"Yes. You know something about him?"

"Only what Ive read."

"I gather some people think hes been responsible for dozens of assassinations."

"And the British think its Johann von Tiebolt?"

"Theyre wrong," said Noel. "Im certain they know it now. Something happened yesterday afternoon that proves it. Youll understand when I come to it."

"Go on."

He touched briefly on the evening with Gretchen, the photograph of Anthony Beaumont. He went on to Helden and Herr Oberst, then to the death of Richard Holcroft. He described the calls between himself and a detective in New York named Miles, as well as conversations with his mother.

He told of the green Fiat that had followed them to Barbizon, and the man with the pockmarked face.

Then came the madness of the fte dhiver. How he had tried to trap the man in the Fiat and had himself nearly been killed.

"I told you a few minutes ago the British were wrong about Tennyson," Noel said.

"Tennyson? Oh, the name Von Tiebolt assumed."

"Thats right. MI Five was convinced that everything that happened in Montereau, including the man with the pockmarked face who was following us, was the work of the Tinamou. But that man was killed; he worked for Von Tiebolt; they knew that. Helden even confirmed it."

"And," interrupted Kessler, "the Tinamou would not kill his own man."

"Exactly."

"Then the agent will tell his superiors...."

"He cant," broke in Noel. "He was shot saving Heldens life. But identifications will be made; the British will piece it together."

"Will the British find the agent who died?"

"Word will get back to them. It has to. The police were everywhere; theyll find his body."

"Can he be traced to you?"

"Its possible. We fought in the square; people will remember. But as Helden put it: We were followed; we didnt do the following. Theres no reason why we should know anything."

"You sound unsure."

"Before the agent died, I decided to mention Baldwins name to him, to see if I could learn anything. He reacted as if Id fired a gun in front of his face. He pleaded with Helden and me to get in touch with a man named Payton-Jones. We were supposed to tell him everything that happened; tell him to find out who attacked us, who killed Von Tiebolts man, and most important, to tell MI Five he believed it was all related to Peter Baldwin."

"To Baldwin? Hed been with MI Six, you said?"

"Yes. Hed gone to them some time ago with information about the survivors of Wolfsschanze."

"Wolfsschanze?" Kessler repeated the name softly. "That was the letter Manfredi gave you in Geneva, the one written over thirty years ago."

"Thats right. The agent said we were to tell Payton-Jones to go back to Baldwins file. To 'code Wolfsschanze. That was the phrase he used."

"In his phone call to you in New York, did Baldwin mention Wolfsschanze?" asked Kessler.

"No. He said only that I should stay away from Geneva; that he knew things no one else knew. Then he went to answer the door and he never came back."

Kesslers eyes were colder now. "So Baldwin had learned about Geneva and this Wolfsschanzes commitment to it."

"How much he learned we dont know. It could be very little, just rumors."

"But these rumors are enough to stop you from going to MI Five. Even the advantage of warning them that Beaumont is ODESSA could be too great a price. The British would question you and the girl at length; there are a thousand ways, and theyre experts. Baldwins name might surface and they would go back to his file. You cant take that chance."

"I came to the same conclusion," said Holcroft, impressed.

"Perhaps theres another way to get Beaumont away from you."

"How?"

"The ODESSA is loathed here in Germany. Word to the proper people could result in his removal. Youd never have to reach the British yourself, never have to risk Baldwins name coming to light."

"Could that be arranged?"

"Unquestionably. If Beaumonts really an ODESSA agent, a brief message from the Bonn government to the Foreign Office would be enough. I know any number of men who could send it."

Relief swept over Holcroft. One more obstacle was being removed. "Im glad we met ... that youre you and not somebody else."

"Dont be too quick to make that judgment. You want my answer. Will I join you? Frankly, I-"

"I dont want your answer yet," interrupted Noel. "You were fair with me, and I have to be fair with you, Im not finished. There was tonight."

"Tonight?" Kessler was disturbed, impatient.

"Yes. The last couple of hours, in fact."

"What happened ... tonight?"

Noel leaned forward. "We know about the Rache and the ODESSA. Were not sure how much they know about Geneva, but were damned sure what theyd do if they knew enough. We know about the men of Wolfs-schanze. Whoever they are, theyre crazy-no better than the others-but in their own strange way theyre on our side; they want Geneva to succeed. But theres someone else. Someone-something-much more powerful than the others. I found that out tonight."

"What are you saying?" The tone of Kesslers voice did not change.

"A man followed me from my hotel. He was on a motorbike and stayed with my taxi across Berlin."

"A man on a motorbike?"

"Yes. Like a damned fool I led him here. I realized how stupid that was, and knew I had to stop him. I managed to do it, but I never meant it to happen the way it did. He was no part of the Rache, no part of the ODESSA. He hated them both, called them butchers and clowns...."

"He called them ..." Kessler was silent for a moment. Then he continued, regaining part of the composure he had lost. "Tell me everything that happened, everything that was said."

"Do you have any ideas?"

"No.... Not at all. Im merely interested. Tell me."

Holcroft had no difficulty remembering it all. The chase, the trap, the exchange of words, the gunshot. When he had finished, Kessler asked him to go back to the words he and the man in the black leather jacket had said to each other. Then he asked Noel to repeat them again. And again.

"Who was he?" Holcroft knew that Kesslers mind was racing ahead of his. "Who are they?"

"There are several possibilities," said the German, "but obviously theyre Nazis. Neo-Nazis, to be precise. Descendants of the party, a splinter faction that has no use for the ODESSA. It happens."

"But how would they know about Geneva?"

"Millions stolen from the occupied countries, from Wehrmacht payrolls, from the Finanzministerium. All banked in Switzerland. Such massive manipulations could not be kept completely secret."

Something bothered Noel, something Kessler had just said, but he could not put his finger on it "But what good would it do them? They cant get the money. They could only tie it up in the courts for years. Where do they benefit?"

"You dont understand the hard-core Nazi. None of you ever did. Its not merely how he can benefit. Its of equal importance to him that others do not benefit. That was his essential destructiveness."

There was a sudden, loud commotion outside the booth. A single crash, then several; followed by a womans scream that triggered other screams.

The curtain across the booth was yanked aside. The figure of a man loomed suddenly in the open space and plunged forward, falling over the table, his eyes wide and staring, blood streaming from his mouth and his neck. His face was contorted, his body wracked with convulsions; his hands lurched over the surface of the table, gripping the sides between Holcroft and Kessler. He whispered, gasping for air, "Wolfsschanze! Soldaten von Wolfsschanze!"

He raised his head in the start of a scream. His breath was forced out of him, and his head crashed down on the table. The man in the black leather jacket was dead.

26.

The next moments were as bewildering to Noel as they were chaotic. The screaming and the shouting grew louder; waves of panic spread throughout the pub. The blood-soaked man had slipped off the table and was now sprawled on the floor.

"Rudi! Rudi!"

"Herr Kessler! Come with me!"

"Quickly!" yelled Erich.

"What?"

"This way, my friend. You cant be seen here."

"But hes the one!"

"Say nothing, Noel. Please, take my arm."

"What? Where?..."

"Your briefcase! The papers!"

Holcroft grabbed the papers and shoved them into the case. He felt himself being pulled into a circle of onlookers. He was not sure where he was being taken, but that it was away from the dead man in the black leather jacket was enough. He followed blindly.

Kessler pulled him through the crowd. In front of Kessler was the manager, parting the bodies in their path, the path that led to a closed door beneath and to the left of the staircase. The manager took a key from his pocket, opened the door, and rushed the three of them inside. He slammed the door shut and turned to Kessler.

"I dont know what to say, gentlemen! Its terrible. A drunken brawl."

"No doubt, Rudi. And we thank you," replied Kessler.

"Natrlich. A man of your stature cant be involved."

"Youre most kind. Is there a way outside?"

"Yes. My private entrance. Over here."

The entrance led into an alleyway. "This way," Kessler said. "My cars on the street."

They hurried out of the alley into the Kurfrstendamm, turning left on the sidewalk. To the right, an excited crowd had gathered in front of the pubs entrance. Farther on, Noel could see a policeman running up the street.

"Quickly," said Kessler.

The car was a vintage Mercedes; they climbed in. Kessler started the engine, but did not idle it. Instead, he put the car in gear and sped west.

"That man ... in the jacket ... he was the one who followed me," Holcroft whispered.

"I gathered as much," answered Kessler. "He found his way back, after all."

"My God," cried Noel. "What did I do?"

"You didnt kill him, if thats what you mean."

Holcroft stared at Kessler. "What?"

"You didnt kill that man."

"The gun went off! He was shot."

"I dont doubt it. But the bullet didnt kill him."

"What did then?"

"Obviously you didnt see his throat. He had been garroted."

"Baldwin in New York!"

"Wolfsschanze in Berlin," answered Kessler. "His death was timed to the split second. Someone in that restaurant outside the booth, brought him to within feet of our table and used the noise and the crowd to cover the execution."

"Oh, Jesus! Then whoever it was ..." Noel could not finish the statement; fear was making him ill. He wanted to vomit.