Snare of the Hunter (12 page)

“We’ll cross the Danube in another fifteen minutes,” Jo told her. “After that, we are only about three miles from Dürnstein. We’ll stop there, and you can change clothes.”

David reached over for his coat, pulled out his map. Dürnstein. “Why Dürnstein?” he asked. It was only fifty miles or so from Vienna. They had long since left the big highway, but the first-class road they were following along the right bank of the Danube was smooth, if narrow. At the steady rate they had been going, Vienna’s suburbs were only an hour away.

“Krieger booked a room in a hotel there for Irina. He hopes to join us for a short visit. Then, refreshed in spirit if not in body, we’ll take off in all directions. Have you decided on your first stop after that, Dave?”

“I’ll decide in Dürnstein.” I don’t like the way we were followed from the Sacher, he thought; and I like even less the idea—that someone tried to put Krieger and Jo under surveillance. And least of all I like the way that Irina froze so completely at the mention of a grey Fiat. She spent most of this journey in some other world, and it wasn’t a pleasant one.

“We’re early,” Jo said, “in spite of all the time we wasted in twists and turns through Vienna. Krieger suggested, he’d meet us around one o’clock. So why don’t I pull over at the next
Aussichtspunkt
, and we can get our entrance to the Dürnstein hotel neatly planned? What we do and how we do it—that kind of thing.”

“Save time and confusion,” David agreed. “Okay, pull over. Now!” The car eased out of the light stream of traffic and on to a small parking area, with a gravelled surface and a view of the river, sheltered at the side by trees.

Irina had been listening intently. “Krieger?” she asked as they got out of the car. “Is he also with the CIA?”

“Also? What do you mean by
also
?” said David, startled. “None of us are. We’re just a bunch of civilians.”

She stared at him blankly. He wondered for a moment if her English had been so little used recently that she had not caught his meaning. Once she had been fluent, and had read and talked with ease. “All of you?” she asked. She didn’t believe it.

“Just a company of friends,” Jo said brightly. “There’s Walter Krieger, who knew your father in 1943—in Slovakia when they were thinking up ways to make the Nazis hopping mad. Krieger was a liaison man; your father was one of the resistance fighters. Then there’s Hugh McCulloch, who was once a diplomat in Vienna, and went into Czechoslovakia to see your father. In 1957, I think. And there’s Uncle George, who has been your father’s publisher in London since 1935. And I have known Hugh and his wife for years—in Washington, where I run something called a boutique for Maxwell’s. That’s where all the diplomats’ wives buy their clothes, and want things that remind them of Paris and Rome and London and what have you. So I had to be in Paris in July, and I came to Vienna. I travel a lot. And that’s me. As for Dave—he’s now a music critic, and he travels sometimes. Oh, and there’s Mark Bohn,” Jo added as an afterthought. “Although, of course, he’s really on the sidelines.” She paused. “Did I speak too quickly? I’m sorry. Shall I go over it more slowly?” Because, Jo decided, all these little facts were important for Irina. They could reassure her that the people around her were her friends.

Irina shook her head, still bewildered. “I understood most of it. But so much organisation—so much—” She halted abruptly. It had been Ludvik, this morning, who had put the idea into her head that the Americans were bound to be professional agents. And before Ludvik, there had been Jiri. He too had assumed that the CIA would be with her. “Oh, no!” she said, and she began to laugh.

David and Jo exchanged glances.

Irina recovered. But her eyes were still smiling as she said to David, “What do you want me to do when we reach the hotel?”

With amusement, he nodded at Jo. “Krieger’s little conveyor belt,” he said. “Ask her. Jo gets all the instructions and she passes them on.” Of that we can be sure. But a fashion buyer? Probably she ran the whole of Maxwell’s too. So she had paid a visit to the Paris showings before she came on to Vienna? Her excuse, if needed, for this trip was as question-proof as his own. To Jo he said, “And what were you buying in Vienna? Dirndls?”

“Alpaca and petit point,” Jo said abruptly. “Now let’s get down to business. Passports, for instance.” She produced a British one from her handbag and passed it to Irina, who was standing with her back to the road. “You can examine it,” Jo said. No one in a passing car could see what Irina was holding.

“Tesar?—Irina Tesar? But that’s using my mother’s name.”

“She registered you as that. You were born in London, weren’t you?”

David said, “So she was. March 1939.” That was after Kusak had smuggled his pregnant wife out of Czechoslovakia and returned to join the anti-Nazi underground.

“It’s legal enough,” Jo went on. “The British can claim you as their subject, you know. So go along with them: that’s really all you’re doing. But why your mother didn’t register your birth under the name of Kusak—that’s beyond me. Unless she was an advance guard for Women’s Lib.”

“She might have wanted to keep Kusak safe,” David suggested. It was the first kindly thought he had ever had for Hedwiga Kusak, née Tesar. But it could be true: if any Nazi agent, back in 1939, had reported that Kusak’s wife and daughter were in London, they could have been used—by threats of abduction, or even by some real body snatching—to smoke Kusak out into the open.

“Put the passport in your bag—if it can hold it,” Jo urged. “You can’t stay at any hotel in Austria without producing it when you register. The same goes for—” She bit her tongue: she had nearly let Switzerland slip out there. “For other countries in Europe. So now you’re all set.”

Irina tried to get the passport down the side of her handbag. “I’ll take out the other one,” she decided. “David, would you carry it for me?”

“You have a Czechoslovak passport?” Jo asked incredulously. “How on earth did you get it? Or is it an old one faked up?” It seemed real enough to David as he glanced at it, and brand new too. He hid his surprise. “I think you should hang on to this yourself. But don’t use it meanwhile. Anything else I could carry for you?”

Irina hesitated. Then from the bottom of the handbag she drew out a small automatic.

“Good God,” David said, seizing it—it was so neat that it could be hidden by his hand—and jamming it into his pocket. Jo had said nothing at all: she was staring at the road, perhaps hadn’t even seen the exchange. “Where did you get that Irina?” he asked quietly.

“It was at the back of my father’s desk. I found it before—” Jo said, aghast. “It’s the same car! He followed us after all!”

“The Fiat?” asked David. “But that’s impossible.”

“It
was
the grey Fiat.”

There are hundreds of Fiats on the road, and dozens that are grey.”

“But I had this one’s number. And a man was driving. Alone.”

“Did he see us?” A damn stupid question, David thought the moment it was out.

“Couldn’t miss us.”

“Then we’ll follow him for a change.” And try to solve one puzzle. The Fiat had been at least fifteen minutes behind them. “Did you see his face?”

“Briefly. He glanced at us as he passed. He seemed startled to find us admiring the view.” Just the same silly stare he wore yesterday after I hopped on to a streetcar, Jo thought. I’m almost sure it’s the same man, fair hair ruffled and square face gaping. But I’d better be sure before I blurt it out: Irina had become paralysed enough at the mention of a grey Fiat. “All right, let’s move on,” Jo said, sounding as untroubled as possible. “I still have some things to tell Irina. Irina! Come along. We’ll plan, and let Dave drive.”

“Perhaps,” said David as he eased the car back into the broken stream of traffic, “we may have to change our plans. If that character is waiting along the road to see whether we cross the bridge, he’ll be with us all the way to Dürnstein.”

“But we have to get there. Krieger—”

“To hell with Krieger, at this moment.”

“No, no! We’ve got to keep in touch. Or else we’re—well—” Jo didn’t finish, as she noticed Irina’s taut face.

Irina said slowly, “I was driven to the Opera House this morning. In a grey Fiat. By one of the men who met me when I crossed the border.” Her voice sank almost to a whisper. “Ludvik Meznik. He might try to follow us—to see if I were safe.”

“That still doesn’t explain how he could be taking this road, so far behind us,” David said. “And there are plenty of Fiats wandering around. You didn’t notice the number of Meznik’s car, Irina?”

“No.”

Irina wouldn’t. That wasn’t the way her mind worked.

“Well, there’s nothing waiting for us near the bridge,” David said. There was no Fiat in sight, anywhere. In the back seat he could hear Jo talking, trying to bring Irina back to their arrival at the Dürnstein hotel. He had nothing to do but drive, and keep puzzling this thing out.

First: the man had watched them leave the Sacher, tried to follow, and didn’t manage it (Then how had he reached here a quarter of an hour behind them?)

Second: the man had known all along where they were heading. His attempt to follow them from the Sacher was only a check, to see if his information was correct. (Possibly, but unpleasant in its implications.)

Third: the man had given up the attempt to follow and had telephoned—or made contact with—someone who could give him their destination. (Probable, and equally unpleasant to contemplate.)

Let’s hope, David thought as they crossed over a massive iron bridge to reach the left bank of the Danube, that there will be a dearth of Fiats of any colour in Dürnstein.

It was a small but densely packed village, clinging on to the side of a high hill that almost pushed it from its perch above the Danube, into the water below. It had one main street, roughly paralleling the course of the river, with medieval shops and houses on either side, arches and buttresses all restored and painted, and flowers spilling from every windowsill. The street was packed too. The tourists were stopping for lunch. Cars and buses everywhere. He had to drive almost at stalling speed. “Where?” he asked in desperation. “Where, Jo, where?”

“There’s a baroque church standing high above the river. See its tower?”

“Hard to miss.”

“The hotel is just beyond it—also above the riverbank. Turn left once we reach the end of this street. Krieger said it was almost a U-turn.”

David made it, just in time to let him drive through a wide gateway into a sizeable courtyard. On one side, near the street, it was high-walled, blotting out all sight of traffic or houses; on its other side there was a low parapet edging the top of a plunge of rock to the Danube below. The hotel itself faced the massive gate and almost filled that end of the courtyard. So we must drive out the way we drove in, thought David. He didn’t much like the idea: it gave him no choice at all, and he might need it if the Fiat was anywhere among the parked cars. “Do you see it?” he asked Jo, as he concentrated on choosing a place for the Mercedes. He found one, a tight squeeze, but tucked away in the corner between the giant wall and the hotel. At least he had avoided the more open Danube side of the courtyard.

“Neat,” Jo said. She was still looking around. “No, I don’t see that Fiat, but it has got to be here. Its driver is over by the parapet, watching every car that comes in.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Jo’s voice was sharp. “And you know him, don’t you?” she asked Irina. That was obvious. When she had seen the man, Irina had flinched.

“Yes. Ludvik Meznik,” Irina said. “Oh, the fool!”

“He’s more than that. He looks like big trouble to me.” David cut in. “I take Irina into the hotel and see her safely into her room. Right?”

“Yes. And wait there. I’ll be along soon, with Walter Krieger. I’m going to look for him on the terrace. It’s almost one o’clock now.”

“He’ll change his mind about meeting us as soon as he hears of Ludvik,” David predicted. “So tell him I’ll be heading out as soon as Irina has changed her clothes.”

“Heading where?”

“To Graz.”

“Graz? Oh, come on, Dave. That’s right down in the south-eastern corner of Austria. Twenty miles to your left and you’ll be in Hungary; twenty miles further on and you’ll find yourself in Yugoslavia. It’s way out of your direction.”

“Graz,” David said firmly. “And if it seems unlikely to you, then it will seem impossible to Ludvik and his friends. Couldn’t you give him a shove over that cliff, or something? Keep him from watching us as we leave?”

“We hold one little ace. Do you see the dark-blue Chrysler over there? Between a Renault and a Cadillac? It’s Krieger’s. You’ll drive it out. We’ll give you half an hour’s start, and then we’ll take the Mercedes on to Salzburg. Where are you stopping in Graz? Any idea?”

“There’s a place called the Grand Hotel something or other. It’s on the riverbank, near the main bridge.”

“So you know Graz?” That was better. “Okay. Well, I’ll pass the word to Krieger. And after Graz, where?”

“Lienz.”

“Near the Italian border?” She was astounded. “You certainly are trying to confuse Ludvik.”

“Or whoever replaces him.”

“Yes,” she said slowly, “there is that to think of too. Well, I’ll dump it all in Krieger’s lap. He can do the worrying for us. Now, if you and Irina would just distract Ludvik’s attention from me for one small minute—Give me your bag, will you?” David nodded. He lifted the bag and his coat over the back of the seat with one hand, while with the other he presented Jo with the Mercedes’ keys and papers. He picked up Irina’s suitcase, and was out of the car in another few seconds. He took Irina’s arm, and steadied her. “Ready?” he asked as she stood beside him. She nodded, her face pale again but calm, as they began walking towards the hotel entrance. Thank God she could be cool in an emergency, and this was definitely one. He himself was glad that Krieger was around but he could imagine Krieger’s fury; all that neat planning to be discarded, and Graz suddenly thrust into his calculations.

Irina said, “What will she do with your bag?”

“Take it to the Chrysler.”