«I’m not sure. I’ve just begun. There are only eight men listed; we’re not even certain they’re all alive. There’s been no time to check them out.»
«Someone’s alive. Someone very wealthy and powerful.»
«Obviously.»
«So the compulsion to catch the Tinamou is replaced by an obsession with the Nachrichtendienst.»
«A logical transfer, I’d say,» agreed Payton-Jones. «And I should add, there’s another reason—quite professional, but also part personal. I’m convinced the Nachrichtendienst killed a young man I trained.»
«Who was he?»
«My assistant. As committed as any man I’ve ever met in service. His body was found in a small village called Montereau some sixty miles south of Paris. He went to France initially to track Holcroft, but found that Holcroft was a dead end.»
«What do you think happened?»
«I know what happened. Remember, he was after the Tinamou. When Holcroft proved to be only what he said he was—a man looking for you because of a minor inheritance—»
«Very minor,» interrupted Tennyson.
«… our young man went underground. He was a first-rate professional; he made progress. More than that, he made a connection. He had to have made a connection. The Tinamou, the Nachrichtendienst … Paris. Everything fits.»
«Why does it fit?»
«There’s a name on that list. A man living near Paris—we don’t know where—who was a general in the German High Command. Klaus Falkenheim. But he was more than that. We believe he was a prime mover of the Nachrichtendienst, one of the original members. He’s known as Herr Oberst.»
John Tennyson stood rigidly by the chair. «You have my word,» he said. «I’ll print nothing.»
Holcroft sat forward on the couch, the newspaper in his hand. The headline reached from border to border. It said it all.
ASSASSIN TRAPPED, KILLED IN LONDON
Nearly every article on the page was related to the dramatic capture and subsequent death of the Tinamou. There were stories reaching back fifteen years, linking the Tinamou to both Kennedys and to Martin Luther King, as well as to Oswald and Ruby; more recent speculations touched on killings in Madrid and Beirut, Paris and Lisbon, Prague and even Moscow itself.
The unknown man with the rose tattoo on his hand was an instant legend. Tattoo parlors from cities everywhere reported a surge in business.
«My God, he did it,» said Noel.
«Yet his name isn’t mentioned anywhere,» Helden said. «It’s unlike Johann to give up credit in something as extraordinary as this.»
«You said he’d changed, that Geneva had affected him. I believe that. The man I talked to wasn’t concerned with himself. I told him that the bank in Geneva didn’t want complications. The directors would be looking for anything that might disqualify one of us, that would put the money in potentially compromising circumstances. A man who’s placed himself in a dangerous situation, who’s had to deal with the kind of people your brother’s had to deal with in tracking the Tinamou, could scare the hell out of the bankers.»
«But you and my brother say there’s someone more powerful than the Rache or the ODESSA—or Wolfsschanze—who’s trying to stop you. How do you think the men in Geneva will accept all that?»
«They’ll be told only what they have to be told,» said Holcroft. «Which may be nothing, if your brother and I find out who it is.»
«Can you?»
«Maybe. Johann thinks so, and God knows he’s had more experience in these matters than I’ve had. It’s been a crazy process of elimination. First we’re convinced it’s one thing—one group—then another; then it turns out to be neither.»
«You mean the ODESSA and the Rache?»
«Yes. They’re eliminated. Now we’re looking for someone else. All we need is a name, an identity.»
«What will you do when you find it?»
«I don’t know,» Holcroft said. «I hope your brother will tell me. I just know that whatever we do, we’ve got to do it quickly. Miles will get to me in a few days. He’s going to connect me publicly to homicides ranging from Kennedy Airport to the Plaza Hotel. He’ll ask for extradition, and he’ll get it. If that happens, Geneva’s finished, and for all intents and purposes, so am I.»
«If they can find you,» said Helden. «We have ways …»
Noel stared at her. «No,» he replied. «I’m not going to live with three changes of clothing and rubber-soled shoes and guns with silencers. I want you to be a part of my life, but I won’t be a part of yours.»
«You may not have a choice.»
The telephone rang, startling them both. Holcroft picked it up.
«Good afternoon, Mr. Fresca.»
It was Tennyson.
«Can you talk?» asked Noel.
«Yes. This telephone is fine, and I doubt the George Cinq switchboard is interested in a routine call from London. Still, we should be careful.»
«I understand. Congratulations. You did what you said you would.»
«I had a great deal of help.»
«You worked with the British?»
«Yes. You were right. I should have done so a long time ago. They were splendid.»
«I’m glad to hear it. It’s nice to know we have friends.»
«More than that. We have the identity of Geneva’s enemy.»
«What?»
«We have the names. We can move against them now. We must move against them; the killing must stop.»
«How?…»
«I’ll explain when I see you. Your friend Kessler was close to the truth.»
«A splinter faction of ODESSA?»
«Be careful,» interrupted Tennyson. «Let’s say a group of tired old men with too much money and a vendetta that goes back to the end of the war.»
«What do we do?»
«Perhaps very little. The British may do it for us.»
«They know about Geneva?»
«No. They simply understand a debt.»
«It’s more than we could ask for.»
«No more than we deserve,» said Tennyson. «If I may say so.»
«You may. These … old men. They were responsible for everything? Including New York?»
«Yes.»
«Then I’m clear.»
«You will be shortly.»
«Thank Christ!» Noel looked at Helden across the room and smiled. «What do you want me to do?»
«It’s Wednesday. Be in Geneva Friday night. I’ll see you then. I’ll take the late flight from Heathrow and get there by eleven-thirty or midnight. Call Kessler in Berlin; tell him to join us.»
«Why not today, or tomorrow?»
«I’ve got things to do. They’ll be helpful to us. Make it Friday. Do you have a hotel?»
«Yes. The d’Accord. My mother’s flying to Geneva. She got word to me to stay there.»
There was a silence on the line from London. Finally, Tennyson spoke, his voice a whisper. «What did you say?»
«My mother’s flying to Geneva.»
«We’ll talk later,» said Helden’s brother, barely audibly. «I’ve got to go.»
Tennyson replaced the phone on the small table in his Kensington flat. As always, he detested the instrument when it was the carrier of unexpected news. News in this case that could be as dangerous as the emergence of the Nachrichtendienst.
What insanity had made Althene Clausen decide to fly to Geneva? It was never part of the plan—as she understood the plan. Did the old woman think she could travel to Switzerland without arousing suspicions, especially now? Or perhaps the years had made her careless. In that event she would not live long enough to regret her indiscretion. Perhaps, again, she had divided loyalties—as she understood those loyalties. If so, she would be reminded of her priorities before she took leave of a life in which she had abused so many.