Legacy of a Spy (9 page)

“Listening for would be more accurate,” said Slater. “I want you to listen, if you can, to any conversation between Rüdi and his customers. Let me know if you detect any similarities in their dialogue.”

Slater wanted to say more, but decided against it. It didn’t pay to condition a man’s mind in advance, so that he would hear only what you expected him to hear.

The men’s-room door opened, and Slater turned to the sink and started washing his hands. Mahler passed a man who had entered, and left immediately. Slater turned off the tap and wiped his hands while the man, whom he had never seen before, went into one of the stalls and shut the door. Slater waited patiently for the sounds that would indicate the stranger’s sincerity and left a moment later, muttering to himself that the stranger was indeed sincere.

Slater returned to his table, signed for the check and went up to his room. The chambermaid was just finishing up. She was a great deal younger and prettier than most; and when she saw Slater, she looked flustered and swished and fidgeted around the room until he was forced to ask her to leave.

He bolted the door and got into his ski clothes. Regarding himself in the mirror, he decided he couldn’t put off getting a haircut any longer. His own hair was getting much too long. It was too thick and wiry to lie down properly. He looked at his watch. The cable stations should be very crowded by now. It would be a good time to pay a visit to the ski-rental shack near the practice slope.

THE SKY was as blue as Slater had ever seen it, and the morning air was still crisp and new. He was glad for the weekend skiers, but he had to admit that Sunday was not the day to go skiing. Slater joined the crowd which filled the roadway and moved along with it like a chip in a stream. Beyond the railroad crossing, he shouldered his way toward the ski-rental shack.

Because of the excellent weather and the crowds, the rental skis were stacked outside and the attendant of yesterday was not in sight. Slater approached the man in charge. He was wearing hiking boots and corduroy breeches. His brown turtle-neck sweater was torn and was becoming unraveled at the waist.

“My name,” said Slater in
German,
“is Karl Nolker. I would like Herr Schlessinger’s skis.”

The attendant’s face was the color of his corduroy trousers. His small, pale blue eyes regarded Slater carefully.

“The skis will be too long for you,” he said slowly to Slater.

Slater remembered that they had been a little short for Wyman.

“Schlessinger’s skis are exactly the right length for me.” said Slater.

“One moment,” he said and disappeared into the shack. He returned a minute later with a pair of Erbacher skis that looked like the ones Wyman had been given yesterday. The attendant held one of the skis up beside Slater, and Bill raised his right arm, and his wrist rested on the tip. He smiled at the attendant. “Perfect,” he said.

The attendant said nothing and put both skis on the snow. The bindings had to be adjusted. Wyman had big feet. Slater offered the attendant some money. He looked surprised and shook his head.

“Herr Schlessinger,” he said, “has taken care of everything.”

“I know,” said Bill, “but take it anyway and bring me a pair of good poles.”

The attendant took the money and brought Slater a brand-new pair of aluminum poles. Slater thanked him and, keeping his skis on, moved off in the direction of the cable station. He joined the crowd and then skied around in front of the cable-car docks and climbed up toward the woods. He didn’t want to wait the hour he was sure it would take to get a ride to the top.

The climbing was slow, and he began to sweat long before he reached the trees, but the exercise made him feel good, and he didn’t stop until he was almost a hundred yards above the line of trees. The evergreens were tall and straight; but they didn’t offer much protection, for, like all the forests of Europe, the underbrush was cleared away, and the planting and cutting had been carried on scientifically for years. To Slater, being in these woods was like being in a maze. He took off his skis and stacked them behind a tree. He removed his mittens and began with the right ski, inspecting it carefully from the rounded tip to the plastic heel plate. He had no way of knowing whether these were the same skis that had been given Wyman. They looked the same and were the same length; but even if they were, that didn’t prove anything. Maybe the skis had nothing to do with why Wyman was in Kitzbühel. Schlessinger could be the owner’s real name. Slater had the feeling that the ski-rental people were not seriously involved with Wyman or Wyman’s employers, nor was Rüdi or Anton, the desk clerk. They were merely hired to do a particular job, but had no connection with, and probably not even any knowledge of one another’s roles. The thing that had made Slater pursue the ski angle was Webber’s letter to Putnam. Slater treated all coincidences in the counterespionage business as suspicious.

He turned to the left ski and ran his fingers, which were getting cold in the shade of the forest, along the edges. Between the binding and the bottom, he felt a raised place and went back over the area. He tried, unsuccessfully, to get his fingernails under the edge. He felt around on the other side of the binding, felt what he believed to be a corresponding depression and pushed. The piece stuck fast for a moment and then pushed out on the other side. Slater pulled out what looked like a tiny drawer. If the previous user had been more careful in replacing it, Slater doubted that he would have discovered it.

Inside the drawer was a carefully folded piece of paper. When Slater unfolded it, he found out it was much larger than he had expected. The message was short, and it was printed in ink. He was surprised that it was in English.

You were $170 short. I will pick it up thru Rüdi. Have made contact with I.W. If this is such an important job, I’d better have more information. Suggest you get me another contact and more money.

W.

I.W. must be Ilse Wieland. There was no longer any question of her involvement. Slater swore. If she knew that he and Carmichael were the same, he would really be in trouble. He had to keep Carmichael from her in the future, whatever else he did. And now the question was what to do about this note. It was obviously from Wyman, and the skis had to be returned as soon as possible. Schlessinger might already be trying to pick them up. He might even be waiting for the attendant in the shabby turtle-neck sweater to point Slater out.

Slater preferred, whenever possible, to leave his opponents’ mechanism undisturbed, so he could monitor their operations or disrupt them through one of the weaker links. He had an idea for a substitute message that might work to his advantage, but he needed time, and he had neither pen nor paper. So he fitted the note back in where he had found it. Then he looked down through the maze of tall, straight-limbed trees at the crowd of waiting skiers below and tried to make a decision. He deliberately took a cigarette from the chest pocket of his black parka. He stood there in the snow and made himself finish the cigarette, a man in the woods facing an important decision—alone as always.

He threw the butt into the snow, put on the skis and skied down through the woods and the open field to the cable station. He observed the crowd carefully and for a long time. Then, pulling up the hood of his parka so that only his mouth, eyes and nose were visible, he approached a man who was waiting by himself on the edge of the crowd.

“Are you German?” Slater asked in German.

“Yes.”

The stranger was about Slater’s height and build. He had a black parka tied around his waist. It was much warmer here in the sun.

“Good,” said Slater. “Then, perhaps, you will do me a favor.” He smiled.

“Perhaps,” said the stranger, but he didn’t return Slater’s smile.

“I will pay you,” said Slater, maintaining his friendly expression.

“What do you want me to do?” The stranger’s eyes were a little more interested now.

“I want you to return these skis and poles to the ski-rental shack over there.” Slater pointed to the small red building.

“Why don’t you do it yourself?” The stranger’s eyes were distrustful.

“I have my reasons. I’ll give you ten American dollars.” Slater took a ten-dollar bill from his wallet. The stranger hesitated.

“Do the skis belong there?”

“Yes, and they’ve been paid for,” said Slater.

“What am I to say, if they ask me anything?”

“I don’t believe they will ask you anything. If they do, say that you’ve changed your mind, that the line for the cable car was too long.” Slater waited while the stranger tried to decide.

“And you’ll pay me ten dollars to return skis that you rented?” The stranger was incredulous.

Slater held out the money, and the stranger took it.

“There are only two requirements,” Slater said. “First you must return the skis and poles, and second, you must forget that you were not the one who rented them.”

The stranger stuck his own skis
and poles in the snow, picked up Slater’s
and trudged off toward the shack. Slater watched him for a moment. The stranger’s general outline and dark brown hair looked very familiar. He was in luck. The stranger’s looks were surprisingly similar to his own. He would make an excellent decoy—for a while anyway. Slater smiled and walked toward the railroad crossing. By the time he had reached it, he had removed his parka. He waited by the track and watched as the stranger disappeared into the shack and came out less than a minute later and crunched back through the snow to his own skis. Slater turned and disappeared into the crowd.

SLATER WOULD HAVE LIKED to exploit his discovery of Wyman’s message. Experience had led him to believe that Wyman and Schlessinger, or whatever Schlessinger’s real name was, did not know one another. At least Wyman probably didn’t know Schlessinger. After all, that was one of the basic reasons for establishing a net. The ideal was to have two-way communication, but at the same time have only one man aware of the exact identity of the other. That way, if Wyman were under suspicion by his government and subjected to a thorough interrogation, he couldn’t reveal his superior’s identity. If Slater’s opinion was correct, he had to begin the slow and dangerous process of uncovering link after link in the chain of Communist espionage. If he were to dispose of the skis, for example, he might break Wyman’s only means of communication with Schlessinger and force Schlessinger to get in touch with Wyman directly and reveal himself to Wyman. Then Wyman might be persuaded to tell what he knew. Slater had not disposed of the skis, because Wyman had already asked for a contact in his message, and to upset communications at this point would alarm the Communists at the wrong time, even if they never discovered who
was the person responsible
.

Slater returned to the hotel in time for lunch and went directly to the dining room. Ilse Wieland was seated with the Baron von Burgdorf at the corner table, his sausagelike fingers resting on her hand. The sight made Slater wince. As he passed her table, she nodded and smiled; and the Baron lifted his little, pig’s eyes to look Slater over. The look conveyed a careful appraisal and implied in some strange way that Slater had been recorded as so much cash received is recorded in the window of a cash register. The amount appeared briefly and then disappeared, and the little eyes were as blank again as the windows of a vacant house.

“Please, Herr Slater.” Ilse’s voice stopped him just as he got past their table. “I would like you to meet the Baron von Burgdorf,” she said.

“Charmed,” said the Baron in English, his expression bland.

“Sehr angenehm,” said Slater and bowed slightly.

“You speak German, Herr Slater. That is unusual for an American.” The Baron had switched to German.

“When in Rome,” Slater shrugged.

“Yes, of course.” The Baron laughed, but only with his mouth. Any other reaction was smothered in his heavy flesh. He had not removed his hand from Ilse’s.

“Won’t you join us for lunch, Herr Slater?” said Ilse.

“Yes, Herr Slater,” said the Baron a fraction of a second later than he should have to make the invitation sound completely genuine. “It would be a great pleasure to talk with an American who really speaks my language.”

“I’d be delighted, Herr Baron, Fräulein Wieland.” Slater gave another slight bow and seated himself next to Ilse.

“The Baron,” said Ilse, “is having a big party at the Ehrenbachhöhe Hotel tomorrow night.” Ilse smiled sweetly at the Baron.

“How nice,” said
Slater.

“The Baron was kind enough to invite me,” she continued, “and when I told him I had a previous engagement, he asked me to invite my escort for the evening.” Ilse turned to the Baron. “Since you have now met my engagement,” Ilse laughed, “you may invite him yourself and have his answer now.”

“But, of course, Herr Slater.” His voice was smooth and filled with cordiality. “I was about to invite you in any case, but now that I know you will be bringing such a treasure,” he patted Ilse’s hand and smiled at her with his wet lips, “your attendance is essential.”

Slater immediately wondered if Ilse knew that Carmichael had already been invited and was simply trying to put his alter ego on the spot, or whether she had made up her mind that the best way to watch him was to make him be her escort. He looked from Ilse to the Baron. She obviously wanted him to accept. The Baron wanted him to also now, but—for different reasons? Slater wondered, but even as he wondered, he heard himself accept.

“I have never been invited to attend the party of a baron before,” said Slater. “I will be delighted to accept.”

“Good!
Very good!”
The Baron nodded. “I am very pleased.”

For the first time, the Baron removed his hand from Ilse’s. Slater wondered if all of this had been engineered for his benefit, although he could see no reason why any man, particularly one like the Baron von Burgdorf, should have to pretend a lascivious interest in Ilse Wieland. The Baron just sat there and licked his lips, as if he found them continually chapped. Ilse’s behavior, on the other hand, was out of character with last night’s performance. Surely, he thought, she must have had enough of men like von Burgdorf.

“Ah, Baron, have you saved some lunch for me?”

Slater turned to see the pencil-shaped Englishman whom he had met in the bar the night before. He was wearing perfectly pressed Jaeger beltless slacks, suède shoes and a Tattersall shirt, open at the neck with a Paisley scarf to cover up his thin throat.

“Sit down, sit down, Mr. Hormsby,” said the Baron. “I assure you, you can have more lunch than you can eat.” The Baron laughed.

Hormsby sat down next to the Baron. The contrast between the two men was incredible. Slater earnestly hoped that nothing would start Hormsby giggling again.

Hormsby turned to Slater as if seeing him for the first time. “I don’t believe,” he said to the Baron, “I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Ach, please forgive me, gentlemen. Mr. Slater, Mr. Hormsby.”

“Delighted,” said Hormsby.

Slater nodded.

“You’re an American, aren’t you?” Hormsby said.

“Yes.”

“You Americans are so droll,” Hormsby continued. “I met a chap by the name of Carmichael in the bar last night. He had the whole place in an uproar. I tell you, I was fairly screaming.”

And that’s the truth, Slater thought, and then something Hormsby had just said jarred. He tried to remember carefully, but could not recall ever giving his name to Hormsby. In fact, that was the final stroke that had set Hormsby off. Hormsby had said, “What’s yours?” meaning Slater’s name, and Slater had replied, “Scotch and soda.” And then everyone in the bar had gotten hysterics because of Hormsby’s high-pitched giggle. Slater remembered he had left immediately afterward. Was Hormsby checking on Carmichael? Hormsby could have seen Carmichael talking to Rüdi.

Slater suddenly began to feel his nerves tighten. It was a reflex, conditioned by past experience. The only thing he could compare it to was his feeling as a schoolboy wrestler, when he had sat with his team on the bench and gotten his first look at his opponent from the rival school—but that had only been a wrestling match. Carmichael’s hours were numbered. He had one more job to perform, and then Carmichael would be finished.

Slater made his excuses, thanked the Baron for his invitation and left the table. If he was going to keep that rendezvous with Webber, he had to start laying the groundwork immediately.