«Very well. It’s the best we can hope for, then.»
«Now, tell me why you think John Tennyson is this Tinamou. You owe me that.»
The older man paused. «Perhaps we do,» he said. «I reemphasize the classified nature of the information.»
«Whom would I tell it to? I’m not in your line of work.»
«All right,» said the gray-haired man. «As you say, we owe you. But you should know that the fact that you’ve been told gives us a certain insight. Very few people have been.»
Holcroft stiffened; it wasn’t difficult to convey his anger. «And I don’t imagine too many have had men like you knock on their doors and been accused of paying off assassins. If this were New York, I’d haul you into court. You do owe me.»
«Very well. A pattern was uncovered, at first too obvious to warrant examination until we studied the man. For several years, Tennyson consistently appeared in or near areas where assassinations took place. It was uncanny. He actually reported the events for the Guardian, filing his stories from the scene. A year or so ago, for example, he covered the killing of that American in Beirut, the embassy fellow who was, of course, CIA. Three days before, he’d been in Brussels; suddenly he was in Tehran. We began to study him, and what we learned was astonishing. We believe he’s the Tinamou. He’s utterly brilliant and, quite possibly, utterly mad.»
«What did you find out?»
«For starters, you know about his father. One of the early Nazis, a butcher of the worst sort …»
«Are you sure about that?» Noel asked the question too rapidly. «What I mean is, it doesn’t necessarily follow…»
«No, I suppose it doesn’t,» said the gray-haired agent. «But what does follow is, to say the least, unusual. Tennyson is a manic overachiever. He completed two university degrees in Brazil at the age at which most students would have been matriculating. He has mastered five languages; speaks them fluently. He was an extremely successful businessman in South America; he amassed a great deal of money. These are hardly the credentials of a newspaper correspondent.»
«People change; interests change. That is circumstantial. Pretty damned weak, too.»
«The circumstances of his employment, however, lend strength to the conjecture,» said the older man. «No one at the Guardian remembers when or how he was employed. His name simply appeared on the payroll computers one day, a week before his first copy was filed from Antwerp. No one had ever heard of him.»
«Someone had to hire him.»
«Yes, someone did. The man whose signature appeared on the interview and employment records was killed in a most unusual train accident that took five lives on the underground.»
«A subway in London…» Holcroft paused. «I remember reading about that.»
«A trainman’s error, they called it, but that’s not good enough,» added the red-haired man. «That man had eighteen years’ experience. It was bloody well murder. Courtesy of the Tinamou.»
«You can’t be sure,» said Holcroft. «An error’s an error. What were some of the other … coincidences? Where the killings took place.»
«I mentioned Beirut. There was Paris, too. A bomb went off under the French minister of labor’s car in the rue du Bac, killing him instantly. Tennyson was in Paris; he’d been in Frankfort the day before. Seven months ago, during the riots in Madrid, a government official was shot from a window four stories above the crowds. Tennyson was in Madrid; he’d flown in from Lisbon just hours before. There are others; they go on.»
«Did you ever bring him in and question him?»
«Twice. Not as a suspect, obviously, but as an expert on the scene. Tennyson is the personification of arrogance. He claimed to have analyzed the areas of social and political unrest, and followed his instincts, knowing that violence and assassination were certain to erupt in those places. He had the cheek to lecture us; said we should learn to anticipate and not so often be caught unawares.»
«Could he be telling the truth?»
«If you mean that as an insult, it’s noted. In light of this evening, perhaps we deserve it.»
«Sorry. But when you consider his accomplishments, you’ve got to consider the possibility. Where is Tennyson now?»
«He disappeared four days ago in Bahrain. Our operatives are watching for him from Singapore to Athens.»
The two MI-Five men walked into the empty elevator. The red-haired agent turned to his colleague. «What do you make of him?» he asked. «I don’t know,» was the soft-spoken reply. «We’ve given him enough to send him racing about; perhaps we’ll learn something. He’s far too much of an amateur to be a legitimate contact. Those paying for a killing would be fools to send the money with Holcroft. The Tinamou would reject it if they did.»
«But he was lying.»
«Quite so. Quite poorly.»
«Then he’s being used.»
«Quite possibly. But for what?»
11
According to the car-rental agency, Portsmouth was roughly seventy miles from London, the roads clearly marked, the traffic not likely to be heavy. It was five past six. He could be in Portsea before nine, thought Noel, if he settled for a quick sandwich instead of dinner.
He had intended to wait until morning, but a telephone call made to confirm the accuracy of the MI-Five information dictated otherwise. He reached Gretchen Beaumont, and what she told him convinced him to move quickly.
Her husband, the commander, was on sea duty in the Mediterranean; tomorrow at noon she was going on «winter holiday» to the south of France, where she and the commander would spend a weekend together. If Mr. Holcroft wished to see her about family matters, it would have to be tonight.
He told her he would get there as soon as possible, thinking as he hung up that she had one of the strangest voices he had ever heard. It was not the odd mixture of German and Portuguese in her accent, for that made sense; it was in the floating, hesitant quality of her speech. Hesitant or vacuous—it was difficult to tell. The commander’s wife made it clear—if haltingly so—that in spite of the fact that the matters to be discussed were confidential, a naval aide would be in an adjoining room. Her concerns gave rise to an image of a middle-aged, self-indulgent Hausfrau with an overinflated opinion of her looks.
Fifty miles south of London, he realized that he was making better time than he had thought possible. There was little traffic, and the sign on the road, reflected in the headlights, read PORTSEA—15 M.
It was barely ten past eight. He could slow down and try to collect his thoughts. Gretchen Beaumont’s directions had been clear; he’d have no trouble finding the residence.
For a vacuous-sounding woman, she had been very specific when it came to giving instructions. It was somehow contradictory in light of the way she spoke, as if sharp lines of reality had suddenly, abruptly, shot through clouds of dreamlike mist.
It told him nothing. He was the intruder, the stranger who telephoned and spoke of a vitally important matter he would not define—except in person.
How would he define it? How could he explain to the middle-aged wife of a British naval officer that she was the key that could unlock a vault containing seven hundred and eighty million dollars?
He was getting nervous; it was no way to be convincing. Above all, he had to be convincing; he could not appear afraid or unsure or artificial. And then it occurred to him that he could tell her the truth—as Heinrich Clausen saw the truth. It was the best lever he had; it was the ultimate conviction.
Oh, God! Please make her understand!
He made the two left turns off the highway and drove rapidly through the peaceful, tree-lined suburban area for the prescribed mile and a half. He found the house easily, parked in front, and got out of the car.