"Good God, why?"

"Because youre trying to deliver a sum of money. If the ground rules are followed, it amounts to three quarters of the full payment."

"For what?"

"For an assassination."

"Assassination?"

"Yes. In the data banks of half the civilized world, the Tinamou has a single description: 'assassin. 'Master assassin, to be precise. And we have every reason to believe that Johann von Tiebolt, alias John Tennyson, is the Tinamou."

Noel was stunned. His mind raced furiously. An assassin! Good God! Was that what Peter Baldwin had been trying to tell him? That one of the Geneva inheritors was an assassin?

No one knows but me. Baldwins words.

If they were true, under no condition could he reveal his real reason for wanting to find John Tennyson. Geneva would explode in controversy; the massive account would be frozen, thrown into the international courts, his covenant destroyed. He could not allow that to happen; he knew it now.

Yet it was equally vital that his reasons for seeking Tennyson be above suspicion, beyond any relationship to-or cognizance of-the Tinamou.

The Tinamou! An assassin! It was potentially the most damaging news possible. If there was any truth in what MI Five believed, the bankers in Geneva would suspend all discussions, close the vaults, and wait for another generation. Yet any decision to abort the covenant would be for appearances sake. If Tennyson was this Tinamou, he could be exposed, caught, severed from all association with the Geneva account, and the covenant would remain intact. Amends would be made. According to the conditions of the document, the older sister was the key-she was the eldest surviving child-not the brother.

An assassin! Oh, God!

First things first. Holcroft knew he had to dispel the convictions of the two men in his room. He walked unsteadily to a chair, sat down, and leaned forward.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice weak in astonishment. "Ive told you the truth. I dont know anything about any Tinamou, any assassin. My business is with the Von Tiebolt family, not a particular member of the family. I was trying to find Tennyson because I was told he was Von Tiebolt and worked at the Guardian. Thats all there is to it."

"If so," said the red-haired man, "perhaps youll explain the nature of your business."

Base the lie in an aspect of truth.

"Ill tell you what I can, which isnt a great deal. Some of it I pieced together myself from what I learned in Rio. It is confidential, and it does concern money." Noel took a deep breath, and reached for his cigarettes. "The Von Tiebolts were left an inheritance-dont ask me by whom, because I dont know, and the lawyer wont say."

"Whats the name of this lawyer," asked the gray-haired man.

"Id have to get his permission to tell you," answered Holcroft, lighting his cigarette, wondering whom in New York he could call from an untraceable pay phone in London.

"We may ask you to do that," said the older agent. "Go on, please."

"I found out in Rio that the Von Tiebolts were despised by the German community there. I have an idea-and its only an idea-that somewhere along the line they opposed the Nazis in Germany, and someone, perhaps an anti-Nazi German-or Germans-left them the money."

"In America?" asked the red-haired man.

Noel sensed the trap and was prepared for it. Be consistent. "Obviously, whoever left the Von Tiebolts money has been living there for a long time. If he, or they, came to the United States after the war, that could presume they had a clean bill of health. On the other hand, they could be relatives who came to the States years ago. I honestly dont know."

"Why were you chosen as the intermediary? Youre not a lawyer."

"No, but the lawyers a friend of mine," replied Holcroft. "He knows I travel a lot, knew I was going to Brazil for a client ... Im an architect. He asked me to call around, gave me some names, including Rios Immigration people."

Keep it simple; avoid complication.

"That was asking quite a bit of you, wasnt it?" The red-haired agents disbelief was in his question.

"Not really. Hes done me favors; I can do him one." Noel drew on his cigarette. "This is crazy. What started out as a simple ... well, its just crazy."

"You were told Johann von Tiebolt was John Tennyson and that he worked in London, or was based in London," said the older man, his hands in his overcoat pockets, looking down at Noel. "So, as a favor, you decided to make the trip from Brazil to the UK to find him. As a favor.... Yes, Mr. Holcroft, Id say it was crazy."

Noel glared up at the gray-haired man. He remembered Sam Buonoventuras words: I got hot myself.... Its the only way to handle angry cops.

"Now just a minute! I didnt make a special trip from Rio to London for the Von Tiebolts. Im on my way to Amsterdam. If you check my office in New York, youll find that Im doing some work in Curaao. For your benefit, its Dutch, and Im going to Amsterdam for design conferences."

The look in the older mans eyes seemed to soften. "I see," he said quietly. "Its quite possible we drew the wrong conclusions, but I think youll agree the surface facts led us to them. We may owe you an apology."

Pleased with himself, Noel suppressed the urge to smile. He had adhered to the lessons, handled the lie with his guard up.

"Its okay," he replied. "But now Im curious. This Tinamou. How do you know its Von Tiebolt?"

"Were not certain," replied the gray-haired agent. "We were hoping youd provide that certainty. I think we were wrong about that."

"You certainly were. But why Tennyson? I guess I should tell the lawyer in New York...."

"No," interrupted the Englishman. "Dont do that. You must not discuss this with anyone."

"Its a little late for that, isnt it?" Holcroft said, gambling. "The 'matter has been discussed. Im under no obligation to you, but I do have an obligation to that lawyer. Hes a friend."

The MI-Five men looked at each other, their mutual concern in the exchange.

"Beyond an obligation to a friend," the older man said, "I suggest that you have a far greater responsibility. One that can be substantiated by your own government. This is a highly classified, intensely sensitive investigation. The Tinamou is an international killer. His victims include some of the worlds most distinguished men."

"And you believe hes Tennyson?"

"The evidence is circumstantial, but very, very strong."

"Still, not conclusive."

"Not conclusive."

"A few minutes ago you sounded positive."

"A few minutes ago we tried to trap you. Its merely a technique."

"Its damned offensive."

"Its damned effective," said the red-haired man with the scar on his forehead.

"Whats the circumstantial evidence against Tennyson?"

"Will you hold it in the strictest confidence?" asked the older agent. "That request can be transmitted by the highest law-enforcement officials in your country, if you wish."

Holcroft paused. "All right, I wont call New York; I wont say anything. But I want information."

"We dont bargain." The younger man spoke offensively, cut off by a look from his associate.

"Its not a question of a bargain," said Noel. "I said Id reach a member of the family, and I think I should. Where can I contact Tennysons sisters? Ones married to a commander in the navy named Beaumont. The lawyer in New York knows that; hell try to find her if I dont. It might as well be me."

"Far better that its you," agreed the gray-haired man. "Were convinced that neither woman is aware of her brothers activities. As near as we can determine, the family are estranged from one another. How seriously, we dont know, but theres been little or no communication. Frankly, your showing up is a complication wed rather not be burdened with. We dont want alarms raised; a controlled situation is infinitely preferable."

"There wont be any alarms," said Noel. "Ill deliver my message and go about my business."

"To Amsterdam?"

"To Amsterdam."

"Yes, of course. The older sister is married to Commander Anthony Beaumont; shes his second wife. They live near Portsmouth, several miles north of the naval base, in a suburb of Portsea. Hes in the telephone directory. The younger girl recently moved to Paris. Shes a translator for Gallimard Publishers, but shes not at the address listed with the company. We dont know where she lives."

Holcroft rose from the chair and walked between the two men to the desk. He picked up the hotel pen and wrote on a page of stationery.

"Anthony Beaumont ... Portsmouth.... Gallimard Publishers.... How do you spell 'Gallimard?"

The red-haired agent told him.

Noel finished writing. "Ill make the calls in the morning and send a note to New York," he said, wondering to himself how long it would take to drive to Portsmouth. "Ill tell the lawyer I reached the sisters but was unable to contact the brother. Is that all right?"

"We couldnt persuade you to drop the entire matter?"

"No. Id have to say why I dropped it, and you dont want that."

"Very well. Its the best we can hope for, then."

"Now, tell me why you think John Tennyson is this Tinamou. You owe me that."

The older man paused. "Perhaps we do," he said. "I reemphasize the classified nature of the information."

"Whom would I tell it to? Im not in your line of work."

"All right," said the gray-haired man. "As you say, we owe you. But you should know that the fact that youve been told gives us a certain insight. Very few people have been."

Holcroft stiffened; it wasnt difficult to convey his anger. "And I dont imagine too many have had men like you knock on their doors and been accused of paying off assassins. If this were New York, Id haul you into court. You do owe me."

"Very well. A pattern was uncovered, at first too obvious to warrant examination until we studied the man. For several years, Tennyson consistently appeared in or near areas where assassinations took place. It was uncanny. He actually reported the events for the Guardian, filing his stories from the scene. A year or so ago, for example, he covered the killing of that American in Beirut, the embassy fellow who was, of course, CIA. Three days before, hed been in Brussels; suddenly he was in Tehran. We began to study him, and what we learned was astonishing. We believe hes the Tinamou. Hes utterly brilliant and, quite possibly, utterly mad."

"What did you find out?"

"For starters, you know about his father. One of the early Nazis, a butcher of the worst sort ..."

"Are you sure about that?" Noel asked the question too rapidly. "What I mean is, it doesnt necessarily follow...."

"No, I suppose it doesnt," said the gray-haired agent. "But what does follow is, to say the least, unusual. Tennyson is a manic overachiever. He completed two university degrees in Brazil at the age at which most students would have been matriculating. He has mastered five languages; speaks them fluently. He was an extremely successful businessman in South America; he amassed a great deal of money. These are hardly the credentials of a newspaper correspondent."

"People change; interests change. That is circumstantial. Pretty damned weak, too."

"The circumstances of his employment, however, lend strength to the conjecture," said the older man. "No one at the Guardian remembers when or how he was employed. His name simply appeared on the payroll computers one day, a week before his first copy was filed from Antwerp. No one had ever heard of him."

"Someone had to hire him."

"Yes, someone did. The man whose signature appeared on the interview and employment records was killed in a most unusual train accident that took five lives on the underground."

"A subway in London...." Holcroft paused. "I remember reading about that."

"A trainmans error, they called it, but thats not good enough," added the red-haired man. "That man had eighteen years experience. It was bloody well murder. Courtesy of the Tinamou."

"You cant be sure," said Holcroft. "An errors an error. What were some of the other ... coincidences? Where the killings took place."

"I mentioned Beirut. There was Paris, too. A bomb went off under the French minister of labors car in the rue du Bac, killing him instantly. Tennyson was in Paris; hed been in Frankfort the day before. Seven months ago, during the riots in Madrid, a government official was shot from a window four stories above the crowds. Tennyson was in Madrid; hed flown in from Lisbon just hours before. There are others; they go on."

"Did you ever bring him in and question him?"

"Twice. Not as a suspect, obviously, but as an expert on the scene. Tennyson is the personification of arrogance. He claimed to have analyzed the areas of social and political unrest, and followed his instincts, knowing that violence and assassination were certain to erupt in those places. He had the cheek to lecture us; said we should learn to anticipate and not so often be caught unawares."

"Could he be telling the truth?"

"If you mean that as an insult, its noted. In light of this evening, perhaps we deserve it."

"Sorry. But when you consider his accomplishments, youve got to consider the possibility. Where is Tennyson now?"

"He disappeared four days ago in Bahrain. Our operatives are watching for him from Singapore to Athens."

The two MI-Five men walked into the empty elevator. The red-haired agent turned to his colleague. "What do you make of him?" he asked. "I dont know," was the soft-spoken reply. "Weve given him enough to send him racing about; perhaps well learn something. Hes far too much of an amateur to be a legitimate contact. Those paying for a killing would be fools to send the money with Holcroft. The Tinamou would reject it if they did."

"But he was lying."

"Quite so. Quite poorly."

"Then hes being used."

"Quite possibly. But for what?"

11.

According to the car-rental agency, Portsmouth was roughly seventy miles from London, the roads clearly marked, the traffic not likely to be heavy. It was five past six. He could be in Portsea before nine, thought Noel, if he settled for a quick sandwich instead of dinner.