«Yes?»
«Mr. Holcroft, this is the front desk, sir. We’ve just learned that your courtesy basket was not delivered in time. We’re dreadfully sorry. Will you be in your room for a while, sir?»
For God’s sake, thought Noel. Millions upon millions were being held in Geneva, and a desk clerk was concerned about a basket of fruit. «Yes, I’ll be here.»
«Very good, sir. The steward will be there shortly.»
Holcroft replaced the phone, the pain in his stomach subsiding. His eyes fell on the telephone directories on the bottom shelf of the bedside table. He picked one up and turned the pages to the letter T. There was an inch and a half of Tennysons, about fifteen names, no John but three J’s. He’d start with those. He lifted up the phone and made the first call.
«Hello, John?»
The man on the line was Julian. The other two J’s were women. There was a Helen Tennyson, no Helden. He dialed the number. An operator told him the phone was disconnected.
He turned to the directory with the letter B. There were six Beaumonts in London, none indicating any rank or affiliation with the Royal Navy. But there was nothing to lose; he picked up the phone and started dialing.
Before he finished the fourth call, there was a knock at the door; his basket of English courtesy had arrived. He swore at the interruption; put the phone down, and walked to the door, reaching into his pocket for some change.
Two men stood outside, neither in steward’s uniform, both in overcoats, each with hat in hand. The taller of the two was in his fifties, straight gray hair above a weathered face; the younger man was about Noel’s age, with clear blue eyes, curly reddish hair, and a small scar on his forehead.
«Yes?»
«Mr. Holcroft?»
«Yes.»
«Noel Holcroft, United States citizen, passport number F-two-zero-four-seven-eight—»
«I’m Noel Holcroft. I’ve never memorized my passport number.»
«May we come in, please?»
«I’m not sure. Who are you?»
Both men held black identification cases in their hands; they opened them unobtrusively. «British Military Intelligence, Five branch,» the older man said.
«Why do you want to see me?»
«Official business, sir. May we step inside?»
Noel nodded uncertainly, the pain returning to his stomach. Peter Baldwin, the man who had ordered him to «cancel Geneva,» had been with MI Six. And Baldwin had been killed by the men of Wolfsschanze because he had interfered. Did these two British agents know the truth about Baldwin? Did they know Baldwin had called him? Oh, God, telephone numbers could be traced through hotel switchboards! They had to know!… Then Holcroft remembered: Baldwin had not called him; he had come to his apartment. Noel had called him.
You don’t know what you’re doing. I’m the only one who does.
If Baldwin was to be believed, he had said nothing to anyone. If so, where was the connection? Why was British Intelligence interested in an American named Holcroft? How did it know where to find him?
How?
The two Englishmen entered. The younger, red-haired man crossed rapidly to the bathroom, looked inside, then turned and went to the window. His older associate stood by the desk, his eyes scanning the walls, the floor, and the open closet.
«All right, you’re inside,» Noel said. «What is it?»
«The Tinamou, Mr. Holcroft,» said the gray-haired man.
«The what?»
«I repeat. The Tinamou.»
«What the hell is that?»
«According to any standard encyclopedia, the Tinamou is a ground-dwelling bird whose protective coloring makes him indistinguishable from his background; whose short bursts of flight take him swiftly from one location to another.»
«That’s very enlightening, but I haven’t the vaguest idea what you’re talking about.»
«We think you do,» said the younger man by the window.
«You’re wrong. I’ve never heard of a bird like that, and don’t know any reason why I should have. Obviously, you’re referring to something else, but I don’t make the connection.»
«Obviously,» interrupted the agent by the desk, «we’re not referring to a bird. The Tinamou is a man; the name is quite applicable, however.»
«It means nothing to me. Why should it?»
«May I give you some advice?» The older man spoke crisply, with an edge to his voice.
«Sure. I probably won’t understand it anyway.»
«You’d do far better cooperating with us than not. It’s possible you’re being used, but frankly we doubt it. However, if you help us now, we’re prepared to assume that you were being used. I believe that’s eminently fair.»
«I was right,» said Holcroft. «I don’t understand you.»
«Then let me clear up the details and perhaps you will. You’ve been making inquiries about John Tennyson, born Johann von Tiebolt, immigrant to the UK roughly six years ago. He is currently employed as a multilingual correspondent for the Guardian.»
«The man at the Guardian desk,» interrupted Noel. «He called you—or had someone call. That’s why he stalled, why he went on the way he did, then cut me off. And that goddamned fruit; it was to make sure I didn’t go out. What is this?»
«May we ask why you’re trying to find John Tennyson?»
«No.»
«You’ve stated, both here and in Rio de Janeiro, that a sum of money is involved…»
«Rio de!… Jesus!»
«That you’re an ‘intermediary,’» continued the Englishman. «That was the term you used.»
«It’s a confidential matter.»
«We think it’s an international one.»
«Good God, why?»
«Because you’re trying to deliver a sum of money. If the ground rules are followed, it amounts to three quarters of the full payment.»
«For what?»
«For an assassination.»
«Assassination?»
«Yes. In the data banks of half the civilized world, the Tinamou has a single description: ‘assassin.’ ‘Master assassin,’ to be precise. And we have every reason to believe that Johann von Tiebolt, alias John Tennyson, is the Tinamou.»
Noel was stunned. His mind raced furiously. An assassin! Good God! Was that what Peter Baldwin had been trying to tell him? That one of the Geneva inheritors was an assassin?
No one knows but me. Baldwin’s words.
If they were true, under no condition could he reveal his real reason for wanting to find John Tennyson. Geneva would explode in controversy; the massive account would be frozen, thrown into the international courts, his covenant destroyed. He could not allow that to happen; he knew it now.
Yet it was equally vital that his reasons for seeking Tennyson be above suspicion, beyond any relationship to—or cognizance of—the Tinamou.
The Tinamou! An assassin! It was potentially the most damaging news possible. If there was any truth in what MI Five believed, the bankers in Geneva would suspend all discussions, close the vaults, and wait for another generation. Yet any decision to abort the covenant would be for appearance’s sake. If Tennyson was this Tinamou, he could be exposed, caught, severed from all association with the Geneva account, and the covenant would remain intact. Amends would be made. According to the conditions of the document, the older sister was the key—she was the eldest surviving child—not the brother.
An assassin! Oh, God!