Legacy of a Spy

by Henry S. Maxfield

  “Will you get me a drink, Herr Wyman?”

  “Why can’t you call me Ronnie, Ilse?” He shook his head. “Mister is pretty formal, don’t you think?”

  “All right, Ronnie,” Ilse laughed. “Now, may I have a drink?”

  “You certainly can. Wait here, and I’ll bring it to you.”

  Wyman shouldered his way into the crowd around the bar, leaving Ilse alone in the middle of the room, but directly in the Colonel’s line of sight.

  It was fortunate for her, since she was not a man, as her predecessor on this assignment, that the Baron had asked his guests to wear ski clothes, because her next move would have been too conspicuous otherwise. She hoped Dinar would notice and interpret it correctly. She started to take a step forward but stumbled. She looked down at her feet in surprise and immediately bent over to tie her boot lace. It took a second or two as she had to undo it first and then retie it. She straightened up, looked around the room as if embarrassed at her clumsiness, and her eyes rested for a brief second on Dinar, just long enough to see him pick up an ivory-stemmed cigarette holder from the table and start to fit a cigarette into it. Ilse held her breath and looked anxiously for Wyman. She was too excited. Dinar had seen her, and now she was afraid to look back.

  Wyman arrived with the drinks.

  “Sorry I forgot to ask what you wanted,” he said. “I brought you a Scotch and soda. I hope that’s all right.”

  Ilse nodded and took the glass. She glanced quickly at Dinar. The holder, with the cigarette now in it, was in his mouth, but it was still unlighted. He had returned her signal.

  She turned to Wyman. “Yes,” she said, “that was just fine. I love Scotch and soda.” She did not need to look at Dinar again. She knew by now that the cigarette would be lighted.

  Now, she thought, we know each other. What shall I do next? How am I to get him out of here? If he is seen with me, they will kill us both. She was frantic.

  “There’s your friend, Slater,” said Wyman. “I suppose he’s going to ask you for a dance, and,” he added bitterly, “I don’t imagine you’ll refuse him.”

  Ilse looked expectantly toward Slater as he approached them from the next room. He walked past them with nothing more than a curt nod and headed into the crowd around the bar. She turned back to Wyman, trying not to betray her exasperation.

  “You see, Ronnie,” she shrugged. “He does not even know that I breathe.”

  Ilse looked over Wyman’s shoulder and saw Slazov moving casually toward them.

  He is going into that crowd after Slater! I know it, she thought. He will kill Slater there. Well, let him! Slater is only an American. It is my duty to get the Colonel out of here. If I interfere now, it will only endanger my mission.

  Before Ilse realized what she was doing, she found herself in front of Slazov, blocking his way.

  “Oh, Herr Slazov!” she gushed. “What a wonderful surprise. I haven’t seen you since that Embassy party in Vienna.” Ilse took his arm. “I remember what a wonderful dancer you are. You must dance with me immediately. Come!”

  Ilse turned Slazov around and led him to the main dining room.

  Her action caused quite a stir in the bar. There was more than one man who had already noticed the copperhaired woman and envied her handsome American escort. Now, as Wyman stood, confused and angry, in the middle of the room, they wondered why such a lovely woman would prefer the company of an ugly, bald Russian. Slater had not apparently noticed a thing. He had been too busy edging his way into the bar.

  “It is not very gracious of me to say so,” said Slazov in German, “but I cannot remember where we met.”

  “We met at a party at the Russian Embassy in Vienna, two years ago.”

  Ilse smiled. She tried to look at him without looking down. Slazov was not much shorter than Ilse, but he had almost no neck, and his eyes were lower than hers.

  “I don’t blame you for not remembering me, Herr Slazov. You danced with so many women that night.”

  It was the truth. Slazov was an excellent dancer, in spite of his thick body, and he had danced almost every dance.

  “So!” said Slazov, visibly flattered. “I always like to be remembered by a beautiful woman.”

  She is a lovely creature, he thought. Is too bad I am not here for pleasure.

  He frowned. He had already waited too long to get rid of the American.

  The music stopped, and Ilse did her best to keep the conversation going, but this dance with Slazov had had an effect contrary to what she had wanted. Slazov left her abruptly, determined to finish off the American in a hurry and come back to Ilse a free man.

  Ilse stood there on the edge of the dance floor, where Slazov had left her, and stared after him. She watched him turn suddenly and start out toward the main exit. She looked ahead of him and saw Slater open the door and disappear outside, apparently completely unaware that anyone was following him. Slazov followed at a leisurely pace. He reminded Ilse of a small steamroller—the pace was slow but inexorable. Ilse closed her eyes. Was there nothing she could do to stop Slazov? Turning, she went as fast as she dared to the coat room. She got her parka and went outside onto the veranda. She looked around for some sign of Slazov or Slater. There was nothing out there but wind. The moon was considerably higher and brighter, and the stars had lost some of their brilliance. The place was as deserted as the moon above her. Ilse shivered and slipped cautiously down the veranda stairs.

  chapter twenty-seven

  THE SNOW was granular, and the tiny crystals of ice reflected the light from the moon. It looked as if someone had scattered a thousand diamonds over the white expanse.

  Ilse started carefully down toward the cable station. The snow and the thinner atmosphere at six thousand feet deadened the night sounds. She could barely hear the crunching of her own footsteps. Ilse thought she could make out two dark figures moving along the ridge below. They seemed very far away. If they were Slazov and Slater, she would never catch up in time to be of any use. She turned back to get her skis. The sight of the small hotel immediately above her, nestled just below the summit, its bright lights paled by the moon’s reflection, created momentarily an eerie sensation within her. She was less than fifty yards away from the music, noise and laughter of over a hundred people, yet the building was apparently as silent as a tomb.

  Ilse moved quickly now, convinced that she would be too late, no longer caring about her mission or her country. She had to try to save Slater.

  After putting on her skis, she pulled a Belgian .32 from her parka and skied without poles to the ridge and started down. She did not want poles to interfere with her aim. She bent her knees until she was in a very low crouch. That way her silhouette was lower, and she could build up more speed.

  She found herself unaccountably angry, not at Slazov—she despised him—but at Slater. As her skis began to pick up speed, all she could think of was that Slater was nothing but a stubborn, high-strung fool who had rejected her offer of love. She would show him who was a Communist! No man was ever going to spurn her affections and get away with it! He would owe his life to her, and then she would make him pay. The cold night wind stung her eyes and made them water. She blinked them so she could see.

  The two figures ahead were almost life-size now, and the farthest was still at least fifty yards from the cable house. It was Slater, all right, and he was standing up as straight and conspicuous as a tree in a desert. Slazov was moving along steadily about sixty yards behind. His walk seemed as confident as a person out for a Sunday stroll through the park. Suddenly, the picture of what was about to happen flashed in her mind. Slazov was almost above the marker for the Streif ski run. In less than a minute he would be below the ridge, and he could fire and lean up against the mountain for protection. In that minute Slater would be in the open space below, completely exposed. If she were going to do anything, she would have to do it now.

  She took aim with her .32, knowing she was too far away for accuracy. She squeezed th
e trigger three times and screamed at Slater to run for cover. Then she pointed her skis straight down the mountain and deliberately fell into the deep snow twenty-five yards below Slazov. From her position, she could not see either man, but she could hear shots coming from her left and from above her. Slater had at least had a chance to fire. Unless Slazov was pressed against the ridge, he must have been hit. Ilse knew without any doubt that Slater must be a crack shot. She unfastened her harness and began to crawl slowly up toward the spot where Slazov had been. As she climbed higher, she could hear shots coming from the direction of the cable house. When she was finally high enough to see, she lay flat in the snow, her automatic in front of her, and waited for Slazov to appear. She waited at least a minute, but nothing happened. She could see Slater’s body lying on the snow immediately in front of the cable-house door. She could not be certain whether he was still alive. If Slazov were still above her and alive, he was taking great pains to keep out of sight. Another minute went by, and her right hand was almost numb from the cold. Suddenly, a whole series of shots sounded thinly above her. Slazov appeared, she fired twice, and his body fell forward and sprawled head downward in the snow. Ilse remained where she was, motionless, waiting for some movement from Slazov. Then she heard somebody yelling in English at Slater and, lifting her head, saw a tall young man appear above her where Slazov had been. Ilse looked in the direction of the cable house and watched Slater get to his feet and climb, almost casually, up to the Streif trail marker. She decided he was the handsomest, most wonderful man alive. She turned and let herself slide down to her skis. She put them on and began edging her way back up to the ridge. When she got to the top, after crisscrossing twice, she was exhausted. She stood on level ground and her legs trembled.

  Slater went over to her and took Ilse’s face in his hands. They looked at each other for a moment, and neither said anything. Slater must have noticed her trembling, for he bent over quietly and started to rub her legs vigorously. Ilse felt the circulation returning and with it, a grateful warmth. The trembling stopped.

  “Let me see your right hand,” he said, and he took off her ski mitten and proceeded to massage her hand. The feeling began to return.

  “Have you any more shells?” he asked.

  Ilse nodded and pointed with her left hand to the chest pocket of her parka. He unzipped her pocket and brought out the .32 and a small box of shells. He reloaded the automatic and returned it.

  “You may need it again, Liebchen.” He had been speaking to her in German, and he had been using the familiar “du” form.

  “What about your hands?” she said.

  “Maybe you’ll warm them for me later,” he said.

  The tall young man approached them. Ilse had noticed that he had been busy with Slazov’s body.

  “I got all his papers,” he said. He appeared extremely nervous.

  “Good,” said Slater, turning to the young man. “We’ll dispose of the body, George.”

  “No, no!” said George. “I killed him,” George hesitated, “the least I can do is get rid of him.”

  Slater smiled. “I’ve something else for you to do, George.”

  “Well,” George hesitated, doubtfully, but he was obviously relieved.

  “I want you to get back down to the village as fast as you can and get hold of a car. I want you to have it waiting at Klausen, headed for Kirchberg, at the foot of the Fleck Trail. Make certain there’s plenty of gas in it and start the motor as soon as you see or hear any activity on the trail.”

  George still hesitated.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s get with it!”

  “You sure,” he said, “everything will be all right here?”

  “I hope so,” Slater smiled. “And, George.”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks a lot for everything.”

  Hollingsworth grinned. “Right,” he said. “I’ll be there waiting.”

  Hollingsworth turned and headed for the cable house. Slater turned to Ilse. “That Hollingsworth is crazy. He’s never fired a gun before, and I told him not to fire less than two shots at a human target.” Slater shook his head. “He must have fired the entire clip!”

  “Who is Hollingsworth, and how did he get up here?” Ilse was confused.

  “He’s in the Foreign Service,” said Slater. “He’s been helping me here.” Slater frowned. “We had a little argument this afternoon. Told me he was checking out of this whole business. I told him to go ahead, and I thought he would. He phoned me at the hotel up here while you were flirting with the Russian. He asked me if there was anything he could do. My first thought was to tell him to go to hell. It’s awfully easy, Ilse, to forget the sensibilities of someone new to this business. Ever since I told him to get out of Kitzbühel, I was worried about his wandering around loose. The only thing he knew which might have been useful to the opposition was my real identity, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before they’d figure it out anyway. The thing is there have already been too many innocent victims, and I had called George to come down here in the first place. He obviously wanted to help and he was ashamed of his performance this afternoon.

  “I needed help. There was no question about that. Even amateur assistance I thought would be better than nothing. I had spotted our bald friend just before you asked him to dance. I knew they had sent someone to dispose of me and I remembered seeing him by the station. I figured he was following me then. I asked Hollingsworth if he remembered him. When he said he did, that decided me. I told him to come on up to the ridge above the Streif trail marker; and as soon as I passed below it, he was to fire at the Russian. I made him promise to fire.” Slater added, “And I thought he would.”

  “But you told me he’d never fired a gun in his life.”

  “I know, but I didn’t really care whether his shots were accurate. I hoped they would be, of course, but the main thing was for Hollingsworth to create a diversion long enough for me to turn and shoot.”

  “But I fired first.”

  “Yes, and that confused me. I couldn’t decide at first whether my assassin had another ally. That was when I scrambled for cover.”

  “I heard shots coming from your position.”

  “They didn’t do much good. All I could do from there was to keep him hugging the side of the ridge.”

  “Apparently Slazov tried to climb up the ridge and get you from above.”

  “That’s when George emptied his clip.” Slater looked over Ilse’s shoulder at Slazov’s bulky body, lying face down in the snow, his head downhill. “You haven’t looked at the body,” he said quietly.

  “No.”

  “Your first three shots threw off the Russian’s aim, and mine pinned him to the ridge; but the two shots that killed him were from the front, not from the rear.” Slater looked at Ilse and smiled. “You see, Liebchen, Hollingsworth missed.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Oh, yes!” Slater put his hand on her shoulder. “So you see,” his smile was gentle, “I owe you my life. Are you going to make me pay?”

  Ilse looked up at him, trying to make her eyes noncommittal.

  “I think so,” she said slowly.

  She wished this moment could be prolonged somehow, but she knew that was impossible.

  “Let’s bury this monster.” She said it in a whisper. “Even in death he frightens me.”

  Slazov was extremely heavy and awkward, and it took both of them to carry him along the ridge. They buried him as deep as they could and packed the snow in above him. Even in the cold moonlight, the burial plot was fairly obvious, but there was no time to do a better job.

  “I have spotted Dinar,” said Ilse when they had finished.

  “I know,” said Slater. “I was watching you untie and retie your boot. That’s why I sent George for the car.”

  “But how did you know which man was Dinar?”

  “I was given his description. Are you certain you have found the right one? Did you give the proper signal?”


  “Yes,” said Ilse, “but now that I’ve found him, I haven’t one idea how to get him away from there.”

  Slater and Ilse discussed the problem on the way back up the wide slope to the hotel. Ilse went inside first, and Slater waited for about ten minutes and then entered.

  George Hollingsworth had to wait fifteen minutes for a cable car to arrive. The cars ran on demand instead of on schedule, and he became more and more impatient and apprehensive as the time passed.

  He was alone on the concrete pier. The machine operator had disappeared upstairs into the warmth of the control room. George stood there, staring out into the night, wondering where any man could have found the courage to turn his back on his murderer and lead him alone into an uncertain ambush. Hollingsworth heaved a heartfelt sigh. He felt so terribly inadequate beside Slater. His country should thank God for such a man. George was suddenly ashamed. He knew he had missed Slazov. The girl had shown more courage than he had, and they were both counting on him now. He frowned. He would not let them down this time, if he had to steal or kill to get that car.

  A black speck appeared below him and grew rapidly larger, until the cable car was near enough for him to see the moonlight reflected by its windows. George stepped gratefully into the car, and the attendant, who was the only other occupant, closed the door, gave the signal, and the car started slipping down quietly into the village below.

  chapter twenty-eight

  WHEN SLATER entered the hotel, he saw Ilse dancing with Wyman. He edged his way toward them through the dancing couples. He stopped long enough to watch her for a moment. He decided they made a very handsome pair. Ilse followed Wyman effortlessly and smoothly. Wyman was as good on the dance floor as he was on skis. The thought angered Slater, and he cut in sooner than he had intended.

  “Your hands,” said Ilse, “are freezing.”

  She put her left arm around his neck and pushed up very close to him. He could smell the fragrance of her hair and feel the warmth of her body. They could have been any young couple who had just discovered they were in love. They should have been able to dance all night, to confess their love, to drink a toast to one another, to escape on skis into the village at dawn as many others at the party obviously planned to do. They should have but they were not just any young couple, and they could not act as others would. But the love was there all the same for anyone not totally blind to see.