Noel walked casually across the pavement to the pub and went inside. He stood on a platformed staircase and studied the restaurant. The ceilings were high, the dining area on a lower floor. The place was half full; layers of smoke were suspended in the air, and the pungent smell of aromatic beer drifted up the staircase. From the speaker system, Bavarian Biermusik could be heard. The wooden tables were placed in ranks throughout the central area. The furnishings were heavy, massive.
He saw the booths Kessler had described. They were along the rear wall and the sides: tables flanked by high-backed seats. Running across the fronts of the booths were brass rods holding red-checked curtains. Each booth could be isolated from its surroundings by drawing a curtain across the table, but with the curtains open one could sit at almost any booth and observe whoever came through the door at the top of the staircase.
Holcroft descended the stairs to a lectern at the bottom and spoke to a heavyset man behind it "Pardon me, do you speak English?"
The man looked up from the reservation book in front of him. "Is there a restaurateur in Berlin who doesn't, sir?"
Noel smiled. "Good. I'm looking for the manager."
"You've found him. What can I do for you? Do you wish a table?"
"I think one's been reserved. The name is Kessler."
The manager's eyes showed immediate recognition. "Oh, yes. He called not fifteen minutes ago. But the reservation was for nine o'clock. It is only — "
"I know," interrupted Holcroft "I'm early. You see,
I've got a favor to ask." He held up the attache case. "I brought this for Professor Kessler. Some historical papers lent him by the university in America where I teach. I have to meet some people for an hour or so, and wondered if I could leave it here."
"Of course," said the manager. He held out his hand for the case.
"You understand, these are valuable. Not in terms of money, just academically."
"I'll lock them in my office."
"Thank you very much."
"Bitte schön. Your name, sir?"
"Holcroft."
"Thank you, Herr Holcroft. Your table will be ready at nine o'clock." The manager nodded, turned, and carried the attaché case toward a closed door under the staircase.
Noel stood for a moment considering what to do next. No one had entered since he had arrived. That meant the man in the leather jacket was outside, waiting for him. It was time to bait the trap, time to corner that man.
He started up the staircase, suddenly struck by a thought that made him sick. He had just done the most stupid thing he could think of! He had led the man in the black leather jacket directly to the spot where he was making contact with Erich Kessler. And to compound that enormous mistake, he had given his own name to the manager.
Kessler and Holcroft. Holcroft and Kessler. They were tied together. He had revealed an unknown third of Geneva! Revealed it as clearly as if he had taken out a newspaper ad.
It was no longer a question of whether he was capable of setting the trap. He had to do it. He had to immobilize the man in the black leather jacket.
He pushed open the door and walked on to the sidewalk. The Kurfürstendamm was lit up. The ah- was cold, and in the sky above, the moon was circled by a rim of mist. He started walking to his right, his hands in his pockets to ward off the chill. He passed the motorbike at the curb and continued to the corner. Ahead, perhaps three blocks away, on the left side of the Kurfürstendamm, he could see the outlines of the enormous Kaiser WU-
helm Church, floodlights illuminating the never-to-be-repaired, bombed-out tower, Berlin's reminder to itself of Hitler's Reich. He would use the church as his landmark.
He continued walking along the tree-lined pavement, slower than most of the strollers around him, stopping frequently in front of store windows. He checked his watch at regular intervals, hoping to give the impression that the minutes were important, that perhaps he was pacing himself to reach a rendezvous at a specific time.
Directly opposite the Kaiser Wilhelm Church, he stood for a while at the curb, under the glare of a streetlight. He glanced to his left. Thirty yards away the man in the black leather jacket turned around, his back to Holcroft, watching the flow of traffic.
He was there; that was all that mattered.
Noel started up again, his step faster now. He came to another corner and looked up at the street sign: SCHONBERGSTRASSE. It angled off the Kurfürstendamm and was lined with shops on both sides. The sidewalks seemed more crowded, the strollers less hurried than those on the Kurfurstendamm.
He waited for a break in the traffic and crossed the street. He turned right on the sidewalk, staying close to the curb, excusing himself through the strollers. He reached the end of the block, crossed over into the next, and slowed his walk. He stopped, as he had stopped on the Kurfurstendamm, to gaze into the storefront windows, and he checked his watch with growing concentration.
He saw the man in the leather jacket twice.
Noel proceeded into the third block. No more than fifty feet from the corner there was a narrow alley, a thoroughfare between the Schonbergstrasse and a parallel street about a hundred yards away. The alley was dark and dotted along its sides with shadowed doorways. The darkness and the length were uninviting, obvious deterrents for pedestrians during the evening hours.
But this alley, at this time, was the trapping ground, an unlit stretch of concrete and brick into which he'd lead the man who followed him.
He continued walking down the block, past the alley, toward the corner, his pace quickening with every stride, Helden's words resounding in his ears.
The amateur does the unexpected, not because he's
clever or experienced but because he doesn't know any better. . . . Do the unexpected rapidly, obviously, as if confused. . . .
He reached the end of the block and stopped abruptly under a streetlight As if startled, he looked around, pivoting on the sidewalk, a man undecided but one who knew a decision must be made. He stared back toward the alleyway and suddenly broke into a run, colliding with pedestrians, entering the alley — a man in panic.
He ran until the darkness was nearly full, until he was at midpoint in the alley, shadows upon shadows, the lights at either end distant. There was a delivery entrance of some sort — a wide metal door. He lunged toward it, spinning into the corner, his back pressed against steel and brick. He put his hand into his jacket pocket and gripped the handle of the automatic. The silencer was not attached; it was not necessary. He had no intention whatsoever of firing the weapon. It was to be but a visible threat and, at first, not even that.
The wait was not long. He could hear racing footsteps and thought as he heard them that the enemy, too, knew about rubber-soled shoes.
The man ran by; then, as if sensing a trick, he slowed down, looking about in the shadows. Noel stepped out of his hidden corner, his hand in his jacket pocket
"I've been waiting for you. Stay right where you are." He spoke intensely, frightened at his own words. "I've got a gun in my hand. I don't want to use it, but I will if you try to run."
"You did not hesitate two days ago in France," said the man in a thick accent, his calm unnerving. "Why should I expect you to stop now? You're a pig. You can kill me, but we will stop you."
"Who are you?"
"Does it matter? Just know that we will stop you."
"You're with the Rache, aren't you?"
In spite of the darkness, Noel could see an expression of contempt on the man's face. "The Rache?" he said. "Terrorists without a cause, revolutionaries no one wants in his camp. Butchers. I'm no part of the Rachel"
"The ODESSA, then."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you."
"What do you mean?"
"You'll use the ODESSA when the time comes. It can be blamed for so much. You can kill so easily in its name. I suppose the irony is that we'd kill the ODESSA as quickly as you would. But you're the ones we want; we know the difference between clowns and monsters. Belie
ve me, we'll stop you."
"You're not making sense! You're not part of Wolfsschanze; you couldn't be!"
The man lowered his voice. "But we are all part of Wolfsschanze, aren't we? In one way or another," he said, a challenge in his eyes. "I say it again. You can kill me, but another will take my place. Kill him, another his. We will stop you. So shoot, Herr Clausen. Or should I say, son of Reichsführer Heinrich Clausen."
"What the hell are you talking about? I don't want to kill you. I don't want to kill anybody!"
"You killed in France."
"If I killed a man, it was because he tried to kill me."
"Aber natürlich, Herr Clausen."
"Stop calling me that"
"Why? It's your name, isn't it?"
"No! My name is Holcroft"
"Of course," said the man. "That was part of the plan. The respected American with no discernible ties to his past. And if anyone traced them, it would be too late."
"Too late for what? Who are you? Who sent you?"
"There is no way you can force that from me. We are not part of your plan."
Holcroft took the gun from his pocket and stepped closer. "What plan?" he asked, hoping to learn something, anything.
"Geneva."
"What about Geneva? It's a city in Switzerland."
"We know everything, and it's finished. You won't stop the eagles. Not this time. We will stop you!"
"Eagles? What eagles! Who's 'we'?"
"Never. Pull the trigger. I won't tell you. You won't trace us."
Noel was perspiring, though the winter night was cold. Nothing this enemy said made sense. It was possible that an enormous error had been made. The man in front of him was prepared to die, but he was not a fanatic; there was too much intelligence behind the eyes. "Not with the Rache, not with the ODESSA. For God's sake, why
do you want to stop Geneva? Wolfsschanze doesn't want to stop it; you must know that!"
"Not your Wolfsschanze. But we can put that fortune to great use."
"No! If you interfere, there won't be anything. You'll never get the money."
"We both know that doesn't have to be."
"You're wrong! It'll go back into the ground for another thirty years."
The unknown enemy drew himself up in the shadows. "That's the flaw, isn't it? You put it so well: 'back into the ground.' But, if I may be permitted, there'll be no scorched earth then."
"No what?"
"No scorched earth." The man stepped backward. "We've talked enough. You had your chance; you have it still. You can kill me, but it will do you no good. We have the photograph. We're beginning to understand."
"The photograph? In Portsmouth? You?"
"A most respected commander in the Royal Navy. It was interesting that you should take it"
"For Christ's sake! Who are you?"
"One who fights you, son of Heinrich Clausen."
"I told you — "
"I know," said the German. "I should not say that. In point of fact, I shall say nothing further. I will turn around and walk out of this alleyway. Shoot, if you must I am prepared. We are all prepared."
The man turned slowly and began walking. It was more than Noel could stand.
"Stop!" he yelled, pursuing the German. Then grabbing his shoulder with his left hand.
The man spun around. "We have nothing further to say."
"Yes, we do! We're going to stay here all night, if we have to! You're going to tell me who you are and where you came from and what the hell you know about Geneva and Beaumont and — "
It was as far as he got. The man's hand shot out, his fingers clasping Noel's right wrist, twisting it inward and downward as his right knee hammered up into Holcroft's groin. Noel doubled forward in agony, but he would not let go of the gun. He shoved his shoulder into
the man's midsection, trying to push him away, the pain in his testicles spreading up into his stomach and chest. The man brought his fist crashing down into the base of Holcroft's skull, sending shock waves through his ribs and spine. But he would not relinquish the gun! The man could not have the gun! Noel gripped it as if it were the last steel clamp on a lifeboat. He lurched up, springing with what strength he had left in his legs, wrenching the automatic away from the man's grip.
There was an explosion; it echoed through the alley. The man's arm fell away, and he staggered backward, grabbing his shoulder. He had been wounded, but he did not collapse. Instead, he braced himself against the wall and spoke through gasps of breath.
"We'll stop you. And we'll do it our way. We'll take Geneva!"
With those words he propelled himself down the alley, clawing at the wall for support. Holcroft turned; there were figures clustered about the alley's entrance on the Schonbergstrasse. He could hear police whistles and see the coruscating beams of flashlights. The Berlin police were moving in.
He was caught
But he could not be caught! There was Kessler; there was Geneva. He could not be detained now!
Helden's words came back to him. Lie indignantly ... with confidence ... invent your own variations.
Noel shoved the automatic in his pocket and started toward the Schonbergstrasse, toward the slowly approaching flashlights and the two uniformed men who held them.
"I'm an American!" he yelled in a frightened voice. "Does anyone speak English?"
A man from the crowd shouted, "I do! What happened?"
"I was walking through here and someone tried to rob me! He had a gun but I didn't know it! I shoved him and it went off...."
The Berliner translated quickly for the police.
"Where did he go?" asked the man.
"I think he's still there. In one of the doorways. I've got to sit down...."
The Berliner touched Holcroft's shoulder. "Come."
He began leading Noel out through the crowd toward the sidewalk.
The police yelled into the dark alleyway. There was no response; the- unknown enemy had made his escape. The uniformed men cautiously continued forward.
"Thanks very much," said Noel. "I'd just like to get some air, calm down, you know what I mean?"
"Ja. A terrible experience."
"I think they've got him," added Holcroft suddenly, looking back toward the police and the crowd.
The Berliner turned; Noel stepped off the curb, into the street. He started walking, slowly at first, then found a break in the traffic and crossed to the sidewalk on the other side. There he turned and ran as fast as he could through the crowds, toward the Kurfürstendamm.
He had done it, thought Holcroft, as he sat, coatless and hatless, shivering on a deserted bench within sight of the Kaiser Wilhelm Church. He had absorbed the lessons and put them to use; he had invented his own variations and eluded the trap he had set for another, but which had sprung back, ensnaring himself. Beyond this, he had immobilized the man in the black leather jacket. That man would be detained, if only to find a doctor.
Above all, he had learned that Helden was wrong. And the dead Manfredi — who would not say the names — had been wrong. It was not members of the ODESSA, nor of the Rache, who were Geneva's most powerful enemies. It was another group, one infinitely more knowledgeable and deadlier. An enigma that counted among its adherents men who would die calmly, with intelligence in their eyes and reasonable speech on their tongues.
The race to Geneva was against three violent forces wanting to destroy the covenant, but one was far more ingenious than the other two. The man in the black leather jacket had spoken of the Rache and the ODESSA in terms so disparaging they could not have sprung from envy or fear. He had dismissed them as incompetent butchers and clowns of whom he wanted no part. For he was part of something else, something far superior.
Holcroft looked at his watch. He had been sitting in the cold for nearly an hour, the ache in his groin still there, the base of his skull stiff with pain. He had stuffed
the mackinaw and the black-visored cap into a refuse bin several blocks away. They would have bee
n too easy to spot if the Berlin police had an alarm out for him.
It was time to go now; there were no signs of the police, no signs of anyone interested in him. The cold air had done nothing for his pain, but it had helped clear his head, and until that had happened he dared not move. He could move now; he had to. It was almost nine o'clock. It was time to meet with Erich Kessler, the thkd key to Geneva.
25
The pub was now crowded, as he expected it would be, the layers of smoke thicker, the Bavarian music louder. The manager greeted him pleasantly, but his eyes betrayed his thoughts: Something had happened to this American within the last hour. Noel was embarrassed; he wondered if his face was scratched, or streaked with dirt.
"I'd like to wash up. I had a nasty fall."
"Certainly. Over there, sir." The manager pointed to the men's room. "Professor Kessler has arrived. He's waiting for you. I gave him your briefcase."
"Thanks again," said Holcroft, turning toward the door of the washroom.
He looked at his face in the mirror. There were no stains, no dirt, no blood. But there was something in his eyes, a look associated with pain and shock and exhaustion. And fear. That's what the manager had seen.
He ran the water in the basin until it was lukewarm, doused his face and combed his hair and wished he could take that look out of his eyes. Then he returned to the manager, who led him to a booth at the rear of the hall, farthest from the room's activity. The red-checked curtain was drawn across the table.
"Herr Professor?"
The curtain was pulled aside, revealing a man in his mid-forties with a large girth and a full face framed by a short beard and thick brown hair combed straight back over his head. It was a gentle face, the deep-set eyes alive, tinged with anticipation, even humor.
"Mister Holcroft?"
"Dr. Kessler?"
"Sit down, sit down." Kessler made a brief attempt to rise as he held out his hand; the contact between his stomach and the table prevented it. He laughed and
looked at the pub's manager. "Next week! Ja, Rudi? Our diets."
"Ach, natürlich, Professor."
The Holcroft Covenant Page 32
