He drew up near the lodge inside the gates. Plenty of cars parked there; people strolling around the paths, admiring the rose-beds. “We’ll never be noticed,” he told her, and switched off the engine.
“I wish,” she said softly, “I could stay kidnapped. Just you and I, David. No one else. The way we once were.”
Yes, her smile was the same. Her eyes too, meeting his; no longer evading him.
“Do you remember—” she began slowly, almost hesitantly. But the way she came into his arms was sure.
“Everything,” he told her.
12
Walter Krieger’s hotel in Graz was near the Telephone Office, large, state-owned, and impersonal. It was a simple matter for him to step in there, after a hasty supper, and make his call to Hugh McCulloch in Geneva. A public telephone had a certain reassuring anonymity about it. He gave a condensed report of today’s events, neatly edited and clear. McCulloch must have been startled by their development, but he listened in silence. (If he was following his usual procedure, he would be recording Krieger’s words, and he would go over them carefully once the call was ended. If any questions arose, they would be put to Krieger when he next telephoned.) “That’s about all,” Krieger concluded.
“Not quite.” McCulloch’s voice was strained. “There is a message for you from David. It came at ten-past seven this evening. He is advancing his schedule by one day.”
It was Krieger’s turn for silence. So something happened since Dave talked with me, he was thinking.
“It bothers me, frankly,” McCulloch said.
It bugs me too, thought Krieger, but he said jokingly, “Good. Then we can get some action out of your end.” Hugh was a careful man, deliberate and accurate: but at times, for Krieger’s own inclinations, a trifle slow. Too much attention paid to the small print. “Tell Sylvester that the meeting must be arranged for Sunday. Where?”
“Sylvester is still arguing that out with himself.”
Sylvester was another cautious type. “Then you and I had better decide. And I say we do it right now. Plan A or Plan B? Which is it, Hugh?” Plan A was the simpler one: Irina to be taken to her father’s house. Plan B was a meeting elsewhere.
“We really should consult—”
“Hell, we’ve consulted enough.”
“It’s difficult—”
“Not half as difficult as it could be for Dave. You heard my report. Don’t you see that he could be next on the list for disposal, as soon as he has done his job?”
There was another silence.
Two dead men, Krieger was thinking angrily: Josef and Alois. Two important witnesses whose testimony could prove that Irina’s escape was not concocted by any Western intelligence agency. “As soon as he has done his job,” Krieger repeated. “That’s the pattern that has emerged. Isn’t it?” he asked sharply.
“It could be,” McCulloch said. Then, “More than we bargained for.”
“It’s always more than we bargain for,” Krieger told him. “I vote for Plan B. It’s safer.”
“You are convinced they want her to lead them to the house?”
“Yes.”
“All right, then. Plan B. But which area?”
That was a guarded reference to two villages that had been selected as possible meeting places: one close to Zurich; the other outside Interlaken.
“Neither of these.”
“What?”
“Tomorrow we’ll all be in Merano.” Krieger could imagine McCulloch’s eyebrows shooting up. Merano meant Irina would be entering Switzerland almost at its south-eastern corner, mountains away from either Zurich or the Interlaken area.
“Whose idea was that?” McCulloch was testy.
“I wish I could say it was mine.”
“It’s one hell of a way to reach—”
“We don’t. Forget these places. Think of a village closer to that particular stretch of border, where there’s a house I can borrow, any time, from my friend the candy merchant. Remember it? You liked it a lot two years ago. Said you could retire there.”
McCulloch remembered all right. Tarasp. A village off the main highway, on a dead-end road climbing up a hill. That was where he and Krieger had stayed on a visit to the Swiss National Park two years ago. “Castle, painted walls, and window boxes?” he asked, to make sure it was that same village in the Lower Engadine.
“That’s it.”
“Too remote—the back side of beyond.”
“There’s an airport thirty miles away.”
“I still think—”
“No. This is it, Hugh. It makes sure of a speedy delivery. That’s what we need now. And the more you look at your map, the better you’ll like it.”
McCulloch heaved a heavy sigh. He was thinking of the new timetable he would have to work out. All his careful prearranged plans for either Zurich or Interlaken were being dumped like a load of gravel. “Your friend will lend us his house?”
“Sure. He offered it to me for August. Just call him. He’ll come through.”
“Where can I reach you next?”
“Lienz. I might as well drop in there and verify a few things.”
“More problems?” McCulloch asked sharply.
“There is a definite leakage. My headache. You just concentrate on things at your end, will you?”
“I’ll start them moving.”
“All I ask. See you on Sunday,” said Krieger, making Tarasp final as he ended the call.
Krieger walked briskly out of the Telephone Office, just busy enough so that he didn’t feel conspicuous. No one seemed to be paying any attention at all to him. Satisfactory, he decided: McCulloch would deliver as promised. Sure, Hugh loved a well-made plan and would still be shaking his head over this abrupt change. But plans were only as good as they were flexible. Here he was, himself, preparing to pick up his Chrysler and drive to Lienz, although this afternoon he had had no intention of stopping there. But a brief visit, face to face with Jo, would be a better solution to their problems than a telephone call early tomorrow. So let McCulloch worry about getting Jaromir Kusak to Tarasp, and Krieger would do the worrying about the way Irina had been followed to Dürnstein; and between them they might kick Jiri Hrádek’s heels right out from under him. That would be one pratfall that Krieger would like to see.
* * *
Krieger made one more telephone call before he checked out of his hotel—this time to David Mennery at the Grand. The desk clerk gave him a ready answer: Herr Mennery and Fräulein Tesar had left almost half an hour ago. Quick, thought Krieger, too damned quick. What had sent Dave off like that? Krieger’s sense of urgency grew. The distance from the station to the garage was short: normally he would have walked along the riverbank and enjoyed the cool evening air, but now he took a taxi and had it stop behind a couple of parked cars near the front of the hotel. That seemed safer than driving directly to the garage. He was short of loose coins, thanks to telephones and tips, and he had to search through his pockets, sitting in the dark cab while its driver protested he had no change either. “Then get it in the hotel,” Krieger suggested, holding out the rejected bill.
“I’ll wait here,” the driver told him. He was a pugnacious type. Either he resented a short fare or he hated nightwork. He was young enough to have a girl who wanted to go dancing.
Krieger prepared to step on to the dark pavement—a nice peaceful street with most people indoors, although it was just eight o’clock. And at that moment two men came down the well-lighted steps and began walking towards him. His hand froze on the door handle of the cab. His head tilted away from the pavement. His old green Tyrolean hat would disguise his hair; his light raincoat was slung over his tweed jacket’s shoulder and possibly hid its colour. But if these two men were coming to get this cab, then all precautions were useless. They might only have seen him briefly this morning, in a baker’s shop in Vienna, but their eyes were trained to remember. This damned moustache, he thought bitterly of his pride and joy.
But M
ilan and Jan weren’t interested in getting a taxi. They stopped at the car parked twelve feet ahead of it. Milan pulled its door open, entered, while Jan hurried around to the driver’s seat. They were too angry, moving too fast, to give more than a glance at the taxi behind them.
“Something wrong?” demanded Krieger’s driver.
“Just a cramp in my leg. Give it a couple of seconds. And put them on the bill,” Krieger said. If the man hadn’t spoken he might have been able to catch a phrase from Jan as he had climbed into the white flat. All he heard was a rush of Czech, and then a rasp of gears. The fiat backed, pulled out abruptly.
The cab driver was shaking his head. “Damned foreigners,” he was saying. “If it isn’t Czechs or Slovaks, it’s Hungarians or Croats. Makes you wonder why they ever stopped being Austrians if they come here so much.”
“A nice car.” It was brand new, with a Graz licence plate. “Won’t last long with that kind of drive yourself.”
“So it’s rented. How can you tell?”
“We’ve got these new white Fiats for hire at my garage. Too good for us. And just see what gets into them! Did you hear that gearshift?”
“They seem in a hurry,” said Krieger mildly. He watched the Fiat’s tail-lights scurrying south.
“Foreigners are always in a hurry. And they’ve always got plenty of money too. D’you know how much it costs to rent a car? Let me tell you—”
“Yes,” said Krieger. “I think the cramp has gone. I’d better get some change.”
“I’ll do it,” said the driver. His bad temper had vented itself: he was now an almost amiable young man with a perky grin. Krieger didn’t argue. He waited inside the safety of the cab and thought about Milan and Jan. They had traced Irina, not only to Graz, but to the exact hotel. It was only small consolation to learn that Dave had outwitted them slightly. Very slightly. The direction they had taken could lead to the road to Lienz.
He let the taxi drive off before he picked up his bag and headed round the corner. The garage was deserted except for one thin-faced mechanic working on his motor-cycle. The Chrysler was neatly parked among a dozen cars. There was no objection made about driving it out: Krieger had the official receipt as well as a reasonable explanation, and the mechanic raised no problem beyond an extra charge for the gasoline and oil which had been ordered. (One up for Dave, thought Krieger.)
“Lucky I filled it up right away,” the mechanic said. He was hollow-chested, long-haired, with gentle eyes and a sad smile. “I didn’t expect anyone to drive the car out until tomorrow morning. You had better let your friends know.”
“The American who left it here?”
“No—his two friends who came round asking about the Chrysler, and when it was leaving. I told them tomorrow morning.”
“A big fellow with fair hair, and a thinner man with dark hair?”
“That’s them. Hope I didn’t—”
“No, no. We’ll let them know. What kind of car were they driving?”
“Didn’t have any. Came here by taxi from the airport and wanted us to rent them a car. But we don’t handle that. Too tricky. I sent them to a hire agency near the station. Did they find something?”
“I’m sure they did.”
“But nothing like this one.” The mechanic gave the Chrysler a pat on its hood, and then a wave, and went back to his motor-cycle. Perhaps, thought Krieger, he had married his girl who liked to go dancing in the evening, and was glad of nightwork to pay for the rent and the diapers.
Krieger edged his car carefully into the empty street, and picked up speed as he turned the corner and took the road south. His thoughts were miserable company. It was no longer possible to argue that Jo must have been careless and led Ludvik to Dürnstein, or that Dave had been so absorbed in Irina that he hadn’t paid enough attention to a car following him all the way from Dürnstein to Graz. These two, Milan and Jan, had been sent from Vienna direct by air. They had even known about the Chrysler. No doubt left: there was an informer.
The highway was well made, but hedged in by small silent factories and little box houses where people gathered in barely lit rooms around television sets. And then the hard dark shapes scattered, thinned out, and fields and farms and trees took over. The road swept round to the right, a clear stretch free of traffic, and headed west. Krieger put on more speed. Be careful, he told himself: don’t drive on anger. Or perhaps he should let his temper break, get rid of it before he reached Lienz. An informer—God damn him to everlasting hell.
* * *
Krieger had always liked Lienz. It was a country capital, where fields and hills and woods sloped up and down around an old town. The little shops along narrow streets had crowded displays of local products—plain foods and simple wines as well as Tyrolean jackets, cocky hats, decorated leather belts, wideskirted dirndls, embroidered shawls—and none of them aimed particularly at the tourist trade. Nor were the windowfuls of guns and rifles and hunting knives. People here had a life of their own, and held to their routines: most of them were early in bed and half-way through their sleep by midnight. It was a scattering of visitors who still wandered aimlessly around, perhaps car-weary and eager for a breath of fresh cool air before they turned in.
The old market-place—a lopsided kind of square—was filled with foreign automobiles, all ready for another three hundred miles tomorrow. Krieger added his Chrysler to a row of them, picked up his bag and raincoat, and threaded his way haphazardly towards the sidewalk, his eyes searching out all white cars, checking each Fiat for a Graz registration. One from Milan; another from Geneva; a third from Rome. Possibly, he warned himself, the two Czechs had parked elsewhere—if they had driven here at all. But, his instinct insisted, if they had been told about Dave’s destination, they probably knew the name of the hotel too. In that case, it was more than likely that a couple of tired strangers arriving late in this town would park as close as they could to Die Forelle, particularly when there were plenty of cars around to give a sense of protection. And there it was, a white Fiat powdered with fine dust; Graz licence plate and all.
Krieger kept his even pace, reached the broad sidewalk with its masses of geraniums and petunias trailing thickly from window-boxes, and headed for the gentle lights of the inn. Placid and peaceful: a place where—if it weren’t for a white Fiat from Graz—one could enjoy a good night’s rest. But at least there was one comfort: he hadn’t seen any sign of Mennery’s car. Dave was being careful; more careful than these two action boys from Prague. And with that thought Krieger passed under the inn’s gilded sign—a leaping trout—held out in stiff but shining welcome, and entered the small lobby.
Nothing had changed much in two years. Krieger crossed over a polished floor to the reception desk. Around him were panelled walls, shaded lights, gleaming brass ornaments. Flowers too, of course—this was the East Tyrol. And the lingering but tantalising aroma of venison stew.
Behind the desk a middle-aged man laid aside his book and raised his massive bulk out of an armchair. He stepped majestically forward, a tall figure doubly impressive in Austrian dress—grey wool jacket with a forest-green collar, green leaves stitched on to lapels as decoration, elkhorn buttons. He was very much the master of the inn. He hadn’t changed, either, in two years: same shrewd eyes, same genial smile. Krieger could remember everything about the man except his name. Yes, I’m tired, Krieger thought; and hungry too. He let his bag drop on a wooden stool and managed a smile. “Too bad that the kitchen is closed at this hour,” he said tentatively.
“Too bad,” the man agreed, formal but definite. “Also too bad that there isn’t a room available. Everything is occupied.” He pointed to the register, filled with names.
“Even that small sitting-room you keep for emergencies?”
The man’s round red-cheeked face looked up from the register, studied Krieger. “Ah,” he said suddenly, “two years ago? Herr—Herr Krieger?”
“That’s right.”
“From Switzerland?”
“Jo!” Krieger said. “Now isn’t this nice? Had a good trip?”
She recovered enough to smile, and came across the hall to give him a brief hug. “Very, very nice,” she murmured. “I’ve been waiting for you in the dining-sitting-room-bar for the last half hour.”
You have, have you?... “Yes,” Krieger said, “I’d like a drink unless—” he looked at the man behind the desk—“the bar is closed too?”
“I’ll make arrangements,” the man said, and left in the direction of the kitchen. “Wine or beer?”
“Beer tonight. And plenty of it.”
“That kind of day?” Jo asked as she led the way to a table near the window in the almost-deserted dining-room. The only remaining guests were a group of tourists arguing in Dutch, but far enough away to be ignorable. Wall-lights had been lowered, perhaps as a gentle hint that it was time for all good people to push off to bed. But the dim effect was easy on tired eyes, and Krieger welcomed it. The corner which Jo had staked out for herself with her handbag and a flask of wine was partly shielded from the street by half-drawn curtains.
“Cosy,” Krieger said, and relaxed into a solid chair.
“And practical. You can see some of the square from this window, but no one can look inside—at least, you didn’t notice me, did you?”
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