That was scotch on the rocks, wasn’t it, Mr. Holcroft?
An outstretched hand, a pretty face, a glass.
Images, sounds.
Sounds. Raucous, drunken laughter. A man with too much alcohol in him, losing his balance, falling backward over the rim of the chair. His companion reeling in delight at the sight of his unsteady friend. A third man—the man who would be dead in moments—trying too hard to be a part of the revelry. Anxious to please, wanting to join. An attractive stewardess pouring whisky, smiling, wiping the bar on which two drinks had been reduced to one because one had been spilled, rushing around the counter to help a drunken passenger. The third anxious man, embarrassed perhaps, still wanting to play with the big boys, reaching… A glass. The glass! The single, remaining glass on the bar.
The third man had reached for that glass!
It was scotch on the rocks. The drink intended for the passenger sitting across the lounge at the small Formica table. Oh, my God! thought Holcroft, the images racing back and forth in sequence in his mind’s eye. The drink on the bar—the drink a stranger named Thornton had taken—had been meant for him! The strychnine had been meant for him!
The twisting, horrible convulsions of agony were to be his! The terrible death assigned to him!
He looked down at the glass in front of him on the table; his fingers were around it.
That was scotch on the rocks, wasn’t it? …
He pushed the drink aside. Suddenly he could no longer stay at that table, remain in that lounge. He had to get away; he had to force the images out of his mind. They were too clear, too real, too horrible.
He rose from the chair and walked rapidly, unsteadily, toward the staircase. The sounds of drunken laughter weaved in and out between an unrelenting scream of torment that was the screech of sudden death. No one else could hear those sounds, but they pounded in his head.
He lurched down the curving staircase to the deck below. The light was dim; several passengers were reading under the beams of tiny spotlights, but most were asleep.
Noel was bewildered. The hammering in his ears would not stop, the images would not go away. He felt the need to vomit, to expunge the fear that had settled into his stomach. Where was the toilet? In the galley … behind the galley? Beyond the curtain; that was it. Or was it? He parted the curtain.
Suddenly, his eyes were drawn down to his right, to the front seat of the 747’s second section. A man had stirred in his sleep. A heavyset man whose face he had seen before. He did not recall where, but he was sure of it! A face creased in panic, racing by, close to his. What was it about the face? Something had made a brief but strong impression. What was it? The eyebrows; that was it! Thick eyebrows, the coiled, matted hair an odd mixture of black and white. Salt-and-pepper eyebrows; where was it? Why did the sight of those strangely arresting brows trigger obscure memories of another act of violence? Where was it? He could not remember, and because he could not, he felt the blood rushing to his head. The pounding grew louder; his temples throbbed.
Suddenly, the man with the thick, coiled eyebrows woke up, somehow aware that he was being stared at. Their eyes locked; recognition was absolute.
And there was violence in that recognition. But of what? When? Where?
Holcroft nodded awkwardly, unable to think. The pain in his stomach was knifelike; the sounds in his head were now cracks of thunder. For a moment he forgot where he was; then he remembered and the images returned. The sights and sounds of a killing that but for an accident would have claimed his life.
He had to get back to his seat. He had to control himself, to stop the pain and the thunder and the pounding in his chest. He turned and walked quickly beyond the curtain, past the galley, up the aisle to his seat.
He sat down in the semidarkness, grateful there was no one beside him. He pressed his head into the rim of the chair and closed his eyes, trying with all his concentration to rid his mind of the terrible sight of a grotesque face, screaming away the last few seconds of life. But he could not.
That face became his face.
Then the features blurred, as if the flesh were melting, only to be formed again. The face that now came into focus was no one he recognized. A strange, angular face, parts of which seemed familiar, but not as a whole.
Involuntarily, he gasped. He had never seen that face but suddenly he knew it. Instinctively. It was the face of Heinrich Clausen. A man in agony thirty years ago. The unknown father with whom he had his covenant.
Holcroft opened his eyes, which stung from the perspiration that had rolled down his face. There was another truth and he was not sure he wanted to recognize it. The two men who had tried to kill him with strychnine had themselves been murdered. They had interfered.
The men of Wolfsschanze had been aboard that plane.
7
The clerk behind the desk of the Pôrto Alegre Hotel pulled Holcroft’s reservation from the file. A small yellow message envelope was stapled to the back of the card. The clerk tore it off and handed it to Noel.
«This came for you shortly past seven o’clock this evening, senhor.»
Holcroft knew no one in Rio de Janeiro, and had told no one in New York where he was going. He ripped open the flap and drew out the message. It was from Sam Buonoventura. He was to return the overseas call as soon as possible, regardless of the hour.
Holcroft looked at his watch; it was nearly midnight. He signed the register and spoke as casually as he could, his mind on Sam.
«I have to telephone Curaçao. Will there be any trouble at this hour?»
The clerk seemed mildly offended. «Certainly not with our telefonistas, senhor. I cannot speak for Curaçao.»
The origins of the difficulty notwithstanding, it was not until one-fifteen in the morning that he heard Buonoventura’s rasping voice over the line.
«I think you’ve got a problem, Noley.»
«I’ve got more than one. What is it?»
«Your answering service gave my number to this cop in New York, a Lieutenant Miles; he’s a detective. He was hot as hell. Said you were supposed to inform the police if you left town, to say nothing about leaving the country.»
Christ, he had forgotten! And now he understood just how vital those instructions were. The strychnine was meant for him! Had the police reached the same conclusion?
«What did you tell him, Sam?»
«Got hot myself. It’s the only way to handle angry cops. I told him you were off in the out-islands doing a survey for a possible installation Washington was interested in. A little bit north, we’re not too far from the Canal Zone; it could mean anything. Nobody talks.»
«Did he accept that?»
«Hard to tell. He wants you to call him. I bought you time, though. I said you radioed in this afternoon and I didn’t expect to hear from you for three or four days, and I couldn’t make contact. That’s when he yelled like a cut bull.»
«But did he buy it?»
«What else could he do? He thinks we’re all fucking-A stupid down here, and I agreed with him. He gave me two numbers for you. Got a pencil?»
«Go ahead.»
Holcroft wrote down the numbers—a Port Authority police telephone and Miles’s home—thanked Buonoventura, and said he’d be in touch next week.