Snare of the Hunter (32 page)

His arms went up instinctively to ward off the blow: his movement was too rapid, too abrupt, and his foothold uncertain. He tottered; he might have regained his balance except that Milan was shouting again and he was half turning to try to find the revolver that lay on the stones a short distance behind him. The loose surface under his feet shifted and slipped over the soft shoulder of the path, began spilling into the precipice. He made a wild effort to jump free from the small avalanche that trapped his ankles, swept him along in its sudden rush. He landed heavily on the shoulder. It crumbled, and he plunged over the side. The handbag fell with him, jolted around in the stream of stones that rattled over the edge and clattered downwards. A long, long fall.

Irina stood very still. Jo gripped her arm, pulled her back to the bank, felt her begin to tremble. “Stay there,” Jo said, “and hold on!” Her own legs were weak. For a moment, she had thought the whole path was going to break away. She steadied herself. At least her mind was still functioning. Remarkable how cool and detached it had become: all the ifs and buts and maybes were over, and there was nothing but certainty left. The men had not been simply following Irina. They had come to kill, and one of them had died trying to do just that. Everything was silent now, as if the hillside were holding its breath.

Milan had not moved. He was still staring at the crumbled edge where Jan had vanished without even a cry. He was standing uphill from them, no more than twenty feet away, where the path curved round the bank. But that was all the advantage he had; he was in the middle of a stretch of sharp loose stones. He had at least ten steps to take before he left that rough bed and reached the more solid ground—bare rock that had been swept clean of pebbles—where Jo stood.

Milan’s eyes shifted, staring now at the revolver. It lay half-way between Jo and himself, on the last fringe of loose fragments. He tried a few steps, felt them slip, halted.

He is calculating something, Jo thought as she started carefully towards him with the empty wine bottle grasped now in her right hand; but so am I. The revolver has a silencer, all ready for some quiet work—and that was the way it should have been; no loud noises to attract attention, everything neat and tidy and unnoticed. He’d still prefer it that way. What about his own gun? Surely he has one—yes, he’s drawing it now; and no silencer that I can see. He has decided the revolver isn’t worth the risk of starting another small landslide. Or will he still try for it? He is inching forward. Cautious, and not so sure of himself as he usually is when he is waving that little pistol around. He can’t watch his footing, either, not with his eyes on me. A small slip there—enough to make him switch his gun to his left hand, grab a tree root to steady himself. But I’m too close to Jan’s revolver; and that he can’t allow. He’s raising his left arm, and I’m so near him he can’t miss. How is my aim?

With all her strength, Jo threw the bottle, caught him on the chest. His arm jerked, the bullet went high. She made a desperate reach for the revolver, heard a second shot. I’m dead, she thought. But nothing hit her, not even a splinter of rock. She lifted her head from the bed of stones on which she had fallen. The second shot hadn’t come from Milan. He had swerved round to look up the path behind him. He fired at some new target, but his left hand was unsure, his feet slipping, his body twisted back against the bank as he still held on to that root.

“Drop the gun!” a man’s voice called out. “Drop it!”

I can’t move, thought Jo. I have the revolver in my hand, and I can’t move. She could feel the loose stories stir uneasily beneath her. Someone reached her, caught her arm. Irina was saying, “Slowly, Jo. It’s all right. Slowly.” She got to her feet, Irina steadying her, pulling her on to safer ground. “I
told
you to stay back!” Jo said sharply. And then, she was weeping.

You didn’t stay back either, Irina thought, as her eyes watched the path again. “David is up there,” she said quietly. That had been his voice, but the bank hid him from view. “He’s coming,” she told Jo, as she listened to David’s footsteps, still a little distance away. And then she saw that Milan hadn’t dropped his gun. He had backed a step, using the curve of the bank as protection, his shoulders drawn against it, his head turned uphill as he waited. He had changed his pistol from left to right hand. Now he was pointing it slowly.

Irina pulled the revolver out of Jo’s grasp, raised it waveringly as she moved forward. “Yes,” she called out, “drop your gun. If he doesn’t shoot you, I will.”

Milan’s head swerved round towards her voice. Angry eyes, incredulous, stared down at her for a split second. Instinctively she dodged close to the bank as he took a quick shot. It missed. He had to sidestep out on to the path, to fire from a surer angle.

This time David aimed for the man and caught him on the shoulder. Milan staggered, his feet out of control. David saw him pitched forward on to his knees, his gun flying in a wide arc out over the precipice.

David made his way down to the curve, came round it as fast as he could—cursing and swearing at each slip of stones. This wasn’t a path. At this point it was a scree. But at least he could put the Beretta back into his pocket, use his hands to grip and balance.

Milan was still on his knees. He was at the very edge of the path. He was not moving. He just knelt there, holding his wounded arm as if to silence its pain, staring down at the chasm beside him.

The hell with him, thought David, and then saw Irina. Irina and Jo. Both together. Both safe. Safe. A few more steps and he was beside them. He took Irina in his arms, hugged her violently. Then, he looked at Jo (dried tear stains on her white cheeks?) and hugged her too.

He said, “Let’s get back to the car. Can you manage it?”

Irina nodded. David kissed her, hugged her again, kissed her once more.

“What about him?” Jo was looking at Milan.

“We’ll leave him to explain to the police. Come on—come on—” he urged. “Jo, you first. Then Irina. I’ll be behind you.”

“Police?”

“Someone must have heard those shots. I just want us to get clear before anyone starts asking questions.” He picked up the forty-five, complete with silencer, that lay near Irina’s feet. Thank God Milan didn’t fire at me with that, he thought.

Jo said, “That was Jan’s.”

“Where is he?” David looked sharply along the path and, only now, saw its final end, abrupt, terrifying. God, he thought again, and looked at the two girls.

“
Sotto!
” said Jo, and gestured to the precipice. She was recovering. She even smiled at her grim joke.

David tested the revolver’s safety catch, found it was already in place, and threw the gun where Jo’s arm pointed.

Irina said, “It didn’t work, anyway. It wouldn’t shoot. I—”

“Was the safety catch off?” Jo asked.

David said, “Get moving, both of you. Talk later.”

They didn’t look back. They rounded the curve, taking it with the utmost care. After that, the trail seemed almost easy. They reached the high field. The little church watched them pass through the long soft grass and start down the steps towards the meadow.

“Is that the bell?” asked Jo, listening to a shiver of sound, a gentle murmur that seemed to hang in the air for a brief moment. “There it is again! Who is—”

“Keep moving,” David told her. “It’s just the late-afternoon breeze playing around it.”

“Bells talk to themselves?”

“Keep moving, Jo.” He shook his head. Women, he decided, were incredible.

* * *

They came on to the meadow, a peaceful place with empty tables and spreading shadows. Irina’s weight was leaning hard on David’s arm, as if she had got this far only by sheer willpower. Jo also was beginning to sag in spite of herself.

“Don’t relax. Not yet,” he told her.

“Couldn’t we lie down on that beautiful green grass? Just five minutes?” she pleaded.

“You’d be asleep in three.” He started towards the Mercedes. He had parked it beside the Ford. (Don’t think of the way you swung in here, he reminded himself, or what you felt when you saw no sign of them—only that empty car and a white Fiat.) The transfer of luggage would be no problem. But the Ford itself certainly was. “What do we do with it he asked Jo, nodding towards her car, knowing exactly what he wanted done but hesitant about suggesting it.

“Leave it. It can be picked up later.”

“And no questions asked?” To save time, he began jamming the baggage into a back corner of the Mercedes. Irina was already in her seat, her head drooping, her eyes closed.

“Oh yes,” Jo said slowly, “there’s always that.” She sighed. “I had better drive it out.” She hesitated. “I suppose.” She waited for him to say they could leave the Ford exactly where it was.

“That’s a good idea. But only drive for a mile. I’ll pick you up at the side of the highway.” He found Jo’s handbag in the Ford too, and gave it to her. She took it, as though it had been the most natural thing to leave her handbag lying around in an unlocked car. The keys were even in the ignition. There must have been a bad moment of panic, a mad flight, he thought, and tried not to imagine the scene.

“Driving north?” Jo asked slowly.

“That’s the way to the border.”

“Just making sure.” She sounded apologetic. “Funny, isn’t it? My mind is going all fuzzy.” Up on the hillside—well, I never did so much cool thinking in my whole life. “Funny,” she repeated as she got into the Ford.

Would she manage it? David watched her back out, and leave. Then he got into the Mercedes and followed. Irina’s eyes opened. She was not asleep after all. “Couldn’t find your handbag,” he told her. He was really worried. “Did you drop it? Where?” I can’t go back up that damned trail.

“It went over the cliff with Jan.”

God in heaven, he thought. Had Jan got that close to her?

“I’ve got my passport,” she told him, noticing the expression on his face. “It’s in here,” She touched a pocket of her coat. “But there’s something else—I’ve been trying to think how to tell you—oh, David!”

“What?”

She lifted up his map, opened it, and said, “Tarasp!”

“I know,” he said.

“It was an accident. I was angry and I had a pencil in my hand and I pointed at the name and the car went round a curve and I lurched and—”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “Stop thinking about it, Irina.” That’s a good one, he thought, considering how I can’t stop thinking about it myself.

“But they will be in Tarasp to meet us.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. It depends on how much time we can make. Or how complicated it is for them to get there.” He kept his voice reassuring. And it worked.

Irina relaxed. She let her head drop back against the seat. “Yes,” she said, as she saw Jo standing by the Ford at the side of the highway, “they have their problems too. They seem so invincible. And yet—” She closed her eyes. She said softly, “It was Alois who chose that handbag for me. It was his, in a way.”

David pulled up ahead of the Ford. Jo had released a valve in a rear tyre. It was settling slowly. “Need a lift?” David asked with a grin, as she attempted a small run towards him. She settled for a walk, and not too fast either.

At that moment, an approaching car slowed up. Three men. David’s heart missed a definite beat. Then, as the car halted beside him, he saw one police uniform. The other two were civilians—country style, with black waistcoats and silver buttons and small peaked hats.

“Have you been here long?” the policeman called over. He was young and brisk.

“Just arrived,” said David. He began to explain about giving a lift to this lady in distress (Jo was now standing by the Mercedes) but his Italian tipped over into French, and he ended in frustration.

The policeman looked at Jo, and stepped out on to the road. But it was only to salute her and ask, in a gentler fashion, how long she had been here.

“Not too long. I had trouble with my car, so I stopped. This gentleman will take me to the nearest garage.”

“Ah, the lady speaks Italian!” the policeman said with relief. “Did the lady hear any shots from the hill behind us?”

“Yes,” said Jo. “Probably hunters.”

“Not on
that
hill.” The policeman’s handsome dark eyes were grave. “It is a place of pilgrimage.”

“I could have been mistaken. I was a little distance away. And there are so many hills.”

The farmers jumped into the discussion.
This
hill, they insisted, it was this hill. They knew where shots came from. Besides, it was on Santa Maria’s picnic meadow that Tommaso reported he had met two men—disagreeable types—one carrying a handgun of some kind. Tommaso was sure of that. He had seen it just as the two men were about to take the path to Santa Maria. Yes, he had seen a pistol. Tommaso had good eyes.

David listened to the rapid flood of Italian, and caught one word out of three. This could go on forever, he thought, and leaned over to open the rear door for Jo as a delicate hint.

Jo pulled it wide, put one foot inside, gave the policeman a warm smile. “Where is the nearest service station?” she asked. She listened to his instructions, said “Thank you so much,” and got into the car.

A crisp salute, a wave of Jo’s hand, and David was driving off. Once they were out of sight, he put on speed. “And who the devil is Tommaso?” he asked.

But Jo had collapsed in her corner of the back seat, and Irina was drifting off into real sleep. All we’ll ever know, he thought, is that Tommaso had good eyes.

Jo said, “Just give me fifteen minutes, David. I’ll tell you then. You’ve been driving all day, and—” Her voice merged into silence.

He let them both sleep until the Italian frontier post was almost in sight. Passage through it was painless. Then the Swiss border with its small formalities; and that too was behind them. There was still plenty of daylight, an hour at least, possibly more, and Tarasp less than thirty miles south.

Walter Krieger stepped on to good Swiss earth a few minutes after six o’clock and paused briefly to watch the light plane that had brought him from Bolzano. It was still bob-bobbing its way, this time into the wind to take off for the flight back to its own nest. But it had got him here; and that was something he wouldn’t have bet on fifteen minutes ago, when they were skirting the massive peaks that marked the Italian-Swiss frontier. Next time he had to make a journey between agonised ridges, he’d hire himself a nice compact jet—like that one over there, at the side of the airfield—and no more vintage two-seater jobs. He gave an amused glance at the little plane as it rose and headed away from the broad green valley back towards the tormented shapes of sheer rock. Well, he thought, if hummingbirds can make twice-yearly flights between Brazil and New England, who am I to doubt we could, make it to Samaden?