Snare of the Hunter (23 page)

“I have one.”

“Oh yes,” he said, looking now at the back seat where a blue wool coat, folded along with David’s raincoat lay beside two pieces of luggage and a bulging shoulder-strap bag. “Not much room for me there. Hand me the car keys, Irina. I’ll get these things moved into the trunk, and save Dave’s precious time.” He reached for the handbag.

“I’ll take that,” she said sharply.

It slipped out of his hands on to the floor. He released its catch as he bent to pick it up and held it out to her, upside down. Before she could grasp it, it spilled open and a clutter of objects scattered over the front seat. “Sorry, sorry! I was in too much of a hurry.” She rescued a note-book, a diary perhaps, leaving powder and lipstick and passport and wallet and all the other inevitable items strewn around. “Where’s the other one?” she asked worriedly, her voice sharp.

“Still inside the bag—jammed at the bottom.” He pulled it out. “This it?” He opened it, riffled through its pages. They were closely written, in Czech. Dates, names—that he could see, even in this brief moment. And they were not in Irina’s handwriting, either, as far as he could remember it from her letter. “Don’t tell me you’ve smuggled out some of Jiri’s memos,” he said, and grinned widely as he handed her the diary.

She put both note-books back into her handbag, began packing the other articles on top of them. “I took nothing of Jiri’s,” she said. “These belong to my father.”

“Oh, all the facts and figures he gathered about your politicians?” Then, as she flashed a startled glance at him, he said, “Sure, everyone knew about that.” His eyes fell on the passport she was adding, last of all, to her bag. British. And ready for use.

“Everyone?” she challenged him.

“All of us who’ve been interested in Czechoslovakia. But I thought his papers and notes were seized in a house search when—”

“These were well hidden.”

“And they’re dynamite, too?” he asked with another broad smile.

She said nothing, but closed her handbag and set it safely beside her.

“Have you met Krieger?” Bohn’s voice was strangely sombre.

With surprise, she said, “No.”

“Between us, Irina—be very careful with Krieger. He’s playing some double game of his own. He isn’t interested in you. He’s only interested in drawing your father out of hiding.”

“But David says—”

“That he’s an ordinary citizen? Don’t you believe it. Krieger is an intelligence expert, a hard-boiled professional agent, and as clever as they come. Don’t even let him know that your father’s diaries exist.”

“He is my father’s friend,” she protested.

“He was. Thirty years ago. Trust me, Irina—I have sources. I know what I’m talking about.”

“Then why did you choose him to help me?”

“I didn’t choose anyone. McCulloch took that job over, didn’t even let me—” Bohn looked round as he heard footsteps behind him. “Hello, Dave. Just in time to help me put the luggage in the trunk.”

“Later,” said David. “Let’s get moving.” He had several travel folders in his hand, advertising the beauties of Austria.

“Look—if you could spare another ten minutes.”

“We can’t.” David jammed a folder into his pocket as he took his seat. Its title,
Meran in the South Tyrol
, wouldn’t exactly please the Italians, but it was all he could find on this side of the frontier. The others he tossed on the floor behind him, and hoped they had served as a slight diversion for anyone too interested in his movements.

“But I’d like to make a ’phone call, let Salzburg know where they’ll find their Citroën.”

“Later,” David repeated. “Are you coming or aren’t you?” Bohn jammed his bag on the floor of the back seat. He got in, lips tight.

They passed through both frontiers without much more delay. “Where do we drop you?” David asked.

“Anywhere on a railway line where I can catch a northbound express.”

“Brixen?”

“That would do.” And I can telephone my information from there, thought Bohn. My last small flourish as I bow out. As far as I’m concerned, this assignment is over. Murder is more than I bargained for. And Jiri Hrádek knows that too. “If it isn’t too much trouble for you,” Bohn added.

“No sweat. It’s on our route. I won’t guarantee I can take you to the station, though.”

“Oh, just drop me where I can find a taxi. Wouldn’t want to delay you. Are you going to drive to Switzerland tonight?”

David was taken by surprise. Then he said, “Switzerland? Is that where we’re going?” He tried to sound amused.

Yes, thought Bohn, that is where you are definitely going. And tonight—why else was Dave in such a tearing hurry? “You’re a glutton for punishment, Dave. Night driving is my idea of hell. And over a mountain road! No, thank you.”

I’ve no good reason to dislike all these undercurrents, David thought, and yet, somehow, they are disturbing. Krieger is right: people talk too much; and Bohn is a gossip by nature, a name-dropper by habit. “No, thank you, too,” David said briskly. “Night driving is a waste of good time.” He glanced over his shoulder at Bohn, shook his head with amusement.

“Then what’s all the rush?”

“Because I’d rather be in Merano than heading along this damned highway with two hands on the wheel.” He turned to Irina, strangely silent, her eyes following the rise of precipices above deep forests and undulating fields. “From now on,” he told her, “you won’t find one stretch of horizon without mountains towering into the sky. The best time is early morning—just after the dawn begins to spread. You’ll see—”

“Then we don’t leave till tomorrow?” She was smiling.

He put an arm around her shoulder, pulled her close. “We’ll leave when we feel like it.”

Bohn spoke softly. “And what will Krieger have to say about that?”

“What did he say at Lienz?”

For a moment Bohn stared. He took off his glasses, polished them with his silk scarf. “Nothing much.” He stuck them into his breast pocket, and closed his eyes. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’ll catnap. Vertical mountains aren’t my idea of excitement. Give me a city street any day.” He didn’t sleep at first. He kept his eyes closed and listened, but there was nothing worth adding to his report. Certainly, Switzerland. Probably the Engadine. Possibly tomorrow at dawn. Two dangerous note-books being smuggled out. A British passport. As for Dave and Irina—why mention their affair? If Jiri Hrádek heard how things were developing with them, there could be action. And not my kind of action, he told himself: if there is anything I abhor it is violence. His conscience clear, he even fell asleep, cramped as he was in the crowded back seat. When he woke up they were at Brixen.

“See you in New York,” said David.

“And Irina?”

“I don’t know,” she said unhappily. “It depends.”

“Well, when you meet your father, give him my best wishes. And ask him if he would let me interview him—sometime when it suits him, of course.”

“Why should he?” David asked bluntly.

“Well, after all, I did start his daughter’s escape, didn’t I?”

“And thank you for that,” said Irina. “I’ll tell my father—”

“Goodbye,” David said. “You can telephone for a taxi here.” He nodded to the busy café where he had halted the car, keeping the engine running.

“I can take a hint.” Bohn was smiling. The smile still lingered as the car moved off. He picked up his bag and went to inquire where he could make a long-distance call to Vienna. His message would be relayed to Czechoslovakia, and not too late, thanks to Dave’s driving. Lord, what fools these mortals be... Bohn checked a sudden laugh. If he had left Lienz this morning, deep in worry (that bastard Krieger, how much did he know?), he was now on the topmost pinnacle of one of Dave’s god-awful mountains. What fools, all of them!

Drifts of light mist still floated vaguely around some of the giant peaks, but the heavy blanket of rain clouds had lifted. So had David’s mood. The traffic had eased, most travellers now standing in line for a midday meal—the eating places, far-spaced along this route, must be jammed tight, judging by the pack of cars and buses that had drawn off the highway. The road was clear, well made, skid-resistant. And Mark Bohn’s intrusion was already slipping away behind that huge barrier of mountains. It isn’t, thought David, that I dislike Bohn. But sometimes he can irritate the hell out of me. That damned curiosity of his. Always wants to know, even things he has no need to know. Why that interest in Irina’s passport at the frontier, for instance? “A false passport, Irina?” Bohn had asked with a touch of mockery. “Don’t you know that’s illegal? You’ll get us all arrested.” Irina had looked at him coldly. “It is perfectly legal,” she had said, cutting him off so abruptly that his only comment was a startled eyebrow and an apologetic smile.

David laughed out loud. Irina, sitting close to him, raised her head from his shoulder, asked in surprise. “Now, why?”

“Bohn. If anything might have had us stopped and questioned, it was his voice bleating about false passports.”

“He kept his voice low.” But something had been haunting her thoughts ever since they left Bohn on the outskirts of Brixen. Now she tried to make light of her worry. “He would have had an explanation ready if we had been questioned. Wouldn’t he?”

“Yes, he’s quick with explanations. Still, you don’t make offbeat jokes to frontier guards. Or to income-tax collectors, or customs officials. Or to anyone who can raise or lower your salary. No future in that.” He had her smiling again. “Darling,” he said gently, “what is bothering you about Bohn? After all, you did send that letter to him.”

“There was no-one else who could help.”

“Not even me?”

“You didn’t know anyone in the CIA. Did you?”

“No. At least, not that I’m aware of.”

“Bohn knows everyone. And I was given his address in Washington. I didn’t know where you were. I did not even know you were his friend. It was such a shock—such a wonderful, wonderful shock—to find he had sent you to Vienna.” Not Bohn, David thought McCulloch had made that choice. Bohn, not too enthusiastically, had gone along with it. Bohn had kept saying—now, what had he said that night at East Hampton? Amateurs were useless. Something like that.

“What is it David?”

It was sweet to hear the concern in her voice. David managed a smile, kept his voice easy. “Didn’t you tell him about me, back in 1968? When he visited Prague and you met him?”

“I didn’t meet him in 1968.”

“What?”

“I didn’t meet him until 1970. And it was a very brief meeting.”

“1970? He was in Prague in 1970?”

“And last year too.”

Now it was David who was troubled. He was remembering 1968. September it had been, when Bohn had descended on East Hampton for a quick visit. Damnation, David thought, his whole reason for that unexpected appearance had been to bring me news of Irina. “You never met him in 1968? At the time Dubcek was—”

“No.”

That was definite. “All right,” said David, “what about today?”

“Why are you worrying about Bohn?”

“I don’t know. And that worries me too. You see, there’s no real reason why I should feel like this. Just so many little things, none of them important. He could not have been more friendly, more helpful. Yet always with questions. Sidelong questions. Why is he so curious?”

“He always has been. It’s his way. What did you talk about?”

“Oh, maps and clothes. And father’s note-books. I think that was what really upset me. I didn’t want anyone to know about them. Except you.”

For a long minute David was silent. “Tell me about maps and clothes and all the rest of Bohn’s jokes.”

“As they happened?”

“Yes. From the beginning—as they happened.”

“But they were really nothing.”

“And yet you’re worrying about them.”

“I’ve become too anxious about everything.” Her voice faltered as she added, “Too suspicious.”

“Then let’s get rid of your worries by talking them away. Come on, darling. Tell me what happened.”

“You won’t laugh at me?”

“No. I won’t laugh.” David listened intently to the soft hesitant voice, kept his eyes on the winding road. Sun-shadowed meadows rose and fell on either side, ending in thick dark forests that climbed steeply to the precipices falling away from sheer mountain peaks, giant ramparts of jagged rock upthrust in ancient convulsions of the earth. The highway was a curving piece of white string; the cars rushing along it were small coloured beads; and the people inside them, each a world in himself, were less than grains of dust to the stone giants towering above them.

“And that,” Irina said, as she ended her small story, “is really all. Have I talked the worries away?” She liked that phrase. It could be possible, too: she felt better. “They aren’t important, are they? I only wish he hadn’t been so quick to remark about father’s note-books. That was what really upset me.” So it had been the small incident with the note-books that had started her chain of doubts, David thought. Without that, Irina might have forgotten all the rest of Bohn’s questions, or put them aside as small talk. Taken one by one, they did seem negligible. Together, they made a disturbing pattern.

“Because,” Irina went on, “everyone does
not
know that these note-books exist. Only Jiri’s men, who seized father’s books and papers when he escaped—he was in Prague at the time, and couldn’t get back to his home at Rajhrad where he stored most of his documents—only these men could know. They thought they had found everything. But the two notebooks I have with me—they are the most important. That was why my father hid them so securely.”

“In the drawer where you discovered the Beretta?”

“It was not really a drawer. I had to call it that when I spoke about it in front of Jo. I did not know her well enough. You understand?” she asked anxiously.

“Then where did you find?”

“In the leg of a table.”

He stared at her, but she was serious.

“It was a dining table that had belonged to my great-grandfather—a heavy piece of oak resting on thick square legs. There were some primitive wood carvings around the edge of the top, and the pattern trailed down the four legs. Not elaborate. Just peasant decorations carved on the solid wood. But inside one of the legs there was a concealed compartment. It was not large—just hollowed out enough to hide a few objects—so that if you were to rap on that part of the leg, it sounded solid.”