Questions to ask?
Questions?
He had made his decision. He had told Manfredi he would need time—a few days at least—before he could decide.
«Do you really have a choice?» the Swiss banker had asked.
«Very much so,» Noel had replied. «I’m not for sale, regardless of conditions. And I’m not frightened by threats made by maniacs thirty years ago.»
«Nor should you be. Discuss it with your mother.»
«What?» Holcroft was stunned. «I thought you said …»
«Complete secrecy? Yes, but your mother is the single exception.»
«Why? I’d think she’d be the last …»
«She’s the first. And only. She’ll honor the confidence.»
Manfredi had been right. If his answer was yes, he would by necessity suspend his firm’s activities and begin his travels to make contact with the offspring of Kessler and Von Tiebolt. His mother’s curiosity would be aroused; she was not a woman to let her curiosity lie dormant. She would make inquiries, and if, by any chance—however remote—she unearthed information about the millions in Geneva and Heinrich Clausen’s role in the massive theft, her reaction would be violent. Her memories of the paranoiac gangsters of the Third Reich were indelibly printed on her mind. If she made damaging disclosures public, the funds would be tied up in the international courts for years.
«Suppose she isn’t persuaded?»
«You must be convincing. The letter is convincing, and we’ll step in, if need be. Regardless, it’s better to know her position at the outset.»
What would that position be? Noel wondered. Althene was not your run-of-the-mill mother, as mothers were understood by this particular son. He knew very early in life that Althene was different. She did not fit into the mold of the wealthy Manhattan matron. The trappings were there—or had been. The horses, the boats, the weekends in Aspen and in the Hamptons, but not the frantic chase for ever-expanding acceptance and social control.
She’d done it all before. She’d lived in the turbulence that was the European thirties, a young, carefree American whose family had something left after the crash and were more comfortable away from their less-fortunate peers. She had known the Court of St. James’s as well as the expatriate salons in Paris … and the dashing new inheritors of Germany. And out of those years had come a serenity shaped by love, exhaustion, loathing, and rage.
Althene was a special person, as much a friend as a mother, that friendship deep and without the need for constant reaffirmation. In point of fact, thought Holcroft, she was more friend than mother; she was never entirely comfortable in the latter role.
«I’ve made too many mistakes, my dear,» she had said to him once, laughing, «to assume an authority based on biology.»
Now he would ask her to face the memory of a man she had spent a great deal of her life trying to forget. Would she be frightened? That wasn’t likely. Would she doubt the objectives set forth in the document given him by Ernst Manfredi? How could she, after reading the letter from Heinrich Clausen. Whatever her memories, his mother was a woman of intellect and perception. All men were subject to change, to remorse. She would have to accept that, no matter how distasteful it might be to her in this particular case.
It was the weekend; tomorrow was Sunday. His mother and stepfather spent the weekends at their house in the country, in Bedford Hills. In the morning he would drive up and have that talk.
And on Monday he would take the first steps on a trip that would lead him back to Switzerland. To an as yet unknown agency in Zurich. On Monday the hunt would begin.
Noel recalled his exchange with Manfredi. They were among the last words spoken before Holcroft left the train.
«The Kesslers had two sons. The oldest, Erich—named for the father—is a professor of history at the University of Berlin. The younger brother, Hans, is a doctor in Munich. From what we know, both are highly regarded in their respective communities. They’re very close. Once Erich is told of the situation, he may insist on his brother’s inclusion.»
«Is that permitted?»
«There’s nothing in the document that prohibits it. However, the stipend remains the same and each family has but one vote in all decisions.»
«What about the Von Tiebolts?»
«Another story, I’m afraid. They may be a problem for you. After the war the records show that the mother and two children fled to Rio de Janeiro. Five or six years ago they disappeared. Literally. The police have no information. No address, no business associations, no listings in the other major cities. And that’s unusual; the mother became quite successful for a time. No one seems to know what happened, or if people do, they’re not willing to say.»
«You said two children. Who are they?»
«Actually, there are three children. The youngest, a daughter, Helden, was born after the war, in Brazil, obviously conceived during the last days of the Reich. The oldest is another daughter, Gretchen. The middle child is Johann, the son.»
«You say they disappeared?»
«Perhaps it’s too dramatic a term. We’re bankers, not investigators. Our inquiries were not that extensive, and Brazil is a very large country. Your inquiries must be exhaustive. The offspring of each man must be found and scrutinized. It’s the first condition of the document; without compliance, the account will not be released.»
Holcroft folded the document and put it back in his attaché case. As he did so, his fingers touched the edge of the single sheet of paper with the odd block lettering written by the survivors of Wolfsschanze thirty years ago. Manfredi was right: They were sick old men trying to play their last desperate roles in a drama of the future they barely understood. If they had understood, they would have appealed to the «son of Heinrich Clausen.» Pleaded with him, not threatened him. The threat was the enigma. Why was it made? For what purpose? Again, perhaps, Manfredi was right. The strange paper had no meaning now. There were other things to think about.
Holcroft caught the eye of the stewardess chatting with two men at a table across the way and gestured for another scotch. She smiled pleasantly, nodded, and indicated that the drink would be there in moments. He returned to his thoughts.
The inevitable doubts surfaced. Was he prepared to commit what amounted to a year of his life to a project so immense that his own qualifications had to be examined before the children of Kessler and Von Tiebolt were examined—if, indeed, he could find the latter? Manfredi’s words came back to him.
Do you really have a choice?
The answer to that question was both yes and no. The two million, which signified his own freedom, was a temptation difficult to reject, but he could reject it. His dissatisfactions were real, but professionally, things were going well. His reputation was spreading, his skills acknowledged by a growing number of clients who in turn told potential clients. What would happen if he suddenly stopped? What would be the effect should he abruptly withdraw from a dozen commissions for which he was competing? These too were questions to be considered deeply; he was not ruled by money alone.
Yet, as his mind wandered, Noel understood the uselessness of his thoughts. Compared to his … covenant … the questions were inconsequential. Whatever his personal circumstances, the distribution of millions to the survivors of an inhumanity unknown in history was long overdue; it was an obligation impossible to dismiss. A voice had cried out to him through the years, the voice of a man in agony who was the father he had never known. For reasons he was incapable of explaining to himself, he could not be deaf to that voice; he could not walk away from that man in agony. He would drive to Bedford Hills in the morning and see his mother.