"Then how will you suggest Berlin?" asked Gretchen Beaumont, in England.

"I wont," answered John Tennyson, in Athens. "I will convince our sister to lead him to that conclusion. Shes trying to reach me, of course."

"Be careful with her, Johann."

"I will."

Holcroft walked along the concrete bank of the Seine, unaware of the biting winds that came off the river. An hour ago he had been filled with confidence; now he felt lost. He knew only that he had to keep moving, clear his head, make decisions.

He had to reevaluate some matters, too. An hour ago the one man he believed he could count on was Heldens brother. That judgment was suspect now. A runaway car on a New York street that took the life of the only father he had ever known was too similar to an unexplained disaster in a London subway.

The man was killed in a most unusual accident that took five lives ... MI Five.

An execution .... a freak accident in which more than the target got killed. David Miles, NYPD.

The meeting with Tennyson was suddenly not the answer to everything; the shadow of the Tinamou had appeared again. A man would come one day and talk of a strange arrangement. Tennyson was waiting for him, but perhaps he was waiting for the wrong reasons. Perhaps he had sold out their covenant for a higher price.

If he had, he was as responsible for Richard Holcrofts death as surely as if his foot had been on the accelerator and his hands on the wheel. Should that be the case, Tennyson would not leave the meeting alive. The son would kill for the father; he owed Richard Holcroft that.

Noel stopped and put his hands on the concrete wall, astonished at himself ... at his thoughts. He was actually projecting himself into the role of a killer! His covenant was extracting a cost more terrible than anything he had considered.

He would confront Tennyson with the facts as they had been given to him. He would watch the son of Wilhelm von Tiebolt closely. The truth or the lie: It would be in Tennysons words, in his eyes. Holcroft hoped to God he would recognize it.

One step at a time. His mind was clearing. Each move had to be considered carefully; yet that caution could not slow him down.

First things first, and first there was the indisputable fact that he could no longer move freely, carelessly. The most deadly warning of all had been given him: the killing of a loved one. He accepted that warning in fear and in rage. The fear would make him careful; the rage would give him a degree of courage. It had to; he was depending on it.

Next was his mother. What could he say that she would accept without being suspicious? Whatever it was, she had to believe him. If she thought for an instant that her husbands death was the work of men spawned by the Third Reich, she would raise her voice in fury. And her first cry would be her last. What could he say to her that would sound plausible?

He started walking again, absently, his eyes unfocused. As a result, he collided with a short man strolling in the opposite direction.

"Excuse me. Pardon, monsieur," Noel said.

The Frenchman had been glancing at a newspaper; he shrugged, and smiled pleasantly. "Rien."

Noel stopped. The Frenchman reminded him of someone. The round, pleasant face, the spectacles.

Ernst Manfredi.

His mother had respected Manfredi, still owed the Swiss banker a great debt. Perhaps he could speak to Althene through Ernst Manfredi, invent an explanation given him by the banker. Why not? The words would not be contradicted; Manfredi was dead.

It was Manfredi who had been concerned for his old friend Althene Clausen. He had been frightened for her. He had been afraid that during the coming weeks, while the extraordinary account in Geneva was being released, Clausens name would surface. There would be those who remembered a headstrong young woman who left her husband in revulsion, whose words became the basis for Heinrich Clausens moral conversion. A conversion that resulted in the theft of hundreds of millions. Dormant hostilities might be aroused, revenge sought against that woman.

It was Manfredis fear that she had to respect. The old banker knew more than either of them, and if he had thought it best that she disappear for a while, until the impact of the accounts release was diminished, she should take his advice. A sick old man about to end his life did not draw frivolous conclusions.

The explanation made sense; it was consistent with their conversation in Bedford Mills three weeks ago. His mother would see that consistency. She would listen to the "words" of Ernst Manfredi.

Instinctively, Noel glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was following him. It had become a habit. Fear made him careful; rage gave him a certain strength. He wanted very much to see an enemy. He was getting used to his unfamiliar forest.

He headed back to the hotel. He had rushed out of the George V in panic and bewilderment, avoiding the assistant manager, needing the cold air of the streets to clear his head. Now he would accept an aperitif and ask to make another transatlantic call. To his mother.

He walked faster, stopping abruptly twice, turning quickly. Was anyone there?

It was possible. A dark-green Fiat had slowed down a block behind. Good.

He crossed the street rapidly, went into the front entrance of a sidewalk cafe, and emerged seconds later from an exit that led out to the avenue George V. He walked up the block, stopping at a newsstand for a paper.

He could see the green Fiat careening around the corner near the cafe. It stopped abruptly. The driver parked at the curb and lowered his head. Good. It was suddenly made clear to Noel what he would do after the aperitif and the call to Althene.

He would see Helden. He needed a gun.

Von Tlebolt stared at the mouthpiece of the pay phone in the Athens airport, his lips parted in shock.

"What did you say?" he asked.

"Its true, Johann," said Helden in Paris. "British Intelligence thinks you may be the Tinamou."

"How extraordinary." The astonished blond man drew out the word. "And outrageous!"

"Thats what I said to Holcroft. I told him you were being hounded for the things you write ... and because of who you are. Who we are."

"Yes, I imagine so." Von Tiebolt could not concentrate on his sisters reasoning; he gripped the receiver in anger. An error had been made somewhere; steps had to be taken immediately to correct it. What had led MI Five to him? Every track had been covered! But then, he could produce the Tinamou at will; it was his final strategy. No one was more trusted than the suspect who produced the hunted killer. This was the ultimate tactic of his creation. He might have to employ it sooner than he thought.

"Johann, are you there?"

"Yes, sorry."

"You must meet Holcroft as soon as possible."

"Of course. Ill be in Paris in four or five days...."

"Not until then?" interrupted Helden. "Hes very anxious."

"Its quite impossible."

"Theres so much more to tell you...." She told him of the account in Geneva; of the agency in Zurich that would dispense hundreds of millions; of the American son of Heinrich Clausen; of Erich Kessler in Berlin; of the Von Tiebolts in Rio. Finally, haltingly, she repeated the words uttered by their sister: A man will come one day and talk of a strange arrangement "Did you say that?" she asked her brother.

"Yes. Theres a great deal youve never been told. I didnt know when or how it would happen, only that it would. I spoke to Gretchen earlier. This Holcroft saw her the other night. Im afraid she wasnt much help to him. We have a commitment as profound and as moving as anything in recent history. Amends must be made...."

"Thats what Holcroft said," broke in Helden.

"Im sure he did."

"Hes frightened. He tries not to show it, but he is."

"He should be. Its an enormous responsibility. I have to learn what he knows in order to help."

"Then come to Paris now."

"I cant. Its only a few days."

"Im worried. If Noels what he says he is, and I see no reason to doubt him-"

" 'Noel?" asked the brother, with mild surprise.

"I like him, Johann."

"Go on."

"If hes the one thats to bring the three of you to the directors of La Grande Banque, then nothing can happen in Geneva without him."

"So?"

"Others know that. I think they know about the account in Switzerland. Terrible things have happened. Theyve tried to stop him."

"Who?"

"My guess would be the Rache. Or the ODESSA."

"Thats doubtful," said John Tennyson. "Neither is capable of keeping such extraordinary news quiet. Take a newspapermans word for it."

"The Rache kills; so does the ODESSA. Someone tried to kill Noel."

Tennyson smiled to himself; errors had been made, but the primary strategy was working. Holcroft was being pounded on all sides. When everything came together in Geneva, hed be exhausted, completely malleable. "He must be very cautious, then. Teach him the things you know, Helden. As much as you can. The tricks weve all learned from one another."

"Hes seen some of those tricks," said the girl, a soft, compassionate laugh in her voice. "He hates using them."

"Better than ending up dead." The blond man paused. The transition had to be casual. "Gretchen mentioned a photograph, a picture of Beaumont. She thinks Holcroft took it."

"He did. Hes convinced he saw Beaumont on the plane from New York to Rio. He thinks he was following him. Its part of what hell tell you."

So it was the plane, thought Tennyson. The American was more observant than Beaumont had wanted to believe. Beaumonts disappearance would be explained in a matter of days, but it would be difficult to explain the photograph in Holcrofts possession if he showed it to the wrong people in Switzerland. The fanatic commander had left too obvious a trail, from Rio to the Admiralty. They had to get the photograph back. "I dont know what to say to that, Helden. I never liked Beaumont. I never trusted him. But hes been in the Mediterranean for months. I dont see how he could have left his ship and turned up on a plane out of New York. Holcrofts wrong." Tennyson paused again. "However, I think Noel should bring the photograph with him when we meet. He shouldnt be carrying it around. Nor should he talk about Beaumont. Tell him that. It could lead people to Gretchen. To us. Yes, I think it would be a good idea if he brought the photograph with him."

"He cant do that. It was stolen from him."

The blond man froze. It was impossible. None of them had taken the photograph! No Sonnenkind. Hed be the first to know. Someone else? He lowered his voice. "What do you mean, 'stolen from him?"

"Just that. A man chased him, beat him unconscious, and took the picture. Nothing else, just the photograph."

"What man!"

"He didnt know. It was night; he couldnt see. He woke up in a field miles away from Portsmouth."

"He was attacked in Portsmouth?"

"About a mile from Gretchens house, as I gather."

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. "Are you sure Holcroft wasnt lying?"

"Why should he?"

"What exactly did he tell you?"

"That he was chased by a man in a black sweater. The man hit him with a blunt weapon and took the photograph out of his pocket when he was unconscious. Just the photograph. Not his money or anything else."

"I see." But he did not see! And it was the unseen that disturbed him. He could not convey his fears to Helden; as always, he had to appear in total control. Yet he had to search out this unseen, unknown disturbance. "Helden, Id like you to do something ... for all of us. Do you think you could arrange to take a day off from work?"

"I imagine so. Why?"

"I think we should try and find out who it is that has so much interest in Holcroft. Perhaps you might suggest a drive in the country, to Fontainebleau or Barbizon."

"But why?"

"I have a friend in Paris; he often does odd jobs for me. Ill ask him to follow you, very discreetly, of course. Perhaps well learn who else takes the trip."

"One of our people could do it."

"No, I dont think so. Dont involve your friends. Herr Oberst should not be a part of this."

"All right. Well start out around ten in the morning. From his hotel. The Douzaine Heures, rue Chevalle. How will I know the man?"

"You wont. Hell pick you up. Say nothing to Holcroft; it would upset him needlessly."

"Very well. Youll call me when you get to Paris?"

"The minute I arrive, meine Schwester."

"Danke, mein Bruder."

Tennyson replaced the phone. There was a last call to make before he boarded the plane to Berlin. Not to Gretchen, now; he did not want to speak with her. If Beaumonts actions proved to be as disastrous as they appeared, if in his recklessness he had impeded the cause of Wolfsschanze, then all the strings that led to him and through him to Geneva would have to be severed. It was not an easy decision to make. He loved Gretchen as few men on earth loved their sisters; in a way that the world disapproved of because the world did not understand. She took care of his needs, satiated his hungers, so that there were never any outside complications. His mind was free to concentrate on his extraordinary mission in life. But that, too, might have to end. Gretchen, his sister, his lover, might have to die.

Holcroft listened to Althenes last words, stunned at her equilibrium, astonished that it had been so easy. The funeral had been yesterday.

"You do what you must, Noel. A good man died needlessly, foolishly, and thats the obscenity. But its over; theres nothing either of us can do."

"Theres something you can do for me."

"Whats that?"

He told her of Manfredis death-as the Swiss believed it had happened. An old man wracked with pain, preferring a quick end to prolonged suffering and infirmity. "The last thing he did as a banker was to meet with me in Geneva."

Althene was silent for a moment, reflecting on a friend who once meant a great deal to her. "It was like him to fulfill an agreement as important as the one he brought to you. He wouldnt leave it to others."

"There was something else; it concerned you. He said youd understand." Holcroft held the telephone firmly and spoke as convincingly as he could. He expressed Manfredis "concerns" about those who might remember a headstrong woman many believed responsible for the conversion of Heinrich Clausen, and for his decision to betray the Reich. He explained that it was entirely possible that there remained fanatics who might still seek revenge. Manfredis old friend Althene Clausen should not risk being a target; she should go away for a while, where no one could find her in the event Clausens name surfaced. "Can you understand, mother?"

"Yes," answered Althene. "Because he said it to me once before, several hundred years ago. On a warm afternoon in Berlin. He said they would look for us then, too. He was right; hes right now. The world is filled with lunatics."

"Where will you go?"