«Who is he?»
«A Jew from a place called Har Sha’alav.»
Althene looked at the girl through the racing shadows. «A Jew from Har Sha’alav came to see me. It’s why I’m here.»
«I know.»
The door of the apartment was opened by a slender man with dark skin and very dark eyes. He was neither tall nor short, but he emanated raw physical power. This was conveyed by his enormous shoulders, accentuated by the stretched cloth of his white shirt, open at the neck, with the sleeves rolled up, displaying a pair of muscular arms. His black hair was trimmed, his face striking, as much for its rigid solemnity as for its features.
He studied the two women, then nodded, gesturing them inside. He watched Helden’s limp without comment; observed their drenched clothing in the same manner.
«I am Yakov Ben-Gadíz,» he said. «So that we understand one another, it is I who will make the decisions.»
«On what basis?» asked Althene.
Ben-Gadíz looked at her. «You are the mother?»
«Yes.»
«I didn’t expect you.»
«I didn’t expect to be here. I’d be dead if it weren’t for this girl.»
«Then you have a further obligation, in addition to your overwhelming one.»
«I asked you a question. On whose authority do you make decisions for me? No one does.»
«I’ve been in contact with Neuchâtel. There’s work to be done tonight.»
«There’s only one thing I must do. That’s reach my son.»
«Later,» said Yakov Ben-Gadíz. «There’s something else first. A list must be found. We think it is in the Hôtel d’Accord.»
«It’s vital,» interrupted Helden, her hand on Althene’s arm.
«As vital as reaching your son,» continued Yakov, staring at the Holcroft woman. «And I need a decoy.»
42
Von Tiebolt spoke into the telephone, Kessler’s note in his free hand. On the other end of the line was the first deputy of canton Genève. «I tell you, the address is wrong! It’s an old deserted building, no telephone wires going through it. I’d say the Nachrichtendienst rather successfully invaded your state telephone service. Now, find me the right one!»
The blond man listened for several moments and then exploded. «You idiot, I can’t call the number! The clerk swore he’d give it to no one but Holcroft. No matter what I might say, she’d be alarmed. Now, find me that address! I don’t care if you have to wake up the president of the Federal Council to do it. I expect you to call me back within the hour.» He slammed down the phone and looked again at Kessler’s note.
Erich had gone to meet Holcroft. Undoubtedly they were at the Excelsior by now, registered under the name of Fresca. He could phone to make sure, but calling might lead to complications. The American had to be pushed to the edge of sanity. His friend from London murdered, his mother nowhere to be found; it was even possible he’d heard of Helden’s death in Neuchâtel. Holcroft would be close to breaking; he might demand a meeting.
Johann was not prepared to agree to one yet. It was shortly past three o’clock in the morning, and the mother had not been located. He had to find her, kill her. There were six hours to go before the conference at the bank. At any moment—from out of a crowd, from a taxi in traffic, on a staircase or in a corner—she might confront her son and scream the warning: Betrayal! Stop! Abandon Geneva!
That could not happen! Her voice had to be stilled, the programming of her son carried out. Quite simply, she had to die tonight, all risks eliminated with her death. And then another death would follow quickly, quietly. The son of Heinrich Clausen would have fulfilled his function.
But first, his mother. Before daybreak. What was infuriating was that she was out there. At the end of a telephone line whose accurate address was buried in some bureaucrat’s file!
The blond man sat down and took a long, double-edged knife from a scabbard sewn into his coat. He’d have to wash it. The red-bearded pilot had soiled it.
Noel opened his suitcase on the luggage rack and looked at the rumpled mass of clothes inside. Then his eyes scanned the white walls with the flock paper and the French doors and the small, overly ornate chandelier in the ceiling. Hotel rooms were all beginning to look alike; he remembered the seedy exception in Berlin with a certain fondness. That he even remembered it under the circumstances was a little startling. He had settled into his unsettling new world with his faculties intact. He was not sure whether that was good or bad, only that it was so.
Erich was on the phone, trying to reach Von Tiebolt at the d’Accord. Where the hell was Johann? It was three-thirty in the morning. Kessler hung up and turned to Noel. «He left a message saying we weren’t to be alarmed. He’s with the first deputy. They’re doing everything they can to find your mother.»
«No call from her, then?»
«No.»
«It doesn’t make sense. Is the desk clerk still there?»
«Yes. You paid him two weeks’ wages. The least he could do is to stay through the night.» Kessler’s expression grew pensive. «You know, it’s quite possible she’s simply delayed. Missed connections, a fog-bound airport, difficulties with immigration somewhere.»
«Anything’s possible, but it still doesn’t make sense. I know her; she’d get word to me.»
«Perhaps she’s being detained.»
«I thought about that; it’s the best thing that could happen. She’s traveling under a false passport. Let’s hope she’s arrested and thrown into a cell for a couple of days. No call from Helden, either?»
«No calls at all,» replied the German, his eyes suddenly riveted on Noel.
Holcroft stretched, shaving kit in hand. «It’s the waiting without knowing that drives me crazy.» He gestured at the bathroom door. «I’m going to wash up.»
«Good idea. Then why don’t you rest for a while? You must be exhausted. We have less than five hours to go, and I do believe Johann’s a very capable man.»
«I’m banking on it,» said Noel.
He took off his shirt and ran the hot water at full force, generating steam. The vapor rose, clouding the mirror and fogging the area above the sink. He put his face into the moist heat, supporting himself on the edge of the basin, and stayed there until sweat poured down his forehead. The practice was one he had learned from Sam Buonoventura several years ago. It was no substitute for a steam bath, but it helped.
Sam? Sam! For Christ’s sake, why hadn’t he thought of him? If his mother had changed her plans, or something had happened, it was entirely possible she’d call Sam. Especially if there was no one at the d’Accord named Noel Holcroft.
He looked at his watch; it was three-thirty-five, Geneva time, ten-thirty-five, Caribbean. If Sam had something to tell him, he’d stay by the telephone.
Noel turned off the faucet. He could hear Kessler’s voice from the bedroom, but there was no one else there. Whom was he talking to, and why was he keeping his voice so low?
Holcroft turned to the door and opened it less than an inch. Kessler was across the room, his back to the bathroom door, speaking into the telephone. Noel heard the words and stepped out.
«I tell you, that’s our answer. She’s traveling with a false passport. Check immigration records for—»
«Erich!»
Yakov Ben-Gadíz closed the first-aid kit, stood up beside the bed, and surveyed his handiwork. Helden’s wound was inflamed, but there was no infection. He had replaced the soiled bandage with a clean one.
«There,» he said, «that will do for a while. The swelling will go down in an hour or so, but you must stay off your feet. Keep the leg elevated.»