Snare of the Hunter

by Helen Macinnes

  “So,” Jo said as she ended translating for Irina, “we can expect these two men quite soon. If, that is, they really are Milan and Jan. There isn’t much to keep them searching on this highway. But let’s not panic if they drive in here to make a thorough check. They probably will. They won’t make the same mistake twice.”

  “And then?” There was a strange smile on Irina’s face. Then what? Jo made a good attempt at nonchalance.

  “They may stay, hover around, wait for us to leave. They’ll look innocent. They think we know nothing about them, or about any white Fiat. And we’ll string them along, play the game their way, pretend they’re just a couple of tourists. When Dave arrives, that is the time to stop them. We’ll evade them.” But how? Jo wondered. At this moment she had a strong impulse to run. A stupid reaction, she told herself, as she glanced around her, pretending to admire the scenery. Just beside them, sheltering them from the stiff northern breeze that had funnelled down the valley, rose the mass of rock covered with bushes and sparse trees, concealing the rough path to the chapel so far above that it was out of sight. To the east and south of the meadow, hills climbed steeply, densely wooded, heavy with larches, impenetrable. To the west was the highway. They were nicely protected, or nicely trapped, depending on which way you looked at it.

  “Play the game their way,” Irina said and looked at Jo with amusement. She shook her head. “It is no longer a game, Jo. No more hide-and-seek, and who is the clever one.”

  “It was only a figure of speech,” said Jo defensively. Her cheeks coloured angrily. “Have you any suggestions?”

  “No. Just a question. Why are they still following me?” She paused, and added, “There is no need.”

  “No need?” Jo stared at her.

  “Not now. I am of no more use to Jiri Hrádek.”

  Jo’s stare widened, She’s getting mixed up in her English, Jo thought. Or I am. Yet her voice is cool, detached. I’m the one who is about to panic. “You damned well are,” Jo said, “and you know it. Hrádek is ready to score my name off his little list, and Dave’s too. We are expendable. But you, Irina, are definitely not. Not until you lead them to your father.”

  “Jiri knows where my father is. Mark Bohn gave him that information four hours ago. Time enough—yes, plenty of time, to change his instructions about me.”

  The story she told me about Bohn, and the map, and the section showing the route into Switzerland—is this what’s bothering her? Jo said, “That’s a wild guess. And what if Jiri Hrádek did receive Bohn’s information? He would only be given a general direction: Switzerland. His men would still have to follow you to the exact meeting place.”

  “But if Jiri has learned that too?”

  “How? Why, even I don’t know where it is.”

  “It’s a place called Tarasp,” Irina said. “But who told—”

  “How well does Bohn see with his glasses?”

  She’s crazy, absolutely crazy, Jo thought.

  “How well?” the quiet voice insisted.

  “They magnify.”

  “Strongly?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a brief silence. “Then Jiri knows,” said Irina.

  This time the silence was longer. At last Jo said, “I hope I’m wrong, but I think you are trying to tell me that these men have been sent to kill you.”

  “Today instead of tomorrow. What is the difference? To Jiri, there is none.”

  “You are crazy,” Jo said. But she forced her eyes back to the road.

  From high above, a bell tolled lightly. The children’s voices broke into excitement and they began clambering out from the benches. The two drivers finished the Chianti with one last gulp. The younger one, already on his feet, flashed a smile of thanks at Jo. “Leaving?” she asked him.

  “Yes. That’s the signal.” He pointed overhead in the direction of the chapel. “The pilgrims up there are now coming down. When they reach the meadow the children can go up. The church is too small, the staircase is too narrow, so—”

  “The only path?”

  “From here, yes. The steps are cut out of the rock.”

  “And no other path up to the church?”

  “Sure, but it isn’t used. The stone steps are the safest. You just keep to them and—you’ll be all right.” He gave a wave; moved off, climbed into his bus... It was the one nearer the road.

  “I don’t like this,” said Jo quietly. Once that bus moved out, the Ford was in plain view to anyone passing on the highway. And there went one faint hope that a white Fiat might not enter this picnic area after all, that Milan and Jan might not think this place worth a real search. “Look, I think we’ll get into the car and start driving back to Merano. Meet David on the way.” It’s a complete mess-up, Jo thought: everything is going wrong. And for once she found herself without any other ideas beyond that simple-minded notion of running. “Come on,” she urged, conscious of a long trail of women, appearing one by one as they stepped down from the rock-hewn stairs, intent faces breaking into laughter when they reached the safety of the flat green meadow.

  “Why draw David back into danger?” Irina asked. He was out of it at this moment.

  “He has never left it,” said Jo shortly. “We’d better move. There is no shelter here for us. Not now.”

  “The women?” Away from the discipline of the rocky path, they were spreading out, rejoining special friends. Around the bus there was forming a happy mob scene.

  “We aren’t wearing dirndls and blue silk shawls and wide-brimmed black hats. Nor are we middle-aged and thickset. Apart from that we could mix with them and giggle our heads off. Did you ever hear such girlish laughter? And not one of them under forty.” Then Jo found she was smiling too: at least, she thought some people have been enjoying themselves this blasted Saturday afternoon. “Let’s move out before that bus blocks the exit.” She glanced at the road, or what she could see of it between the mass of wide-skirted dresses, a swirl of petticoats and aprons above strong ankles and silver-buckled shoes. And she stopped smiling. Trying to edge its way into the picnic ground, and failing, was a white car. “A Fiat,” she said softly. “And it’s angry,” she added as it gave two sharp blasts on its horn. Thank God, the women are paying no attention at all.

  Quickly, Jo looked back at the meadow—too wide, too empty, in its stretch to the wooded hills—and then at the children. The last of them were near the stone steps, impatient, restless, discipline breaking down into laughter and rising voices, as they waited to follow those who had started the ascent and were already lost from sight. One nun remained to bring up the rear of the column. She was nervous, and obviously worried by the break in discipline. Her voice rose as she repeated her warnings to those at the end of the line: single file, keep to the path, do not step off. “I think she needs some help,” Jo said. “Shall we volunteer?”

  Irina nodded, began running towards the staircase carved out of the rock. A few steps up that path, and the greenery would shield them. And after that? Later, she thought, we’ll think of something later; now, it is enough to get out of sight. Jo followed her, pausing only to lift the empty wine bottle from the table and leave one bemused driver staring after her. Then his attention reverted to the mild chaos around the bus—not his, thank God. He was well out of it.

  The women were now being persuaded to board, but some of them were still angry with a Fiat that had tried to nudge them aside. And of course, the ladies who had driven their Volkswagens here—purse-proud show-offs, these ones, with more lace at their necks and aprons of real silk—had chosen this moment to move out. Women drivers, he thought with amusement as he watched the jam at the exit to the road; but these ones would get their way. That Fiat might as well wait. What was it so impatient about, anyway? None of your business, Tommaso, he told himself, suppressing a twinge of sympathy for his fellow bus driver; you’re no traffic cop. He stretched himself out on the bench, pulled his hat over his eyes, listened to the voices that died away as motor engines
started up, and thought now of a little sleep in the warm sunshine. From high overhead he could hear the children singing as they climbed. Peace at last. Beautiful.

  19

  Milan Kliment and Jan Bruzek drove into the meadow, but not before they had to back their Fiat on to the road and let three ancient Volkswagens and a decrepit bus have right of way out of the bottleneck. Their tempers, simmering ever since they had discovered that the tan-coloured Ford was lost, vanished without one trace in broad daylight were now at boiling point. The sight of the car standing calmly on the meadow beside another rickety bus did nothing to cool them.

  “They are here,” Milan said, his voice as grim as his face.

  “They’ve been here all the time,” Jan exploded. “Couldn’t you have seen that when we passed this damned place?” He had been driving; Milan had been in charge of maps and directions.

  “No more than you could. What the hell made you drive at such a speed?”

  You know the answer, Jan told him silently. We lost sight of them because you insisted we stop and make radio contact with Merano. A couple of minutes, you said: five at most. The women are travelling at a snail’s pace, we’ll easily catch up; and we’ve got to get the verification of Bohn’s earlier report back to Merano. But it had taken more like ten minutes, what with that East German relaying all messages from his listening post to Ludvik. And Ludvik had new instructions to give, too. So how did you expect me to drive, once we were back on the highway and no Ford in sight? They must have put on speed, you said; and that’s what I did.

  “Come on, come on!” Milan’s irritation grew with each passing second. Jan had brought the Fiat to a halt on the opposite side of the meadow from the bus. Now he was reversing, so that he faced back towards the road. It would make their departure quick and easy—if that were needed—but the small delay was a further aggravation. Milan was out of the car even before the ignition was switched off. “Come on,” he repeated, looking across the meadow at the man who was stretched out on a bench. “We’ll wake up that bastard, shake some answers out of him.”

  They started towards the picnic table. Milan’s thoughts were bitter. Bad luck all the way. (Prague would have another name for it.) He might as well face it: there had been nothing but failure—except for those moments of triumph in Merano when they had at last found a green Mercedes. Hopes raised, hopes dashed. “This,” he told him, “is where failure ends. We’ve swallowed our bellyful of it.”

  “We didn’t fail in Vienna,” Jan protested. Alois Pokorny had been neatly handled.

  “What do you call leaving a witness behind?”

  “We weren’t the only ones to underestimate Krieger. Ludvik—”

  “Sure.” Two of Ludvik’s men now out of the picture: one with a severe concussion, the other with a broken jaw and a mouthful of loose teeth. “That will put him in an understanding mood.”

  “Especially with that damned German listening in. Why the hell did we have to use him, anyway?”

  “Because,” Milan said with biting sarcasm, “we are all such great and good friends. Also, the East Germans have a nice setup in Merano. We borrowed it. An emergency. Or hadn’t you heard?”

  “It was a blunder all the way. We should keep our own communication system—”

  “Tell that to Hrádek.”

  Jan turned his resentment on to a safer target. “What are the East Germans doing in the South Tyrol, anyway?” They are here and we are not. And I never could stomach them, anyway, he thought.

  “Encouraging the nationalists to make life miserable for this kind of slob.” Milan looked down with contempt at the Italian lying peacefully on the bench. He put out a hand and gripped the bus driver’s shoulder.

  Tommaso had kept his eyes closed. If he seemed to be asleep, the foreign voices would go away. (He was a placid amiable man, now nearing forty, and a little heavy around the middle with his wife’s excellent lasagne.) Besides, he couldn’t understand a word they said, so how could he talk with them? Then a hand grasped his shoulder, shook him roughly. Torca miseria! This was no way to treat anyone. He opened his eyes, pushed his hat off his forehead, looked up at two angry faces. Now what have I done? he wondered. He sat up, gave them both a hard stare.

  The dark-haired man spoke. “Where did they go? The two women who came in the Ford—where did they go?” His Italian was slow, searching for the words. Tommaso felt better. He replied with a torrent of phrases, purposely hurried, and felt still better as he saw the man was baffled. “Not so fast! Where did they go?”

  Tommaso looked at the hand on his shoulder. The man released his grip. Then Tommaso looked around the meadow. He shrugged, “I was asleep.”

  “They were here. A blonde in a blue coat, and a brunette, taller, with smooth hair.”

  “I didn’t see any blonde.” Tommaso’s shoulder was gripped again, this time by the big fellow. His hand was strong, and the pressure painful. “No blonde. No tall brunette.”

  “But there was a blue coat?”

  Hurriedly, as the fingers dug deeper into his shoulder, Tommaso said, “There was a tall red-haired girl in a blue coat.”

  Jan said to Milan, “I saw a redhead with a bunch of kids. What did they do—switch coats, wear wigs?”

  “And the other woman?” Milan persisted. “She was of medium height. What colour of hair?”

  “Black.”

  “Wearing what?”

  “A raincoat.”

  “They drove here in the Ford? And they went up there?” Milan pointed to the stone steps.

  Tommaso hesitated. The thumb on his shoulder found a nerve. He gasped. “Everyone goes up there,” he said. He cursed himself for the tears of pain that welled up in his eyes.

  “Now,” Milan said to Jan, “we know exactly what we are looking for. Come on! We’ve wasted enough time.”

  Jan slowly released his grip on the Italian’s shoulder. “He wasted it for us. How would he look with his jaw broken?” Jan moved away, smiling broadly. “But why the rush? We’ve got them trapped. They are stuck on that rock pile.”

  Milan had an afterthought. He halted, came back to the bus driver. “Is there any other path down from the chapel?”

  “There is one that leads to the highway on the other side of the hill.” And just let them try that one, thought Tommaso with considerable satisfaction.

  “I didn’t see it when we drove down the highway.”

  “There are trees that hide it.”

  The two men exchanged glances, and then moved briskly towards the steps. “I’ll break more than a jaw,” Jan was saying to Milan, “if that dumb peasant gave them time to get away.” He took a silencer out from one pocket, a revolver from the other, and fitted them together. “Might as well be prepared,” he said. He began the ascent. “Why the change in our instructions?”

  “You heard Ludvik.”

  “But he didn’t explain.”

  “Why should he? Prague doesn’t explain to him.”

  They climbed on. “What’s so important about a handbag?” Jan asked. “We have to bust our guts getting it, but we don’t examine the contents. Repeat don’t.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And we don’t go into Switzerland,” Jan mimicked Ludvik’s voice: “Prague is sending in a new team.”

  And no explanation of that either, thought Milan. They don’t think we’re good enough for the final payoff.

  “Any idea who they will be?”

  Milan had his ideas. “No,” he said. “And save your breath. Keep your eyes open for a raincoat and a black wig. That’s the main target.”

  “Full of tricks, aren’t they?”

  Milan saved his own breath. At the pace Jan had set, he needed it. The stone steps were irregular, the spaces widening between them. The trees were thinning out at this level. Visibility became surprisingly good. He could see no movement.

  The two women must have climbed right to the top. They would hardly have risked stepping off this staircase, rough as it w
as: for on either side the ground sloped steeply, boulders and slabs of rock balancing on rough terraces, roots of shrubs and trees holding the whole precarious mixture from sliding downhill.

  Now the summit was near. There were no more stone steps, just a path of pine needles weaving between the sparse trees. “Remember this well,” Milan told Jan. “They have never seen us. They do not know who we are or why we are here. So we can work quite close.”

  “Suits me.”

  “But not in sight of any witnesses. Got that?”

  “No witnesses this time,” Jan agreed with a jagged grin. He almost laughed as his mind jumped to Krieger’s brush with Ludvik’s two special agents. Ludvik should have used us, he thought: Krieger would never have left us on the floor of the Red Lion. “Hey,” he added, “what about that other American—the young one? Where is he now?” Krieger was back at his hotel: so Ludvik had reported. But David Mennery?

  “That’s Ludvik’s problem. He’ll solve it.”

  “Unless Mennery gives him the slip.” Graz still rankled with Jan.

  “Quiet!” warned Milan. The path had eased into an open patch of meadow, long grasses bending before the breeze. In its centre was a very small church, complete with miniature steeple. A separate bell tower, covered on top, open at its sides, stood almost at the opposite side of the clearing. Just beyond it, Milan could see the beginning of the other path that led down to the highway. The bus driver hadn’t lied after all. There it was. And presenting a new problem too: had the two women already started down that second trail? No, Milan decided. They didn’t know they were being followed, so why should they run? “Keep that gun out of sight,” he warned as a flood of children began pouring out of the church. Three nuns were trying to shape them into a single line. An old man with bent shoulders was hobbling over to the bell tower. There was no sign of the two women.

  “What the devil are they all doing up here?” Jan asked angrily. The whole situation was beyond him. The bell began ringing. “And what’s that for? Someone dead?”