Snare of the Hunter (29 page)

“That will take a few years,” Jo said reassuringly. Fortunately, she thought, the highway skirted that bulge of cliff with considerable respect, drawing away from the outthrust of sheer rock as far as it could without being pushed into the small river that rushed down the valley. Even so, there was a lot of spillage from the face of the precipice: splintered stones and pulverised fragments of rock fell in loosely packed screes, to pile at its base in dumps of jagged flints. The warning signs were already giving advance notice along the road:
Caduta Massi
. “Rockfalls,” Jo translated for Irina. “Don’t worry. We won’t have to climb up there.”

“How do the pilgrims manage it?”

“They don’t tackle it face-on, that’s certain. There’s a picnic area, Krieger says, at this side of Santa Maria. We should almost be at it now.” But where? The woods, flanking the highway, hid everything. In front of her, the stream of cars that had passed her (drive slowly, Krieger had advised) was already rounding the curve of the precipice. Behind her, a huge trailer-truck was pulling out impatiently. “Not now, buster,” she told it angrily. “You damn well keep behind me and give me some cover. Oh, blast these Turkish drivers! They’re always trying to edge you off the road. They haul these loads all the way from the Balkans to Hamburg and Amsterdam, and it does something to their egos. If anyone is driving something as fancy as a Cadillac or a Jaguar, he gets sideswiped into a ditch. Keep back, damn you, will you?” She almost missed the entrance to the clearing that lay just off the road, and had to make an abrupt right turn on to the patch of rough meadow nestling under Santa Maria’s bastion. Behind her there was a Turkish yell and a blare on a horn. “And to you, my sweet,” Jo finished, her eyes now searching out the most hidden place where she could park.

Not far inside the meadow, two lightweight buses of local vintage had been drawn up parallel to the highway. Beyond them, picnic tables and children and benches. Well beyond those, a cluster, badly grouped, of three slightly aged Volkswagens. The buses, Jo decided as she noted the gap between them, allowing just enough space. The Ford fitted neatly into the vacant slot. Now, she thought thankfully, it can’t be seen from the highway.

The only trouble was, she couldn’t see the highway either, and keep watch for that white car which had been lagging behind them for the last half hour. “Quick!” she urged Irina. She slipped out of the driver’s seat, pulling the blue coat around her shoulders, smoothing the curls of the auburn wig against her cheeks. She lifted the bag of food. “Might as well have that picnic now,” she said cheerfully, and edged her way out between the buses towards the nearest table, where the drivers were sitting at one end. The other two tables were completely occupied, small girls in neat rows waiting patiently under the watchful eyes of three nuns. Jo sat down, avoiding the bus drivers’ appreciative stare, and waited for Irina.

Irina had smiled at the conflict between Turk and infidel, had laughed as the Ford bumped over the meadow and set the luggage bouncing on the back seat. But now, with Jo’s trench coat tightly belted around her waist, her fake dark hair obediently in place, her bag slung over her shoulder, she was showing signs of a second mutiny. Her lips were set, her eyebrows down. But she had the good sense to keep her voice low. “David will never see the car,” she began. “He won’t even notice us with all this—” She gestured to the twenty pairs of young eyes, round and wide, studying the newcomers with interest.

“And I hope no one else will, either,” Jo said quietly. “Sit down, Irina. Keep your back to the road. I’ll watch out for David.”

“Will you be able to see—”

“Just barely. But enough—if you’ll only sit down and stop blocking my view.”

Irina hesitated, then did as she was told. “What else are you looking for?”

“A white car.”

“We were followed?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must know
something
.” Or else Jo would not have been taking all these precautions. “Please—”

“Come on, let’s laugh it up a little. We’re on a picnic, aren’t we?” Jo bowed and smiled to the two men at the other end of the table, who might not be able to hear the softly spoken words, or even understand them if they had been audible, but were openly fascinated. “Relax,” she told Irina. “The natives are friendly. They just can’t place us, that’s all. We are out of another world.” And at this moment, she thought, I wish I belonged to theirs—a simpler, less complicated universe. “Have a peach? There’s chocolate, too—slabs of it. Or do you want a ham sandwich? Cheese? Good Lord, Dave must have been buying for a real party. But men are like that: put them in front of a food counter and they grab everything in sight. My mother, who’s a very sharp housekeeper, won’t let my father go near a supermarket.” She brought out the bottle of Chianti and planked it down on the table. “Now we really do look festive.” But she kept watching the highway.

“Please—” Irina said again, “don’t treat me like one of those children.” She glanced at the two tables of quiet little faces, and smiled for them. Who were they, all in the same plain dresses, with crisply braided hair and large friendly eyes? The nuns admonished gently: the eyes stopped staring. “What is worrying you, Jo?” It can’t be much; not in this innocent setting.

“I was driving slowly. We were passed by every car on the road, weren’t we?”

“Except that truck,” Irina teased.

“Until then, every car passed us. All but one. It kept falling back whenever it caught sight of us.”

Now Irina was serious. “A white car?”

“Yes.” Jo had first seen it just after they had made that brief stop, well outside of Merano, to settle the wig problem.

“There are so many white—”

“I know. But—” Jo hesitated, then said, “A white Fiat was in Graz yesterday evening. It turned up in Lienz last night. It left before dawn.”

“Who was in it?”

“Milan and Jan. Ludvik joined them in Lienz. They headed for Merano.” Jo watched Irina carefully: no panic; she was taking this calmly. Encouraged, Jo went on, “So you see why I’m puzzled by a white car that should have passed us like all the rest, but didn’t.”

Irina roused herself from her own thoughts. “Clever of you to drive slowly,” she said, trying to appear unconcerned. So they were in Merano, she kept thinking. For hours.

“Not my idea. It was Krieger’s.” And I thought he was out of his skull for suggesting it. He knows how I hate dawdling along a highway like an old farm woman taking her eggs to market. Jo almost laughed, partly at herself, partly with relief: Irina was handling this piece of news well. Let’s be normal she decided. Either that car was following us, or it wasn’t. And what if it was? We sit tight and wait for Dave. She said, “I could have been overworrying. I do that a lot: bad habit. And it doesn’t seem as if we are being followed, after all. That white car ought to have passed by now. Perhaps it turned off on a little side road to have a picnic of its own.”

“Perhaps.”

“Why else should they delay like this?”

“To send a message back to Merano. To ask for further instructions.”

“Oh, come on, Irina. Your imagination is even wilder than mine.” She lifted a peach. “Have one? Speciality of Merano.” Let’s be normal, she told herself once again.

“No, thanks.”

“Then what do we do with these peaches? Give them to the children? I couldn’t swallow a mouthful with all those eyes watching it disappear down my throat.” Irina nodded her agreement “Okay. You keep looking at the road.” Jo rose, gathering up all the picnic, leaving only the Chianti bottle on the table. “And if we have been followed here—well, at least we can’t pin the blame on Mark Bohn this time.” She noticed Irina’s face, tense, incredulous. “Yes,” Jo said, “he was the informer.” Her lips tightened. She picked up the bag of food and walked over to the nuns.

Irina drew a steady breath. Yes, David and she had been too kind about Bohn: David out of friendship, and she, because of—because of what? Stupidity? Embarrassment over such an idiotic mistake with the map? No one would pay it any attention, she had thought. But Bohn did. She knew that now. The moment of shock ended, leaving, her strangely calm as she kept watch on the small section of highway that was visible from where she sat.

She listened to Jo’s flow of Italian, to the nuns’ chorus of replies, to the children’s burst of chatter; she noted the cars that flashed past—one blue, one brown, another blue, one grey; and she kept asking herself the same question over and over again. Why was she still being followed? Mark Bohn had made his report to Vienna hours ago. It must have been relayed from Vienna to Prague and then to Merano. By this time Ludvik must have learned that her destination was Switzerland. So why were they still following her? Perhaps, of course, Jo had been mistaken. That was what Jo was now trying to make her believe. Perhaps that white car had already turned off the road, perhaps it was only—

And then she saw it. Travelling at high speed. She sat very still, staring at the patch of highway now empty once more.

“Just as I thought,” said Jo as she returned, “it’s a group of orphans, a special outing, a Saturday treat. Poor darlings—” She broke off. Irina’s eyes seemed hypnotised by the road. “You saw it?” she asked unbelievingly.

“Yes.” Irina recovered herself. “Yes. I saw it.”

“A white Fiat?”

“I can’t tell one car from another. But it was white. There were two men in front.”

“Wouldn’t you know?” Jo said in dismay. She glanced back at the orphans. Well, at least they were happy. And stupid me, she thought: one small good deed, and as a reward I fall flat on my funny face. I ought to have remembered there were people in the world who couldn’t tell a Rolls from a pancake. Jo gathered her wits. “Well, did the car stop—slow down?”

“No. It was travelling fast.”

“Did they look at us—or just glance?”

“Glanced briefly.”

“Oh, what does it matter?” Jo asked, trying to control her rising anxiety. “Neither a look nor a glance would help them. All they saw was a dark-haired girl sitting near two bus drivers, and a redhead with a batch of children and three nuns. They couldn’t have seen a tan Ford, not from the highway. So we’ll relax, and wait for Dave, and let Milan and Jan go chasing all the way to the Swiss border.” But they won’t have to travel very far before they know they’ve lost us. They’ll come back, keep checking every turn-off area. How many are there, I wonder, on this road to the north?

“When will David reach here?”

“Half an hour. Perhaps less.” Perhaps more, but let’s not bring that up. “And meanwhile we can count ourselves lucky. This is as safe a place to wait as any.” She looked along their table, caught the drivers’ attention. (It had never slipped far.) She smiled, holding out the bottle of Chianti. “Please,” she said, and broke into a stream of Italian. They accepted the wine with a graceful speech. Yes, they agreed, this was a pleasant spot to spend an afternoon. Were there any other picnic areas north of here? No, they told her, this was the only one for many many kilometres. Yes, the road ran fairly straight; good visibility most of the way until you reached the high passes. And with that last piece of information Jo left them to enjoy the wine.

“So,” Jo said as she ended translating for Irina, “we can expect these two men quite soon. If, that is, they really are Milan and Jan. There isn’t much to keep them searching on this highway. But let’s not panic if they drive in here to make a thorough check. They probably will. They won’t make the same mistake twice.”

“And then?” There was a strange smile on Irina’s face. Then what? Jo made a good attempt at nonchalance.

“They may stay, hover around, wait for us to leave. They’ll look innocent. They think we know nothing about them, or about any white Fiat. And we’ll string them along, play the game their way, pretend they’re just a couple of tourists. When Dave arrives, that is the time to stop them. We’ll evade them.” But how? Jo wondered. At this moment she had a strong impulse to run. A stupid reaction, she told herself, as she glanced around her, pretending to admire the scenery. Just beside them, sheltering them from the stiff northern breeze that had funnelled down the valley, rose the mass of rock covered with bushes and sparse trees, concealing the rough path to the chapel so far above that it was out of sight. To the east and south of the meadow, hills climbed steeply, densely wooded, heavy with larches, impenetrable. To the west was the highway. They were nicely protected, or nicely trapped, depending on which way you looked at it.

“Play the game their way,” Irina said and looked at Jo with amusement. She shook her head. “It is no longer a game, Jo. No more hide-and-seek, and who is the clever one.”

“It was only a figure of speech,” said Jo defensively. Her cheeks coloured angrily. “Have you any suggestions?”

“No. Just a question. Why are they still following me?” She paused, and added, “There is no need.”

“No need?” Jo stared at her.

“Not now. I am of no more use to Jiri Hrádek.”

Jo’s stare widened, She’s getting mixed up in her English, Jo thought. Or I am. Yet her voice is cool, detached. I’m the one who is about to panic. “You damned well are,” Jo said, “and you know it. Hrádek is ready to score my name off his little list, and Dave’s too. We are expendable. But you, Irina, are definitely not. Not until you lead them to your father.”

“Jiri knows where my father is. Mark Bohn gave him that information four hours ago. Time enough—yes, plenty of time, to change his instructions about me.”

The story she told me about Bohn, and the map, and the section showing the route into Switzerland—is this what’s bothering her? Jo said, “That’s a wild guess. And what if Jiri Hrádek did receive Bohn’s information? He would only be given a general direction: Switzerland. His men would still have to follow you to the exact meeting place.”

“But if Jiri has learned that too?”

“How? Why, even I don’t know where it is.”

“It’s a place called Tarasp,” Irina said. “But who told—”

“How well does Bohn see with his glasses?”

She’s crazy, absolutely crazy, Jo thought.

“How well?” the quiet voice insisted.