“Why you cold-blooded devil!”
Hollingsworth suddenly jumped Slater and tried to get his hands on his throat. “I’ll kill you!”
Slater was taken completely by surprise. All he could think was that the young fool had gone crazy and was a hell of a lot stronger than he looked. Slater clamped his left hand on Hollingsworth’s left wrist, pushed his right hand just under the left shoulder, twisted suddenly, and unceremoniously threw Hollingsworth across the room. Hollingsworth’s back crashed into the wall and he landed, face down, on the floor. Slater rubbed his throat and looked over at Hollingsworth. George was still conscious, but his eyes did not seem to focus very well.
“What in hell’s the matter with you?” Slater said. “Have you lost your mind?”
George got his eyes to focus again, and he struggled to his feet.
“You deliberately used me as a decoy! I might have been killed! I’m no dirty spy, damn you! I’m a Foreign Service officer.”
“I see,” said Slater. “Neither was Charlie Webber a dirty spy.”
He nailed Hollingsworth with his eyes, and the eyes were hard, almost glassy. “It isn’t a very nice job being a dirty spy, is it?” said Slater. “Hardly the sort of job for a gentleman.”
“I thought you were a gentleman,” said Hollingsworth. “At least that you would behave that way where I was concerned—show some human decency toward someone on your own side.” He looked sullen.
“Okay, George,” said Slater quietly. “You can take the night train back to Zurich. I’ll get someone else to use as a decoy.”
George walked awkwardly across the room to the bed, giving Slater as wide a berth as the size of the room would permit. He picked up the package and started to unwrap it.
“Put down the package, George.”
“But I got it. I want to see what’s in it.”
“Whatever it is,” said Slater, “no longer concerns you. Put it down!”
George dropped the package on the bed.
Slater went over to the side of the bed opposite Hollingsworth and calmly unwrapped the parcel. Inside it was a book. Slater riffled the pages and found a neatly folded paper. He carefully unfolded it and took it over to the window.
Could not contact you personally as was my original intention. If Carmichael didn’t show up last night, forget him. Have sent for specialist who will dispose of him tonight. There will be no more payments until further notice due to presence of Carmichael in area. All employees have been notified to stay away. Will be paid elsewhere. I will contact you personally very soon. S.
Slater read the message over several times. S must be Schlessinger, and Schlessinger was undoubtedly Hormsby. Slater tried to think what all this meant in terms of his immediate problem.
If Carmichael was still a threat to their operation, Dinar must still be a free man. If this message was to Krüpl, the Communists still did not know he was dead. If Hormsby did not suspect the relationship between Carmichael and Slater, Slater was still in the clear, and one other suddenly very important point, Ilse Wieland must really be a German agent. Slater looked thoughtful, for a moment almost wistful. Now, more than ever, he had to come out of this mess alive. He hoped he had not become so much of a “dirty spy” that he could no longer enter a life on the outside.
Slater turned to look at Hollingsworth, and then looked at the note again. Hollingsworth was busily getting dressed in his street clothes, obviously in a hurry to get out of that room, out of Kitzbühel, and as far away from this business as possible. Slater didn’t really blame him. He wished that his own reaction had been the same ten years ago, and he had run away from this crazy, stone-rolling, useless life; but at least, when he had made a commitment, he had always managed to find the guts somewhere to finish the job. Maybe it was his sense of the dramatic, or perhaps it was an inner loneliness, but the sudden desire to have someone know what he was walking into overpowered his better judgment.
“I’m going to read you this note, George, after all. That is,” Slater added, “if you still think you’d like to hear it.”
George nodded. He stood in the middle of the room, fully dressed, and all packed. He listened carefully while Slater read the message. When Slater finished, Hollingsworth said, “And now, I suppose, you’re going to go to this party tonight, just as though there was no paid assassin waiting to kill Carmichael.”
“I have no choice, Hollingsworth,” said Slater.
“No,” Hollingsworth’s voice was full of anger, “but I do. You get paid for taking these kinds of risks. I don’t. I thought you were tense and worried because you didn’t like the job of deceit and murder, but I don’t think so any more. I think you thrive on it, so go ahead. Kill or be killed. You won’t get sympathy from me.”
“I don’t need your sympathy, Hollingsworth.” Slater was furious. He had to clamp his hands on the back of a chair to keep from laying them on Hollingsworth. He was furious with himself. He had asked this Foreign Service fop for sympathy.
He let go of the chair and moved to the door. He turned to face Hollingsworth.
“If you’re not out of Kitzbühel tomorrow—”
“Don’t worry,” Hollingsworth cut in. “I want to keep my amateur status. I don’t want to turn into something like you.”
Slater slammed the door. He looked at his knuckles. They were still white. It was too late to get anyone else. Ilse was disgusted with him. Hollingsworth had run out. He would just have to finish this job alone. He squared his shoulders and stepped out into the snow.
chapter twenty-two
THE WARM MARCH WIND held the promise of spring. It scudded the late-afternoon clouds across the sky, caressed the snow with its warmth, created moisture in the snow and kept it from drifting. The wind billowed out Slater’s ski pants as he walked before it and pressed flat the loose clothing of those who moved against it. And the wind was impulsive; taking sudden turns, funneling full force around buildings and, unexpectedly, up side streets until it dissipated itself in alley-ways and small courtyards.
Slater pushed down the hood of his parka and leaned his back against the warm wind, content for the moment to let the elements carry him along. Where did not seem very important at the moment. He needed time to think. He also needed food and some sleep. Tonight would be long, he was certain. The Communists had cleared all their agents not directly involved with Colonel Imré Dinar from the area. They had kept Ilse Wieland alive only so that she could lead them to the Colonel. They had brought in an assassin to murder Carmichael, and it was just a question of time before they would discover that Carmichael was Slater. The stage was set, and Slater wondered what, should his assassin be successful, he had accomplished so far which could be considered useful.
He had been sent to find Webber and bring him back. He had failed on both counts, but he had killed Webber’s murderers, and at the same time eliminated three Communist agents. He tried not to think of Heinz Mahler. To Slater, Heinz’s death was his greatest personal failure. It had been so unnecessary. If only this business had not made him so suspicious, he would have covered Mahler immediately and given him protection, at least until reinforcements arrived.
And what about his second assignment to determine Wyman’s place in this setup? That he had done to his own satisfaction, but to prevent Wyman from carrying out his job was the problem that faced him now. He had the feeling he would be either a success or a failure, alive or dead, within the next twenty-four hours.
Slater passed through the lobby of the Winterhof, nodded to the desk clerk and climbed the stairs to his room. Once inside, he called room service to send him up a meal. He got out his writing equipment and sat down at the table to write.
As he laid page after page of still apparently blank paper beside his left hand, he smiled and shook his head slowly. Writing this letter was a little like writing a last will and testament. Slater reflected sadly that, after all, it was all he had to give, and he wanted to be as thorough as possible. He described the netwo
rks as he believed they operated—or had operated. Because of his own actions, much of this was history, but it all would go into the Intelligence archives as valuable folklore on the technique of clandestine communications. The menu system was clever. The Communists might reactivate it here and, if not here, then elsewhere.
When Slater finally put down his pen, he felt somewhat better. His time in Kitzbühel had, after all, been quite brief; yet he had been able to break their communication setup, and he could name every agent in the Kitzbühel operation but the number-one man. The last page had been a diagram of the local apparatus as he saw it.
He also enclosed the passports of Stadler, Krüpl and Hauser, the man who had killed Mahler, and ended his report with his future plans and an analysis of what the Communist plans might be. Almost as an afterthought, and because he realized it was his duty, he added Ilse Wieland’s name as the German Intelligence agent. Who could tell when the United States and Germany might be on opposite sides of the fence again?
He wrote his cover letter, filling the blank pages with innocuous thoughts on the beauties of Kitzbühel, the length and comparative difficulty of the various ski trails, the reasonableness of the local prices, and the general Gemütlichkeit of the area. He signed it again, “As always, Ben,” and sealed the heavy Manila envelope, knowing that Paris would be upset when they saw the big envelope. An agent who thought he still had a fighting chance almost never sent anything bigger than a conventional, personal letter.
The dinner arrived just as he was clearing everything away. The waiter was very solicitous and, to Slater’s mind, a little too curious for comfort. Slater had to be rude to get rid of him.
The food was well prepared, but Slater had to force himself to eat. He knew he needed the nourishment, and he finally managed to get everything down. The wine was the easiest. He would have liked to drink himself into a stupor. Tired businessmen frequently took a little too much alcohol, and even sleeping pills, to relieve tension and often with their doctors’ blessings. Slater could not permit himself such luxuries, not even one of those new “happy pills” his fellow countrymen were lately taking by the millions. He had to sit there alone with his nerves. He tried to rub the back of his neck to loosen the tightening muscles and start the circulation going again, but he got a cramp in his right arm from doing it. That made him more nervous so he gave up.
He stood up and stretched. He had to get out of his room or go berserk from claustrophobia, waiting there, all shut up and tense, for someone to come and murder him. He also had to get rid of the letter as soon as possible. It was his only legacy, and he wanted it to get into the proper hands.
Slater left the room and went downstairs into the lobby.
“Mr. Slater!”
He turned and saw Anton beckoning him over to the desk.
“Yes?” Slater approached the desk.
“I wonder, sir,” said Anton, “if you could tell me Mr. Carmichael’s forwarding address?”
Slater felt as though he had been struck across the face. He struggled to withhold any emotion.
“Mr. Carmichael?” he said. “I don’t think—”
“The night clerk tells me you were looking for him the other night,” Anton said smoothly.
Slater suddenly remembered that Anton had not been on duty when he had gone up to his room the last time. Slater had nodded to the night clerk.
“Oh yes, I remember,” said Slater, trying desperately to make the best of it. “Tall, dark-haired fellow. I only met him once. Invited me to have a drink. You know, fellow American on a foreign soil.” Slater knew he was talking too much, and he stopped too abruptly.
“Yes, sir,” said Anton, “that’s the man. He left here owing the hotel two hundred and sixty schillings.”
“That’s a shame,” said Slater. “Didn’t seem that sort of a fellow to me.” He shook his head. “That just shows you, you never know.”
“No, sir,” said Anton. His voice sounded tired again, and Slater noted it with something approaching relief.
“Do you know where we can reach him, Mr. Slater?”
“I’m sorry, but I only met him once. I have no idea where he went to. Guess it’s just as well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Slater left the hotel and went to the post office to mail the letter. He knew it was just a question of time now, and all because what he had at one time considered a smart move had now turned out to be a bad blunder. You could not foresee everything in this business. How was he to know, when as Slater he had asked the night clerk for Carmichael, that Slater would register at the Hotel Winterhof? If Anton were suspicious of the connection, he at least knew now that Slater had been in Kitzbühel before he had registered at the Winterhof. Some phoning around would reveal that Slater had not been registered anywhere else.
Anton Reisch looked after Slater’s broad back and watched him until he disappeared through the front door and into the now slushy main street. He picked up the house phone and asked for Slazov’s room.
“Hello, Herr Slazov.”
“Yes.”
“Anton here.” Anton put his mouth close to the mouthpiece. “The person we discussed is the right man.”
“Are you sure?” asked Slazov.
“There is no question,” said Anton.
“Where is he now?”
“He has just left the hotel.”
“Good. I will be right down. Thank you for your help.”
“Don’t thank me,” said Anton. “Just do your job.”
“I always do,” said Slazov.
chapter twenty-three
AFTER MAILING the letter, Slater entered the nearest public telephone station and called his office in Salzburg. After he had properly identified himself, he was connected with a voice he had not heard in three years. The voice was deep and slightly accented. It belonged to an old friend and an old hand in the business, Lazio Kartovski, an overfed gourmet who raised cymbidiums and looked like Farouk.
Lazio was a man of many talents. He spoke five languages besides Polish, the language of his parents. His chief drawback as an operator was his chimeric disposition, which went in rapid succession from a state of high-living frenzy to the blackest despair, from a most affable expansiveness to an uncontrollable rage.
“Hello, you handsome devil!” exclaimed Lazio. “I suppose you have all the women at your feet down there.”
Slater winced. Lazio was in one of his most affable moods, and now Slater knew he would hear nothing but the wildest compliments about his supposed amatory achievements.
“It’s wonderful to hear your Slavic voice, Farouk. How many wives have you had since I saw you last?” Slater laughed. It had been a long time since he had talked with anyone he knew well enough to ask such a question and know the answer in advance.
“You think I will never marry, you rascal, but I did find a beautiful girl in Ankara. She is like a princess, my charming friend, and I will marry her someday.”
“Why wait, Farouk?” Slater chuckled. “Even Farouk cannot keep a princess waiting.”
“Oh, I would! I would, but I am so broke all the time. It takes money to be married.”
Slater wished he could keep their conversation going on like this forever, to stay in this world of pleasantries with an old friend, but he couldn’t. It had served its purpose, and now he had to ask for the report.
“Listen, moneybags,” said Slater, “have you bureaucrats up there got a report for me?”
“Moneybags!” Lazio yelled. “I am broke, flat, busted, kaput.” He paused. “Yes, but it will not be much help, I’m afraid. We know nothing about any of the people mentioned—except the beer merchant with the title.”
Slater shook his head. He had been afraid of that. Well, he had added a whole new list to the rogues’ gallery.
“I guess I hit the jackpot, all right,” said Slater. “All but three, who are no longer with us, will be worth further acquaintance. The young lady is an associate of” and Slater mentioned a
code name for German Intelligence.
“So you have been up to your old tricks,” said Lazio. “I am referring to the three who have retired. Sounds to me as though you need a friend.”
Slater was deeply grateful for the offer, but he decided to ignore it. Lazio was about as subtle as a herd of elephants—besides, there just was not time enough.
“Tell me more,” he said, “about the merchant of distinction.”
“He is real enough,” said Lazio, “but he is as misguided as some of our inheritors of great wealth. He has championed the cause of the common man about whom he knows nothing. He is used for his money, and the front he can put up. He throws parties for them. He has a doublesized belly and an undersized brain.”
Slater laughed at Lazio’s description.
“Don’t laugh, my handsome friend,” said Lazio. “The man is a moron, but he is dangerous.”
“I liked your choice of words,” said Slater soberly.
“But not my big feet and heavy hands, eh?” said Lazio.
“What are you talking about?”
“You know very well. You don’t consider me an appropriate friend just now. You don’t want my big feet tromping all over the place down there.” Lazio paused, and Slater knew he would be hurt, but there was nothing to say.
“All right! All right!” said Lazio finally. “But you are my friend, all the same, you slayer of women. And if anything happens to you, you will never forgive yourself.”
“You’re so right, Lazio,” said Slater.
“When will I hear from you again?” asked Lazio.
“Tomorrow, I hope.”
“If I don’t hear from you by tomorrow afternoon, I will bring the marines and crush a few skulls.”
“Do that,” said Slater.
“Auf wiederschauen, mein schöner Freund,” said Lazio.
“I hope it won’t be another three years.”
Slater hung up. He hoped he could call Lazio tomorrow. He shuddered to think what Kitzbühel would look like after Lazio got through turning it upside down. Kartovski had been the despair of the Office on several occasions when he had taken things into his own hands. He had been kicked out over and over again, but he was so valuable most of the time that he was always immediately rehired.
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