«There’s a night mirror that picks up images in the black light,» he said, watching intently. «It’s a man. I recognize him, but I don’t know him.» He walked to the desk, took out a small pistol, and handed it to Helden.
«What should I do?» she asked.
«Hide it under your skirt.»
«You don’t know who it is?» Helden lifted her skirt and sat down in a chair facing the door, the weapon hidden.
«No. He arrived yesterday; I saw him in the square. He may be one of us; he may not. I don’t know.»
Helden could hear footsteps outside the door. They stopped; there was a moment of silence, then rapid knocking.
«Herr Gerhardt?»
The old man answered, his voice now high pitched and in the singsong cadence he had used in the square. «Good heavens, who is it? It’s very late; I’m in the middle of my prayers.»
«I bring you news from Har Sha’alav.»
The old man exhaled in relief, and nodded to Helden. «He’s one of us,» he said, unlatching the bolt. «No one but us knows about Har Sha’alav.»
The door opened. For the briefest instant Helden froze, then spun out of the chair and lunged for the floor. The figure in the doorway held a large-barreled gun in his hand; its explosion was thunderous. Gerhardt arched backward, blown off his feet, his body a contorted bloody mass, suspended in the air before it fell into the desk.
Helden lurched behind the leather armchair, reaching for the pistol under her skirt.
There was another gunshot as thunderous as the first. The leather back of the chair exploded out of its shell.
Another, and she felt an icelike pain in her leg. Blood spread over her stocking.
She raised the pistol and squeezed the trigger repeatedly, aiming—and not aiming—at the huge figure in shadows by the door.
She heard the man scream. In panic, she crashed into the wall, a cornered insect, trapped, about to lose its insignificant life. Tears streamed down her face as she aimed again and pulled the trigger until the firing stopped, replaced by the sickening clicks of the empty gun. She screamed in terror; there were no bullets left. She hoped to God her death would come quickly.
She heard her screams—she heard them—as if she were floating in the sky, looking below at chaos and smoke.
There was smoke. Everywhere. It filled the room, the acrid fumes stinging her eyes, blinding her. She did not understand; nothing happened.
Then she heard faint, whispered words.
«My child…»
It was Gerhardt! Sobbing, she pressed her hand against the wall and pushed herself away. Dragging her bloodied leg, she crawled toward the source of the whisper.
The smoke was beginning to clear. She could see the figure of the killer. He was lying on his back, small red circles in his throat and forehead. He was dead.
Gerhardt was dying. She crept to him and put her face on his face, her tears falling on his flesh.
«My child… get to Litvak. Cable Har Sha’alav. Stay away from Geneva.»
«Stay away?…»
«You, child. They know you came to me. Wolfsschanze has seen you… You’re all that’s left. Nachricht—»
«What?»
«You are … Nachrichtendienst.»
Gerhardt’s head slipped away from her face. He was gone.
39
The red-bearded pilot walked rapidly down the rue des Granges toward the parked car. Inside, Althene saw him approaching. She was alarmed. Why hadn’t the pilot brought her son with him? And why was he hurrying so?
The pilot climbed in behind the wheel, pausing for a moment to catch his breath.
«There’s great confusion at the d’Accord, madame. A killing.»
Althene gasped. «Noel? Is it my son?»
«No. An Englishman.»
«Who was it?»
«A man named Ellis. A William Ellis.»
«Dear God!» Althene gripped her purse. «Noel had a friend in London named Ellis. He talked about him frequently. I’ve got to reach my son!»
«Not in there, madame. Not if there’s a connection between your son and the Englishman. The police are everywhere, and there’s an alert out for you.»
«Get to a telephone.»
«I’ll make the call. It may be the last thing I do for you, madame. I have no wish to be associated with killing; that’s not part of any agreement between us.»
They drove for nearly fifteen minutes before the pilot was satisfied no one had followed them.
«Why should anyone follow us?» Althene asked. «Nobody saw me; you didn’t mention my name. Or Noel’s.»
«Not you, madame. Me. I don’t make it a point to fraternize with the Geneva police. I have run into a few now and then, off and on. We don’t get along very well.»
They entered the lakefront district, the pilot scanning the streets for an out-of-the-way telephone. He found one, swerved the car to the curb, and dashed outside to the booth. Althene watched him make the call.
Then he returned, got behind the wheel more slowly than he had left it, and sat for a moment, scowling.
«For heaven’s sake, what happened?»
«I don’t like it,» he said. «They expected a call from you.»
«Of course. My son arranged it.»
«But it was not you on the phone. It was me.»
«What difference does it make? I had someone call for me. What did they say?»
«Not they. He. And what he said was far too specific. In this city, one is not that free with information. Specifics are exchanged when ears recognize voices, or when certain words are used that mean the caller has a right to know.»
«What was the information,» asked Althene, irritated.
«A rendezvous. As soon as possible. Ten kilometers north, on the road to Vésenaz. It’s on the east side of the lake. He said your son would be there.»
«Then we’ll go.»
«‘We,’ madame?»
«I’d like to negotiate further with you.»
She offered him five hundred American dollars. «You’re crazy,» he said.
«We have an agreement, then?»
«On the condition that until you and your son are together, you do exactly as I say,» he replied. «I don’t accept such money for failure. However, if he’s not there, that’s no concern of mine. I get paid.»
«You’ll be paid. Let’s go.»
«Very well.» The pilot started the car.
«Why are you suspicious? It all seems quite logical to me,» said Althene.
«I told you. This city has its own code of behavior. In Geneva, the telephone is the courier. A second number should have been given, so that you yourself could talk with your son. When I suggested it, I was told there wasn’t time.»
«All quite possible.»
«Perhaps, but I don’t like it. The switchboard said they were connecting me to the front desk, but the man I talked with was no clerk.»
«How do you know that?»
«Desk clerks can be arrogant and often are, but they aren’t demanding. The man I spoke with was. And he wasn’t from Geneva. He had an accent I couldn’t place. You’ll do exactly as I say, madame.»
Von Tiebolt replaced the phone and smiled in satisfaction. «We have her,» he said simply, walking to the couch where Hans Kessler lay holding an ice pack to his right cheek, his face bruised where it had not been stitched by the first deputy’s personal physician.
«I’ll go with you,» said Hans, his voice strained in anger and pain.
«I don’t think so,» interjected his brother from a nearby armchair.
«You can’t be seen,» added Von Tiebolt. «We’ll tell Holcroft you were delayed.»