Snare of the Hunter
Page 31
“The photographs will be evidence enough.” Weber was slightly hurt that they should be questioned. But tired men were always querulous, he reminded himself. He looked pointedly at the inn door.
“Let’s have that drink,” David said, and made an effort to cross the worn threshold into the warmth of four stout walls.
25
David slept for fourteen hours. He awoke in a strange room with a window looking out at mountains he didn’t recognise. Where the hell am I? he wondered. And then he remembered. He got up, glanced at his watch. It must have stopped just before midnight, he thought at first, but it was still ticking away. Apart from a tightness across his shoulders, a slight stiffness in his back, he felt fine.
Then he became aware of voices, a lot of voices blending together, a mingling of talk. He crossed over to the window. Below, there were half a dozen tables, filling rapidly, set out on a small grass-covered terrace that ended in a long drop to green fields, a placid valley sweeping out until it reached a wall of enormous mountains. He was on the eastern edge of the village, and the valley below him must have been where the helicopter took off last night. He stared at it for a full minute.
“Dave!” The voice was distant, but it was Jo’s. She raised an arm to catch his attention. She was sitting with Weber at the far end of the terrace. There was a third chair beside them, tilted forward against their table. Jo pointed to it, waved a come-quick signal. He got the message. He needed no second invitation to hurry.
He shaved, showered, and dressed as rapidly as possible. A complete change of clothes was no trouble, either. Thanks to Weber’s efficiency, his bag and raincoat had been brought up to the inn last night along with Jo’s suitcase, and the car itself had been garaged—or stabled?—to give more elbow-room in the village square. Just as well, judging by the Sunday visitors beginning to crowd the tables on the terrace. There must have been news, he kept thinking. Good or bad, there must be news by this time.
* * *
David climbed a short steep path and reached the terrace, now totally filled with hungry tourists who were paying more attention to their plates than to the superb view. Jo and Weber made a handsome picture of their own. She was back to her chic elegance once more. White sweater, white pants. “You look good this morning,” he said as he reached the table. But there was a fine-drawn quality about her face, as if she were still near breaking point. Weber was completely relaxed. Today he was wearing a light gabardine suit, immaculate shirt, a restrained tie. His manner was as smooth and unperturbed as his face.
David sat down, tried to appear nonchalant, braced himself inwardly. “Heard anything?”
“There are various messages,” Weber said. “But I do think it is much too public here to discuss names and places. Let us have something to eat, and then—”
“No,” David insisted. “We’ll keep our voices down.”
“And everyone is too busy with his veal cutlet,” Jo said, glancing around the other tables. She was trying to recapture some of her old gaiety, but it was a poor effort.
“Bad news?” asked David.
“Mostly good.” Weber had pulled out several small pieces of paper from his pocket. “I have the messages here—just as they came in this morning.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Jo said, “give him the news about Irina first. The rest can wait until he orders breakfast. She’s safe, Dave, she’s safe.”
“Here is her message.” Weber selected a slip of paper, handed it to David. All my love always wait for me darling.
Weber said, “It came along with, this one from McCulloch. He is back in Geneva.” He gave it to David. All is well. Destination safely reached. No difficulties. Hope to see you soonest possible. Congratulations and sincere thanks. Hugh.
Weber passed over a third message. “This came along with the other two. They were all dated yesterday midnight but of course they were telephoned from McCulloch’s Geneva office early this morning.”
So by midnight, Irina had been safe. Where? David wondered. He looked at the message. It was brief and unsigned, as Irina’s had been. It read: I am in your debt. Someday I hope we may meet.
“I thought,” Weber said, a combination of tact and curiosity, “it might be from Kusak himself. Is it?”
“Yes. We have never met.” David kept his face well in control. May meet. Not will meet. The difference troubled him. Kusak was being indefinite. That was what David had feared. And yet it was to be expected. Kusak wanted Irina kept hidden. He was afraid for her safety: Hrádek, of course; the permanent threat. David took a deep breath. Well, it was up to Captain Golay and his colonel now. “Dave—let’s order,” Jo said. “You didn’t eat much last night.”
“Nor did you.” A bowl of soup was all that Jo had managed to swallow.
“But I had breakfast almost four hours ago.”
“Toast and coffee, or just coffee?” He smiled for her, and eased some of her worry away. But there was still a strange sadness in her eyes. “What’s the other message, Weber?”
“It will keep until you’ve eaten,” said Jo.
Weber had put the remaining scrap of paper into his pocket, and trapped a waitress. “Breakfast or lunch?”
“I begin the day with breakfast,” David said, “make it solid. Eggs, ham, sausages, the works.”
“Ah, London style. I rather liked that, I remember.” Weber gave David’s order, in triplicate. “We keep it simple, and then we have it promptly. Very fine panorama, don’t you think? That is the Swiss National Forest—over there! Those mountains—”
“Let’s have the bad news,” David said. “Is it from Krieger, or from Captain Golay?”
“Not from Krieger. It’s about Krieger,” Weber said. “Shall I tell it, or do you want to read my French? I noted it down as McCulloch called me at breakfast. That was after I had received the other—”
“Yes, yes. What about Krieger? Tell.”
Jo said, “They nearly killed him.” She turned her face away.
“But he is alive,” said Weber. “And he is a strong man. He will recover. In a day or two he can leave hospital.”
“In Merano?” So he never got my message, David thought. He put out his hand and grasped Jo’s. It was cold and rigid.
“In Samaden,” Weber said. That was where he was attacked. At the airport.”
“How?”
“An injection in the back of his neck. A drug was used that can be deadly—if it is not treated in time with the correct antitoxin. The problem, you see, is that the patient may not recover consciousness enough to talk, or he does not even know what has happened to him, and so the doctors are given no help. He simply seems to have had a severe heart seizure. But Krieger managed to recover consciousness and to tell what happened.” Weber paused, shaking his head. “Then it was only a matter of the right treatment being given.”
Jo said, her voice strangled, “It always is. But will the right treatment be given to Hrádek? Oh, why didn’t you shoot him through the head last night when you had the chance?” She tried to pull her hand away.
Both men stared at her. David’s answer was to keep his grasp on her hand. Weber said, “That is for someone else to do. And perhaps sooner than you think. Captain Golay—” Weber hesitated.
“You’ve heard from him?” David asked sharply.
“I had a telephone call only an hour ago. He simply wanted to reassure us that everything is developing very nicely. A neat double meaning, don’t you think?”
David nodded. Any comment he could make might seem a bit rough. Developing very nicely. Diplomatic phrasing, but that was not enough. When the hell were the photographs of Hrádek being sent to Prague? When was that stiff protest to be made by the Swiss? That was what counted: the when of it all.
Weber noticed David’s noncommittal silence, but he ignored it and went on talking about Captain Golay in his quiet and deliberate way. “There was also reference made to some documents that had just come into Kusak’s possession.”
“The note-books? What about them?”
Weber frowned, both puzzled and interested. “Note-books?”
“What about them?” David repeated. “Jaromir Kusak has agreed to have a copy made of certain pages, so that they can be relayed to Prague.”
David recovered from the shock: incredulity gave way to stunned relief; and then anxiety returned. “When?”
“Immediately.” So that is what has been troubling my friend here, thought Weber. He did not think we were moving quickly enough. “It will be handled most delicately, of course: a part of our dossier on Hrádek, perhaps, which we will lodge along with a most serious complaint.”
“Immediately?” David insisted.
“The complaint will follow—it takes a little time to word. But the initial evidence, and the Kusak material, are already on their way.” Weber smiled. “Speed, after all, is essential. You agree?”
David nodded again, but this time there was an answering smile in his eyes.
“I’m not really following this,” Jo said.
David didn’t even hear her. “But who persuaded Kusak? Was it McCulloch?” Someone must have twisted the old boy’s arm, got him to take action and at once.”
“It was the daughter, I believe.”
“Irina?” David’s sudden jubilation was transparent.
“At least,” said Weber, “it was she who insisted that Captain Golay let you know about this new development.” He studied the American’s face. “Does it solve some problem?” he hinted gently, angling for a little clarification.
“Yes,” was all that David said.
“It makes sense to you?”
“It makes good sense.” Wonderful, wonderful sense. He felt like catching Jo round her waist and waltzing her across the terrace.
“Not to me,” Jo said. Her words were clipped. “Note-books, developments—”
“Later, Jo, later.” First let me get my thoughts straight. I never even dared hope for this news about Kusak.
“What is there to be so excited about?” Jo was angry. “Hrádek is still alive, and Walter Krieger is lying helpless—”
“Now, now,” Weber broke in placatingly, “not helpless. He is being most helpful. The fact that he is lying in a hospital bed proved that he was criminally attacked at Samaden airport. That assault verifies the actual time of Hrádek’s presence at the airport yesterday evening. Hrádek was there, at that place, at that minute, and neither he nor any of his men can manage to deny it. Krieger has identified all their photographs.”
David said, “Krieger—yes, trust Krieger to supply the finishing touch.” He checked his laughter: Jo was still too worried. “Yes, Krieger really clinched it,” he told her.
“And what good is that? Hrádek is now outside Swiss jurisdiction. He is back in Czechoslovakia, plotting and planning and thinking of vengeance. He will, too.”
“Hrádek is finished, Jo.”
She said nothing, just kept watching his eyes.
“We managed it, Jo,” His voice had the true ring of confidence. “We can stop thinking about Hrádek.”
She was almost persuaded. “Hrádek has friends. Don’t forget them, Dave. Because they won’t forget us.”
“Cancel them too.” A few pages from Jaromir Kusak’s notebooks had made sure of that. “There is no more threat to any of us.”
“You really believe—” Jo hesitated. She was torn between doubt and hope.
“Yes.”
“And so does your friend Mr. Krieger,” Weber said. “I think this small item proves it.” He began fishing in his pockets for McCulloch’s report.
Jo said slowly, “You seem so sure, Dave. Have we really managed it?”
“Yes. You and I and Krieger and Irina. Above all, Irina.”
Weber had found the scrap of paper he was looking for, but his attention was caught by David’s words. He didn’t interrupt. He waited, McCulloch’s report in his hand: it could keep.
David was saying, “Irina took the biggest risk, brought out two note-books from Czechoslovakia, and doubled the danger to herself right then. They contained highly sensitive information, disastrous to Hrádek. He must have known or feared that such material could exist. When he learned that Irina had managed to bring it out of the country, he went into action. She was no longer a pawn in his game of tracking down her father. She became a prime target, someone who had to be destroyed along with the information she carried. She knew this could happen when she took the note-books with her. If she had wanted to play safe, she would have left them behind.”
Weber said, “And when did Hrádek learn that she had them?”
“Yesterday. Around noon.”
“But how?”
“From a telephone call made in Brixen by Mark Bohn.”
“Oh?”
David sidetracked the question by one of his own. “What’s that you’ve got in your hand, Weber? Another surprise?”
“No, no. Nothing important. Just a few words from Mr. Krieger—a message he sent to McCulloch’s office in Geneva. I think you will find it reassuring. Miss Corelli. Now, let me see—” His eyes searched through his tight script. “Yes, here it is. We have met the enemy, and they are ours,” Weber began shredding the piece of paper. “That’s all,” he said. “He has quite a turn of phrase, your Mr. Krieger.”
“It’s a quotation, isn’t it?” asked Jo. She had recovered her smile. She might still be a tired girl, but she could smile: “I know. Nelson said it.”
David shook his head.
“Then it’s John Paul Jones.”
“Perry.”
“I knew it was someone nautical. It has that definite ring. Are you sure it wasn’t Nelson? He’s so quotable.”
“Kiss me, Hardy,” David said, and set Jo laughing. Her hand was no longer clenching tight, though it was still too cold. He released it gently as the waitress arrived. “You’ll need both of them for the ham and eggs. Eat them, will you?”
Jo nodded. “Damn the calories! Full speed ahead!”
David caught Weber’s astounded eye. “Yes,” he agreed with him. “We are possibly a little crazy at this moment.”
“Relief, of course. I understand.”
Either this, thought David, or tears.
Extraordinary people. Weber stopped watching them, and concentrated on his food. They were talking now about leaving Tarasp once they had eaten, and going to see Krieger. After what they had been through last night, really extraordinary. As for their journey here from Vienna—he had still to find out about that. It must have been much more than a long drive west. Jo, this morning, had been charming but vague. “Dave will tell you about it,” she had said. Would he? Weber pushed his plate aside. “I shall be leaving here too. I must be back in Geneva by this afternoon. Would you give me a lift as far as Samaden?”
“You do the driving, and it’s a bargain,” David said.
“And after you see Mr. Krieger, where are you going?”
Jo said, “I’ll fly to Zurich and get a plane for Rome. A few days there, and I’ll be able to face a fashion show again. What about you, Dave?”
“I’ll call in at Geneva.”
Ah yes, she thought, Geneva and Hugh McCulloch and talk about Irina. She poured herself one last cup of coffee and fell silent. Weber lit a cigar. David was looking at the valley below them. His thoughts were farther away than the mountains.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Helen MacInnes, whom the Sunday Express called ‘the Queen of spy writers’, was the author of many distinguished suspense novels.
Born in Scotland, she studied at the University of Glasgow and University College, London, then went to Oxford after her marriage to Gilbert Highet, the eminent critic and educator. In 1937 the Highets went to New York, and except during her husband’s war service, Helen MacInnes lived there ever since.
Since her first novel Above Suspicion was published in 1941 to immediate success, all her novels have been bestsellers; The Salzburg Connection was also a major film.<
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Helen MacInnes died in September 1985.
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