The Holcroft Covenant

by Robert Ludlum

  "So do I."

  He leaned toward her, their shoulders touching. "Love me a little?"

  "More than a little."

  "Stay with me tonight."

  "I intend to. Your hotel?"

  "Not the one in rue Chevalle. That Mr. Fresca we invented the other night has moved to better lodgings. You see, I've got a few friends in Paris, too. One's an assistant manager at the George Cinq."

  "How extravagant."

  "It's allowed. You're a very special woman, and we don't know what's going to happen, starting tomorrow.

  By the way, why couldn't we go to Argenteuil? You said you'd tell me."

  "We were seen there."

  "What? By whom?"

  "A man saw us — saw you, really. We don't know his name, but we know he was from Interpol. We have a source there. A bulletin was circulated from the Paris headquarters with your description. A trace was put out for you from New York, From a police officer named Miles."

  28

  John Tennyson walked out into Heathrow Airport's crowded arrivals area. He walked to a black Jaguar sedan waiting at the curb. The driver was smoking a cigarette and reading a book. At the sight of the approaching blond man, the driver got out of the car.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Tennyson," said the man, in a throaty Welsh accent.

  "Have you been waiting long?" asked Tennyson, without much interest.

  "Not very," answered the driver, taking Tennyson's briefcase and overnight bag. "I presume you wish to drive."

  "Yes, I'll drop you off along the way. Someplace where you can find a taxi."

  "I can get one here."

  "No, I want to talk for a few minutes." Tennyson climbed in behind the wheel; the Welshman opened the rear door and put the luggage inside. Within minutes they had passed the airport gates and were on the highway to London.

  "Did you have a good trip?" asked the Welshman.

  "A busy one."

  "I read your article about Bahrain. Most amusing."

  "Bahrain's amusing. The Indian shopkeepers are the only economists on the archipelago."

  "But you were kind to the sheikhs."

  "They were kind to me. What's the news from the Mediterranean? Have you stayed in touch with your brother on board Beaumont's ship?"

  "Constantly. We use a radiophone off Cap Cama-rat. Everything's going according to schedule. The rumor circulated on the pier that the commander was seen going out in a small boat with a woman from Saint-Tropez. Neither the boat nor the couple have been heard from in

  over forty-eight hours, and there were offshore squalls. My brother will report the incident tomorrow. He will assume command, of course."

  "Of course. Then it all goes well. Beaumont's death will be clear-cut. An accident in bad weather. No one will question the story."

  "You don't care to tell me what actually happened?"

  "Not specifically; it would be a burden to you. But basically, Beaumont overreached himself. He was seen in the wrong places by the wrong people. It was speculated that our upstanding officer was actually connected to the ODESSA."

  The Welshman's expression conveyed his anger. "That's dangerous. The damn fool."

  "There's something I must tell you," said Tennyson. "It's almost time."

  The Welshman replied in awe. "It's happened, then?"

  "Within two weeks, I'd guess."

  "I can't believe it!"

  "Why?" asked Tennyson. "Everything's on schedule. The cables must begin to go out. Everywhere."

  "Everywhere ..." repeated the man.

  "The code is 'Wolfsschanze.' "

  "Wolfsschanze? ... Oh God, it's come!"

  "It's here. Update a final master list of district leaders, one copy only, of course. Take all the microdot files — country by country, city by city, each political connection — and seal them in a steel case. Bring the case personally to me, along with the master list, one week from today. Wednesday. We'll meet on the street outside my flat in Kensington. Eight o'clock at night."

  "A week from today. Wednesday. Eight o'clock. With the case."

  "And the master list. The leaders."

  "Of course." The Welshman brought the knuckle of his index finger to his teeth. "It's really come," he whispered.

  "There's a minor obstacle, but we'll surmount it"

  "Can I help? I'll do anything."

  "I know you will, Ian. You're one of the best. I'll tell you next week."

  "Anything."

  "Of course." Tennyson slowed the Jaguar at the approach of an exit "I'd drive you into London, but I'm

  heading toward Margate. It's imperative that I get there quickly."

  "Don't worry about me. God, man, you must have so much on your mind!" Ian kept his eyes on Tennyson's face, on the strong, chiseled features that held such promise, such power. "To be here now; to have the privilege to be present at the beginning. At the rebirth. There's no sacrifice I wouldn't make."

  The blond man smiled. "Thank you," he said.

  "Leave me anywhere. I'll find a taxi. ... I didn't know we had people in Margate."

  "We have people everywhere," said Tennyson, stopping the car.

  Tennyson sped down the familiar highway toward Portsea. He would reach Gretchen's house before eight o'clock, and that was as it should be; she expected him at nine. He'd be able to make sure she had no visitors, no friendly male neighbors who might have dropped in for a drink.

  The blond man smiled to himself. Even in her mid-forties, his sister drew men as the proverbial flame drew moths: they, scorched into satiety by the heat, saved from themselves by their inability to reach the flame itself. For Gretchen did not fulfill the promise of her sexuality unless told to do so. It was a weapon to be used, as all potentially lethal weapons were to be used — with discretion.

  Tennyson did not relish what he had to do, but he knew he had no choice. All threads that led to Geneva had to be cut, and his sister was one of them. As Anthony Beaumont had been one. Gretchen simply knew too much; Wolfsschanze's enemies could break her — and they would.

  There were three items of information the Nachrich tendienst did not have: the timetable, the methods of dispersing the millions, and the lists. Gretchen knew the timetable; she was familiar with the methods of dispersal; and, as the methods were tied to the names of recipients all over the world, she was all too aware of the lists.

  His sister had to die.

  As the Welshman had to make the sacrifice he spoke of so nobly. Once the airtight carton and the master list were delivered, the Welshman's contributions were fin-

  ished. He remained only a liability; for, except for the sons of Erich Kessler and Wilhelm von Tiebolt, no one else alive would ever see those lists. Thousands of names, in every country, who were the true inheritors of Wolfsschanze, the perfect race, the Sonnenkinder.

  PORTSEA — 15 M

  The blond man pressed the accelerator; the Jaguar shot forward.

  "So, at last it's here," said Gretchen Beaumont, sitting next to Tennyson on the soft leather couch, her hand caressing his face, her fingers darting in and out between his lips, arousing him as she was always able to do since they were children. "And you're so beautiful. There's no other man like you; there never will be."

  She leaned forward, her unbuttoned blouse exposing her breasts, inviting his caress. She opened her mouth and covered his, groaning in that throaty way that drove him wild.

  But he could not succumb. When he did, it would be the last act of a secret ritual that had kept him pure and unentangled . . . since he was a child. He held her shoulders and gently pushed her back on the couch.

  "It's here," he said. "I must learn everything that's happened while my mind's clear. We have lots of time. I'll leave about six in the morning for Heathrow, for the first plane to Paris. But now, is there anything you forgot to tell me about the American? Are you sure he never made the connection between you and New York?"

  "Never. The dead woman across from his apartment was known to be a h
eavy smoker. I don't smoke, and made a point of it when he was here. I also made it clear that I hadn't been anywhere in weeks. If he questioned that, I could have proved it, of course. And, obviously, I was very much alive."

  "So when he left, he had no idea that the highly erotic, straying wife he went to bed with was the woman in New York."

  "Of course not. And he didn't leave," said Gretchen, laughing. "He fled. Bewildered and panicked, convinced I was unbalanced — as we had planned — thus making you

  next in line for Geneva." She stopped laughing. "He also fled with Tony's photograph, which we had not planned. You're getting it back, I assume."

  Tennyson nodded. "Yes."

  "What will you tell Holcroft?"

  "He believes Beaumont was an ODESSA agent; that I was somehow embroiled with Graff and had to escape from Brazil or be shot. That's what he told Kessler. The truth is, he's not at all sure what happened in Rio except that I killed someone; he's worried about it." Tennyson smiled. "I'll play on his assumptions. I'll think of something startling, something that will stun him, convince him I'm holier than John the Baptist. And, of course, I'll be grateful that our partner has caused the removal of the terrible Beaumont from our concerns."

  Gretchen took his hand, pressing it between her legs, rubbing her stockings up and down against his flesh. "You are not only beautiful; you're brilliant."

  "Then I'll turn the tables, make him feel he must convince me he's worthy of Geneva. He will be the one who must justify his part of the covenant. It's psychologically vital that he be put in that position; his dependency on me must grow."

  Gretchen locked her legs against his hand and held his wrist; the grip was abrupt and sexual. "You can excite me with words, but you know that, don't you?"

  "In a while, my love . . . my only love. We've got to talk." Tennyson dug his fingers into his sister's leg; she moaned. "Of course, I'll know more what to say after I've spoken to Helden."

  "You'll see her before you meet with Holcroft, then?"

  "Yes. I'll call her and tell her I've got to see her right away. For the first time in her life, she'll observe me in the throes of self-doubt, desperately needing to be convinced my actions are right."

  "Brilliant again." She took his hand from between her legs and placed it under her breast. "And does our little sister still run with the flotsam and jetsam? The self-imposed Verwünschkinder, with their beards and bad teeth?"

  "Of course. She has to feel needed; it was always her weakness."

  "She wasn't born in the Reich."

  Tennyson laughed derisively. "To compound her striving for adequacy, she's become a nursemaid. She lives in Herr Oberst's house and cares for the crippled bastard. Two changes of cars each evening, so as not to lead the assassins of the Rache and the ODESSA to him."

  "One or the other may kill her one day," mused Gretchen. "That's something to think about. Soon after the bank frees the account, she'll have to go. She's not stupid, Johann. One more murder laid at the foot of the Rache. Or the ODESSA."

  "It's crossed my mind. . . . Speaking of murder, tell me: While Holcroft was here, did he mention Peter Baldwin?"

  "Not a word. I never thought he would, not if I was playing my part right. I was an unbalanced, resentful wife. He didn't want to frighten me; nor did he wish to give me information dangerous to Geneva."

  Tennyson nodded; they had projected accurately. "What was his reaction when you talked about me?"

  "I gave him very little time to react," said Gretchen. "I simply told him you spoke for the Von Tiebolts. Why did Baldwin try to intercept him in New York? Do you know?"

  "I've pieced it together. Baldwin operated out of Prague, an Mi-Sixer whose allegiance, many said, was to the highest bidder. He sold information to anyone, until his own people began to suspect him. They fired him, but didn't prosecute, because they couldn't be sure; he'd operated as a double agent in the past and claimed it as his cover. He swore he was developing a two-way network. He also knew the name of every British contact in Central Europe, and obviously let his superiors know that those names would surface if anything happened to him. He maintained his innocence, said he was being punished for doing his job too well."

  "What's that got to do with Holcroft?"

  "To understand, you have to see Baldwin for what he was. He was good; his sources, the best. In addition to which he was a courier specialist; he could track anything. While in Prague, he heard rumors of a great fortune being held in Geneva. Nazi spoils. The rumor wasn't unusual; such stories have been around since Berlin fell. The difference with this rumor was that Clausen's name was mentioned. Again, not completely startling; Clausen was

  the financial genius of the Reich. But Baldwin checked out everything to the finest point; it was the way he worked."

  "He went back to the courier archives," interrupted Gretchen.

  "Yes. Concentrating on the Finanzministerium. Hundreds of runs were made, Manfredi the recipient in dozens. Once he had Manfredi's name, the rest was patient observation — and money spread cautiously within the bank. His break came when he heard that Manfredi was setting up contact with a heretofore-unheard-of American named Holcroft. Why? He studied Holcroft and found the mother."

  "She was Manfredi's strategy," Gretchen broke in again.

  "From the beginning," agreed Tennyson, nodding. "He convinced Clausen she had to leave Germany. She had money of her own and moved in monied circles; she could be of great use to us in America. With Clausen's help, she came to accept that, but she was essentially Manfredi's creation."

  "Underneath that gnome's benign appearance," said Gretchen, "was a Machiavelli."

  "Without that kindly innocence of his, I doubt he'd ever have got away with it. But Machiavelli isn't the parallel. Manfredi's interest was solely the money; it was the only power he wanted. He was a sworn companion of the gold quota. It was his intention to control the agency in Zurich; it's why we killed him."

  "How much did Baldwin learn?"

  "We'll never know, exactly; but whatever it was, it was to be his vindication with British Intelligence. You see, he wasn't a double agent; he was exactly what he claimed to be: MI Six's very effective man in Prague."

  "He reached Manfredi?"

  "Oh, yes. He implied that much by his knowledge of the Geneva meeting. He was just a little late, that's all." The blond man smiled. "I can picture the confrontation: two specialists circling each other, both wanting something desperately; one to pry out information, the other to retain it at all costs, knowing he was dealing with a potentially catastrophic situation. Certain agreements must have been made; and, true to form, Manfredi broke his word, moved up the meeting with Holcroft, and then

  alerted us about Baldwin. He covered everything. If your husband were to be caught killing Peter Baldwin, there would be no connection with Ernst Manfredi. He was a man to be respected. He might have won."

  "But not against Johann von Tiebolt," said Gretchen, squeezing his hand beneath her breast, moving it up. "Incidentally, I received another code from Graff, from Rio. He's upset again. He says he's not being kept informed."

  "His senility is showing. He, too, has served his purpose. Age makes him careless; it's no time for him to be sending messages to England. I'm afraid the moment has arrived for unser Freund in Brazil."

  "You'll send the order out?"

  "In the morning. One more arm of the hated ODESSA severed. He trained me too well." Tennyson leaned forward, his hand cupping his sister's breast. "I think we are finished talking. As always, talking with you clears my mind. I can't think of anything more to say, anything more to ask you."

  "Then make demands instead. It's been so long for you; you must be bursting inside. I'll take care of you, as I always have."

  "Since we were children," said Tennyson, his mouth covering hers, her hand groping for his trousers. Both of them were trembling.

  Gretchen lay naked beside him, her breathing steady, her body drained and satisfied. The blond man raised his h
and and looked at the radium dial of his watch. It was two-thirty in the morning. Time to do the terrible thing demanded of him by the covenant of Wolfsschanze. All traces to Geneva had to be removed.

  He reached over the side of the bed for his shoes. He lifted one up, feeling the heel with his fingers in the darkness. There was a small metal disk in the center. He pressed it, turning it to the left until a spring was released. He placed the disk on the bedside table, then tilted the shoe back and removed a steel needle ten inches long, concealed in a tiny bore drilled from heel to sole. The needle was flexible but unbreakable. Inserted properly between the fourth and fifth ribs, it punctured the heart, leaving a mark more often missed than found, even during an autopsy.

  He held it delicately between the thumb and index finger of his right hand, reaching for his sister with his left. He touched her right breast and then her naked shoulder. She opened her eyes.

  "You are insatiable," she whispered, smiling.

  "Only with you." He drew her up to him until their flesh touched. "You are my only love," he said, his right arm sliding behind her, extended a foot beyond her spine. He turned his wrist inward; the needle was positioned. He thrust it forward.

  The back-country roads were confusing, but Tennyson had memorized the route. He knew the way to the hidden cottage that housed the enigmatic Herr Oberst, that betrayer of the Reich. Even the title, "Oberst," was an ironic commentary. The traitor had been no colonel; he had been general in the Wehrmacht, General Klaus Falkenheim, at one time fourth-in-command of all Germany. Praise had been lavished on him by his military peers, and even by the Führer himself. And all the while a jackal had lived in that shiny, hollow shell.

  God, how Johann von Tiebolt loathed the misfit liar that was Herr Oberst! But John Tennyson would not show that loathing. On the contrary, Tennyson would fawn on the old man, proclaiming awe and respect. For if there was one certain way to get his younger sister's total cooperation, it was by showing such deference.

  He had called Helden at Gallimard, telling her that he had to see where she lived. Yes, he knew she lived in Herr Oberst's small house; and again, yes, he knew where it was.