Snare of the Hunter (16 page)

“Backward?”

Krieger nodded grimly. “The car drove off. The Austrians reached that section of the fence, and saw it had been cut. The man seemed dead, but one of the Austrians went right up to the wire—it’s my guess, he actually broke the rules and stepped through it to see if the man was still alive, but he wouldn’t put that in his report. He did state unequivocally that he had a clear view of the man, who had been shot in the chest by someone facing him. The wound could only have been made by a revolver fired at very close range—powder burns were visible. Then the Austrian patrol heard a jeep approaching, so they moved back to the road, picked up their bicycles, and went on home. They made a routine report; and that was the end of it, as far as they were concerned. Then
Rude Pravo
published its version, and the incident on the road became interesting to the Austrians.”

Krieger was taking out his pipe and tobacco pouch, his heavy eyebrows frowning as he carefully packed the bowl. “So your Ludvik is not to be taken lightly. In the Austrian files there is no record of him as a Czech agent; he is only identified—like Alois Pokorny—as a refugee. Which means he is far from stupid. He has been so well covered that he must be important: one of Jiri Hrádek’s hand-picked men.” Krieger lit his pipe, drew on it, got it going to his satisfaction. “But the two who went into Alois Pokorny’s building—they’re on file as agents. I picked out their faces at noon today from a small collection of candid-camera shots. I got duplicates made of them—just a little
quid pro quo
for information rendered.” Slipping his tobacco pouch back into his pocket, he took out two snapshots and handed them to David. “I thought you ought to keep your eyes open for these two mugs.”

David studied them. One photograph had been taken in a beer garden, the other at a street corner. Both were clear shoulder-and-head studies, three-quarter face. “How tall?”

“The dark-haired man is your size—about five feet ten, I’d say. The other is six feet. Strongly built. The dark one has a narrow head and dark eyes. The light-haired man—not blond, just light brown—is round-headed and square-faced, with pale eyes. Two distinct types of Czech—one from the east, the other from the west. Both are obedient, that’s for damn sure: no questions or quibbles in
their
minds.”

“Any names to these faces?”

“Milan—dark hair. Jan—light hair. No, no,” Krieger said as David handed the photographs back, “I had these made for you. I’ll know them again all right. Besides, show them to Irina. She may have something to say about them.”

“How much shall I tell her?”

“Whatever you feel she can take. The more, the better. Well, have we seen enough of this garden? Let’s finish our walk up to the top of the hill. I left a car up there. How’s my Chrysler?”

“Safe in the garage behind the hotel.”

“And which is that?”

“The Grand.”

Krieger nodded noncommittally. Possibly he’d have chosen a less central hotel. “Lienz tomorrow. And then where?”

“I thought I’d cut over into northern Italy and take the road through the Dolomites to the old South Tyrol. Merano seems a good stopping place. Switzerland is just over the mountains to the west.”

“I don’t think they’ll be watching that route,” said Krieger. “But you’ll land in a remote corner of Switzerland. Still—” He nodded again, this time with approval. “We might work out something from there. Have you called Hugh McCulloch in Geneva?”

At the gentle reminder, David almost smiled. “I’ll do that this evening. I suppose it’s only a routine call?”

“Just say you’ve been in contact with me, and I’ll give him a progress report tonight. He likes to be kept in touch. That’s the legal mind for you. Did he tell you we went to law school together? After that, I got stuck with blue-sky work—checking newly launched stock prospectuses against all the states’ laws. So I branched off into business; something to let me travel.”

All this pleasant talk, thought David, is only to bring me back to normal again. He must have noticed my face freezing up when he was reconstructing Alois Pokorny’s death. David tried to lighten his voice. “And meet old friends again. Are there any others along the way?”

“Not till we reach Switzerland. Until then, we’re on our own. No help from anyone, unless the Austrians find Ludvik. They have some pretty sharp questions to ask him.” Krieger paused at the top of the path, looked back at the ruins in the courtyard. “Man’s bloody-mindedness,” he said, almost to himself. “Napoleon had this fortress levelled—
after
he signed the peace treaty with the Austrians. Never did manage to take it by assault.” He resumed his steady pace, but the pipe no longer gave him much pleasure. He tapped the bowl against his heel, and then pointed its stem at David’s pocket. “Have you started smoking a pipe too?” he asked with a wide grin. It was the first time he had smiled.

David drew out the small automatic, just enough to let Krieger glimpse it. “Irina’s. Her father’s, originally. She asked me to carry it. And I’m damned if I know where to leave it,” he said, embarrassed.

“Not in your bag,” Krieger warned him. “It could be searched—perhaps is being searched right now.”

“Oh, come on—”

“I said ‘perhaps.’ It depends on whether Ludvik or his action squad has followed you to Graz. And why not? They knew where to reach you in Dürnstein. Who’s been telling them, I wonder?” The words were casual, the voice hard.

“Not Irina! She didn’t know she was being taken to Dürnstein.”

“Nor you. Same reason. But I knew, and Jo knew.”

“And Mark Bohn.”

“And that was all. Who knew about Graz? You and I, and Jo. And Irina?”

“If she was listening. She had thoughts of her own. And I can’t believe that Jo—”

“Nor I,” Krieger said. “I’ve known her Uncle George for years. He was in SOE—Special Operations Executive—in the big war. That’s English for secret intelligence dirty tricks. I met Jo in London, at Sylvester’s flat. She’s all right. I’m sure of that. She was a great favourite of Jaromir Kusak. He has just got out of Czechoslovakia—but she’ll tell you that story.”

“Is there any word on Kusak? Has George Sylvester produced him yet?”

“So far, Sylvester is only publishing him. There’s a new novel scheduled for next spring. Kusak’s first in twenty-two years, and Sylvester says it will be a major work. Prague won’t like it. It’s the opposite of what they’d been trying to persuade him to write while he was still in Czechoslovakia. All he turned out then for publication was a series of short stories about country life: no politics, no propaganda, no whitewash. So this makes one more hazard for all of us, doesn’t it? That manuscript must be destroyed, and the man who wrote it too, perhaps. Certainly discredited. Even its very title is something that Jiri Hrádek will never forgive:
The Prague Winter
.”

They were coming out now on to a broad stretch of ground, with an open-air restaurant, a collection of buildings and souvenir shops, and an area for cars. It was crowded in spite of its size, and gave a feeling of safety by its constant movement.

A feeling of safety, David thought bitterly. “Jiri Hrádek. What kind of bastard is he?”

“Highly intelligent, cold, calculating, thoroughly dedicated. He is also a charming man when necessary, with a sincere smile and a warm handshake. Very ambitious, and almost at the top. He seems completely loyal to the present regime, but he always has been farther to the left than they are. If the old-line Communists, the hard-nosed boys, ever take power again, then Jiri will be right among them. Physically—tall, dark, strong-featured, very attractive to women. I’ve heard. He’s forty-one and—” I Krieger glanced at David. “Had enough?”

“You’re convinced that Hrádek is Ludvik’s boss?”

“Jiri Hrádek’s first job was in the propaganda section of state security. From there he moved into state security police, which has its agents abroad as well as at home. With that background he could be responsible for more than Ludvik.” Krieger halted by some trees, nodded to a row of parked cars in an open space. “See that green Mercedes? I hired it in Vienna. It’s yours. I’ll, pick up my old crate at the garage. All we have to do is change keys and papers.” They did so. “I’ll meet you—and Irina—in Merano. There’s a hotel called the Bristol, big enough to lose ourselves in. See you there. On Sunday.”

The roads would be hell on that day, David thought. Yet he had no other choice. It was just possible that the Sunday drivers would choose easy highways to picnic areas and avoid mountain routes. But after all, that was the least of his troubles.

Krieger noticed his hesitation. “Any problems?”

“We have enough, haven’t we?” he asked with a slight smile.

“Don’t worry too much about Ludvik appearing at Dürnstein. It could be that Jo let something slip in Vienna when she was picking up your car at the garage. She might have inquired about the best route to Dürnstein, or wanted a map of the town. If someone came asking questions at the garage—well, that’s how information gets leaked quite innocently. Most people talk too much. Including me, these last forty minutes.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“Can’t work in the dark,” Krieger agreed with a firm handshake. “Now I’ll take the cog railroad down the cliff to the street. Ever tried that kind of travel?” He was off, making his way round the busy tables of the dining area to reach a neat little station beside a souvenir shop, and was lost in the flow of the crowd.

David reached the hotel ten minutes later. The Mercedes handled well, and it was compact enough to manoeuvre easily. Its colour was good too: the subdued dark green that he favoured. He left it at the kerb, just beyond the front entrance. (That would cause less speculation than driving into the garage with another car. Besides, he might meet Krieger coming in as he was going out: funny, but stupid.) The street outside the hotel was now quiet, almost deserted: the frenzied traffic of late afternoon had vanished. And the Mercedes did not look lonely, parked beside a couple of other cars. It didn’t even look noticeable.

The small lobby was empty: the café beside it had only one table occupied; the dining-room, out of sight, was busy—a clatter of plates, a waft of goulash and paprika came floating around the corner, reminding him that, as far as food was concerned, this was Balkan territory. He glanced at his watch. Almost seven o’clock. People ate early in Graz. David looked again at the café, wondered if he had time for a quick Scotch, and then decided not. He had better get up to Irina; she might have started to be anxious about him, and he was certainly anxious about her.

There was one clerk at the desk (everyone else being still at supper, presumably), now doing double duty at the switchboard. David waited for his room key. Only for a few seconds, surprisingly. As soon as the clerk saw him, he put down the earphone and came hurrying. “There was a call for you, sir. I told them you had gone out. Then they asked if they could speak with the lady and give her a message. She is talking with them now. I hope I didn’t disturb Fraulein Tesar.”

“A call from where?” Hugh McCulloch? or Jo?

“A local call—from the airport, I think.” The clerk handed over the key at last. “They said it was important. But perhaps I should not have disturbed—”

David was already on his way into the hall to the rear of the desk, leaving a startled man behind him. The solitary elevator was up at the fourth floor. He didn’t wait, but ran up the staircase to the second. The desk clerk’s eyes, if they could have seen him, would have popped even more.

David tried the handle of Irina’s door—locked, of course and then knocked. The call might have come from Krieger: some afterthought, or a warning? And yet there hadn’t been time for Krieger to get to an airport. He knocked again, his worry growing. At last Irina opened the door, white-faced and tense. He glanced at the telephone. The receiver was back in place.

Irina did not look at him. She moved over to the window, opened it, stood watching the dark river.

He closed the door and locked it. “Did you get any sleep?” he asked. The pillow on one bed was slightly hollowed. The other bed had the opened suitcase and a few clothes scattered over its white eiderdown.

“A little.” She drew a thin dressing-gown more closely around her neck. She had taken off the brunette wig and was back to her own blonde hair.

“I saw Krieger. I’m sorry if I’m late. We didn’t really waste any time.”

“How is he?” she asked listlessly.

“Full of information,” he said, keeping his, voice light. “And we’ve got a new car. I guess he missed his own.” Talk and keep talking, he told himself. He glanced again at the telephone. She’ll tell me, he kept insisting. Why shouldn’t she?

“I suppose so,” Irina said.

“We’ll have dinner. Then, after we eat. I’ll pass on Krieger’s news.”

“No,” she said, facing him quickly. “No! I don’t want to hear it.”

He stared at her. “Not even about Alois?”

She was quite silent, her eyes wide and shadowed.

“Better come away from that window. The air is chillier now. I don’t want you coughing and sneezing your way through the mountains.” He had kept his voice normal, but his depression was deepening.

She said nothing. But she did leave the window. She came slowly over to the bed, pretended to be interested in the clothes that were strewn there, picking up a light-green wool dress, dropping it. Then she went over to the dressing-table and lifted the wig. She stood with it in her hand, looking yet not seeing.

David waited. Still she said nothing. She wasn’t going to say anything about that telephone call. Who had made it? The call had never been intended for him: his name had only been used to find out if he were around. As soon as that was established, the caller could speak safely with “the lady.” Did that mean the man wasn’t sure what name Irina was using? Only one thing was certain: Irina should not have received any telephone call whatsoever.

David said, “I’ll order dinner up here. It will be safer—as you said.”

“Safer?” The word whipped across the little room. She threw the wig down. “Useless—all useless. Everything we’ve done has been useless.”