«Senility can be faked,» said Tennyson. «And ‘feeble’ is hardly a pathological term.»
«There’s proof. He’s an outpatient at the local clinic, with a bona fide medical record. He has the mentality of a child and is barely able to care for himself.»
Tennyson nodded, smiling. «So much for Werner Gerhardt. Speaking of patients, what’s the status of the traitor in Stuttgart?»
«Cerebral cancer, final stages. He won’t last a week.»
«So the Nachrichtendienst has but one functioning leader left,» said Tennyson. «Klaus Falkenheim.»
«It would appear so. However, he may have delegated authority to a younger man. He has soldiers available to him.»
«Merely available? From the children he protects? The Verwünschte Kinder?»
«Hardly. They’re sprinkled with a few idealists, but there’s no essential strength in their ranks. Falkenheim has sympathy for them, but he keeps those interests separate from the Nachrichtendienst.»
«Then where do the Nachrichtendienst soldiers come from?»
«They’re Jews.»
«Jews!»
The Frenchman nodded. «As near as we can determine, they’re recruited as they’re needed, one assignment at a time. There’s no organization, no structured group. Beyond being Jews, they have only one thing in common: where they come from.»
«Which is?»
«The kibbutz Har Sha’alav. In the Negev.»
«Har Sha’alav?… My God, how perfect,» said Tennyson with cold, professional respect. «Har Sha’alav. The kibbutz in Israel with but one requirement for residency: The applicant has to be the sole survivor of a family destroyed in the camps.»
«Right,» said the Frenchman. «The kibbutz has more than two hundred men—men, now—who can be recruited.»
Tennyson looked out the window. «‘Kill me, another will take my place. Kill him, another his.’ The implication was an unseen army willing to accept a collective death sentence. The commitment is understandable, but this is no army. It is a series of patrols, selected at random.» Tennyson turned back to the driver. «Are you sure of your information?»
«Yes. The breakthrough came with the two unknown men killed in Montereau. Our laboratories traced a number of things: clothing, sediment in shoes and in skin pores, the alloys used in dental work, and especially surgical history. Both men had been wounded; one had shell fragments in his shoulder. The Yom Kippur war. We narrowed the evidence to the southwest Negev and found the kibbutz. The rest was simple.»
«You sent a man to Har Sha’alav?»
The Frenchman nodded again. «One of us. His report is in here. No one talks freely at Har Sha’alav, but what’s going on is clear. Someone sends a cablegram; a few men are chosen and given orders.»
«Potential suicide squads committed to the destruction of anything related to the swastika.»
«Exactly. And to confirm our findings, we’ve established the fact that Falkenheim traveled to Israel three months ago. The computers picked up his name.»
«Three months ago… At the time Manfredi first reached Holcroft to set up the meeting in Geneva. So Falkenheim not only knew about Wolfsschanze, he projected the schedule. He recruited and prepared his army three months in advance. It’s time he and I met each other in our proper roles: two sons of the Reich. One true, one false.»
«To what should I attribute his death?»
«To the ODESSA, of course. And call a strike on Har Sha’alav. I want every leader killed; prepare it carefully. Blame it on Rache terrorists. Let’s go.»
For the next minutes, the blond man walking down the winding dirt road would not be John Tennyson. Instead, he would be called by his rightful name, Johann von Tiebolt, son of Wilhelm, leader of the new Reich.
The cottage was in sight; the death of a traitor approached. Von Tiebolt turned and looked back up the hill. The man from the Sûreté waved. He would remain there, blocking the road until the job was done. Von Tiebolt continued walking until he was within ten yards of the stone path that led to the small house. He stopped, concealed by the foliage, and shifted his gun from the shoulder holster to his overcoat pocket. Crouching, he stepped through the overgrown grass, toward the door and beyond it, then stood up, his face at the edge of the single front window.
Though the morning was bright with sunlight, a table lamp was turned on in the dark interior of the room. Beyond the lamp Klaus Falkenheim sat in his wheelchair, his back to the window.
Von Tiebolt walked silently back to the door and considered for a moment whether or not to break it down, as a killer from the ODESSA undoubtedly would do. He decided against it. Herr Oberst was old and decrepit, but he was no fool. Somewhere on his person, or in that wheelchair, was a weapon. At the first sound of a crash it would be leveled at the intruder.
Johann smiled at himself. There was no harm in a little game. One consummate actor onstage with another. Who would be applauded most enthusiastically? The answer was obvious: he who was there for the curtain call. It would not be Klaus Falkenheim.
He rapped on the door. «Mein Herr. Forgive me, it’s Johann von Tiebolt. I’m afraid my car couldn’t negotiate the hill.»
At first there was only silence. If it continued beyond five seconds, Von Tiebolt realized he would have to take sterner measures; there could be no sudden telephone calls. Then he heard the old man’s words.
«Von Tiebolt?»
«Yes. Helden’s brother. I’ve come to speak with her. She’s not at work, so I assume she’s here.»
«She’s not.» The old man was silent again.
«Then I shan’t disturb you, Mein Herr, but if I may, is it possible to use your telephone and call for a taxi?»
«The telephone?»
The blond man smiled. Falkenheim’s confusion carried through the barrier between them. «I’ll only be a moment. I really must find Helden by noon. I leave for Switzerland at two o’clock.»
Again silence, but it was short-lived. He heard a bolt slide back, and the door opened. Herr Oberst was there in the chair, wheeling backward, a blanket on his lap. There had been no blanket moments ago.
«Danke, mein Herr,» said Von Tiebolt, holding out his hand. «It’s good to see you again.»
Bewildered, the old man raised his hand in greeting. Johann wrapped his fingers swiftly around the bony hand, twisting it to the left. With his free hand, he reached down and yanked the blanket from Falkenheim’s lap. He saw what he expected: a Luger across the emaciated legs. He removed it, kicking the door shut as he did.
«Heil Hitler! General Falkenheim,» he said. «Wo ist der Nachrichtendienst?»
The old man remained motionless, staring up at his captor, no fear in his eyes. «I wondered when you would find out. I didn’t think it would be so quickly. I commend you, Sohn Wilhelm von Tiebolts.»
«Yes, son of Wilhelm, and something else as well.»
«Oh, yes. The new Führer. That’s your objective, but it won’t happen. We’ll stop you. If you’ve come to kill me, do so. I’m prepared.»
«Why should I? Such a valuable hostage.»
«I doubt you’d get much ransom.»
Von Tiebolt spun the old man’s chair toward the center of the room. «I imagine that’s true,» he replied, abruptly stopping the chair. «I assume you have certain funds available, perhaps solicited by the wandering children you think so much of. However, Pfennigs and francs are immaterial to me.»
«I was sure of that. So fire the gun.»
«And,» said Von Tiebolt, «it’s doubtful that a man dying of cerebral cancer in a Stuttgart sanatorium could offer much. Wouldn’t you say that, too, is true?»