Snare of the Hunter

by Helen Macinnes

  The Swiss looked away before they’d notice his interest, but he had the strange feeling that the American wasn’t altogether a happy member of the tight little group. Then the sharp Swiss eyes saw the other American, back again, standing by the telephones, his head averted from the hall. If it hadn’t been for the bandaged hands, the Swiss thought. I’d never have noticed him. He must have slipped in by a side door while I was watching the main entrance for his car to arrive. “Mr. Krieger!” he called in English. “No need to telephone. Your car is outside.”

  Krieger appeared not to hear, but his hand gave up the painful pretence of dialling. He stood very still, as if he were listening to the receiver cradled between shoulder and chin. God, he was praying, make this look good, and Mark Bohn deaf, and my Swiss friend dumb. But the man was calling out again, “Mr. Krieger!” He sounded nearer, as though he were hurrying in this direction. Then his footsteps stopped.

  Krieger dared not risk a backward glance. He could move out by the side door, and make it to the car. But that would give Tarasp no advance warning. Desperately he dialled, and managed it too. All he had to say was one word, “Firetrap!” and Hugh McCulloch would take action.

  But he didn’t even get the chance to speak. There was a light footstep behind him, a hand pressed hard against the back of his neck, a deep sting. And then a sagging of his knees. He tried to yell out, and couldn’t. He half turned as he began to slip. He saw his helpful Swiss, now with his back to him, engaged in conversation by one of the Czechs. He looked up at the other, who had caught him and lowered him to the ground. No sound. No sound at all. The receiver dangled, a distant voice came through, “Who’s there? Who’s there?” Krieger’s eyes closed.

  The Czech replaced the receiver, stepped briskly over to the Swiss, tapped his shoulder. “There is a man over by the telephone who seems to be ill.”

  “What?” The Swiss whirled round, stared at Krieger lying motionless.

  “I think you’d better call an ambulance,” the Czech said. “Perhaps a small heart attack?” He watched the horrified Swiss run towards Krieger, calling out to two girls at the desk and the young man chatting with them. “No one noticed,” he remarked with amusement as he began walking with his colleague to the door. Hrádek and his American were already on their way out.

  “Very neat,” his friend agreed. “And I didn’t do such a bad job of distracting that Swiss dolt, either. All you had to do was to pour on the thanks for their kindness and efficiency, and you’d get them listening every time. “No trouble at all.”

  The pair reached the sidewalk, stopped briefly at Hrádek’s car. Mark Bohn was already inside it, grey-faced and silent.

  “Did he speak on the telephone?” Jiri Hrádek asked.

  “He hadn’t time.”

  With a nod, Hrádek got into the car. It moved off at once. A good operation, not a moment wasted since he had halted at the sound of Krieger’s name and sent Vaclav and Pavel to attend to the problem. They worked well, together, needed little direction. In a way, he thought, this was a test run for tonight.

  He looked over his shoulder. Vaclav and Pavel were already following in the second car. He relaxed completely. “You know,” he said, smiling, “we could have missed him. He was out of sight from us. Clever fellow, Krieger.”

  Bohn said nothing.

  Hrádek went on, “I have a theory. I think it proved itself this evening.”

  Still Bohn said nothing.

  “I have a theory that it is the small unexpected things that are the most dangerous traps for a clever agent. He can cope with plans and counterplans, but a friendly voice calling out his name—” Hrádek shrugged his shoulders, laughed. Then he looked at Bohn. “Get rid of that tense face,” he said abruptly.

  “Krieger saw me.”

  “You are travelling with three fellow journalists, all on their way to verify the fact that Jaromir Kusak is being restrained, against his will, from returning to his own country. That’s your angle, Bohn. And we’ll make it stick.”

  Yes, thought Bohn, but how do I explain Tarasp? Of course I can say that I learned about it from Irina. That might hold, if Irina were out of earshot. “There are just too many complications,” he said haltingly. Deeper and deeper; I didn’t bargain for all this.

  “There always are.”

  “What if Krieger—”

  “Forget Krieger. He is out of the picture.”

  “Dead?” Bohn’s stare was wild.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. A man dead in a small Swiss airport? There would be an investigation. Police, questions, suspicions, detentions. No, no. I intend to use that airfield tonight, without any of these embarrassments to hinder our leaving.”

  “Do I go back with you?” That point had not been cleared up, and it troubled Bohn.

  You can go to hell, thought Jiri Hrádek. He said, “How about a week-end at St Moritz? You’ll have your usual skilful news reports to write. I’ve got five papers lined up for them. Don’t worry, your by-line won’t be attached—not until the story is widely accepted and distributed round the world. Then you can take a bow, write your book, become the expert on the Jaromir Kusak affair. And you are, aren’t you?”

  That’s to get my mind off Krieger, Bohn thought. “How long will Krieger be unconscious?” I don’t want to face him again. He’s tough opposition, won’t believe a word of my explanations.

  “Long enough to suit us. Stop worrying about him, Bohn. He is definitely incapacitated.”

  “And the others at Tarasp—will they be incapacitated too?” Bohn demanded. “I want no part in it, Jiri. That’s not my business.”

  “Of course not. All you do is talk your way into Kusak’s house. Pavel and Vaclav and their chauffeur will do the rest.”

  “But I’ll be there. I’ll be linked up with—”

  “Not if you are quick on your feet. I’ll be nearby, waiting for you.”

  That’s right, thought Bohn, you’ll be waiting, safely hidden in a dark car. “Stupid of me,” he said. “I forgot. You prefer remote control.”

  “Don’t you?”

  Bohn managed a smile and eased his voice. “But no violence, Jiri. That was your promise. I only agreed to make this journey if there was—”

  “Of course. No violence.” Bohn’s euphemism amused Hrádek. Violence, to Bohn, seemed only to mean murder. What did he think the attack on Krieger was? An act of nonviolence? “We haven’t many to deal with. McCulloch will be there, no doubt; and David Mennery. He must have arrived by this time—he left Merano in mid afternoon. Alone.” And he should never have been allowed to leave. A lost opportunity. Ludvik had slipped up badly on that Red Lion incident; he hadn’t even known Mennery was there with Krieger until it was too late. “What kind of man is this Mennery?”

  But Bohn was still following his own startled thoughts. “He left Merano alone? Without Irina? I don’t believe it. You’ve been getting some inaccurate information, Jiri.”

  There was a deep silence. Hrádek looked out at the small river flowing steadily down the valley along which they were travelling. “I do not get inaccurate information,” he said. “And why don’t you believe it?”

  He knows something about Irina and Dave, Bohn thought, but I’m not going to be the one who enlightens him further. Bearers of bad news have a tendency to get their heads chopped off. “Well—Irina doesn’t drive a car. Naturally, I thought she would keep travelling with Dave.”

  “Naturally?” the word was emphasised.

  “Just an assumption.” Bohn said hastily. “I’ll make another one: Jo Corelli is driving her to Tarasp. What’s your estimated time for their arrival?”

  Hrádek was still gazing at the narrow flow of water. “So that’s the River Inn,” he said. “A small stream now but extremely ambitious. From here, it flows through Austria, edges Germany, and almost reaches Czechoslovakia. But at Passau its perseverance gives out, and it is swallowed up by the Danube. It reminds me of some people I’ve known.” Hrádek looked at Bohn. />
  Bohn ignored that. “When do you expect Irina and Jo to arrive?” he persisted.

  “I don’t.”

  “What?”

  “They have been delayed.”

  “How?”

  “Nothing serious. A handbag missing. And a passport. Slight difficulty at the frontier—just enough to keep them from appearing while we are in the middle of negotiations with Kusak. We thought it better that way.”

  Bohn relaxed. “Much easier,” he agreed. “So one of your men turned bag snatcher?”

  Hrádek wasn’t amused.

  “A neat job,” Bohn tried. “Just as well to make sure of Papa Kusak’s diaries.” Hrádek still had no comment. “You know,” Bohn went on, “I’ve had a delightful thought. We aren’t going to see Dave Mennery in Tarasp, after all.”

  “Why not?”

  “Irina would be waiting at the frontier for him with her new set of troubles. He’s there with her right now.”

  “Is he?” There was the suspicion of a smile on Hrádek’s lips.

  “You bet he is. The minute he saw them stopped at the—”

  “He crossed the border before they reached it.”

  Bohn shook his head. Hrádek certainly had been supplied with information all through the jet flight from Innsbruck—there were even a telephone and a radio in this car—but the report on Dave did not make sense. “I don’t believe it. Dave wouldn’t leave Irina behind in Merano.”

  Hrádek turned away, kept looking out of the window. “Tell me about Mennery and my wife.”

  Bohn’s eyebrows went up. “Wife?” Divorced, surely; but tactfully Bohn avoided all mention of that. He was still trapped. “Nothing,” he said, floundering for a safe reply, “nothing of any importance. That is,” he added carefully as Hrádek’s face swerved round to look at him, “nothing that is connected with the business in hand.”

  “I see,” Hrádek said, and was silent again.

  He knows, thought Bohn. Just as well that I didn’t give him a blank denial. And what are Dave and Irina to me, compared with Jiri’s past favours—or future rewards? Jiri remembers his friends. And he’s on the way up. Another few weeks, and he could be at the top.

  Suddenly, to Bohn’s relief, Hrádek came out of his black mood.

  “I was reading a guide-book on the flight to Innsbruck,” he said, pleasant and genial once more. “Did you know there were two Tarasps?”

  Bohn stared at him, could only shake his head. That was a real shocker—if true.

  “There is one near this highway—a village, apparently with a spa and a golf course. There is another, with quite a different approach, on the hill above it: it seems to be very small, just a castle and a few houses. Which is it?”

  “The one marked on Dave’s map.”

  “And that was?”

  “Beside the highway. I told you—”

  “Show me.” Hrádek had unfolded his own map.

  Bohn took it. “This isn’t the same map!” he objected. But he did find one Tarasp, near the highway. “That’s it.” He pointed. As for the other Tarasp, it was a blur. He couldn’t read the name without holding the bloody map up to his nose. He peered hard, feeling ridiculous, and at last deciphered its thin tiny print “It’s called Tarasp-Fontana,” he said. “Not fair, Jiri, not fair.”

  “It is still Tarasp, and that is what it is called in most guide-books. Fontana is the next hamlet, I suppose. People around here like to hyphenate their place names. You didn’t see any Tarasp-Fontana marked on Mennery’s map?”

  “I couldn’t have. I didn’t have the time for any close work. What I saw was one word in normal print. Tarasp.”

  “Then that settles it.” Hrádek folded the map, dropped it within easy reach. He added, half-jokingly, “And you had better be right.”

  Bohn let that go. Hrádek knew he was right. Bohn would never have reported Tarasp in the first place if he hadn’t been quite certain. His information had always been reliable, and Hrádek knew that too. Why else had Hrádek acted with such incredible speed? There was no doubt, the man was a political genius; his powers of planning and organising were brilliant Dazing. In a few years, Bohn thought, there will be fifty books written about him, and a thousand articles, and I will lead the field. My book will be the best, too. With my contact, I can’t miss. He sat back and let himself be enjoyably dazed as they approached Tarasp and Jiri Hrádek began giving complicated but accurate directions to their driver. Jiri, thought Bohn with amusement, had really read that guide-book. He was now making the signal to stop. They were nicely off the highway, no nuisance to other traffic.

  Pavel’s car drew up behind them and he came hurrying forward with the latest bulletins. Bohn tried to follow the rush of Czech words, get some meaning into what had been happening. And there seemed to be plenty. Pavel must have been kept busy during his drive to Tarasp: he had been in constant communication with various places. In particular, a service station on this side of the frontier, a roadside café farther west, and a camping ground after the highway had turned south. They had given him the exact time when a green Mercedes, Vienna registration, had travelled past them at high speed—no complete identification, but the numbers of the licence plate were correct. At the camping ground Stefan had begun following. He had stopped twice very briefly to radio Pavel. Stefan’s last report, ten minutes ago, was that the Mercedes was now approaching the town of Scuol. There had been no other report since.

  “Separate!” Hrádek told Pavel. “Draw well ahead of us. Give no hint that we are together. Once you are round that first curve, stop. Keep in touch by radio. And tell Stefan that further reports come to this car direct.” Pavel obeyed at a run.

  Hrádek broke into English again as he turned to Bohn. “We’ll stay here, on the south edge of Tarasp. No need to move until we’ve got the Mercedes traced to Kusak’s house. And it could be there any minute. Scuol is just ten kilometres to the north of us.”

  “Six miles... That’s cutting it pretty fine,” said Bohn. Sunset was approaching.

  “We aren’t. He is.”

  “Dave?” But Dave had been travelling fast: no complete identification, Pavel had reported. What the devil did that mean, anyway? Identification of the driver? Possibly. Hrádek had accepted it as that—it was in line with his firm belief that Mennery was alone. And I’m not going to argue about that again, Bohn reflected. Especially when Hrádek has some new problem on his mind.

  “Who else?” Hrádek asked irritably. “He is late. What delayed him? He should have been here almost an hour ago.”

  “Saturday traffic,” suggested Bohn.

  “He managed that well, once he was across the frontier.”

  The delay, thought Hrádek, came before he reached Switzerland. What had caused it?

  “Weren’t you having him followed all the way?”

  “No,” Hrádek said shortly. Ludvik had failed all along the line. Mennery had left that Merano garage before there had been a man available to pick up his trail. Ludvik had been too busy with Krieger’s car. And all he had to show for it was Krieger’s bandaged hands. “There was no need. We had Stefan waiting where it was most necessary.” As for Ludvik—well, we shall deal with him later.

  “Who’s Stefan? How did he get into the picture?”

  “I put him there.”

  “I wasn’t being curious,” Bohn protested. “Just slightly astounded.” And he was. “You’re amazing, Jiri.”

  Hrádek relaxed into a smile. “Stefan reached Merano this morning. Early this afternoon I sent him into Switzerland. He prepared the ground, as it were, made sure some friendly eyes were alerted. Now, he is following the Mercedes. To its destination.” Hrádek glanced at his watch. “We should be hearing from him any minute.”

  “And then?” Some of Bohn’s nervousness returned.

  “He stays near Kusak’s house, instructs us how to reach there. We wait. Until the first signs of dusk, when there is enough light left to find the house easily. When it is dark, we move
in.” He paused. “Simple. Surprise is always the winning factor.”

  Move in... Bohn didn’t like the sound of that phrase. Yet lie might as well face the unpleasant truth: it would take some tough persuasion to get Jaromir Kusak into a car and headed for the airport. He stared bleakly at the road ahead, now disappearing in a curve, blotted out by thick trees. His lips were dry. He should never have come, he ought to have refused. But how? Not possible, not without losing everything: his past stripped bare, exposed by subtle leaks to the American press; his future—no, he couldn’t even think about that. “And after we move in,” he said, “what happens?”

  Hrádek looked at him as if he were a two-year-old child. “Whatever it takes,” he said softly. “I did not come here to fail.” Then, as he watched Bohn’s face, he added impatiently, “You have your own job to think about. Don’t worry about us. Not your department, as you keep reminding—”

  At that moment, his radio signalled, and Hrádek’s attention switched to Stefan’s urgent voice. He lowered the volume for his ears alone, said, “Speak clearly. Yes, that’s better.” He listened in silence until the report was over. “Take that road! Yes, immediately. Before the light fades. And keep out of sight until we get there.”

  Something wrong? Bohn wondered. But Hrádek still remained cool and efficient as he instructed the driver to start up and get moving. Almost in the same breath he was sending revised orders to Pavel and Vaclav. Once that was over, and their car was taking the curves and twists on a highway that had narrowed, seemed swallowed up by close hillsides and thick woods as the river plunged deeper into the valley, Hrádek turned to Bohn. His control slipped for a few seconds. He poured out a stream of violent Czech curses that paralysed Bohn into complete silence.

  Then Hrádek’s control came back. “Stefan lost the Mercedes on one of the curves in this damnable highway. He kept on going till he had almost reached Pavel’s car. It was then he knew that the Mercedes must have crossed the river a little way back, and taken a side road on its right bank.” Stefan had also reported a new item of information: at least two people in the car, possibly three. Reinforcements, of course. Well, thought Hrádek, we can handle them. With Stefan and our two drivers, there will be six of us. Six-and-a-half, counting Bohn.