Holcroft had decided to call on Willie because there was no one else he could think of who would not ask questions. Ellis was not the outrageous fool he pretended to be. Althene could do far worse for an escort out of Switzerland.

And she had to get out. The covenants enemy had killed her husband; it would kill her, too. Because Geneva was where it was going to happen. In two or three days a meeting would take place, and papers would be signed, and money would be transferred to Zurich. The covenants enemy would try everything to abort those negotiations. His mother could not stay in Geneva. There would be violence in Geneva; he could feel it.

He drove south to Dijon, arriving well after midnight. The small city was asleep, and as he passed through the dark streets, he knew he needed sleep, too; tomorrow he had to be alert. More alert than he had ever been in his life. He continued driving until he was back in the countryside and stopped the rented car on the side of a road. He smoked a cigarette, then crushed it out and put his feet on the seat his head against the window, cushioned by his raincoat.

In a few hours hed be at the border, crossing into Switzerland with the first wave of morning traffic. Once in Switzerland ... He couldnt think anymore. The mist was closing in on him; his breathing was low and heavy. And then the face appeared, strong, angular, so unfamiliar yet so recognizable to him now.

It was the face of Heinrich Clausen, and he was calling to him, telling him to hurry. The agony would be over soon; amends would be made.

He slept.

Erich Kessler watched as his younger brother, Hans, showed the airline security officer his medical bag. Since the Olympics of 72, when the Palestinians were presumed to have flown into Munich with dismantled rifles and submachine guns, the airports security measures had tripled.

It was a wasted effort, mused Erich. The Palestinians weapons had been brought to Munich by Wolfsschanze-their Wolfsschanze.

Hans laughed with the airline official, sharing a joke, But, thought Erich, there would be no such jokes in Geneva, for there would be no inspection by the airlines or by customs or by anyone else. The first deputy of canton Geneve would see to it. One of Munichs most highly regarded doctors, a specialist in internal medicine, was arriving as his guest.

Hans was all that and more, thought Erich, as his brother approached him at the gate. Hans was a medium-sized bull with enormous charm. A superb soccer player who captained his district team and later ministered to the opponents he had injured.

It was odd, thought Erich, but Hans was far better equipped than he to be the elder son. Save for the accident of time, it would have been Hans who worked with Johann von Tiebolt, and Erich, the quiet scholar, would have been the subordinate. Once, in a moment of self-doubt, he had said as much to Johann.

Von Tiebolt would not hear of it. A pure intellectual was demanded. A man who lived a bloodless life-someone never swayed by reasons of the heart, by intemperance. Had that not been proved by those infrequent but vital moments when he-the quiet scholar-had stood up to the Tinamou and stated his reservations? Reservations that resulted in a change of strategy?

Yes, it was true, but it was not the essential truth. That truth was something Johann did not care to face: Hans was nearly Von Tiebolts equal. If they clashed, Johann might die.

That was the opinion of the quiet, bloodless intellectual.

"Everything proceeds," said Hans, as they walked through the gate to the plane. "The American is as good as dead, and no laboratory will trace the cause."

Helden got off the train at Neuchtel. She stood on the platform, adjusting her eyes to the shafts of sunlight that shot down from the roof of the railroad station. She knew she should mingle with the crowds that scrambled off the train, but for a moment she had to stand still and breathe the air. She had spent the past three hours in the darkness of a freight car, crouched behind crates of machinery. A door had been opened electronically for precisely sixty seconds at Besanon, and she had gone inside. At exactly five minutes to noon the door was opened again; she had reached Neuchtel unseen. Her legs ached and her head pounded, but she made it. It had cost a great deal of money.

The air filled her lungs. She picked up her suitcase and started for the doors of the Neuchtel station. The village of Pres-du-Lac was on the west side of the lake, no more than twenty miles south. She found a taxi driver willing to make the trip.

The ride was jarring and filled with turns, but it was like a calm, floating glide for her. She looked out the window at the rolling hills and the blue waters of the lake. The rich scenery had the effect of suspending everything. It gave her the precious moments she needed to try to understand. What had Heir Oberst meant when he wrote that he had arranged for her to be near him because he had believed she was "an arm of an enemy"? An enemy he had "waited thirty years to confront." What enemy was that? And why had he chosen her?

What had she done? Or not done? Was it again the terrible dilemma? Damned for what she was and damned for what she wasnt? When in Gods name would it stop?

Herr Oberst knew he was going to die. He had prepared her for his death as surely as if he had announced it, making sure she had the money to buy secret passage to Switzerland, to a man named Werner Gerhardt in Neuchtel. Who was he? What was he to Klaus Falkenheim that he was to be contacted only upon the latters death?

The coin of Wolfsschanze has two sides.

The taxi driver interrupted her thoughts. "The inns down by the shoreline," he said. "Its not much of a hotel."

"It will do, Im sure."

The room overlooked the waters of Lake Neuchtel. It was so peaceful that Helden was tempted to sit at the window and do nothing but think about Noel, because when she thought about him, she felt ... comfortable. But there was a Werner Gerhardt to find. The telephone directory of Pres-du-Lac had no such listing; God knew when it was last updated. But it was not a large village; she would begin casually with the concierge. Perhaps the name was familiar to him.

It was, but not in a way that gave her any confidence.

"Mad Gerhardt?" said the obese man, sitting in a wicker chair behind the counter. "You bring him greetings from old friends? You should bring him instead a potion to unscramble his doddering brains. He wont understand a thing you say."

"I didnt know," replied Helden, overwhelmed by a feeling of despair.

"See for yourself. It is midafternoon and the day is cool, but the sun is out. Hell no doubt be in the square, singing his little songs and feeding the pigeons. They soil his clothes and he doesnt notice."

She saw him sitting on the stone ledge of the circular fountain in the village square. He was oblivious of the passersby who intermittently glanced down at him, more often in revulsion than in tolerance. His clothes were frayed, the tattered overcoat soiled with droppings, as the concierge had predicted. He was as old and as sickly as Herr Oberst, but much shorter and punier in face and body. His skin was pallid and drawn, marred by spider veins, and he wore thick steel-rimmed glasses that moved from side to side in rhythm with his trembling head. His hands shook as he reached into a paper bag, taking out bread crumbs and scattering them, attracting scores of pigeons that cooed in counterpoint to the high-pitched, singsong words that came from the old mans lips.

Helden felt sick. He was only a remnant of a man. He was beyond senility; no other state could produce what she saw before her on the fountains edge.

The coin of Wolfsschanze has two sides. The time is near for the catastrophe to begin.... It seemed pointless to repeat the words. Still, shed come this far, knowing only that a great man had been butchered because his warning was real.

She approached the old man and sat beside him, aware that several people in the square looked at her as if she, too, were feebleminded. She spoke quietly, in German.

"Herr Gerhardt? Ive traveled a long way to see you."

"Such a pretty lady ... a pretty, pretty lady."

"I come from Herr Falkenheim. Do you remember him?"

"A falcons home? Falcons dont like my pigeons. They hurt my pigeons. My friends and I dont like them, do we, sweet feathers?" Gerhardt bent over and pursed his lips, kissing the air above the rapacious birds on the ground.

"Youd like this man, if you remembered him," said Helden.

"How can I like what I dont know? Would you like some bread? You can eat it, if you wish, but my friends might be hurt." The old man sat up with difficulty and dropped crumbs at Heldens feet.

" 'The coin of Wolfsschanze has two sides, " whispered Helden.

And then she heard the words. There was no break in the rhythm; the quiet, high-pitched singsong was the same, but there was meaning now. "Hes dead, isnt he?... Dont answer me; just nod your head or shake it. Youre talking to a foolish old man who makes very little sense. Remember that."

Helden was too stunned to move. And by her immobility, she gave the old man his answer. He continued in his singsong cadence. "Klaus is dead. So, finally, they found him and killed him."

"It was the ODESSA," she said. "The ODESSA killed him. There were swastikas everywhere."

"Wolfsschanze wanted us to believe that." Gerhardt threw crumbs in the air; the pigeons fought among themselves. "Here, sweet feathers! Its teatime for you." He turned to Helden, his eyes distant "The ODESSA, as always, is the scapegoat. Such an obvious one."

"You say Wolfsschanze," whispered Helden. "A letter was given to a man named Holcroft, threatening him. It was written thirty years ago, signed by men who called themselves the survivors of Wolfsschanze."

For an instant, Gerhardts trembling stopped. "There were no survivors of Wolfsschanze, save one! Klaus Falkenheim. Others were there, and they lived, but they were not the eagles; they were filth. And now they think their time has come."

"I dont understand."

"Ill explain it to you, but not here. After dark, come to my house on the lake. South on the waterfront road, precisely three kilometers beyond the fork, is a path...." He gave her the directions as though they were words written to accompany a childish tune. When he had finished, he stood up painfully, tossing the last crumbs to the birds. "I dont think youll be followed," he said with a senile smile, "but make sure of it. We have work to do, and it must be done quickly.... Here, my sweet feathers! The last of your meal, my fluttering ones."

37.

A small single-engine plane circled in the night sky above the fiat pasture in Chambery. Its pilot waited for the dual line of flares to be ignited: his signal to land. On the ground was another aircraft, a seaplane with wheels encased in its pontoons, prepared for departure. It would be airborne minutes after the first plane came to the end of the primitive runway, and would carry its valuable cargo north along the eastern leg of the Rhone River, crossing the Swiss border at Versoix, and landing on Lake Geneva, twelve miles north of the city. The cargo had no name, but that did not matter to the pilots. She had paid as well as the highest-priced narcotics courier.

Only once had she shown any emotion, and that was four minutes out of Avignon, toward Saint-Vallier, when the small plane had run into an unexpected and dangerous hailstorm.

"The weather may be too much for this light aircraft," the pilot said. "It would be wiser to turn back."

"Fly above it."

"We havent the power, and we have no idea how extensive the front is."

"Then go through it. Im paying for a schedule as well as transportation. I must get to Geneva tonight."

"If were forced down on the river, we could be picked up by the patrols. We have no flight registration."

"If were forced down on the river, Ill buy the patrols. They were bought at the border in Port-Bou; they can be bought again. Keep going."

"And if we crash, madame?"

"Dont."

Below them in the darkness, the Chambery flares were ignited successively, one row at a time. The pilot dipped his wing to the left and circled downward for his final approach. Seconds later they touched ground.

"Youre good," said the valuable cargo, reaching for the buckle of her seat belt. "Is my next pilot your equal?"

"As good, madame, and with an advantage I dont have. He knows the radar points within a tenth of an air mile in the darkness. One pays for such expertness."

"Gladly," replied Althene.

The seaplane lifted off against the night wind at exactly ten-fifty-seven. The flight across the border at Versoix would be made at very low altitude and would take very little time, no more than twenty minutes to a half hour. It was the specialists leg of the journey, and the specialist in the cockpit was a stocky man with a red beard and thinning red hair. He chewed a half-smoked cigar and spoke English in the harsh accent associated with Alsace-Lorraine. He said nothing for the first few minutes of the flight, but when he spoke, Althene was stunned.

"I dont know what the merchandise is that you carry, madame, but there is an alert for your whereabouts throughout Europe."

"What? Who put out this alert, and how would you know? My name hasnt been mentioned; I was guaranteed that!"

"An all-Europe bulletin circulated by Interpol is most descriptive. Its rare that the international police look for a woman of-shall we say-your age and appearance. I presume your name is Holcroft."

"Presume nothing." Althene gripped her seat belt, trying to control her reaction. She did not know why it startled her-the man of Har Shaalav had said they were everywhere-but the fact that this Wolfsschanze had sufficient influence with Interpol to use its apparatus was unnerving. She had to elude not only the Nazis of Wolfs-schanze but also the network of legitimate law enforcement. It was a well-executed trap; her crimes were undeniable: traveling under a false passport, and then with none. And she could give no explanation for those crimes. To do so would link her son-the son of Heinrich Clausen-to a conspiracy so massive hed be destroyed. That extremity had to be faced; her son might have to be sacrificed. But the irony was found in the very real possibility that Wolfsschanze itself had reached deep within the legitimate authorities.... They were everywhere. Once taken, Wolfsschanze would kill her before she could say what she knew.

Death was acceptable; stilling her voice was not. She turned to the bearded pilot. "How do you know about this bulletin?"

The man shrugged. "How do I know about the radar vectors? You pay me; I pay others. Theres no such thing as a clear profit these days."

"Does the bulletin say why this ... old woman ... is wanted?"

"Its a strange alert, madame. It states clearly that she is traveling with false papers, but she is not to be picked up. Her whereabouts are to be reported to Interpol-Paris, where they will be relayed to New York."

"New York?"

"Thats where the request originated. The police in New York, a detective-lieutenant named Miles."

"Miles?" Althene frowned. "Ive never heard of him."

"Perhaps this woman has," said the pilot, shifting the cigar in his mouth.

Althene closed her eyes. "How would you like to make a very clear profit?"

"Im no communist; the word doesnt offend me. How?"

"Hide me in Geneva. Help me reach someone."

The pilot checked his panel, then banked to the right. "It will cost you."

"Ill pay," she said.

Johann von Tiebolt paced the hotel suite, a graceful, angry animal, consumed. His audience was composed of the brothers Kessler; the first deputy of canton Geneve had left minutes ago. The three were alone; the tension was apparent.

"Shes somewhere in Geneva," said Von Tiebolt. "She has to be."

"Obviously under an assumed name," added Hans Kessler, his medical bag at his feet. "Well find her. Its merely a question of fanning men out, after giving them a description. Our deputy has assured us its no problem."

Von Tiebolt stopped his pacing. "No problem? I trust you and he have examined this 'no problem. According to our deputy, the Geneva police report an Interpol bulletin on her. Quite simply, that means shes traveled a minimum of four thousand miles without being found. Four thousand miles through banks of computers, on aircraft crossing borders and landing with manifests, through at least two immigration points. And theres nothing. Dont fool yourself, Hans. Shes better than we thought she was."

"Tomorrows Friday," said Erich. "Holcroft is due tomorrow, and hell get in touch with us. When we have him, we have her."

"He said he was staying at the dAccord, but he has changed his mind. There is no reservation, and Mr. Fresca has checked out of the George Cinq." Von Tiebolt stood by the window. "I dont like it. Somethings wrong."

Hans reached for his drink. "I think youre overlooking the obvious."

"What?"

"By Holcrofts lights, a great deal is wrong. He thinks people are after him; hell be cautious, and hell travel cautiously. Id be surprised if he did make a reservation in his own name."

"I assumed the name would be Fresca, or a derivation Id recognize," said Von Tiebolt, dismissing the younger Kesslers observation. "Theres nothing like it in any hotel in Geneva."

"Is there a Tennyson," asked Erich softly, "or anything like it?"

"Helden?" Johann turned.

"Helden." The older Kessler nodded. "She was with him in Paris. Its to be assumed shes helping him; you even suggested it."

Von Tiebolt stood motionless. "Helden and her filthy, wandering outcasts are preoccupied at the moment. Theyre scouring the ODESSA for the killers of Herr Oberst."

"Falkenheim?" Hans sat forward. "Falkenheims dead?"

"Falkenheim was the leader of the Nachrichtendienst-the last functioning member, to be precise. With his death, Wolfsschanze is unopposed. His army of Jews will be headless; what little they know, buried with their leaders."