Prelude to Terror (7 page)

“You’re the driver,” Grant said. “What’s the trouble with the traffic?” He was remembering the spider-web of highways around Vienna.

“Ever since that Danube bridge collapsed last year we’ve had one big headache. Besides,” Frank added, “the route I’ll take is much prettier. We’ll be in the country most of the way.” He lowered his speed to fifty as they turned on to a narrower road.

And Grant, remembering that the unique thing about Vienna was that hills and woods and vineyards often began on the immediate outskirts of city streets and concrete, found no fault with that. “How much longer will this detour be?”

“Just over half an hour. I know the short-cuts well. In fact I follow this route most of the time. It’s easier on the nerves.” Anything would be better than the monotony of a long straight highway, thought Grant. “Your English is excellent. American accent?”

“I was two years in Chicago. But I missed the mountains and forests. Here, a three-hour drive at the week-end and I’m among the big boys—nine thousand, ten thousand feet high.”

So they talked about climbing and skiing as Frank drove through woods and villages. As he had said, the empty roads he was so skilfully following, branching from one to another without any delays or traffic jams, were much prettier.

“Isn’t that Baden?” Grant asked, suddenly jolted into vigilance. The country town lay south of Vienna—probably some twelve, even fifteen miles south.

Frank pointed to the cosy houses, nestling between trees and multitudes of flowers. “Quite recovered. You’d never know what it went through in forty-five.”

“I know,” Grant said curtly. This peaceful place had been the most raped—from young girls to grandmothers—and the most systematically looted town in all of Austria, perhaps in western Europe.

Frank sensed his disquiet. “We’ll take the road to Mayerling—no traffic there, pure country—then swing up to Vienna. No trouble at all. I’ll have you at your hotel in good time.” He looked round to add, “No extra charge. Your drive is paid for.”

Grant just shook his head, restrained a smile. He had to admit that there was no urgency in reaching his hotel: he had no meetings, no business to attend to. For the next few days he was entirely free to do as he pleased. He relaxed, settled back in the comfortable seat of the Mercedes. The airport was a long drive from the city, so why fuss over a few extra miles? He might as well enjoy a taste of scenery before he plunged into city streets: this twisting road, as empty of traffic as Frank had promised, displayed plenty of it.

Frank was looking worriedly at the sky, bright blue only five minutes ago, now darkening with a mass of clouds moving in from the west.

The cumulus clouds have caught up with me, Grant thought. “Rain?”

“And plenty of it. Glad we’re not in the middle of a traffic jam.”

“What about this road?” It was running straight now, along a narrow valley with wooded hills on either side.

“Good surface. No problem, even in a downpour. There’s less wind-force here than on an open highway.”

“There’s someone who already has a problem,” Grant said, pointing just ahead. A small grey Fiat was drawn up at the side of the road, its hood raised. A man straightened his back from his inspection of the engine and looked at the oncoming Mercedes. A girl, sitting by the opened door, swung her legs out on to the ground, and rose. She had smooth dark hair, cut short to show—even from this distance—the neat silhouette of her well-shaped head.

“Do we stop?” Frank was asking, slowing his speed.

“Sure.” Grant recovered from his initial shock. The girl could have been Jennifer if her hair had been longer. She was the same height, had the same proportions. “They don’t look like terrorists to me.”

Frank didn’t smile. But he agreed, for he brought the Mercedes to a halt. He spoke in German. “Can we help?”

“Nothing can be done. I’ve checked,” the man replied in German, closing the hood. “It’s the battery. Just faded out on us. Can you give us a lift to the nearest place where I can find a tow-truck?”

“That will be on the outskirts of Vienna itself,” Frank said in English, looking at Grant.

“Better tell them to hop in,” said Grant, opening a door. The first isolated drops of rain, large and heavy, were beginning to plop on the car’s roof, promising a sudden deluge. The girl made a dash for the Mercedes, hands over her head, her blue summer dress fluttering round her excellent legs, laughter in her voice as she said, “Thank you,” and then “
Vielen Dank!
” as she slipped in beside Grant.

“English will do,” he told her.

“Bob!” she called in delight to the man who was now leaving car keys under the Fiat’s visor, “we found an American!”

He ran to join them—a man about Grant’s own age, of medium height, with even features and longish brown hair. He was dressed in tweed jacket and flannels. He came round to the other side of the car and climbed in, so that Grant—a little to his surprise—now found he was sitting between the newcomers. Even if his feet had a precarious hold on the raised central section of the floor, he was comfortable enough once he had hoisted his overnight bag into the front seat beside his suitcase.

Apart from the fact that she was slender, the girl didn’t take much room: she had pulled herself as far into the corner of the seat as possible, leaving extra space for him. “No need to do that,” Grant told her, and won a shy smile. She still kept her distance. For a moment, he watched her profile, her face now turned to frown at the heavy rain. No, she wasn’t like Jennifer: not close up. This girl’s eyes were dark brown, not blue; her features were less perfect, pretty but not startlingly beautiful. Definitely not a replica of Jennifer, not even in manner. Jennifer would have been talking, making amusing comments with her usual vivacity, getting them all to smile and relax. This girl seemed withdrawn, almost cold in her detachment. Or painfully shy? Nervous?

Her companion certainly wasn’t. His manner was easy, as if being picked up on a lonely country road were a daily occurrence. “My name is Renwick, Robert Renwick. This is Miss Avril Hoffman, at your right elbow. Sorry to put you to this trouble. We’re grateful for it. We were due at the office ten minutes ago.”

I see, thought Grant in a flight of romantic guessing: business associates (boss and secretary?) returning from a night in the country. Travelling light, too; but Miss Hoffman’s outsize shoulder-bag could hold two toothbrushes quite easily. “Glad to help out. The name is Grant, by the way, Colin Grant.”

Renwick stared at him. “Colin Grant?” He was incredulous. “Well, well, well...”

The next thing he’ll tell me, Grant was thinking, is that he has read my book—one of the two thousand and sixty-three people who have actually bought it. Or perhaps he borrowed it from a library: that was usually the case. In spite of the lack of royalties, it was soothing to an author’s ego even if it didn’t help his bank account.

But Renwick said, “We have a friend in common.”

“Oh?”

“Dwight O’Malley.”

Grant raised an eyebrow. “O’Malley?” was all he could say. “Yes. Old Dwight. He was supposed to be here this week-end. He called me last night from Geneva—has to postpone his visit for a few weeks. Mentioned that he’d just had a note from you, and was sorry he’d miss you. Told me to try and track you down at your hotel and hoist one for him.”

Geneva was correct: so was Grant’s scrawled note to O’Malley before leaving New York. Grant’s attack of disbelief ended. The amusing side of life was its pleasant surprises. Coincidences did happen. “How long have you known him?”

“Off and on since college. He went into the army along with me. You did your service with him in Germany, didn’t you?”

“We trained together, but in Germany I stayed with the poor bloody infantry. O’Malley went into—” Grant stopped short. O’Malley had disappeared into some hush-hush outfit: codes, it was thought. Intelligence? Was he still following along with that? Grant looked with a fresh eye on Robert Renwick. “Were you posted to Germany too?”

Renwick nodded. “Up among the potato fields. Never will forget the smell of dung that the farmers scattered around. When I asked a Fräulein what was the awful stench, she giggled and said “
Landluft!
Country air, we call it.” Never could eat a potato since then.”

“Are you still in the army?” Grant asked bluntly.

“No. I’m at present attached—temporarily—to our Embassy here.”

“So you’re just visiting Vienna?”

“For a couple of months.”

“Where’s your home ground? Washington?”

“Actually, it has been Brussels for the last few years.” NATO? Grant wondered. Tactfully, he said, “I used to live in Washington. Thought we might have more friends in common.” He looked at the silent girl, who was still fascinated by the torrent of rain sweeping over the car’s windows.

Renwick noticed his speculation. “Avril’s a pure Londoner, even if she spent the first three years of her life in New York. I’m helping her lose her accent.”

“Neat duty you’ve drawn in Vienna,” Grant said with a grin, and refrained from asking more questions. He had reached the end of the allowed quota, he decided. Renwick’s frankness—if he were connected with some form of Intelligence—had better not be tested much more. Then Grant asked himself three questions: why so much frankness? A method of winning trust? Or just natural friendliness? Renwick would be a gregarious type, as much outgoing and forthright as the girl was introspective and silent. “Avril is a charming name,” he told her profile. “Were you born in April? Then you should like rain-showers.”

She turned her dark eyes on him. They were her best feature, he thought—large and soft and luminous, reminding him of a Byzantine portrait. She smiled. “Only if it’s warm rain.”

Renwick cut in with, “What about you? Staying long in Vienna, city of my dreams?”

“Two weeks, I hope.” Perhaps less, damn it.

“Business or pleasure?”

“A little of each. Museums and
Weinstüberl
.”

“Of course, you’re the expert on art.”

“Hardly.”

“Don’t know much about painting,” Renwick confessed. “I belong to the I-know-what-I-like school. What’s your favourite field? Impressionism, Abstract, Contemporary Realism, or just good old-fashioned Dutch and Flemish?”

Grant’s spine stiffened. The girl might have sensed it. “Isn’t this rain appalling?” she asked softly.

“In Brussels, of course,” Renwick went on, very casual, very conversational, “they still worship the seventeenth-century masters. You see nothing but reproductions of them all around the place.”

“It was a pretty good century for painting,” Grant said evenly.

“Still is, for those who are now investing in it. Ironic, isn’t it? The artists got enough to keep them alive, and—”

“Oh, Sir Peter Paul Rubens didn’t do too badly.” Let’s get off this subject, Grant warned himself, and tried a small diversion. “He didn’t only paint bouncing beauties and collect a fortune: he also was a diplomat, travelled widely, and turned secret agent when necessary. Interesting life, wouldn’t you say?”

Renwick wasn’t diverted. He went on, “Today the prices have gone sky-high. In Brussels, even the enthusiasts for—”

He leaned across Grant to ask the girl, “What was the name of that painter who was bought for two hundred thousand dollars a few months ago?”

“Ruysdael,” she said. “Salomon van Ruysdael.”

“Good old Sal. Two hundred big ones. Enough to have him leaping out of his grave. Even the Bruxellois thought it ridiculous.”

“It’s a bit high,” Grant agreed. He was worried. Not only by the mention of Ruysdael, but by the price. God, he thought, do I find myself carrying back to New York a picture that’s into six figures?

“What would
you
pay for a Ruysdael?” Renwick asked, all innocence.

“If I had the cash?” Grant mustered a broad smile. “Well, I don’t know. Between fifty and seventy thousand, I suppose—depending on its state, of course.”

“I hear they’ve been getting a hundred and fifty thousand, recently. But this two hundred thousand sale—” Renwick shook his head. “I’m in the wrong racket. I’d better take up painting.” There was a brief laugh all around, and then silence. Renwick reached into his pocket for a small note-book and pencil. He wrote: Boltzmanngasse 16, tel. 34-66-11. “That’s our Embassy,” he said. “Ask for extension 123 and get through to me direct. Okay?” He tore off the page, handed it to Grant. “Get in touch if you need any help.”

“Help?”

“Some emergency—you never can tell.”

“I’m here to enjoy myself,” Grant told him. “And I do know Vienna. I’ll find my way around.”

“I’m sure you will,” Renwick said soothingly. He leant forward and tapped Frank’s shoulder. He spoke in German again. “That garage looks a likely place. Let us out over there.” He held out his hand to Grant. His grasp was firm. “We’ll meet again, I hope. Many thanks. Come on, Avril—let’s get that new battery and find us a taxi.”

“You’re going all the way back?” Grant asked.

“May have to—if there’s no tow-truck around.”

Avril said, “At least it has stopped raining.”

Grant watched them go. She isn’t as simple as all that, he was thinking. There had been a sudden smile repressed, a moment’s laughter in her eyes, when he talked about Reubens.

* * *

Avril Hoffman and Bob Renwick had only to wait five minutes at the gas station. “There he is,” Renwick said as their grey Fiat with Prescott Taylor at the wheel made a careful turn to reach the garage. “Right on the button,” he added, glancing at his watch. “Hi, Prescott! Did you get your feet wet?”

“Only slightly damp.” The trees at the side of the road, where the Fiat was left abandoned, had been thick enough to shelter Taylor from most of the rain and Grant’s quick eyes. “Did it go well?”

“Hope so.” Renwick helped Avril into the front seat, climbed in after her. “This will warm you,” he told her, crushing her between him and Taylor. “Didn’t even bring a cardigan, you idiot. What do you think Austria is? The Caribbean?” Then, serious, he turned to Taylor. “At least we started him thinking. My God—the questions he asked: you’d have thought I was the one being quizzed. He’s no slouch. I’ll say that for him.”