Prelude to Terror (8 page)

“Frank—how did he do?”

“He makes a pretty good chauffeur: said nothing, listened to everything.”

“That’s what he wanted, wasn’t it?”

“That was the deal. Without his information, we’d be fighting this thing blind.”

Avril said, “He frightens me.”

“Frank? He’s on our side, honey. For the time being.” Frank Krimmer had been more co-operative than the usual Israeli agent. Those Mossad guys were tough... “He’s friendly. Even if our interests don’t always coincide, he’s—well—” Renwick searched for the right word, but everything he thought of was too soft in feeling. Frank could be as rigid as a block of granite. “Well,” Renwick ended lamely, “he’s helping us as much as we help him.”

Avril said, “He never really jokes—only on the surface, but not deep down.”

“He may not have much to joke about,” Renwick said grimly, and Prescott Taylor nodded his agreement.

“But,” she insisted, “you joke all the time, both of you.”

“Which means we are two gentle lambs,” Renwick told Taylor.

Avril said stiffly, “That’s carrying it too far. I was only saying—”

“I know, my pet.” Renwick squeezed her shoulder. “Where’s your own sense of humour? Caught a chill on that damned road?”

“I never did see Mayerling,” she said.

“We passed it—one small store waiting in the rain for the tourists.”

“There’s the hunting lodge too, where the Archduke and his Vetsera—”

“All for love. Touching. You know, I never thought much of that double-suicide story. What about two murders, made to look like a death-pact? Could have been political. Archduke Rudolf was not behaving like an Emperor’s proper son and heir.”

“I still want to see the hunting lodge.”

“You can’t. No one is allowed to enter its gates, unless she’s a Carmelite nun. And then she stays for good.”

Taylor said, with a touch of impatience, one hand smoothing his thin fair hair back over an incipient bald spot, “Before we scatter, what’s our next move?”

“With Grant? We wait.”

“Not too long,” said Taylor worriedly.

“Not too long.” Renwick turned to Avril. “Cheer up, old girl. The nuns say a prayer every day for the soul of the Archduke Rudolf. Doesn’t that make you feel good all over?”

“What about La Vetsera?” Avril demanded.

“The Archduchess and I never mention that name.”

“Oh, Bob! Really—” But she was laughing.

“We drop you here, Prescott,” said Renwick, “and you can taxi in style to the Embassy. You don’t want to be seen arriving in a rented car with a low-grade attaché.”

“Certainly not. Especially when he’s a newcomer, of very temporary status, who can’t be taken seriously.” Taylor was giving his proper-Bostonian imitation. “Just one of those nuisances that get foisted on us—”

“Like me?” Avril asked. Her dual citizenship had raised an eyebrow for the first week or two. After that, acceptance—especially when her work was only part-time, helping out with a shortage in translators.

“But such a charming nuisance,” said Taylor, “proficient in six foreign languages.” He drew up the Fiat at the kerb, disentangled his long legs, saying, “Why the hell don’t you get a car with room?” as he closed the door behind him.

“Now,” said Renwick as he took the wheel, “here’s what I think we should do in the next few days.” He began detailing the problem, words, explicit, sentences concise. The quizzical tone of voice had vanished. Avril listened intently, her face as grave as his.

Just who were these people? Grant kept coming back to that question. Speculations had been pouring through his head as he showered and had a closer shave than he had managed on the plane, and then—in the terry robe that the Majestic provided for its guests along with heated bathroom floors—a second, if belated, breakfast of croissants and coffee. Now, still wearing the comfortable robe, he flopped down on the bed (one of two in this giant room, full-size each of them) and might have fallen asleep except that his mind wouldn’t let him.

He tried a soothing explanation. Coincidences did happen. This guy Renwick knew Dwight O’Malley, and it was quite natural for O’Malley to drop Grant’s name in the middle of a telephone call between the two. Okay, perfectly acceptable: small world, and that kind of thing. But the steering of the conversation on to Ruysdael? The mention of inflated prices—as if Renwick guessed or had a vague suspicion that I was about to acquire a Ruysdael—might have been made with a purpose: to jolt the truth out of me that I was suffering from momentary shock because of this unexpected rise in value. Why? he would have asked: are you a prospective buyer? Right there he’d have known—not guessed but known that I was covering for someone. Most definitely. I don’t have enough cash to buy a Ruysdael at even a few thousand dollars; or pay for a hundred-dollars-per-day room in a luxury hotel, Dwight O’Malley knows that damned well.

But O’Malley hadn’t known (and therefore Renwick hadn’t known either) where I was going to stay. All I mentioned in my note to O’Malley was the fact that I was leaving New York on the twenty-sixth for Vienna. That was vague enough. Or was it? Renwick had only to check the passenger list of the overnight flight to Vienna—and he’d have my arrival to the minute. Whereupon I was met by a nice quiet type like Frank, who seemed to be authentic: he knew whom to meet and where to take him. Damn it all, did he know about the Majestic—or did he learn that from the label on my suitcase?

Which brings me to Herr Frank himself. He sat there, able to hear everything we said, all along that Mayerling road. Renwick wasn’t whispering: his voice had been normal. What’s more, Renwick wouldn’t have been so forthcoming about himself, about Brussels and NATO (only a fool would have missed drawing that inference), if there were some unknown chauffeur picking up every word he uttered. Renwick knew Frank: they were in this together.

“Hell and damnation,” he said aloud, his muscles tightening. He sprang up from the bed, stood for a moment, rigid with anger. They were pushing him around like a bloody pawn. We’ll see about that, but first things first.

He began unpacking his case. His two suits had travelled well, but they looked somewhat lonely in the vast wardrobe. It reminded him to search for the notice, which hotels were obliged to post, giving the cost of the room. He found it discreetly displayed behind the bedroom door that led to his small private hall. One thousand seven hundred schillings a day, not including breakfast. That brought the total over the hundred-dollar mark. Lois Westerbrook, or Gene Marck, had slipped up there. Badly. That was the trouble with these guys who worked for the super-rich, lived with them, became accustomed to wealth: they forgot how other people lived. First-class accommodations Lois had promised him. Sure, he had travelled like that often enough, but this went far beyond first class. This was unadulterated luxury. Have a good cover story ready for your friends, Marck had warned him and even suggested a couple of articles on the Brueghels in the State Museum. Blast his eyes, did he think you could write two short articles on seventeen intricate masterpieces? One thing he had done: he had made up Grant’s mind not to go near the Brueghels, not this trip. Damn me, Grant thought, if I’ll take any hand-me-down idea from a man who estimates art in terms of money: this painting is depreciating in dollar value, so sell; this one is rising, so buy. You’ll double your investment in three years: a greater future than pork bellies on any commodity market.

He cooled down while he finished unpacking the overnight bag. Jennifer’s photograph, now covered for safe travel by transparent plastic instead of glass, went on the dressing-table. He could see her dancing around this room, thin negligee flowing loose, her laughter rising as she dropped on the chaise-longue in a Récamier pose. Jennifer... And there was a flash of memory, to the man who called himself Frank, talking pleasantly of skiing and mountain-climbing. In the winter, Jennifer and he had gone skiing; in the summer, they had climbed mountains. Did Frank know as much as all that about him? A carefully dropped allusion to make Frank quickly acceptable? Just one of us, good old Frank.

All right, Grant decided, his lips tight, I’ll check up on Frank. He finished dressing, then searched in the telephone book for the Danube Travel Service, half expecting no entry to be found. But it was there. He rehearsed a few sentences in German and made the call.

After the eighth ring, a woman answered. She sounded efficient, even if dilatory. Yes, this was Danube Travel, could we be of assistance, sir?

“Is Frank there?”

“Which Frank?”

“The one who met me at the airport this morning.”

“We met several people. On which flight were you?”

“Arriving from New York at nine forty-five.”

“Oh yes. Just a moment.” After some brief consultation, she said, “I am sorry, but Frank is not here at the moment. Is there a complaint?”

“No, no. Excellent driver. But I don’t need any car for my visit to Vienna. Has he cancelled that arrangement?”

She rustled a page. “I don’t see any further bookings.”

“Good. How much do I owe you for this morning?”

“It is paid.”

“Who paid it?”

“The party who ordered the car.”

“Who was that? I have to thank him. You understand?”

“Oh.” She was uncertain. “I understand,
gnädiger Herr
. But I don’t see any name.”

“Impossible,” he said, deciding to sound short-tempered. “You must have some record of the payment.”

“It was charged to one of our regular clients.” And that, said her tone of voice, was all she was going to tell him.

“Did the telex come from New York? You must know. Or from Geneva?” From New York, it was possibly Lois Westerbrook. From Geneva—Dwight O’Malley.

“There was no telex. The order was telephoned this morning.”

Quickly, he asked, “Is Frank one of your regular drivers?” That nearly caught her unawares. Her voice was vague as she replied at last, “Now and then. When we are busy—”

“—you need extra help. Of course.” Grant was most understanding. “Well, I guess I can’t write that letter of thanks.” He rang off.

No telex. Frank’s explanation at the airport had been a lie. Or, as Frank might see it, a necessary diversion from the truth to get Grant safely into the Mercedes. And the detour via Baden to the Mayerling road? Another manoeuvre. One thing was certain, Robert Renwick had taken considerable care to keep his meeting with Grant as secret as possible. But why?

The question would have no answer until he met Renwick again. I’ll call him. Grant decided, arrange to see him, demand some explanation. Was that what Renwick really wanted—another encounter, with a fair exchange of information? I’ve got to know what’s behind all this mystery—or as much as he can tell me. Would he tell me? Could I believe him? Is he as much a fake as Frank? Well, I can check on him too.

Grant found his travel address-book with its page for names of friends and business acquaintances who lived abroad. A slip of paper fell out, with the Schofeld Gallery’s imprint at its head: that was Max Seldov being helpful—a brother-in-law here in Vienna, who owned the Two Crowns Hotel. “A fine man, you’ll like him,” Seldov had said. “Married my youngest sister, may she rest in peace.” For a moment. Grant’s mind was sidetracked by the Two Crowns. Later, he told himself, later. Now, he’d telephone Geneva. He might catch Dwight O’Malley in his office before he left for lunch. If not, he’d leave a message: urgent—call back at six o’clock. Damned if I’m going to spend my first afternoon in Vienna hanging around a telephone.

The hotel operator put him quickly through to Geneva. O’Malley was there, just out of a meeting and about to leave for a luncheon engagement. He was exceedingly friendly, though. Covering a slight nervousness? “I’ll keep it short,” Grant told him. “I met a friend of yours today.”

“Oh?”

“The one you told I was coming to Vienna.”

“Oh yes. Thought you’d like him. Did you?”

“That’s why I’m calling you. How much should I like him?”

“He’s completely dependable, if that’s what is worrying you.”

“It is.”

“What did he tell you about himself?”

“He’s on some official business here. Connected with NATO, I guessed. Right or wrong?”

“Right. Listen to what he says, Colin. He knows his way around—won’t give you bad advice.”

“What about some truth as well?”

“That’s a two-way street, old boy.”

“I think I’ll call him and find out.”

“You have his number?”

“Yes, for emergencies.”

“Surely this isn’t one, is it?” O’Malley’s voice was perturbed. “Colin, are you in some kind of jam?”

Grant considered. “Not in any trouble. Just damned angry and puzzled.”

“Don’t call him,” O’Malley urged. “Better if you let me handle this, straighten it out for you. Just relax and enjoy Vienna until our friend contacts you.”

“Will he?”

“Of course. As soon as possible. Okay? He must have liked you—he doesn’t pass out his telephone number to everyone he meets. He’s a busy man.”

“I’m flattered,” Grant said mockingly.

“You should be,” O’Malley said. With that touch of censure he ended the call.

Grant went back to his own life. He riffled through his address-book. He’d have lunch somewhere outside the hotel, at a café table in the fresh air, perhaps, and then walk around to get his sense of direction working. It had been seven years since his last visit to Vienna. He might even drop in to see Helmut Fischer who ran an art gallery near the Kärntnerstrasse—he was still there, judging from his card last Christmas. Or he might scout out the Two Crowns, see where it was located and what it looked like. “Two weeks in Vienna?” Max Seldov had said, a delighted grin spreading across his thin face. “That’s where I spent a few years as a child—still have some relatives there, the ones that survived. I took Eunice to visit them ten years ago, when the kids were younger and could travel at half-fare. A different proposition today. Where are you stopping?”

“Not sure yet.”

“Look, if you want a real nice place, try the Two Crowns. First-class, but small. Quiet. The food’s good. You’ll like it.”