"I just told you that."

"Thats where I saw him! I couldnt remember where before. He followed me from Geneva."

"Im afraid I dont know what youre talking about."

"Wheres Beaumont now?" asked Noel.

"Back on board ship. Gretchen left several days ago to join him. In Saint-Tropez, I think."

Tomorrow I go to the Mediterranean. To a man I loathe.... Everything made so much more sense now. Perhaps Tennyson was not the only man in that room who had been unfair in his judgments.

"Weve got to find out who sent Beaumont after me," said Noel, picturing the man in a black leather jacket. Tennyson was right; their conclusions were the same, There was someone else.

"I agree," said the blond man. "Shall we go together?"

Holcroft was tempted. But he had not finished. There could be no unanswered questions later. Not once the commitment had been made between them.

"Maybe," he replied. "There are two other things I want to ask you about. And I warn you, I want the answers now, not in a 'matter of days. "

"All right."

"You killed someone in Rio."

Tennysons eyes narrowed. "Helden told you."

"I had to know; she understood that. There are conditions in Geneva that wont allow surprises. If you can be blackmailed, I cant let you go on."

Tennyson nodded. "I see."

"Who was it? Whom did you kill?"

"You mistake my reticence," replied the blond man. "Ive no compunction whatsoever about telling you who it was. Im trying to think how you can check up on what I say. Theres no blackmail involved. There couldnt be; but how can you be sure?"

"Lets start with a name."

"Manuel Cararra."

"Cararra?..."

"Yes. Its why those two young people used it. They knew Id see the political connection. Cararra was a leader in the Chamber of Deputies, one of the most powerful men in the country. But his allegiance was not to Brazil; it was to Graff. To the ODESSA. I killed him seven years ago, and Id kill him tomorrow."

Noel studied Tennysons face. "Who knew?"

"A few old men. Only ones still alive. Ill give you his name, if you like. Hed never say anything about the killing."

"Why not?"

"The shoe, as they say, was on the other foot. Before I left Rio de Janeiro, I met with them. My threat was clear. If ever they pursued me, I would make public what I knew about Cararra. The long-revered image of a conservative martyr would be shattered. The conservative cause in Brazil cant tolerate that."

"I want the name."

"Ill write it out for you." Tennyson did. "Im sure you can reach him by transatlantic telephone. It wont take much; my name coupled with Cararras should be enough."

"I may do that."

"By all means," said Tennyson. "Hell confirm what Ive told you."

The two men faced each other, only feet apart. "There was a subway accident in London," Noel went on. "A number of people were killed, including a man who worked for the Guardian. He was the man whose signature was on your employment records. The man who interviewed you, the only one who could shed any light on how or why you were hired."

Tennysons eyes were suddenly cold again. "It was a shock. Ill never get over it. What is your question?"

"There was another accident. In New York. Only days ago. A number of innocent people were killed then, too, but one of them was the target. Someone I loved very much."

"I repeat! Whats your point, Holcroft?"

"Theres a certain similarity, wouldnt you say? MI Five doesnt know anything about the accident in New York, but it has very specific ideas about the one in London. Ive put them together and come up with a disturbing connection. What do you know about that accident five years ago in London?"

Tennysons body was rigid. "Watch out," he said. "The British go too far. What do you want of me? How far will you go to discredit me?"

"Cut the bullshit!" said Noel. "What happened in that subway?"

"I was there!" The blond man thrust his hand up to his collar beneath the pinstriped suit. He yanked furiously, ripping his shirt half off his chest, exposing a scar that extended from the base of his throat to his breast "I dont know anything about New York, but the experience in Charing Cross five years ago is one Ill live with for the rest of my life! Here it is; theres not a day when Im not reminded of it. Forty-seven stitches, neck to thorax. I thought for a few moments-five years ago in London- that my head had been half cut off from the rest of me. And that man you speak of so enigmatically was my dearest friend in England! He helped get us out of Brazil. If someone killed him, they tried to kill me, too! I was with him."

"I didnt know.... The British didnt say anything. They didnt know you were there."

"Then I suggest someone look. Theres a hospital record around somewhere. It shouldnt be hard to find." Tennyson shook his head in disgust. "Im sorry, I shouldnt be angry at you. Its the British; theyll use anything."

"Its possible they really didnt know."

"I suppose so. Hundreds of people were taken off that train. A dozen clinics in London were filled that night; no one paid much attention to names. But youd think they would have found mine. I was in the hospital for several days." Tennyson stopped abruptly. "You said someone you loved was killed in New York only a few days ago? What happened?"

Noel told him how Richard Holcroft had been run down in the streets, and of the theory conceived by David Miles. It was pointless to withhold anything from this man he had come close to misjudging so completely.

In the telling was the conclusion both men had arrived at.

In my judgment, our checkmated pig was reached by a third party.

Who?

I wish to heaven I knew....

Someone else.

A man in a black leather jacket. Defiant in a dark alley in Berlin. Willing to die ... asking to be shot. Refusing to say who he was or where he came from. Someone or something more powerful, more knowledgeable, than the Rache or the ODESSA.

Someone else.

Noel told Tennyson everything, relieved that he could say it all. The relief was heightened by the way the blond man listened. His speckled gray eyes never wavered from Holcrofts face; they were riveted, totally absorbed. When he had finished, Noel felt exhausted. "Thats all I know."

Tennyson nodded. "Weve finally met, havent we? We both had to say what was on our minds. We both thought the other was the enemy, and we were both wrong. Now, we have work to do."

"How long have you known about Geneva?" asked Holcroft. "Gretchen told me that you said a man would come one day and speak of a strange arrangement."

"Since I was a child. My mother told me there was an extraordinary sum of money that was to be used for great works, to make amends for the terrible things done in Germanys name, but not by true Germans. But only that fact, no specifics."

"You dont know Erich Kessler, then."

"I remember the name, but only vaguely. I was very young."

"Youll like him."

"As you describe him, Im sure I will. You say hes bringing his brother to Geneva? Is that allowed?"

"Yes. I said Id telephone him in Berlin and give him dates."

"Why not wait until tomorrow or the day after? Call him from Saint-Tropez?"

"Beaumont?"

"Beaumont," said Tennyson, his mouth set. "I think we should meet with our checkmated pig. He has something to tell us. Specifically, who was his latest employer? Who sent him to that train station in Geneva? Who paid him for-or blackmailed him into-following you to New York and then to Rio de Janeiro? When we find this out, well know where your man in the black leather jacket came from."

Someone else.

Noel looked at his watch. It was nearly six oclock; he and Tennyson had talked for more than two hours, yet there was still a great deal more to say. "Do you want to have dinner with your sister and me?" he asked.

Tennyson smiled. "No, my friend. Well talk on our way south. Ive calls to make and copy to file. I mustnt forget Im a newspaperman. Where are you staying?"

"At the George Cinq. Under the name of Fresca."

"Ill phone you later this evening." Tennyson extended his hand. "Until tomorrow."

"Tomorrow."

"Incidentally, if my fraternal blessings mean anything, you have them."

Johann von Tiebolt stood at the railing of the terrace in the cold air of the early evening. Below, on the street, he could see Holcroft emerge from the building and walk east on the sidewalk.

It had all been so easy. The orchestration of lies had been studiously thought out and arranged, the rendering underpinned with outraged conviction and sudden revelation that led to acceptance. An old man would be alerted in Rio; he knew what to say. A medical record would be placed in a London hospital, the dates and information corresponding to a tragic accident on the Charing Cross underground five years ago. And if all went according to schedule, a news item would be carried in the evening papers reporting another tragedy. A naval officer and his wife had disappeared in a small pleasure boat off the Mediterranean coast.

Von Tiebolt smiled. Everything was going as it had been projected thirty years ago. Even the Nachrichtendienst could not stop them now. In a matter of days the Nachrichtendienst would be castrated.

It was time for the Tinamou.

30.

Noel hurried through the lobby of the George V, eager to get to his room, to Helden. Geneva was closer now; it would be closer still when they met Anthony Beaumont in Saint-Tropez and forced the truth from him.

Too, he was anxious to learn whether Buonoventura had returned his call. His mother had said she would let Sam know her plans. All Miles knew in New York was that Althene had left Mexico City for Lisbon. Why Lisbon? And who had followed her?

The image of the man in the black leather jacket came back to Holcroft. The steady look in his eyes, the acceptance of death ... kill me and another will take my place. Kill him, another his.

The elevator was empty, the ascent swift. The door opened; Noel caught his breath at the sight of the man standing in the corridor facing him. It was the Verwnschte Kind from Sacre-Coeur, the fashion plate who had searched him in front of the candles.

"Good evening, monsieur."

"What are you doing here? Is Helden all right?"

"She can answer your questions."

"So can you." Holcroft grabbed the mans arm and turned him forcefully toward the door of the room.

"Take your hands off me!"

"When she tells me to let you go, Ill let you go. Come on." Noel propelled the man down the corridor to the door, and knocked.

In seconds the door opened. Helden stood there, startled at the sight of the two of them. In her hand was a folded newspaper; in her eyes was something beyond her astonishment: sadness.

"Whats the matter?" she asked.

"Thats what I wanted to know, but he wouldnt tell me." Holcroft pushed the man through the door.

"Noel, please. Hes one of us."

"I want to know why hes here."

"I called him; he had to know where I was. He told me he had to see me. Im afraid hes brought us dreadful news."

"What?"

"Read the papers," said the man. "There are both French and English."

Holcroft picked up a copy of the Herald Tribune from the coffee table.

"Page two," said the man. "Top left."

Noel turned the page, snapping it flat. He read the words, a sense of anger... and fear ... sweeping over him.

NAVAL OFFICER AND WIFE LOST IN MEDITERRANEAN.

St.-Tropez-Commander Anthony Beaumont, captain of the patrol ship Argo and a highly decorated officer of Her Majestys Royal Navy, along with his wife, who had joined him in this resort town for the weekend, were feared drowned when their small boat foundered in an angry squall several miles south along this rock-bound coast. A capsized craft fitting the description of the small boat was sighted by low-flying coastal search planes. The commander and his wife had not been heard from in over forty-eight hours, prompting second-in-command of the Argo, Lt. Morgan Llewellen, to issue search directives. The Admiralty has concluded that Commander and Mrs. Beaumont lost their lives in the tragic accident. The couple had no children.