The Salzburg Connection (49 page)

“What’s that?” an American voice asked in his ear. “Trouble?”

Chuck spoke into his midget two-way radio. “Just side thoughts. Here is what you do now, Hank. Get my car down to the last house on the way out of the village. Go beyond it, actually; draw off the road, park in cover; walk back and join me. I’m at the edge of the meadow, in the central clump of trees. Bring that surprise package with you. You had better notify Andrew. He’s at the inn. Better notify Zauner, too, but make sure you contact Bruno—he’s probably on the road to Bad Aussee right now. Tell him he has to get up here in double time. Urgent Here. At this meadow. Got it?”

“Action?”

“I don’t know for sure. Could be.” He signed off. Could be. He looked back in the direction of Mathison and Lynn Conway. They were now entering the house. He relaxed, folded back the small aerial, slipped the gadget—a much-used cigarette case—back into his pocket.

He settled deeper into the shadows, pulling the hood of his jacket tightly around his ears, fastening it closely at the throat, adding wool gloves to keep his hands from freezing. Now, Bill, he was thinking, it’s all yours. You have got about a twenty-yard start on Elissa, but once she begins adding up the question marks you’ll need every inch of it. I know. I saw her face as she walked along the street with Zauner.

The parting smile for Bill Mathison had left Elissa’s lips the moment she stepped into the street from the post office. Felix Zauner, two paces behind her, had to quicken his stride to catch up and keep with her. “Better wait until we reach my room before we talk,” he suggested tactfully. He had never seen her show so much anger. Her whole face had tightened up, become ten years older. “Relax, relax,” he told her quietly. The street might be lighted only by far-spaced lamps, but even they were enough, helped by the general glow from unshuttered windows (a police suggestion for this unusual evening), to let some passer-by see Elisabetha’s fury. Elisabetha... Elissa... Yesterday in Vienna, when he had been asked to give his justification for employing Lang, his three questioners had called her Elissa.

“How far?” she asked tersely.

“Two more houses.” As soon as they passed this row of cars drawn into the side of the street, they’d be at Frau Hitz’s place,
where he now had his room on a weekly basis. The last of the cars was a strange red Porsche, old enough to be put out to hire. Salzburg plates. Mathison had rented it, no doubt. Better not draw her attention to it. Better get her safely indoors before she had another outburst. Where was her prized self-control? “Here we are,” he said with relief, and ushered her inside.

“Anyone else here?”

“Not at the moment. Frau Hitz is in charge of the dining-room up at the inn for this week-end.”

“An old woman with white scragged-back hair?”

“Yes.” Not so old, actually. My age, thought Zauner.

“What’s amusing you?”

“Let’s start talking. We can’t spend too long here.”

“You mean we’ll be watched?”

“Everything is being watched tonight. The search for Johann has started.”

“I’m glad there’s some efficiency being shown by someone,” she said bitterly. But her voice had lost its shrill note; her face was smoothing out. Those fools, those bungling idiots in Zürich, she was thinking. How did they let Mathison get away? And so soon. So soon...

“Even if he belongs to the opposition?” he asked with amusement.

Her control had returned. So had her sense of humour. “But you don’t really belong to the opposition, Felix. No longer. You are with us now.”

He had to swallow that without one shift of expression on his face. “I am not the efficiency expert around here.”

“Who is?”

“A man from Vienna.”

“From Vienna?” She unbuttoned her coat, threw it aside, decided that the kitchen table could be too clearly seen from the street, sat down on the lowest step of the flight of wooden stairs that hugged one wall up to the floor overhead. She motioned him to follow her into this corner. “And who is responsible for Vienna entering the picture?”

“Washington and London.”

“What?” That had really jolted her. “They know about the Finstersee box?”

“They know.”

“And why did you not report this?”

“To whom? You were in Zürich.”

That was a neat reminder that she was his only contact. He hadn’t been given any other names, any other telephone numbers. “But you had a message this afternoon warning you, among other things, that I would arrive at the inn just before dinner this evening. You could easily have told the man who telephoned you that there was quite a lot of international interest developing in Unterwald as a winter resort. You aren’t usually so backward with a neat phrase.” Her anger had returned, but now it was cold and wary.

“The man who called me did not talk with me. He gave a message. And then he hung up.” And I’m volunteering no information to them, he thought. I may have to answer their questions, but I’ll volunteer no statements.

That was Lev, she thought, taking no chances, keeping risks to the minimum. That was Lev, who had delayed her arrival here in Unterwald by all the double precautions and extra arrangements he had made. That was Lev, who couldn’t accept her urgent suggestions last night, but had to add some variations of his own.
Lev, who was too patient when he should be quick, and too quick when—as in the case of that call to Zauner—he ought to have been patient. She took a deep, steadying breath. “When did you learn that the Americans and British knew about Finstersee?”

“When I was summoned to Vienna.”

“And when was that?”

“Yesterday morning.”

“You were interrogated?”

“Hardly. I was taking part in a conference.”

“Discussing what?”

“International co-operation.”

She waited. “Go on. Co-operation between whom?”

“Austria, Britain, the United States.”

“Have they men here?”

“Yes.”

She waited. When he did not elaborate, she said quietly: “Are we playing games, Felix? Have I got to drag every piece of information out of you with a question? Moscow will not like this. This is not in their bargain. And they insist that any bargain must be kept.” She paused, smiled gently, looked at him with wide sympathetic eyes. “You have no choice, Felix. So let’s make it easy for both of us. Tell me the names of the chief Intelligence agents who are here, what they look like, what is their cover.”

“The Englishman is known as Andrew. You saw him in the post office—as a press photographer. The American is known as Chuck. He hasn’t arrived yet. At least he hasn’t made contact. So I can’t say what he looks like. He is a Swiss climber, visiting some friends on the Tauplitsch Alm, and is supposed to have come along with them in case we must search the mountainsides.”

“So the CIA agent is not Bill Mathison?”

“No.”

“And who is the man from Vienna?”

This was more difficult to answer. His throat tightened; he looked away. But he answered. “His name is Bruno. He hasn’t arrived yet—he was delayed in Salzburg. He is coming as a reporter who works along with Andrew. Their legend is that they are with New International Press Service, head office in Berne. They have heard a rumour, which they are following up, about South Tyrolean terrorists.”

“And what delayed Bruno in Salzburg?”

“Anna Bryant was kidnapped and held. The men responsible have been caught.” His voice dropped as if it were stifled. “Anna is dead.”

She gave an audible sigh of relief. For a minute, she had thought that Bruno had been delayed by Werner Dietrich’s accident. “We had no connection with Anna Bryant’s death. Believe me, Felix.”

“That’s right,” he said bitterly, “you would never have harmed a hair of her head. But Dietrich was another matter, was he?”

“What have you heard about Dietrich?” she asked sharply.

“He took a long time to die. He regained consciousness before then.”

She sat quite silent, staring at him. “Did he name anyone?” she asked at last.

“Yes.”

“Whom?”

He said with a touch of real pleasure, “Your fat friend who poses as a refugee painter from Poland.”

“They can’t identify me through him. Jan made friends of every art student in Salzburg. His parties were a meeting place for all.”

“He is facing a definite murder charge. He may be tempted to talk in exchange for—”

“You don’t know us, do you?” she asked contemptuously. “You don’t really understand what we are. Jan will not identify me.”

But you did, he thought. You identified yourself tonight when you answered to “Elissa”, with Frau Kogel and Karl there as witnesses. And had she met Mathison in Zürich, too? Could “Elissa” link her with other clandestine activities there? One thing he did know: she hadn’t been having a few days in Zürich just to enjoy a holiday.

She misread his silence. “Jan doesn’t know one thing about you. So you are safe.”

“I don’t like his methods,” Zauner said grimly.

“Dietrich was no friend of yours. Why do you—”

“He was a decent man. And a good agent.”

“And our enemy. A dangerous man to me, to you. He could have finished us both.”

“He would never have had you murdered, Elissa.” In his anger, the name had slipped out. Perhaps he wanted it to slip out.

“Elissa? Oh, that name I invented for Bill Mathison?” She spoke lightly, as if the idea amused her. But she was watchful. “Where else did you hear it?”

“In Vienna.”

Shock spread over her face. She stared at him unbelievingly. Then at last she asked slowly, “Vienna knew that name?”

He nodded, glanced at his watch. “I have to get back to the post office. It is our headquarters, informal but central.”

“Then Mathison told them. He
is
an American agent,” she burst out.

“Nonsense. He is a lawyer who came to Salzburg to handle some business for a New York client.”

“He, and he alone, knew the name of Elissa.” Her voice rose.

“Use your head,” he told her sharply. “Stop being so emotional about him. Think, think! Put yourself in the place of the American called Chuck. He has been in Zürich, so he must know something about Yates. And he must have learned something about Bryant and Finstersee, too. So what would he do? Just what you would have done if you had discovered Mathison had any Salzburg connection. You would have planned to met him accidentally, charm him, disarm him, get him talking. He would have answered your questions without even realising they were being asked. If, that is, you were a highly intelligent agent.”

The quiet sneer ended her panic. She looked at him coldly. She said nothing.

“The name of Elissa Lang was bound to crop up in any talk about people he had met on that one day he visited Salzburg.” On Monday; five days ago, no more. Five years, they seemed. “Keep away from Mathison. He is bad for you, destroys your judgment. And I will have no fake suicides here in Unterwald, no inexplicable accidents to Mathison or anyone else. I am responsible for you. If you act stupidly, you will not only endanger your mission but also destroy my future usefulness to your government. They will not thank you for that.”

“You are responsible for
me
?”

“I am in charge here until Bruno arrives. My special assignment is to watch you and make sure that you are completely neutralised. Once the Finstersee box is discovered, the others will have more time then to deal with you directly. But now, I am responsible for you.”

So they really trusted him. “Did Vienna challenge you about me?”

“They asked about you.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“Nothing. I protested, of course. I was shocked. I was very unhappy. Like all innocent men who have been duped by a pretty KGB agent.”

“Do they really believe that I infiltrated your organisation without your knowledge?”

His jaw tightened. “Yes,” he admitted with an effort, “they think I was fooled. And for that reason, they believe I will not be fooled again.”

“What a blow to your pride it must have been,” she murmured. “Next week, I shall find it all very amusing. But meanwhile—” She paused, thinking quickly. She had dropped all emotions, buried them with the remnants of her anger. Zauner had been right: she had let herself get out of control after the shock of meeting Mathison. She had become, for the space of ten minutes or so, a highly unintelligent agent. If Lev had seen her, heard her, he would have had her recalled at once. Disciplined severely. Even—No, no, let her concentrate on what she had to do now. Her cover was completely blown. She would have to get out of Austria once she escaped from this village. But if she completed this mission, she would get a new assignment, new identity, new
nationality. If she completed this mission, her return home might earn reward, instead of punishment. That Zürich telephone number she had given to Mathison in Salzburg—a small thing, unimportant, she had used it before. Except that this time there had been Yates’s disappearance and his own complicated life to bring the police searching, discovering. Had Mathison memorised that number, made her subterfuge for stealing it quite laughable? He must have told someone about it—the American called Chuck, perhaps—and that number had linked her to the Yates-Langenheim flat in Zürich, destroyed Elisabetha Lang. Such a small thing, so unimportant, a foolish impulse to meet a man again, a weak moment of romantic nonsense—and her cover was blown to pieces. Now she would have to start planning her flight. But meanwhile—“Meanwhile,” she said, swinging her attention back to Zauner, “there is a mission to be completed.”

He studied her face and felt a touch of sympathy. She would not accept personal defeat any more than he could. “Don’t you understand what I’ve been telling you?”

“Yes. You were hinting that I am now useless here, that I should escape from Unterwald as quickly and quietly as possible.” Did he really believe that solution would end his problems? “But I am not leaving Unterwald, or Salzburg, until the Finstersee box is found. We must get to it before the opposition does. That is possible; you are in charge of Operation Search, aren’t you? You will see that I am warned the moment the box is found. And I’ll be there to—”