He had intended to wait until morning, but a telephone call made to confirm the accuracy of the MI-Five information dictated otherwise. He reached Gretchen Beaumont, and what she told him convinced him to move quickly.

Her husband, the commander, was on sea duty in the Mediterranean; tomorrow at noon she was going on "winter holiday" to the south of France, where she and the commander would spend a weekend together. If Mr. Holcroft wished to see her about family matters, it would have to be tonight.

He told her he would get there as soon as possible, thinking as he hung up that she had one of the strangest voices he had ever heard. It was not the odd mixture of German and Portuguese in her accent, for that made sense; it was in the floating, hesitant quality of her speech. Hesitant or vacuous-it was difficult to tell. The commanders wife made it clear-if haltingly so-that in spite of the fact that the matters to be discussed were confidential, a naval aide would be in an adjoining room. Her concerns gave rise to an image of a middle-aged, self-indulgent Hausfrau with an overinflated opinion of her looks.

Fifty miles south of London, he realized that he was making better time than he had thought possible. There was little traffic, and the sign on the road, reflected in the headlights, read PORTSEA-15 M.

It was barely ten past eight. He could slow down and try to collect his thoughts. Gretchen Beaumonts directions had been clear; hed have no trouble finding the residence.

For a vacuous-sounding woman, she had been very specific when it came to giving instructions. It was somehow contradictory in light of the way she spoke, as if sharp lines of reality had suddenly, abruptly, shot through clouds of dreamlike mist.

It told him nothing. He was the intruder, the stranger who telephoned and spoke of a vitally important matter he would not define-except in person.

How would he define it? How could he explain to the middle-aged wife of a British naval officer that she was the key that could unlock a vault containing seven hundred and eighty million dollars?

He was getting nervous; it was no way to be convincing. Above all, he had to be convincing; he could not appear afraid or unsure or artificial. And then it occurred to him that he could tell her the truth-as Heinrich Clausen saw the truth. It was the best lever he had; it was the ultimate conviction.

Oh, God! Please make her understand!

He made the two left turns off the highway and drove rapidly through the peaceful, tree-lined suburban area for the prescribed mile and a half. He found the house easily, parked in front, and got out of the car.

He opened the gate and walked up the path to the door. There was no bell; instead there was a brass knocker, and so he tapped it gently. The house was designed simply. Wide windows in the living room, small ones on the opposite, bedroom side; the facade, old bride above a stone foundation-solid, built to last, certainly not ostentatious and probably not expensive. He had designed such houses, usually as second homes on the shore for couples still unsure they could afford them. It was the ideal residence for a military man on a military budget. Neat, trim, and manageable.

Gretchen Beaumont opened the door herself. Whatever image she had evoked on the telephone vanished at the sight of her; it disappeared in a rush of amazement, with the impact of a blow to his stomach. Simply put, the woman in the doorway was one of the most beautiful he had ever seen in his life. The fact that she was a woman was almost secondary. She was like a statue, a sculptors ideal, refined over and over again in clay before chisel was put to stone. She was of medium height, with long blond hair that framed a face of finely boned, perfectly proportioned features. Too perfect, too much in the sculptors mind ... too cold. Yet the coldness was lessened by her large, wide eyes; they were light blue and inquisitive, neither friendly nor unfriendly.

"Mr. Holcroft?" she asked in that echoing, dreamlike voice that gave evidence of Germany and Brazil.

"Yes, Mrs. Beaumont. Thank you so much for seeing me. I apologize for the inconvenience."

"Come in, please."

She stepped back to admit him. In the doorway he had concentrated on her face, on the extraordinary beauty that was in no way diminished by the years; it was impossible now not to notice the body, emphasized by her translucent dress. The body, too, was extraordinary, but in a different way from the face. There was no coldness, only heat. The sheer dress clung to her skin, the absence of a brassiere apparent, accentuated by a flared collar, unbuttoned to the midpoint between her large breasts. On either side, in the center of the swelling flesh, he could see her nipples clearly, pressing against the soft fabric as if aroused.

When she moved, the slow, fluid motion of her thighs and stomach and pelvis combined into the rhythm of a sensual dance. She did not walk; she glided-an extraordinary body screaming for observation as a prelude to invasion and satisfaction.

Yet the face was cold and the eyes distant; inquisitive but distant. And Noel was perplexed.

"Youve had a long trip," she said, indicating a couch against the far wall. "Sit down, please. May I offer you a drink?"

"Id appreciate it."

"What would you care for?" She held her place in front of him, momentarily blocking his short path to the couch, her light-blue eyes looking intently into his. Her breasts were revealed clearly-so close-beneath the sheer fabric. The nipples were taut, rising with each breath; again in that unmistakable rhythm of a sexual dance.

"Scotch, if you have it," he said.

"In England, thats whiskey, isnt it?" she asked, walking toward a bar against the wall.

"Its whiskey," he said, sinking into the soft pillows of the couch, trying to concentrate on Gretchens face. It was difficult for him, and he knew she was trying to make it difficult The commanders wife did not have to provoke a sexual reaction; she did not have to dress for the part. But dress for it she had, and provoke she did. Why?

She brought over his scotch. He reached for it, touching her hand as he did so, noting that she did not withdraw from the contact but, instead, briefly pressed his curved fingers with her own. She then did a very strange thing; she sat down on a leather hassock only feet away and looked up at him.

"Wont you join me?" he asked.

"I dont drink."

"Then perhaps youd prefer that I dont."

She laughed throatily. "I have no moral objections whatsoever. It would hardly become an officers wife. Im simply not capable of drinking or of smoking, actually. Both go directly to my head."

He looked at her over the rim of the glass. Her eyes remained eerily on his, unblinking, steady, still distant, making him wish shed look away.

"You said on the phone that one of your husbands aides would be in an adjoining room. Would you like us to meet?"

"He wasnt able to be here."

"Oh? Im sorry."

"Are you?"

It was crazy. The woman was behaving like a courtesan unsure of her standing, or a high-priced whore evaluating a new clients wallet. She leaned forward on the hassock, picking at an imaginary piece of lint on the throw rug beneath his feet. The gesture was foolish, the effect too obvious. The top of her dress parted, exposing her breasts. She could not have been unaware of what she was doing. He had to respond; she expected it. But he would not respond in the way she anticipated. A father had cried out to him; nothing could interfere. Even an unlikely whore.

An unlikely whore who was the key to Geneva.

"Mrs. Beaumont" he said, placing his glass awkwardly on the small table next to the couch, "youre a very gracious woman and Id like nothing better than to sit here for hours and have a few drinks, but weve got to talk. I asked to see you because I have extraordinary news for you. It concerns the two of us."

"The two of us?" said Gretchen, emphasizing the pronoun. "By all means talk, Mr. Holcroft. Ive never met you before; I dont know you. How can this news concern the two of us?"

"Our fathers knew each other years ago."

At the mention of the word "father," the woman stiffened. "I have no father."

"You had; so did I," he said. "In Germany over thirty years ago. Your names Von Tiebolt. Youre the oldest child of Wilhelm von Tiebolt."

Gretchen took a deep breath and looked away. "I dont think I want to listen further."

"I know how you feel," replied Noel. "I had the same reaction myself. But youre wrong. I was wrong."

"Wrong?" she asked, brushing away the long blond hair that swung across her cheek with the swift turn of her head. "Youre presumptuous. Perhaps you didnt live the way we lived. Please dont tell me Im wrong. Youre in no position to do that."

"Just let me tell you what Ive learned. When Im finished, you can make your own decision. Your knowing is the important thing. And your support, of course."

"Support of what? Knowing what?"

Noel felt oddly moved, as if what he was about to say were the most important words of his life. With a normal person the truth would be sufficient, but Gretchen Beaumont was not a normal person; her scars were showing. It would take more than truth; it would take enormous conviction.

"Two weeks ago I flew to Geneva to meet with a banker named Manfredi...."

He told it all, leaving out nothing save the men of Wolfsschanze. He told it simply, even eloquently, hearing the conviction in his own voice, feeling the profound commitment in his mind, the stirrings of pain in his chest.

He gave her the figures: seven hundred and eighty million for the survivors of the Holocaust, and the descendants of those survivors still in need. Everywhere. Two million for each of the surviving eldest children, to be used as each saw fit. Six months-possibly longer-of a collective commitment.

Finally, he told her of the pact in death the three fathers made, taking their lives only after every detail in Geneva was confirmed and iron bound.

When he had finished, he felt the perspiration rolling down his forehead. "Its up to us now," he said. "And a man in Berlin-Kesslers son. The three of us have to finish what they started."

"It all sounds so incredible," she said quietly. "But I really dont see why it should concern me."

He was stunned at her calm, at her complete equanimity. She had listened to him in silence for nearly half an hour, heard revelations that had to be shattering to her, yet she displayed no reaction whatsoever. Nothing. "Havent you understood a word Ive said?"

"I understand that youre very upset," said Gretchen Beaumont in her soft, echoing voice. "But Ive been very upset for most of my life, Mr. Holcroft. Ive been that way because of Wilhelm von Tiebolt. He is nothing to me."

"He knew that, cant you see? He tried to make up for it."

"With money?"

"More than money."

Gretchen leaned forward and slowly reached out to touch his forehead. With her fingers extended, she wiped away the beads of perspiration. Noel remained still, unable to break the contact between their eyes.

"Did you know that I was Commander Beaumonts second wife?" she asked.

"Yes, I heard that."

"The divorce was a difficult time for him. And for me, of course, but more so for him. But it passed for him; it will not pass for me."

"What do you mean?"

"Im the intruder. The foreigner. A breaker of marriages. He has his work; he goes to sea. I live among those who dont. The life of a naval officers wife is a lonely one in usual circumstances. It can become quite difficult when one is ostracized."

"You must have known thered be a degree of that."

"Of course."

"Well, if you knew it?..." He left the question suspended, not grasping the point.

"Why did I marry Commander Beaumont? Is that what you mean to ask?"

He did not want to ask anything! He was not interested in the intimate details of Gretchen Beaumonts life. Geneva was all that mattered; the covenant, everything. But he needed her cooperation.

"I assume the reasons were emotional; thats generally why people get married. I only meant that you might have taken steps to lessen the tension. You could live farther away from the naval base, have different friends." He was rambling, awkwardly, a little desperately. He wanted only to break through her maddening reserve.

"My questions more interesting. Why did I marry Beaumont?" Her voice floated again; it rose quietly in the air. "Youre right; its emotional. Quite basic."

She touched his forehead again, her dress parting once more as she leaned forward, her lovely, naked breasts exposed again. Noel was tired and aroused and angry. He had to make her understand that her private concerns were meaningless beside Geneva! To do that, he had to make her like him; yet he could not touch her.

"Naturally its basic," he said. "You love him."

"I loathe him."

Her hand was now inches from his face, her fingers a blur at the corner of his eyes-a blur because their eyes were locked; he dared not shift them. And he dared not touch her.

"Then why did you marry him? Why do you stay with him?"

"I told you. Its basic Commander Beaumont has a little money; hes a highly respected officer in the service of his government, a dull, uninteresting man more at home on a ship than anywhere else. All this adds up to a very quiet, very secure niche. I am in a comfortable cocoon."

There was the lever! Geneva provided it. "Two million dollars could build a very secure cocoon, Mrs. Beaumont. A far better shelter than you have here."

"Perhaps. But I would have to leave this one in order to build it. Id have to go outside-"

"Only for a while."

"And what would happen?" she continued, as if he had not interrupted. "Outside? Where Id have to say yes or no. I dont want to think about that; it would be so difficult. You know, Mr. Holcroft, Ive been unhappy most of my life, but I dont look for sympathy."

She was infuriating! He felt like slapping her. "Id like to return to the situation in Geneva," he said.

She settled back into the hassock, crossing her legs. The sheer dress rose above her knees, the soft flesh of her thigh revealed. The pose was seductive; her words were not.

"But I have returned to it," she said. "Perhaps awkwardly, but Im trying to explain. As a child I came out of Berlin. Always running, until my mother and my brother and I found a sanctuary in Brazil that proved to be a hell for us. Ive floated through life these past years. Ive followed-instincts, opportunities, men-but Ive followed. I havent led. Ive made as few decisions as possible."

"I dont understand."

"If you have business that concerns my family, youll have to talk to my brother, Johann. He makes the decisions. He brought us out of South America after my mother died. He is the Von Tiebolt you must reach."

Noel suppressed his desire to yell at her. Instead, he exhaled silently, a sense of weariness and frustration sweeping over him. Johann von Tiebolt was the one member of the family he had to avoid, but he could not tell Gretchen Beaumont why. "Where is he?" he asked rhetorically.

"I dont know. He works for the Guardian newspaper, in Europe."

"Where in Europe?"

"Again, I have no idea. He moves around a great deal."

"I was told he was last seen in Bahrain."

"Then you know more than I do."

"You have a sister."

"Helden. In Paris. Somewhere."

All the children will be examined ... decisions made.

Johann had been examined and a judgment had been made-rightly or wrongly-that disqualified him from Geneva. He was a complication they could not afford; he would draw attention where none could be permitted. And this strange, beautiful woman on the hassock-even if she felt differently-would be rejected by Geneva as incompetent. It was as simple as that.

Paris. Helden von Tiebolt.

Absently, Noel reached for his cigarettes, his thoughts now on an unknown woman who worked as a translator for a publishing house in Paris. He was only vaguely aware of the movement in front of him, so complete was his concentration. Then he noticed and he stared at Gretchen Beaumont.

The commanders wife had risen from the hassock and unfastened the buttons of her dress to the waist. Slowly, she parted the folds of silk. Her breasts were released; they sprang out at him, the nipples taut, stretched, swollen with tension. She raised her skirt with both her hands, bunching it above her thighs, and stood directly in front of him. He was aware of the fragrance that seemed to emanate from her-a delicate perfume with a sensuousness as provoking as the sight of her exposed flesh. She sat down beside him, her dress now above her waist, her body trembling. She moaned and reached for the back of his neck, drawing his face to hers, his lips to hers. Her mouth opened as she received his mouth; she sucked, breathing rapidly, her warm breath mixed with the juices that came from her throat. She put her hand on his trousers and groped for his penis ... hard, soft, hard. Harder. She became suddenly uncontrollable; her moans were feverish. She pressed into him. Everywhere.