Prelude to Terror (38 page)

“And talk. There are still some things I don’t know about yesterday. For instance, you mentioned an appointment with Marck, and I was bewildered. You didn’t tell me about that. When did he make it?”

“After the auction. I didn’t think it was important.”

Everything about you is important to me, she thought. She rose and began clearing the table. “I left the upstairs presentable—bed made, everything back in place. We’ll keep Frau Lackner happy by leaving no dish unwashed. Perhaps she’ll accept me if she thinks I’m housebroken. Don’t laugh, Colin. That’s important. Keeps the peace between women. Has she found a reason why we should be here?” Avril handed him a washed plate and a dishcloth with a smile. “And that’s something else about women: they always need a reason.”

“Fischer gave her a lulu. I’m a reporter in some danger of reprisals. She has taken that one stage further, thinks you are my girl Friday.”

“You know, that’s true in a way,” Avril said in surprise. “Comic, isn’t it?”

“It won’t be so funny when I start trying to explain to Fischer why I brought you here.”

“Of course,” she said softly, “he would want to know. He’s one of those sweet men, the protective type.” She looked up. “You too, darling. That’s one of the reasons I love you.” As he stood watching her, she went on, “Let me count the ways...” She didn’t finish the quotation. He had taken her in his arms again.

They heard a clatter of footsteps on the brick wall outside the back entrance, a girl’s voice calling excitedly. They drew apart. Grant opened the door and the girl—a younger, much thinner version of Frau Lackner—with cheeks flaming and breath panting, halted her wild run as she burst into the kitchen. Grant stood helpless: the girl’s words were coming out at such a speed that it was impossible to understand her. But Avril’s German was excellent. Of course, he thought, a translator at the Embassy: that was no feeble cover story. “I think,” Avril was saying as the girl ended her quick recital, “she’s telling us that her brother Peter is stationed down at the bridge and has stopped two cars. The men in them say they are our friends. One of them calls himself Bush. Sends his greetings to Sweetheart. Peter wants to know if they are okay.”

“Bush is Bob Renwick?”

“Himself, no less. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. That’s how he got this name.” In the long-ago years, she thought, something to do with his college days and track record. She had never quite understood the phrase.

Grant was saying, “Anna, tell Peter they are our friends.”

“Minna,” said the girl. “I’m Minna.” Avril fascinated her. She had studied every detail, from hair style to high-heeled sandals, as Avril translated.

“Tell Peter,” Grant repeated urgently. “Many thanks, Minna.”

Minna stepped out of doors, put her hands to cup her lips and gave a long clear call. From below the woods came a piercing whistle.

“Message received?” Avril asked with a smile. Minna nodded, stood just outside the threshold, still lost in study of the stranger. “
Auf Wiedersehen. Und vielen Dank
.” Minna took the hint regretfully, began walking to the short-cut that had brought her up here in four minutes flat.

“What did I tell you?” Grant said. “Our afternoon is shot to hell.”

The first car was dark blue and impressive with two quietly dressed men in the rear seat and its chauffeur—navy jacket, hard-brimmed cap, large anti-glare glasses—intent on parking neatly beside the Citroën. On its tail came a svelte black Thunderbird with one occupant; scanty fair hair, glasses, and—when he stepped out of the car—thin and tall. He was in tweeds and carried a briefcase.

Avril said, “That’s Prescott Taylor! From the Embassy.”

“The one whose specialty is defectors?” Grant was amused. The formal briefcase was hardly the correct accessory for the country-style suit.

“Other things, too—such as handling Victor Basset.”

“Where’s Bob Renwick?”

“That’s his Thunderbird definitely.” She was perplexed. Then, nudging Grant gently, she began to smile as the chauffeur, a newspaper tucked under an arm, followed the others towards the house. The smaller of the two strangers, their dark suits beginning to look like a restrained uniform, was in charge of a black case, handling it with care. His companion, matching Prescott Taylor’s height, had a leather envelope in his hand.

“An official visit?” Grant had time to suggest. Important too. Renwick wouldn’t have driven from Vienna disguised as a chauffeur for his own amusement.

“Could be.” Avril retreated into the room and Grant, after a moment of surprise, joined her. So we meet our visitors indoors and away from curious eyes, he thought, even from friendly eyes. Avril hurried into the kitchen to lock its door. She was back beside him before Taylor made the introductions. They were brief, discreet: Assistant Director Schwartz from the State Prosecutor’s office, who placed the small black case on a table before he bowed and shook hands; Commissioner Seydlitz, State Security, Criminal Division, and looking—at close hand—more like a benevolent Herr Professor of Criminal Law about to examine a doctoral candidate. Then the two Austrians and Taylor, professing an interest in this astounding room, drew close to the central hearth. By prearrangement, thought Grant, as Renwick was left alone with him and Avril.

“Got your hair cut, too,” Grant observed. “What you fellows won’t sacrifice for the sake of your art.”

Renwick wasn’t in a joking mood. “Avril, go and join the nice gentlemen. How’s your wrist?”

“Merely a reminder not to make any more foolish mistakes.” She had been watching Renwick nervously, wondering what reason had brought him here. Was their mission over, successfully? Was it a failure, and through her fault? Or, she thought, could he be sending me away, dismissing me for good? She turned on her heel, made her way towards the fireplace.

Grant was startled.
Any more foolish mistakes
? Surely she had made her choice—last night she had made the choice, hadn’t she? This assignment was her last, and it was over as far as she was concerned. Or had he assumed too much?

For a brief second, Renwick studied Grant’s face. He said, “I’m leaving immediately. Just came to make sure this place was safe for another night.”

Grant looked at him sharply. Renwick didn’t explain, went on, “How did you get the local talent organised. Simple idea, but good.” He smiled, remembering the roadblock down at the bridge, the tractor stuck in the middle of the narrow trail up to Fischer’s house, and a husky young farmer with his sister beside him acting dumb until Renwick had got out of the car and talked with him. At a nod from her brother, the girl had taken off like a bullet, disappeared into a wood at the back of the farmhouse. Five minutes later, her call had ended all obstructions. Young farmer friendly, four city slickers regaining their cool. “Not my idea. Fischer’s.”

“When did he get into the act?”

“This morning. Put one and one together: my interest in the sale of a Ruysdael reproduction, plus the blast at the Majestic last night.”

“Ah—you know about that.”

“Bare details only.”

Renwick indicated the newspaper lying beside his jacket. “There’s not much else known. Seydlitz—” he glanced towards the tall Viennese—“is interested in the fact that Marck had made an appointment with you for midnight. I didn’t tell him more than that, left the rest for you to explain. Any further thoughts on the matter?”

“The bomb could have been disguised as a present from Mandel to Max Seldov, his brother-in-law.”

“Mandel,” Renwick said thoughtfully. “Careful how you deal with him. And for God’s sake, don’t mention
Waldheim
. In your deposition, keep strictly to the Ruysdael events—from Victor Basset and Lois Westerbrook to Marck, Mittendorf and the Klar couple. Nothing, but not one word, about Avril’s kidnapping. Not one mention of Frank or of Israeli Intelligence. Or about our stopover at the Rasthaus. Got that?”

Grant nodded and looked pointedly at the black case. “Deposition? That sounds as if you all expected a sudden end for your chief witness.”

“A matter of your convenience,” Renwick said quickly. “Can’t keep you hanging around Austria for the various trials to come up. We had a conference on that this morning, and decided you could leave if the prosecutor had your sworn statement. That’s why I had to bust your security here, lead them to you.”

“Avril—how did you explain her?”

“I told them she’s my contact—keeping an eye on your safety.”

No more she is, thought Grant, that day is over. “You blew her cover?” Suits me, too; makes her separation from Renwick more likely.

“Well, there isn’t much more for us to do in Vienna. That’s the way it goes: you work like hell, produce results, and then the whole investigation is no longer yours. Vienna and Geneva and Brussels take over, and you find yourself in a back seat. An empty feeling. The only consolation is that there are plenty of other jobs to be done. There’s no dearth of terrorists. Prepare yourself for some more murders and hijackings; newspapers, won’t offer pretty reading in the next few months.”

“At least you did end one source of money. No more subsidies from Henri Bienvenue’s account.”

“A million and a half dollars have already been paid out,” Renwick said grimly. “But we’ll follow up on the payees, track them right to the end of the line.”

Grant’s dismay was evident “Then there’s little left in—”

“Enough. The Swiss tell us there’s still five and a half million, give or take a couple of thousand.”

“Good God!”

“Yes,” said Renwick sombrely. “Gene Marck is quite an accountant.”

“No sign of him?”

“Not so far. The police found Lois Westerbrook, however. In a sleazy little hotel over in the Prater district.”

“Dead?”

“Overdose of heroin.”

“She didn’t use—”

“I know. And you know it. But most people will believe it.”

“No clues who took her there?”

“To that joint? Pay as you enter, stay out of sight, do your own thing? The slob who runs the place couldn’t care less.” Renwick became business-like again. “Your luggage is in the Mercedes; Avril’s belongings are packed and ready to go in the Thunderbird.”

Ready to go? Grant didn’t like the sound of that phrase. “Well—that’s about all,” Renwick said, “except for a check on those people at the farmhouse. How much do they know?”

“Only enough to be wary of strangers who come asking for Herr Fischer’s house.”

“They did that all right. One at the tractor blocking the road, another big fellow coming out of the barn with a pitchfork. And the girl, of course. Any more of them?”

“Four men working on the high meadow—that’s up the hill behind the house. They’re the Lackner family: mostly about to be married, so they’ll have some future-in-laws, too, if needed.” He thought over that, then said, “If needed? What the hell am I talking about? Marck has never heard of Grünau.”

Renwick’s silence was marked.

“Sending me a warning?” So that’s the chief reason that brought him here, Grant thought. “Okay, spell it out.”

Renwick’s hesitation ended. “I don’t think Marck knows where you actually are. He does know by this time that Avril is with you. Also about the Rasthaus Winkelman, and the road you took in a black Citroën. Also its plates. That’s why I’ll drive off in it, leave the Thunderbird for you. I hope to God he spends his energies trying to track you down at the Traunsee. Yes, you were right about Braun.”

“Braun?”

From across the room, Taylor’s voice called urgently. “Watch the time. Bob. You’ll be late.”

Renwick said softly, “Which means, watch their time. They’re getting impatient. I think.”

“Braun?” repeated Grant. And last night I was sorry I ever mentioned the man’s name, blamed it all on too much tension.

“On the way to Vienna, he asked a question he shouldn’t have. Some party we must have had at
Waldheim
—what was it all about? When we got to the Embassy, I kept him and Slevak hanging around for an hour before I gave them the evening off the chain. To play it safe, I had Braun followed. He telephoned from a public ’phone. After that, he went to a nice dark park, and met a nice quiet man, and had a nice long talk. When the stranger left, my agent decided he was the more important and switched to following him. Successfully to the Russian Embassy.”

“Are they in this?”

Renwick’s laugh was brief and coarse. “Oh dear me, no. How could anyone think such a thing!” He turned serious. “They’ve no obvious connections with Marck or Mandel or Mittendorf—but they know what’s going on. They drop useful tips or necessary information when there’s a crisis situation. Marck’s in one right now, up to his goddamned neck.”

Avril appeared at Renwick’s elbow. “Bob—it’s quarter past two. You’ve a meeting, Prescott says, at half-past four.” Renwick reached for the chauffeur’s coat and cap, added the tie and glasses with a grin. “Give him these. Borrow his jacket.”

“He won’t like it,” she warned Renwick, but she left with the clothes bundled in her arms.

“Whatever Braun reported to his Soviet contact was passed on to Marck,” Grant said slowly. Suddenly his anger broke. “Why the hell was Braun working with you? Wasn’t he checked and double-checked?”

“He was a good agent, reliable and honest.” There was a note of real regret of sadness in Renwick’s voice. “What turned him? Not money. Not ordinary blackmail—he had no sexual quirks, didn’t use drugs.”

“Then how? His wife and baby?”

“Now a girl of seven. Yes, I think that’s it. Two hostages to fortune. First comes a dangled promise: future release, safe arrival in the West. Later, to get full co-operation out of him, there will be threats. A bad deal.”

Avril was back, the blue Harris tweed safely in hand. “He didn’t like it. But who could refuse you?”

Renwick drew on Taylor’s jacket, too long in the sleeves and skirt. “I promise him I won’t wear it into the Embassy. I only need it for the next ten minutes anyway. Well—goodbye, Colin. Take care of my car, will you? Hey, what about the Citroën’s keys? Thank you.” Renwick slipped them into his pocket, his eyes on Avril. “And
you
take care of yourself, Sweetheart. See you in Paris. Taylor will give you all the details—they’re in his briefcase.” With a wave across the room to the others and a cheerful “
Auf Wiedersehen
,” Renwick left.