Snare of the Hunter

by Helen Macinnes

  “What is he? Immigration?”

  Weber laughed. “No. Intelligence of some kind. He is always decidedly vague about it. I have never been able to pin him down.”

  “But why—” David gave up. I’m just too tired to puzzle this out, he thought. He drank some brandy.

  From behind came Jo’s voice. “Wait for us!” They turned to see her coming down the steps, with a young man in uniform leading the way.

  “A captain,” said Weber, “one of the colonel’s bright boys.” Then he laughed again: he was enjoying himself enormously. “So he got bumped too. Is that the right word? He has been playing watchdog over Kusak. Now, I suppose, his appearance means that Kusak is no longer in the house. You see, our government feels a great responsibility for Jaromir Kusak. They keep a very friendly eye upon him. Oh yes, they know where he lives—at least, two or three men do.”

  “Do you?” David was reviving.

  “I do not even know who these two or three men are.”

  “Never a leak?”

  “Ah—your Washington specialty? No. Lack of discretion is not one of our vices.”

  “I drink to Switzerland,” said David, wondering if he was not already a little drunk.

  “May I too?” asked Jo.

  “Just one swallow,” Weber said. This cool air doubles the effect.” The nameless captain agreed with a small smile.

  “Why did you stay on?” David asked Jo, half-angrily.

  “I think we should all leave now,” said the captain. “Mr. McCulloch gave me the keys of his car. I shall do the driving. Where do you want to go?”

  “Samaden would suit me. That is where I came in.” Weber smiled. “Just pull some rank, captain, and we shall find a plane. That is the nice thing about travelling with the military: everything is arranged. And I really do think,” he told Jo, “that you need a good night’s rest—away from here.”

  “I’m waiting for Walter Krieger,” said Jo. She looked down at her scuffed shoes, at the tear in Irina’s blue coat, at the earth stains that wouldn’t rub off. Her right elbow ached; and her knees were bruised. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I always look like this.”

  “I’m staying too,” David said. He watched the two Swiss draw aside for a quiet conference.

  “Idiots they think we are,” said Jo. “Perhaps we are, at that. But—” she looked anxiously at David—“Krieger may be here any moment. We can’t have him chasing in here to find nobody.”

  Or the wrong people; David thought. He nodded to reassure Jo, kept his eyes fixed on the sky to the east. There was still some light, but dusk was approaching. And then he saw it—the helicopter swinging up into view, tilting forward, stationary for a minute before it swerved into flight. She’s safe, he was thinking. She’s safe.

  The captain was beside him again. “There is a motor-bicycle coming up the hill. Listen!”

  The helicopter was still in sight, a small black midge against a far background of darkening peaks.

  “Listen!” the captain repeated.

  David’s attention focused on him slowly.

  “It’s the motor-bicycle,” said Weber. “You were right. It followed you. But a little too late, I think.” David looked back at the eastern valley. The helicopter was gone.

  Jo was watching him. She turned away, searched in the car for her cardigan, wrapped it round her shoulders. “I’ve got that news clipping somewhere,” she said, continuing her search. “Have you seen it, Dave? A wild story about a kidnapping. Irina,” and she spoke the name deliberately, “Irina was kidnapped by some nasty Americans playing their dirty tricks on poor old Jiri Hrádek.” That had the right effect.

  “News report?” David asked, swinging round to face her. “Let me have it, Jo.”

  “Can’t find it,” she said cheerfully. “But that was the gist of it.”

  “Do not worry,” Weber assured them both, it will not live long. I have heard and seen enough to end that rumour before it even reached half growth.”

  “You know,” said Jo, “you’re the most valuable man we have around here. I think you should leave right away. I’d like to read your column tomorrow.

  Weber smiled. “Not a column,” he said mildly.

  “A page.”

  “Oh my...we have a blockbuster on our side.” And then Jo said, it has stopped. It was almost here and it stopped.”

  It was true. The motor-cycle had halted on the last curve. In the deepening dusk it could be seen only as a distant shadow. “What is he waiting for?” Weber asked.

  “The others,” said David.

  23

  Seemingly endless, a minute passed. The motorcyclist stared up through the dusk at four figures grouped beside a car. He couldn’t identify them at this distance, but the car was the right size and shape, and dark in colour. It was standing in front of the house that faced this road. So that was the place. He turned, wheeled his cycle back round the curve, drawing close to the steep bank.

  “Was he the one who followed you?” the captain asked David, as the cyclist vanished.

  “Couldn’t see him clearly.” Which meant that the rider hadn’t been able to see them clearly either.

  “Has he left? Completely?” asked Weber. Perhaps he was someone who lost his direction. Perhaps he found himself in the wrong village.”

  Like hell he did, thought David. “And I suppose he is now walking all the way downhill?”

  “He may have had trouble with his battery,” the captain suggested. “You notice he came up without any headlight.”

  “I noticed,” David said curtly. Just then the street lamps came on behind him, two of them high under the gables of nearby houses to illuminate some of this area. Now the man could certainly see them, if he were to take a few steps out from the curve of the bank. “Keep back, Jo—out of sight!” He motioned to the captain and Weber. “You too.” Jo and Weber heard the urgency in his voice, and moved closer to the shelter of the car. The captain stood his ground, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes looking down a road that had become a black ribbon. “What about you?” the captain asked.

  “They expect to see me.”

  “Ah—but not Miss Corelli?”

  “No,” said Jo. “Definitely not.” For a moment her mind flashed back to Santa Maria. She shivered, and noticed that Weber’s curiosity was no longer concealed. “Where are all the people? Why aren’t they taking an evening stroll round the village?” She glanced angrily at the house behind her. “Not even a dog to be seen.” As in the other houses, a few windows had lighted up as dusk had thickened, and been immediately shuttered tight. In fact, all shutters had been closed. Nothing but patches of heavy dark wood stared back at her from white walls.

  The captain said, “They have been out in their fields all day. Why should they go walking at night?”

  “Oh,” said Jo, “and will they still sleep soundly if any shooting starts?” But by that time it could be too late for Dave and me.

  Weber looked hard at her. “You are joking, surely.”

  “That’s right I’m joking.” But she shivered again. She drew the cardigan’s sleeves around her throat.

  “They had better not try that kind of thing,” Weber told her. “There is not a house in this village—or any other village in Switzerland—where you will not find a rifle stored, along with a uniform. We are all in the reserve army, you understand.”

  “You too?”

  Weber nodded. Her astonishment pleased him. “It is a matter of enforcing our neutrality.”

  I hope, thought Jo, you can enforce it right here. But first you’ll have to stop searching for reasonable excuses for everything that happens: we aren’t dealing with reason, dear man: Not tonight. “There’s a car now!” she said, and stared like the rest of them towards the dark road.

  “It is about half-way up the hill, I think,” the captain said to David.

  “They are using a lot of car.”

  “They would, of course, have to go into first gear.”r />
  “Yes. Even so—” David tried to gauge the volume of sound. “More than one car?”

  “That can be. Yes, two possibly.”

  David said, “You know, I’d like to draw them right into this square, and see who they are.”

  “So should I,” the captain agreed.

  “Then I think you should step away from me. If they catch sight of a uniform—”

  “They will still be forced to come up into the square. There is no place for a car to turn on that road. And there is very little turning room here either.”

  “I know. But as a matter of tactics—”

  “Ah yes. A slight surprise?” The captain smiled as he glanced in Jo’s direction. “That is better than any shooting. Mr. Weber, please go with Miss Corelli behind the shelter of the car. Keep down your heads.” He himself turned towards the barn at the other end of the square, but only walked a few yards. “This will be very well,” the captain said. He was now blocked from the view of any car until it actually came up into the village.

  A stubborn man, thought David, and was glad of it. And the size of this small piece of ground was another bit of comfort. This wasn’t a hit-and-run kind of place. Manoeuvring space for any car was at a minimum, and not helped by the Mercedes; or the well, which was substantial enough—a combination of trough and fountain. So they’ve come to trap us, thought David. What would they, try? He thrust his hand into his pocket, kept it there, his fingers gripping the Beretta as he saw the first sweep of headlights. “Two cars,” he reported to the captain. They halted, engines still running. “Talking now with the motorcyclist, I think.”

  The talk was brief. The cars moved again, headlights dimming, and then stopped almost at the entrance to the square. Someone must be directing them, David decided: they are too well coordinated.

  Suddenly, all the headlights switched off. Blade on black, David thought; I can see nothing. They are so near me—fifteen, twenty yards away, not much more; but all I can do is stand and wait and stare at shadows. Then he heard the stumble of a footstep as someone got out of the rear car. A man came walking out of the darkness, stepped into the outer edge of light. It was Mark Bohn.

  “Hey there,” Bohn said with a broad smile, as he made straight for David. “You know, you shouldn’t have been in such a hurry at Brixen. If you had just waited for me to put that call through to Munich, you could have given me a lift all the way. The Munich assignment is postponed—no need for me to be there until next week-end. So here I am.” Friendly, conversational, that was Bohn. The only nervous thing about him was the way he kept his eyes on David’s face.

  David said nothing.

  “Why not?” Bohn rushed on. “This is too good a story to pass up. Besides, there have been developments. Yes, quite serious ones, Dave. Have you had time to see a newspaper today? I read a couple at Brixen. There is a report—not a rumour—that Irina was kidnapped.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake—” said David in disgust. “You know damned well—”

  “There was one fact I didn’t know. And you didn’t know, either. Washington is behind this whole thing. Krieger is their agent. Irina’s so-called escape could be a political kidnapping. And that’s what people are reading about, right now. We’d better start investigating thoroughly, you and I, try to clear ourselves. We’ve been used, manipulated. And that’s one thing I don’t take from anyone.” David restrained a comment.

  “Irina knows more than she told you. You might get the truth out of her. Krieger will deny everything of course, but Irina will listen to you. Won’t she?”

  Get rid of Bohn before you blow your stack, David told himself. His hand tightened around the gun in his pocket. “She is not here.”

  “She’s late, is she?” Bohn didn’t seem too surprised. “Oh well—it’s a difficult journey. Even at the end of it, down by that fork, we almost missed the hill road.” Bohn shook his head, remembering that error: more minutes lost, with Hrádek counting every one of them in silent rage. “Yes, a difficult journey.”

  “We?” asked David pointedly.

  Bohn’s voice quickened again. “I brought another journalist with me, an old friend, reliable. He jumped at the chance to come—this kidnap report has got us all by the ears. And two of his news-service buddies tagged along—but he vouches for them, so they’re all right.” Bohn paused for further inspiration. His variant on Hrádek’s story would get him off the hook if Pavel and Vaclav started any rough stuff: they were strangers to him, taken on trust. “I thought it was a good idea to have them around, David. We need an extra witness or two, to verify what we uncover.”

  “And where did you find all these helpful friends?”

  “Oh, come on, David—you know the marvels of the telephone, don’t you?”

  “One call from Brixen, and you all gathered where?”

  “Met them in Innsbruck,” Bohn caught himself. “All very simple—just routine for any correspondent. You get a hot tip, you grab your overnight bag, and you’re on the first plane available.” Bohn was still watching David. “What’s wrong? What’s at the back of your mind?” Then he found an answer that amused him. “I bet you’re wondering how I knew about Tarasp. That was simple enough too. Irina dropped the magic word. It slipped out and I snatched it. And why not? You might have told me yourself,” he added, slightly hurt and showing it. “Oh, let’s forget it. Where is Kusak?”

  “How about your friends? Aren’t they going to join you?” David’s face was tight with anger. It had been with a considerable effort that he had managed to keep talking. They had some plan, no doubt about that. But what?

  “Oh, they’ll be all right where they are—until I’ve seen Kusak, and explained to him who, why, and what I don’t want to scare the old boy by descending on him unprepared. But this is one time he has got to give up some of his damned privacy. Otherwise you’re in deep trouble, David... You’re the chief accessory to a kidnapping. If that story can’t be killed—”

  “Oh, this is too much,” Jo said, and she began walking round the car with Weber beside her.

  Bohn’s head swerved towards the voice. He kept staring.

  Then he turned on David. “You lied.” He pointed to the house behind the Mercedes. “Irina is there. With her father.” He recovered himself, noted David’s expression, and eased his voice. “Of course—just a matter of supercaution. But with me, Dave? Come on, let’s join the family reunion. It’s damned chilly out here. Don’t worry—I won’t stay any longer than it takes to ask three sharp questions. I’m planning to have dinner in St Moritz tonight.”

  “You can leave right now. Kusak has gone. Irina with him. And that was not the house.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Bohn. “What’s the idea, Dave? What’s—”

  Weber interposed. “Mr. Mennery is telling you the truth. Mr. Kusak and his daughter left some time ago—with a friendly escort. There has been no kidnapping of any kind.”

  “And who’s this?” Bohn demanded. “Just who—” But as he looked more closely at the stranger’s face, his question faded.

  “I am Ernst Weber of the Geneva Gazette. I am also a correspondent of several newspapers—in London, Paris, and Rome. But I think you know all that. We met in Prague. Two years ago?” Weber waited. There was no answer: not one word, not one comment from that extremely facile tongue. Weber half smiled. “You were correct about only one thing, Mr. Bohn. It is damned chilly out here. So why do you not leave, as suggested?”

  Bohn rallied. “There seems little point in staying.” He gathered together some of his dignity and most of his assurance. “Dave—we can talk about this later—right?”

  “Clear out!” David’s voice rose in fury. “All of you—clear out!” He took a step forward.

  Bohn backed away. Then he turned to walk to the car. And for the first time he saw a uniformed man who had stood watching and listening; quite motionless, completely silent. Bohn’s pace increased. He reached the beginning of the road, almost broke into a run.<
br />
  David kept watch, his hand still gripping the pistol in his pocket. The dark road swallowed Bohn up, leaving only the sound of his footsteps. They passed the first car, kept on going for several seconds. Then, abruptly, they stopped. A car door closed. Complete silence.

  It was broken by a yell from somewhere overhead. David’s attention switched to the house behind him. He half turned, looked up at a window with its shutters flung open and an angry woman leaning out. He couldn’t understand one word; it was a language he had never heard before, but the meaning of her shaking fist was clear. Then David looked back at the two cars. The captain would have to take care of this protest. He did. He stepped forward, replied, and silenced the woman effectively. Or perhaps it was the uniform that reassured her. There was peace in the square again.

  The captain walked over to stand beside David, and gazed down the dark road. “They are taking their time.” He didn’t approve of it, either.

  “The second car—that’s the important one. That’s where Bohn is making his report.”

  “Perhaps they do not accept it.” That would account for the delay. They may believe Jaromir Kusak and his daughter are still here.”

  “Irina was never expected to arrive,” David reminded him.

  “That makes a difficult situation,” the captain answered. He was younger than David, tall, well proportioned, neat and capable; at this moment he looked twenty years older. “If they believe Miss Kusak never arrived, they may also believe her father is still waiting for her.”

  “I think not. Bohn saw Jo quite clearly. And she is proof that Irina did get here. The living proof,” said David grimly. We beat them at Santa Maria, he told himself. That overpassing, this also may.

  “But the delay—”

  “Cancelling one set of plans, improvising something else?” David suggested.

  “Then the two cars must be in close communication.”

  “Someone is in control. That’s for sure.”

  “The second car, you think?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which side of that car did Bohn take?”