He wanted to call Helden, to tell her that soon she could stop running — they could all stop running — stop hiding, stop living in fear. He wanted to tell her that. And he wanted to see her again.
But he had given his word not to call her at Galli-mard, not to try to reach her for any reason. It was maddening; she was maddening, yet he could not break his word.
The telephone. He had to call the American Express office on the Champs-Elysees. He had told Sam Buono-ventura he would check for messages there.
It was a simple matter to get messages by telephone; he had done so before. No one had to know where he was. He put down his coffee and went to the phone, suddenly remembering that he had a second call to make. His mother. It was too early to call her in New York; he'd reach her later in the day.
"I'm sorry, monsieur," said the clerk at the American Express office. "You must sign for the cables in person. I'm very sorry."
Cables! Noel replaced the phone, annoyed but not angry. Getting out of the hotel room would be good for him, would take his mind off the anticipated call from Helden.
He walked along the rue Chevalle, a cold wind whipping his face. A taxi took him across the river, into the Champs-Elysees. The air and the bright sunlight were invigorating; he rolled the window down, feeling the effects of both. For the first time in days he felt confident; he knew where he was going now. Geneva was closer, the blurred lines between enemies and friends more defined.
Whatever was waiting for him at the American Express office seemed inconsequential. There was nothing he could not handle in New York or London. His concerns were now in Paris. He and John Tennyson would meet and talk and draw up plans, the first of which would be to go to Berlin and find Erich Kessler. They knew who their enemies were; it was a question of eluding them. Helden's friends could help.
As he got out of the taxi, he looked over at the tinted-glass window of the American Express office, and was struck by a thought. Was the refusal to read him his messages over the phone a trap? A means of getting him to show himself? If so, it was a bit obvious, and no doubt a tactic of British Intelligence.
Noel smiled. He knew exactly what to say if the British picked him up: John Tennyson was no more an assassin than he was, and probably far less of one than a number of Mi-Five personnel.
He might even go a step further and suggest that the Royal Navy take a good, long look at one of its more decorated officers. All the evidence pointed to the probability that Commander Anthony Beaumont was a member of the ODESSA, recruited in Brazil by a man named Graff.
* * *
He felt he was falling through space, plunging downward, unable to catch his breath. His stomach was hollow and pain shot through his lower chest. He was gripped by combined feelings of grief and fear . . . and anger. The cablegram read:
YOUR FATHER DIED FOUR DAYS AGO STOP UNABLE TO CONTACT YOU STOP PLEASE RESPOND BY TELEPHONE BEDFORD HILLS STOP
MOTHER
There was a second cable, from Lieutenant David Miles, New York Police Department
THE RECENT DEATH OF RICHARD HOLCROFT MAKES IT IMPERATIVE YOU CONTACT ME IMMEDIATELY STOP PROFESSIONALLY I RECOMMEND YOU SPEAK TO ME BEFORE REACHING. ANYONE ELSE STOP
There were the same two telephone numbers Buono-ventura had given him in Rio de Janeiro, and six — six — follow-up inquiries listed by day and hour since the original message had been received at the American Express office. Miles had checked twice a day to see if his message had been picked up.
Noel walked up the Champs-Elysees, trying to collect his thoughts, trying to control his grief.
The only father he had ever known. "Dad" . . . "my father," Richard Holcroft. Always said with affection, with love. And always with warmth and humor, for Richard Holcroft was a man of many graces, not the least of which was an ability to laugh at himself. He had guided his son — stepson — no, goddamn it, his son! Guided but never interfered, except when interference was the only alternative.
Oh, God, he was dead!
What caused the sharp bolts of pain — pain he understood was part of the fear and the anger — was implied in Miles's cable. Was he somehow responsible for Richard Holcroft's death? Oh, Christ! Was that death related to a vial of strychnine poured into a drink thirty thousand
feet over the Atlantic? Was it woven into the fabric of Geneva?
Had he somehow sacrificed the father he had known all his life for one he never knew?
He reached the corner of the avenue George V. Across the broad intersection that teemed with traffic he saw a sign above awnings that stretched the length of the sidewalk cafe: BOUQUET'S. It was all familiar to him. To his left was the Hotel George V. He had stayed there, briefly, a year ago, courtesy of an extremely wealthy ho telman, who had delusions, later proved to be just that, of duplicating its exterior in Kansas City.
Holcroft had struck up a friendship with the assistant manager. If the man was still there, perhaps he'd let him use a telephone. If telephone calls were traced back to the George V, it would be a simple matter to learn about them. And a simpler matter to leave misleading information regarding his whereabouts.
Anticipate.
"But, of course, it's my pleasure, Noel. It's so good to see you again. I am chagrined you do not stay with us, but at these prices, I don't blame you. Here, use my office."
"I'll charge the calls to my credit card, of course."
"I'm not worried, my friend. Later, an aperitif, perhaps?"
"I'd like that," said Noel.
It was ten-forty-five, Paris time. Quarter to six in New York. If Miles was as anxious as his message implied, the hour was insignificant. He picked up the phone and placed the call.
Noel looked at Miles's message again.
THE RECENT DEATH OF RICHARD HOLCROFT . . . PROFESSIONALLY I RECOMMEND YOU SPEAK TO ME BEFORE REACHING ANYONE ELSE . . .
The recommendation had an ominous tone; the "anyone else" had to mean his mother.
He put the paper down on the desk and reached into his pocket for Althene's cablegram.
YOUR FATHER DIED FOUR DAYS AGO . . . UNABLE TO CONTACT YOU . . .
The guilt he felt at not having been with her nearly matched the guilt and the fear and the anger that consumed him when he considered the possibility that he was responsible for the death. Possibility? He knew it, he felt it.
He wondered — painfully — if Miles had reached Althene. And if he had, what had he said to her?
The telephone rang.
"Is this Noel Holcroft?"
"Yes. I'm sorry you had trouble reaching me...."
"I won't waste time going into that," interrupted Miles, "except to say you've violated federal laws."
"Wait a minute," broke in Noel angrily. "What am I guilty of? You found me. I'm not hiding."
"Finding you after trying to locate you for damn near a week is called flagrantly ignoring and disregarding the law. You were not to leave the City of New York without telling us."
"There were pressing personal matters. I left word. You haven't got a case."
"Then let's try 'obstruction of justice.' "
"What?"
"You were in the lounge of that British seven-forty-seven, and you and I both know what happened. Or, should I say, what didn't happen?"
"What are you talking about?"
"That drink was meant for you, not Thornton."
Holcroft knew it was coming, but his knowing it did not lessen the impact. Still, he was not about to agree without a protest. "That's the craziest goddamn thing I've ever heard," he said.
"Come on! You're a bright, upstanding citizen from a bright, upstanding family, but your behavior for the past five days has been stupid and less than candid."
"You're insulting me, but you're not saying anything. You mentioned in your message — "
"We'll get to that," interrupted the detective. "I want you to know whose side you're on. You see, I want you to cooperate, not fight"
"Go ahead."
"We traced you to Ri
o. We spoke to — "
"You what?" Had Sam turned on him?
"It wasn't hard. Incidentally, your friend Buonoven tura doesn't know. His cover for you didn't wash. He said you were in a boat out of Curaçao, but Dutch immigration
didn't have you in the territory. We got a list of the overseas telephone numbers he called and checked the airlines. You were on Braniff out of New York, and you stayed at a Porto Alegre Hotel in Rio."
The amateur could not match the professional. "Sam said you called a couple of times."
"Sure did," agreed Miles. "You left Rio and we wanted to find out where you went; we knew he'd get in touch with you. Didn't you get my message at the hotel in London?"
"No."
"I'll take your word. Messages get lost."
But that message had not been lost, thought Noel. It had been stolen by the men of Wolfsschanze. "I know where I stand now. Get to the point."
"You don't quite know," Miles replied. "We talked to the embassy in Rio, to a man named Anderson. He said you told nun quite a story. How you were trapped, chased, shot at. He said he didn't believe a word of it; considered you a troublemaker and was glad to get you out of Brazil."
"I know. He drove me to the airport"
"Do you want to tell me about it?" asked the detective.
Noel stared at the wall. It would be so easy to unburden himself, to seek official protection. The faceless Lieutenant Miles was a symbol of authority. But he was the wrong symbol in the wrong place at the wrong time. "No. There's nothing you can do. It's been resolved."
"Has it?"
"Yes."
Neither spoke for several seconds. "All right, Mr. Holcroft. I hope you change your mind, because I think I can help you. I think you need help." Miles paused. "I now make a formal request for your return to the City of New York. You are considered a prime witness in a homicide and intrinsic to our jurisdictional interrogations."
"Sorry. Not now."
"I didn't think you would. So let me try informally. It concerns your father."
The terrible news was coming, and he could not help himself. He said the words quietly. "He was killed, wasn't he?"
"I didn't hear that You see, if I did, I'd have to go to
my superior and report it. Say you said it without provocation. You drew a conclusion that couldn't possibly be based on anything I said to you. I'd have to request extradition."
"Get off it, Miles! Your telephone message wasn't subtle! "The recent death,' et cetera; 'professionally speaking, I recommend,' et cetera! What the hell am I supposed to think?"
Again, there was a pause from the New York end. "Okay. It's checkmate. You've got a case."
"He was murdered, wasn't he?"
"We think so."
"What have you said to my mother?"
"Nothing. It's not my jurisdiction. She doesn't even know my name. And that answers my next question. You haven't talked to her yet."
"Obviously. Tell me what happened."
"Your father was in what can best be described as a very unusual accident. He died an hour later, at the hospital, as a result of the injuries."
"What was the accident?"
"An old man from the Bronx lost control of his car near the Plaza Hotel. The car went wild, jumped the curb, and plunged into a crowd of people on the sidewalk. Three were killed instantly. Your father was thrown against the wall; actually, he was pinned, almost crushed."
"You're saying the car aimed for him!"
"Hard to tell. There was mass confusion, of course."
"Then what are you saying?"
Miles hesitated. "That the car aimed for him."
"Who was the driver?"
"A seventy-two-year-old retired accountant with an inflamed heart, a pacemaker, no family at all, and a license that expired several years ago. The 'pacer' was shorted in the accident; the man died on the way to the hospital."
"What was his connection to my father?"
"So far, no definite answers. But I've got a theory. Do you want to hear it?"
"Of course!"
"Will you come back to New York?"
"Don't press me. What's your theory?"
"I think the old guy was recruited. I think there was someone else in that car, probably in the back seat, hold-
ing a gun to his head. During the confusion, he smashed the pacer and got away. I think it was an execution made to look like a freak accident in which more than the target got killed."
Noel held his breath. There had been another "freak accident." A subway in London had gone out of control, killing five people. And among those killed was the only man who could shed light on John Tennyson's employment at the Guardian.
It was bloody well murder. —
The thought of a connection was appalling. "Aren't you reaching, Miles?" Holcroft asked.
"I said it was a theory, but not without some support. When I saw the name Holcroft on the accident report, I did a little digging. The old man from the Bronx has an interesting history. He came to this country in 'forty-seven, supposedly a penniless Jewish immigrant, a victim of Dachau. Only he wasn't penniless, as half a dozen bankbooks show, and his apartment is a fortress. Besides which, he made thirteen trips to Germany and back since he got here."
Beads of perspiration broke out on Noel's forehead. "What are you trying to say?"
"I don't think that old guy was ever near Dachau. Or if he was, he was part of the management. Almost no one knew him in his apartment building; no one ever saw him in a synagogue. I think he was a Nazi."
Holcroft swallowed. "How does that connect him to my father?"
"Through you. I'm not sure how yet, but through you."
"Through me?" Noel felt the acceleration of his heartbeat.
"Yes. In Rio, you told Anderson that someone named Graff was a Nazi and tried to kill you. Anderson said you were crazy on both points, but I don't. I believe you."
"I was mad as hell. I didn't mean to tie one into the other. It was a misunderstanding. . . ." Noel sought desperately to find the words. "Graffs paranoid, a hot-tempered German, so I called him a Nazi, that's all. He thought I was making sketches, taking pictures of his grounds...."
"I said I believed you, Holcroft," broke in the detective. "And I've got my reasons."
"What are they?" Noel knew he could barely be heard; he was suddenly afraid. His father's death was a warning. The Rache. The ODESSA. Whichever, it was another warning. His mother had to be protected!
Miles was talking, but Holcroft could not hear the detective; his mind raced in panic. Miles had to be stopped! He could not be allowed near Geneva!
"Those men on the plane who tried to kill you were German," Miles explained. "They used passports taken off two Americans killed in Munich five years ago, but they were German; the dental work gave them away. They were shot at Kennedy Airport; their bodies were found in a fuel truck. The bullets that killed them came from a German Heckler and Koch nine-millimeter pistol. The silencer was made in Munich. Guess where that little old man traveled when he went to Germany — at least on the six trips we were able to trace."
"Munich," whispered Noel.
That's right. Munich. Where it all began and where it's still going on. A bunch of Nazis are fighting among each other thirty years after that goddamn war is over, and you're right in the middle of it. I want to know why."
Noel felt drained, swept by exhaustion and fear. "Leave it alone. There's nothing you can do."
"There's something I might be able to prevent, goddammit! Another murder."
"Can't you understand?" said Holcroft, in pain. "I can say it because he was my father. Nothing can be resolved in New York. It can only be resolved over here. Give me time; for the love of God, give me time. I'll get back to you."
"How long?"
"A month."
"Too much. Cut it in half. You've got two weeks."
"Miles, please ..."
There was a click on the line; the connection in New York was severed.
>
Two weeks. Oh, God, it wasn't possible!
But it had to be possible. In two weeks he had to be in a position to stop Miles from going further. He could do that with the resources in Geneva. A philanthropic
agency with assets of seven hundred and eighty million dollars would be listened to — quietly, in confidence. Once the account was freed, arrangements could be made, understandings reached, cooperation given and received. The ODESSA would be exposed, the Rache destroyed.
All this would happen only when three acceptable offspring presented themselves to the bank in Geneva. It would happen, Noel was convinced of that, but until then he had to protect his mother. He had to reach Althene and convince her that for the next few weeks she had to disappear.
What could he say to her? She'd never obey him. She'd never listen to him if she believed for an instant her husband had been murdered. What in God's name could he say to her?
"Allo? Allo, monsieur?" The voice of the operator floated out from the telephone. "Your call to New York — "
Holcroft hung up so quickly he jarred the instrument's bell. He could not talk to bis mother. Not now. In an hour or so, not now. He had to think. There was so much to think about, so much to do.
He was going mad.
19
"He'll go mad," said the blond-haired man into the telephone at Hellenikon Airport, in Athens. "He must have heard the news by now. It will be a strain that may tear him apart; he won't know what to do. Tell our man in Paris to stay close to him for the next twenty-four hours. He must not return to America."
"He won't," said Gretchen Beaumont, thousands of miles away.
"You can't be sure. The psychological stresses are building properly; our subject's in a delicate frame of mind. However, he can be guided. He's waiting for me; he sees me now as his answer to so many things, but the string must be drawn tighter. I want him to go to Berlin first For a day or two. To Kessler."
"Shall we use his mother? We could plant the idea with her."
The Holcroft Covenant Page 25
