The Holcroft Covenant: A Novel by Robert Ludlum
Holcroft considered. Part of his mind was still on the startling news Miles had given him. He had tried to reach Sam Buonoventura in Curaçao, but Sam had been in the field. “You could do me a favor instead,” he said to Helden. “I’ve told you about Buonoventura, in the Caribbean. I put in a call to him from the hotel; he hasn’t returned it. If you’re free, would you wait in the room in case he does call? I wouldn’t ask you, but it’s urgent. Something happened; I’ll tell you about it later. Will you?”
“Certainly. What shall I say to him?”
“Tell him to stay put for a few hours. Or to give you a number where I can call him later. Six to eight; Paris time. Tell him it’s important.” Noel reached in his pocket “Here’s the key. Remember, my name’s Fresca.”
Helden took the key and then his arm, leading him into the studio. “And you remember, my brother’s name is Tennyson. John Tennyson.”
Holcroft saw Tennyson through thick panes of leaded glass windows that looked out on the terrace. He wore a dark pinstriped suit, no overcoat or hat; his hands were on the railing as he peered out at the Paris skyline. He was tall and slender, the body tapered almost too perfectly; it was the body of an athlete, a series of coiled springs, taut and contained. He turned slightly to his right, revealing his face. It was a face like no other Noel had seen. It was an artist’s rendering, the features too idealized for actual flesh and blood. And because it did not accept blemish, the face was cold. It was a face cast in marble, topped by glistening light-blond hair, perfectly groomed, matching the stone.
Then Von Tiebolt—Tennyson saw him through the window; their eyes met, and the image of marble collapsed. The blond man’s eyes were alive and penetrating. He pushed himself away from the railing and walked toward the terrace door.
Stepping inside, he extended his hand. “I am the son of Wilhelm von Tiebolt.”
“I’m … Noel Holcroft. My … father was Heinrich Clausen.”
“I know. Helden has told me a great deal about you. You’ve been through a lot.”
“We both have,” agreed Holcroft. “I mean, your sister and I. I gather you’ve had your share, too.”
“Our legacy, unfortunately.” Tennyson smiled. “It’s awkward meeting like this, isn’t it?”
“I’ve been more comfortable.”
“And I’ve not said a word,” interjected Helden. “You were both quite capable of introducing yourselves. I’ll leave now.”
“You certainly don’t have to,” said Tennyson. “What we have to say to each other concerns you, I think.”
“I’m not sure it does. Not for the moment. Besides, I have something to do,” replied Helden. She started toward the foyer. “I think it’s terribly important—for a great many people—that you trust each other. I hope you can.” She opened the door and left.
Neither man spoke for several moments; each looked toward the spot where Helden had stood.
“She’s remarkable,” said Tennyson. “I love her very much.”
Noel turned his head. “So do I.”
Tennyson acknowledged the look as well as the statement. “I hope it’s not a complication for you.”
“It isn’t, although it may be for her.”
“I see.” Tennyson walked to the window and gazed outside. “I’m not in a position to give you my blessing—Helden and I live very separate lives—and even if I could, I’m not sure I would.”
“Thanks for your frankness.”
The blond man turned. “Yes, I’m frank. I don’t know you. I know only what Helden has told me about you, and what I’ve learned for myself. What she tells me is basically what you’ve told her, colored by her feelings, of course. What I’ve learned is not so clear-cut. Nor does the composite fit my sister’s rather enthusiastic picture.”
“We both have questions. Do you want to go first?”
“It doesn’t really matter, does it? Mine are very few and very direct.” Tennyson’s voice was suddenly harsh. “What was your business with Maurice Graff?”
“I thought Helden told you.”
“Again it was what you told her. Now, tell me. I’m somewhat more experienced than my sister. I don’t accept things simply because you say them. Over the years, I’ve learned not to do that. Why did you go to see Graff?”
“I was looking for you.”
“For me?”
“Not you, specifically. For the Von Tiebolts. For information about any of you.”
“Why Graff?”
“His name was given to me.”
“By whom?”
“I don’t remember.…”
“You don’t remember? Of thousands and thousands of men in Rio de Janeiro, the name of Maurice Graff just happens to be the one casually given to you.”
“It’s the truth.”
“It’s ludicrous.”
“Wait a minute.” Noel tried to reconstruct the sequence of events that led him to Graff. “It started in New York.…”
“What started? Graff was in New York?”
“No, the consulate. I went to the Brazilian consulate and spoke to an attaché. I wanted to find out how I’d go about locating a family that had immigrated to Brazil in the forties. The attaché put the facts together and figured out I was looking for Germans. He gave me a lecture about … well, there’s a Spanish phrase for it. La otra cara de los alemanes. It means the other side of the German; what’s beneath his thinking.”
“I’m aware of that. Go on.”
“He told me there was a strong, close-knit German community in Rio run by a few powerful men. He warned me about looking for a German family that had disappeared; he said it could be dangerous. Maybe he exaggerated because I wouldn’t give him your name.”
“Thank God you didn’t.”
“When I got to Rio, I couldn’t find out anything. Even the immigration records were doctored.”
“At great cost to a great many people,” said Tennyson bitterly. “It was our only protection.”
“I was stuck. Then I remembered what the attaché had said about the German community being run by a few powerful men. I went to a German bookstore and asked a clerk about the houses. Large ones, mansions with a lot of acreage. I called them ‘Bavarian,’ but he knew what I meant. I’m an architect and I figured—”
“I understand.” Tennyson nodded. “Large German estates, the most influential leaders in the German community.”
“That’s right. The clerk gave me a couple of names. One was Jewish, the other was Graff. He said Graff’s estate was among the most impressive in Brazil.”
“It is.”
“And that’s it. That’s how I came to go to Graff.”
Tennyson stood motionless, his expression noncommittal. “It’s not unreasonable.”
“I’m glad you think so,” said Noel.
“I said it was reasonable; I didn’t say I believed you.”
“I’ve no reason to lie.”
“Even if you do, I’m not sure you have the talent. I’m very good at seeing through liars.”
Noel was struck by the statement. “That’s practically what Helden said the night I met her.”
“I’ve trained her well. Lying is a craft; it must be developed. You’re out of your depth.”
“What the hell are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying you’re a very convincing amateur. You built your story well, but it is not sufficiently professional. Your keystone is missing. As an architect, I’m sure you understand.”
“I’ll be goddamned if I do. Tell me.”
“With pleasure. You left Brazil knowing the name Von Tiebolt. You arrive in England and within twelve hours you’re in a suburb of Portsmouth with my sister, sleeping with my sister. You didn’t even have the name of Tennyson. How could you possibly have known about Beaumont?”
“But I did have the name of Tennyson.”
“How? How did you get it?”
“I told Helden. This couple, a brother and sister named Cararra, came to see me at
“Oh, yes. Cararra. A very common name in Brazil. Did it mean anything to you?”
“Of course not.”
“So these Cararras come to see you, out of nowhere, claiming to be dear friends of ours. But as Helden told you, we’ve never heard of them. Come, Mr. Holcroft, you’ll have to do better than that.” Tennyson raised his voice. “Graff gave you Beaumont’s name, didn’t he? ODESSA to ODESSA.”
“No! Graff didn’t know. He thinks you’re still hiding somewhere in Brazil.”
“He said that?”
“He implied it. The Cararras confirmed it. They mentioned some colonies in the south—‘Catarinas,’ or something. A mountain region settled by Germans.”
“You’ve done your homework well. The Santa Catarinas are German settlements. But again, we’re back to the elusive Cararras.”
Noel remembered clearly the fear in the faces of the young brother and sister in Rio. “Maybe they’re elusive to you, but not to me. You’ve either got a lousy memory or you’re a lousy friend. They said they barely knew Helden, but knew you very well. They risked a hell of a lot to come and see me. Portuguese Jews who—”
“Portuguese …” interrupted Tennyson, suddenly alarmed. “Oh, my God! And they used the name Cararra.… Describe them!”
Holcroft did. When he had finished, Tennyson said, in a whisper, “Out of the past.… Out of the past, Mr. Holcroft. It all fits. The use of the name Cararra. Portuguese Jews. Santa Catalina.… They came back to Rio.”
“Who came back?”
“The Montealegres—that’s their real name. Ten, twelve years ago.… What they told you was a cover, so you’d never be able to reveal their identities, even unconsciously.”
“What happened twelve years ago?”
“The details aren’t important, but we had to get them out of Rio, so we sent them to the Catarinas. Their parents helped the Israelis; they were killed for it. The two children were hunted; they would have been shot, too. They had to be taken south.”
“Then there are people in the Catarinas who know about you?”
“Yes, a few. Our base of operations was in Santa Catarina. Rio was too dangerous.”
“What operations? Who’s ‘we’?”
“Those of us in Brazil who fought the ODESSA.” Tennyson shook his head. “I have an apology to make. Helden was right: I did you an injustice. You’ve told the truth.”
Noel had the sensation of having been vindicated when vindication had not been sought. He felt awkward questioning a man who had fought the ODESSA; who had rescued children from death as surely as if he’d taken them out of Auschwitz, or Belsen; who had trained the woman he loved to survive. But he had questions; it was no time to forget them.
“It’s my turn now,” said Noel. “You’re very quick, and you know about things I’ve never heard of, but I’m not sure you’ve said a hell of a lot.”
“If one of your questions concerns the Tinamou,” said Tennyson, “I’m sorry, but I won’t answer you. I won’t even discuss it.”
Holcroft was stunned. “You won’t what?”
“You heard me. The Tinamou is a subject I won’t discuss. It’s not your business.”
“I think it is! For starters, let’s put it this way: If you won’t discuss the Tinamou, we haven’t anything to discuss.”
Tennyson paused, startled. “You mean that, don’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then try to understand me. Nothing can be left to chance now, to the offhand possibility—no matter how remote—that the wrong word might be dropped to the wrong person. If I’m right, and I think I am, you’ll have your answer in a matter of days.”
“That’s not good enough!”
“Then I’ll go one step further. The Tinamou was trained in Brazil. By the ODESSA. I’ve studied him as thoroughly as any man on earth. I’ve been tracking him for six years.”
It took several seconds for Noel to find his voice. “You’ve been … for six years?”
“Yes. It’s time for the Tinamou to strike; there’ll be another assassination. It’s why the British contacted you; they know it, too.”
“Why don’t you work with them? For God’s sake, do you know what they think!”
“I know what someone’s tried to make them think. It’s why I can’t work with them. The Tinamou has sources everywhere; they don’t know him, but he uses them.”
“You said a matter of days.”
“If I’m wrong, I’ll tell you everything. I’ll even go to the British with you.”
“A matter of days.… Okay. We’ll pass on the Tinamou—for a matter of days.”
“Whatever else I can tell you, I will. I’ve nothing to hide.”
“You knew Beaumont in Rio, knew he was part of the ODESSA. You even accused me of having gotten his name from Graff. Yet in spite of all this, he married your sister. ODESSA to ODESSA? Are you one of them?”
Tennyson did not waver. “A question of priorities. Put simply, it was planned. My sister Gretchen is not the woman she once was, but she’s never lost her hatred of the Nazis. She’s made a sacrifice greater than any of us. We know every move that Beaumont makes.”
“But he knows you’re Von Tiebolt! Why doesn’t he tell Graff?”
“Ask him, if you like. He may tell you.”
“You tell me.”
“He’s afraid to,” replied Tennyson. “Beaumont is a pig. Even his commitments lack cleanliness. He works less and less for the ODESSA, and only then when they threaten him.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Gretchen has her own … shall we say, persuasive powers; I think you’re aware of them. Beyond these, a large sum of untraceable money found its way into Beaumont’s account. In addition to these circumstances, he fears exposure from Graff on one side … and from me on the other. He’s useful to us both, more so to me than to Graff, of course. He’s checkmated.”
“If you knew every move he made, you had to know he was on that plane to Rio. You had to know he was following me.”
“How could I? I didn’t know you.”
“He was there. Someone sent him!”
“When Helden told me, I tried to find out who. What I learned was very little, but enough to alarm me. In my judgment, our checkmated pig was reached by a third party. Someone who had unearthed his ODESSA connection and was using him—as Graff used him. As I used him.”
“Who?”
“I wish to heaven I knew! He was granted an emergency leave from his ship in the Mediterranean. He went to Geneva.”
“Geneva?” Noel’s memory raced back. To a fragment of time obscured by swift movement, and rushing crowds, and screams … on a station platform. On a concrete station platform. A fight had broken out; a man had arched backward with blood on his shirt, another had gone after a third.… A man in panic had raced by, his eyes wide in fright, beneath … thick eyebrows of black and white hair. “That was it,” said Holcroft, astonished. “Beaumont was in Geneva.”
“I just told you that.”
“That’s where I saw him! I couldn’t remember where before. He followed me from Geneva.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Where’s Beaumont now?” asked Noel.
“Back on board ship. Gretchen left several days ago to join him. In Saint-Tropez, I think.”
Tomorrow I go to the Mediterranean. To a man I loathe.… Everything made so much more sense now. Perhaps Tennyson was not the only man in that room who had been unfair in his judgments.
“We’ve got to find out who sent Beaumont after me,” said Noel, picturing the man in a black leather jacket. Tennyson was right; their conclusions were the same, There was someone else.
“I agree,” said the blond man. “Shall we go together?”
Holcroft was tempted. But he had not finished. There could be no unanswered questions later. Not once the commitment had been made between them.
“Maybe,” he replied
“All right.”
“You killed someone in Rio.”
Tennyson’s eyes narrowed. “Helden told you.”
“I had to know; she understood that. There are conditions in Geneva that won’t allow surprises. If you can be blackmailed, I can’t let you go on.”
Tennyson nodded. “I see.”
“Who was it? Whom did you kill?”
“You mistake my reticence,” replied the blond man. “I’ve no compunction whatsoever about telling you who it was. I’m trying to think how you can check up on what I say. There’s no blackmail involved. There couldn’t be; but how can you be sure?”
“Let’s start with a name.”
“Manuel Cararra.”
“Cararra?…”
“Yes. It’s why those two young people used it. They knew I’d see the political connection. Cararra was a leader in the Chamber of Deputies, one of the most powerful men in the country. But his allegiance was not to Brazil; it was to Graff. To the ODESSA. I killed him seven years ago, and I’d kill him tomorrow.”
Noel studied Tennyson’s face. “Who knew?”
“A few old men. Only one’s still alive. I’ll give you his name, if you like. He’d never say anything about the killing.”
“Why not?”
“The shoe, as they say, was on the other foot. Before I left Rio de Janeiro, I met with them. My threat was clear. If ever they pursued me, I would make public what I knew about Cararra. The long-revered image of a conservative martyr would be shattered. The conservative cause in Brazil can’t tolerate that.”
“I want the name.”
“I’ll write it out for you.” Tennyson did. “I’m sure you can reach him by transatlantic telephone. It won’t take much; my name coupled with Cararra’s should be enough.”
“I may do that.”
“By all means,” said Tennyson. “He’ll confirm what I’ve told you.”
The two men faced each other, only feet apart. “There was a subway accident in London,” Noel went on. “A number of people were killed, including a man who worked for the Guardian. He was the man whose signature was on your employment records. The man who interviewed you, the only one who could shed any light on how or why you were hired.”