He opened the gate and walked up the path to the door. There was no bell; instead there was a brass knocker, and so he tapped it gently. The house was designed simply. Wide windows in the living room, small ones on the opposite, bedroom side; the facade, old bride above a stone foundation—solid, built to last, certainly not ostentatious and probably not expensive. He had designed such houses, usually as second homes on the shore for couples still unsure they could afford them. It was the ideal residence for a military man on a military budget. Neat, trim, and manageable.
Gretchen Beaumont opened the door herself. Whatever image she had evoked on the telephone vanished at the sight of her; it disappeared in a rush of amazement, with the impact of a blow to his stomach. Simply put, the woman in the doorway was one of the most beautiful he had ever seen in his life. The fact that she was a woman was almost secondary. She was like a statue, a sculptor’s ideal, refined over and over again in clay before chisel was put to stone. She was of medium height, with long blond hair that framed a face of finely boned, perfectly proportioned features. Too perfect, too much in the sculptor’s mind … too cold. Yet the coldness was lessened by her large, wide eyes; they were light blue and inquisitive, neither friendly nor unfriendly.
«Mr. Holcroft?» she asked in that echoing, dreamlike voice that gave evidence of Germany and Brazil.
«Yes, Mrs. Beaumont. Thank you so much for seeing me. I apologize for the inconvenience.»
«Come in, please.»
She stepped back to admit him. In the doorway he had concentrated on her face, on the extraordinary beauty that was in no way diminished by the years; it was impossible now not to notice the body, emphasized by her translucent dress. The body, too, was extraordinary, but in a different way from the face. There was no coldness, only heat. The sheer dress clung to her skin, the absence of a brassiere apparent, accentuated by a flared collar, unbuttoned to the midpoint between her large breasts. On either side, in the center of the swelling flesh, he could see her nipples clearly, pressing against the soft fabric as if aroused.
When she moved, the slow, fluid motion of her thighs and stomach and pelvis combined into the rhythm of a sensual dance. She did not walk; she glided—an extraordinary body screaming for observation as a prelude to invasion and satisfaction.
Yet the face was cold and the eyes distant; inquisitive but distant. And Noel was perplexed.
«You’ve had a long trip,» she said, indicating a couch against the far wall. «Sit down, please. May I offer you a drink?»
«I’d appreciate it.»
«What would you care for?» She held her place in front of him, momentarily blocking his short path to the couch, her light-blue eyes looking intently into his. Her breasts were revealed clearly—so close—beneath the sheer fabric. The nipples were taut, rising with each breath; again in that unmistakable rhythm of a sexual dance.
«Scotch, if you have it,» he said.
«In England, that’s whiskey, isn’t it?» she asked, walking toward a bar against the wall.
«It’s whiskey,» he said, sinking into the soft pillows of the couch, trying to concentrate on Gretchen’s face. It was difficult for him, and he knew she was trying to make it difficult The commander’s wife did not have to provoke a sexual reaction; she did not have to dress for the part. But dress for it she had, and provoke she did. Why?
She brought over his scotch. He reached for it, touching her hand as he did so, noting that she did not withdraw from the contact but, instead, briefly pressed his curved fingers with her own. She then did a very strange thing; she sat down on a leather hassock only feet away and looked up at him.
«Won’t you join me?» he asked.
«I don’t drink.»
«Then perhaps you’d prefer that I don’t.»
She laughed throatily. «I have no moral objections whatsoever. It would hardly become an officer’s wife. I’m simply not capable of drinking or of smoking, actually. Both go directly to my head.»
He looked at her over the rim of the glass. Her eyes remained eerily on his, unblinking, steady, still distant, making him wish she’d look away.
«You said on the phone that one of your husband’s aides would be in an adjoining room. Would you like us to meet?»
«He wasn’t able to be here.»
«Oh? I’m sorry.»
«Are you?»
It was crazy. The woman was behaving like a courtesan unsure of her standing, or a high-priced whore evaluating a new client’s wallet. She leaned forward on the hassock, picking at an imaginary piece of lint on the throw rug beneath his feet. The gesture was foolish, the effect too obvious. The top of her dress parted, exposing her breasts. She could not have been unaware of what she was doing. He had to respond; she expected it. But he would not respond in the way she anticipated. A father had cried out to him; nothing could interfere. Even an unlikely whore.
An unlikely whore who was the key to Geneva.
«Mrs. Beaumont,» he said, placing his glass awkwardly on the small table next to the couch, «you’re a very gracious woman and I’d like nothing better than to sit here for hours and have a few drinks, but we’ve got to talk. I asked to see you because I have extraordinary news for you. It concerns the two of us.»
«The two of us?» said Gretchen, emphasizing the pronoun. «By all means talk, Mr. Holcroft. I’ve never met you before; I don’t know you. How can this news concern the two of us?»
«Our fathers knew each other years ago.»
At the mention of the word «father,» the woman stiffened. «I have no father.»
«You had; so did I,» he said. «In Germany over thirty years ago. Your name’s Von Tiebolt. You’re the oldest child of Wilhelm von Tiebolt.»
Gretchen took a deep breath and looked away. «I don’t think I want to listen further.»
«I know how you feel,» replied Noel. «I had the same reaction myself. But you’re wrong. I was wrong.»
«Wrong?» she asked, brushing away the long blond hair that swung across her cheek with the swift turn of her head. «You’re presumptuous. Perhaps you didn’t live the way we lived. Please don’t tell me I’m wrong. You’re in no position to do that.»
«Just let me tell you what I’ve learned. When I’m finished, you can make your own decision. Your knowing is the important thing. And your support, of course.»
«Support of what? Knowing what?»
Noel felt oddly moved, as if what he was about to say were the most important words of his life. With a normal person the truth would be sufficient, but Gretchen Beaumont was not a normal person; her scars were showing. It would take more than truth; it would take enormous conviction.
«Two weeks ago I flew to Geneva to meet with a banker named Manfredi…»
He told it all, leaving out nothing save the men of Wolfsschanze. He told it simply, even eloquently, hearing the conviction in his own voice, feeling the profound commitment in his mind, the stirrings of pain in his chest.
He gave her the figures: seven hundred and eighty million for the survivors of the Holocaust, and the descendants of those survivors still in need. Everywhere. Two million for each of the surviving eldest children, to be used as each saw fit. Six months—possibly longer—of a collective commitment.
Finally, he told her of the pact in death the three fathers made, taking their lives only after every detail in Geneva was confirmed and iron bound.
When he had finished, he felt the perspiration rolling down his forehead. «It’s up to us now,» he said. «And a man in Berlin—Kessler’s son. The three of us have to finish what they started.»