Legacy of a Spy (14 page)

“No, sir,” Rüdi seemed horrified at the idea, “but he is in a position to know the names and room numbers of the guests. I use him occasionally. He will do anything for money,” Rüdi added.

And you won’t, Slater thought, marveling at the almost blissful inconsistency of people.

“You must not discuss me or give my description to anyone, you understand?”

“Yes, sir, of course,” said Rüdi.

“I will not be here long. I will pass the new communication procedure along to my replacement. You are not to try and contact me in any way except through the medium of the menu. If you suspect trouble or are interrogated by anyone, put a small triangle in the lower left-hand corner of the menu. That will mean that you want to meet me. I will phone you and tell you where and when we can meet.”

Slater did not want to set up any meeting place in advance from which he might be ambushed. Should anyone get to Rüdi with a convincing or more lucrative proposition, Slater didn’t want to give him time to get his new friends to the meeting place first.

Slater started to go. He stopped at the door and turned back to Rüdi.

“You have done an excellent job, Herr Petsch. We are grateful to you.”

“I’ve tried to do my best, sir.” Rüdi bowed, and his chins hung loose, like the crop of a turkey, as he did so.

“I will try to get you a small bonus,” said Slater. Rüdi’s eyes glittered. “Although,” Slater added, “a job well done for the party should be its own reward.”

“But, of course, sir!” The expression in Rüdi’s eyes did not match his stated enthusiasm.

“Still,” Slater mused aloud, “a little extra money never hurt anyone, nicht?”

Slater permitted himself a little smile and put his hand on the door. Rüdi rushed up eagerly to open it for him.

“Perhaps,” said Slater putting his hand against the door, “I should leave by the back entrance.”

“Oh, yes,” said Rüdi. “I will show you the way.”

Slater stepped out into the snow again, put up the hood of his parka and trudged through the whiteness along a narrow back street which ran more or less parallel to Bichlstrasse, the main street of the town.

Apparently Krüpl had really taken matters into his own hands without the knowledge of his superiors. He had employed Stadler to help him, and yet, Slater frowned, something didn’t quite fit. Slater tackled espionage nets organizationally, and he had already formed a picture of this net’s organizational outline. Normally, he did not believe in preconceptions. They could be as misleading to the counterespionage agent as to the scientist. Slater was almost positive he had his fingers in two pies. Rüdi, Krüpl, the money, all pointed to a payoff organization. Wyman and Stadler must be part of an action net or an active espionage organization. It was a serious deviation from classically tried and proven clandestine procedure to dovetail the two organizations except at the top echelon, and it was a sound principle, rarely violated. If the two organizations worked together with full or even partial knowledge of each other, the activities of one would be a serious threat to the other. They should be kept separate, so that the exposure of one would not mean the end of both.

Two things came to Slater’s mind. The first was that if there was any dovetailing, the Communists must have considered the present situation extremely important and have given Krüpl unusual authority. What could be so very important about a Hungarian colonel’s defection? Such defections were common. Slater thought back to the article he had read in Zurich at the Baur-au-Lac Hotel while waiting for Wyman. The writer had discussed the possibility, which he apparently considered imminent, of an organized satellite rebellion. Slater’s reaction, then and now, was that such a thing would be impossible, would be foolhardy in fact—unless the Western democracies were alerted by the revolutionaries beforehand and were persuaded by their organization and determination to join the timetable and begin World War III.

Was it possible that Imré Dinar had left Hungary to ask for Western military aid in exchange for full particulars as to the satellites’ revolutionary organization and military timetables?

Slater wondered what his office really knew. They frequently thought they knew more than they actually did. More to the point, they often withheld information from Slater, for his own protection, they said; but he knew that was not always the case. The withholding of vital information was usually for his country’s protection, not his. What he didn’t know, he couldn’t tell. Slater was a realist. More important, he was a professional, who did the same with those who worked with and for him. He told them only what they needed to know to do their job effectively.

But he wondered whether his government knew for a fact what he, so far, was only beginning to suspect about Imré Dinar. And, if his superiors did know, what would they really want him to do about it? Slater didn’t want his country to start another world war, not even in support of people who loved freedom more than their own lives. It was a terrible thing to admit, but he had to be honest, at least with himself. He believed in individual freedom as much as any man he knew. He had fought the Nazis and had been a prisoner for two years for his beliefs, but he knew that the next war would bring such total misery for everyone that he didn’t believe it would settle anything. He had been working for ten years to prevent any further penetrations of the West by the Communists. His one hope was that the Communist party in Russia would lose face in the world of nations and in Russia to the extent that the Russian people would revolt and repudiate their government. He had to admit that he was losing faith in such a possibility.

Suppose Dinar was what Slater now suspected? If he contacted the West, would even the hotheads at home throw their armies into another world war? Slater didn’t like the idea of presenting them with the opportunity.

From the point of view of the revolutionaries within the satellites, Slater knew his course was quite clear. He had to prevent the Communists from getting hold of Dinar and forcing him to reveal names, dates, military stockpiles, organization, numbers—all the information he must have to convince the West.

But if he did manage, somehow, to get to Dinar, he would have to try to convince him to maintain the organization, increase it if he could, but hold it in abeyance until Russia actually attacked the Western world, and then use it as a guerrilla force to sabotage Russia’s efforts and to strike suddenly from within their countries but only in co-ordination with an all-out Allied offensive. If the revolutionaries struck now, they would be crushed immediately by the Russian armies.

Slater knew that telling this to Dinar would probably be useless. How could you tell a people not to revolt against slavery when the very reason for their organization was because they could no longer tolerate their existence in a total dictatorship?

And this, thought Slater, might be the “big picture.” It was no wonder the Western leaders of character were confused and upset. How could anyone make a wise decision with such alternatives?

And when the Hungarian underground had gotten Dinar across the border into Austria, with what instruction had they left him? They could not let a man with information which could ruin them loose in Europe for too long. They had to know that he was alive and free from Communist hands. If they believed he had been captured, they would strike immediately, before the Russians could learn of their plans and destroy them. Dinar must be maintaining communications somehow. When those communications stopped, the revolutionaries would attack immediately, and thousands of lovers of freedom would lose their lives.

If the Russians had the smallest suspicion of all this, they would not hesitate to kill anyone who might stand between them and Dinar. It was no wonder they had recruited Wyman. An American government official stood a far better chance of getting Dinar’s information than the Russians did.

Slater turned the corner and began the crossover to the Bichlstrasse, which would now be the Josef Pirchlstrasse. It would have been a lot simpler, he thought, if the Kitzbühelers had called it Main Street and been done with it.

Slater shook his head, and the snow which had accumulated there fell on his shoulders and onto the ground. Krüpl, he thought, must have notified somebody of his intention to trap Carmichael, but whom? It would only be a matter of time before Slater’s connection with Carmichael would be discovered. Had Ilse Wieland been assigned to confirm that connection? Would the Communists wait for proof or was the situation sufficiently serious to warrant his immediate destruction? They had murdered Webber. Murdering Americans, particularly those with diplomatic
status,
was not their mode of operation, but only, Slater knew, because up until now it had not been necessary.

THE ELECTRIC TRAIN from Salzburg droned through the storm and sent the snowflakes spinning crazily in its wake, but nothing could prevent their piling on top of the already deep snow. So far, the train had made good time in spite of the whiteness in the high mountain passes. Fortunately, there was still no wind to create the impassable drifts so common to the Tirol. The air was unbelievably dry, and the snow was light and fluffy. It was as though the great cloud bank, drifting slowly into western Austria, had stopped, hemmed in by the Alps, and now was trying to shake off its tons of snow in order to raise itself high above the peaks that held it captive and drift on again into the heart of Europe and beyond.

Gregor Slazov gave up trying to see out of the train windows and looked at his wrist watch. He should be in Kitzbühel within the hour. He smiled to himself. It had been a long time since he had been in the decadent West and particularly with such an important assignment. True, he shrugged, all his assignments were the same, but this one would mean a great deal to his career. The Comrade Stottoff must indeed already think much of Gregor Slazov to have given him such a mission; besides, the Comrade General was slipping. He had been too soft. He, Gregor Slazov, had told him that. No, Slazov thought, Stottoff had not picked him for this assignment. The Comrade General did not like Slazov’s methods. Slazov smiled. The Comrade General did not, in fact, like Slazov. He is afraid of me. One day soon, he may have good reason to be afraid. Comrade General Gregor Slazov. How did that sound? Slazov laughed, and his laughter was deep. It sounded good.

Gregor Slazov had come a long way in the party. He knew that because he knew people were afraid of him. He would be one of the real leaders someday. He had tried to prepare himself for this responsibility by attempting to eliminate all traces of his peasant background. He had tried to refine his speech, to read only what were considered the best books in Russian and even Western culture. He had become a student of music and art. He had even tried to lose weight. His thick short body and heavy, slab-sided, peasant face with its small, almost slant eyes were a source of much discouragement and despair. He tried to hide his stockiness with expensive clothes, but they always looked unpressed and pinch-waisted. Comrade Gregor Slazov was a snob.

The Comrade General had not told him much, but, Slazov reflected, it was not really necessary. Perhaps even the Comrade General did not know very much. Anyway, the job was simple. All he had to do was find an American named Carmichael and kill him. Slazov interested himself mildly in what this American called Carmichael had done. It must have been serious. One was not ordered to kill an American every day. If one was successful, then one would make more progress in the party.

Slazov knew better than to try to plan the execution at this time. The method had naturally been left up to him. The Comrade General had not been so generous with the element of time. Carmichael had to be disposed of immediately. He would be pointed out to Slazov at the Hotel Winterhof; and if, for some reason, the two men missed connections there, Slazov would be introduced to him later.

Gregor Slazov settled back in the seat and closed his eyes. Murder was a good career for a man. It kept him stimulated and made his life sweeter. When he could see, at first hand, how easily men died, it made the breath of
his own
life fresher, the touch of a woman more exciting, the taste of food more satisfying, the aroma of wine headier. He looked upon game hunters with contempt. They knew nothing of the hunt. The most exciting game of all was man.

The train slowed gradually to a stop at the Kitzbühel station. The valley floor was relatively flat, and there was little danger, but it was a matter of pride with the engineer that his train never skidded, no matter what the weather conditions.

Slazov reached for the expensive suitcase in the rack above his head. It was quite a stretch for his short body, but he finally got it down. The leather bag was heavy, but he handled it as though it weighed no more than a piece of balsa wood. He left the compartment and moved along the corridor. He climbed down the steps to the platform and landed neatly in the snow. Slazov was surprisingly light on his feet.

In spite of the weather there were a number of people at the station. The train from Zurich was just pulling out. Slazov looked at as many of the faces as he could see distinctly. He noticed a tall, young dark-haired man who was obviously American. He watched closely as the young man started off into the storm toward town. This could not be Carmichael, thought Slazov. This man is just arriving. He looks like a young diplomat. Gregor Slazov prided himself on his ability to spot certain types at a glance. He decided to follow the young American.

George Hollingsworth was excited. Meeting and talking with a man like Carmichael had been a stimulating experience. When Carmichael had called on him, he felt that he was, at last, going to participate personally and actively in this cloak-and-dagger business. Every diplomat should have firsthand experience in at least one such affair. It would enable him to have more savoir-faire in diplomatic negotiations. It should give him a feeling of latent power to know that he could handle these clandestine forces. Maybe one day he could employ some of his own. George was elated. He would show Carmichael that an amateur could learn fast.