In spite of the darkness, Noel could see an expression of contempt on the mans face. "The Rache?" he said. "Terrorists without a cause, revolutionaries no one wants in his camp. Butchers. Im no part of the Rache!"

"The ODESSA, then."

"Youd like that, wouldnt you."

"What do you mean?"

"Youll use the ODESSA when the time comes. It can be blamed for so much. You can kill so easily in its name. I suppose the irony is that wed kill the ODESSA as quickly as you would. But youre the ones we want; we know the difference between clowns and monsters. Believe me, well stop you."

"Youre not making sense! Youre not part of Wolfsschanze; you couldnt be!"

The man lowered his voice. "But we are all part of Wolfsschanze, arent we? In one way or another," he said, a challenge in his eyes. "I say it again. You can kill me, but another will take my place. Kill him, another his. We will stop you. So shoot, Herr Clausen. Or should I say, son of Reichsfhrer Heinrich Clausen."

"What the hell are you talking about? I dont want to kill you. I dont want to kill anybody!"

"You killed in France."

"If I killed a man, it was because he tried to kill me."

"Aber natrlich, Herr Clausen."

"Stop calling me that."

"Why? Its your name, isnt it?"

"No! My name is Holcroft."

"Of course," said the man. "That was part of the plan. The respected American with no discernible ties to his past. And if anyone traced them, it would be too late."

"Too late for what? Who are you? Who sent you?"

"There is no way you can force that from me. We are not part of your plan."

Holcroft took the gun from his pocket and stepped closer. "What plan?" he asked, hoping to learn something, anything.

"Geneva."

"What about Geneva? Its a city in Switzerland."

"We know everything, and its finished. You wont stop the eagles. Not this time. We will stop you!"

"Eagles? What eagles! Whos 'we?"

"Never. Pull the trigger. I wont tell you. You wont trace us."

Noel was perspiring, though the winter night was cold. Nothing this enemy said made sense. It was possible that an enormous error had been made. The man in front of him was prepared to die, but he was not a fanatic; there was too much intelligence behind the eyes. "Not with the Rache, not with the ODESSA. For Gods sake, why do you want to stop Geneva? Wolfsschanze doesnt want to stop it; you must know that!"

"Not your Wolfsschanze. But we can put that fortune to great use."

"No! If you interfere, there wont be anything. Youll never get the money."

"We both know that doesnt have to be."

"Youre wrong! Itll go back into the ground for another thirty years."

The unknown enemy drew himself up in the shadows. "Thats the flaw, isnt it? You put it so well: 'back into the ground. But, if I may be permitted, therell be no scorched earth then."

"No what?"

"No scorched earth." The man stepped backward. "Weve talked enough. You had your chance; you have it still. You can kill me, but it will do you no good. We have the photograph. Were beginning to understand."

"The photograph? In Portsmouth? You?"

"A most respected commander in the Royal Navy. It was interesting that you should take it."

"For Christs sake! Who are you?"

"One who fights you, son of Heinrich Clausen."

"I told you-"

"I know," said the German. "I should not say that. In point of fact, I shall say nothing further. I will turn around and walk out of this alleyway. Shoot, if you must. I am prepared. We are all prepared."

The man turned slowly and began walking. It was more than Noel could stand.

"Stop!" he yelled, pursuing the German. Then grabbing his shoulder with his left hand.

The man spun around. "We have nothing further to say."

"Yes, we do! Were going to stay here all night, if we have to! Youre going to tell me who you are and where you came from and what the hell you know about Geneva and Beaumont and-"

It was as far as he got. The mans hand shot out, his fingers clasping Noels right wrist, twisting it inward and downward as his right knee hammered up into Holcrofts groin. Noel doubled forward in agony, but he would not let go of the gun. He shoved his shoulder into the mans midsection, trying to push him away, the pain in his testicles spreading up into his stomach and chest. The man brought his fist crashing down into the base of Holcrofts skull, sending shock waves through his ribs and spine. But he would not relinquish the gun! The man could not have the gun! Noel gripped it as if it were the last steel clamp on a lifeboat. He lurched up, springing with what strength he had left in his legs, wrenching the automatic away from the mans grip.

There was an explosion; it echoed through the alley. The mans arm fell away, and he staggered backward, grabbing his shoulder. He had been wounded, but he did not collapse. Instead, he braced himself against the wall and spoke through gasps of breath.

"Well stop you. And well do it our way. Well take Geneva!"

With those words he propelled himself down the alley, clawing at the wall for support. Holcroft turned; there were figures clustered about the alleys entrance on the Schnbergstrasse. He could hear police whistles and see the coruscating beams of flashlights. The Berlin police were moving in.

He was caught.

But he could not be caught! There was Kessler; there was Geneva. He could not be detained now!

Heldens words came back to him. Lie indignantly ... with confidence ... invent your own variations.

Noel shoved the automatic in his pocket and started toward the Schnbergstrasse, toward the slowly approaching flashlights and the two uniformed men who held them.

"Im an American!" he yelled in a frightened voice. "Does anyone speak English?"

A man from the crowd shouted, "I do! What happened?"

"I was walking through here and someone tried to rob me! He had a gun but I didnt know it! I shoved him and it went off...."

The Berliner translated quickly for the police.

"Where did he go?" asked the man.

"I think hes still there. In one of the doorways. Ive got to sit down...."

The Berliner touched Holcrofts shoulder. "Come." He began leading Noel out through the crowd toward the sidewalk.

The police yelled into the dark alleyway. There was no response; the unknown enemy had made his escape. The uniformed men cautiously continued forward.

"Thanks very much," said Noel. "Id just like to get some air, calm down, you know what I mean?"

"Ja. A terrible experience."

"I think theyve got him," added Holcroft suddenly, looking back toward the police and the crowd.

The Berliner turned; Noel stepped off the curb, into the street. He started walking, slowly at first, then found a break in the traffic and crossed to the sidewalk on the other side. There he turned and ran as fast as he could through the crowds, toward the Kurfrstendamm.

He had done it, thought Holcroft, as he sat, coatless and hatless, shivering on a deserted bench within sight of the Kaiser Wilhelm Church. He had absorbed the lessons and put them to use; he had invented his own variations and eluded the trap he had set for another, but which had sprung back, ensnaring himself. Beyond this, he had immobilized the man in the black leather jacket. That man would be detained, if only to find a doctor.

Above all, he had learned that Helden was wrong. And the dead Manfredi-who would not say the names-had been wrong. It was not members of the ODESSA, nor of the Rache, who were Genevas most powerful enemies. It was another group, one infinitely more knowledgeable and deadlier. An enigma that counted among its adherents men who would die calmly, with intelligence in their eyes and reasonable speech on their tongues.

The race to Geneva was against three violent forces wanting to destroy the covenant, but one was far more ingenious than the other two. The man in the black leather jacket had spoken of the Rache and the ODESSA in terms so disparaging they could not have sprung from envy or fear. He had dismissed them as incompetent butchers and clowns of whom he wanted no part. For he was part of something else, something far superior.

Holcroft looked at his watch. He had been sitting in the cold for nearly an hour, the ache in his groin still there, the base of his skull stiff with pain. He had stuffed the mackinaw and the black-visored cap into a refuse bin several blocks away. They would have been too easy to spot if the Berlin police had an alarm out for him.

It was time to go now; there were no signs of the police, no signs of anyone interested in him. The cold air had done nothing for his pain, but it had helped clear his head, and until that had happened he dared not move. He could move now; he had to. It was almost nine oclock. It was time to meet with Erich Kessler, the third key to Geneva.

25.

The pub was now crowded, as he expected it would be, the layers of smoke thicker, the Bavarian music louder. The manager greeted him pleasantly, but his eyes betrayed his thoughts: Something had happened to this American within the last hour. Noel was embarrassed; he wondered if his face was scratched, or streaked with dirt.

"Id like to wash up. I had a nasty fall."

"Certainly. Over there, sir." The manager pointed to the mens room. "Professor Kessler has arrived. Hes waiting for you. I gave him your briefcase."

"Thanks again," said Holcroft, turning toward the door of the washroom.

He looked at his face in the mirror. There were no stains, no dirt, no blood. But there was something in his eyes, a look associated with pain and shock and exhaustion. And fear. Thats what the manager had seen.

He ran the water in the basin until it was lukewarm, doused his face and combed his hair and wished he could take that look out of his eyes. Then he returned to the manager, who led him to a booth at the rear of the hall, farthest from the rooms activity. The red-checked curtain was drawn across the table.

"Herr Professor?"

The curtain was pulled aside, revealing a man in his mid-forties with a large girth and a full face framed by a short beard and thick brown hair combed straight back over his head. It was a gentle face, the deep-set eyes alive, tinged with anticipation, even humor.

"Mister Holcroft?"

"Dr. Kessler?"

"Sit down, sit down." Kessler made a brief attempt to rise as he held out his hand; the contact between his stomach and the table prevented it. He laughed and looked at the pubs manager. "Next week! Ja, Rudi? Our diets."

"Ach, natrlich, Professor."

"This is my new friend from America. Mr. Holcroft."

"Yes, we met earlier."

"Of course you did. You gave me his briefcase." Kessler patted Noels attache case, next to him on the seat "Im drinking scotch. Join me, Mr. Holcroft?"

"Scotchll be fine. Just ice."

The manager nodded and left. Noel settled back in the seat. Kessler exuded a kind of weary warmth; it was an expression of tolerance from an intellect constantly exposed to lesser minds but too kind to dwell on comparisons. Holcroft had known several men like that. Among them were his finest teachers. He was comfortable with Erich Kessler; it was a good way to begin.

"Thanks so much for seeing me. Ive got a lot to tell you."

"Catch your breath first," said Kessler. "Have a drink. Calm down."

"What?"

"Youve had a difficult time. Its written all over your face."

"Its that obvious?"

"Id say you were that distraught, Mr. Holcroft"

"Its Noel. Please. We should get to know each other."

"A pleasant prospect, Im sure. My name is Erich. Its a chilly night outside. Too cold to go without an overcoat. Yet you obviously arrived without one. Theres no checkroom here."

"I was wearing one. I had to get rid of it. Ill explain."

"You dont have to."

"Im afraid I do. I wish I didnt, but its part of my story."

"I see. Ah, heres your scotch."