Snare of the Hunter (38 page)

Weber was saying with relief, “Well, that is fortunate. The inn has not many rooms. Let me show you the way.” He took Jo’s arm to hurry her. “It is not far—just beyond the house that Mr. Krieger borrowed for tonight’s meeting.”

“But where is Krieger?” Jo asked. “Dave, what happened to Krieger?”

“Nothing.” Weber smiled. “He will arrive and be angry that he missed all the excitement. Please—there is no purpose in standing here. Mr. Krieger knows where the inn is.”

Jo began walking. Nothing could happen to Krieger, she kept telling herself: not to Krieger. But why hadn’t Dave answered her? He was staring down that road as if he hoped to see the Chrysler zooming up there any minute. “Dave—” she called back to him.

“He is coming,” Weber said, and urged her on. David was following slowly, his head turned away from the house. Jo had an impulse to call out, “Please—don’t worry. Irina will be all right. You’ll see.” No, she decided, don’t mention Irina’s name; not at this moment.

David passed the house, a heavy wall rising at the side of the stone stairs, blotting them from sight. He wished they could blank out the last picture he had of Irina, standing on these same steps, half-way, hesitating, looking round at him for reassurance. Is this right, is this what you want? she had seemed to ask. And he had answered with a smile and a wave that had sent her on her way. Tomorrow, or the next day, he could let himself think about her. Tonight the wound was still raw.

He started up the short rough road, trying not to believe that life kept repeating its pattern, that once again Irina and he were separated; and there would be no third chance. Another thought slid into his mind, took hold. You made the choice this time. You. This was not Vienna sixteen years ago, when there had been no choice at all, and nothing he could fight. Then there had only been unseen forces, beyond reach, powerful enough to twist a man’s life against his will. But he was not helpless now. He knew what was against him, what he could expect. And that way, he could fight. At least, he would make a damned hard try. Jiri Hrádek... There stood the real threat to Irina’s future. Not her father, not duty or sentiment. Jiri Hrádek.

Weber was waiting for him at the door of the inn, a house like most of the others in the village except for a few lights and its small sign. “Miss Corelli has gone upstairs. Oh, not permanently. She wanted to—freshen up, I think the expression was—before supper.” Weber was smiling as he thought of Jo. “A remarkable girl. Quite attractive too. Don’t you think?”

“Wait till you see her freshened up,” David told him. “She’ll knock your eye out.”

Weber laughed. “Only one eye?” Another American idiom for his collection. But, more important, Mennery seemed to be recovering. Not completely. Just enough to let the dismal prospect of a wordless supper, steeped in heavy gloom, seem more remote. A man could share his joys around, thought Weber, but never his troubles. He clapped David’s shoulder lightly. “Let us move inside and have a drink. I think we can allow ourselves a little celebration. After all, we have won the battle of Tarasp.” He pointed to the castle on its hill above them, looming like a white ghost against the night sky. “It never looked down on a stranger skirmish in all its eight hundred years.”

David halted. “Is that your lead story on Hrádek?” he asked with a touch of bitterness.

“No,” Weber said patiently. He lowered his voice. “I shall write about Irina Kusak’s safe escape from Czechoslovakia, and it will be published immediately. The story on Hrádek comes later, once his political enemies have dealt with him. They will. And soon.”

“But how will they know—”

“Let Colonel Thomon and his superiors attend to that.”

“Hrádek would never have risked leaving Prague unless he could produce a good cover story.”

“Oh, he will try that, I am sure. A brief hunting trip in the Tatras, or an afternoon’s fishing, with two companions who will swear that every word is true. But his alibi will crumble to pieces.”

“It will take more than a couple of photographs to shake it.”

“I think,” Weber said very softly, “you are forgetting the source of these photographs. We Swiss do not fabricate international incidents.”

“Sorry. My mistake.” He relaxed a little.

“And are you forgetting Captain Golay’s preoccupation with Samaden? It is the nearest airport to Tarasp. Hrádek’s plane must be waiting somewhere close at hand. Don’t you think?” David could almost smile.
Under surveillance
, the captain had said. Arrivals and departures recorded; photographs of men boarding the jet. There would be a heavy use of cigarette lighters and other neat devices tonight. “That may nail Hrádek,” he said. He added, “As far as the Swiss are concerned.”

“As far as others are concerned, too,” Weber insisted. “The men who head the regime in Czechoslovakia do not tolerate any power-play except their own. Hrádek is neo-Stalinist; he is also a strong nationalist. Russia does not trust that combination—not in a satellite country. And the Czechs who are now in command follow that line. Hrádek has been very clever: he has never opposed them openly. But secretly? I think he has made his own plans, and I cannot be the only Hrádek watcher who has these suspicions. He is close to the top, as it is. But a man who reaches out for the highest peak, and loosens his grip, has a long way to fall.”

“He is just clever enough to fall on to a ledge, and wait there until he can boost himself up again.” Perhaps, thought David, exhausted, despondent, he may even climb off that ledge before Kusak’s book can be published. “And he has friends. He would not have risked today’s wild action unless he was sure of them. If he feels he is beginning to slip, he won’t wait to fall. He will give the signal. They will seize control.”

“The Czechs in power will think of that too. They will move, and with all speed. Hrádek will be eliminated within a week.”

David looked at him sharply, but Weber was serious.

“Perhaps even sooner,” Weber said. “His enemies will not lose any time. That is one certainty.”

A certainty? If Weber had only been able to talk with Irina about Hrádek, he might not be so sure. “All right,” David said. “So Hrádek is faced with tonight’s photographs and sees his alibi destroyed. What then? He will plead necessity, and add a touch of sentiment,” David could almost hear Hrádek’s smooth defence: Irina, his wife until a month ago, had to be stopped from leaving Czechoslovakia. Harmful propaganda for the state, apart from his own deep feelings about her desertion. Tarasp was his last chance to find her—and Jaromir Kusak—and bring them both back to Prague. A desperate journey, Hrádek would admit, but its secrecy protected the state’s image. And so on and so on and so on, David thought wearily.

Weber was shaking his head. “Sentiment? There is little room for that in power politics. His enemies would laugh—”

“And he would seem more foolish; therefore less dangerous. He might gain the time he needs to—”

“You actually believe he could extricate himself?” Weber was incredulous. “But I assure you, my dear fellow, the present regime in Czechoslovakia will not tolerate tonight’s—”

“What they need is a real scare, hard evidence of—” Of a past conspiracy against them. They would call it treason. “Yes,” David said slowly, putting the brief thought of Kusak’s notes right out of his mind, “that would have jolted them right into action.”

“The photographs will be evidence enough.” Weber was slightly hurt that they should be questioned. But tired men were always querulous, he reminded himself. He looked pointedly at the inn door.

“Let’s have that drink,” David said, and made an effort to cross the worn threshold into the warmth of four stout walls.

David slept for fourteen hours. He awoke in a strange room with a window looking out at mountains he didn’t recognise. Where the hell am I? he wondered. And then he remembered. He got up, glanced at his watch. It must have stopped just before midnight, he thought at first, but it was still ticking away. Apart from a tightness across his shoulders, a slight stiffness in his back, he felt fine.

Then he became aware of voices, a lot of voices blending together, a mingling of talk. He crossed over to the window. Below, there were half a dozen tables, filling rapidly, set out on a small grass-covered terrace that ended in a long drop to green fields, a placid valley sweeping out until it reached a wall of enormous mountains. He was on the eastern edge of the village, and the valley below him must have been where the helicopter took off last night. He stared at it for a full minute.

“Dave!” The voice was distant, but it was Jo’s. She raised an arm to catch his attention. She was sitting with Weber at the far end of the terrace. There was a third chair beside them, tilted forward against their table. Jo pointed to it, waved a come-quick signal. He got the message. He needed no second invitation to hurry.

He shaved, showered, and dressed as rapidly as possible. A complete change of clothes was no trouble, either. Thanks to Weber’s efficiency, his bag and raincoat had been brought up to the inn last night along with Jo’s suitcase, and the car itself had been garaged—or stabled?—to give more elbow-room in the village square. Just as well, judging by the Sunday visitors beginning to crowd the tables on the terrace. There must have been news, he kept thinking. Good or bad, there must be news by this time.

* * *

David climbed a short steep path and reached the terrace, now totally filled with hungry tourists who were paying more attention to their plates than to the superb view. Jo and Weber made a handsome picture of their own. She was back to her chic elegance once more. White sweater, white pants. “You look good this morning,” he said as he reached the table. But there was a fine-drawn quality about her face, as if she were still near breaking point. Weber was completely relaxed. Today he was wearing a light gabardine suit, immaculate shirt, a restrained tie. His manner was as smooth and unperturbed as his face.

David sat down, tried to appear nonchalant, braced himself inwardly. “Heard anything?”

“There are various messages,” Weber said. “But I do think it is much too public here to discuss names and places. Let us have something to eat, and then—”

“No,” David insisted. “We’ll keep our voices down.”

“And everyone is too busy with his veal cutlet,” Jo said, glancing around the other tables. She was trying to recapture some of her old gaiety, but it was a poor effort.

“Bad news?” asked David.

“Mostly good.” Weber had pulled out several small pieces of paper from his pocket. “I have the messages here—just as they came in this morning.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Jo said, “give him the news about Irina first. The rest can wait until he orders breakfast. She’s safe, Dave, she’s safe.”

“Here is her message.” Weber selected a slip of paper, handed it to David.
All my love always wait for me darling
.

Weber said, “It came along with, this one from McCulloch. He is back in Geneva.” He gave it to David.
All is well
.
Destination safely reached
.
No difficulties
.
Hope to see you soonest possible
.
Congratulations and sincere thanks
.
Hugh
.

Weber passed over a third message. “This came along with the other two. They were all dated yesterday midnight but of course they were telephoned from McCulloch’s Geneva office early this morning.”

So by midnight, Irina had been safe. Where? David wondered. He looked at the message. It was brief and unsigned, as Irina’s had been. It read:
I am in your debt
.
Someday I hope we may meet
.

“I thought,” Weber said, a combination of tact and curiosity, “it might be from Kusak himself. Is it?”

“Yes. We have never met.” David kept his face well in control.
May meet
. Not
will meet
. The difference troubled him. Kusak was being indefinite. That was what David had feared. And yet it was to be expected. Kusak wanted Irina kept hidden. He was afraid for her safety: Hrádek, of course; the permanent threat. David took a deep breath. Well, it was up to Captain Golay and his colonel now. “Dave—let’s order,” Jo said. “You didn’t eat much last night.”

“Nor did you.” A bowl of soup was all that Jo had managed to swallow.

“But I had breakfast almost four hours ago.”

“Toast and coffee, or just coffee?” He smiled for her, and eased some of her worry away. But there was still a strange sadness in her eyes. “What’s the other message, Weber?”

“It will keep until you’ve eaten,” said Jo.

Weber had put the remaining scrap of paper into his pocket, and trapped a waitress. “Breakfast or lunch?”

“I begin the day with breakfast,” David said, “make it solid. Eggs, ham, sausages, the works.”

“Ah, London style. I rather liked that, I remember.” Weber gave David’s order, in triplicate. “We keep it simple, and then we have it promptly. Very fine panorama, don’t you think? That is the Swiss National Forest—over there! Those mountains—”

“Let’s have the bad news,” David said. “Is it from Krieger, or from Captain Golay?”

“Not from Krieger. It’s about Krieger,” Weber said. “Shall I tell it, or do you want to read my French? I noted it down as McCulloch called me at breakfast. That was after I had received the other—”

“Yes, yes. What about Krieger? Tell.”

Jo said, “They nearly killed him.” She turned her face away.

“But he
is
alive,” said Weber. “And he is a strong man. He will recover. In a day or two he can leave hospital.”

“In Merano?” So he never got my message, David thought. He put out his hand and grasped Jo’s. It was cold and rigid.

“In Samaden,” Weber said. That was where he was attacked. At the airport.”

“How?”

“An injection in the back of his neck. A drug was used that can be deadly—if it is not treated in time with the correct antitoxin. The problem, you see, is that the patient may not recover consciousness enough to talk, or he does not even know what has happened to him, and so the doctors are given no help. He simply seems to have had a severe heart seizure. But Krieger managed to recover consciousness
and
to tell what happened.” Weber paused, shaking his head. “Then it was only a matter of the right treatment being given.”