Noel had unpacked during the interminable wait for the Curaçao connection. He sat in a cane-backed chair in front of the window and looked out at the night-white beach and the dark waters beyond, reflecting the bright half moon. Below, on that isolated section of the street bordering the ocean walkway, were the curving, black-and-white parallel lines that signified the Copacabana, the golden coast of Guanabara. There was an emptiness about the scene that had nothing to do with its being deserted. It was too perfect, too pretty. He would never have designed it that way; there was an absence of character. He focused his eyes on the windowpanes. There was nothing to do now but think and rest and hope he could sleep. Sleep had been difficult for the past week; it would be more difficult now. Because he knew now what he had not known before: Someone had tried to kill him.
The knowledge produced an odd sensation. He could not believe that there was someone who wanted him dead. Yet someone had to have made that decision, had to have issued the order. Why? What had he done? Was it Geneva? His covenant?
We’re dealing in millions. Those were not only the dead Manfredi’s words; they were his warning. It was the only possible explanation. The information had got out, but there was no way to know how far it had spread, or who was affected by it, who infuriated. Or the identity of the unknown person—or persons—who wanted to stop the release of the Geneva account, to consign it to the litigations of the international courts.
Manfredi was right: The only moral solution was found in carrying out the intent of the document drawn up by three extraordinary men in the midst of the devastation their own monster had created.
Amends must be made. It was the credo Heinrich Clausen believed in; it was honorable; it was right. In their misguided way, the men of Wolfsschanze understood.
Noel poured himself a drink, walked over to the bed, and sat down on the edge, staring at the telephone. Next to it were the two numbers written on a hotel message pad, given to him by Sam Buonoventura. They were his links to Lieutenant Miles, Port Authority police. But Holcroft could not bring himself to call. He had begun the hunt; he had taken the first step in his search for the family of Wilhelm von Tiebolt. Step, hell! It was a giant leap of four thousand air miles; he would not turn back.
There was so much to do. Noel wondered whether he was capable of doing it, whether he was capable of making his way through the unfamiliar forest.
He felt his eyelids grow heavy. Sleep was coming and he was grateful for it. He put down the glass and kicked off his shoes, not bothering with the rest of his clothes. He fell back on the bed and for several seconds stared at the white ceiling. He felt so alone, yet knew he wasn’t. There was a man in agony, from thirty years ago, crying out to him. He thought about that man until sleep came.
Holcroft followed the translator into the dimly lit, windowless cubicle. Their conversation had been brief; Noel had sought specific information. The name was Von Tiebolt; the family, German nationals. A mother and two children—a daughter and a son—had immigrated to Brazil on or about June 15, 1945. A third child, another daughter, had been born several months later, probably in Rio de Janeiro. The records had to contain some information. Even if a false name was used, a simple crosscheck of the weeks involved—two or three either way—would certainly unearth a pregnant woman with two children coming into the country. If there were more than one, it was his problem to trace them. At least a name, or names, would surface.
No, it was not an official inquiry. There were no criminal charges; there was no seeking of revenge for crimes going back thirty years. On the contrary, it was «a benign search.»
Noel knew that an explanation would be asked of him, and he remembered one of the lessons learned at the consulate in New York: Base the lie in an aspect of truth. The family Von Tiebolt had relations in the United States, went the lie. People who had immigrated to America in the twenties and thirties. Very few were left, and there was a large sum of money involved. Surely, the officials at the Ministério do Imigração would want to help find the inheritors. It was entirely possible that the Von Tiebolts would be grateful … and he, as the intermediary, would certainly make known their cooperation.
Ledgers were brought out. Hundreds of photostats from another era were studied. Faded, soiled copies of documents, so many of which were obviously false papers purchased in Bern and Zurich and Lisbon. Passports.
But there were no documents relating to the Von Tiebolts, no descriptions of a pregnant woman with two children entering Rio de Janeiro during the month of June or July in 1945. At least, none resembling the wife of Wilhelm von Tiebolt. There were pregnant women, even pregnant women with children, but none with children that could have been Von Tiebolt’s. According to Manfredi, the daughter, Gretchen, was twelve or thirteen years old; the son, Johann, ten. Every one of the women entering Brazil during those weeks was accompanied either by a husband or a false husband, and where there were children, none—not one—was more than seven years of age.
This struck Holcroft as being not only unusual but mathematically impossible. He stared at the pages of faded ink, at the often illegible entries made by harried immigration officials thirty-odd years ago.
Something was wrong; his architect’s eye was troubled. He had the feeling he was studying blueprints that had not been finished, that were filled with minute alterations—tiny lines erased and changed, but very delicately, so as not to disturb the larger design.
Erased and changed.
Chemically erased, delicately changed. That was what bothered him! The birthdates! Page after page of miniature figures, digits subtly altered! A 3 became an 8, a 1 a 9, a 2 a 0, the curve retained, a line drawn down, a zero added. Page after page in the ledgers, for the weeks of June and July of 1945, the birthdates of all the children entering Brazil had been changed so that none was born prior to 1938!
It was a painstakingly clever ruse, one that had to be thought out carefully, deliberately. Stop the hunt at the source. But do it in a way that appeared above suspicion. Small numbers faithfully—if hastily—recorded by unknown immigration personnel more than thirty years ago. Recorded from documents, the majority of which had been long since destroyed, for most were false. There was no way to substantiate, to confirm or deny the accuracy. Time and conspiracies had made that impossible. Of course there was no one resembling the Von Tiebolts!
Good Lord, what a deception!
Noel pulled out his lighter; its flame would provide more light on a page where his eye told him there were numerous minute alterations.
«Senhor! That is forbidden!» The harsh command was delivered in a loud voice by the translator. «Those old pages catch fire easily. We cannot take such risks.»
Holcroft understood. It explained the inadequate light, the windowless cubicle. «I’ll bet you can’t,» he said, extinguishing his lighter. «And I suppose these ledgers can’t be removed from this room.»
«No, senhor.»
«And, of course, there are no extra lamps around, and you don’t have a flashlight. Isn’t that right?»
«Senhor,» interrupted the translator, his tone now courteous, even deferential. «We have spent nearly three hours with you. We have tried to cooperate fully, but as I’m sure you’re aware, we have other duties to perform. So, if you have finished …»