Legacy of a Spy (12 page)

WHEN SLATER reached the Bichlstrasse, he found it almost deserted. It was still early, and the skiers were not yet aware that they were to become shoppers because the snow was going to continue through the day. The public lounges, the library, the cocktail bars and cafés were going to be filled. Possibly a few of the vacationers would suddenly realize how tired they really were and would take the opportunity to catch up on their sleep while the world around them turned whiter and, somehow, newer again.

As Slater scuffed through the snow, he tried to keep down the feeling of hate which was stealing its way, unwanted, into his consciousness. It was a feeling he had had often. It was the one bulwark which kept out, momentarily at least, the more shameful emotion of fear. But to Slater, whose career had been made from man’s fear and hate, this was no solution, because his hate was fast extending to the world—a world in which no nation could entirely trust another, which in turn reflected itself in the actions of its citizens. Economic idealism, thought Slater, which brought death to the Webbers and Mahlers and paid the wages for more than a million people like himself all over the world to further exploit, foster and develop still more hate. Slater believed in his country, but no longer on a right or wrong basis. He detested the politicians who made political capital of the misery of others. Worst of all, he felt trapped. There was no honorable way out for his conscience. He hung on to his sanity by believing that he, at least, was attacking what he knew was bad. He was not forced to spread lies or half-truths about the perfection of his own nation, nor did he directly encourage enslaved peoples with the visions of a Utopian democracy to hurl their defenseless bodies against steel tanks. Slater was still able to cling tenaciously to the conviction that what he was assigned to fight was inherently bad. The Krüpls and Stadlers were pawns of the most inhuman political machine the world had ever seen; and this was what kept him fighting his fears and, consequently, the enemies not only of his nation but of the people his enemies pretended to represent.

But Slater had had too much experience in the international scene not to be a realist; and he was continually plagued with the feeling a climber must get when, on a shale-covered mountainside, after two steps upward, the slippery rocky soil slides out from under him, and he is carried, against his will, one step backward. Slater was a sensitive man, an idealist, a man who wanted to believe; and because of his ability to feel, to sympathize, to fear, to understand even his enemies, he was a dangerous, effective counterespionage agent and not simply a thug or a brainless adventure seeker.
For ten years he had worked, not for pay, but because he had believed.
But there had been too many casualties for his beliefs—too many Heinz Mahlers.
Now Slater felt he, too, was becoming a casualty—the way he had to live, full of suspicion that turned to fear and then, as a bulwark against his fears, into hate. Slater knew there must be something better for him. He was becoming sick with the politicians’ and militarists’ glib discussions of expendables in the big picture. He hadn’t known Webber and had only just begun to know Mahler, but he had known many others, men and women of character, who had lost their lives for a cause. They were not expendable. There are never enough of those kinds of people to go around. And now, thought Slater, I’m about to call in another—for the cause.

He opened the glass door to the sidewalk telephone station. The door left a fan design as it pushed back the snow. Slater called Zurich, identified himself to Hollingsworth and requested clear conversation immediately. George had been about to leave for the Consulate. “Bankers’ hours, George?” asked Slater.

“I was up a little late last night.” George sounded embarrassed.

“Your hours are your own affair, George,” Slater hadn’t meant to sound sarcastic. “Charlie’s been killed. I didn’t see the body,” he added, “but I’ve no reason to doubt that he’s dead.” Slater cursed inwardly. There just wasn’t any gentle way to break that kind of news.

“I’m sorry, Karl,” said Hollingsworth after a moment. “I’m sure you did all you could.”

Slater was grateful for that remark.

“I’ve made some progress down here,” said Slater, “and I think I’m about to make some more.”

“Good,” said George. “Isn’t W supposed to leave today?”

“Yes,” said Slater, “but I’m quite certain he won’t. If he asks for an extension of his leave, make certain he receives it.”

“Right.”

“I’m going to present you with a choice, George.” Slater knew it would only sound like a choice. “Either you get my office to send me a man or you can come down here yourself.”

“When do you want me?” said George without any hesitation. Slater cursed again, but he was pleased.

“As soon as possible.”

“Right,” said George. “I’ll be there this afternoon. Shall I take the train?”

“Yes.”

“Where will you meet me?” said George.

“Don’t worry. I’ll pick you up after you leave the station. You know the two places not to go. If for some reason,” Slater added, “I don’t contact you, find an inn and go have a drink and dinner at the Café des Engels.”

“Suppose I run into W?”

“Act surprised,” said Slater, “but don’t overdo it. Remember, this time, unlike Charlie, you’ve got a friend.”

“Right,” said George.

Slater wished Hollingsworth didn’t always say “Right!” with that eager-beaver inflection, but he made no comment.

“One more thing,” said Slater. “Contact my office before you leave. Tell them to send all the information I requested to Salzburg and hold any mail. Just say Annie doesn’t live there any more. I’ll phone Salzburg tonight.”

“Right!” said George. “I’ll see you this afternoon. I’m glad you want me to come down. Oh, by the way, your office refused to expose you to our Saxon friends. They think you’re too important.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Slater and then added, “Be prepared for a little surprise when we meet.
Auf wiedersehen.”

Slater hung up. He had wanted to mention Mahler so that Putnam could do something for Mahler’s family, but his name might be picked up by an operator and connected with the corpse lying out in the snow.

Slater phoned the police, gave them the information about Heinz and hung up. He left the phone station and returned to the hotel and checked the train schedule. He still had several hours. He started on the way upstairs to his room to work out some way to get Rüdi alone when he felt a hand on his arm. He turned and there stood Ilse Wieland, her green eyes smiling up at him.

“Hello, Bill Slater,” she said. “You haven’t forgotten our engagement tonight?”

“No,” he smiled in spite of himself, “I haven’t.”

“You will take me then?” Ilse looked up at him anxiously.

“If you want to go,” said Slater.

“It was the only way I could think of to have your company.” She continued to look directly at him, but she was no longer smiling. “It was obvious you were not going to ask me anywhere.”

“Why don’t we go somewhere else then?” Slater was convinced she would object to that.

“But that would not be polite,” she said. “The Baron has asked us, and we have accepted. We must go.”

She’s more than a match for me, Bill thought. She’s too lovely and too appealing.

“Very well,” he said. “The Baron’s it is.”

“Are you going upstairs to visit someone?” she asked.

“No,” said Slater, “I’m going up to my room.”

“You have moved then?” she said.

Slater just stood there and looked at her, remembering all at once that when he had brought her back to the hotel from the Café des Engels he had left her on these stairs. She had remembered and noted that he had not, at that time, been a guest of the hotel.

“They didn’t have a room here when I arrived,” he said. “I wasn’t able to move in until Sunday afternoon.”

“I see,” she said.

Slater had to find out immediately who this woman really was and what she knew about him. Too much had happened for him to let her destroy his position—if she hadn’t already done so.

“Why,” said Slater, feeling strangely embarrassed, “why don’t you come up to my room and have a quiet drink with me?”

He could have cut out his tongue. He knew he had said it too fast. No woman would accept such an awkwardly put proposition on a staircase in a hotel lobby filled with people who had nothing better to do on a snowy day than eavesdrop. Much to his surprise, she accepted. She took hold of his hand and accompanied him upstairs. He couldn’t think of a thing to say, and it made him furious. He had always considered himself a man of the world.

He unlocked his door and stepped aside to let Ilse enter. He pointed to the easy chair and picked up the house phone. His own voice sounded strange.

“Please send up some Scotch, soda water, ice and two glasses to room twenty-seven, right away.”

Slater was, suddenly, desperate for a drink. He turned, expecting to see Ilse seated in the chair. To his consternation, she was standing right behind him. They were now
face
to face, their eyes almost on the same level.

“You Americans are so strange,” she said.

“I guess I am acting kind of crazy,” said Slater. “Why don’t you sit down?” It sounded more like a plea than a simple request.

“Because,” she said slowly, “I prefer to stand.” She paused and looked into his eyes almost as green as her own, tense, wary, tired eyes. “And because,” she continued, “I want you to kiss me. You want to. I know you do—and you need to. Please!”

Slater took Ilse into his arms. Her lips were unbelievably soft and willing. She stood up close to him. Her arms went around his neck and she returned his embrace. They stood close and kissed each other over and over again. She kissed his eyes, the corners of his mouth, his neck, and neither said anything intelligible until the bellhop’s knock on the door interrupted them, and they were forced to separate.

Slater thought the boy would never stop fussing around the room, pointing to the ice, commenting on the brand of Scotch, asking if there was enough soda water, until Slater was ready to throw him out. Slater locked the door after him, when the boy finally left. He turned back to Ilse.

“Who are you, for the love of God? If you’re something else I can’t believe in, I’m going to go crazy! Maybe this is an everyday thing in your book, but it’s not in mine.”

“I know.” Ilse’s voice was soothing. “I could see it in your eyes, Bill Slater, Bruce Carmichael—or whatever your real name is.”

Ilse started toward him again, but Slater backed away and she stopped.

“Who are you?” said Slater.

“I am Ilse Wieland. I have a dress shop in Munich. I am on a special assignment for the West German Government,” she said. Her statements seemed to be spoken mechanically.

“And just who do you think I am?” Slater’s eyes were still tense.