Snare of the Hunter (18 page)

“If it survives a fire,” she said.

So now she could believe that too. “We shall just have to out-think Jiri, that’s all.”

“Out-think
him
? Useless—David, it’s useless!”

“That is just what he wants us to believe.” When she didn’t answer, he said, “You know, people can persuade themselves into defeat. They can hold a trump card, and yet never play it on time. They’re left with it in their hands, because they doubted, hesitated; they listened to some glib talk or were too impressed by their opponent. And what’s a trump card when you’re stuck with it, and the game has passed you by? It’s useless. And that’s the right meaning of that word.” He paused. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Her voice was low.

“Another thing to remember, Irina, is simply this. When stakes are high—and there are no higher stakes than in power politics—your enemy plays for keeps. He will give you no credit for even a kind thought or hesitation. He will twist everything that you say or do, when it suits him, and use it to his own advantage. He intends to win. And in the terms of his tight ideology that means he intends you to lose. There’s no real contest, as he sees it: it’s only a matter of time. Your hopes against his plans.”

“Once, David, you were such an optimist.”

“I’m still an optimist. I said we could out-think Jiri, didn’t I?”

“But you also said there was no real contest.”

“As he sees it. I said that too, didn’t I?”

“Yes.” And then she added. “Perhaps I’ve become the pessimist.”

“You’d be fine if you’d get rid of that word ‘useless’.”

“Tonight,” she said, “Jiri had someone telephone me. When you were out, David.”

“I know. And if I had been there, they’d have cut off the call and tried again later. And again. Until they got you alone.”

“You knew?” And right there was one big difference between David and Jiri. If Jiri had known about the call, he might have waited, like David, to let her talk about it. But he would never have admitted he knew all along. He would have kept it to use against her.

“Clever set of bastards. Sorry—I’m getting just a little bit teed off by all this. Damned if I’m going to keep running and looking over my shoulder. They threatened you, of course.”

“No. They were friendly.”

“What?” He almost swerved over the line. He got his lights beaming straight again along the dark empty road. “And that’s what scared you?” She hadn’t become as simple-minded as he had thought in his most depressed moments.

“That too. But chiefly because they had tracked us down so easily. And we had taken such care.”

“Just what you were meant to feel. Remember, Jiri was an expert in propaganda before he went over to the strong-arm department. What is propaganda? Just persuading someone to believe what you want him to believe.”

“They persuaded me—almost.” She reached out in the darkness and touched his arm, briefly. “They said they were worried about me. So they would keep following, make sure that I was safe.”

“Safe from what in heaven’s name?”

“From Krieger. You are just a pawn, they said. So is Jo. Krieger is the one who cannot be trusted.”

“Trusted with what?”

“To deliver me safely. He doesn’t want me to reach my father and give him my message from Jiri.”

For a moment David took his eyes off the road and stared blankly at her. He thought of her passport; he thought of the way she had been able to escape—no difficulties at all, seemingly—through Czechoslovakia. “Did you make a deal with Jiri Hrádek?”

“Not a deal,” she said quickly. “Just an agreement. He gave me the divorce; and the passport. And he promised to hide my disappearance for as long as it was possible. I was to ask my father to return to Czechoslovakia. That was all.”

“You were to persuade your father?”

“No—no! Just ask; that was all. Please—David, believe me.”

“Did you think your father would agree to return?”

“No, of course not. Not with all hope of democracy gone. He won’t return. Why else did I bring out two of the note-books he had to leave behind? I didn’t tell Jiri about them. Why should I? I took what he offered me. And I’ll keep my promise to him. That was the agreement.”

“And when your father refuses to return—what then?”

“Jiri said nothing about that.”

“What then?” he insisted.

“I plan to stay with my father, keep out of sight. Then when he has his book published—well, perhaps by that time—when it is too late for Jiri to take action—it may be safe for both of us to come out live normally.” She looked at him through the darkness, seemed uncertain. That could be true, couldn’t it?”

“Yes. Except that these aren’t plans. They’re hopes.”

“And Jiri has his plans,” she said slowly, remembering David’s words. “My hopes against his plans.” She gave a strange small laugh. “And I thought it was the other way round,” she added almost in a whisper.

“Let’s get back to the telephone call,” he said brusquely. “What else was said?”

“Only that they would find us wherever we went, as easily as they had traced us to Graz. I wasn’t to be alarmed. It was for my safety.” She took a deep breath. “They sounded the way Ludvik did—when he drove me to the Opera House this morning.”

Thank God she hadn’t believed them, David thought; or else she wouldn’t have been so terrified. “Did you recognise the voice on the telephone?”

“No. He spoke in our language. His accent was real. He was a Czech.”

“Gentle and friendly?”

“Yes.”

The hell he is, thought David. “The call came from the airport. Perhaps he had just arrived from Vienna.”

“Was that why we really left—before he could get to the hotel?” The idea delighted her.

“It did us no harm,” David said. There were too many maybes attached to be able to give a firmer answer. The man could have reached the hotel just as they were leaving, but perhaps he had gone to the garage to check on the Chrysler to reassure himself they were still in Graz; that might have seemed safer to him than hanging around a café or watching a small lobby. Or perhaps the man had driven straight on to Lienz—if he knew so damned much about their movements. “But why talk of one man? There could be two of them.”

“The two who passed me on the stairway to Alois’s flat?”

“Would you recognise them again?”

“I—I don’t know. I only caught a glimpse; I drew back against the wall, didn’t stare at them. I hoped they wouldn’t pay attention to me.”

“Then we’ll stop at the next town. We may as well get some gas, and you can wash up.”

“There’s no need—”

“We’ll stop,” he told her. “And I want you to look at two photographs in a quiet place with a good light. Memorise the faces this time.”

“Of the two men?”

“It would be just as well to do that before you reach Lienz.”

“They’ll be there?”

“I don’t know.” But someone would be there, if not these two. Of that he was certain. “In that telephone call were you asked about our route?”

“Yes.”

“And you said?”

“I said nothing.”

“Did they mention Lienz?”

“No.” Then a new, and disturbing, idea flashed into her mind. “David—please! Don’t you believe me? I’ve told you everything.”

“Everything, Irina?”

“Everything that matters.”

Yet something that might not seem important to Irina could be something that was absolutely vital to her safety. He let her answer go, asked no further questions. He could hear the exhaustion in her voice. Tomorrow, he thought, when she has had a decent sleep. I’ll ask her to search her memory; I’ll get her to tell me more about Jiri, about the way he approached her, about her permitted escape. For that was what it had been: a permitted escape.

The highway now followed the long line of a lake. There were lights from a scattering of houses, well spaced within their gardens, that faced towards the water. Summer cottages, perhaps, and people behind their solid walls, looking at TV and thinking of tomorrow’s boating. At the far end of the lake there was a glow of illumination, a town lit up for its holidaymakers. There would be a constant movement of visitors, and plenty of cars. “That’s where we’ll stop,” David said. Then he had another impulse. “We’ll stay overnight—”

“And not go to Lienz?”

“Why should we?” Jo might be there; but Krieger would certainly telephone her tomorrow morning as arranged, and instruct her to move on to Merano. Krieger wasn’t planning to meet him in Lienz anyway. “We’ve come far enough: a hundred and five miles from Graz. That’s about one hundred and sixty-eight kilometres,” he added helpfully. “Okay?”

“Yes. But Jo will be alone—waiting for us. She’ll worry. They’ll
all
be worried.”

“I’ll let Hugh McCulloch know we’re safe.”

“You’ll tell him where we are staying overnight?”

“I’m telling nobody except you.”

She laughed unexpectedly. “Oh, David, you’re going to confuse everyone, including Jiri. You know what you are doing? You are kidnapping me, just as he warned me. Only it isn’t on Krieger’s orders, is it?”

“No. Any objections?” They were reaching the town. Ahead of them was a handsome square, with low houses and town offices, where the road to Lienz branched to the right. He kept to the left, entered the main street. It was happy and busy—a pleasure place geared for the holiday money, but not in brass-ring Las Vegas style. Nor was it a beatnik heaven either. Everything looked comfortable, placidly gay: enjoyment on a leisured, middle-class scale. Above all, it looked safe. It had its quota of elderly couples, but it was mostly filled with smart girls and their tanned young men, and the distant sounds of old but well-played jazz.

“No objections,” she was saying. Bright lights were all around them, and he could see her face clearly now. She looked sixteen years younger. Even that smile was the same one he remembered from long ago.

“Too late for them anyway.” They had reached the end of the little thoroughfare and passed through the gates to an enormous spread of courtyard and gardens, guarded by a right angle of buildings that shut out town and streets. “Scratch an Austrian hotel, and you find a castle,” he said with a wide smile. And even if it was a pseudo castle, the place still looked good. Everything looked good to David at this moment.

He drew up near the lodge inside the gates. Plenty of cars parked there; people strolling around the paths, admiring the rose-beds. “We’ll never be noticed,” he told her, and switched off the engine.

“I wish,” she said softly, “I could stay kidnapped. Just you and I, David. No one else. The way we once were.”

Yes, her smile was the same. Her eyes too, meeting his; no longer evading him.

“Do you remember—” she began slowly, almost hesitantly. But the way she came into his arms was sure.

“Everything,” he told her.

Walter Krieger’s hotel in Graz was near the Telephone Office, large, state-owned, and impersonal. It was a simple matter for him to step in there, after a hasty supper, and make his call to Hugh McCulloch in Geneva. A public telephone had a certain reassuring anonymity about it. He gave a condensed report of today’s events, neatly edited and clear. McCulloch must have been startled by their development, but he listened in silence. (If he was following his usual procedure, he would be recording Krieger’s words, and he would go over them carefully once the call was ended. If any questions arose, they would be put to Krieger when he next telephoned.) “That’s about all,” Krieger concluded.

“Not quite.” McCulloch’s voice was strained. “There is a message for you from David. It came at ten-past seven this evening. He is advancing his schedule by one day.”

It was Krieger’s turn for silence. So something happened since Dave talked with me, he was thinking.

“It bothers me, frankly,” McCulloch said.

It bugs me too, thought Krieger, but he said jokingly, “Good. Then we can get some action out of your end.” Hugh was a careful man, deliberate and accurate: but at times, for Krieger’s own inclinations, a trifle slow. Too much attention paid to the small print. “Tell Sylvester that the meeting must be arranged for Sunday. Where?”

“Sylvester is still arguing that out with himself.”

Sylvester was another cautious type. “Then you and I had better decide. And I say we do it right now. Plan A or Plan B? Which is it, Hugh?” Plan A was the simpler one: Irina to be taken to her father’s house. Plan B was a meeting elsewhere.

“We really should consult—”

“Hell, we’ve consulted enough.”

“It’s difficult—”

“Not half as difficult as it could be for Dave. You heard my report. Don’t you see that he could be next on the list for disposal, as soon as he has done his job?”

There was another silence.

Two dead men, Krieger was thinking angrily: Josef and Alois. Two important witnesses whose testimony could prove that Irina’s escape was not concocted by any Western intelligence agency. “As soon as he has done his job,” Krieger repeated. “That’s the pattern that has emerged. Isn’t it?” he asked sharply.

“It could be,” McCulloch said. Then, “More than we bargained for.”

“It’s always more than we bargain for,” Krieger told him. “I vote for Plan B. It’s safer.”

“You are convinced they want her to lead them to the house?”

“Yes.”

“All right, then. Plan B. But which area?”

That was a guarded reference to two villages that had been selected as possible meeting places: one close to Zurich; the other outside Interlaken.

“Neither of these.”

“What?”

“Tomorrow we’ll all be in Merano.” Krieger could imagine McCulloch’s eyebrows shooting up. Merano meant Irina would be entering Switzerland almost at its south-eastern corner, mountains away from either Zurich or the Interlaken area.

“Whose idea was that?” McCulloch was testy.

“I wish I could say it was mine.”

“It’s one hell of a way to reach—”

“We don’t. Forget these places. Think of a village closer to that particular stretch of border, where there’s a house I can borrow, any time, from my friend the candy merchant. Remember it? You liked it a lot two years ago. Said you could retire there.”

McCulloch remembered all right. Tarasp. A village off the main highway, on a dead-end road climbing up a hill. That was where he and Krieger had stayed on a visit to the Swiss National Park two years ago. “Castle, painted walls, and window boxes?” he asked, to make sure it was that same village in the Lower Engadine.