«Who?»
«Those fathers you and I never knew. What they did was so incredible, such an act of daring.»
«Not just one act. Hundreds … thousands of them. Each different, each complicated, going on for months. Three years of manipulations.»
«They must have lived in terror.»
«I’m sure they did.»
«What drove them?»
«Just what …» Noel stopped, not knowing why he did so. «Just what Heinrich Clausen wrote in his letter to me. They were shocked beyond anything we can imagine when they learned about the ‘rehabilitation camps.’ Auschwitz, Belsen—it blew their minds. It seems incredible to us now, but remember, that was ’forty-three. There were conspiracies of silence.»
Helden touched his arm; the contact was brief, but it was firm. «You call him Heinrich Clausen. You can’t say ‘father,’ can you?»
«I had a father.» Noel stopped. It was not the moment to talk at length about Richard Holcroft; he had to control himself. «He’s dead. He was killed five days ago in New York.»
«Oh, God…» Helden stared at him; he could feel the intensity of her concern. «Killed? Because of Geneva?» she asked.
«I don’t know.»
«But you think so.»
«Yes.» He gripped the wheel and was silent. A shell was forming, and it was an awful thing.
«I’m sorry, Noel. I don’t know what else to say. I wish I could comfort you somehow, but I don’t know how.»
He looked at her, at her lovely face and at the clear brown eyes filled with concern. «With all your problems, just saying that is enough. You’re a nice person, Helden. I haven’t met too many people like you.»
«I could say the same … nice person.»
«We’ve both said it. Now, what about that trout? If we’re going to take a few hours off, why not tell me where we’re going?»
«To Barbizon. There’s a lovely restaurant in the center of the town. Have you ever been to Barbizon?»
«Several times,» said Noel, his eyes suddenly on the small rectangular mirror outside the window.
There was a dark-green Fiat behind them. He had no idea whether it was the same car that had waited for him yesterday on the avenue George V, but he intended to find out—without alarming Helden. He slowed down; the Fiat did not pass. Instead, it veered into the right lane, allowing another car to come between them.
«Is something wrong?» asked Helden.
Holcroft depressed the accelerator. The automobile lurched slightly at the slower speed. «No, not really. I had trouble with this damn thing yesterday. It needs a carburetor adjustment, I think. Every now and then there’s an air lock. It passes if you nurse it.»
«You sound very efficient.»
«I’m a fair mechanic. You don’t take jobs in Mexico and points south unless you are.» He stepped on the pedal and held it down; the car sped forward.
He could see the green Fiat in the rearview mirror now. It swerved to the left, passing the intervening car, then returned to the right lane, behind them. The question was answered. They were being followed.
His fear was making him cautious. Whoever was in that Fiat was indirectly involved with Richard Holcroft’s death; he was certain of it. And he was going to trap that man.
«There. Everything’s fine now,» he said to Helden. «The air lock’s passed. Lunch in Barbizon sounds like a hell of a good idea. Let’s see if I remember the way.»
He did not. On purpose. He took several wrong turns, covering his mistakes with laughter, insisting the whole French countryside had been changed around. It became a silly game with a deadly serious objective: He had to see the face of the man in the Fiat. In Paris that face had been obscured behind a windshield and a cloud of cigarette smoke; he had to be able to recognize it in a crowd.
The Fiat’s driver, however, was no amateur. If he was bewildered by Noel’s aimless turns and shifting speeds, he gave no indication of it, staying a discreet distance behind them, never allowing the gap between them to become too close. There was a disabled car on a narrow road south of Corbeil-Essonnes; it was a good excuse to stop. Holcroft pulled alongside to see if he could help; the driver of the Fiat had no choice. He drove swiftly past the two parked cars. Noel looked up. The man was fair, his hair light brown; and there was something else: splotches, or pockmarks, on the man’s cheek.
He would know that face again. That was all that mattered.
The driver of the disabled car thanked Holcroft, indicating that help was on the way.
Noel nodded and started up again, wondering if he’d see the green Fiat soon. Would it be in a side road, waiting for him, or would it simply emerge from nowhere and appear in the rearview mirror?
«That was a very nice thing to do,» said Helden.
«We ugly Americans do nice things every once in a while. I’ll get back on the highway.»
If the green Fiat was in a side road, he did not see it. It was simply there, in his mirror, on the highway. They got off at the Seine-et-Marne exit and drove into Barbizon. The green Fiat stayed far behind, but it was there.
Their lunch was a strange mixture of ease and awkwardness: brief starts and abrupt stops; short conversations begun, suddenly suspended at midpoint, the purpose unremembered. Yet the ease was in their being together, physically close to each other. Holcroft thought she felt it as surely as he did.
This sense of closeness was confirmed by something Helden did, obviously without thinking about it: She touched him repeatedly. She would reach over briefly and touch his sleeve, or, more briefly, his hand. She would touch him for emphasis, or because she was asking a question, but she touched him as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to do. And it was natural for him to accept her touch and return it.
«Your brother didn’t discuss Beaumont?» he asked.
«Yes, he did. He was very angry. Everything about Beaumont angers him. He thinks you were wrong about seeing him on the plane, though. He wanted you to bring the photograph. I told him you didn’t have it. He was furious.»
«About the photograph?»
«Yes. He said it might be dangerous. It could lead ‘people,’ he said, to Gretchen, to you. To Geneva.»
«I think the answer’s simpler. The Royal Navy’s no different from any other military organization. The officers protect each other.»
«My promiscuous sister, you mean?»
Holcroft nodded; he really did not want to discuss Gretchen Beaumont, not with Helden. «Something like that.»
She touched his fingers. «It’s all right, Noel. I don’t sit in judgment where my sister’s concerned.» Then she took away her hand, embarrassed. «What I mean is, I have no right … No, I don’t mean that, either. I mean where you are concerned, I have no right…»
«I think we both know what you mean,» interrupted Holcroft, covering her hand with his. «Feel free to have a right. I think I like it.»
«You make me feel foolish.»
«Do I? It’s the last thing I want to make you feel.» He pulled back his hand, and followed her glance out the window. She was looking at the small stone pond on the terrace, but his attention did not remain where hers did. His gaze rose to several groups of tourists strolling in the Barbizon street beyond the gates of the restaurant. The man with the light-brown hair and pockmarked face was standing motionless on the far sidewalk. A cigarette was in his mouth, what appeared to be an artist’s brochure in his hands. But the man was not looking at the brochure. His head was raised slightly, his eyes angled over at the entrance of the restaurant.
It was time to make his move, thought Noel. His rage was rekindled; he wanted that man.