Should I be killed, it will mean I have been found out. Further, it will signify that the time is near for the catastrophes to begin. Orders must be relayed to those courageous men who will stand at the final barricade.
You must go alone—I repeat, alone—to Lake Neuchâtel, in Switzerland. Don’t let anyone follow you. I know you can do this. You have been taught. In the village of Près-du-Lac there is a man named Werner Gerhardt. Find him. Give him the following message: «The coin of Wolfsschanze has two sides.» He will know what to do.
You must go quickly. There is very little time. Again, say nothing to anyone. Raise no alarms. Tell your employers and your friends that you have personal matters in England, a logical statement considering the fact that you lived there for more than five years.
Quickly now, my dearest Helden. To Neuchâtel. To Près-du-Lac. To Werner Gerhardt. Memorize the name and burn this paper.
Godspeed,
HERR OBERST
Helden leaned against the tree and looked up at the sky. Wisps of thin clouds moved swiftly in an easterly course; the winds were strong. She wished she could be carried by them, and that she did not have to run from point to point, every move a risk, every person she looked at a potential enemy.
Noel had said it would be over soon and she would be able to stop running.
He was wrong.
Holcroft pleaded over the telephone, trying to convince her not to go—at least for another day—but Helden would not be dissuaded. Word had reached her through Gallimard that her sister’s personal effects were awaiting her inspection; decisions had to be considered, arrangements made.
«I’ll call you in Geneva, my darling. You’ll be staying at the d’Accord?»
«Yes.» What was wrong with her? She’d been so happy, so elated, barely two hours ago. She sounded tense now; her words were clear, but her voice was strained.
«I’ll phone you in a day or so. Under the name of Fresca.»
«Do you want me to go with you? I don’t have to be in Geneva until late tomorrow night. The Kesslers won’t get there till ten, your brother even later.»
«No, darling. It’s a sad trip. I’d rather make it alone. Johann’s in London now… I’ll try to reach him.»
«You’ve got some clothes here.»
«A dress, a pair of slacks, shoes. It’s quicker for me to stop at … Herr Oberst’s … and pick up others more appropriate for Portsmouth.»
«Quicker?»
«On the way to the airport. I have to go there, at any rate. My passport, money…»
«I have money,» interrupted Noel. «I thought you’d been to his place by now.»
«Please, darling. Don’t be difficult.» Helden’s voice cracked. «I told you, I stopped at the office.»
«No, you didn’t. You didn’t say that. You said you got word.» Holcroft was alarmed; she wasn’t making sense. Herr Oberst’s hidden cottage was not on the way to Orly. «Helden, what’s the matter?»
«I love you, Noel. I’ll call you tomorrow night. Hotel d’Accord, Geneva.» She hung up.
Holcroft replaced the phone, the sound of her voice echoing in his ears. It was possible she was going to London, but he doubted it. Where was she going? Why did she lie? God damn it! What was wrong with her? What had happened?
There was no point in staying in Paris. Since he had to reach Geneva on his own, he might as well get started.
He could not chance the airlines or the trains. Unseen men would be watching; he had to elude them. The assistant manager of the George V could hire him a car under the name of Fresca. The route would be mapped for him. He would drive through the night to Geneva.
Althene Holcroft looked out the window of the TAP airliner at the lights of Lisbon below; they would be on the ground in minutes. She had a great deal to accomplish during the next twelve hours, and she hoped to God she was capable of doing it. A man had followed her in Mexico; she knew that. But then he had disappeared at the airport, which meant that another had taken his place.
She had failed in Mexico. She had not dropped out of sight. Once in Lisbon, she would have to vanish; she could not fail again.
Lisbon. Oh, God, Lisbon!
It had been in Lisbon where it all began. The lie of a lifetime, conceived in diabolical brilliance. What an imbecile she had been; what a performance Heinrich had given.
She had at first refused to meet with Heinrich in Lisbon, so total was her loathing, but she had gone because the threat was clear: Her son would be branded by his father. Noel Holcroft would never be left in peace, for the name Noel Clausen—only son of the infamous Nazi—would trail him throughout his life.
How relieved she’d been! How grateful that the threat had been only a device to bring her to Lisbon. And how stunned and awestruck when Heinrich calmly outlined the extraordinary plan that would take years to bring to pass, but when it did, would make the world a far better place. She listened, was convinced, and did everything he asked her to do. For amends would be made.
She had loved him again—during those brief few days in Lisbon—and in a rush of emotion had offered herself to him.
With tears in his eyes, he had refused. He was not worthy, he said.
It was the consummate deception! The ultimate irony!
For now, at this moment, the very threat that brought her to Lisbon thirty years ago was the threat that brought her here again. Noel Holcroft would be destroyed; he would become Noel Clausen, son of Heinrich, instrument of the new Reich.
A man had come to her in the middle of the night in Bedford Hills. A man who had gained entrance by invoking the name «Manfredi» behind the closed door; she had admitted him thinking perhaps her son had sent him. He had said he was a Jew from a place called Har Sha’alav, and that he was going to kill her. And then he would kill her son. There’d be no specter of Wolfsschanze—the false Wolfsschanze—spreading from Zurich out of Geneva.
Althene had been furious. Did the man know to whom he was speaking? What she had done? What she stood for?
The man knew only about Geneva and Zurich … and Lisbon thirty years ago. It was all he had to know, to know what she stood for, and that stance was an abomination to him and all men like him throughout the world.
Althene had seen the pain and the anger in the dark eyes that held her at bay as surely as if a weapon had been leveled at her. In desperation, she had demanded that he tell her what he thought he knew.
He had told her that extraordinary sums were to be funneled to committees and causes throughout all nations. To men and women who had been waiting for thirty years for the signal.
There would be killing and disruption and conflagrations in the streets; governments would be bewildered, their agencies crippled. The cries for stability and order would be heard across the lands. Strong men and women with massive sums at their disposal would then assert themselves. Within months control would be theirs.
They were everywhere. In all countries, awaiting only the signal from Geneva.
Who were they?
The Sonnenkinder. The children of fanatics, sent out of Germany more than thirty years ago by plane and ship and submarine. Sent out by men who knew their cause was lost—but believed that cause could live again.