"Yes, its horrible." Where was the panic? Where was the anxiety of a man stretched to the limit of his capacities? The voice on the phone was not that of someone drowning, grasping for a lifeline. "He was a friend of yours. They say he asked for you."

There was a pause. "He asked for my mother."

"I didnt understand. We know only that he used the name Holcroft."

"What does Nach ... Nach-rich ... I cant pronounce it."

" 'Nachrichtendienst?"

"Yes. What does it mean?"

Kessler was startled. The American was in control of himself; it was not to be expected. "What can I tell you? Its Genevas enemy."

"Thats what Von Tiebolt found out in London?"

"Yes. Where are you, Noel? I must see you, but you cant come here."

"I know that. Listen to me. Do you have money?"

"Some."

"A thousand Swiss francs?"

"A thousand?... Yes, I imagine so."

"Go downstairs to the front desk and talk to the desk clerk privately. Get his name and give him the money. Tell him its for me and that Ill be calling him in a few minutes."

"But how-"

"Let me finish. After you pay and get his name, go to the pay telephones near the elevators. Stand by the one on the left toward the entrance. When it rings, pick it up. Itll be me."

"How do you know the number?"

"I paid someone to go inside and get it."

This was not a man in panic. It was a rational man with a deadly purpose.... It was what Erich Kessler had feared. But for the arrangement of genes-and a headstrong woman-the man on the phone might be one of them. A Sonnenkind.

"What will you say to the clerk?"

"Ill tell you later; theres no time now. How long will it take you?"

"I dont know. Not long."

"Ten minutes?"

"Yes, I think so. But Noel, perhaps we should wait until Johann returns."

"Whensthat?"

"No more than an hour or two."

"Cant do it Ill call you in the lobby in ten minutes. My watch says eight-forty-five. How about yours?"

"The same." Kessler did not bother to look at his watch; his mind was racing. Holcrofts spine was too dangerously firm. "I really think we should wait"

"I cant. They killed him. God! How they killed him! They want her, but they wont find her."

"Her? Your mother?... Von Tiebolt told me."

"They wont find her," repeated Holcroft "Theyll find me; Im who they really want. And I want them. Im going to trap them, Erich."

"Control yourself. You dont know what youre doing."

"I know exactly."

"The Geneva police are in the hotel. If you speak to the desk clerk, he may say something. Theyll be looking for you."

"They can have me in a few hours. In fact, Ill be looking for them."

"What? Noel, I must see you!"

"Ten minutes, Erich. Its eight-forty-six." Holcroft went off the line.

Kessler replaced the phone, knowing that he had no choice but to follow instructions. To do anything else would be suspect. But what did Holcroft expect to accomplish? What would he say to the desk clerk? It probably did not matter. With the mother gone, it was necessary only to keep Holcroft functioning until tomorrow morning. By noon, he would be expendable.

Noel waited on the dark street corner at the base of the rue des Granges. He was not proud of what he was about to do, but the rage inside him had numbed any feelings of morality. The sight of Willie Ellis had caused something to snap in his head. That sight gave rise to other images: Richard Holcroft, crushed into a stone building by a car gone wild by design. Strychnine poisoning in an airplane, and death in a French village, and murder in Berlin. And a man who had followed his mother.... He would not let them near her! It was over; he would bring it to a close himself.

It was a question now of using every available resource, every bit of strength he had, every fact he could recall, that would work for him. And it was the murder in Berlin that provided him with the single fact that could work for him now. In Berlin he had led killers to Erich Kessler. Stupidly, carelessly-to a pub on the Kurfrstendamm. Kessler and Holcroft; Holcroft and Kessler. If those killers were looking for Holcroft, they would keep Kessler in their sights. And if Kessler left the hotel, they would follow him.

Holcroft looked at his watch. It was time to call; he started across the pavement toward the booth.

He hoped Erich would answer.

And later understand.

Kessler stood in the hotel lobby, in front of the pay phone, a slip of paper in his hand. On it the astonished desk clerk had written his name; the mans hand had shaken when he had taken the money. Professor Kessler would appreciate knowing the gist of Mr. Holcrofts message to the clerk. For Mr. Holcrofts benefit. And for the clerks, insofar as an additional five hundred francs would be his.

The telephone rang; Erich had it off the hook before the ring was finished. "Noel?"

"Whats the desk clerks name?"

Kessler gave it.

"Fine."

"Now, I insist we meet," said Erich. "Theres a great deal you should know. Tomorrows a very important day."

"Only if we get through tonight. If I find her tonight."

"Where are you? We must meet."

"We will. Listen carefully. Wait by that phone for five minutes. I may have to call you again. If I dont-after five minutes-go outside and begin walking down the hill. Just keep walking. When you get to the bottom, turn left and keep going. Ill join you in the street"

"Good! Five minutes, then." Kessler smiled. Whatever games the amateur indulged in were worthless. He would doubtless ask the desk clerk to relay a message or a telephone number to his mother if and when she called him-the unregistered guest; so much for that Perhaps Johann was right: Perhaps Holcroft had reached the limits of his capacity. Perhaps the American was not a potential Sonnenkind after all.

Police were still in the dAccords lobby, as well as several journalists who sensed a story behind the clouded report of robbery the police had given out This was Geneva. And there were the curious-guests milling about, talking with one another; reassuring one another, some afraid, some seeking sensation.

Erich stayed off to the side, avoiding the crowd, remaining as inconspicuous as possible. He did not like being in the lobby at all; he preferred the anonymity of the hotel room upstairs.

He looked at his watch; four minutes had passed since Holcrofts call. If the American did not call again during the next minute, he would find the desk clerk and ...

The desk clerk approached, walking on his own hot fragments of glass. "Professor?"

"Yes, my friend." Kessler put his hand in his pocket.

The message Holcroft left was not what Erich had expected. Noels mother was to remain hidden and to leave a telephone number where her son could reach her. The clerk had sworn not to reveal that number, of course; but then, prior commitments always took precedence. When and if the lady called, the number would be left on a piece of paper in Herr Kesslers box.

"Paging Mr. Kessler? Professor Erich Kessler."

A bellboy was walking through the lobby, shouting his name. Shouting it! It was impossible. No one knew he was here!

"Yes? Yes, Im Professor Kessler," said Erich. "What is it?" He tried to keep his voice low, to remain inconspicuous. People were looking at him.

"The message is to be delivered orally, sir," said the bellboy. "The caller said there was no time for a note. Its from Mr. H. He says youre to start out now, sir."

"What?"

"Thats all he said, sir. I spoke to him myself. To Mr. H. Youre to start out now. Thats what he told me to tell you."

Kessler held his breath. It was suddenly, unexpectedly clear. Holcroft was using him as the bait.

From the Americans point of view, whoever killed the man in the black leather jacket in Berlin knew that Noel Holcroft had been with Erich Kessler.

The strategy was simple but ingenious: Expose Erich Kessler, have Erich Kessler receive a message from Mr. H., and leave the hotel for the dark streets of Geneva.

And if no one followed, the disparity between cause and effect might be difficult to explain. So difficult that Holcroft might reexamine his bait. Questions might surface that could blow Geneva apart.

Noel Holcroft was a potential Sonnenkind, after all.

40.

Helden crawled through Gerhardts house, over the smashed furniture and the blood on the floor, opening drawers and panels until she found a small tin box of first-aid supplies. Trying desperately not to think of anything but becoming mobile, rejecting the pain as an unwanted state of mind, she strapped her wound as tightly as she could and struggled to her feet. Using Gerhardts cane for support, she managed to walk up the path and north, three kilometers, to the fork.

A farmer driving a vintage automobile picked her up. Could he drive her to a Doctor Litvak on the hill near the clinic?

He could. It was not far out of his way.

Would he please hurry?

Walther Litvak was in his late forties, with a balding head and clear eyes and a penchant for short, precise sentences. Being slender, he moved quickly, wasting as few motions as he did words; being highly intelligent, he made observations before replies; and being a Jew hidden by Dutch Catholics as a child and brought up by sympathetic Lutherans, he had no tolerance for intolerance.

He had one bias, and it was understandable. His father and mother, two sisters, and a brother, had been gassed at Auschwitz. Save for an appeal of a Swiss doctor who spoke of a district in the hills of Neuchtel that had no medical care, Walther Litvak would be living in Kibbutz Har Shaalav, in the Negev desert.

He had intended to spend three years at the clinic; that was five years ago. And then, after several months in Neuchtel, he was told who his recruiter was: one of a group of men who fought the resurgence of Nazism. They knew things other men did not know: about thousands of grown-up children-everywhere; and about untold millions that could reach those unknown people-everywhere. There was much nonmedical work to be done. His contact was a man named Werner Gerhardt, and the group was called Nachrichtendienst.

Walther Litvak stayed in Neuchtel.

"Come inside, quickly," he said to Helden. "Let me help you, I have an office here."

He removed her coat and half carried her into a room with an examination table.

"I was shot." It was all Helden could think of to say.

Litvak placed her on the table and removed her skirt and half slip. "Dont waste your strength trying to talk." He scissored the bandage and studied the wound, then took a hypodermic needle from a sterilizer. "Im going to let you sleep for a few minutes."

"You cant. There isnt time! I have to tell you...."

"I said a few minutes," interrupted the doctor, inserting the needle into Heldens arm.

She opened her eyes, the shapes around her out of focus, a numb sensation in her leg. As her vision cleared, she saw the doctor across the room. She tried to sit up; Litvak heard her and turned.

"These are antibiotics," he said. He was holding a bottle of pills. "Every two hours for a day, then every four. What happened? Tell me quickly. Ill go down to the cottage and take care of things."

"The cottage? You knew?"

"While you were under, you talked; people generally do after trauma. You repeated 'Nachrichtendienst several times. Then 'Johann. I assume thats Von Tiebolt, and youre his sister-the one whos been with Falkenheim. Its happening, isnt it? The inheritors are closing ranks in Geneva."

"Yes."

"I thought as much this morning. The news bulletins from the Negev are horrible, They found out, God knows how."

"What bulletins?"

"Har Shaalav." The doctor gripped the bottle; veins swelled on his forearm. "A raid. Houses bombed, people massacred, fields burnt to the ground. The death count isnt complete yet, but the estimates exceed one hundred and seventy. Men mostly, but women and children too."

Helden closed her eyes; there were no words. Litvak went on.

"To a man, the elders were killed, butchered in the gardens. They say it was the work of terrorists, of the Rache. But thats not true. Its Wolfsschanze. Rache fighters would never attack Har Shaalav; they know what would happen. Jews from every kibbutz, every commando unit, would go after them."

"Gerhardt said you were supposed to cable Har Shaalav," whispered Helden.