«Control yourself. You don’t know what you’re doing.»
«I know exactly.»
«The Geneva police are in the hotel. If you speak to the desk clerk, he may say something. They’ll be looking for you.»
«They can have me in a few hours. In fact, I’ll be looking for them.»
«What? Noel, I must see you!»
«Ten minutes, Erich. It’s eight-forty-six.» Holcroft went off the line.
Kessler replaced the phone, knowing that he had no choice but to follow instructions. To do anything else would be suspect. But what did Holcroft expect to accomplish? What would he say to the desk clerk? It probably did not matter. With the mother gone, it was necessary only to keep Holcroft functioning until tomorrow morning. By noon, he would be expendable.
Noel waited on the dark street corner at the base of the rue des Granges. He was not proud of what he was about to do, but the rage inside him had numbed any feelings of morality. The sight of Willie Ellis had caused something to snap in his head. That sight gave rise to other images: Richard Holcroft, crushed into a stone building by a car gone wild by design. Strychnine poisoning in an airplane, and death in a French village, and murder in Berlin. And a man who had followed his mother… He would not let them near her! It was over; he would bring it to a close himself.
It was a question now of using every available resource, every bit of strength he had, every fact he could recall, that would work for him. And it was the murder in Berlin that provided him with the single fact that could work for him now. In Berlin he had led killers to Erich Kessler. Stupidly, carelessly—to a pub on the Kurfürstendamm. Kessler and Holcroft; Holcroft and Kessler. If those killers were looking for Holcroft, they would keep Kessler in their sights. And if Kessler left the hotel, they would follow him.
Holcroft looked at his watch. It was time to call; he started across the pavement toward the booth.
He hoped Erich would answer.
And later understand.
Kessler stood in the hotel lobby, in front of the pay phone, a slip of paper in his hand. On it the astonished desk clerk had written his name; the man’s hand had shaken when he had taken the money. Professor Kessler would appreciate knowing the gist of Mr. Holcroft’s message to the clerk. For Mr. Holcroft’s benefit. And for the clerk’s, insofar as an additional five hundred francs would be his.
The telephone rang; Erich had it off the hook before the ring was finished. «Noel?»
«What’s the desk clerk’s name?»
Kessler gave it.
«Fine.»
«Now, I insist we meet,» said Erich. «There’s a great deal you should know. Tomorrow’s a very important day.»
«Only if we get through tonight. If I find her tonight.»
«Where are you? We must meet.»
«We will. Listen carefully. Wait by that phone for five minutes. I may have to call you again. If I don’t—after five minutes—go outside and begin walking down the hill. Just keep walking. When you get to the bottom, turn left and keep going. I’ll join you in the street.»
«Good! Five minutes, then.» Kessler smiled. Whatever games the amateur indulged in were worthless. He would doubtless ask the desk clerk to relay a message or a telephone number to his mother if and when she called him—the unregistered guest; so much for that. Perhaps Johann was right: Perhaps Holcroft had reached the limits of his capacity. Perhaps the American was not a potential Sonnenkind after all.
Police were still in the d’Accord’s lobby, as well as several journalists who sensed a story behind the clouded report of robbery the police had given out. This was Geneva. And there were the curious guests milling about, talking with one another; reassuring one another, some afraid, some seeking sensation.
Erich stayed off to the side, avoiding the crowd, remaining as inconspicuous as possible. He did not like being in the lobby at all; he preferred the anonymity of the hotel room upstairs.
He looked at his watch; four minutes had passed since Holcroft’s call. If the American did not call again during the next minute, he would find the desk clerk and …
The desk clerk approached, walking on his own hot fragments of glass. «Professor?»
«Yes, my friend.» Kessler put his hand in his pocket.
The message Holcroft left was not what Erich had expected. Noel’s mother was to remain hidden and to leave a telephone number where her son could reach her . The clerk had sworn not to reveal that number, of course; but then, prior commitments always took precedence. When and if the lady called, the number would be left on a piece of paper in Herr Kessler’s box.
«Paging Mr. Kessler? Professor Erich Kessler.»
A bellboy was walking through the lobby, shouting his name.
Shouting it! It was impossible. No one knew he was here!
«Yes? Yes, I’m Professor Kessler,» said Erich. «What is it?» He tried to keep his voice low, to remain inconspicuous. People were looking at him.
«The message is to be delivered orally, sir,» said the bellboy. «The caller said there was no time for a note. It’s from Mr. H. He says you’re to start out now, sir.»
«What?»
«That’s all he said, sir. I spoke to him myself. To Mr. H. You’re to start out now. That’s what he told me to tell you.»
Kessler held his breath. It was suddenly, unexpectedly clear. Holcroft was using him as the bait.
From the American’s point of view, whoever killed the man in the black leather jacket in Berlin knew that Noel Holcroft had been with Erich Kessler.
The strategy was simple but ingenious: Expose Erich Kessler, have Erich Kessler receive a message from Mr. H., and leave the hotel for the dark streets of Geneva.
And if no one followed, the disparity between cause and effect might be difficult to explain. So difficult that Holcroft might reexamine his bait. Questions might surface that could blow Geneva apart.
Noel Holcroft was a potential Sonnenkind, after all.
40
Helden crawled through Gerhardt’s house, over the smashed furniture and the blood on the floor, opening drawers and panels until she found a small tin box of first-aid supplies. Trying desperately not to think of anything but becoming mobile, rejecting the pain as an unwanted state of mind, she strapped her wound as tightly as she could and struggled to her feet. Using Gerhardt’s cane for support, she managed to walk up the path and north, three kilometers, to the fork.
A farmer driving a vintage automobile picked her up. Could he drive her to a Doctor Litvak on the hill near the clinic?
He could. It was not far out of his way.
Would he please hurry?
Walther Litvak was in his late forties, with a balding head and clear eyes and a penchant for short, precise sentences. Being slender, he moved quickly, wasting as few motions as he did words; being highly intelligent, he made observations before replies; and being a Jew hidden by Dutch Catholics as a child and brought up by sympathetic Lutherans, he had no tolerance for intolerance.
He had one bias, and it was understandable. His father and mother, two sisters, and a brother, had been gassed at Auschwitz. Save for an appeal of a Swiss doctor who spoke of a district in the hills of Neuchâtel that had no medical care, Walther Litvak would be living in Kibbutz Har Sha’alav, in the Negev desert.
He had intended to spend three years at the clinic; that was five years ago. And then, after several months in Neuchâtel, he was told who his recruiter was: one of a group of men who fought the resurgence of Nazism. They knew things other men did not know: about thousands of grown-up children—everywhere; and about untold millions that could reach those unknown people—everywhere. There was much nonmedical work to be done. His contact was a man named Werner Gerhardt, and the group was called Nachrichtendienst.