«You won’t let me forget it,» interrupted Tennyson. «You may be right. He expected to control the agency in Zurich; that could never be. So the removal of assets totaling seven hundred and eighty million dollars became too painful an exercise.»
«Just as the promise of two million is an irresistible temptation to Holcroft, perhaps.»
«Two million he banks only in his mind. But his death will come at our hands, no one else’s.»
«Manfredi acted alone, believe that. His executioners have no one to take orders from now. Since the hotel room in Zurich, there’ve been no further attempts.»
«That’s a statement Holcroft would find impossible to accept … There they are.» Tennyson sat forward. Through the windshield, across the parking area, he could see Noel and Helden coming out of the door. «Do the colonel’s children meet here frequently?»
«Yes,» answered Beaumont. «I learned of it from an ODESSA agent who followed them one night.»
The blond man coughed a quiet laugh; his words were scathing. «ODESSA! Caricatures, who weep in cellars over too many steins of beer! They’re laughable.»
«They’re persistent.»
«And they, too, will be useful,» said Tennyson, watching Noel and Helden get into the car. «As before, they will be the lowest foot soldiers, fed to the enemy’s cannon. First seen, first sacrificed. The perfect diversion for more serious matters.»
The Citroën’s loud, outsized engine was heard. Holcroft backed the car out of its slot, then drove through the entrance posts onto the country road.
Beaumont turned on the ignition. «I’ll stay a fair distance behind. He won’t spot me.»
«No, don’t bother,» said Tennyson. «I’m satisfied. Take me to the airport. You’ve made the arrangements?»
«Yes. You’ll be flown on a Mirage to Athens. The Greeks will get you back to Bahrain. It’s all military transport, UN-courier status, Security Council immunity. The pilot of the Mirage has your papers.»
«Well done, Tony.»
The naval officer smiled, proud of the compliment. He pressed the accelerator; the sedan roared out of the parking lot into the darkness of the country road. «What will you do in Bahrain?»
«Make my presence known by filing a story on an oil-field negotiation. A prince of Bahrain has been most cooperative. He has had no choice. He made an arrangement with the Tinamou. The poor man lives in terror that the news will get out.»
«You’re extraordinary.»
«And you’re a devoted man. You always have been.»
«After Bahrain, what?»
The blond man leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. «Back to Athens and on to Berlin.»
«Berlin?»
«Yes. Things are progressing well. Holcroft will go there next. Kessler’s waiting for him.»
There was a sudden burst of static from a radio speaker beneath the dashboard. It was followed by four short, high-pitched hums. Tennyson opened his eyes; the four hums were repeated.
«There are telephone booths on the highway. Get me to one. Quickly!»
The Englishman pressed the accelerator to the floor; the sedan sped down the road, reaching seventy miles an hour in a matter of seconds. They came to an intersection.
«If I’m not mistaken, there’s a petrol station around here.»
«Hurry!»
«I’m sure of it,» said Beaumont, and there it was, at the side of the road, dark, no light in the windows. «Damn, it’s closed!»
«What did you expect?» asked Tennyson.
«The phone’s inside…»
«But there is a phone?»
«Yes…»
«Stop the car.»
Beaumont obeyed. The blond man got out and walked to the door of the station. He took out his pistol and broke the glass with the handle.
A dog leaped up at him, barking and growling, fangs bared, jaws snapping. It was an old animal of indeterminable breed, stationed more for effect than for physical protection. Tennyson reached into his pocket, pulled out a perforated cylinder, and spun it on to the barrel of his pistol. He raised the gun and fired through the shattered glass into the dog’s head. The animal fell backward. Tennyson smashed the remaining glass by the latch above the doorknob.
He let himself in, adjusted his eyes to the light, and stepped over the dead animal to the telephone. He reached an operator and gave her the Paris number that could connect him to a man who would, in turn, transfer his call to a telephone in England.
Twenty seconds later he heard the breathless, echoing voice. «I’m sorry to disturb you, Johann, but we have an emergency.»
«What is it?»
«A photograph was taken. I’m very concerned.»
«What photograph?»
«A picture of Tony.»
«Who took it?»
«The American.»
«Which means he recognized him. Graff was right: Your devoted husband can’t be trusted. His enthusiasm outweighs his discretion. I wonder where Holcroft saw him?»
«On the plane, perhaps. Or through the doorman’s description. It doesn’t matter. Kill him.»
«Yes, of course.» The blond man paused, then spoke thoughtfully. «You have the bank books?»
«Yes.»
«Deposit ten thousand pounds. Let the transfer be traced through Prague.»
«KGB? Very good, Johann.»
«The British will suffer another defection. Friendly diplomats will argue among themselves, each accusing the other of a lack of candor.»
«Very good.»
«I’ll be in Berlin next week. Reach me there.»
«So soon Berlin?»
«Yes, Kessler’s waiting. Neuaufbau oder Tod.»
«Oder der Tod, my brother.»
Tennyson hung up and stared through the night light at the dead animal on the floor. He had no more feeling for the clump of lifeless fur than for the man waiting in the car. Feelings were kept for more important things, not for animals and misfits—regardless of how devoted either might be.
Beaumont was a fool, a judgment contained in a dossier sent from Scotland to Brazil years ago. But he had a fool’s energy and a fool’s sense of surface accomplishment. He had actually become an outstanding naval officer. This son of a Reichsoberführer had climbed the ladder of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy to the point where he was given vital responsibility. Too much for his intellect; that intellect needed to be directed. In time, they had projected that Beaumont might become a power within the Admiralty, an expert consulted by the Foreign Office. It was an optimum situation; extraordinary advantages could be handed to them through Beaumont. He had remained a Sonnenkind; he was permitted to live.
But no more. With the theft of a photograph, Beaumont was finished, for in that theft was the threat of scrutiny. There could be no scrutiny whatsoever; they were too close, and there was still too much to accomplish. If Holcroft gave the photograph to the wrong people in Switzerland, told them of Beaumont’s presence in New York or Rio, military authorities might be alerted. Why was this outstanding officer so interested in the Geneva document? The question could not arise. This son of the Reichsoberführer had to be removed. In a way, it was a pity. The commander would be missed; at times he’d been invaluable.
Gretchen knew that value. Gretchen was Beaumont’s teacher, his guide … his intellect. She was enormously proud of her work, and now she called for Beaumont’s death. So be it. They’d find another to take his place.
They were everywhere, thought Johann von Tiebolt as he walked to the door. Everywhere. Die Sonnenkinder. The Children of the Sun, never to be confused with the damned. The damned were wandering refuse, entitled to nothing. Die Sonnenkinder. Everywhere. In all countries, in all governments, in armies and navies, in industry and trade unions, commanding intelligence branches and the police. All quietly waiting. Grown-up children of the New Order. Thousands. Sent out by ship and plane and submarine to all points of the civilized world. So far above the average—confirmed every day by their progress everywhere. They were the proof that the concept of racial superiority was undeniable. Their strain was pure, their excellence unquestioned. And the purest of all, the most excellent of all, was the Tinamou.