"I imagine so, madame. As I mentioned, Mr. Tennyson must be a very important man. Yes, Id say they are friends."

"But youre not?"

The man laughed. "Me? Oh, no, madame. I only met the gentleman briefly. As I said to you, this is merely a municipal courtesy."

"I see. Do you think you might extend a courtesy to me?" asked Althene, pointedly opening her purse. "On a confidential basis."

"That would depend, madame...."

"Its only a telephone call to a friend who may be worried about me. I forgot to call her from the railroad station."

"Gladly," said the officer. "As a friend of Mr. Tennyson, I assume youre also an important visitor to Geneve."

"Ill write out the number. A young lady will answer. Tell her exactly where youve taken me."

The guest house was high ceilinged, with tapestries on the walls and French-provincial furniture. It belonged in the Loire Valley, an adjunct to a great chteau.

Althene sat in a large chair, the pistol belonging to Yakov Ben-Gadz wedged between the pillow and the base of the arm. The police officer had left five minutes ago; she waited now for Johann von Tiebolt.

The almost overpowering temptation to shoot the instant Von Tiebolt walked through the door had to be controlled. If there were things she could learn, she had to learn them. If only on the possibility she could relay them to the Israeli, or to the girl. Somehow ...

He had arrived; the low, vibrating sound of a car motor outside was proof. She had heard that powerful engine hours before as it came to a stop on a deserted stretch of highway above Lake Geneva. She had watched through the trees as the blond man killed. As he had killed ruthlessly hours later at Atterrisage Medoc. To bring about his death would be a privilege. She touched the handle of the gun, secure in her purpose.

The door opened, and the tall man with the shining blond hair and the sculptured features walked inside. He closed the door; his movements in the soft, indirect lighting were supple.

"Mrs. Holcroft, how good of you to come."

"It was I who asked for the meeting. How good of you to arrange it. Your precautions were commendable."

"You seemed to feel they were called for."

"No automobile could have followed us from the station."

"None did. Were alone."

"This is a pleasant house. My son would find it interesting. As an architect, hed call it an example of something or other, and point out the various influences."

"Im sure he would; his mind works that way."

"Yes," said Althene, smiling. "Hell be walking down a street and suddenly stop and stare up at a window or a cornice, seeing a detail others dont see. Hes quite devoted to his work. I never knew where he got it from. I have no talents in that direction, and his late father was a banker."

The blond man stood motionless. "Then both fathers were associated with money."

"You know, then?" Althene asked.

"Of course. Heinrich Clausens son. I think we can stop lying to each other, Mrs. Holcroft."

"I understood it was a lie on your part, Herr von Tiebolt. I wasnt sure you knew it was one on mine."

"To be frank, until this moment I didnt. If your objective was to set a trap, Im sorry to have spoiled it for you. But then, Im sure you knew the risk."

"Yes, I did."

"Why did you take it? You must have considered the consequences."

"I considered them. But I felt it was only fair to let you know the consequences of a previous action on my part. Knowing it, perhaps an accommodation can be reached between us."

"Really? And what would this accommodation entail?"

"Abandoning Geneva. Dismantling Wolfsschanze."

"Is that all?" The blond man smiled. "Youre mad."

"Suppose I told you that I had written a very long letter detailing a lie I have lived with for over thirty years. A letter in which I identify the participants and their strategy by name and family and bank."

"And destroyed your son in so doing."

"Hed be the first to agree with what I did, if he knew."

Von Tiebolt folded his arms. "You said, 'Suppose I told you ... about this letter of yours. Well, youve told me. And Im afraid Id have to say that you wrote about something you know nothing about. All the laws have been observed, and the pitifully few facts you claim to have would be called the ramblings of a crazy old woman whos been the object of official surveillance for a very long time. But this is irrelevant. You never wrote such a letter."

"You dont know that."

"Please," said Von Tiebolt "We have copies of every bit of correspondence, every will, every legal document youve written ... as well as the substance of every phone call youve made during the past five years."

"Youve what?"

"Theres a file at your Federal Bureau of Investigation with the code name 'Mother Goddamn. Its one that will never be released under the Freedom of Information Act, because it deals with national security. No ones quite sure why, but it does, and certain latitudes are permitted. That file is also at the Central Intelligence Agency and the Defense Intelligence Agency and in the computer banks of Army G-Two." Von Tiebolt smiled again. "We are everywhere, Mrs. Holcroft. Cant you understand that? You should know it before you leave this world; your remaining here would change nothing. You cant stop us. No one can."

"Youll be stopped because you offer lies! You always did. And when the lies fail, you kill. It was your way then; its your way now."

"Lies are palliatives; death is often the answer for irritating problems that interfere with progress."

"The problems being people."

"Always."

"You are the most contemptible man on earth. Youre insane!"

The blond killer put his hand in his jacket pocket. "You make my work pleasant," he said, withdrawing a pistol. "Another woman said those words to me. She was no less headstrong than you. I put a bullet in her head-through a car window. At night. In Rio de Janeiro. She was my mother, and she called me insane, called our work contemptible. She never grasped the necessity-the beauty-of our cause. She tried to interfere." The blond man raised the gun. "A few old men-devoted lovers of the whore-suspected me of killing her and in their feeble way tried to have me charged. Can you imagine? Have me charged. It sounds so official. What they didnt realize was that we controlled the courts. No one can stop us."

"Noel will stop you!" cried Althene, her hand edging toward the concealed weapon at her side.

"Your son will be dead in a day or two. But even if we dont kill him, others will. Hes left a trail of murder from which he can never extricate himself. A former member of British Intelligence was garroted in New York. His last conversation was with your son. A man named Graff was killed in Rio; your son threatened him. A construction engineer in the Caribbean died tonight, also garroted. He relayed confidential messages to Noel Holcroft from Rio to Paris and stops in between. Tomorrow morning a New York detective named Miles will be slain in the streets. The current case file that obsesses him has been altered somewhat, but not its subject-Noel Holcroft. In fact, for Noels own peace of mind it would probably be better if we killed him after all. He has no life now." Von Tiebolt raised his weapon higher, then stretched out his arm slowly, his target the womans head. "So you see, Mrs. Holcroft, you cant possibly stop us. We are everywhere."

Althene suddenly twisted in her chair, thrusting her hand toward the gun.

Johann von Tiebolt fired. Then he fired again. And again.

Yakov Ben-Gadz rearranged Von Tiebolts suite, leaving it exactly as he had found it, airing out the rooms so that there was no evidence of entry.

Were he alive, Klaus Falkenheim would be appalled at what Yakov was doing. Get the list. The identities. Once the names are yours, expose the account for what it is. Cause the distribution of the millions to be abandoned. Cripple the Sonnenkinder. Those had been Falkenheims instructions.

But there was another way. It had been discussed quietly among the elders at Har Shaalav. Theyd never had time to bring it to Falkenheims attention, but it was their intention to do so. They called it the option of Har Shaalav.

It was dangerous, but it could be done.

Get the list and control the millions. Dont expose the account; steal it. Use the great fortune to fight the Sonnenkinder. Everywhere.

The strategy had not been perfected, because not enough was known. But Yakov knew enough now. Of the three sons who would present themselves to the bank, one was not what the others were.

In the beginning, Noel Holcroft was the key to fulfilling the Wolfsschanze covenant. At the end, he would be its undoing.

Fatkenheim was dead, Yakov reflected. The elders of Har Shaalav were dead; there was no one else. The decision was his alone.

The option of Har Shaalav.

Could it be done?

He would know within the next twenty-four hours.

His eyes fell on every object in the room. Everything was in place, everything as it had been. Except that in his briefcase now were eleven photographs that could signify the beginning of the end of Wolfsschanze. Eleven pages of names, the identities of the most trusted, most powerful Sonnenkinder across the world. Men and women who had lived the Nazi lie in deep cover for thirty years.

Never again.

Yakov picked up his briefcase. He would rethread the outer door and ...

He stopped all movement, all thought, and concentrated on the sudden intrusion from beyond the door. He could hear footsteps, racing footsteps, muffled by the carpet but distinguishable, running up the hotel corridor. They drew near, then came to an abrupt stop. Silence, followed by the sound of a key in the lock and the frantic turning of both knob and key. The inside latch held firm. A fist pounded against the door inches from Ben-Gadz.

"Von Tiebolt! Let me in!"

It was the American. In seconds he would break down the door.

Kessler crawled to the bed, held on to the post, and pulled his large frame off the floor. His glasses had flown off his face under the force of Holcrofts attack. He would find them in a few minutes, but right now he had to think, to analyze his immediate course of action.

Holcroft would go to the dAccord to confront Johann; there was nothing else he could do. But Johann was not there, and it was no time for the American to create a scene.

Nor would he, thought Kessler, smiling in spite of his anxiety. Holcroft had only to gain admittance to Von Tiebolts suite. A simple hotel key was the answer. Once inside, the American would open the bedroom door. The instant he did, he would collapse, no longer an immediate problem.

An antidote and several ice packs would revive him sufficiently for the conference at the bank; a dozen explanations would be given to him. It was only a matter of getting Johanns room key to him.

The clerks at the dAccord would not give him one on the strength of another guests request, but they would if the first deputy told them to. Von Tiebolt was his personal friend; accommodations were to be granted in all things.

Kessler picked up the phone.

Helden limped about the apartment, forcing her leg to get used to the pain, angry that she had been left behind, but knowing it was the sensible thing to do-the only thing. The Israeli did not think Noel would call, but it was a contingency that had to be considered. Yakov was convinced Noel was being isolated, all messages intercepted; but there was a remote chance ...

The telephone rang; Helden thought the blood would burst from her throat She swallowed, and limped across the room to pick it up. Oh, God! Let it be Noel!

It was an unfamiliar voice belonging to someone who would not identify himself.

"Mrs. Holcroft was driven to a guest house on an estate thirteen kilometers south of the city. Ill give you directions."

He did. Helden wrote them down. When he had finished, the stranger added, "There is a guard at the main gate. He has an attack dog."

Yakov could not let the pounding continue, nor Holcrofts shouted demands. The disturbance would draw attention.

The Israeli twisted the latch and pressed himself against the wall. The door crashed open, the figure of the tall American filling the frame. He lunged into the room, his arms in front of him as if prepared to repel an assault.

"Von Tiebolt! Where are you?"

Holcroft was obviously startled by the darkness. Ben-Gadz stepped silently to the side, the flashlight in his hand. He spoke rapidly, completing two sentences in a single breath.

"Von Tiebolts not here and I mean you no harm. We are not on opposite sides."

Holcroft spun around, his hands extended. "Who are you? What the hell are you doing here? Turn on the light!"

"No lights! Just listen."

The American stepped forward angrily. Yakov pressed the button on his flashlight; the wash of green spread over Holcroft, causing him to cover his eyes. "Turn that off!"

"No. Listen to me first."

Holcroft lashed his right foot out, catching Ben-Gadz in the knee; at contact, Noel sprang forward, his eyes shut, his hands clutching for the Israelis body.

Yakov crouched and threw his shoulder up into the Americans chest; Holcroft would not be stopped. He brought his knee into Ben-Gadzs temple; his fist smashed into Yakovs face.

There could be no lacerations! No traces of blood on the floor! Yakov dropped the light and held on to the Americans arms; he was amazed at Holcrofts strength. He spoke as loudly as he dared to.

"You must listen! Im not your enemy. Ive got news of your mother. I have a letter. Shes been with me."

The American struggled; he was breaking the grip. "Who are you?"

"Nachrichtendienst," whispered Ben-Gadz.

At the sound of the name, Holcroft went wild. He roared, his arms and legs battering rams that would not, could not, be repulsed.

"Ill kill you...."

Yakov had no choice. He surged through the hammering attack, his fingers centering in on the Americans neck, his thumbs grinding into the pronounced veins of the stiffened throat. By touch, he found a nerve and pressed with all his strength. Holcroft collapsed.

Noel opened his eyes in the darkness, but the darkness was not complete. Angled against the wall was a wash of green light-the same green light that had blinded him earlier-and at the sight of it his outrage returned.

He was being pressed against the floor, a knee sunk into his shoulder, the barrel of a gun against his head. His throat was in agony but still he twisted, trying to rise from the carpet, away from the weapon. His neck could not take the strain. He fell back, and heard the intense whisper of the man above him.

"Be very clear in this. If I were your enemy, I would have killed you. Can you understand that?"

"You are my enemy!" answered Noel, barely able to speak through the bruised muscles about his throat. "You said you were Nachrichtendienst. Genevas enemy ... my enemy!"