“I don’t think I can get away just now. By the way, how is Horst?”
“He’s been ill lately,” said George.
“That’s too bad,” said Slater, “but I can’t leave right now. I’d like to know what our boy’s next assignment is going to be.”
There was another lull while George tried to think of some way to state what he wanted to say.
“His employers,” George began, “want him to meet someone, in his official capacity, whom we should be meeting.”
“Is this person a man who would like to avoid our boy’s employers?” Slater always felt foolish during these necessarily cryptic conversations. He was pleased, however, that George’s Swiss German was so fluent.
“Definitely. He’s a Hungarian colonel with the wrong ideology,” said George.
“Contrary to our friend’s employers’?”
“Yes. He flew the coop recently. They’re looking for him and so are we. Your office has asked me to tell you that your Saxon friends are also trying to contact him.”
“Are they working with or against us?”
“With. They knew he was going to make a break and sent a man to meet him where you are, but that man has disappeared. I believe they have someone else down there now.”
“Can you find out who?” asked Slater.
“I tried to, but they wouldn’t say. They’re afraid to tell anyone.”
“Try again,” said Slater. “I’ve got to know.”
“Right.”
“Why is this man so important to everyone?”
“I don’t know exactly,” said George. “He has some special information which he will trade for our protection and asylum. Your office said it was extremely important.”
“I see.” Slater paused. “It’s bad form, but you better tell me his name.”
“Imré Dinar,” said George.
“Never heard of him. Have you a description?”
“Six feet tall, heavy set, bushy eyebrows, gray hair, in his fifties, has a mustache. As far as anyone knows, he’s traveling alone,” said George.
“Where would our friend fit in?” asked Slater.
“Your office thinks he may be used to convince the Colonel that his employers are our employers.”
It was a definite possibility, thought Slater, provided the Communists didn’t know whatever it was that Dinar knew. If they could convince Dinar, through Wyman, that they were American Intelligence officers, he would give them his information; and they could dispose of him afterward. This assignment was shaping up into something a lot bigger than Slater had anticipated.
“Anything else you want to tell me?” asked Slater.
“No,” said George, “but do you want me to come down there? I’ve got a feeling you’ll need help.”
“Thank you, but you’d better stay put. I’ll mail you my address. Find out at exactly what time your mail is delivered, and be there in person to collect it. If I need you, don’t worry, I’ll let you know.”
“Good luck, Karl,” said George.
“One more thing.” Slater paused. “If you have to call me here at the address I will send you, please use a telephone station either in Germany or Austria.”
“Right. Auf wiederhören, Karl.”
“Auf wiederhören.”
Slater hung up. He remained in the slim warmth of the sidewalk telephone station. He didn’t believe anyone could have monitored the conversation at his end, and there was, as yet, no concrete reason he should be connected with Zurich. A phone call from Munich or Salzburg should appear innocent enough. The Swiss German would narrow down their listening audience.
He opened the glass door and walked to the corner. He took the letter out of his pocket and mailed it. He would write another requesting any information on Herr Krüpl.
Slater entered the hotel by the back entrance. He waited out of sight of the desk clerk until his back was turned and went up the only stairs and entered his room—Carmichael’s room, he reminded himself sourly.
He was more tired than he had thought, and he fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. He had first bolted his room from the inside. He didn’t want to be taken by surprise as Slater in Carmichael’s bed.
When he awoke it was after eight o’clock. He put on his heavy socks and slipped on his pants. He tried to put his right foot into his ski boot, but he couldn’t get it in. There was something in the boot. He turned it upside down. An object fell out and rolled bumpily across the floor.
Slater bent over and picked it up, not believing that he held a roll of American ten-dollar bills. He counted seventeen—one hundred and seventy dollars. If this was what Wyman was selling out for, he was even less of a man than Slater thought. Slater took off his pants and heavy socks and put on Carmichael’s clothes. He put the money he had found in his wallet and went downstairs to breakfast.
Wyman was at the same table he’d been at the morning before, and he motioned Slater to join him. Creature of habit, thought Slater, bad habit. He went over and sat down.
“Coming to the party tomorrow night?” Wyman asked. “You’ll meet a lot of interesting people. I thought,” he added smugly, “if I introduced you to the Baron, you would get an invitation.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” Slater added to himself, You pompous ass. He had said, “You’ll meet a lot of interesting people,” in the same way that a woman would have said, “My dear, everyone who is anyone will be there.”
“Do people usually have parties on Monday nights in Europe?” asked Slater.
“No.” Wyman laughed. “But when you have a large party on a Monday, you eliminate some of the riffraff—the weekend skiers. Besides,” he added, “the Ehrenbachhöhe Hotel will not have to turn down so many reservations.”
“You mean,” said Slater, impressed in spite of himself, “that the Baron is taking over the entire hotel for this party!”
“Exactly.”
“Aren’t you going skiing today, Wyman?” Slater was surprised to see that Wyman didn’t have his ski clothes on.
“Never go on Sunday. Much too crowded,” said Wyman.
“I see.”
“There’ll be a line a mile long for the cable car.”
Slater turned his head just in time to see Heinz Mahler enter the dining room. Slater was annoyed. Heinz had deliberately disobeyed orders. Mahler came closer to looking jaunty than any other German he had ever seen. There was something about his walk that indicated a happy-go-lucky vitality. The Rhinelanders had the reputation of being much more carefree than the rest of their countrymen. Slater hoped that Mahler wasn’t too carefree.
Wyman had finished his breakfast and was obviously becoming restless.
“Don’t wait for me, Wyman,” said Slater. “I’m a slow eater, and I’m planning to write some letters this morning. Thought I might send my father some of those ‘wish you were here’ postcards.”
“If you’re sure you don’t mind.” Wyman stood up. “The Baron has invited me to join him for some midmorning refreshment.”
“Not at all,” said Slater. “Go right ahead.”
Wyman left the dining room, and Slater fully expected Mahler to follow him. Instead, Heinz looked over at Slater and indicated that he wanted to come to the table. Slater shook his head, got up and headed for the men’s room. Heinz took the hint and followed him.
The men’s room was empty.
“Why didn’t you follow Wyman?” asked Slater.
“I received a letter this morning I think you should see immediately.” Heinz handed the letter to Slater. It was postmarked from Kitzbühel and was written in German on plain cheap stationery.
Lieber Heinz,
I hope this letter reaches you, as you are the only person I can trust. By now the Consulate must have received the letter you mailed for me and sent someone down here to find me.
I hate to admit it, but I’m afraid to expose myself to anyone, unless he can offer me some protection; but I am going crazy cooped up here, an
d I have very little money left. The man with whom I am staying will keep me hidden only so long as I pay him.
If you have been contacted by someone from my government, get in touch with him. Tell him to come any evening at 10 p.m. to the place indicated on the map.
Slater looked up from the letter. “Was there a map in this letter?” Heinz handed him a piece of a local map.
“This place is on the way up the Kitzbühel Horn,” he said. “I think you can drive a car up there all right, but the road is steep.”
Slater returned to the letter.
Tell him to come in the front door; it will be open. He’s to walk into the room on the right. I will be there. Have him come by car and be prepared to drive me to Zurich. Do not fail me, Heinz. I must be gotten away from here soon.
dein Freund,
CHARLIE
P.S.—Do not come yourself. You might be under surveillance.
Slater kept the map and returned the letter. He took out Webber’s letter to Putnam and compared the handwriting. He showed them both to Heinz.
“What do you think, Heinz?”
“I think that’s Charlie’s handwriting,” he said.
“So do I.” Slater frowned. “But this letter poses a lot of interesting questions.”
“Yes,” Mahler said slowly. “For example, why did Charlie wait until now to contact me?”
“And why,” Slater added, “did he think you might still be here?”
“I don’t believe I told him when I was leaving,” said Mahler.
“Why didn’t he write to Putnam or some friend in the Consulate?”
“Maybe he was afraid that Wyman had some co-workers in Zurich.”
Slater looked at Mahler carefully. “Smile when you say that, partner.”
“Partner?” Heinz looked confused.
“Another American idiom,” Slater smiled. “Does sound kind of silly in German.”
Mahler shrugged. “Smile—partner,” he muttered.
“What I meant,” Slater said patiently, “was that one traitor per embassy is enough. Casting aspersions on the loyalty of our Foreign Service employees in general is neither fair nor accurate.”
“Oh,” said Heinz, “I meant no offense. Anyway,” he added, “why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
“I will in the future, Heinz, believe me,” Slater laughed.
“Are you going?” asked Heinz.
“I have no choice.” Slater shook his head.
“I will come with you,” said Heinz.
“No. I’d like to have you, but Webber may be right. You might be under surveillance.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I hope you’re right, Heinz, but I want you to stay here and keep an eye on Wyman. Before we break this up,” he continued, “if you get a letter from Paris, I want you to keep it for me—unopened.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Don’t put it in another envelope and leave it for me at the desk. Either deliver it to me personally—or destroy it.” Mahler nodded. “If I don’t contact you by eighteen hundred tomorrow,” Slater went on, “I want you to call this number.”
Slater wrote Hollingsworth’s home phone on a piece of the envelope and handed it to Heinz. “Ask for George and tell him that Carmichael has disappeared. And then,” Slater added quietly, “you better get out of town—fast.”
“Why?”
“Our Communist friends have a way of getting all the information a man has. They’ll undoubtedly want you out of the way in any case.”
“It would have been safer for me if I had ignored this letter,” said Heinz matter-of-factly.
“Much,” Slater nodded.
“I’m not sorry,” he said slowly.
“You’re a good man, McGee,” said Slater.
“McGee?” said Heinz frowning. “What is McGee?”
“Oh, no!” said Slater. “I’ve done it again.”
“Another American expression?” asked Mahler.
“Yes.”
“Explain then—please. What is McGee?”
“McGee is a who, not a what. It’s a man’s name—a good man,” said Slater desperately.
“Someone in the Bible, perhaps?”
“Not that good.”
“Who, then?” Mahler was determined.
“An Irishman.”
“What?”
“Look, please!” Slater was about to become hysterical. “Let’s drop it, what do you say, please. McGee was just a great guy, that’s all. It was just my way of saying how much I admire your courage.”
“I see,” said Heinz.
Slater couldn’t be absolutely certain, but he thought he detected just the trace of a twinkle in Mahler’s eye. He’d been had. The wiry little rascal had been joshing him along.
“Had you ever seen Wyman before last night?” asked Slater finally.
“No,” said Heinz. “I don’t think so.”
“Good. Then the chances are he probably hasn’t seen you, but you’d still better be careful. Do you need some more money?”
“No, but I am traveling in more expensive circles since I met you, Herr Carmichael.” Heinz smiled.
“Well,” said Slater, “I’m going to give you some more money, anyhow. I want you to take all your meals at the hotel, and I want you to observe, carefully, all the people whom Rüdi, the headwaiter, takes care of personally.”
“Is there anything specially that I should be looking for?” asked Heinz.
“Listening for would be more accurate,” said Slater. “I want you to listen, if you can, to any conversation between Rüdi and his customers. Let me know if you detect any similarities in their dialogue.”
Slater wanted to say more, but decided against it. It didn’t pay to condition a man’s mind in advance, so that he would hear only what you expected him to hear.
The men’s-room door opened, and Slater turned to the sink and started washing his hands. Mahler passed a man who had entered, and left immediately. Slater turned off the tap and wiped his hands while the man, whom he had never seen before, went into one of the stalls and shut the door. Slater waited patiently for the sounds that would indicate the stranger’s sincerity and left a moment later, muttering to himself that the stranger was indeed sincere.
Slater returned to his table, signed for the check and went up to his room. The chambermaid was just finishing up. She was a great deal younger and prettier than most; and when she saw Slater, she looked flustered and swished and fidgeted around the room until he was forced to ask her to leave.
He bolted the door and got into his ski clothes. Regarding himself in the mirror, he decided he couldn’t put off getting a haircut any longer. His own hair was getting much too long. It was too thick and wiry to lie down properly. He looked at his watch. The cable stations should be very crowded by now. It would be a good time to pay a visit to the ski-rental shack near the practice slope.
chapter nine
THE SKY was as blue as Slater had ever seen it, and the morning air was still crisp and new. He was glad for the weekend skiers, but he had to admit that Sunday was not the day to go skiing. Slater joined the crowd which filled the roadway and moved along with it like a chip in a stream. Beyond the railroad crossing, he shouldered his way toward the ski-rental shack.
Because of the excellent weather and the crowds, the rental skis were stacked outside and the attendant of yesterday was not in sight. Slater approached the man in charge. He was wearing hiking boots and corduroy breeches. His brown turtle-neck sweater was torn and was becoming unraveled at the waist.
“My name,” said Slater in German, “is Karl Nolker. I would like Herr Schlessinger’s skis.”
The attendant’s face was the color of his corduroy trousers. His small, pale blue eyes regarded Slater carefully.
“The skis will be too long for you,” he said slowly to Slater.
Slater remembered that they had been a little short for Wyman.
“Schlessinger’s skis are e
xactly the right length for me.” said Slater.
“One moment,” he said and disappeared into the shack. He returned a minute later with a pair of Erbacher skis that looked like the ones Wyman had been given yesterday. The attendant held one of the skis up beside Slater, and Bill raised his right arm, and his wrist rested on the tip. He smiled at the attendant. “Perfect,” he said.
The attendant said nothing and put both skis on the snow. The bindings had to be adjusted. Wyman had big feet. Slater offered the attendant some money. He looked surprised and shook his head.
“Herr Schlessinger,” he said, “has taken care of everything.”
“I know,” said Bill, “but take it anyway and bring me a pair of good poles.”
The attendant took the money and brought Slater a brand-new pair of aluminum poles. Slater thanked him and, keeping his skis on, moved off in the direction of the cable station. He joined the crowd and then skied around in front of the cable-car docks and climbed up toward the woods. He didn’t want to wait the hour he was sure it would take to get a ride to the top.
The climbing was slow, and he began to sweat long before he reached the trees, but the exercise made him feel good, and he didn’t stop until he was almost a hundred yards above the line of trees. The evergreens were tall and straight; but they didn’t offer much protection, for, like all the forests of Europe, the underbrush was cleared away, and the planting and cutting had been carried on scientifically for years. To Slater, being in these woods was like being in a maze. He took off his skis and stacked them behind a tree. He removed his mittens and began with the right ski, inspecting it carefully from the rounded tip to the plastic heel plate. He had no way of knowing whether these were the same skis that had been given Wyman. They looked the same and were the same length; but even if they were, that didn’t prove anything. Maybe the skis had nothing to do with why Wyman was in Kitzbühel. Schlessinger could be the owner’s real name. Slater had the feeling that the ski-rental people were not seriously involved with Wyman or Wyman’s employers, nor was Rüdi or Anton, the desk clerk. They were merely hired to do a particular job, but had no connection with, and probably not even any knowledge of one another’s roles. The thing that had made Slater pursue the ski angle was Webber’s letter to Putnam. Slater treated all coincidences in the counterespionage business as suspicious.
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