She held out both her hands and he took them, sitting naked in front of her. "Whats your secret?"

"Its your competition. The man I live with. Are you ready?"

"Im ready."

"Its Herr Oberst. I love him."

"The old man?" Noel breathed again.

"Yes. Are you furious?"

"Beside myself. Ill have to challenge him to a duel." Holcroft took her in his arms.

Helden laughed and kissed him. "Ive got to see him today."

"Ill go with you. Ive got your brothers blessing. Ill see if I can get his."

"No. I must go alone. Ill only be an hour or so."

"Two hours. Thats the limit."

"Two hours. Ill stand in front of his wheelchair and say, 'Herr Oberst. Im leaving you for another man. Do you think hell be crushed?"

"Itll kill him," whispered Noel. He pulled her gently down on the bed.

34.

Tennyson walked into the parking lot at Orly Airport and saw the gray Renault. The driver of the car was the second-highest-ranking official of the Srete. He had been born in Dsseldorf, but grew up a Frenchman, sent out of Germany on a plane from a remote airfield north of Essen. He was six years old at the time-March 10, 1945-and he had no memories of the Fatherland. But he did have a commitment: He was a Sonnenkind.

Tennyson reached the door, opened it, and climbed inside.

"Bonjour, monsieur," he said.

"Bonjour," replied the Frenchman. "You look tired."

"Its been a long night. Did you bring everything I asked for? I have very little time."

"Everything." The Srete official reached for a file folder on the ledge under the dashboard and handed it to the blond man. "I think youll find this complete."

"Give me a summary; Ill read it later. I want to know quickly where we stand."

"Very well." The Frenchman put the folder on his lap. "First things first. The man named Werner Gerhardt in Neuchtel cannot possibly be a functioning member of the Nachrichtendienst."

"Why not? Von Pappen had his enemies in the diplomatic corps. Why couldnt this Gerhardt have been one of them?"

"He may very well have been. But I use the present tense; he is no longer. Hes not only senile; hes feebleminded. Hes been this way for years; hes a joke in the village where he lives. The old man who mumbles to himself and sings songs and feeds pigeons in the square."

"Senility can be faked," said Tennyson. "And 'feeble is hardly a pathological term."

"Theres proof. Hes an outpatient at the local clinic, with a bona fide medical record. He has the mentality of a child and is barely able to care for himself."

Tennyson nodded, smiling. "So much for Werner Gerhardt. Speaking of patients, whats the status of the traitor in Stuttgart?"

"Cerebral cancer, final stages. He wont last a week."

"So the Nachrichtendienst has but one functioning leader left," said Tennyson. "Klaus Falkenheim."

"It would appear so. However, he may have delegated authority to a younger man. He has soldiers available to him."

"Merely available? From the children he protects? The Verwnschte Kinder?"

"Hardly. Theyre sprinkled with a few idealists, but theres no essential strength in their ranks. Falkenheim has sympathy for them, but he keeps those interests separate from the Nachrichtendienst."

"Then where do the Nachrichtendienst soldiers come from?"

"Theyre Jews."

"Jews!"

The Frenchman nodded. "As near as we can determine, theyre recruited as theyre needed, one assignment at a time. Theres no organization, no structured group. Beyond being Jews, they have only one thing in common: where they come from."

"Which is?"

"The kibbutz Har Shaalav. In the Negev."

"Har Shaalav?... My God, how perfect," said Tennyson with cold, professional respect "Har Shaalav. The kibbutz in Israel with but one requirement for residency: The applicant has to be the sole survivor of a family destroyed in the camps."

"Right," said the Frenchman. "The kibbutz has more than two hundred men-men, now-who can be recruited."

Tennyson looked out the window. " 'Kill me, another will take my place. Kill him, another his. The implication was an unseen army willing to accept a collective death sentence. The commitment is understandable, but this is no army. It is a series of patrols, selected at random." Tennyson turned back to the driver. "Are you sure of your information?"

"Yes. The breakthrough came with the two unknown men killed in Montereau. Our laboratories traced a number of things: clothing, sediment in shoes and in skin pores, the alloys used in dental work, and especially surgical history. Both men had been wounded; one had shell fragments in his shoulder. The Yom Kippur war. We narrowed the evidence to the southwest Negev and found the kibbutz. The rest was simple."

"You sent a man to Har Shaalav?"

The Frenchman nodded again. "One of us. His report is in here. No one talks freely at Har Shaalav, but whats going on is clear. Someone sends a cablegram; a few men are chosen and given orders."

"Potential suicide squads committed to the destruction of anything related to the swastika."

"Exactly. And to confirm our findings, weve established the fact that Falkenheim traveled to Israel three months ago. The computers picked up his name."

"Three months ago.... At the time Manfredi first reached Holcroft to set up the meeting in Geneva. So Falkenheim not only knew about Wolfsschanze, he projected the schedule. He recruited and prepared his army three months in advance. Its time he and I met each other in our proper roles: two sons of the Reich. One true, one false."

"To what should I attribute his death?"

"To the ODESSA, of course. And call a strike on Har Shaalav. I want every leader killed; prepare it carefully. Blame it on Rache terrorists. Lets go."

For the next minutes, the blond man walking down the winding dirt road would not be John Tennyson. Instead, he would be called by his rightful name, Johann von Tiebolt, son of Wilhelm, leader of the new Reich.

The cottage was in sight; the death of a traitor approached. Von Tiebolt turned and looked back up the hill. The man from the Srete waved. He would remain there, blocking the road until the job was done. Von Tiebolt continued walking until he was within ten yards of the stone path that led to the small house. He stopped, concealed by the foliage, and shifted his gun from the shoulder holster to his overcoat pocket Crouching, he stepped through the overgrown grass, toward the door and beyond it, then stood up, his face at the edge of the single front window.

Though the morning was bright with sunlight, a table lamp was turned on in the dark interior of the room. Beyond the lamp Klaus Falkenheim sat in his wheelchair, his back to the window.

Von Tiebolt walked silently back to the door and considered for a moment whether or not to break it down, as a killer from the ODESSA undoubtedly would do. He decided against it. Herr Oberst was old and decrepit, but he was no fool. Somewhere on his person, or in that wheelchair, was a weapon. At the first sound of a crash it would be leveled at the intruder.

Johann smiled at himself. There was no harm in a little game. One consummate actor onstage with another. Who would be applauded most enthusiastically? The answer was obvious: he who was there for the curtain call. It would not be Klaus Falkenheim.

He rapped on the door. "Mein Herr. Forgive me, its Johann von Tiebolt. Im afraid my car couldnt negotiate the hill."

At first there was only silence. If it continued beyond five seconds, Von Tiebolt realized he would have to take sterner measures; there could be no sudden telephone calls. Then he heard the old mans words.

"Von Tiebolt?"

"Yes. Heldens brother. Ive come to speak with her. Shes not at work, so I assume shes here."

"Shes not." The old man was silent again.

"Then I shant disturb you, Mein Herr, but if I may, is it possible to use your telephone and call for a taxi?"

"The telephone?"

The blond man smiled. Falkenheims confusion carried through the barrier between them. "Ill only be a moment. I really must find Helden by noon. I leave for Switzerland at two oclock."

Again silence, but it was short-lived. He heard a bolt slide back, and the door opened. Herr Oberst was there in the chair, wheeling backward, a blanket on his lap. There had been no blanket moments ago.

"Danke, mein Herr," said Von Tiebolt, holding out his hand. "Its good to see you again."

Bewildered, the old man raised his hand in greeting. Johann wrapped his fingers swiftly around the bony hand, twisting it to the left. With his free hand, he reached down and yanked the blanket from Falkenheims lap. He saw what he expected: a Luger across the emaciated legs. He removed it, kicking the door shut as he did.

"Heil Hitler! General Falkenheim," he said. "Wo ist der Nachrichtendienst?"

The old man remained motionless, staring up at his captor, no fear in his eyes. "I wondered when you would find out. I didnt think it would be so quickly. I commend you, Sohn Wilhelm von Tiebolts."

"Yes, son of Wilhelm, and something else as well."

"Oh, yes. The new Fhrer. Thats your objective, but it wont happen. Well stop you. If youve come to kill me, do so. Im prepared."

"Why should I? Such a valuable hostage."

"I doubt youd get much ransom."

Von Tiebolt spun the old mans chair toward the center of the room. "I imagine thats true," he replied, abruptly stopping the chair. "I assume you have certain funds available, perhaps solicited by the wandering children you think so much of. However, Pfennigs and francs are immaterial to me."

"I was sure of that So fire the gun."

"And," said Von Tiebolt, "its doubtful that a man dying of cerebral cancer in a Stuttgart sanatorium could offer much. Wouldnt you say that, too, is true?"

Falkenheim controlled his surprise. "He was a very brave man," he said.

"Im sure. Youre all brave men. Successful traitors must be imbued with a certain warped courage. Werner Gerhardt, for instance."

"Gerhardt?..." This time the old man could not conceal his shock. "Where did you hear that name?"

"You wonder how I could know? How I even found out about you, perhaps?"

"Not about me. The risk I took was quite apparent. I arranged for a Von Tiebolt to be near me. I considered that risk necessary."

"Yes, the beautiful Helden. But then, Im told were all beautiful. It has its advantages."

"Shes no part of you; she never was."

"Shes part of your wandering garbage, die Verwnschte Kinder. A weak whore. She whores now with the American."

"Your judgments dont interest me. How did you find out about Gerhardt?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"Im going to die. What difference does it make?"

"Ill strike a bargain. Where did you learn of Wolfs-schanze?"

"Agreed. Gerhardt first."

"Why not Hes of no value. A senile, feebleminded old man."

"Dont harm him!" shouted Falkenheim suddenly. "Hes been through so much ... so much pain."

"Your concern is touching."

"They broke him. Pour months of torture; his mind snapped. Leave him in peace."

"Who broke him? The Allies? The British?"

"ODESSA."

"For once they served a useful purpose."

"Where did you hear his name? How did you find him?"

Von Tiebolt smiled. "The British. They have a file on the Nachrichtendienst. You see, theyre very interested in the Nachrichtendienst right now. Their objective is to find you and destroy you."