«You don’t know that.»
«Please,» said Von Tiebolt. «We have copies of every bit of correspondence, every will, every legal document you’ve written … as well as the substance of every phone call you’ve made during the past five years.»
«You’ve what?»
«There’s a file at your Federal Bureau of Investigation with the code name ‘Mother Goddamn.’ It’s one that will never be released under the Freedom of Information Act, because it deals with national security. No one’s 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. Can’t you understand that? You should know it before you leave this world; your remaining here would change nothing. You can’t stop us. No one can.»
«You’ll be stopped because you offer lies! You always did. And when the lies fail, you kill. It was your way then; it’s 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. You’re 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 didn’t 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 don’t kill him, others will. He’s 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 Noel’s 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 woman’s head. «So you see, Mrs. Holcroft, you can’t 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-Gadíz rearranged Von Tiebolt’s 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 Falkenheim’s instructions.
But there was another way. It had been discussed quietly among the elders at Har Sha’alav. They’d never had time to bring it to Falkenheim’s attention, but it was their intention to do so. They called it the option of Har Sha’alav.
It was dangerous, but it could be done.
Get the list and control the millions. Don’t 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 Sha’alav were dead; there was no one else. The decision was his alone.
The option of Har Sha’alav.
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-Gadíz.
«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 Holcroft’s 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 d’Accord 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 Tiebolt’s 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 Johann’s room key to him.
The clerks at the d’Accord would not give him one on the strength of another guest’s 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. I’ll 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.»