The split seconds of immobility were the only pause in the madness. It began again: the accelerated speed over the dark country roads, the sudden turns, the commands barked harshly in his ear.
The moonlight that had washed over the splendor of Sacré-Coeur now revealed stretches of rock-hewn farmland. Barns and silos loomed in irregular silhouettes; small houses with thatched roofs appeared and disappeared.
«There’s the road!» yelled the woman.
It was a dirt road angling off the tarred surface over which they traveled; the trees would have concealed it if one did not know where or when to look. Noel slowed the Citroën and turned in. The entire car shook, but the voice behind him did not permit more cautious driving.
«Hurry! We have to get over the hill so our lights won’t be seen!»
The hill was steep, the road too narrow for more than one vehicle. Holcroft pressed the accelerator; the Citroën lurched up the primitive road. They reached the crest of the hill, Noel gripping the steering wheel as if it were uncontrollable. The descent was rapid; the road curved to the left and flattened out. They were level again.
«No more than a quarter of a mile now,» said the woman.
Holcroft was exhausted; the palms of his hands were soaked. He and the woman were in the loneliest, darkest place he could imagine. In a dense forest, on a road unlisted on any map.
Then he saw it. A small thatched house on a flat plot of ground dug out of the forest. There was a dim light on inside.
«Stop here,» was the command, but it was not rendered in the harsh voice that had hammered into his ears for nearly an hour.
Noel stopped the car directly in front of the path that led to the house. He took several deep breaths and wiped the sweat from his face, closing his eyes briefly, wishing the pain would leave his head.
«Please turn around, Mr. Holcroft,» said the woman, no stridency in her tone.
He did so. And he stared through the shadows at the woman in the back seat. Gone were the shining black hair and the thick-rimmed glasses. The white scarf was still there, but now it was partially covered by long blond hair that cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face—a very lovely face—he had seen before. Not this face, but one like it; delicate features modeled lovingly in clay before a chisel was put to stone. This face was not cold and the eyes were not distant. There was vulnerability and involvement. She spoke quietly, returning his stare through the shadows.
«I am Helden von Tiebolt, and I have a gun in my hand. Now, what do you want of me?»
15
He looked down and saw a tiny reflection of light off the barrel of the automatic. The gun was pointed at his head, the bore only inches away, her fingers curved around the trigger.
«The first thing I want,» he said, «is for you to put that thing away.»
«I’m afraid I can’t do that.»
«You’re the last person on earth I’d want to see hurt. You’ve got nothing to fear from me.»
«Your words are reassuring, but I’ve heard such words before. They were not always true.»
«Mine are.» He looked into her eyes through the dim light, holding his gaze steady. The tenseness of her expression diminished. «Where are we?» Noel asked. «Was all that craziness necessary? The riot in Montmartre, racing around the country like maniacs. What are you running from?»
«I might ask the same question of you. You’re running, too. You flew to Le Mans.»
«I wanted to avoid some people. But I’m not afraid of them.»
«I also avoid people, and I am afraid of them.»
«Who?» The specter of the Tinamou intruded on Noel’s thoughts; he tried to push it away.
«You may or may not be told, depending upon what you have to say to me.»
«Fair enough. Right now you’re the most important person in my life. That may change when I meet your brother, but right now, it’s you.»
«I can’t imagine why. We’ve never met. You said you wanted to see me over matters that could be traced back to the war.»
«‘Traced back to your father’ would be more specific.»
«I never knew my father.»
«Both our fathers. Neither of us knew them.»
He told her what he had told her sister, but he did not mention the men of Wolfsschanze; she was frightened enough. And he heard his words again, as if echoes from last night, in Portsea. It was only last night, and the woman he spoke to now was like the woman then—but only in appearance. Gretchen Beaumont had listened in silence; Helden did not. She interrupted him quietly, continuously, asking questions he should have asked himself.
«Did this Manfredi show you proof of his identity?»
«He didn’t have to; he had the papers from the bank. They were legitimate.»
«What are the names of the directors?»
«The directors?»
«Of the Grande Banque de Genève. The overseers of this extraordinary document.»
«I don’t know.»
«You should be told.»
«I’ll ask.»
«Who will handle the legal aspects of this agency in Zurich?»
«The bank’s attorneys, I imagine.»
«You imagine?»
«Is it important?»
«It’s six months of your life. I’d think it would be.»
«Our lives.»
«We’ll see. I’m not the oldest child of Wilhelm von Tiebolt.»
«I told you when I called you from Le Mans,» said Holcroft, «that I’d met your sister.»
«And?» asked Helden.
«I think you know. She’s not capable. The directors in Geneva won’t accept her.»
«There’s my brother, Johann. He’s next in age.»
«I know that. I want to talk about him.»
«Not now. Later.»
«What do you mean?»
«I mentioned on the phone that there had been an excess of urgencies in my life. There has also been an excess of lies. I’m an expert in that area; I know a liar when I hear his words. You don’t lie.»
«Thank you for that.» Noel was relieved; they had a basis for talking. It was his first concrete step. In a way, in spite of everything, he felt exhilarated. She lowered the gun to her lap.
«Now we must go inside. There’s a man who wants to speak with you.»
Holcroft’s exhilaration crashed with her words. He could not share Geneva with anyone but a member of the Von Tiebolt family. «No,» he said, shaking his head. «I’m not talking with anyone. What I’ve discussed with you is between us. No one else.»
«Give him a chance. He must know that you don’t mean to hurt me. Or hurt others. He must be convinced that you are not part of something else.»
«Part of what?»
«He’ll explain.»
«He’ll ask questions.»
«Say only what you wish to say.»
«No! You don’t understand. I can’t say anything about Geneva, and neither can you. I’ve tried to explain—»
He stopped. Helden raised the automatic. «The gun is still in my hand. Get out of the car.»
He preceded her up the short path to the door of the house. Except for the dim light in the windows, it was dark. The surrounding trees filtered the moonlight to such a degree that only muted rays came through the branches, so weak they seemed to disintegrate in the air.
Noel felt her hand reaching around his waist, the barrel of the gun in the small of his back.
«Here’s a key. Open the door. It’s difficult for him to move around.»
Inside, the small room was like any other one might imagine in such a house deep in the French countryside, with one exception: Two walls were lined with books. Everything else was simple to the point of primitiveness—sturdy furniture of no discernible design, a heavy old-fashioned desk, several unlit lamps with plain shades, a wood floor, and thick, plastered walls. The books were somehow out of place.