Buonoventura, and said he’d be in touch next week.
Noel had unpacked during the interminable wait for the Curaçao connection. He sat in a cane-backed chair in front of the window and looked out at the night-white beach and the dark waters beyond, reflecting the bright half moon. Below, on that isolated section of the street bordering the ocean walkway, were the curving, black-and-white parallel lines that signified the Copacabana, the golden coast of Guanabara. There was an emptiness about the scene that had nothing to do with its being deserted. It was too perfect, too pretty. He would never have designed it that way; there was an absence of character. He focused his eyes on the windowpanes. There was nothing to do now but think and rest and hope he could sleep. Sleep had been difficult for the past week; it would be more difficult now. Because he knew now what he had not known before: Someone had tried to kill him.
The knowledge produced an odd sensation. He could not believe that there was someone who wanted him dead. Yet someone had to have made that decision, had to have issued the order. Why? What had he done? Was it Geneva? His covenant?
We’re dealing in millions
. Those were not only the dead Manfredi’s words; they were his warning. It was the only possible explanation. The information had got out, but there was no way to know how far it had spread,or who was affected by it, who infuriated. Or the identity of the unknown person—or persons—who wanted to stop the release of the Geneva account, to consign it to the litigations of the international courts.
Manfredi was right: The only moral solution was found in carrying out the intent of the document drawn up by three extraordinary men in the midst of the devastation their own monster had created.
Amends must be made
. It was the credo Heinrich Clausen believed in; it
was
honorable; it
was
right. In their misguided way, the men of Wolfsschanze understood.
Noel poured himself a drink, walked over to the bed, and sat down on the edge, staring at the telephone. Next to it were the two numbers written on a hotel message pad, given to him by Sam Buonoventura. They were his links to Lieutenant Miles, Port Authority police. But Holcroft could not bring himself to call. He had begun the hunt; he had taken the first step in his search for the family of Wilhelm von Tiebolt. Step, hell! It was a giant leap of four thousand air miles; he would not turn back.
There was so much to do. Noel wondered whether he was capable of doing it, whether he was capable of making his way through the unfamiliar forest.
He felt his eyelids grow heavy. Sleep was coming and he was grateful for it. He put down the glass and kicked off his shoes, not bothering with the rest of his clothes. He fell back on the bed and for several seconds stared at the white ceiling. He felt so alone, yet knew he wasn’t. There was a man in agony, from thirty years ago, crying out to him. He thought about that man until sleep came.
Holcroft followed the translator into the dimly lit, windowless cubicle. Their conversation had been brief; Noel had sought specific information. The name was Von Tiebolt; the family, German nationals. A mother and two children—a daughter and a son—had immigrated to Brazil on or about June 15, 1945. A third child, another daughter, had been born several months later, probably in Rio de Janeiro. The records had to contain
some
information. Even if a false name was used, a simple crosscheck of the weeks involved—two or three either way—would certainly unearth a pregnant woman with two children coming into the country. If there were morethan one, it was his problem to trace them. At least a name, or names, would surface.
No, it was not an official inquiry. There were no criminal charges; there was no seeking of revenge for crimes going back thirty years. On the contrary, it was “a benign search.”
Noel knew that an explanation would be asked of him, and he remembered
Noel had unpacked during the interminable wait for the Curaçao connection. He sat in a cane-backed chair in front of the window and looked out at the night-white beach and the dark waters beyond, reflecting the bright half moon. Below, on that isolated section of the street bordering the ocean walkway, were the curving, black-and-white parallel lines that signified the Copacabana, the golden coast of Guanabara. There was an emptiness about the scene that had nothing to do with its being deserted. It was too perfect, too pretty. He would never have designed it that way; there was an absence of character. He focused his eyes on the windowpanes. There was nothing to do now but think and rest and hope he could sleep. Sleep had been difficult for the past week; it would be more difficult now. Because he knew now what he had not known before: Someone had tried to kill him.
The knowledge produced an odd sensation. He could not believe that there was someone who wanted him dead. Yet someone had to have made that decision, had to have issued the order. Why? What had he done? Was it Geneva? His covenant?
We’re dealing in millions
. Those were not only the dead Manfredi’s words; they were his warning. It was the only possible explanation. The information had got out, but there was no way to know how far it had spread,or who was affected by it, who infuriated. Or the identity of the unknown person—or persons—who wanted to stop the release of the Geneva account, to consign it to the litigations of the international courts.
Manfredi was right: The only moral solution was found in carrying out the intent of the document drawn up by three extraordinary men in the midst of the devastation their own monster had created.
Amends must be made
. It was the credo Heinrich Clausen believed in; it
was
honorable; it
was
right. In their misguided way, the men of Wolfsschanze understood.
Noel poured himself a drink, walked over to the bed, and sat down on the edge, staring at the telephone. Next to it were the two numbers written on a hotel message pad, given to him by Sam Buonoventura. They were his links to Lieutenant Miles, Port Authority police. But Holcroft could not bring himself to call. He had begun the hunt; he had taken the first step in his search for the family of Wilhelm von Tiebolt. Step, hell! It was a giant leap of four thousand air miles; he would not turn back.
There was so much to do. Noel wondered whether he was capable of doing it, whether he was capable of making his way through the unfamiliar forest.
He felt his eyelids grow heavy. Sleep was coming and he was grateful for it. He put down the glass and kicked off his shoes, not bothering with the rest of his clothes. He fell back on the bed and for several seconds stared at the white ceiling. He felt so alone, yet knew he wasn’t. There was a man in agony, from thirty years ago, crying out to him. He thought about that man until sleep came.
Holcroft followed the translator into the dimly lit, windowless cubicle. Their conversation had been brief; Noel had sought specific information. The name was Von Tiebolt; the family, German nationals. A mother and two children—a daughter and a son—had immigrated to Brazil on or about June 15, 1945. A third child, another daughter, had been born several months later, probably in Rio de Janeiro. The records had to contain
some
information. Even if a false name was used, a simple crosscheck of the weeks involved—two or three either way—would certainly unearth a pregnant woman with two children coming into the country. If there were morethan one, it was his problem to trace them. At least a name, or names, would surface.
No, it was not an official inquiry. There were no criminal charges; there was no seeking of revenge for crimes going back thirty years. On the contrary, it was “a benign search.”
Noel knew that an explanation would be asked of him, and he remembered
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