Noel saw the face! Beneath the unruly crop of red hair was the small scar on the forehead, and beneath it the angry blue eyes. The man was the younger of the two Mi-Five agents who had questioned him in his London hotel. Noel's rage was complete; the. madness based in a terrible error had gone unchecked. British Intelligence had intruded, and that intrusion might well have cost Helden her life.
But why? Why here in an obscure French village? He had no answers. He knew only that this man whose throat he now clutched was his enemy, as dangerous to him as the Rache or the ODESSA.
"Get up!" Holcroft struggled to his feet and pulled at the man. His mistake was in momentarily releasing the agent. Without warning, a paralyzing blow hammered into his stomach. His eyes spun out of focus, and for several moments he was aware only of being yanked through a sea of astonished faces. Suddenly he was slammed against the wall of a building; he could hear the impact of his head on the hard surface.
"You goddamn fool! What the devil do you think you're doing? You were nearly killed back there!"
The Mi-Five man did not scream, but he might as well have, so intense was his tone. Noel focused his eyes; the agent had him pinned. The man's forearm was again
pressed against his throat.
"You son of a bitch!" He could barely whisper the
words.. "You're the ones who tried to kill me. . . . "
"You're a certifiable lunatic, Holcroft! The Tinamou wouldn't touch you. I've got to get you out of here."
"The Tinamou? Here?"
"Let's go!"
"No! Where's Helden?"
"Certainly not with us! Do you think we're crazy?"
Noel stared at the man; he was telling the truth. It was all insane. "Then someone's taken her! She's gone!"
"If she's gone, she went willingly," said the agent "We tried to warn you. Leave it alone!"
"No, you're wrong! There was a man — with pock-marks on his face ..."
"The Fiat?"
"Yes! Him. He was following us. I went after him and his men caught me. They tried to kill me!"
"Come with me," ordered the agent, grabbing Holcroft's arm and propelling him down the sidewalk.
They reached a dark narrow alleyway between two buildings. No ray of sunlight penetrated; everything was in shadow. The alley was lined with garbage cans. Beyond the third garbage can on the right Noel could see a pair of legs. The rest of the figure was hidden by the receptacle.
The agent pushed Noel into the alley; four or five steps were all that were needed to get a clear view of the upper part of the body.
At first glance, the man with the pockmarked face appeared to be drunk. In his hand he clutched a bottle of red wine; it had spilled into the crotch of his trousers. But it was a different red from the stain that had spread over his chest.
The man had been shot.
"There's your killer," said the agent. "Now will you listen to us? Go back to New York. Tell us what you know and leave it alone."
Noel's mind churned; mists of confusion enveloped him. There was violent death in the skies, death in New York, death in Rio, death here in a small French village. The Rache, the ODESSA, the survivors of Wolfsschanze... .
Nothing is as it was for you....
He turned to the Mi-Five man, his voice no more than a whisper. "Don't you understand? I can't . . . ."
There was a sudden skirmish at the end of the alley-
way. Two figures raced by, one propelling the other. Commands were shouted — guttural, harsh, the words not distinguishable but the violence clear. Cries for help were cut short by the sound of flesh against flesh, vicious slaps repeated again and again. And then the blurred figures were gone, but Holcroft could hear the scream.
"Noel! Noel!..."
It was Helden! Holcroft found his mind again and knew what he had to do. With all his strength, he slammed his shoulder into the side of the agent, sending him crashing over the garbage can that concealed the dead body of the man with the pockmarked face.
He ran out of the alley.
21
The screams continued, how far away he could not tell, so boisterous were the crowds in the village square. Music issued from a number of concertinas and cornets. Pockets of space were formed for couples, skipping, twirling, turning, in countryside dances. The fête d'hiver was now a carnival.
"Noel! Noel. . . . "
Up the curving sidewalk to the left of the square — the cries came from that direction! Holcroft ran wildly, colliding with a pair of lovers embracing against a wall. There.
"Noel!"
He was on a side street lined with three-story buildings. He raced down it, hearing the scream again, but no words, no name, only a scream cut short by the impact of a blow that produced a cry of pain.
Oh, God, he had to find —
A door! A door was partially open; it was the entrance to the fourth building on the right. The scream had come from there!
He ran to it, remembering as he drew near that he had a gun in his pocket. He reached in and pulled it out, thinking as he held it awkwardly in his hand that he had never really looked at the weapon. He did so now, and for an instant he stopped and stared at it.
He knew little about handguns, but he knew this one. It was a Budischowsky TP-70 Autoloading Pistol, the same type of gun Sam Buonoventura had lent him in Costa Rica. The coincidence gave him no confidence; rather, it made him sick. This was not his world.
He checked the safety and pulled the door open, staying out of sight. Inside was a long, narrow, dimly lit corridor. On the left wall, spaced perhaps twelve feet from each other, were two doors. From what he remembered of
this type of structure he had to presume that there were identically spaced doors on the right wall; he could not see them from where he stood.
He darted into the entrance, the gun held steady in front of him. There were the two doors on the right wall. Four doors. Behind one of them Helden was a captive. But which one? He walked to the first door on the left and put his ear to it
There was a scratching sound, erratic, unfamiliar. He had no idea what it was. Cloth, fabric . . . the tearing of cloth? He put his hand on the knob and twisted it; the door swung free and he opened it, his weapon in firing position.
Across the dark room was an old woman on her knees, scrubbing the floor. She was in profile, her gaunt features sagging, her arm working in circles on the soft wood. She was so old she neither saw him nor heard him. He closed the door.
A black ribbon was nailed to the door on the right. A death had taken place behind that door; a family was in mourning. A death behind that door. The thought was too unnerving; he listened.
This was it! A struggle was going on. Heavy breathing, movement, tension; inside that room there was desperation. Helden was behind that door!
Noel stepped back, his automatic leveled, his right foot raised. He took a deep breath, and, as if his foot were a battering ram, he drove it into the wood to the left of the knob. The force of the blow sent the door crashing inward.
Inside, on a filthy bed, were two naked teenagers, a dark-haired boy on top of a fat, fair-skinned girl, the girl's legs spread up toward the ceiling, the boy lying between them, both hands on her breasts. At the sound of the crash and the sight of the stranger, the girl screamed. The boy spun off her, rolling onto the floor, his mouth open in shock.
The crash! The sound of the crash was an alarm. Holcroft ran into the corridor and raced to the next door on the left. There was no time to be concerned about anything but finding Helden. He slammed his shoulder into the door, twisting the knob awkwardly with his left hand, his right gripping the handle of the gun. There was no need for force; the door gave way.
Noel stood in the door frame, for an instant feeling ashamed. Against the wall by a window was a blind man. He was an old man and he was trembling at the unseen, unknown violence that had invaded his dark privacy.
"Nom de Dieu . . ." he whispered, holding his hands in front of him.
Th
e sound of racing footsteps came from the hallway, footsteps that grew louder — the sound of a man not simply running but running frantically, leather slapping against wood. Holcroft turned quickly, in time to see the figure of the Mi-Five agent rush past There was a crash of glass from somewhere outside. Noel lurched out of the blind man's room, looking to the left, where the crash had come from; there was sunlight streaming through an open door at the end of the corridor. Its panes of glass had been painted black; he had not seen it in the dim light.
How did the agent know a door was there? Why had he kicked it open and raced outside? Did the Mi-Five man think he had gone out that way? Instinct told him the agent would not give him that much credit; he was an amateur, a lunatic. No, he was after someone else.
It could be only Helden! But Helden was behind the door across from the blind man's room; it was the only place left It had to be. The agent was wrong!
Holcroft kicked the door in front of him; the lock broke, the door swung open, and he rushed inside.
It was empty, had been empty a very long time. Layers of dust were everywhere . . . and there were no footprints. No one had been inside that room for weeks.
The Mi-Five man had been right. The amateur had not known something that the professional had perceived.
Noel ran out of the empty room, down the dark corridor, through the shattered door, and out into a courtyard. On the left was a heavy wooden door that led back to the side street. It was open, and Holcroft raced through it. He could hear sounds of the carnival from the square, but they were not the only sounds. Far down the deserted street to his right he could hear a scream, cut off now as it had been cut off before. He ran in the direction of the scream, in Helden's direction, but he could see no one.
"Get back?' The command came from a recessed doorwav.
There was a gunshot; above him stone shattered and he could hear the sickening whine of a ricocheting bullet.
Noel threw himself to the ground, onto the hard, irregular surface of the cobblestones. As he broke his fall, his finger touched the trigger of his gun. It fired, the explosion next to his face. In panic, he rolled over and over toward the recessed doorway. Hands grabbed him, pulling his body into the shadows. The man from British Intelligence, the young man with the scar on his forehead, yanked him back against the stone entranceway.
"I repeat! You're a goddamned fool! I should kill you myself and save them the trouble." The agent was crouched against the wall; he inched his face to the edge.
"I don't believe you," said Noel. "I don't believe any of this. Where is she?"
"The bastard's holding her across the way, about twenty yards down. My guess is he's got a radio and has contacted a car."
"They're going to kill her!"
"Not now they won't. I don't know why, but that's not what they have in mind. Perhaps because she's his sister."
"Get off that! It's wrong: it's crazy! I told her; she reached him. He's no more this Tinamou than you are. And he's mad as hell. He'll probably write something for his paper, make you, the Foreign Office, the whole damned British government, look like assholes!"
The Mi-Five agent stared at Holcroft His look was that of a man studying the ravings of a psychopath, equal parts curiosity, revulsion, and astonishment. "He what? You what?"
"You heard me."
"My God. . . . Whoever you are, whatever you're involved with, you're not remotely connected with any of this."
"I told you that in London," said Noel, struggling to sit up, trying to find his breath again. "Did you think I was lying?"
"We knew you were lying; we just didn't know why. We thought you were being used by men wanting to reach Von Tiebolt."
"For what?"
"Make a blind contact, neither side exposing itself. It
was a fair cover: money in America, left for the family."
"But for what?"
"Later! You want the girl, I want the bastard who's got her. Listen to me." The agent gestured at the automatic in Noel's hand. "Do you know how to use that?"
"I once had to use a gun like it. I'm no expert."
"You don't have to be; you'll have a large target If I'm right, they've got a car cruising the area."
"Don't you?"
"No, I'm alone. Now listen to me. If a car drives up, it'll have to stop. The second it does I'm going to dash over to that doorway across the street. As I'm running, cover me by shooting directly at the car. Ahn for the windscreen. Hit the tires, the radiator. I don't care what, but try to get the windscreen. Shoot it up; immobilize the damned car, if you can; and pray to God that the locals stay away at that f ucking wingding in the square."
"Suppose they don't, suppose someone — "
"Try not to hit him, you ass!" broke in the Englishman. "And keep your fire to the right side of the car. Your right. Expose yourself as little as possible."
"The right side of the car?"
"Yes, unless you want to hit the girl, which, frankly, I don't give a piss about. But I want him. Of course, if I'm wrong, none of this applies, and we'll have to think of something else."
The agent's face was pressed against the stone. He inched it forward, peering down the street. The unfamiliar forest belonged to such men, not to well-intentioned architects. "You weren't wrong back in that old building," Noel said. "You knew there was another way out."
"A second exit. No one worth his pecker would allow himself to be trapped inside."
Once more the professional was right. Noel could hear the screeching of tires; an automobile careened around an unseen corner and drew rapidly closer. The agent stood up, gesturing for Noel to follow. He looked around the edge of the entranceway, his forearm angled across his chest, his pistol in his hand.
There was a second screech of tires; the automobile came to a stop. The agent shouted at Holcroft as he leaped from the doorway, firing his pistol twice at the car, and raced across the street.
"Now!"
It was a brief nightmare, made intensely real by the shattering sounds and the frantic movement Noel was actually doing it He could see the automatic in front of him, at the end of his arm, being held in his hand. He could feel the vibrations that traveled through his body each time he squeezed the trigger. The right side of the car. Your right. Unless — He tried desperately to be accurate. Amazed, he saw the windshield shatter and crack; he heard bullets enter the door; he heard the screams of a human being . . . and then he saw that human being fall out of the door and onto the cobblestones beside the car. It was the driver; his arms were extended in front of him; blood poured out of his head and he did not move.
Across the street he could see the Mi-Five man come out of a doorway, crouching, his pistol out in front of him. Then he heard the command:
"Release her! You can't get out!"
"Nie und nimmer!"
"Then she can go with you! I don't give a piss! . . . Spin to your right, miss! Now!"
Two explosions, one right after the other; a woman's scream echoed throughout the street. Noel's mind went wildly out of focus. He raced across the pavement, afraid to think, afraid to see what he might see, to find what he dared not find, for his own sanity.
Helden was on her knees, trembling, her breathing a series of uncontrollable sobs. She stared at the dead man, splayed on the pavement to her left. But she was alive; that was all he cared about. Noel ran to her and fell down beside her, pulling her shivering head into his chest.
"Him. . . . Him," Helden whispered, pushing Noel away. "Quickly."
"What?" Noel followed her look.
The Mi-Five agent was trying to crawl; his mouth opened and closed; he was trying to speak and no sound emerged. And over the front of his shut was a spreading stain of red.
A small crowd had gathered at the entrance to the square. Three or four men stepped forward tentatively.
"Get him," said Helden. "Get him quickly."
She was capable of thinking and he was not; she was able to make a decision and he was immobile. "Wh
at are we going to do? Where are we going to go?" was all he could say, not even sure the words were his.
"These streets, the alleys. They connect. We have to get him away."
"Why?"
Helden's eyes bored into his. "He saved my life. He saved yours. Quickly!"
He could only do as he was ordered; he could not think for himself. He got to his feet and ran to the agent, bending over him, their faces inches apart. He saw the angry blue eyes that floated in their sockets, the mouth that struggled to say something but could not
The man was dying.
Noel lifted the agent to his feet; the Englishman could not stand, so he picked him up, astonished at his own strength. He turned and saw Helden lurching toward the automobile at the curb; the motor was still running. Noel carried the agent over to the shot-up car.
"I'll drive," Helden said. "Put him in the back seat."
"The windshield! You can't see!"
"You can't carry him very far."
The next minutes were as unreal to Holcroft at the sight of the gun still in his hand. Helden made a swift U-turn, careening over the sidewalk, swerving out to the middle of the street. Sitting beside her, Noel realized some-tiling in spite of the panic. He realized it calmly, almost dispassionately: He was beginning to adjust to this terrible new world. His resistance was wearing down, confirmed by the fact that he had acted; he had not run away. People had tried to kill him. They had tried to kill the girl beside him. Perhaps that was enough.
"Can you find the church?" he asked, now amazed at his own control.
She looked at him briefly. "I think so. Why?"
"We couldn't drive this car even if you could see. We have to find ours." He gestured through the cracked glass of the windshield; steam was billowing from the hood. "The radiator was punctured. Find the church."
She did, mostly by instinct, driving up the narrow streets and alleys that connected the irregular spokes that spread out from the village square. The last few blocks were frightening. People were running beside the car, shouting excitedly. For several moments Noel thought it was the shattered windshield, riddled with bullet holes, that drew the villagers' attention; it was not. Figures rushed by toward the hub of the square, the word had spread.
The Holcroft Covenant Page 28
