«Do as I’ve instructed,» said Graff into the telephone, his voice calm, with no trace of the fury he had exhibited only minutes ago. He was now the general officer issuing commands to an attentive subordinate. «Wait until he’s halfway down the hill, then throw the gate switch. It’s vital that the American thinks he has escaped.» The old German hung up and turned to his aide. «Is the guard hurt?»
«Merely stunned, mein Herr. He’s walking around, shaking off the effects of the blow.»
«Holcroft is angry,» mused Graff. «He’s filled with himself, exhilarated, consumed with purpose. That’s good. Now he must be frightened, made to tremble at the unexpected, at the sheer brutality of the moment. Tell the guard to wait five minutes and then take up pursuit. He must do his job well.»
«He has his orders; he’s an expert marksman.»
«Good.» The former Wehrmachtsgeneral walked slowly to the window and squinted into the final rays of the sun. «Soft words, lover’s words … and then sharp, hysterical rebukes. The embrace, and the knife. One must follow the other in rapid succession until Holcroft has no judgment left. Until he can no longer distinguish between ally and enemy, knowing only that he must press forward. When finally he breaks, we’ll be there and he’ll be ours.»
9
Noel slammed the huge door behind him and walked down the marble steps to the car. He swung the automobile into reverse, so that his hood faced the downhill drive out of the Graff estate, pressed the accelerator and headed for the exit.
Several things occurred to him. The first was that the afternoon sun had descended behind the western mountains, creating pockets of shadows on the ground. Daylight was disappearing; he needed his headlights. Another concern was that Graff’s reaction to the mention of the Von Tiebolts had to mean two things: The Von Tiebolts were alive, and they were a threat. But a threat to what? To whom? And where were they?
A third was more of a feeling than a specific thought. It was his reaction to the physical encounter he had just experienced. Throughout his life he had taken whatever size and strength he possessed as a matter of course. Because he was large and relatively well coordinated, he never felt the need to seek physical challenge except in competition against himself, in bettering a tennis game or besting a ski slope. As a result, he avoided fights; they struck him as unnecessary.
It was this general attitude that had made him laugh when his stepfather had insisted he join him at the club for a series of lessons in self-defense. The city was turning into a jungle; Holcroft’s son was going to learn how to protect himself.
He took the course, and promptly forgot everything he had learned when it was over. If he had actually absorbed anything, he had done it subconsciously.
He had absorbed something, reflected Noel, pleased with himself. He remembered the glazed look in the eyes of the guard.
The last thought that crossed his mind as he turned into the downhill drive was also vague. Something was wrong with the front seat of the car. The furious activity of the last minutes had blurred his usually acute eye for such things, but something about the checkered cloth of the seat cover bothered him…
Terrible sounds interrupted his concentration: the barking of dogs. Suddenly, the menacing faces of enormous long-haired black shepherds lunged at the windows on both sides of the car. The dark eyes glistened with hatred and frustration; the fur-lined, saliva-soaked jaws slapped open and shut, emitting the shrill, vicious sounds of animals reaching a quarry but unable to sink their teeth into flesh. It was a pack of attack dogs—five, six, seven—at all windows now, their paws scratching against the glass. An animal leaped up on the hood, its face and teeth against the windshield.
Beyond the dog, at the base of the hill, Holcroft saw the huge gate beginning to move, the movement magnified in the beams of his headlights. It was starting the slow arc that would end with its closing! He pressed the accelerator against the floor, gripped the wheel until his arms were in pain, and drove at full speed, swerving to his left, through the stone pillars, missing the steel gate by inches. The dog on the hood flew off to the right in midair, yelping in shock.
The pack on the hill had pulled up behind the gate in the darkening twilight. The explanation had to be that a high-frequency whistle—beyond human ears—had caused them to stop. Perspiring, Noel held the pedal against the floorboard and sped down the road.
He came to a fork in the countryside. Did he take the right, or the left? He could not recall; absently he reached for his map on the seat.
That was what had bothered him! The map was no longer there. He took the left fork, reaching below the seat to see if the map had fallen to the floor. It had not. It had been removed from the car!
He arrived at an intersection. It was not familiar; or, if it was, the darkness obscured any familiarity. He turned right, out of instinct, knowing he had to keep going. He kept the car at high speed, looking for anything that he could relate to the drive out from Rio. But the darkness was full now; he saw nothing he remembered. The road made a wide, sweeping curve to the right and then there was a sharp, steep incline of a hill. He recalled no curve, remembered no hill. He was lost.
The top of the hill flattened out for approximately a hundred yards. On his left was a lookout, bordered by a parking area enclosed by a chest-high wall fronting the cliff. Along the wall were rows of telescopes with round casings, the type activated by coins. Holcroft pulled over and stopped the car. There were no other automobiles, but maybe one would come. Perhaps if he looked around he could get his bearings. He got out of the car and walked to the wall.
Far below in the distance were the lights of the city. Between the cliff and the lights, however, there was only darkness… No, not total darkness; there was a winding thread of light. A road? Noel was next to one of the telescopes. He inserted a coin and peered through the sight, focusing on the weaving thread of light he presumed was a road. It was.
The lights were spaced far apart; they were street lamps, welcome but out of place in a path cut out of the Brazilian forests. If he could reach the beginning of that road… The telescope would move no farther to his right. Goddamn it! Where did the road begin? It had to be…
Behind him he heard the sound of an engine racing up the hill he had just climbed. Thank God! He would stop the car, if he had to stand in the middle of the road to do it. He ran from the wall, across the concrete, toward the tarred pavement.
He reached the edge and froze. The car lunging over the final incline into the lookout area was a white Mercedes limousine. The same car that stood gleaming in the afternoon sun on top of another hill. Graff’s car.
It stopped abruptly, tires screeching. The door opened and a man got out. In the reflecting spill of the headlights he was recognizable: Graff’s guard!
He reached into his belt. Holcroft stood paralyzed. The man raised a gun, aiming at him. It was unbelievable! It could not be happening!
The first gunshot was thunderous; it shook the silence like a sudden cracking of the earth. A second followed. The road several feet away from Noel exploded in a spray of rock and dust. Whatever instincts remained beyond his paralysis, his disbelief, commanded him to run, to save himself. He was going to die! He was about to be killed in a deserted tourist lookout above the city of Rio de Janeiro! It was insane!
His legs were weak; he forced himself to race toward the rented car. His feet ached; it was the strangest sensation he had ever felt. Two more gunshots filled the night; there were two more explosions of tar and concrete.