«It’s crossed my mind… Speaking of murder, tell me: While Holcroft was here, did he mention Peter Baldwin?»
«Not a word. I never thought he would, not if I was playing my part right. I was an unbalanced, resentful wife. He didn’t want to frighten me; nor did he wish to give me information dangerous to Geneva.»
Tennyson nodded; they had projected accurately. «What was his reaction when you talked about me?»
«I gave him very little time to react,» said Gretchen. «I simply told him you spoke for the Von Tiebolts. Why did Baldwin try to intercept him in New York? Do you know?»
«I’ve pieced it together. Baldwin operated out of Prague, an MI-Sixer whose allegiance, many said, was to the highest bidder. He sold information to anyone, until his own people began to suspect him. They fired him, but didn’t prosecute, because they couldn’t be sure; he’d operated as a double agent in the past and claimed it as his cover. He swore he was developing a two-way network. He also knew the name of every British contact in Central Europe, and obviously let his superiors know that those names would surface if anything happened to him. He maintained his innocence, said he was being punished for doing his job too well.»
«What’s that got to do with Holcroft?»
«To understand, you have to see Baldwin for what he was. He was good; his sources, the best. In addition to which he was a courier specialist; he could track anything. While in Prague, he heard rumors of a great fortune being held in Geneva. Nazi spoils. The rumor wasn’t unusual; such stories have been around since Berlin fell. The difference with this rumor was that Clausen’s name was mentioned. Again, not completely startling; Clausen was the financial genius of the Reich. But Baldwin checked out everything to the finest point; it was the way he worked.»
«He went back to the courier archives,» interrupted Gretchen.
«Yes. Concentrating on the Finanzministerium. Hundreds of runs were made, Manfredi the recipient in dozens. Once he had Manfredi’s name, the rest was patient observation—and money spread cautiously within the bank. His break came when he heard that Manfredi was setting up contact with a heretofore-unheard-of American named Holcroft. Why? He studied Holcroft and found the mother.»
«She was Manfredi’s strategy,» Gretchen broke in again.
«From the beginning,» agreed Tennyson, nodding. «He convinced Clausen she had to leave Germany. She had money of her own and moved in monied circles; she could be of great use to us in America. With Clausen’s help, she came to accept that, but she was essentially Manfredi’s creation.»
«Underneath that gnome’s benign appearance,» said Gretchen, «was a Machiavelli.»
«Without that kindly innocence of his, I doubt he’d ever have got away with it. But Machiavelli isn’t the parallel. Manfredi’s interest was solely the money; it was the only power he wanted. He was a sworn companion of the gold quota. It was his intention to control the agency in Zurich; it’s why we killed him.»
«How much did Baldwin learn?»
«We’ll never know, exactly; but whatever it was, it was to be his vindication with British Intelligence. You see, he wasn’t a double agent; he was exactly what he claimed to be: MI Six’s very effective man in Prague.»
«He reached Manfredi?»
«Oh, yes. He implied that much by his knowledge of the Geneva meeting. He was just a little late, that’s all.» The blond man smiled. «I can picture the confrontation: two specialists circling each other, both wanting something desperately; one to pry out information, the other to retain it at all costs, knowing he was dealing with a potentially catastrophic situation. Certain agreements must have been made; and, true to form, Manfredi broke his word, moved up the meeting with Holcroft, and then alerted us about Baldwin. He covered everything. If your husband were to be caught killing Peter Baldwin, there would be no connection with Ernst Manfredi. He was a man to be respected. He might have won.»
«But not against Johann von Tiebolt,» said Gretchen, squeezing his hand beneath her breast, moving it up. «Incidentally, I received another code from Graff, from Rio. He’s upset again. He says he’s not being kept informed.»
«His senility is showing. He, too, has served his purpose. Age makes him careless; it’s no time for him to be sending messages to England. I’m afraid the moment has arrived for unser Freund in Brazil.»
«You’ll send the order out?»
«In the morning. One more arm of the hated ODESSA severed. He trained me too well.» Tennyson leaned forward, his hand cupping his sister’s breast. «I think we are finished talking. As always, talking with you clears my mind. I can’t think of anything more to say, anything more to ask you.»
«Then make demands instead. It’s been so long for you; you must be bursting inside. I’ll take care of you, as I always have.»
«Since we were children,» said Tennyson, his mouth covering hers, her hand groping for his trousers. Both of them were trembling.
Gretchen lay naked beside him, her breathing steady, her body drained and satisfied. The blond man raised his hand and looked at the radium dial of his watch. It was two-thirty in the morning. Time to do the terrible thing demanded of him by the covenant of Wolfsschanze. All traces to Geneva had to be removed.
He reached over the side of the bed for his shoes. He lifted one up, feeling the heel with his fingers in the darkness. There was a small metal disk in the center. He pressed it, turning it to the left until a spring was released. He placed the disk on the bedside table, then tilted the shoe back and removed a steel needle ten inches long, concealed in a tiny bore drilled from heel to sole. The needle was flexible but unbreakable. Inserted properly between the fourth and fifth ribs, it punctured the heart, leaving a mark more often missed than found, even during an autopsy.
He held it delicately between the thumb and index finger of his right hand, reaching for his sister with his left. He touched her right breast and then her naked shoulder. She opened her eyes.
«You are insatiable,» she whispered, smiling.
«Only with you.» He drew her up to him until their flesh touched. «You are my only love,» he said, his right arm sliding behind her, extended a foot beyond her spine. He turned his wrist inward; the needle was positioned. He thrust it forward.
The back-country roads were confusing, but Tennyson had memorized the route. He knew the way to the hidden cottage that housed the enigmatic Herr Oberst, that betrayer of the Reich. Even the title, «Oberst,» was an ironic commentary. The traitor had been no colonel; he had been general in the Wehrmacht, General Klaus Falkenheim, at one time fourth-in-command of all Germany. Praise had been lavished on him by his military peers, and even by the Führer himself. And all the while a jackal had lived in that shiny, hollow shell.
God, how Johann von Tiebolt loathed the misfit liar that was Herr Oberst! But John Tennyson would not show that loathing. On the contrary, Tennyson would fawn on the old man, proclaiming awe and respect. For if there was one certain way to get his younger sister’s total cooperation, it was by showing such deference.
He had called Helden at Gallimard, telling her that he had to see where she lived. Yes, he knew she lived in Herr Oberst’s small house; and again, yes, he knew where it was.
«I’m a newspaperman now. I wouldn’t be a very good one if I didn’t have sources.»
She had been stunned. He insisted on seeing her in the late morning, before meeting Holcroft in the afternoon. He would not meet with the American unless and until he saw her. Perhaps Herr Oberst could help clarify the situation. Perhaps the old gentleman might allay sudden fears that had arisen.