole in the seat.
He sped into the city.
The telephone was moist and glistening with sweat in Noel's hand. "Are you listening to me?" he shouted.
"Mr. Holcroft, calm down, please." The voice of the attache" at the American Embassy was disbelieving. "We'll do everything we can. I have the salient facts and we'll pursue a diplomatic inquiry as rapidly as possible. However, it is past seven o'clock; it'll be difficult reaching people at this hour."
"Difficult to reach people? Maybe you didn't hear me. I was damn near killed! Take a look at that carl The windows were blown out!"
"We're sending a man over to your hotel to take possession of the vehicle," said the attache matter-of-factiy.
"I've got the keys. Have him come up to my room and get them."
"Yes, well do that. Stay where you are and we'll call you back."
The attache' hung up. Christ! The man sounded as if he had just heard from an irritating relative and was anxious to get off the phone so he could go to dinner!
Noel was frightened beyond any fear he had ever known. It gripped him and panicked him and made breathing difficult. Yet in spite of that sickening, all-
pervasive fear, something was happening to him that he did not understand. A minute part of him was angry, and he felt that anger growing. He did not want it to grow; he was afraid of it, but he could not stop it. Men had attacked him and he wanted to strike back.
He had wanted to strike back at Graff, too. He had wanted to call him by his rightful name: monster, liar, corrupter... Nazi.
The telephone rang. He spun around as if it were an alarm, signifying another attack. He gripped his wrist to steady the trembling and walked quickly to the bedside table.
"Senhor Holcroft?"
It was not the man at the Embassy. The accent was Latin.
"What is it?"
"I must speak with you. It is very important that I speak with you right away."
"Who is this?"
"My name is Cararra. I am in the lobby of your hotel."
"Cararra? A woman named Cararra called me yesterday."
"My sister. We are together now. We must both speak with you now. May we come up to your room?"
"No! I'm not seeing anyone!" The sounds of the gunshots, the explosions of concrete and glass — they were all still too sharp in his mind. He would not be an isolated target again.
"Senhor, you must!"
"I won't! Leave me alone or I'll call the police."
"They can't help you. We can. We wish to help you. You seek information about the Von Tiebolts. We have information."
Noel's breathing stopped. His eyes strayed to the mouthpiece of the telephone. It was a trap. The man on the phone was trying to trap him. Yet, if that were so, why did he announce the trap?
"Who sent you here? Who told you to call me? Was it Graff?"
"Maurice Graff does not talk to people like us. My sister and I, we are beneath his contempt"
You are contemptible! Graff held most of the world
in contempt, thought Holcroft. He breathed again and tried to speak calmly. "I asked you who sent you to me. How do you know I'm interested in the Von Tiebolts?"
"We have friends at Immigration. Clerks, not important people. But they listen; they observe. You will understand when we speak." The Brazilian's words suddenly accelerated; the phrases tumbled awkwardly. Too awkwardly to be studied or rehearsed. "Please, senhor. See us. We have information and it is information you should have. We want to help. By helping you, we help ourselves."
Noel's brain raced. The lobby of the Porto Alegre was always crowded, and there was a certain truth in the bromide that there was safety in numbers. If Cararra and his sister really knew something about the Von Tiebolts, he had to see them. But not in an isolated situation, not alone. He spoke slowly.
"Stay by the reception desk, at least ten feet in front of it, with both hands out of your pockets. Have your sister on your left, her right hand on your arm. I'll be down in a little while, but not in the elevator. And you won't see me first. I'll see you."
He hung up, astonished at himself. Lessons were being learned. They were basic, no doubt, to those abnormal men who dealt in a clandestine world, but new to him. Cararra would not have his hand gripped around a gun in his pocket; his sister — or whoever she was — would not be able to reach into a purse without his noticing. They would have their attentions on the doorways, not the elevators, which of course he would use. And he would know who they were.
He walked out of the elevator in a crowd of tourists. He stood briefly with them, as if one of the party, and looked at the man and woman by the front desk. As instructed, Cararra's hands were at his side, his sister's right hand linked to her brother's arm, as if she were afraid to be set adrift. And he was her brother; there was a distinct similarity in their features. Cararra was in his early thirties, perhaps; his sister, several years younger. Both dark — skin, hair, eyes. Neither looked at all imposing; their clothes were neat but inexpensive. They were out of place among the furs and evening gowns of the hotel's guests, aware of their awkward status, their faces embarrassed, their eyes frightened. Harmless, thought Hol-
croft. Then he realized he was making too fast a judgment.
They sat in a back booth of the dimly lit cocktail lounge, the Cararras across the table from Noel. Before they'd gone inside, Holcroft had remembered that the embassy was supposed to call him back. He told the desk that if the call came, it was to be relayed to him in the lounge. But only the embassy — no one else.
"Tell me first how you learned I was looking for the Von Tiebolts," said Noel after their drinks arrived.
"I told you. A clerk at Immigration. The word was passed discreetly, last Friday, among the sections, that an American would be coming in asking about a German family named Von Tiebolt Whoever took the request was to call in another, a man from the policia do adminis tração. That's the secret police."
"I know what it is. He called himself, a 'translator.' I want to know why you were told."
"The Von Tiebolts were our friends. Very close friends."
"Where are they?"
Cararra exchanged a brief look with his sister. The girl spoke.
"Why do you look for them?" she asked.
"I made that clear at Immigration. It's nothing out of the ordinary. They were left some money by relatives in the United States."
Brother and sister again looked at each other, and again the sister spoke. "Is it a large amount of money?"
"I don't know," replied Holcroft "It's a confidential matter. I'm merely a go-between."
"A what?" Again the brother.
"Un tercero," answered Noel, looking at the woman. "Why were you so frightened on the telephone yesterday? You left your number, and when I called you back, you told me I shouldn't have. Why?"
"I made a ... mistake. My brother said it was a bad mistake. My name, the telephone number — it was wrong to leave them."
"It would anger the Germans," explained Cararra. "If they were watching you, intercepting your messages, they would see that we called you. It would be dangerous to us."
"If they're watching me now, they know you're here."
"We talked it over," continued the woman. "We made our decision; we must take the risk."
"What risk?"
"The Germans despise us. Among other things, we are Portuguese Jews," said Cararra.
"They think like that even now?"
"Of course they do. I said we were close to the Von Tiebolts. Perhaps I could clarify. Johann was my dearest friend; he and my sister were to be married. The
Germans would not permit it"
"Who could stop them?"
"Any number of men. With a bullet in the back of Johann's head."
"Good Christ, that's crazy!" But it was not crazy, and Holcroft knew it He had been a target high in the hills; gunshots still rang in his ears.
"For certain Germans such a marriage would be the final insult," said Cararra. "There are those who say the Von Tiebolts were traitors to Germany. These people still fight the war three decades later. Great injustices were done to the Von Tiebolts here in Brazil. They deserve whatever can be done for them. Their lives were made most difficult for causes that should have died years ago."
"And you figured I could do something for them? What made you think that?"
"Because powerful men wanted to stop you; the Germans have a great deal of influence. Therefore you, too, were a powerful man, someone the Graffs in Brazil wanted to keep from the Von Tiebolts. To us that meant you intended no harm to our friends, and if no harm, you meant well. A powerful American who could help them."
"You say the 'Graffs in Brazil.' That's Maurice Graff, isn't it? Who is he? What is he?"
"The worst of the Nazis. He should have been hanged at Nürnberg."
"You know Graff?" asked the woman, her eyes on Holcroft
"I went out to see him. I used a client in New York as an excuse, said he wanted me to look over Graffs house. I'm an architect At one point, I mentioned the Von Tiebolts, and Graff went out of his mind. He began screaming and ordered me out. When I drove down the hill, a pack of attack dogs came after the car. Later,
Graffs guard followed me. He tried to kill me. In traffic, the same thing happened again. Another man shot at me from a car window."
"Mother of God!" Cararra's lips parted in shock.
"We should not be seen with him," said the woman, gripping her brother's arm. Then she stopped, studying Noel closely. "If he's telling the truth."
Holcroft understood. If he was to learn anything from the Cararras, they had to be convinced he was exactly who he said he was. "I'm telling the truth. I've also told it to the American Embassy. They're sending someone over to take the car as evidence."
The Cararras looked at each other; then both turned to Holcroft. His statement was the proof they needed; it was in their eyes.
"We believe you," said the sister. "We must hurry."
"The Von Tiebolts are alive?"
"Yes," said the brother. "The Nazi?Õˆ83$> |dvjDš+ž<ãã.EÃÎ8¾LÑä$�^ ›Nj‘“9â ÓÁ›Ã1
Óï¤' ÍèÃzDà³��‹M ‰o_cƒ¼DH÷ œ%b'ðç á ±•º .j
ð•±0©½' ˆNd29
x¼ëôd`Cìµì á»Ba á0k— !?W<ÛÍ "šumƒë6}ÁOç+ ÙSÊ`iŸ“‡–AƒCaOúNÁ�ì‚m…WS ¢ †;º:Τ§ ñÐÛ ÿ ‰z1œÅÇ|¦ã+ãYØi¸8N
“!Oh<Õ†m”ÒX0°ÆÆR† t
šyñvMHYÄíàR¼»Y+ ÿ4Æ‹¥êe“Ö‹t°þjÉž#Òº Q¥Iw †ø½J˜ð)ÞËÜ5{�ÚÊæ«
>#Û¦î K üé»”ðR¹—ôóψ_Oœ pÌÌÇxuü:|(Ý Îüù±IÍ×q"u‚#°õèÉ-œ Áp‚ 0ý� !Kºš 7‰…Æ•úI¯ áøl)U“&y†Ì
hŽtùŠ‘â;3�8Àå: Õ²|ÓÁƒòô^á ~SÓ†5÷«› (ÜqŒàÌ)óƒµ× ›©•ƒF‚•ñO´O ˆýàä†#ÖZ
P[‘ƒ “l_†aO‹°ÏIS/Á†v§°Ò,¼ë=”c ³E71ÁO啽¥ Ò0Ÿ[‰ªæä™Z¸ óˆÐ MäÛ§M �¹t´ÆžèÎSB PËàËùÎ;½k†Du^ ÷ëC �pQ|=kÎÆÞôó/¯6žuî¦ fÎxЈ®éù ÙÀ§UÜ<ÉÆôžÆ^|GÃç
CêiУ¼ C¼?¦Îˆi›Êpé0�
:y’ �l*d!fðÇ1 ³[*0!Ÿ®˜25{ ½?M °�ÈQ;ˆx4þ s„ ÓÚ5hN œ=NG"!pˆ½s¹¦�Œ 7¹ ±pçn°oM ”ŒY ³•(Ð,9Í6ð¡Hé9ç‰~MN~ãÆ"=´ØA19 üŒjÝšÏF† Ÿ»Ä•
À›Å°l
–åj.�ÝY5'Ä`á‹„{lw•~Ÿowq¨†h,GZ•¸Ñ�ï:—I— s©Á,AÐèçîµÄDV'è´(¯í2rÆ…ÿ�³+cAa0�-öïxLÑÚ@NØÌA Æl§8tN‘Ý;÷¥Cy1 ´‹
¨ ¸+ê#ÎC
i 6ã' Œœ!û—820êá ò°øti‡-êÃ0¢9 ‡&ƒòba4ôiø5Y1;'†uMüá–a× �¨˜FÍ4{œ¤I¤±ÓÇY ÓÄ f%4ñ ïa »�$Þ4J#ÁŽT¢~
�€@Š¡ ñeûÄn½yÊvŸ±*W…=b"�†ŠMÓUâK77 5Á Qnô ‹ �É4m™eÚF"q£“�Bƒœ�XSïä%)sm'ˆ ®Áz Étók‚´ ¸)í •+~OÓ’ovc 2п˜“˜ÏE».NËÛ½6ÚŽä+sp …>Fûˆ›�l~õ¼ˆ sY2É7
ˆ{Y‚›¸Aóê')Т,}‡å1i§ <2&dáÆiÃáKä: œÓŽJÍöœÊ|Fôþ Ó¼9‰Æ¢ w Ÿ
ü׸)õäøêX,Q PÒ|„×N8V—ëDK ªúm’ ¼G�:¸¢Á�ÝÁ¨Žñ•éã+Œ4€(— C¤É ï Òl„Xxœ)¿ rñw´ý%& œë tØŠ”ÁAÃðœGm? dç+r
$…ƒ½ –íFã!MO Á‘õ˜yÑ èMƒ6“� ÚÁA¡ Ùp€öˆZ …œá«ôOañ ?; nŸáC´ØRs :ž¦Ü&ÅTðQ$Lêòw…<ÙŠsa-« †„Lñþ™ “ˆìœë7E÷„�L™(È›‡á×… ´xä9i§ Ö éô'r:
AÒ†
¸šÓ® =uôõp�ÈÑpŸ± †É— ˆŽö'3p—‘íŸÖàœ(‰ lÄDüºhÓ„jÈTj=+œ3wÓ
îŽ Ž ¦ù®
×8lG¹½LO Ì p�)èˆkP_ƒ<¼
O� mÁ‰Èˆé uapSÎ1W®~–ŒM8)ÑêÈcDø¸aÙ
N ;›’b*°`;7D
o� ž–ëM2„kmêÈÏé §ÿnökM§lŸØÚ{D‰ò.
Ýä•�-Zä¡ÈÇ:Û „™Ó¢"]qç€@Ž*|éÇô¨ØRý—ŽæL'åvšÓaN¤˜ÿœd V!ÄíŒÜ Ò†Îö�á釩� sæÌVŸ!°£éë NHt ×>ö)Ú}£ý8"`F&8.
kp1!8xĹâl‡Æ'l€ÎŸpˆ�!e‘‘¥'B—q÷æÊT.& ºØ|dNq½Þ<)}tb
rƒ *lã„G
FDë4( ‡v:…½l€(•¦ÝƒDÎdó‚Ïpê @ ‡„xêW� ÇÁp� ¥è€*>ül€TUØ ‰‚Ÿˆˆ ZB = y�– …?u5!i|ë)‰xÉÙ i¦Qó ¿I†¡Oš�)Üna`¢ç§®`WB> aÁOOX=©"S²ÖËc" ü¢ÌZte ƒ6F¡On÷p
��Ñ )É¥–M ÚÄ84çNa€)þÙ3ß’Ñ’C—N 6>�+'” Ñs$ícá°§ì?úzöœ´À
£–ýWDýâGnn“)lä> 3oòìcE‡rßsTÌ…M
¢»Á§¤ÎÔ °ø™½4x*uÇV 8(“ë�¤®
t± �ÎQ ±‚§÷öÿ4u3 †?æ
øL ݦ;Ÿ±«Ê*^t BÁžRõQK ¿ãz# èc ÜQZ_'Os”•¼=ÞDB�§ï ša÷JϺ 8ÚC &b^<ï;®N�éÓ
æ |ÝsÄ-©
ï•
T� ç�é¼
Y”ðSÏHjX ¤Æ Ü(H
s¢>
³O#"j"´�¦ Š 7§Å„î
�º`d
tÐSðžÄ àÎC�&gƒ
BÙ!ð§¦Ò ¹b3ÍêV ÚÊa¸ @éЧ°ž‹•GsaW3£YÚK±´ÓF,Êò@§ì±¦S {s:‰;} kUŽÔ w[@2Ïu²|8 ê˜ÎÃØj
ù�¼ht)Ý9gOï T4œÔO'
nþëÉQ äªH �E¥`ÜYaŽÖ]v(� Æ~EÁ`SÒ×Iº�g,Ü™¥VY ×LZ8#šL!Ùá[gêb ¥jðùÃÚ1
�Xå2L44 ýedü•[‰µ´Õ F‡QvOdÏw›«k|Ò“™ÒÚ ¡;p` ÿH:¿ÏÉßgd¿mtKÑŒP[Ìbl™dAóñ]çTZ�Q�ŒÒ SqMì ¤æÝ�u rcwüPÅ Qmž¸Å��c™
{R÷8ÒËFgõ>-üºÓ˜èÉ:Ç î™ 5^£‚Á ™æ pÕŠPÉà¢Ù8sx i–� ?n� Üj�B³ê›•Ú’,Ku�›:à —áIЧWÃ^ì²1oP�õÛ1$ Åw÷Ík ´Þ•
Vgh»:Û
v©N®:-×’ð¯5'E‡s®É®
E>Ë�ŽÀR
� ;9O²5`õÖ‹
C &±óœ ûÒA;.´Z w�A6:È– ŸØ8„
3a8 Þµÿc©¤Ôè L>hGòá³Ü˜0h®Š¹Î±® Š®ë»„9±;Û«˜ úLx)ê:U„-qƒÚÅ!îßZ ÍíMÁ¡8SÿZºX‹WÊ‘ ›Ôš,™G$U”£ ?1„é!ØݽN�íEÙFü–v^&g�æì„â=*$Ú)šu±™ï–%&
uNv°Ùõ tƒ½JhˆàSª ún ;›:‰Î
|Î ö0 ‘ž’_û$©Ê]ZehÖœ¸|
}Õ.� œ@ØÎq£üö©L y´E§O :ýkyÅ ‚þlâqŽO� Ú&îp)a2ä/ Þ]À¼öœæTí?0R tŽ5ÆL“…;Ál{
=œNoM…>g M�x ¿ž—ñ¥}Ý»ûæà hÞ´ AÝH£Ìó=Z Õ §$çvF¯
ç¯Ô® ðøSÇêdú¾Ùm£¿]›"�Ä¢0Ñ5îqˆÎád"ý_8ÜkrÆW )~¨kTsj‰Ô/�ŽïQê„ð–ÓáO/þä¼Ì8oªe
Z,Ò� ò“(‡Vïiœ� ";9 †ÉÙJd)æœØãM
á^6C?�žpSÌšì&—(ä�¹ 4Œ)×€]âÌŒ6H¥>ˆcIÁÝþÏd<ÏX‡ÿ, �’kaÑð)ó×9‹ >)«vÒÇæ@'xXîï>Ô-ö Sù›Z€Ç0ÐS¦t
ð…¡£r4¸Çܦý+$ ,GF’¾øÆô8| %„ ž&¦ DzÆ«L‘÷ 3d& ÔÃgcc‘�¨š ˜ög[Œ“Í }c�Oû{…¦”€õðæšlœàŽÖ9®æM{U’NÜù8SÛà_•³ ‘(áŽƩ ‚‹²ò†4U‹,ZvFà§ú4’�S!%ÿw£kqëĸ±•:Á”0#õ¾îR±¸O"&ï Tf§Xp5ÕÖmž‚åŠB#×ëQºJÕ@þ°˜´ÒVª6ŸÅ¹ >•
9JHŒÁŸF2š =wXu58Õw´PpÍnØ
L ñ×8I°wöoG õ wvÚ¼´[‘J^ ôÈSõ¤£5+^›a‚SsõjÝÝ $
}Uù¾[º‹1 &7ë c Û"‡1E©‰¥ÝM§ Ÿ03ó#& Å
X”Ÿ§ žÌ'8Ì5' îY‡a±Y }²%éþ]SË ÆÎ =�Äëšò©%�-©?Ä"æšÆ÷ qDã|Ì‹ª–§:}LÔ& Ÿûo½sò Ò5rÛÍ%ò‘ìøëÖamL±È;n [�Ñ¢Ê gvòRÓ£ËÖvM
q2ÝéI Sï<¸ˆm
Ýù}Ƴ OÒœ
Úl�{žk¹xHíœ i™f‘ µ!€¤Xx çIå��fŸ
| JÛ² 44Œ¯ 8)ÜluVÔ:nÌÜv–)Îón _RîÄz‰§sµmÝà5QX2
}õƒ¦Ko—"Q迸Ƥ@pu–Ñ £¯õ
åª-¥G÷×:ÖÎ#m c[ËΞ
?�N7x� ¤
÷Xoœg†0äj³œáî§í …>7 €a©ÓmW¸G`–TtL;È#ROÎjû¤ > º³M!sU‡“’'u¿±ÀShrypìÖ
óº™Äüï ‹ ˆñÆ‚�•S æ@¢˜þJ c„Võâ>Æ4ß0¦§‡™ƒY ýÛÓ OÛ=—xÑ›aÃ=§Ü#[( " JI f
gÅ Xaçºê`à‹¾ÃG@¹°§¨‡ ‡;�ãÚè¾ ¿ 8A³£Y 3 ' áì;‡Ï µ C§ë
Ð)ê3s–�zXA/cw »Üààe5™u¾n„ÃÚÓ
´FÉù’D†BŸéUÆ–� E ì2³:0“þYöf Ïï56Yn'$˜À�z 3› Ÿ%¹í Y5`…‹›",Ñ4jžà¦oS› ðöõÕóH%§”´3† žw34.™œ�Ñ26cîÃÀ†ôÚzê`èÑ@â¤6#èÇ5rlM �î0!ž Ý4!í¤Á|•Sõ²&õÝé Žë!‡_u; k{¦ÚÔÏ
~R—iØÚæw.Þ :,2 ûÚ{íõ L 9�â}G�j…SÙ>
The Holcroft Covenant Page 11
