Noel stared at this man riddled with fear. «What kind of world do you live in?» he asked incredulously.
«One where your own life can be taken,» answered Cararra.
It was true, thought Noel, as a knot of pain formed in his stomach. A war that was lost thirty years ago was still being fought by those who had lost it. It had to be stopped.
«Mr. Holcroft?» The greeting was tentative, the stranger standing by the table not sure he had the right party.
«Yes, I’m Holcroft,» said Noel warily.
«Anderson, American Embassy, sir. May I speak with you?»
The Cararras rose as one from the table and sidestepped out of the booth. The embassy man stepped back as Cararra approached Holcroft.
Cararra whispered, «Adeus, senhor.»
«Adeus,» the woman whispered also, reaching out to touch Noel’s arm.
Without looking at the man from the embassy, brother and sister walked rapidly out of the lounge.
Holcroft sat beside Anderson in the embassy car. They had less than an hour to get to the airport; if the ride took any longer, he would miss the Avianca flight to Lisbon, where he could transfer to a British Airways plane for London.
Anderson had agreed—reluctantly, petulantly—to drive him.
«If it’ll get you out of Rio,» Anderson had drawled, «I’ll go like a greased pig in a slaughterhouse and pay the speeding tickets from my per diem. You’re trouble.»
Noel grimaced. «You don’t believe a word I’ve said, do you?»
«Goddamn it, Holcroft, do I have to tell you again? There’s no car at the hotel; no window’s been blown out. There’s no record of your even renting a car!»
«It was there! I rented it! I saw Graff!»
«You called him. You didn’t see him. To repeat, he says he got a call from you—something about looking at his house—but you never showed up.»
«That’s a lie! I was there! After I left, two men tried to kill me. One of them I saw … hell, I fought with … inside his place!»
«You’re juiced, man.»
«Graff’s a fucking Nazi! After thirty years, he’s still a Nazi, and you people treat him like he’s some kind of statesman.»
«You’re damn right,» said Anderson. «Graff’s very special material. He’s protected.»
«I wouldn’t brag about it.»
«You’ve got it all backward, Holcroft. Graff was at a place called Wolfsschanze in Germany in July in 1944. He’s one of the men who tried to kill Hitler.»
10
There was no blinding sunlight outside his hotel window now; no golden, oiled bodies of grown-up children playing in the white sands of the Copacabana. Instead, the London streets were mottled with drizzle, and gusts of wind swept between the buildings and through the alleys. Pedestrians rushed from doorways to bus queues, train stations, pubs. It was that hour in London when Englishmen felt sprung from the coils of daylight drudgery; making a living was not living. In Noel’s experience no other city in the world took such pleasure at the end of the workday. There was a sense of controlled exhilaration in the streets, even with the rain and the wind.
He turned from the window and went to the bureau and his silver flask. It had taken nearly fifteen hours of flying to reach London, and now that he was here, he was not sure how to proceed. He had tried to think on the planes, but the events in Rio de Janeiro were so stunning, and the information gathered so contradictory, that he felt lost in a maze. His unfamiliar forest was too dense. And he had just begun.
Graff, a survivor of Wolfsschanze? One of the men of Wolfsschanze?
It wasn’t possible. The men of Wolfsschanze were committed to Geneva, to the fulfillment of Heinrich Clausen’s dream, and the Von Tiebolts were an integral part of that dream. Graff wanted to destroy the Von Tiebolts, as he had ordered the death of Heinrich Clausen’s son on a deserted lookout above Rio and from a car window in a city street at night. He was no part of Wolfsschanze. He could not be.
The Cararras. They were complicated, too. What in heaven’s name prevented them from leaving Brazil? It was not as though the airports or the piers were closed to them. He believed what they had told him, but there were too many elementary questions that needed answers. No matter how he tried to suppress the idea, there was something contrived about the Cararras. What was it?
Noel poured himself a drink and picked up the telephone. He had a name and a place of work: John Tennyson; the Guardian. Newspaper offices did not close down at the end of the day. He would know in minutes if the initial information given him by the Cararras was true. If there was a John Tennyson writing for the Guardian, then Johann von Tiebolt had been found.
If so, the next step according to the Geneva document was for John Tennyson to take him to his sister Gretchen Beaumont, wife of Commander Beaumont, Royal Navy. She was the person he had to see; she was the oldest surviving issue of Wilhelm von Tiebolt. The key.
«I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Holcroft,» said the polite voice over the phone at the Guardian’s news desk, «but I’m afraid we can’t give out the addresses or telephone numbers of our journalists.»
«But John Tennyson does work for you.» It was not a question; the man had already stated that Tennyson was not in the London office. Holcroft merely wanted a direct confirmation.
«Mr. Tennyson is one of our people on the Continent.»
«How can I get a message to him? Immediately. It’s urgent.»
The man at the desk seemed to hesitate. «That would be difficult, I think. Mr. Tennyson moves around a great deal.»
«Come on, I can go downstairs, buy your paper, and see where his copy’s filed from.»
«Yes, of course. Except that Mr. Tennyson does not use a byline. Not in daily dispatches; only in major retrospectives…»
«How do you get in touch with him when you need him?» broke in Holcroft, convinced the man was stalling.
Again there was the hesitation, a clearing of the throat. Why?
«Well … there’s a message pool. It could take several days.»
«I don’t have several days. I’ve got to reach him right away.» The subsequent silence was maddening. The man at the Guardian had no intention of offering a solution.
Noel tried another trick. «Listen, I probably shouldn’t say this … it’s a confidential matter … but there’s money involved. Mr. Tennyson and his family were left a sum of money.»
«I wasn’t aware that he was married.»
«I mean his family. He and his two sisters. Do you know them? Do you know if they live in London? The oldest is—»
«I know nothing of Mr. Tennyson’s personal life, sir. I suggest you get in touch with a solicitor.» Then, without warning, he hung up.
Bewildered, Holcroft replaced the phone. Why such a deliberate lack of cooperation? He had identified himself, given the name of his hotel, and for several moments the man at the Guardian seemed to listen, as if he might offer help. But no offers came, and suddenly the man had ended their conversation. It was all very strange.
The telephone rang; he was further bewildered. No one knew he was at this hotel. On the immigration card he’d filled out on the phone he had purposely listed the Dorchester as his London residence, not the Belgravia Arms, where he was staying. He did not want anyone—especially anyone from Rio de Janeiro—to be able to trace his whereabouts. He picked up the receiver, trying to suppress the pain in his stomach.