«Was all that necessary?» he asked. «Was it so important for him to see me?»
«Very much so. He had to be convinced you weren’t part of the ODESSA. Or the Rache.»
«What exactly are they? He spoke as if I should know, but I don’t. I didn’t really understand him.»
«They’re two extremist organizations, sworn enemies of each other. Both fanatic, both after us.»
«Us?»
«The children of Party leaders. Wherever we are; wherever we’ve scattered to.»
«Why?»
«The ODESSA seeks to revive the Nazi party. The disciples of ODESSA are everywhere.»
«Seriously? They’re for real?»
«Very real. And very serious. The ODESSA’S recruiting methods range from blackmail to physical force. They’re gangsters.»
«And this … ‘Rah-kuh’?»
«Rache. The German word for ‘vengeance.’ In the beginning it was a society formed by the survivors of the concentration camps. They hunted the sadists and the killers, those thousands who were never brought to trial.»
«It’s a Jewish organization, then?»
«There are Jews in the Rache, yes, but now they’re a minority. The Israelis formed their own groups and operated out of Tel Aviv and Haifa. The Rache is primarily Communist; many believe it was taken over by the KGB. Others think Third World revolutionaries gravitated to it. The ‘vengeance’ they spoke of in the beginning has become something else. The Rache is a haven for terrorists.»
«But why are they after you?»
Helden looked at him through the shadows. «To recruit us. Like everyone else, we have our share of revolutionaries. They’re drawn to the Rache; it represents the opposite of what they’re running from. For most of us, however, it’s no better than the Party at its worst. And on those of us who won’t be recruited, the Rache uses its harsher tactics. We’re the scapegoats, the fascists they’re stamping out. They use our names—often our corpses—to tell people Nazis still live. Not unlike the ODESSA, it’s frequently ‘recruit or kill.’»
«It’s insane,» said Noel.
«Insane,» agreed Helden. «But very real. We say nothing; we’re not anxious to call attention to ourselves. Besides, who would care? We’re Nazi children.»
«The ODESSA, the Rache… No one I know knows anything about them.»
«No one you know has any reason to.»
«Who’s Oberst?»
«A great man who must remain in hiding for the rest of his life because he had a conscience.»
«What do you mean?»
«He was a member of the High Command and saw the horrors. He knew it was futile to object; others had, and they were killed. Instead, he remained, and used his rank to countermand order after order, saving God knows how many lives.»
«There’s nothing dishonorable in that.»
«He did it the only way he could. Quietly, within the bureaucracy of command, without notice. When it was over, the Allies convicted him because of his status in the Reich; he spent eighteen years in prison. When what he did finally came out, thousands of Germans despised him. They called him a traitor. What was left of the Officer Corps put a price on his head.»
Noel, remembering Helden’s words, said, «Damned for what he was and damned for what he wasn’t.»
«Yes,» she answered, pointing suddenly to a turn in the road she’d nearly missed.
«In his own way,» said Noel, turning the wheel, «Oberst is like the three men who wrote the Geneva document. Didn’t it occur to you?»
«It occurred to me.»
«You must have been tempted to tell him.»
«Not really. You asked me not to.»
He looked at her; she was looking straight ahead, through the windshield. Her face was tired and drawn, her skin pale, accentuating the dark hollows beneath her eyes. She seemed alone, and that aloneness was not to be intruded upon lightly. But the night was not over. They had things to say to each other; decisions had to be made.
For Noel was beginning to think that this youngest child of Wilhelm von Tiebolt would be the one selected to represent the Von Tiebolt family in Geneva.
«Can we go someplace where it’s quiet? I think a drink would do us both good.»
«There’s a small inn about four or five miles from here. It’s out of the way; no one will see us.»
As they swung off the road, Noel’s eyes were drawn to the rearview mirror. Headlights shone in the glass. It was an odd turn off the Paris highway, odd in the sense that there were no signs; an unmarked exit. The fact that a driver behind them had a reason to take this particular exit at this particular time seemed too coincidental for comfort. Holcroft was about to say something when a strange thing happened.
The lights in the mirror went out. They simply were not there any longer.
The inn had once been a farmhouse; part of the grazing field was now a graveled parking lot bordered by a post-and-rail fence. The small dining room was through an archway off the bar. Two other couples were inside; the people were distinctly Parisian, and just as obviously having discreet dinners with companions they could not see in Paris. Eyes shot up at the newcomers, no signs of welcome in the glances. A fireplace filled with flaming logs was at the far end of the room. It was a good place to talk.
They were shown to a table to the left of the fire. Two brandies were ordered and delivered.
«It’s nice here,» said Noel, feeling the warmth of the flames and the alcohol. «How did you find it?»
«It’s on the way to the colonel’s. My friends and I often stop here to talk among ourselves.»
«Do you mind if I ask you questions?»
«Go ahead.»
«When did you leave England?»
«About three months ago. When the job was offered.»
«Were you the Helen Tennyson in the London directory?»
«Yes. In English, the name ‘Helden’ seems to require an explanation, and I was tired of having to give one. It’s not the same in Paris. The French don’t have much curiosity about names.»
«But you don’t call yourself ‘Von Tiebolt.’» Holcroft saw the flash of resentment on her face.
«No.»
«Why ‘Tennyson’?»
«I think that’s rather obvious. ‘Von Tiebolt’ is extremely German. When we left Brazil for England, it seemed a reasonable change.»
«Just a change? Nothing else?»
«No.» Helden sipped her brandy and looked at the fire. «Nothing else.»
Noel watched her; the lie was in her voice. She was not a good liar. She was hiding something, but to call her on it now would only provoke her. He let the lie pass. «What do you know about your father?»
She turned back to him. «Very little. My mother loved him, and from what she said, he was a better man than his years in the Third Reich might indicate. But then, you’ve confirmed that, haven’t you? At the end, he was a profoundly moral man.»
«Tell me about your mother.»
«She was a survivor. She fled Germany with nothing but a few pieces of jewelry, two children, and a baby inside her. She had no training, no skills, no profession, but she could work, and she was … convincing. She started selling in dress shops, cultivated customers, used her flair for clothes—and she had that—as the basis for her own business. Several businesses, actually. Our home in Rio de Janeiro was quite comfortable.»
«Your sister told me it was … a sanctuary that turned into a kind of hell.»
«My sister is given to melodramatics. It wasn’t so bad. If we were looked down upon, there was a certain basis for it.»