The telephone rang.

"Is this Noel Holcroft?"

"Yes. Im sorry you had trouble reaching me...."

"I wont waste time going into that," interrupted Miles, "except to say youve violated federal laws."

"Wait a minute," broke in Noel angrily. "What am I guilty of? You found me. Im not hiding."

"Finding you after trying to locate you for damn near a week is called flagrantly ignoring and disregarding the law. You were not to leave the City of New York without telling us."

"There were pressing personal matters. I left word. You havent got a case."

"Then lets try 'obstruction of justice. "

"What?"

"You were in the lounge of that British seven-forty-seven, and you and I both know what happened. Or, should I say, what didnt happen?"

"What are you talking about?"

"That drink was meant for you, not Thornton."

Holcroft knew it was coming, but his knowing it did not lessen the impact. Still, he was not about to agree without a protest. "Thats the craziest goddamn thing Ive ever heard," he said.

"Come on! Youre a bright, upstanding citizen from a bright, upstanding family, but your behavior for the past five days has been stupid and less than candid."

"Youre insulting me, but youre not saying anything. You mentioned in your message-"

"Well get to that," interrupted the detective. "I want you to know whose side youre on. You see, I want you to cooperate, not fight."

"Go ahead."

"We traced you to Rio. We spoke to-"

"You what?" Had Sam turned on him?

"It wasnt hard. Incidentally, your friend Buonoventura doesnt know. His cover for you didnt wash. He said you were in a boat out of Curaao, but Dutch immigration didnt have you in the territory. We got a list of the overseas telephone numbers he called and checked the airlines. You were on Braniff out of New York, and you stayed at a Prto Alegre Hotel in Rio."

The amateur could not match the professional. "Sam said you called a couple of times."

"Sure did," agreed Miles. "You left Rio and we wanted to find out where you went; we knew hed get in touch with you. Didnt you get my message at the hotel in London?"

"No."

"Ill take your word. Messages get lost."

But that message had not been lost, thought Noel. It had been stolen by the men of Wolfsschanze. "I know where I stand now. Get to the point."

"You dont quite know," Miles replied. "We talked to the embassy in Rio, to a man named Anderson. He said you told him quite a story. How you were trapped, chased, shot at. He said he didnt believe a word of it; considered you a troublemaker and was glad to get you out of Brazil."

"I know. He drove me to the airport."

"Do you want to tell me about it?" asked the detective.

Noel stared at the wall. It would be so easy to unburden himself, to seek official protection. The faceless Lieutenant Miles was a symbol of authority. But he was the wrong symbol in the wrong place at the wrong time. "No. Theres nothing you can do. Its been resolved."

"Has it?"

"Yes."

Neither spoke for several seconds. "All right, Mr. Holcroft. I hope you change your mind, because I think I can help you. I think you need help." Miles paused. "I now make a formal request for your return to the City of New York. You are considered a prime witness in a homicide and intrinsic to our jurisdictional interrogations."

"Sony. Not now."

"I didnt think you would. So let me try informally. It concerns your father."

The terrible news was coming, and he could not help himself. He said the words quietly. "He was killed, wasnt he?"

"I didnt hear that. You see, if I did, Id have to go to my superior and report it. Say you said it without provocation. You drew a conclusion that couldnt possibly be based on anything I said to you. Id have to request extradition."

"Get off it, Miles! Your telephone message wasnt subtle! 'The recent death, et cetera; 'professionally speaking, I recommend, et cetera! What the hell am I supposed to think?"

Again, there was a pause from the New York end. "Okay. Its checkmate. Youve got a case."

"He was murdered, wasnt he?"

"We think so."

"What have you said to my mother?"

"Nothing. Its not my jurisdiction. She doesnt even know my name. And that answers my next question. You havent talked to her yet."

"Obviously. Tell me what happened."

"Your father was in what can best be described as a very unusual accident. He died an hour later, at the hospital, as a result of the injuries."

"What was the accident?"

"An old man from the Bronx lost control of his car near the Plaza Hotel. The car went wild, jumped the curb, and plunged into a crowd of people on the sidewalk. Three were killed instantly. Your father was thrown against the wall; actually, he was pinned, almost crushed."

"Youre saying the car aimed for him!"

"Hard to tell. There was mass confusion, of course."

"Then what are you saying?"

Miles hesitated. "That the car aimed for him."

"Who was the driver?"

"A seventy-two-year-old retired accountant with an inflamed heart, a pacemaker, no family at all, and a license that expired several years ago. The 'pacer was shorted in the accident; the man died on the way to the hospital."

"What was his connection to my father?"

"So far, no definite answers. But Ive got a theory. Do you want to hear it?"

"Of course!"

"Will you come back to New York?"

"Dont press me. Whats your theory?"

"I think the old guy was recruited. I think there was someone else in that car, probably in the back seat, holding a gun to his head. During the confusion, he smashed the pacer and got away. I think it was an execution made to look like a freak accident in which more than the target got killed."

Noel held his breath. There had been another "freak accident." A subway in London had gone out of control, killing five people. And among those killed was the only man who could shed light on John Tennysons employment at the Guardian.

It was bloody well murder....

The thought of a connection was appalling. "Arent you reaching, Miles?" Holcroft asked.

"I said it was a theory, but not without some support. When I saw the name Holcroft on the accident report, I did a little digging. The old man from the Bronx has an interesting history. He came to this country in forty-seven, supposedly a penniless Jewish immigrant, a victim of Dachau. Only he wasnt penniless, as half a dozen bankbooks show, and his apartment is a fortress. Besides which, he made thirteen trips to Germany and back since he got here."

Beads of perspiration broke out on Noels forehead. "What are you trying to say?"

"I dont think that old guy was ever near Dachau. Or if he was, he was part of the management. Almost no one knew him in his apartment building; no one ever saw him in a synagogue. I think he was a Nazi."

Holcroft swallowed. "How does that connect him to my father?"

"Through you. Im not sure how yet, but through you."

"Through me?" Noel felt the acceleration of his heartbeat.

"Yes. In Rio, you told Anderson that someone named Graff was a Nazi and tried to kill you. Anderson said you were crazy on both points, but I dont. I believe you."

"I was mad as hell. I didnt mean to tie one into the other. It was a misunderstanding...." Noel sought desperately to find the words. "Graffs paranoid, a hot-tempered German, so I called him a Nazi, thats all. He thought I was making sketches, taking pictures of his grounds...."

"I said I believed you, Holcroft," broke in the detective. "And Ive got my reasons."

"What are they?" Noel knew he could barely be heard; he was suddenly afraid. His fathers death was a warning. The Rache. The ODESSA. Whichever, it was another warning. His mother had to be protected!

Miles was talking, but Holcroft could not hear the detective; his mind raced in panic. Miles had to be stopped! He could not be allowed near Geneva!

"Those men on the plane who tried to kill you were German," Miles explained. "They used passports taken off two Americans killed in Munich five years ago, but they were German; the dental work gave them away. They were shot at Kennedy Airport; their bodies were found in a fuel truck. The bullets that killed them came from a German Heckler and Koch nine-millimeter pistol. The silencer was made in Munich. Guess where that little old man traveled when he went to Germany-at least on the six trips we were able to trace."

"Munich," whispered Noel.

"Thats right. Munich. Where it all began and where its still going on. A bunch of Nazis are fighting among each other thirty years after that goddamn war is over, and youre right in the middle of it. I want to know why."

Noel felt drained, swept by exhaustion and fear. "Leave it alone. Theres nothing you can do."

"Theres something I might be able to prevent, goddammit! Another murder."

"Cant you understand?" said Holcroft, in pain. "I can say it because he was my father. Nothing can be resolved in New York. It can only be resolved over here. Give me time; for the love of God, give me time. Ill get back to you."

"How long?"

"A month."

"Too much. Cut it in half. Youve got two weeks."

"Miles, please ..."

There was a click on the line; the connection in New York was severed.

Two weeks. Oh, God, it wasnt possible!

But it had to be possible. In two weeks he had to be in a position to stop Miles from going further. He could do that with the resources in Geneva. A philanthropic agency with assets of seven hundred and eighty million dollars would be listened to-quietly, in confidence. Once the account was freed, arrangements could be made, understandings reached, cooperation given and received. The ODESSA would be exposed, the Rache destroyed.

All this would happen only when three acceptable offspring presented themselves to the bank in Geneva. It would happen, Noel was convinced of that, but until then he had to protect his mother. He had to reach Althene and convince her that for the next few weeks she had to disappear.

What could he say to her? Shed never obey him. Shed never listen to him if she believed for an instant her husband had been murdered. What in Gods name could he say to her?

"Allo? Allo, monsieur?" The voice of the operator floated out from the telephone. "Your call to New York-"

Holcroft hung up so quickly he jarred the instruments bell. He could not talk to his mother. Not now. In an hour or so, not now. He had to think. There was so much to think about, so much to do.

He was going mad.

19.

"Hell go mad," said the blond-haired man into the telephone at Hellenikon Airport, in Athens. "He must have heard the news by now. It will be a strain that may tear him apart; he wont know what to do. Tell our man in Paris to stay close to him for the next twenty-four hours. He must not return to America."

"He wont," said Gretchen Beaumont, thousands of miles away.

"You cant be sure. The psychological stresses are building properly; our subjects in a delicate frame of mind. However, he can be guided. Hes waiting for me; he sees me now as his answer to so many things, but the string must be drawn tighter. I want him to go to Berlin first. For a day or two. To Kessler."

"Shall we use his mother? We could plant the idea with her."

"No. Under no circumstances must she be touched. It would be far too dangerous."