Snare of the Hunter Page 8

  “I’ll repack,” Irina called to him from the bedroom door. “And after that I’ll get supper.”

  “No hurry,” he called back, settling himself once more to work.

  * * *

  The second call came next morning at twenty minutes past nine. Alois, by chance, was nearest the telephone. As he unhooked the receiver he signalled to Irina, who came running across the room and reached him before Ludvik came out of the bathroom. Alois pulled her close, so that she too could listen. Ludvik finished drying his hands, threw the scrap of towel on a chair, tried to edge in, gave up. At first he waited impatiently, until he heard Alois say, “Yes, this is Janocek.” Then he went over to a window, opened it wide, lit a cigarette, looked down at the street. Nothing extraordinary there: safe. He looked now at the small bakery shop opposite, leaning on his elbows, head out of the window to enjoy the morning air. “All set?” he asked as Alois replaced the receiver.

  “We’re off in five minutes. Identifications all arranged.” Alois sounded relieved and happy.

  “A brown coat and a blue scarf,” Irina said as she went towards the bedroom, leaving the rest of the explanations to Alois. She was ready. She had only the raincoat and her bulging handbag to pick up. And the scarf. She paused to look at the old discarded canvas bag. The last of her possessions, she thought. But she was taking what mattered: her passport, her papers, some money, the two small note-books that her father had left behind in his own rush to leave. And there were the little things like powder and lipstick and comb. And the silk scarf, a pretty pale-blue one, which she folded into a cravat, making the brown raincoat look slightly better. She examined the mended tear, where the barbed wire had ripped the fabric. Her stitches were neat: they didn’t show too badly. With the belt pulled tight and the handbag’s strap hoisted over her shoulder, and the excitement in her eyes, she looked almost jaunty.

  She glanced at her watch as she came back into the living-room. Two minutes over; three to go. Excitement ebbed. Anxiety set in.

  Alois had finished giving Ludvik the details of the ’phone call. He was now searching for his shoes. “Where are they, damn theft?” he asked, padding around the room in his old slippers. “They were under that chair. I know it.”

  “I’ll get the car. You follow in two minutes,” Ludvik told Irina. “Turn left when you reach the street. I’ll meet you at the corner. And don’t worry.” He nodded towards Alois. “He will find his shoes. He’s always mislaying things. I’ll get you safely to the Opera House.” Ludvik was out of the door, leaving it wide open in his haste.

  Irina kept her eyes fixed on her watch. Her lips felt dry. The two minutes were almost up.

  “Got them!” Alois said in triumph. “Who the hell put them under the dresser? Go on, Irina! I’ll be with you before you reach the hall.”

  She left him jamming a foot into a shoe, and began running lightly down the flight of stairs to the next landing. She was almost at the second floor when two men came climbing up towards her. She pulled herself against the wall, fear gripping her heart. But they passed her in single file, not even bothering to look at her. She drew a long breath, and ran on.

  The entry hall on the ground floor was a dank and dismal place smelling of cats and red cabbage. The caretaker lived there. Irina listened, heard nothing except the cries of a baby behind a closed door. Quietly she made her way round a battered toy bicycle, a baby carriage, two garbage cans. Then she stepped into the daylight and turned left. Three women with baskets were grouped outside the entrance to the tenement, talking busily. Across the narrow street she saw a scattering of shops. Now she could smell new bread and hot coffee, mingling nicely, coining from a small bakery that also claimed to be a café. She reached the corner. And there was the car, its motor idling, and Ludvik at the wheel.

  She slipped in beside him. Almost five minutes since the telephone call had ended. Ludvik went from neutral into first, and they were moving. “But Alois—” she began.

  “He won’t make it, I’m afraid. Didn’t you meet Georg in the staircase? He was on his way to pick up the pamphlets.”

  “I saw two men.”

  “Georg with a friend. They’ll be leaving for the frontier within an hour. Each will smuggle across two of Alois’s editorials and get them printed in a small town south of Prague. And Alois’s fine phrases will be circulating in the city streets by tomorrow night. Now, is that service?”

  “But Alois wanted to come with us. He—”

  “Alois will be too busy giving them final instructions about the way he wants the pamphlets set up. He’s an old pro, is Alois. Did you ever read any of his stuff?”

  “I suppose I must have.” She had seen several of the single sheets of newsprint that were constantly circulated in Czechoslovakia. But the articles were never signed. She had no way of telling whether she had read Alois or not.

  “The clandestine press,” said Ludvik with a wide smile. “It may not seem very much to you, but it worries the hell out of the security men.”

  “How often does Georg make this kind of trip?”

  “Now, that’s giving away trade secrets, isn’t it?” he teased her. “Let’s say he goes when he can, and gets back if he’s lucky.” They were coming into busier streets, and Ludvik concentrated on the traffic. You’re looking fine,” he said. “Better than when I first saw you. It must have been dull for you in that flat. Not what you were once used to, was it? But at least you got a rest. How far are you travelling?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, where’s your father? You don’t have to give me his street number. The name of a country will do.”

  “I don’t know even that.”

  “Then your American friends must know. Just leave it to them. It’s the CIA that is stepping in, isn’t it?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “It’s bound to be. Can’t pass up a good chance.”

  “Chance of what?”

  “To get you and your father to America. Think of the propaganda blast that would make!”

  She tried to turn the conversation. “Will we get to the Opera House soon?” She was to leave the car at the front entrance and then walk, by herself, to the Sacher café at the back of the Opera House. Those had been the instructions.

  “Yes. Traffic could be worse. I suppose that’s why they chose this time of day. Who are you meeting? Alois didn’t get around to telling me that. Or he forgot.”

  “A man.” She stared out at the broadening streets. She could see green trees, masses of flowerbeds, a wide park.

  “Wearing what? You have to be able to identify him quickly, you know. I’m worried about you, Irina.”

  “He’s carrying papers and a coat.”

  “That’s all?” he asked sharply.

  If Alois didn’t tell him the details, she thought, I certainly won’t. “We stop in front of the Opera House,” she reminded him.

  “I’ll save you a walk. I’ll take you to the corner, just behind the Opera House.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  She didn’t answer, pretending to be absorbed in the buildings. They were big and handsome, solid, spaced with wide squares. And trees. Trees everywhere.

  Quietly, he said, “I’d like to come into the café with you. They’d never know. I’d keep at a distance.”

  “No,” she said again.

  “I’ve got to be sure that you are all right. In fact, I’d like to keep an eye on you all this first day.”

  “You will not follow me!”

  “But they are strangers.”

  “So were you and Alois.” Pointedly, she looked at her watch.

  “You know, Irina, you are a big responsibility.” His voice was both worried and friendly. “I just don’t want anything to go wrong. Not now.” He lapsed into silence.

  Why do I always feel I am being ungrateful to Ludvik? she wondered. He’s trying to help me, and he has risked a lot for me, and all I do is snub him. I’m uneasy with him, and I
don’t know why. I haven’t any real reason at all.

  “Here we are,” he said as he pulled up at the corner of a massive building. He had brought her to the rear of the Opera House after all. “I’ll wait here,” he told her, “until I see you enter the café. Are you sure you don’t want me to park the car and join you? At a distance,” he added hastily.

  This time she smiled when she said no. She gave him her hand. “Don’t worry,” she told him. “I’ll be all right. And thank you. Thank Alois for me too. Tell him I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye.”

  “The café is at the side of the hotel. See it?” He pointed across the street, towards the left.

  Briskly she got out of the car. It didn’t move away. He is doing more than he was asked to do, she thought uneasily. When she reached the terrace outside the café she gave a brief glance over her shoulder at the corner of the street. Ludvik was leaving now. But what had kept him there? Curiosity, caution, or distrust of the Americans?

  As she crossed over the terrace, her confidence completely vanished. There were people having late breakfasts: a croissant, a cup of coffee. She was aware of them, and yet she didn’t see them, couldn’t even have described their faces or clothes. Nervousness increased to fear as she stepped into the room. What if no one met her? What if she waited, and waited, and no one came? At this moment she could almost wish that Ludvik was following her, watching, making sure.

  * * *

  Walter Krieger had arrived in good time to observe that everything went smoothly. In fifteen minutes Irina should be coming out of the tenement opposite to where he sat, enjoying morning coffee and crisp rolls in the bakery. There were four small tables at its window, and he had one of them. The only other customers for coffee were two men, young husky types, more interested in the street than in the people behind them in the shop, who were buying bread and cake and having a neighbourly gossip. After one sharp glance in his direction, they had turned their backs on him. Which suited Krieger. He wasn’t here for friendly conversation.

  Yesterday he had strolled through this neighbourhood, to check the address that belonged to the Janocek number. (In six minutes by his watch, Mark Bohn would be telephoning for the last time.) He had noticed the bakery and decided that was where he would station himself and have a clear view, in comfort, of Irina’s safe departure. The address hadn’t been too difficult to track down. One of his old OSS contacts in Vienna was also a true friend, and now an inspector of police—a useful combination. There had been a possibility, of course, that Irina might not be staying at that address, but Bohn from his first telephone calls had been positive that “Janocek” was not an answering service: the response was too quick—the man who spoke with Bohn was one who could make decisions without referring his query to someone else in another place. And the fact that Bohn’s instructions last night were accepted without any argument, that Janocek saw no difficulty in having Irina leave as soon as the final call came, strengthened Krieger’s belief that this was Irina’s hiding-place. Of course (Krieger admitted to himself) he could have made a false deduction. But that was all he had to go on. Better that, even if wrong, than nothing at all. And the coffee was excellent.

  He kept an eye on his watch, seemed absorbed in his newspaper. At twenty minutes past nine he laid the paper aside, poured himself another cup. He looked at the building opposite, wondering which of its small apartments was now answering the telephone. How very satisfactory, he thought, to sit and watch something happen when you had done most of the planning. Then his attention suddenly focused on the two men who sat at the next table. What the hell were they watching, to make them so intent?

  Two bird dogs, he thought and picked up his paper again to disguise his curiosity. Yes, they were looking at one window on the fourth floor of that tenement over there. A man had opened it wide. He was standing in plain view, lighting a cigarette, looking down at the street. Then he leaned his elbows on the sill, stuck his head out as if to enjoy the summer morning. Light hair, noted Krieger, broad shoulders, and a blue shirt. And, damn it, he was looking right here with a smile on his face. Then suddenly he withdrew his head, retreated into his room, leaving the window open.

  The two men were on their feet, paying for their coffee. They left directly, headed across the street and entered the building. Now, thought Krieger, this is really interesting. And worrying. He put his paper down, filled his pipe, and watched.

  Someone was coming out of the building: the light-haired man, wearing a grey jacket over his blue shirt. He was tall, well exercised too. He disappeared round the street corner, twenty yards away, in a couple of seconds.

  Krieger raised an eyebrow. He glanced at his watch. Two minutes later a girl appeared at the doorway of the building. Brown belted coat, blue scarf, blonde hair. She carried a handbag over her shoulder. She wasted no time either. She headed straight for the corner, reached a grey Fiat that had paused there, and within another few seconds she was in the car and it was moving away.

  Krieger looked at his watch again. It was twenty-seven minutes past nine. That was Irina. And she was en route. A very satisfactory morning, Krieger decided, except that his pipe had gone out. He relit it, and prepared to leave, money in his hand ready for the cash register.

  The baker’s buxom wife was ringing up his change when suddenly, cutting right across her pleasant remarks, there was a woman’s piercing shriek. He turned to the door, saw something hit the street in front of the building opposite. It was a body. The body of a man. The screaming woman was only a few yards away from it. And now the women beside her were screaming too. A man shouted and ran. More shouts, more people running!

  Krieger didn’t join the gathering crowd. There was nothing that could be done. The baker’s wife had rushed to see, but soon returned—remembering the open till, or perhaps her curiosity was satisfied. “Poor man!” she told Krieger as he stood by the shop door. “He was so quiet. Very pleasant. Always polite.”

  “Oh?”

  “Who would have thought he would jump out of a window? Nearly killed those women too. He came all the way down from that fourth floor. No warning. Terrible, isn’t it?”

  “Who was he?” Krieger asked. He was watching two men who had come out of the tenement’s entrance to move round the edge of the crowd, the same two who had sat at the next table and scanned the street. They began walking towards the corner where Irina had met the car.

  “One of those Czech refugees.” She might have said more, but someone called to her from the shop and she hurried inside.

  There was a vague disquiet in Krieger’s mind. He left without any more delay, following the direction the two men had taken. They had already reached the corner of the street, and turned it. Krieger quickened his pace, glimpsed them entering a small garage. What did he do now? Wait? The last thing he wanted to do was to draw any attention to himself. Even as he hesitated, a small Volkswagen shot out of the garage. The two men hadn’t wasted a moment. He made a pretence of studying the nearest shop window, but he had identified them clearly as they drove past. They were well away before the first police car arrived.

  Krieger walked on. The disquiet in his mind was no longer vague. A talk with his friend in the police department was the proper idea. Except that he had little time left in Vienna. Better make time, he told himself sharply. That Czech refugee hadn’t fallen or jumped from the fourth-floor window; he had landed well beyond the sidewalk, on the street itself.

  7

  On Friday morning David Mennery came down into the hotel lobby with half an hour to spare. He had paid the bill and tipped every uniform nearby, making sure he wasn’t leaving the Sacher with any unfinished business behind him. That way, he’d be quickly forgotten. He dropped his bag as near the front door as possible. “Waiting for a friend,” he told the bellboys on duty there. “No taxi needed.” And now, at six minutes before ten, he began studying the playbills, notices of concerts, lists of exhibitions, which cluttered the notice-board near the porter’s main desk.
He was dressed in his light tweed jacket, a grey striped shirt that travelled well, and the red tie. His raincoat was folded over his left arm; partly under the other, held securely by his hand, were his copies of Oggi and Le Monde. At two minutes to ten he checked the lobby clock. It agreed with his watch. Two minutes before the hour. Irina should be reaching the café.

  It lay to his right as he faced the front entrance, near the lobby but separate, with a short passageway leading to a door which made entry convenient for hotel guests. He went back to studying the programme of an open-air concert at Schönbrunn. I’ll give Irina a few minutes to find a table, and sit down, he decided. She’s bound to find one free inside the café on a summer morning: most people will be sitting outside. She’ll be somewhere at the back of the room, he reminded himself again: a brown coat and a blue scarf. That should let his eye pick her out quickly, even if by some chance the inside tables were well filled. He knew the routine, but he was nervous. He lit a cigarette, dropped it a minute later into an ashtray. Once more, for the last time, he went over his own movements. He’d possibly have to change some details, improvise when necessary. You always had to be ready for that.

  At five minutes past ten he walked towards the café, a man who looked—at least he hoped so—as though he had decided to see if his friend had got their meeting place slightly mixed. The bellboy, still lingering beside David’s bag, probably thought so. He traded the idea of a tip from David for a more certain prospect now arriving with three suitcases.

  David paused at the café door, then entered slowly. More tables were filled than he had expected. He had a chilling shock to see, right in the centre of the room, a figure in brown with brassy blonde hair, delving into a thick slice of Gugelhupf. A mountain of Schlagobers was rising above her coffee cup. Irina? But there was no blue scarf. Thankfully, he halted just a few steps inside the doorway, his eyes searching the room. A waitress stopped at his elbow to ask, “Would you like a table, sir? There’s a nice one over there by the window.”