"They calling you, Mac?" The man pointed toward the front desk.

Behind the counter the clerk was looking at Noel. In his hand was the familiar yellow message envelope; he gave it to a bellhop, who started across the lobby.

The single name on the slip of paper was unknown to him: CARARRA. There was a telephone number below, but no message. Holcroft was bewildered. The lack of a message was unusual; it was not the Latin way of doing things. Senhor Cararra could phone again; he had to reach New York. He had to build another cover.

Yet, in his room, Holcroft read the name again: CARARRA. His curiosity was aroused. Who was this Cararra that he expected to be called back on the basis of a name alone, a name the man knew meant nothing to Holcroft? In South American terms it was discourteous to the point of being insulting. His stepfather could wait a few minutes while he found out. He dialed the number.

Cararra was not a man but a woman, and from the sound of her low, strained voice she was a frightened woman. Her English was passable but not good; it did not matter. Her message was as clear as the fear she conveyed.

"I cannot talk now, senhor. Do not call this number again. It is not necessary."

"You left it with the operator. What did you expect me to do?"

"It was a ... rro."

"Yerro? Mistake?"

"Yes. A mistake. I will call you. We will call."

"What about? Who are you?"

"Mas tarde!" The voice descended to a harsh whisper and was abruptly gone with the click of the line.

Mas tarde ... mas tarde. Later. The woman would call him again. Holcroft felt a sudden hollowness in his stomach, as sudden as the abrupt disappearance of the frightened whisper. He could not recall when he had heard a womans voice so filled with fear.

That she was somehow connected with the missing Von Tiebolts was the first thought that came to his mind. But in what way? And how in Gods name would she know about him? The feeling of dread came over him again ... and the image of the horrible face contorted in death, thirty thousand feet in the air. He was being observed; strangers were watching him.

The whine of the telephone receiver interrupted his thoughts; he had forgotten to hang up. He depressed the button, released it, and made the call to New York. He needed his protection quickly; he knew that now.

He stood by the window, staring out at the beachfront, waiting for the operator to call him back. There was a flash of light from the street below. The chrome of a car grille had caught the rays of the sun and reflected them skyward. The car had passed that section of the boardwalk where he had been standing only minutes ago. Standing and absently glancing up at the hotel windows, trying to spot his room.

The windows.... The angle of sight. Noel moved closer to the panes and studied the diagonal line from the spot below-where he had been standing-to where he stood now. His architects eye was a practiced eye; angles did not deceive him. Too, the windows were not that close to one another, befitting the separation of rooms in an oceanfront hotel on the Copacabana. He looked up at this window, thinking it was not his room because he saw figures inside, behind the glass. But it was his room. And there had been people inside.

He walked to his closet and stood looking at his clothes. He trusted his memory for detail as much as he trusted his eye for angular lines. He pictured the closet where he had changed clothes that morning. He had fallen asleep in the suit he had worn from New York. His light-tan slacks had been on the far right, almost against the closet wall. It was habit: trousers on the right, jackets on the left. The slacks were still on the right, but not against the wall. Instead, they were several inches toward the center. His dark-blue blazer was in the center, not on the left side.

His clothes had been searched.

He crossed to the bed and his open attache case. It was his office when he traveled; he knew every millimeter of space, every compartment, the position of every item in every slot. He did not have to look long.

His attache case had been searched as well.

The telephone rang, the sound an intrusion. He picked it up and heard the voice of the Athletic Clubs operator, but he knew he could not now ask for Richard Holcroft; he could not involve him. Things were suddenly too complicated. He had to think them through.

"New York Athletic Club. Hello? Hello?... Hello, Rio operator? Theres no one on the line, Rio. Hello? New York Athletic Club...."

Noel replaced the receiver. He had been about to do something crazy. His room had been searched! In his need for a cover in Rio de Janeiro, he had been about to lead someone directly to the one person closest to his mother, once the wife of Heinrich Clausen. What had he been thinking of?

And then he realized that nothing was wasted. Instead, another lesson had been learned. Carry out the lie logically, then reexamine it, and use the most credible part. If he could invent a reason for such a man as Richard Holcroft to conceal the identity of those seeking the Von Tiebolts, he could invent the man himself.

Noel was breathing hard. He had almost committed a terrible error, but he was beginning to know what to look for in the unfamiliar forest. The paths were lined with traps; he had to keep his guard up and move cautiously. He could not permit himself a mistake like the one he had nearly made. He had come very close to risking the life of the father that was, for one he had never known.

Very little of value or truth ever came from anything he touched. His mothers words, and. like Manfredis, meant as a warning. But his mother-unlike Manfredi-was wrong. Heinrich Clausen was as much a victim as he was a villain of his time. The anguished letter he had written while Berlin was falling confirmed it, and what he had done confirmed it. Somehow his son would prove it.

La comunidad alemana. Three, four families in the German community, the arbiters who made irreversible decisions. One of them would be his source. And he knew exactly where to look.

The old, heavy-set man with thick jowls and steel-gray hair, cut short in the fashion of a Junker, looked up from the huge dining-room table at the intruder. He ate alone, no places set for family or guests. It seemed strange, for as the door was opened by the intruder, the voices of other people could be heard; there were family and guests in the large house, but they were not at the table.

"We have additional information on Clausens son, Herr Graff," said the intruder, approaching the old mans chair. "You know about the Curaao communication. Two other calls were made this afternoon. One to the woman, Cararra, and the second to a mens club in New York."

"The Cararras will do their job well," said Graff, his fork suspended, the puffed flesh around his eyes creased. "What is this club in New York?"

"A place called the New York Athletic Club. It is-"

"I know what it is. A wealthy membership. Whom was he calling?"

"The call was placed to the location, not to a person. Our people in New York are trying to find out."

The old man put down his fork. He spoke softly, insultingly. "Our people in New York are slow, and so are you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Undoubtedly among the members will be found the name of Holcroft. If so, Clausens son has broken his word; hes told Holcroft about Geneva. That is dangerous. Richard Holcroft is an old man, but he is not feeble. We always knew that if he lived long enough, he might be a stumbling block." Graff shifted his large head and looked at the intruder. "The envelope arrived in Sesimbra; there is no excuse. The events of the other night had to be clear to the son. Cable the Tinamou. I dont trust his associate here in Rio. Use the eagle code and tell him what I believe. Our people in New York will have another task. The elimination of a meddling old man. Richard Holcroft must be taken out. The Tinamou will demand it."

8.

Noel knew what he was looking for: a bookstore that was more than a place to buy books. In every resort city there was always one major shop that catered to the reading requirements of a specific nationality. In this case, its name was A Livraria Alemo: the German Bookshop. According to the desk clerk, it carried all the latest German periodicals, and Lufthansa flew newspapers in daily. That was the information Holcroft sought. Such a store would have accounts; someone there would know the established German families in Rio. If he could get just one or two names.... It was a place to start.

The store was less than ten minutes from the hotel. "Im an American architect," he said to the clerk, who was halfway up a ladder, rearranging books on the top shelf. "Im down here checking out the Bavarian influence on large residential homes. Do you have any material on the subject?"

"I didnt know it was a subject," replied the man in fluent English. "Theres a certain amount of Alpine design, chalet-style building, but I wouldnt call it Bavarian."

Lesson six, or was it seven? Even if the lie is based in an aspect of truth, make sure the person you use it on knows less than you do.

"Alpine, Swiss, Bavarian. Theyre pretty much the same thing."

"Really? I thought there were considerable differences."

Lesson eight or nine. Dont argue. Remember the objective.

"Look, to tell you the truth, a rich couple in New York are paying my way here to bring back sketches. They were in Rio last summer. They rode around and spotted some great homes. They described them as Bavarian."

"Those would be in the northwest countryside. There are several marvelous houses out there. The Eisenstat residence, for example; but then, I think theyre Jewish. Theres an odd mixture of Moorish, if you can believe it. And, of course, theres the Graff mansion. Thats almost too much, but its really spectacular. To be expected, I imagine. Graffs a millionaire many times over."

"Whats the name again? Graff?"

"Maurice Graff. Hes an importer; but then, arent they all?"

"Who?"

"Oh, come now, dont be naive. If he wasnt a general, or a muckedy-muck in the High Command, Ill piss port wine."

"Youre English."

"Im English."

"But you work in a German bookstore."

"Ich spreche gut Deutsch."

"Couldnt they find a German?"

"I suppose there are advantages hiring someone like myself," said the Britisher cryptically.

Noel feigned surprise. "Really?"

"Yes," replied the clerk, scaling another rung on the ladder. "No one asks me questions."

The clerk watched the American leave and stepped quickly down from the ladder, sliding it across the shelf track with a shove of his hand. It was a gesture of accomplishment, of minor triumph. He walked rapidly down the book-lined aisle and turned so abruptly into an intersecting stack that he collided with a customer examining a volume of Goethe.

"Verzeihung," said the clerk under his breath, not at all concerned.

"Schwesterchen," said the man with the thick black-and-white eyebrows.

At the reference to his lack of masculinity, the clerk turned. "You!"

"The friends of Tinamou are never far away," replied the man.

"You followed him?" asked the clerk.

"He never knew. Make your call."

The Englishman continued on his way to the door of an office at the rear of the store. He went inside, picked up the telephone, and dialed. It was answered by the aide of the most powerful man in Rio.

"Senhor Graffs residence. Good afternoon."

"Our man at the hotel deserves a large tip," said the clerk. "He was right. I insist on talking to Herr Graff. I did precisely as we agreed, and I did it superbly. Ive no doubt hell be calling. Now, Herr Graff, please."

"Ill pass along your message, butterfly," said the aide.

"Youll do no such thing! I have other news Ill tell only to him."

"What does it concern? I dont have to tell you hes a busy man."

"Shall we say a countryman of mine? Do I make myself clear?"

"We know hes in Rio; hes already made contact. Youll have to do better than that."

"Hes still here. In the store. He may be waiting to talk to me."

The aide spoke to someone nearby. The words, however, were distinct. "Its the actor, mein Herr. He insists on speaking to you. Everything went as scheduled during the past hour, but there seems to be a complication. His countryman is in the bookshop."

The phone passed hands. "What is it?" asked Maurice Graff.

"I wanted you to know that everything went exactly as we anticipated...."

"Yes, yes, I understand that," interrupted Graff. "You do excellent work. Now, whats this about the Englnder? Hes there?"

"He followed the American. He was no more than ten feet from him. Hes still here, and I expect hell want me to tell him whats happening. Should I?"

"No," replied Graff. "We are perfectly capable of running things here without interference. Say to him that were concerned hell be recognized; that we suggest he remain out of sight. Tell him I do not approve of his methods. You may say you heard it from me personally."

"Thank you, Herr Graff! It will be a pleasure."

"Yes, I know it will."

Graff handed the telephone back to his aide. "The Tinamou must not let this happen," he said. "It starts again."

"What, mein Herr?"

"All over again," continued the old man. "The interference, the silent observations, one upon the other. Authority becomes divided, everyones suspect."

"I dont understand."

"Of course you dont. You werent there." Graff leaned back in his chair. "Send a second cable to the Tinamou. Tell him that we request he order his wolf back to the Mediterranean. Hes taking too many risks. We object, and cannot be responsible under the circumstances."

It took several phone calls and the passage of twenty-four hours, but word that Graff would see him finally came, shortly past two oclock the next afternoon. Holcroft leased a car at the hotel and drove northwest out of the city. He stopped frequently, studying the tourist map provided by the rental agency. He finally found the address, and swung through the iron gates into the ascending drive that led to the house at the top of the hill.

The road leveled off into a large parking area of white concrete, bordered by green shrubbery that was broken up by flagstone paths leading through groves of fruit trees on either side.

The clerk at the bookstore had been right. The Graff estate was spectacular. The view was magnificent: plains nearby, mountains in the distance, and far to the east the hazy blue of the Atlantic. The house itself was three stories high. A series of balconies rose on both sides of the central entrance: a set of massive double doors-oiled mahogany, hinged with large, pitted triangles of black iron. The effect was Alpine, as if a geometric design of many Swiss chalets were welded into one and set down on a tropical mountain.

Noel parked the car to the right of the front steps and got out. There were two other automobiles in the parking area-a white Mercedes limousine and a low-slung, red Maserati. The Graff family traveled well. Holcroft gripped his attache case and camera and started up the marble steps.

"Im flattered our minor architectural efforts are appreciated," said Graff. "Its natural, I suppose, for transplanted people to create a touch of their homeland in new surroundings. My family came from the Schwarzwald.... The memories are never far away."

"I appreciate your having me out here, sir." Noel put the five hastily drawn sketches back into his attache case and closed it. "I speak for my client as well, of course."