Von Tiebolt opened the door and stepped outside. Beaumont had driven the sedan fifty yards down the country road, headlights out. The commander went by the book; his training was apparent in everything he did—except when his enthusiasm overrode his discretion. That enthusiasm would now cost him his life.
Tennyson walked slowly toward the sedan. He wondered absently how it all had begun for Anthony Beaumont. The son of the Reichsoberführer had been sent to a family in Scotland; beyond that Tennyson had never inquired. He had been told of Beaumont’s tenacity, his stubbornness, his singleness of purpose, but not of how he had been sent out of Germany. It was not necessary to know. There’d been thousands; all records were destroyed.
Thousands. Selected genetically, the parents studied, families traced back several generations for organic and psychological frailties. Only the purest were sent out, and everywhere these children were watched closely, guided, trained, indoctrinated—but told nothing until they grew up. And even then, not all. Those who failed to live up to their birthright, who showed weakness or gave evidence of being compromised, were never told, only weeded out.
Those that remained were the true inheritors of the Third Reich. They were in positions of trust and authority everywhere. Waiting … waiting for the signal from Switzerland, prepared to put the millions to immediate use.
Millions funneled judiciously, politically. One by one, nations would fall in line, shaped internally by the Sonnenkinder, who would have at their disposal extraordinary sums to match and consolidate their influence. Ten million here, forty million there, one hundred million where it was necessary.
In the free world the election processes would be bought, the electorates having fewer and fewer choices, only echoes. It was nothing new; successful experiments had already taken place. Chile had cost less than twenty-seven million, Panama no more than six. In America, Senate and congressional seats were to be had for a few hundred thousand. But when the signal came from Switzerland, the millions would be dispensed scientifically, the art of demographics employed. Until the Western world was led by the grown-up children of the Reich. Die Sonnenkinder.
The Eastern bloc would be next, the Soviet Union and its satellites succumbing to the blandishments of their own emerging bourgeoisie. When the signal came, promises would be made and people’s collectives everywhere would suddenly realize there was a better way. Because, suddenly, extraordinary funds would be available; austerity could be replaced by the simple dislocation of loyalties.
The Fourth Reich would be born, not confined to the borders of one or two countries but spread all over the world. The Children of the Sun would be the rightful masters of the globe. Die Sonnenkinder.
Some might say it was preposterous, inconceivable. It was not; it was happening. Everywhere.
But mistakes were made, thought Tennyson, as he approached the sedan. They were inevitable, and just as inevitable was the fact that they had to be corrected. Beaumont was a mistake. Tennyson put the pistol back in his holster; it would not stay there long.
He walked around the car to the driver’s window; it was rolled down, the commander’s face turned in concern. «What was it? Is anything wrong?»
«Nothing that can’t be fixed. Move over, I’ll drive. You can direct me.»
«Where to?»
«They said there’s a lake somewhere in the vicinity, not more than eight or ten kilometers away. It was difficult to hear; it was a bad connection.»
«Only lake near here is just east of Saint-Gratien. It’s nearer twelve to fifteen.»
«That must be the one. There are forests?»
«Profuse.»
«That’s the one,» said Tennyson, getting into the car as Beaumont moved over on the seat. «I know the headlight codes. You tell me where to go; I’ll concentrate on the lamps.»
«Seems odd.»
«Not odd. Complicated. They may pick us up along the way. I’ll know what to look for. Quickly, now. Which direction do we go?»
«Turn around, to begin with. Head back to that dreadful road; then turn left.»
«Very well.» Tennyson started the engine.
«What is it?» Beaumont asked. «It must be a bloody emergency. I’ve heard a four-dash signal only once before, and that was our man at Entebbe.»
«He wasn’t our man. Tony. He was our puppet.»
«Yes, of course. The Rache terrorist. Still, he was our connection, if you know what I mean.»
«Yes, I know. Turn here? Left?»
«That’s it. Well, for God’s sake, tell me! What the devil’s going on?»
Tennyson steadied the car and accelerated. «Actually, it may concern you. We’re not sure, but it’s a possibility.»
«Me?»
«Yes. Did Holcroft ever spot you? See you more than once? Be aware that you were following him?»
«Spot me? Never! Never, never, never! I swear it.»
«In Geneva? Think.»
«Certainly not.»
«In New York?»
«I was never within a mile of him! Impossible.»
«On the plane to Rio de Janeiro?»
Beaumont paused. «No… He came through a curtain; he was quite drunk, I think. But he took no notice, no notice at all. I saw him; he didn’t see me.»
That was it, thought Tennyson. This devoted child of the Reich believed what he had to believe. There was no point in discussing the matter any further.
«Then it’s all a mistake, Tony. A wasted half hour. I talked with your wife, my dear sister. She said you were much too discreet for such a thing to have happened.»
«She was right. She’s always right, as you well know. Remarkable girl. Regardless of what you may think, ours was not purely a marriage of convenience.»
«I know that, Tony. It makes me very happy.»
«Take the next right. It goes north, toward the lake.»
It was cold in the forest, colder by the water. They parked at the end of a dirt road and walked up the narrow path to the edge of the lake. Tennyson carried a flashlight he had taken from the glove compartment of the sedan. In Beaumont’s hand was a narrow shovel; they had decided to build a small pit fire to ward off the chill.
«Will we be here that long?» Beaumont asked.
«It’s possible. There are other matters to discuss, and I’d like your advice. This is the east shore of the lake?»
«Oh, yes. A good rendezvous. No one here this time of year.»
«When are you due back at your ship?»
«Have you forgotten? I’m spending the weekend with Gretchen.»
«Monday, then?»
«Or Tuesday. My exec’s a good chap. He simply assumes I’m prowling around on business. Never questions if I’m a day or so late.»
«Why should he? He’s one of us.»
«Yes, but there are patrol schedules to be observed. Can’t muck them up.»
«Of course not. Dig here, Tony. Let’s have the fire not too near the water. I’ll go back and watch for the signals.»