Snare of the Hunter

by Helen Macinnes

  Slightly encouraged, he increased his pace and headed for the Old Town.

  16

  Distances were short in this closely built section of Merano, recalling days when safety lay in houses and streets clustered tight within strong walls. In less than three minutes David reached the Corn Market, an open square that at first seemed vulnerable. But the constant movement of people was a comforting sight, especially when he still saw no sign of Ludvik. Or of Milan. Or of Jan. Quietly, without looking too much in a hurry, he dodged past groups of farmers dressed for town in their white shirts, black waistcoats with silver buttons, feathered hats; past their red-cheeked wives in dirndls and bright neckerchiefs; past flaxen-haired children and huge shopping baskets; past tourists in their own distinctive fancy dress. There were other local people too, possibly Italians, in three-button suits; girls in miniskirts; teenagers in blue jeans. And there were enough men in light tweed jackets, with open-necked shirts and raincoats over their shoulders, to make David feel he fitted into the overall picture. At least no one was giving him a second glance. Thank God, he thought I’m not six feet four with a mop of red hair.

  But it was with relief that he reached the narrow street that sloped steadily uphill towards the heart of the Old Town. It was made all the narrower by the heavy stone pillars on either side that were spaced along the kerbs and bore the weight of the houses’ second floors as they stretched over the sidewalks. They formed continuous arcades, low and vaulted, where shops and doorways and inns and taverns drew back under deep shadows. A secret place, giving a feeling of protection and mystery even if the small stores were brightly lit and crowded with week-end shoppers: modern life in a medieval setting. David halted by one of the massive pillars, lit a cigarette, and took his bearings: people, the same mix as in the Corn Market; narrow doorways leading to the houses overhead; window displays of sausages and cheese, wine and bread, pots and pans, aprons and dirndls, boots and lederhosen; cafés and taverns; the gilded sign of an inn called the Golden Rose; all very simple and comfortable and domestic. Impossible in this crowd to recognise anyone unless you came face to face with him, and perish that thought.

  There was a long screaming hiss, a violent explosion. David dropped his cigarette and looked around. No one was paying any attention, except the foreigners. They had flinched too, like David; some had visibly jumped; and one girl in a mini-dress let out a scream. Another strange high-powered hiss, another hideous bang. A small boy in short leather pants clapped his hands in delight. “Rockets, rockets, I want to see the rockets!” He made a dash past David into the middle of the street. His mother, with rose-patterned apron over a green dirndl, lunged after him. “Excuse me, please,” she said to David, politeness lingering even in a small crisis. And then, seeing his bewilderment, she added, “Rockets, that’s all. From the hilltops.” And she was on her way to rescue her son from the traffic.

  Rockets—but of course: to break up the clouds, prevent a massive downpour of rain or perhaps a hailstorm, and save the grapes. The sudden vision of squads of men, with fancy vests and silver buttons and eagles’ feathers topping their hats, gathered on the surrounding hills to fire off rockets at big black clouds, delighted David. Damnation, I wish I were out in the open, he thought; some place where I could enjoy the fireworks. But only a few doors away he could see another dangling sign of an inn. This one had a gilded lion’s head.

  He started pressing through the crowd as the Meraner were doing, leaving the strangers-in-town to stand and exclaim in half a dozen languages. There was a third explosion, more violent than ever; then a fourth almost on top of it, sending a double jolt through the arcades. Immediately ahead of him two men halted abruptly, swore, laughed, exchanged comments as they walked on. There was nothing remarkable in that—others, including David, had done much the same—but the language in which they had spoken was something else. Czech. Unmistakable. David froze, drew close to the nearest pillar, made an excuse of searching for another cigarette while he tried to keep the men in view.

  He had never seen them before. Medium height, both of them: square-shouldered grey suits, almost identical in cut; shirt collars worn open, turned precisely back in old-fashioned holiday-at-the-seaside style; hair (one head light, brown, one dark) cut straight across the neck. Perhaps, he thought as he lit his cigarette and saw that they were now approaching the Red Lion, perhaps he was too damned suspicious. They could be ordinary Czech tourists, good party members given permission to travel; or they might even be refugees who had found jobs in Merano. But whatever they were, he would play it safe, and let them wander up the street before he stepped into the Red Lion. One thing was strange, though: they hadn’t glanced at any of the shop windows they were passing, or even noticed three Junoesque blondes in bright dirndls. Then the two heads swerved to look at the doorway of the inn, a long and definite stare as if they were memorising its sign. They walked on. Not far. Just to the next pillar. There they halted, turning to look down the arcade, their eyes searching the oncoming pedestrians.

  David swore under his breath, dodged behind the cover of a heavy column of stone. Beside him the three startling blondes met two women, stopped to talk, and blocked him off from the rest of the arcade. He noticed one man—light-haired, tall, wearing Tyrolean green—making his way with more determination than politeness through this sudden clot in foot traffic. The man ploughed through, reached the two who waited. They grouped together, talking. Briefly. Then the grey suits continued walking up the arcade, while Green Jacket stepped into the street, crossing to its other side.

  David reached the narrow doorway of the Red Lion, stepped over its dark threshold, turned to look out at the street. So far, he had seen only the back of the Tyrolean jacket. But as the man reached the arcade opposite, no more than thirty feet away, he looked over his shoulder as though he were gauging his line of sight. He must have been satisfied with the view: he could see anyone coming out of the Red Lion’s doorway. He drew close to the nearest pillar, and stayed there. And that, thought David, was most certainly Ludvik.

  * * *

  The ground-floor room of the Red Lion, two steps down from the threshold, was long and narrow, stretching away out into some back area of the inn. It was sparsely lit. Tobacco smoke lingered under the low raftered ceiling, turning it blacker. The smell of food still hovered, although most patrons had eaten and left. There was only a residue of three farmers arguing about prices in the wooden booth nearest the door, while four younger men in lederhosen huddled in earnest talk at another bare wooden table, voices dropped almost to a hoarse whisper.

  That was all. Except for Krieger, who sat in a booth, well removed from the other customers, and faced the door. He was lighting his pipe, and ordering beer from the one waitress still on duty, middle-aged and buxom.

  So he has just arrived, thought David. The incidents in the street began to hang together. “I’ll have beer too,” he told the woman. Hooking his raincoat on one of the iron prongs that were lined along the wall above his head, he slid along the wooden bench opposite Krieger. This was a place where muffled conversation was quite in order: the hoarse whisperers now had their four heads together practically in a knot.

  Krieger noted his glance at the young men. “Politics,” he said, still speaking in German. “Always a tricky business, if you’re a strong nationalist.”

  “The bleeding heart of the Tyrol?”

  Absent-mindedly, Krieger nodded, watching the waitress clear a neighbouring table of empty wineglasses before she bustled off. When she was out of earshot, he spoke in English. His voice was low, rapid. “You were late. Any difficulties?”

  Late, was I? What about you? David repressed a smile, said, “A small delay. A couple of strangers speaking Czech took a hard look at the Red Lion. I have an idea they were following you—if you arrived about the time of that double explosion.”

  “Just around then,” Krieger admitted. “And what gave you the idea?”

  “They’re friends of Ludvik. They wa
ited for him, talked a little, and then—”

  “Are you certain it was Ludvik?”

  “Pretty sure, in spite of his new Tyrolean jacket.”

  “That’s him.” Krieger swore. “I took a lot of trouble getting here. He was tailing me, of course. I managed to ditch him. Arrived clean—I thought.” He took out his pipe and filled it. “But when he dropped well behind, his two men must have taken his place. They followed me and he followed them. Clever bastard. Where did he go?”

  “He’s across the street right now, propped up against one of those pillars. His two friends headed up the arcade.”

  Krieger frowned at his pipe. It wasn’t drawing well. “What did they look like?”

  “Mid-grey suits, off-the-peg cut, stiff material. One light hair, one dark; both square-trimmed at the neck. Open collars. Nondescript features, nothing remarkable. Medium height; husky.”

  “Reinforcements,” Krieger said softly. “But that’s to be expected. Ludvik had time to bring them in. He has been in Merano since early morning.” He relit his pipe, got it going at last.

  “How the hell did he learn about Merano?”

  “I passed the word to Mark Bohn.” Krieger noted the appalled expression spreading over David’s face. “I knew what I was doing,” he added testily. “How else could I trace the leak? Don’t look so damned startled. It was Bohn all right.”

  For a moment David was silent. He said heavily, “Bohn—”

  “Careful, careful. Here comes the beer.” Krieger began talking in German. About the rockets. And the vines. He raised his huge mug of light beer. “To the grapes, safe again, ripening for next month’s vintage. Now that’s the season to come here. General jollity.” The waitress smiled her agreement and stumped off, the full skirts of her dress and petticoats swinging around her solid hips.

  David said, “We’ve got to get—”

  “First things first. Tarasp. I’ll give you the quick details now. In case we are rudely interrupted.”

  “But we’ve got to get Irina out of Merano. At once. Bohn—”

  “Couldn’t agree more. So listen carefully.” Krieger plunged into a brief description of Upper Tarasp, a small village sharing a hilltop with a castle, and added directions to the house where Irina and her father would meet. Rooms at the inn had been booked for Jo and David. “Got all that?” he asked as he ended.

  David nodded. “And then?”

  “They will disappear: merge into his pattern of life until the new book is published. By that time, with a million people knowing what it contains, it should be pretty hard even for Jiri Hrádek to silence its message.”

  They will disappear...merge... David stared down at the table. I found her and I’ll lose her. All over again. He roused himself. “What about revenge? An old-fashioned word, but Jiri Hrádek is the type to believe in it Irina—well, there’s a personal thing there; a challenge. I don’t think he’s going to let her slip away from him as easily as that. And there’s one added danger: she has smuggled out two of her father’s note-books—important—details about Jiri’s political manoeuvres in 1968. What does he do when he hears about that?”

  “Kusak’s notes? She has them with her?”

  “Yes.”

  Krieger recovered from the shock. He said slowly, “Yes, that’s a new danger. Definitely. If Jiri Hrádek knew—but thank God, he doesn’t.”

  “He knows. We left Bohn telephoning at Brixen.”

  “Bohn?” The name shot out like a bullet.

  “He picked us up at the border. He saw the books by accident.” A well-calculated accident: that I know now. “He was alone with Irina for several minutes.” David rose, reaching for his coat. “I’ll give you all explanations in Tarasp. Now, I’m getting Irina out of Merano.”

  Krieger’s hand was an iron vice on David’s wrist, locking him in place. “She has left,” Krieger said very quietly. He released his grip.

  David stared at him, sat down.

  “She left with Jo.” Krieger glanced at his watch. “About ten minutes ago.”

  Still David said nothing.

  “It’s the safest way, David. Speed. Unexpected moves. That’s all we have on our side. The opposition have the gadgets and the cute little devices. We’ve got our wits and some fast footwork. That’s all we’ve got.” He paused, watching David. “And to keep Irina safe, tell me about Bohn. All of it. Every detail. What did he learn?”

  Ten minutes ago... I ought to have guessed, David was thinking. Jo’s last remark—the one that puzzled me—that was her warning. His anger broke. “You know, you’re a real son of a bitch, Krieger!”

  “Someone has to be that, every now and again. What about Bohn?”

  “Jo could have told me openly.”

  Krieger masked his impatience. “She wanted to. I was against it. What would have happened? Arguments. Delays. In the end you would have had to come here to get the details on Tarasp. What’s more, you wouldn’t have arrived here in time to see Ludvik taking position across the street. He would have spotted you—had you followed on your way back to Irina. Because, of course, you’d have insisted she should wait until you returned. Right?”

  Yes, Krieger had a point there. Several points. David swallowed his anger, calmed his voice. “I’ll qualify that description of you. You are a persuasive son of a bitch.”

  Krieger nodded. “What about Bohn? But keep it short. I want you on the road in the next half hour.”

  “Suits me. I’ll put on some speed and catch up with Jo before the border.”

  “Well before that. As planned. She’s taking it easy along Highway 38—due west. When it branches south, she’ll follow Highway 40 to the north. But only for three or four miles. She’ll stop and wait for you, near a pilgrimage chapel—St Mary’s—you can’t miss it. It’s on a small hill, prominent, stands alone. Look for Jo’s car drawn off the road at a picnic area just below it. You’ll take over for the mountain passes. She had a rough day yesterday. Besides, she doesn’t know the details about Tarasp. The fewer who know about them, the better. In case of accidents.”

  Such as being caught by Ludvik. Then David had a new worry. “Irina knows about Tarasp. I told her.”

  Krieger asked quickly, “And did she tell Bohn?”

  “No.”

  “What did she tell him?” Krieger’s voice was sharp.

  “That wasn’t the way it happened,” David said, coming to Irina’s defence. “She didn’t actually say anything. Bohn just extracted—”

  “All right,” Krieger broke in, “what did he extract?”

  David stopped his justifications and gave the straight story. Now I know two things, thought Krieger as the condensed account ended with David already on his feet, unhooking his raincoat. One is a new complication and I’ll leave it unspoken: he’s still in love with her and she with him. And the second is that I made a bad mistake about Bohn: he is deeper in than I imagined, and more than he may realise. If Jiri needs Bohn, he’ll use him again. “I was wrong about Bohn,” Krieger said softly. “I was so damned sure he had bugged out.”

  “He has, now.”

  “He may want to, but—” Krieger shrugged. “Are you sure he didn’t learn about Tarasp?”

  “Irina would have told me.” David was about to leave. “Anything else?”

  “Use the back door. I’ll wait a little, try and string Ludvik along. If he sees me hanging around, he may think we’re still resting up for the next stage of the journey. By the way, they’ll be on the lookout for a green Mercedes. You know that?”

  “Yes.” Damn Bohn’s eyes to hell. “I’ll keep a sharp watch for anyone following closely.”

  “They may still be driving a white Fiat—they don’t know we spotted it in Graz. So good luck. Wait for me in Tarasp. I may be a little late. But—” He broke off as a draught of fresh air stirred round his ankles. The back door at the far end of the restaurant had opened.

  “Two men,” David reported. That was all he could identify in that unlighted p
ortion of the room; two men briefly silhouetted by the opened door, becoming two shadows as they closed it. They stood there, accustoming their eyes to the long stretch of gloom.

  “Move!” Krieger’s voice was low, urgent “Get away from me. Move!”

  David moved. He made his way towards the back of the restaurant, but he was taking his time. Nonchalance, that was his best bet. Far behind him the voices of the three farmers were raised, calling for the waitress, who got up from the table where she had been counting her tips. With a jingle of coins being dropped back into her purse, she passed David, and, misguessing his direction, pointed helpfully to a door marked Herren. He stopped beside it as though he were about to enter, letting the two men draw level with him. Yes, they were the same two who had headed up the arcade. So they had circled round to reach the rear of the Red Lion. Either they were tired of waiting in some back alley, or they were checking to see if Krieger was still around. Krieger was their target, that was certain. They didn’t even give a second glance at David. “Be with you soon!” the waitress called to them. “No hurry,” one replied.

  David changed positions again, choosing the moment when their backs were completely turned to him, to slip into the nearest booth. From there he could see the front edge of Krieger’s table. Krieger himself was not in sight. Neither were the two strangers, now sitting just beyond Krieger. It wasn’t much of a view, David thought, but at least he was unobserved. They hadn’t noticed his little manoeuvre. Of that he was sure.

  It was the only thing he was sure about at this moment. Krieger, if he could have seen him, would be cursing into his beer. I know, I know, David thought angrily: I’m supposed to be walking down a back alley on my way to the Mercedes and a neat departure from Merano. But however much I’m trying to persuade myself that Krieger can handle this situation, he is sitting there alone. How do you leave a man to face two goons by himself? Sure, Krieger chose it this way: he’s running interference for all of us. But I don’t like it, I don’t like any part of it.