Toxin. A vaporized poison. Toxic fumes. Powerful enough to render a trespasser unconscious. An oxygen mask would be protection against the vapor. If Von Tiebolt used one, he could enter the room at will.
Tear gas and Mace were not unknown in Yakov’s line of work. He returned to his briefcase, knelt down, and pulled out a gas mask with a small canister of oxygen. He put it on, inserted the mouthpiece, and went back to the door. He pushed the door open quickly, and stepped back.
A burst of vapor filled the door frame. It was suspended for several seconds and then evaporated rapidly, leaving the space as clear as if it had never appeared. Ben-Gadíz felt a minor stinging around his eyes. It was an irritant, not blinding, but Yakov knew that if inhaled, the chemicals that produced that stinging would inflame the lungs and cause his instant collapse. It was the proof he was looking for. The Sonnenkinder list was somewhere in that room.
He stepped through the doorway, past a tripod with a cylinder of gas attached to the top. To remove whatever traces might remain of the fumes, he opened a window; cold winter air rushed in, billowing the curtains.
Ben-Gadíz went back into the sitting room, picked up his briefcase, and returned to the bedroom to begin the search. Assuming that the list would be protected by a fire-resistant steel container of some sort, he took out a small metal scanner with a luminous dial. He started at the bed area and began working his way around the room.
The needle of the detector leaped forward in front of the clothes closet. The green light picked up the familiar tiny yellow dots in the door frame.
He had found the vault.
He opened the door; vapor burst forth, filling the closet as it had filled the space of the bedroom door. Only now it remained longer than before, the cloud denser. If the first alarm had malfunctioned, this one contained enough toxin to kill a man. On the floor of the closet was an overnight suitcase, its dark-brown leather soft and expensive, but Yakov knew it was not an ordinary piece of luggage. There were no wrinkles on the front or back, as there were across the top and down the sides. The leather was reinforced with steel.
He checked for threads and markings with the green light; there were none. He lifted the suitcase to the bed, then pushed a second button on the flashlight. The green light was replaced with a sharp beam of yellowish white. He studied the two locks. They were different; doubtless each triggered a different alarm.
He removed a thin pick from his pocket and inserted it in the lock on the right, careful to keep his hand as far back as possible.
There was a rush of air; a long needle shot out from the left of the lock. Fluid oozed from the point, globules dripping to the carpet. Yakov took out a handkerchief, wiped the needle clean, and slowly, cautiously, pushed it back into its recess, using his pick to press it through the tiny orifice.
He turned his attention to the lock on the left. Standing to the side he repeated the manipulations with the pick; the latch snapped up; there was a second rush of air. Instead of a needle, something shot out, embedding itself in the fabric of an armchair across the room. Ben-Gadíz rushed over, shining the light on the point of entry. There was a circle of dampness where the object had entered the cloth. With the pick, he dug it out.
It was a gelatinous capsule, its tip made of steel. It would enter flesh as easily as it had broken the threads of fabric. The fluid was a powerful narcotic of some sort.
Satisfied, Ben-Gadíz put the capsule in his pocket, returned to the suitcase, and opened it. Inside was a flat metal envelope attached to the steel reinforcement. He had reached the safety box beyond the alarms, within the successive deadly vaults, and it was his.
He looked at his watch; the operation had taken eighteen minutes.
He lifted the flap of the metal envelope and took out the papers. There were eleven pages, each page containing six columns—names, cable addresses, and cities—perhaps one hundred fifty entries per page. Approximately sixteen hundred and fifty identities.
The elite of the Sonnenkinder. The manipulators of Wolfsschanze.
Yakov Ben-Gadíz knelt down over his open briefcase and removed a camera.
«Vous êtes très aimable. Nous vous téléphonons dans une demi-heure. Merci.»
Kessler hung up the telephone, shaking his head at Noel, who stood by the window of the Excelsior suite. «Nothing. Your mother didn’t call the d’Accord.»
«They’re certain?»
«There’ve been no calls at all for a Mr. Holcroft. I even checked the switchboard, in case the desk clerk had stepped out for a moment or two. You heard me.»
«I don’t understand her. Where is she? She should have called hours ago. And Helden. She said she’d phone me Friday night; goddammit, it’s Saturday morning!»
«Nearly four o’clock,» said Erich. «You really should get some rest. Johann’s doing everything he can to find your mother. He’s got the best people in Geneva working for us.»
«I can’t rest,» said Noel. «You forget: I just killed a man in Curaçao. His crime was helping me, and I killed him.»
«You didn’t. The Nachrichtendienst did.»
«Then let’s do something!» cried Holcroft. «Von Tiebolt has friends in high places. Tell them about it! British Intelligence owes him one hell of a debt; he gave them the Tinamou! Call in that debt! Now! Let the whole goddamn world know about those bastards! What are we waiting for?»
Kessler took several steps toward Noel, his eyes level and compassionate. «We’re waiting for the most important thing of all. The meeting at the bank. The covenant. Once that’s over with, there’s nothing we can’t do. And when we do it, the ‘whole goddamn world,’ as you put it, will have to listen. Look to our covenant, Noel. It’s the answer to so much. For you, your mother, Helden … so much. I think you know that.»
Holcroft nodded slowly, his voice tired, his mind exhausted. «I do. It’s the not knowing, not hearing, that drives me crazy.»
«I know it’s been difficult for you. But it will be over soon; everything will be fine.» Erich smiled. «I’m going to wash up.»
Noel went to the window. Geneva was asleep—as Paris had been asleep, and Berlin and London and Rio. Through how many windows had he looked out at the sleeping cities at night? Too many.
Nothing is as it was for you…
Nothing.
Holcroft frowned.
Nothing. Not even his name. His name. He was registered as Fresca. Not Holcroft, but Fresca! That was the name Helden was to call! Fresca.
He spun around toward the telephone. There was no point in having Erich make the call; the d’Accord operator spoke English, and he knew the number. He dialed.
«Hôtel d’Accord. Bonsoir.»
«Operator, this is Mr. Holcroft. Dr. Kessler spoke to you a few minutes ago about the messages I was expecting.»
«I beg your pardon, monsieur. Dr. Kessler? You wish Dr. Kessler?»
«No, you don’t understand. Dr. Kessler spoke to you just a few minutes ago about my messages. There’s another name I want to ask you about. ‘Fresca.’ ‘N. Fresca.’ Have there been any messages for N. Fresca?»
The operator paused. «There’s no Fresca at the d’Accord, monsieur. Do you wish me to ring Dr. Kessler’s room?»
«No, he’s here. He just spoke to you!» Goddammit, thought Noel, the woman could speak English, but she couldn’t seem to understand it. Then he remembered the name of the desk clerk; he gave it to the operator. «May I speak with him, please?»
«I’m sorry, monsieur. He left over three hours ago. He’s off duty at midnight.»