«You’ll call me?»
«In a few days. If you change hotels, leave word where Mr. Fresca can be reached. Helden has my message-service number. Let me talk with her now. In spite of our differences, we need each other now, perhaps as we’ve never needed each other before. And … Noel?»
«Yes?»
«Be kind to her. Love her. She needs you, too.»
Holcroft stood up and handed the phone to Helden.
«Mein Bruder…»
31
Code Wolfsschanze!
Von Tiebolt—Tennyson slammed his fist on the desk in the small out-of-the-way office he used in Paris.
Code Wolfsschanze. That sacrosanct phrase had been given to Peter Baldwin by Ernst Manfredi! The banker had played a dangerous but ingenious game. He knew that Baldwin’s mere use of the phrase was enough to guarantee his death. But Manfredi would never have given the Englishman more than that; it would not have been in the banker’s interests. Still, Baldwin had possessed one of the best minds in Europe. Had he pieced together more than Manfredi had considered possible? How much had he really learned? What was contained in Baldwin’s file at MI Five?
Or did it matter? The British had rejected whatever it was Baldwin had to offer. One file folder among thousands upon thousands. Buried in the archives, lost because it was one more entry of rejected information.
Code Wolfsschanze. It meant nothing to those who knew nothing, and the few hundred who did—those district leaders in every country—knew only that it was a signal. They were to make themselves ready; enormous funds would soon be sent to them, to be used for the cause.
Die Sonnenkinder. All over the world, prepared to rise and assert their birthright.
Baldwin’s file could not contain that information; it was not possible. But those who held that file would be used. Above all else, the British wanted the Tinamou. His capture by MI Five would reassert English supremacy in intelligence operations—a supremacy lost through years of blunders and defections.
MI Five would be handed the Tinamou, and with that gift would come an obligation to the giver. That was the splendid irony: The hated British Intelligence, that quiet, serpentine monster that had wreaked such havoc on the Third Reich, would help create the Fourth.
For MI Five would be told that the Nachrichtendienst was involved in an extraordinary conspiracy. The British would believe the man who told them; that man was giving them the Tinamou.
Tennyson walked through the London offices of the Guardian, receiving the compliments of his colleagues and their subordinates. As always, he accepted the compliments modestly.
He studied the women casually. The secretaries and the receptionists invited this most beautiful of men to acknowledge them, invited him, actually, to take whatever he wished. It struck him that he might have to select one of these women. His beloved Gretchen was gone, but his appetites were not. Yes, thought Tennyson as he walked toward the door of the senior editor’s office, he would select a woman. The excitement was mounting, the intensity of Wolfsschanze growing with every passing hour. He would need sexual release. It was always this way; Gretchen had understood.
«John, it’s good to see you,» said the senior editor, getting up from behind the desk and extending his hand. «We’re running the Bonn article tomorrow. Fine job.»
Tennyson sat down in a chair in front of the desk. «Something has come up,» he said. «If my sources are accurate, and I’m sure they are, a killing—killings—will be attempted that could provoke a world crisis.»
«Good heavens. Have you written it up?»
«No. We can’t write about it. I don’t think any responsible newspaper should.»
The editor leaned forward. «What is it, John?»
«There’s an economic summit conference called for next Tuesday…»
«Of course. Right here in London. Leaders from the East and West.»
«That’s the point. East and West. They’re flying in from Moscow and Washington, from Peking and Paris. The most powerful men on earth.» Tennyson paused.
«And?»
«Two are to be assassinated.»
«What?»
«Two are to be killed; which two is irrelevant as long as they are from opposing sides; the president of the United States and the chairman of the People’s Republic; or the prime minister and the premier of the Soviet Union.»
«Impossible! Security measures will be airtight.»
«Not really. There’ll be crowds, processions, banquets, motorcades. Where’s the absolute guarantee found?»
«It has to be!»
«Not against the Tinamou.»
«The Tinamou?»
«He’s accepted the highest fee in history.»
«Good God, from whom?»
«An organization known as the Nachrichtendienst.»
Harold Payton-Jones stared across the table at Tennyson in the dimly lit room that had no other furniture but the table and two chairs. The location had been selected by MI Five; it was a deserted boardinghouse in east London.
«I repeat,» said the gray-haired agent curtly. «You expect me to accept the things you say merely because you’re willing to go on record? Preposterous!»
«It’s my only proof,» replied Tennyson. «Everything I’ve told you is true. We haven’t time to fight each other any longer. Every hour is vital.»
«Nor have I the inclination to be hoodwinked by an opportunistic journalist who may be much more than a correspondent! You’re very clever. And quite possibly an outrageous liar.»
«For God’s sake, if that’s true, why am I here? Listen to me! I’ll say it for the last time: The Tinamou was trained by the ODESSA. In the hills of Rio de Janeiro! I’ve fought the ODESSA all my life; that’s on my record, if anyone cares to examine it. The ODESSA forced us out of Brazil, cut us off from everything we’d built there. I want the Tinamou!»
Payton-Jones studied the blond man. The argument had been vicious, lasting nearly a half hour. The agent had been relentless, pounding Tennyson with a barrage of questions, lashing out at him with insults. It was a studied technique of MI Five’s, designed to separate truth from falsehood. It was apparent that the Englishman was now satisfied. He lowered his voice.
«All right, Mr. Tennyson. We can stop fighting each other. I gather we owe you an apology.»
«The apologies are not one-sided. It’s just that I knew I could work better alone. I had to pretend to be so many things. If ever anyone had seen me with a member of your service, my effectiveness would have been destroyed.»
«Then I’m sorry for the times we called you in.»
«They were dangerous moments for me. I could feel the Tinamou slipping away.»
«We haven’t caught him yet.»
«We’re close. It’s only a matter of days now. We’ll succeed if we’re painstaking in every decision we make, every street the delegations travel—the locations of every meeting, every ceremony, every banquet. There’s an advantage that’s never existed before: We know he’s there.»
«You’re absolutely convinced of your source?»
«Never more so in my life. That man in the Berlin pub was the courier. Every courier used to reach the Tinamou has been killed. His last words were ‘London … next week … the summit … one from each side … a man with a tattoo of a rose on the back of his hand … Nachrichtendienst.’»
Payton-Jones nodded. «We’ll put out inquiries to Berlin as to the man’s identity.»
«I doubt you’ll find anything. From what little I know about the Nachrichtendienst, it was extremely thorough.»