«Helden!»
Suddenly, a fist hammered into his right kidney, and an arm shot over his shoulder, locking itself around his neck, choking the air out of his throat. He slammed his right elbow into the body of his assailant, now behind him, now dragging him backward through the crowd. Gasping for air, he jammed his left elbow into the hard, twisting figure holding him, then his right again. He had caught his attacker in the rib cage; the lock around his throat loosened for an instant, and that instant was enough. He spun to his left, his fingers digging into the forearm around his neck, and pulled downward, throwing his assailant over his hip. Both men fell to the ground.
Noel saw the face! Beneath the unruly crop of red hair was the small scar on the forehead, and beneath it the angry blue eyes. The man was the younger of the two MI-Five agents who had questioned him in his London hotel. Noel’s rage was complete; the madness based in a terrible error had gone unchecked. British Intelligence had intruded, and that intrusion might well have cost Helden her life.
But why?
Why here in an obscure French village? He had no answers. He knew only that this man whose throat he now clutched was his enemy, as dangerous to him as the Rache or the ODESSA.
«Get up!» Holcroft struggled to his feet and pulled at the man. His mistake was in momentarily releasing the agent. Without warning, a paralyzing blow hammered into his stomach. His eyes spun out of focus, and for several moments he was aware only of being yanked through a sea of astonished faces. Suddenly he was slammed against the wall of a building; he could hear the impact of his head on the hard surface.
«You goddamn fool! What the devil do you think you’re doing? You were nearly killed back there!»
The MI-Five man did not scream, but he might as well have, so intense was his tone. Noel focused his eyes; the agent had him pinned. The man’s forearm was again pressed against his throat.
«You son of a bitch!» He could barely whisper the words. «You’re the ones who tried to kill me…»
«You’re a certifiable lunatic, Holcroft! The Tinamou wouldn’t touch you. I’ve got to get you out of here.»
«The Tinamou? Here?»
«Let’s go!»
«No! Where’s Helden?»
«Certainly not with us! Do you think we’re crazy?»
Noel stared at the man; he was telling the truth. It was all insane. «Then someone’s taken her! She’s gone!»
«If she’s gone, she went willingly,» said the agent. «We tried to warn you. Leave it alone!»
«No, you’re wrong! There was a man—with pockmarks on his face …»
«The Fiat?»
«Yes! Him. He was following us. I went after him and his men caught me. They tried to kill me!»
«Come with me,» ordered the agent, grabbing Holcroft’s arm and propelling him down the sidewalk.
They reached a dark narrow alleyway between two buildings. No ray of sunlight penetrated; everything was in shadow. The alley was lined with garbage cans. Beyond the third garbage can on the right Noel could see a pair of legs. The rest of the figure was hidden by the receptacle.
The agent pushed Noel into the alley; four or five steps were all that were needed to get a clear view of the upper part of the body.
At first glance, the man with the pockmarked face appeared to be drunk. In his hand he clutched a bottle of red wine; it had spilled into the crotch of his trousers. But it was a different red from the stain that had spread over his chest.
The man had been shot.
«There’s your killer,» said the agent. «Now will you listen to us? Go back to New York. Tell us what you know and leave it alone.»
Noel’s mind churned; mists of confusion enveloped him. There was violent death in the skies, death in New York, death in Rio, death here in a small French village. The Rache, the ODESSA, the survivors of Wolfsschanze…
Nothing is as it was for you…
He turned to the MI-Five man, his voice no more than a whisper. «Don’t you understand? I can’t…»
There was a sudden skirmish at the end of the alleyway.
Two figures raced by, one propelling the other. Commands were shouted—guttural, harsh, the words not distinguishable but the violence clear. Cries for help were cut short by the sound of flesh against flesh, vicious slaps repeated again and again. And then the blurred figures were gone, but Holcroft could hear the scream.
«Noel! Noel!…»
It was Helden! Holcroft found his mind again and knew what he had to do. With all his strength, he slammed his shoulder into the side of the agent, sending him crashing over the garbage can that concealed the dead body of the man with the pockmarked face.
He ran out of the alley.
21
The screams continued, how far away he could not tell, so boisterous were the crowds in the village square. Music issued from a number of concertinas and cornets. Pockets of space were formed for couples, skipping, twirling, turning, in countryside dances. The fête d’hiver was now a carnival.
«Noel! Noel…»
Up the curving sidewalk to the left of the square—the cries came from that direction! Holcroft ran wildly, colliding with a pair of lovers embracing against a wall.
There.
«Noel!»
He was on a side street lined with three-story buildings. He raced down it, hearing the scream again, but no words, no name, only a scream cut short by the impact of a blow that produced a cry of pain.
Oh, God, he had to find—
A door!
A door was partially open; it was the entrance to the fourth building on the right. The scream had come from there!
He ran to it, remembering as he drew near that he had a gun in his pocket. He reached in and pulled it out, thinking as he held it awkwardly in his hand that he had never really looked at the weapon. He did so now, and for an instant he stopped and stared at it.
He knew little about handguns, but he knew this one. It was a Budischowsky TP-70 Autoloading Pistol, the same type of gun Sam Buonoventura had lent him in Costa Rica. The coincidence gave him no confidence; rather, it made him sick. This was not his world.
He checked the safety and pulled the door open, staying out of sight. Inside was a long, narrow, dimly lit corridor. On the left wall, spaced perhaps twelve feet from each other, were two doors. From what he remembered of this type of structure he had to presume that there were identically spaced doors on the right wall; he could not see them from where he stood.
He darted into the entrance, the gun held steady in front of him. There were the two doors on the right wall. Four doors. Behind one of them Helden was a captive. But which one? He walked to the first door on the left and put his ear to it.
There was a scratching sound, erratic, unfamiliar. He had no idea what it was. Cloth, fabric … the tearing of cloth? He put his hand on the knob and twisted it; the door swung free and he opened it, his weapon in firing position.
Across the dark room was an old woman on her knees, scrubbing the floor. She was in profile, her gaunt features sagging, her arm working in circles on the soft wood. She was so old she neither saw him nor heard him. He closed the door.
A black ribbon was nailed to the door on the right. A death had taken place behind that door; a family was in mourning. A death behind that door. The thought was too unnerving; he listened.
This was it! A struggle was going on. Heavy breathing, movement, tension; inside that room there was desperation. Helden was behind that door!
Noel stepped back, his automatic leveled, his right foot raised. He took a deep breath, and, as if his foot were a battering ram, he drove it into the wood to the left of the knob. The force of the blow sent the door crashing inward.