Snare of the Hunter

by Helen Macinnes

  “We’ll try the church,” Milan decided. It was no more than twenty full paces away from them. The bell tower was even less. It was a tight squeeze, up on this one flat stretch of ground. And all the better. “We’ll take them out with a gun at their ribs and get them on to that other path.”

  Easy, thought Jan as he followed Milan across the grass. Women always listened to threats: one scream and I’ll shoot into the children. They’d believe that too; just long enough, anyway, to let us start down towards the highway. Then after it’s all over, Milan and I will keep on going, reach the road, walk back to the picnic ground. “We missed our friends,” we’ll tell that fat Italian if he is still around. “Too bad.” Yeah, too bad. And almost too easy. Ludvik should have sent us after Krieger and Mennery, and let the new help—so sure of themselves, weren’t they?—take care of the kindergarten.

  Milan stopped to speak to a man. Just checking, Jan supposed. A careful type, Milan, but he worries too much about failure. Bad luck, that’s what we’ve had. Until now. Get a move on, he told Milan silently: you’re wasting time.

  But it hadn’t been wasted. It saved them a useless search in the church. Milan was saying, his voice low and clipped. “They were here. Ten minutes ago. The nun says they must have gone back to the meadow.”

  “Like hell they did.” Jan’s anger exploded into action. He turned, headed past the tower, brushed aside the old goat with his ding-dong bell. Milan moved with equal speed, the long grass switching at his ankles. Behind him a nun called anxiously, “Not there, signore!” Without a backward glance, he hurried on. “Not there, signore!” echoed the old man, pausing in his rope-pulling to make his warning heard.

  Fools, Milan raged as he plunged down a path carpeted with pine needles. Don’t they have enough brains to realise that we’d have met Irina Kusak and the American girl if they had gone back to the meadow? No, this is the direction they took. And perhaps by plan—to reach the highway and circle back to get their car, drive on to Switzerland. Another failure? Not if we hurry. They are only ten minutes away, even less by now. They can’t match our speed. They’ll be careful on this trail; it’s rough going. We’ll catch up with them before they reach that damned road. “Hurry!” he urged Jan’s broad back. Unnecessarily. Jan was really travelling, his revolver now in his left hand to leave his right one free to steady him against a jutting crag, a gnarled trunk, a steep bank.

  Rough and getting rougher, Milan thought. Could the women have come down here? Yet they must have. There were only two paths down this forsaken hill, and they didn’t take the one we came up. That’s certain. So we’ve got them, he told himself, glancing at the steep drop on his left. On that side, with only a soft shoulder of earth and gravel to edge the path, an emptiness where bushes and trees had been swept away by a fall of boulders, the ground now sloped into a naked precipice. Safe enough, he reassured himself, if you kept close to the uphill bank where bushes and trees still grew, and steadied yourself with a firm right hand as Jan was doing. Underfoot the pine needles had given way to loose stones. He preferred that: it seemed a better grip for his lightweight shoes and their smooth leather soles. He was controlling his slips and slides as expertly as Jan. He was keeping up with Jan, too. Descents were easy. He might not know much about mountain climbing, but this place was only a rocky molehill compared to some of the giants he had seen today.

  “Careful!” he called out once. Unnecessarily, again. Jan regained his footing easily, grinned, said over his shoulder, “Any minute now. I think I saw something.”

  And just then, the path curved to the right, around an out-thrust of bank whose side was deeply eroded, exposing a triangle of dry roots from the dying trees above. Jan suddenly braked, almost fell, his arms outstretched in warning. Milan tried to halt, but the thick layer of loose stones slid with him, and his feet could find no hold. He toppled forward, his full weight coming down on Jan’s shoulders to send them both sprawling. But they were still on the path. Milan stared at the edge, only an arm’s length away, and tried not to think of the sheer drop beneath it.

  Carefully he got on to his knees, ignored the sharp bite of jagged stones, concentrated on rising to his feet without dislodging another small avalanche. His right hand stretched out to the bank and caught hold of a tendril of root. It held. And it gave him confidence, helped to pull him up. He could stand, legs still trembling with the effort; but his feet were secure enough to let him raise his eyes and look down the path ahead of him. First, he noticed the revolver gleaming in the sunlight. It had been jerked from Jan’s grip by the force of his fall and landed behind him. Jan was already on his feet, legs straddled to balance his stance on a loose bed of gravel. He was out of reach of the bank, and—like his revolver—too near the brink. But it wasn’t the precipice that worried Jan. He was pointing ahead. “There!” he shouted back, his eyes fixed on something farther down the path. “There!”

  The curve of the bank blocked Milan’s view. He edged out. The stones underfoot were safe enough if he stepped with care. He stopped, appalled, as he saw what must have halted Jan so abruptly. Part of the hillside had slipped away. The path was gone, obliterated by a scree of smashed rocks. Beyond that, nothing: only the sky, and the far-off treetops on another hill.

  For a moment, Milan’s mind was blank. Then his first thought was of the women; those goddamned women. We’ve lost them. They’ve tricked us. They are—“But where are they?” he cried out in anger.

  “There!” Jan shouted again. “You blind fool, don’t you see them? We’ve got them. We’ve got them!”

  Milan let go of his hold on the root, took a few cautious steps around the curve. Now he could see. Standing squarely on the path between them and the rockslide, were two women.

  20

  “No!” Irina said, as she and Jo had reached the doorway of the little church. The children had already crowded in, the nun trying to hush their excitement. Irina backed away. “No, no. Useless. We’ll be trapped.”

  Jo gave one last glance inside Santa Maria. There, were no elaborate hiding places here; no corners concealed with screens; no other doorways. Still, the church was shelter, and the small field that lay in front of it was wide open. Better to stay in the church with the children, wait until Dave came climbing up to Santa Maria. He would. Once he arrived at the picnic grounds, saw their car and the Fiat, nothing would keep him from climbing up here. “Look,” she said, as she caught up with Irina, “there is such a thing as sanctuary.”

  “To these men?” Irina shook her head.

  “But they couldn’t make any move against us with all these children and nuns around.”

  Irina almost laughed at her simplicity. “Wouldn’t they?” Her eyes searched round the field.

  “Then where do we—”

  “Over there. That other path—beside that bell tower.” Irina was already on her way. “It’s the only choice.”

  There was no use wasting time on argument. Jo capitulated, followed at a run. She even volunteered to go first, once they reached the new trail. But as she manoeuvred down a slope of pine needles, she couldn’t resist saying, “You’re so damn sure.”

  “About these men—yes.” And as Jo didn’t answer, Irina said, “I know their type. I’ve seen them at work. You haven’t. They’ll keep following.”

  “Even down here? They’ll have more sense than—”

  “Once they have searched the church, they will follow. They never give up.”

  But I do? We’ll see about that. “I hope you’re wrong,” Jo said, her voice sharp and abrupt. Irina didn’t reply. They clambered down the path in silence.

  Their pace was surprisingly good. Jo tried to keep it steady: eyes ignoring everything except the ground in front of her, one careful foot before the other, even steps, no skips or jumps. This really would surprise Bob Whitfield, she thought as she remembered her handsome Englishman of three years ago, that mountaineering maniac. She had been his despair every time they started down a hillside. (“Leaping
like a bloody mountain goat,” he had called out in disgust. “Stop it, you idiot!” he kept yelling after her. Take it easy. Easy!”) Where was Bob Whitfield now, just when she needed him? What would he have done at this spot, for instance? The left side of the path had developed a precipice.

  “I’m sorry,” said Irina, breaking their long silence. This was my decision, and it was not a good one. This trail—” She shook her head. “I never imagined it would become anything like this.” She looked in dismay at the rough ground under foot. No more pine needles and soft earth. Only harsh fragments of rock, loose and sharp, I’m sorry.”

  Indeed you should be, thought Jo.

  “I thought we’d find a clump of bushes or trees where we could take cover and let the men pass us,” said Irina. “But there’s nothing—not here. Unless up on the bank above us. Could we get up there?”

  “No way.” The bank rose steeply on their right. It had become a high wall of dry earth packed with gravel and broken ends of roots. “We’ll keep on going.”

  “How far have we come?”

  “A good third of the distance, I’d guess. Perhaps almost half.” From the hilltop above them Santa Maria’s bell began to ring. The children didn’t stay long: we’d have found ourselves in a very lonely little chapel, Jo realised. She glanced back at Irina. “Perhaps your decision wasn’t such a bad one after all. Hear that?” The little bell tolled gently. For thee and me, thought Jo: But she smiled, said encouragingly, “Just take it slowly. It’s safe enough if we are careful. Keep close to the bank. Don’t look to the left. Irina!” Irina’s eyes were hypnotised by the precipice. “Don’t look at the edge! Don’t look down!” That was old Bob speaking, all right, bless his one-track mind. Jo relaxed as Irina obeyed her, and turned carefully to lead once more.

  The bell was still ringing, fading into the silence of the surrounding hills. There was a nearer sound, too; and harsher. Jo listened to the sharp clatter of falling stones. Her face tightened. Irina had been right. The men were following. “Let’s get around this bend.” The path curved to the right, and perhaps down there they’d find some place to clamber up the bank: it couldn’t go on rising steeply forever. Or could it? “But no wild hurry,” she warned, as much for her own benefit as for Irina’s. The impulse to slip and slide was strong. That’s what the men were doing. “Fools, utter fools,” she said. “Just listen to them.” Or perhaps, she thought, we shouldn’t. They were coming too close. “They’ll have to slow down soon. This stretch of path is a real brute. Oh, heavens—”

  “Then let’s not think about it.”

  “How do I do that?” Jo asked, balancing herself in time from an unexpected slip. To her amazement she heard Irina laugh. “What’s so funny?”

  “That bottle you’ve been carrying all this way in your left hand.”

  “What about the handbag you’ve got strung around your shoulder?” Jo countered, but she began to smile. The silly little interchange had eased the tightened nerve ends. Her mind stopped its mad whirl into paralysing fear. We laugh that we may not weep, she thought, as she led Irina safely round the bulge of the high bank, and reached a broader stretch of path. Here the ground was less treacherous. It felt secure enough under her feet to let her raise her eyes to see what lay ahead. Nothing. The path had completely vanished, swallowed up in a massive landslide.

  * * *

  Irina came to stand beside her. They stared, unbelieving. The hillside before them had fallen away, perhaps last spring, perhaps the year before. What did it matter? thought Jo hopelessly. There was nothing left for any foothold, just a huge spill of smashed stones spreading down into the ravine below.

  Jo regained her breath. “Let’s move closer to the bank. They won’t catch sight of us until they come round the curve.” And the men were almost there. “You know, all I can feel is anger. It’s strange, but that’s all I feel. Anger.” She faced uphill, waiting for that first glimpse of the hunters.

  Irina nodded, her eyes watchful as she freed the strap of her handbag from its tight hold on her shoulder and gripped it in her hand. From the path above them, just around the curve of the bank, there was a heavy crash. Jo said quietly, “Someone took a spill.” The next moment they were staring at a man, fallen on his face, who came slithering down on a toboggan of gravel and loose stones. Braking desperately with the heels of his hands and the toes of his shoes, he managed to stop the slide before it emptied him into the abyss. It was Jan. And the other? He must have fallen too, but he was out of sight. “Keep back,” Irina said to Jo. “I’m the one they want.”

  She stepped out from the bank, watching the man as he began raising himself on his knees. I’m too slow, Irina thought as she took her first careful steps up the slope: he will be on his feet before I can reach him. And he will have a gun. Where is it? Still in his belt, or in some pocket? That’s the hand I must aim for. “Go back!” she told Jo. Jo said nothing, just kept following.

  Jan was standing erect now, but not too certain of his balance. His feet sank and slipped among the layers of loose pebbles, which he had carried along with him in his fall and were now piled into a soft mound around his ankles and legs. He was a tall man, strong, and his weight did not help. “There!” he was calling out, pointing at Irina, “there!” She heard another voice, sharp with anger. Jan answered with a furious shout, and Milan the dark-haired one, came into view. He stopped abruptly, stared down the path, then at the two girls who faced Jan.

  “No closer!” Jo warned Irina. She was only eight feet away from Jan, even less. But Irina took two more careful steps, stopping short of the heavy pile-up of loose stones and gravel. Oh no, thought Jo in anguish: he could make a lunge for Irina; he’s watching her, he’s getting ready.

  “Behind you!” Milan yelled. “The gun is behind you!” Jan’s eyes were fixed on Irina.

  “And this?” Irina asked. She held up the handbag. He reached to grab her. “Take it!” she cried, and hurled it at his face.

  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.