Althene pushed herself away from the tree. She tried to recall the pilot’s exact words.
There’s a second set of keys … a small magnet box … under the hood … get to the landing … where we flew in. Atterrisage Médoc.
Atterrisage Médoc. On the west side of the lake.
Five minutes later, her hands covered with grease, she was traveling south on the lakeside highway, toward Geneva. As the moments passed, her foot became firmer on the gas pedal, her grip on the steering wheel more relaxed. She began to think again.
Atterrisage Médoc. On the west side of the lake … ten or twelve miles north of the city. If she thought only of that, of the small, obscure stretch of lakefront with the gas pumps on the single dock, she might slow her heartbeat and breathe again.
Atterrisage Médoc. Please, God, let me find it! Let me live to find it and reach my son! Dear God! What have I done? A lie of thirty years… a betrayal so horrible, a stigma so terrifying… I must find him!
Helden sat directly behind the pilot in the small seaplane. She felt the bandage beneath her skirt; it was tight, but did not cut off circulation. The wound throbbed now and then, but the pills reduced the pain; she could walk adequately. Even if she could not, she would force herself to.
The pilot leaned back toward her. «A half hour after landing you’ll be driven to a restaurant on the lake where you can get a taxi into the city,» he said. «Should you require our services within the next two weeks, our base for this period is a private marina called Atterrisage Médoc. It’s been a pleasure having you on board.»
41
Erich Kessler was not a physical man, yet he approved of physical violence when that violence brought about practical objectives. He approved of it as observer and theoretician, not as participant. However, there was no alternative now, and no time to seek one. He would have to become a part of the violence.
Holcroft had left him no choice. The amateur had sorted out his own priorities and acted on them with alarming perception. The chromosomes of Heinrich Clausen were in the son. He had to be controlled again, remaneuvered again.
Erich chose the person he needed from among the clusters of people in the lobby: a newspaperman, and, from the ease of his manner and his expertness with notebook and pencil, probably a good one.
Kessler approached the man, keeping his voice low. «You’re the journalist from … what paper is it?»
«Genève Soir,» said the reporter.
«Dreadful, what happened. That poor man. A tragedy. I’ve been standing here for quite a while trying to decide whether to say anything. But I simply can’t get involved.»
«You’re staying at the hotel?»
«Yes. I’m from Berlin. I come to Geneva often. My conscience tells me to go right over to the police and tell them what I know. But my attorney says it could be misconstrued. I’m here on business; it could be detrimental. Still, they should have it.»
«What kind of information?»
Erich looked at the journalist sadly. «Let’s say I knew the man who was killed very well.»
«And?»
«Not here. My attorney says I should stay out of it.»
«Are you telling me you were involved?»
«Oh, good heavens, no. Not like that, not at all. It’s just that I have … information. Perhaps even a name or two. There are … reasons.»
«If you’re not involved, I’ll protect you as a source.»
«That’s all I ask. Give me two or three minutes to go upstairs and get my coat. I’ll come down and head outside. Follow me down the hill. I’ll find a secluded spot where we can talk. Don’t approach me until I call for you.»
The journalist nodded. Kessler turned toward the elevators. He would get his overcoat and two revolvers, both untraceable. The minor delay would heighten Holcroft’s anxieties, and that was fine.
Noel waited in the doorway across the street from the Hôtel d’Accord. Kessler should have received the message five minutes ago. What was holding him up?
There he was! The corpulent figure walking slowly down the short steps of the d’Accord’s entrance could be no one else’s. The bulk, the deliberate pace, the heavy overcoat. That was it; Kessler had gone back to his room for the coat.
Holcroft watched as Erich made his stately way down the hill, nodding pleasantly to the passersby. Kessler was a gentle person, thought Noel, and probably would not understand why he was being used as the lure; it wasn’t in his nature to think that way. Nor had it ever been in Holcroft’s to use a man this way, but nothing is as it was. It was natural for him now.
And it was successful. God damn it, it worked! A man in his mid-thirties, perhaps, reached the bottom step of the d’Accord and looked directly at Kessler’s receding figure. He began walking slowly—too slowly for someone going somewhere—and took up his position far enough behind Erich not to be seen.
Now, if only Kessler would do as he was told. The intersecting avenue at the bottom of the rue des Granges was made up of old three-story office buildings, manicured and expensive, but, after five o’clock in the evening, essentially deserted. Noel had done his homework; on it depended his trapping a killer from the Nachrichtendienst. Just one killer was enough; he’d lead him to others. It was not out of the question to break that man’s neck to get the information. Or to fire bullets across that man’s eyes.
Noel felt the gun in his pocket and took up slow pursuit, staying on his side of the street.
Four minutes later Kessler reached the bottom of the hill and turned left. The man behind him did the same. Holcroft waited until the traffic passed and both men were out of sight. Then he crossed the intersection, still keeping on the opposite side, his view clear.
Suddenly he stopped. Kessler was nowhere in sight.
Neither was the man who had followed him.
Noel began running.
Kessler turned left into a dimly lit street, walked about a hundred and fifty feet, and held up a small mirror. The journalist was behind him; Holcroft was not. It was the moment to move quickly.
On the left was a cul-de-sac, designed to accommodate two or three parked automobiles, a chain across the front denoting its private ownership. There were no cars, and it was dark. Very dark. Ideal. With difficulty, he stepped over the chain and walked rapidly to the wall at the rear. He put his hand into his right pocket and took out the first gun—the first gun he would use. He had to tug at it; the silencer was caught momentarily in the cloth.
«In here!» he said, loud enough to be heard by the newspaperman. «We can talk here and no one will see us.»
The journalist climbed over the chain, his eyes squinting into the shadows. «Where are you?»
«Over here.» Erich raised the gun as the journalist approached. When he was within several feet, Kessler fired into the dim silhouette of the man’s neck. The spit had a hollow sound; the expulsion of air from the punctured throat echoed between the two buildings. The newspaperman collapsed. Erich pulled the trigger once again, shooting him in the head.
He unscrewed the silencer from the pistol, rummaged through the dead man’s clothes, extracting a billfold and the notebook, throwing them into the shadows. He took out the second gun from his left pocket and pressed the weapon into the reporter’s hand, the index finger around the trigger.
Still kneeling, Kessler tore the front of his shirt and ripped two buttons off his overcoat. He rubbed the flat of his hand harshly over the oil and dirt of the parking lot and soiled his face with the residue.
He was ready. He rose to his feet and lurched toward the chain. At first he could not see Holcroft, but then he did. The American was running in the street; he stopped briefly in front of a streetlight.