He lay awake for a while, his arm across her shoulders, and wondered how a girl who'd been entranced by The Wizard of Oz had grown up to become so skilled a practitioner in arts of deception and escape. She was from another world, and he had entered that world with alarming speed.
They awoke too late for Helden to go to work.
"It's just as well," she said, reaching for the phone. "We have shopping to do. My supervisor will accept a second day of illness. I think she's in love with me."
"I think I am too," said Noel, letting his fingers trace the curve of her neck. "Where do you live?"
She looked at him, smiling as she gave the number to the operator. Then she covered the mouthpiece. "You'll
not extract vital information by appealing to my baser instincts. I'm trained, remember?" She smiled again.
And was maddening again. "I'm serious. Where do you live?"
The smile disappeared. "I can't tell you." She removed her hand from the telephone and spoke rapidly in French to the Gallimard switchboard.
An hour later they drove into Paris, first stopping at his hotel, to pick up his things, then moving on to a district profuse with secondhand-clothing stores. The teacher once more asserted her authority; she chose the garments with a practiced eye. The clothes she selected for the pupil were nondescript, difficult to spot in a crowd.
A mackinaw and a brown topcoat were added to his raincoat. A battered country walking hat; a dark fedora, its crown battered; a black cap whose visor fell free of the snap. All were well worn. But not the shoes; they were new. One pair with thick crepe soles; a second, less informal, whose leather soles were the base for a layer of rubber attached by a shoemaker down the street.
The shoe-repair shop was four blocks away from a shabby storefront. Helden went in alone, instructing him to remain outside. She emerged ten minutes later with a perforated cylinder, the silencer for his automatic.
He was being outfitted with uniforms and the proper weapon. He was being processed and sent into combat after the shortest period of basic training one could imagine. He had seen the enemy. Alive and following him .. . and then dead in the streets and alleyways of a village called Montereau-faut-Yonne. Where was the enemy now?
Helden was confident they had lost him for a while. She thought the enemy might pick him up at the airport, but once in Berlin, he could lose that enemy again.
He had to. She wanted him back; she would be waiting.
They stopped at a small cafe for lunch and wine. Helden made a final phone call and returned to the booth with the name of a hotel in Berlin. It was in the Huren-viertel, that section of the city where sex was an open commodity.
She held his hand, her face next to his; in minutes
he would go out on the street alone and hail a taxi for Orly Airport.
"Be careful, my darling."
"I will."
"Remember the things I've told you. They may help."
"I'll remember."
"The hardest thing to accept is that it's all real. You'll find yourself wondering, why me? why this? Don't think about it; just accept it."
Nothing is as it was for you. Nothing can ever be the same.
"I have. I've also found you."
She glanced away, then turned back to him. "When you get to Berlin, near the hotel, pick up a whore in the street. It's a good protective device. Keep her with you until you make contact with Kessler."
The Air France 707 made its final approach into Tempelhof Airport. Noel sat on the right side of the plane, in the third seat on the aisle, the space next to him unoccupied.
You have money; buy an extra seat . . . and don't let anyone sit next to you; don't get hemmed in.
The ways of survival, spoken by a survivor, thought Holcroft. And then he remembered that his mother had called herself a survivor. Althene had taken a certain pride in the term, her voice four thousand miles away, over the telephone.
She had told him she was taking a trip. It was her way of going into hiding for several weeks, the methods of evasion and concealment learned more than thirty years ago. God, she was incredible! Noel wondered where she would go, what she would do. He would call Sam Buonoventura, in Curasao, in a few days. Sam might have heard from her by then.
The customs inspection at Tempelhof was swift. Holcroft walked into the terminal, found the men's room, and reassembled his gun.
As instructed, he took a taxi to the Tiergarten park. Inside the cab, he opened his suitcase, changed into the worn brown topcoat and the battered walking hat The car stopped; he paid the fare, got out, and walked into the park, sidestepping strollers, until he found an empty
bench, and sat down. He scanned the crowds; no one stopped or hesitated. He got up quickly and headed for an exit. There was a taxi stand nearby; he stood in line, glancing around unobtrusively to see if he could spot the enemy. It was difficult now to single out anything or anyone specifically; the late-afternoon shadows were becoming longer and darker.
His turn came. He gave the driver the names of two intersecting streets. The intersection was three blocks north and four blocks west of the hotel. The driver grinned and spoke in thickly accented but perfectly understandable English.
"You wish a little fun? I have friends, Herr Ameri kaner. No risk of the French sickness."
"You've got me wrong. I'm doing sociological research."
"Wie?"
"I'm meeting my wife."
They drove in silence through the streets of Berlin. With each turn they made, Noel watched for a car somewhere behind them that made the same turn. A few did, but none for any length of time. He recalled Helden's words: They often use radios. Such a simple thing as a change of coat or the wearing of a hat will throw them off. Those receiving instructions will look for a man in a jacket and no hat, but he is not there.
Were there unseen men watching for a certain taxi and a certain passenger wearing certain clothing? He would never know; he knew only that no one appeared to be following him now.
During the twenty-odd minutes it took to reach the intersection, night had come. The streets were lined with gaudy neon signs and suggestive posters. Young fair-haired cowboys coexisted with whores in slit skirts and low-cut blouses. It was another sort of carnival, thought Holcroft, as he walked south for the prescribed three blocks, toward the corner where he would turn left.
He saw a prostitute in a doorway, applying lipstick to her generous mouth. She was in that indeterminate age bracket so defiantly obscured by whores and chic suburban housewives — somewhere between thirty-five and forty-eight, and losing the fight. Her hair was jet black, framing her pallid white skin, her eyes deep, hollowed with
shadows. Beyond, on the next block, he could see the shabby hotel's marquee, one letter shorted out in its neon sign.
He approached her, not entirely sure what to say. His lacking German was not his only impediment: He had never picked up a whore in the streets.
He cleared his throat. "Good evening, Fräulein? Can you speak English?"
The woman returned his look, coolly at first, appraising his cloth topcoat. Then her eyes dropped to the suitcase in his right hand, the attache case in his left. She parted her lips and smiled; the teeth were yellow. "Ja, mein American friend. I speak good. I show you a good time."
"I'd like that. How much?"
"Twenty-five deutsche marks."
"I'd say the negotiations are concluded. Will you come with me?" Holcroft took his money clip from his pocket, peeled off three bills, and handed them to the woman. "Thirty deutsche marks. Let's go to that hotel down the street."
"Wohin?"
Noel gestured at the hotel in the next block. "There," he said.
"Gut," said the woman, taking his arm.
The room was like any room in a cheap hotel in a large city. If there was a single positive feature, it was to be found in the naked light bulb in the ceiling. It was so dim it obscured the stained, broken furniture.
"Dreissig Minuten," announced the
whore, removing her coat and draping it over a chair with a certain military elan. "You have one half hour, no more. I am, as you Americans say, a businessman. My time is valuable."
"I'm sure it is," said Holcroft. "Take a rest or read something. We'll leave in fifteen or twenty minutes. You'll stay with me and help me make a phone call." He opened the attache" case and found the paper with the information on Erich Kessler. There was a chair against the wall; he sat down and started to read in the dim light
"Ein Telephonanruf?" said the woman. "You pay thirty marks for me to do nothing for you but help you nut dem Telephon?"
"That's right."
"That is... verrückt!"
"I don't speak German. I may have trouble reaching the person I've got to call."
"Why do we wait here, then? There is Telephon by the corner."
"For appearances, I guess."
The whore smiled. "I am your Deckung."
"What?"
"You take me up to a room, no one asks questions."
"I wouldn't say that," replied Noel uneasily.
"It's not my business, mein Herr." She came over to his chair. "But as long as we're here . . . why not have a little fun? You paid. I'm not so bad. I once looked better, but I'm not so bad."
Holcroft returned her smile. "You're not so bad at all. But no thanks. I've got a lot on my mind."
"Then you do your work," said the whore.
Noel read the information given to him by Ernst Manfredi a lifetime ago in Geneva.
Erich Kessler, Professor of History, Free University of Berlin. Dahlen district. Speaks fluent English. Contacts: University telephone — 731-426. Residence — 824-114. Brother named Hans, a doctor. Lives in Munich. . . .
There followed a brief summary of Kessler's academic career, the degrees obtained, the honors conferred. They were overwhelming. The professor was a learned man, and learned men often were skeptics. How would Kessler react to the call from an unknown American who traveled to Berlin without prior communication to see him about a matter he would not discuss over the telephone?
It was nearly six-thirty, time to find out the answer. And to change clothes. He got up, went to his suitcase, and took out the mackinaw and the visored cap. "Let's go," Noel said.
The prostitute stood by the phone booth while Holcroft dialed. He wanted her nearby in case someone other than Kessler answered, someone who did not speak English.
The line was busy. All around he could hear the sounds of the German language — emphatic conversations
as couples and roving packs of pleasure seekers passed the telephone booth.
He wondered. If his mother had been anyone but Althene, would he be one of those outside the glass booth right now? Not where he was right now, but somewhere in Berlin, or Bremerhaven, or Munich? Noel Clausen. German.
What would his life have been like? It was an eerie feeling. Fascinating, repulsive . . . and obsessive. As if he had gone back in time, through the layers of his personal mist, and found a fork in a fog-bound road he might have taken but did not. That fork was reexamined now; where would it have led?
Helden? Would he have known her in that other life? He knew her now. And he knew that he wanted to get back to her as soon as he could; he wanted to see her again, and hold her again, and tell her that. . . things ... were going to be all right. He wanted to see her laugh and have a life in which three changes of outer clothing and guns with silencers were not crucial to survival. Where the Rache and the ODESSA were no longer threats to sanity and existence.
A man answered the telephone, the voice deep and soft.
"Mr. Kessler? Doctor Kessler?"
"I shan't cure any diseases, sir," came the pleasant reply in English, "but the title is correct, if abused. What can I do for you?"
"My name is Holcroft. Noel Holcroft. I'm from New York. I'm an architect."
"Holcroft? I have a number of American friends and, of course, university people with whom I correspond, but I don't recognize the name."
"No reason for you to; you don't know me. However, I have come to Berlin to see you. There's a confidential matter to discuss that concerns the two of us."
"Confidential?"
"Let's say — a family matter."
"Hans? Did something happen to Hans?"
"No. . . . "
"I have no other family, Mr. Holcroft."
"It goes back a number of years. I'm afraid I can't say any more over the telephone. Please, trust me; it's urgent Could you possibly meet me tonight?"
"Tonight?" Kessler paused. "Did you arrive in Berlin today?"
"Late this afternoon."
"And you want to see me tonight. . . . This matter must, indeed, be urgent. I have to return to my office for an hour or so this evening. Would nine o'clock be satisfactory?"
"Yes," said Noel, relieved. "Very satisfactory. Anyplace you say."
"I'd ask you to my house, but I'm afraid I have guests. There's a Lokal on the Kurfürstendamm. It's often crowded, but they have quiet booths in the back and the manager knows me."
"It sounds perfect."
Kessler gave him the name and address. "Ask for my table."
"I will. And thanks very much."
"You're quite welcome. I should warn you: I keep telling the manager that the food is grand. It isn't, really, but he's such a pleasant fellow and good to the students. See you at nine o'clock."
"I'll be there. Thanks again." Holcroft put the phone back in its cradle, swept by a sudden feeling of confidence. If the man matched the voice over the telephone. Erich Kessler was intelligent, humorous, immensely likable. What a relief!
Noel hung up and smiled at the woman. "Thanks," he said, giving her an additional ten marks.
"Auf wiedersehen." The whore turned and walked off. Holcroft watched her for a moment, but his attention was suddenly drawn to a man in a black leather jacket halfway down the short block. He stood in front of a bookstore, but he was not interested in the pornography displayed in the window. Instead, he was staring directly at Noel. As their eyes met, the man turned away.
Was he one of the enemy? A fanatic from the Rache? A maniac of the ODESSA? Or perhaps someone assigned to him from the ranks of Wolfsschanze? He had to find out
A confrontation is often the last thing surveillance wants. But if he does want it, you might as well know it-----
Helden's words. He would try to remember the tactics; he would use them now. He felt the bulges in the
cloth of his mackinaw; weapon and silencer were there. He pulled the visor of his cap free of its snap, gripped the handle of his attache case, and walked away from the man in the black leather jacket
He hurried down the street, staying close to the curb, prepared to race out into the traffic. He reached the corner and turned right, walking swiftly into a crowd of spectators watching two life-size plastic manikins performing the sex act on a black bearskin rug. Holcroft was jostled; his attache case was crushed against his leg, then pulled, as if being yanked aside by a victim of its sharp corners. . . . Yanked, pulled — taken; his attache case could be taken, the papers inside read by those who should never read them. He had not been totally stupid; he had removed Heinrich Clausen's letter and the more informative sections of the Geneva document. No figures, no sources, only the bank's letterhead and the names — meaningless legal gibberish to an ordinary thief, but something else entirely to the extraordinary one.
Helden had warned him about carrying even these, but he had countered with the possibility that the unknown Erich Kessler might think him a madman, and he needed fragments, at least, to substantiate his incredible story.
But now, if he was being followed, he had to leave the case in a place where it would not be stolen. Where? Certainly not at the hotel. A locker in a train station or bus depot? Unacceptable, because both were accessible; such places would be child's play for the experienced thief.
Besides, he needed those papers — those fragments — for Erich Kessler. Kessler. The "Lokal." The
manager there knows me. Ask for my table.
The pub on the Kurfürstendamm. Going there now would serve two purposes: On the way, he could see if he was actually being followed; once there, he could either stay or leave his case with the manager.
He pushed his way into the street, looking for an empty taxi, glancing behind him for signs of surveillance — for a man in a black leather jacket. There was a cab in the middle of the block. He ran toward it.
As he entered, he spun around quickly. And he saw the man in the black leather jacket. He was not walking now. Instead, he was in the saddle of a small motorbike, propelling it along the curb with his left foot There
were a number of other bikes in the street, cruising in and out between the traffic.
The man in the black leather jacket stopped pushing his machine, turned away, and pretended to be talking with someone on the sidewalk. The pretense was too obvious; there was no one responding to his conversation. Noel climbed in the cab and gave the name and address of the pub. They drove off.
So did the man in the black leather jacket. Noel watched him through the rear window. Like the man in the green Fiat in Paris, this Berliner was an expert. He stayed several car lengths behind the taxi, swerving quickly at odd moments to make sure the object of his surveillance was still there.
It was pointless to keep watching. Holcroft settled back in the seat and tried to figure out his next move.
A confrontation is often the last thing surveillance wants.... If he does ... you might as well know it.
Did he want to know it? Was he prepared for confrontation? The answers were not easy. He was not someone who cared to test his courage deliberately. But in the forefront of his imagination was the sight of Richard Holcroft crushed into a building on a sidewalk in New York.
Fear provided caution; rage provided strength. The single answer was clear. He wanted the man in the black leather jacket. And he would get him.
24
He paid the driver and got out of the cab, making sure he could be seen by the man on the motorbike, who had stopped down the block.
The Holcroft Covenant Page 31
