Legacy of a Spy (25 page)

“That’s all right, Wyman,” said Slater. “I believe you, but,” he added, “I have one or two more questions.”

“Go ahead,” said Wyman.

“Why did you buy a round-trip ticket to Munich the night you left Zurich, and then change trains?”

“How did you know that?”

“Answer my question,” Slater said.

“Webber told me to,” said Wyman, “as a precaution against being followed.”

“Wise man, that Webber.”
Slater was bitter. Someday, maybe—“Webber told you a lot of things, didn’t he?” Wyman nodded.

“Webber also told us a lot of things—about you.” Slater handed Wyman Webber’s letter to Putnam. “Go ahead, read it!”

The phone rang and Slater went out into the hall. “Hello.”

“Hello, lover!”

Slater smiled.
“Farouk?”

“That’s I’m!” said Kartovski. “You want my big feet now?”

“Yes,” said Slater. “I want your big feet. I need them, and a couple of other pairs about the same size. I’ve got the man you’re looking for and a couple of tea drinkers who have turned out okay.”

“I’ll leave here in fifteen minutes. Give the directions.” Slater gave detailed directions and hung up. Lazio had promised to arrive in a couple of hours.

When Slater returned to the kitchen, George and Wyman were having an argument.

“I’m telling you, George,” said Wyman, waving Webber’s letter in his hand, “I caught Charlie Webber photographing classified material!”

“Then why didn’t you report him?” said George.

“Because I’m as new to all this as you are, and Webber was the senior man.” Wyman frowned. “He actually made me feel guilty for catching him.”

“Man, were you fooled!” said George.

“So were all of us,” said Slater ruefully. “Only, I should know better.”

“Well,” said Wyman, “after that night in the Consulate, I got to thinking it over, and I felt just uneasy enough to follow him to Kitzbühel. It was there,” Wyman shook his head disgustedly, “that Webber really took me in. He told me he was on a special
mission, that
I had really blundered into the thing now. He had me worried. I was the one who had to convince him that I was okay.”

“And then,” said Slater, “he asked you to help him.”

“Yes,” said Wyman. “He told me to go back to Zurich so he wouldn’t have to explain my absence to anyone, as no one in the Consulate, including Putnam, was in the know on this business.”

“So, naturally,” said Slater, “he told you to keep quiet about all this.”

Wyman nodded. Hollingsworth was spellbound.

“He told me to come back the next weekend,” Wyman continued. “You already know about the ticket.”

“What about Mr. Schlessinger’s skis?”

“Oh,” Wyman shrugged, “they belonged to a friend of the Baron. He told me I could use them. That saved me money as I don’t have a decent pair of my own.”

“Did you know there was a message in a small drawer between the bindings and the bottom?” asked Slater.

Wyman looked so honestly amazed that no answer was required.

“Did Webber tell you to keep an eye on Ilse?” said Slater.

“Yes,” said Wyman, and then he grinned. “That, Fräulein Wieland, was pure pleasure.”

Ilse smiled. She had seated herself at the table and was taking all this in.

“I’m sorry, Ilse,” said Slater. “I’m afraid all this business with Wyman is foreign to you. Give her Webber’s letter.”

Wyman handed it over.

“What about that routine with Rüdi?”

“Webber told me that the business with the Tuborg beer and signing the check was a routine that, if given at the evening meals, would produce some results. Rüdi seemed to understand it all right, but nothing ever happened. I hate beer!” said Wyman.

Slater laughed. It was
his own
private joke. He didn’t think it wise to give them too much of the Communist setup.

Slater forced his mind back to the beginning, to his introduction to the case, only this time he was able to see Charles Webber’s neatly placed roadblocks for what they were. He shook his head sadly. Webber had taken a long chance, but Slater closed his eyes—he had come too close for comfort.

Webber had been a top agent for the Communists. As assistant to the Political attaché, he must have been funneling information to the Russian Embassy for no one knew how long. And then along came Wyman, an eager young vice-consul, who just happened to catch Webber in the act. Webber convinced Wyman that Webber was only doing his job and that Wyman was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Just to make certain Wyman would not trip him in the future, Webber told Putnam, the Consul General, that he had caught Wyman photographing classified material.

And then along came the special assignment with Dinar, which required a prolonged absence from the Zurich Consulate. Webber went to Kitzbühel, and Wyman followed him because Wyman was still vaguely suspicious. And that, thought Slater, to put it in Wyman’s words, was where Webber really took Wyman in. Webber not only made Wyman keep quiet about the whole affair, but made him serve as a decoy. Wyman was sent back to Zurich, and in the meantime Webber created the pile of evidence against Wyman.

Webber opened a bogus account, by postal money order, in the Züricher Kantonalbank in the name of Martin Hazel. There was no connection between Hazel and Wyman, but nobody investigated that far. He instructed Trude Kupfer to pose as Wyman’s mistress and display expensive presents. He sent the letter to Putnam foretelling his own disappearance, and probable murder. In the letter, Webber planted the suspicion that Schlessinger’s skis were important and then planted an incriminating note inside.

Webber even partially exposed the Communist pay net so that Slater would believe Wyman was being paid with Red money. Webber supplied Wyman with ten-dollar bills for “expenses” as the clinching proof.

Webber deliberately exposed Krüpl, Stadler and, indirectly, Hauser. Webber had probably believed, however, that Carmichael, for it was as Carmichael that Slater had shown himself until near the end, would be taken care of. If it had not been for Carmichael, Slater might have been dead and Webber might have succeeded.

And in the end, if Webber had been successful, he would undoubtedly have murdered Wyman, burned his body and then disappeared behind the Iron Curtain. Wyman would have been considered a traitor to his country, and Webber a martyr to Wyman’s treachery. Webber was a very clever man.

And that, thought Slater, was the understatement of the year. The worst of it was, Webber was probably in the Russian Embassy in Vienna by now—free to cause more trouble in the future.

Slater turned to George. “I don’t think I’ll call you an amateur any more, George. I should have been suspicious when I didn’t find Webber’s body. No corpse, no positive proof. You should only believe what you see for yourself, and only half of what you hear. That,” said Slater, “is a pretty safe maxim for most people, but it doesn’t go nearly far enough for this business.” He paused. “I also want to thank you again for being at the bottom with the car.”

“I nearly didn’t make it,” said Hollingsworth. “Having failed you twice, I just couldn’t do it the third time.”

Slater then addressed the Colonel. “I wonder, sir, if you would be kind enough to step out into the corridor with me and Fräulein Wieland.”

Dinar nodded and led the way. Slater stood aside for Ilse and then followed, closing the kitchen door behind him.

“Colonel Dinar,” said Slater, “in a few hours, if all goes well—and I see no reason for further delay—you will be in contact with American and German Intelligence.” He smiled at Ilse. “What your mission is,” he continued, “is not my affair, unless my office chooses to make it so, but,” Slater hesitated, “we are now faced with a problem of protocol—if there is such a thing in the Intelligence business.”

Dinar raised his eyebrows.

“You will leave here with two members of the American Foreign Service and three members of American Intelligence. As this may not be entirely satisfactory to my German colleague,” Slater smiled again, “I would like to ask you to give your word in front of Fräulein Wieland that you will refuse to disclose your information without the presence of a representative of her organization whom she will name.”

“But, of course,” said Dinar. “Whom shall I ask for, Fräulein?”

Ilse flushed. It was a touchy problem. Now that they were, for the moment at least, not in danger, they both had to consider the independent interests of their countries. She was angry, nevertheless, that Slater had approached the subject first.

“All right,” she said. “You will please ask for Wilhelm Dietrich.”

“Thank you, Fräulein,” said Dinar. “I think I will return to kitchen now.” He smiled.
“Is too cold out here for an old man.”

They both watched him until he had closed the door. Ilse’s eyes were aflame when she turned on Slater.

“You have humiliated me for the last time!” she said fiercely. “Twice I have forgotten my duty to my country for you, and both times you have reminded me of it. Ever since we got in that car, you have taken command of everything, and now you have had the effrontery to remind me of my duty again. You are absolutely inhuman, and I hate you!”

Ilse turned away from him and started for the kitchen. Slater grabbed her and turned her around.

“Ilse, please,” he said. “I only wanted to clear you with your office.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said, “not right now, anyway.”

She turned toward the kitchen again, and Slater let her go.

IT WAS ELEVEN O’CLOCK when Slater and Ilse finally pulled into Kufstein. They had not said much to one another during the short drive. Ilse had not actually admitted that she was driving alone with Slater. She was only coming with him because there was “no room in Kartovski’s automobile.”

Slater had wanted to say something, but every time he tried to the words stuck in his throat; and when he looked at her, she was so beautiful and he wanted her so much he was afraid to say anything that might make things worse between them. When he couldn’t stand the silence any longer, he said, “Ilse.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t care for Carmichael very much, did you?”

“No.”

“I want you to know that Carmichael is really dead,” he said.

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Ilse, but her voice was noncommittal.

“Ilse, please, put me out of my misery one way or the other. I love you, Ilse. You know that.”

“I love you, too,” she said quietly.

“Please, Ilse,” said Slater. Her reply had apparently not registered. “You said you loved me, once. Can’t you try—
What
did you say?”

“I said I loved you.” She looked at him and smiled. “I just wanted to make you pay for being so right all the time.”

Slater would have stopped the car and taken her in his arms, but they were in the middle of Kufstein, and there was quite a bit of traffic. He decided to wait until they had crossed the border. Kiefersfelden was now only a few hundred yards away.

He pulled up in front of the striped gate. The passport officer approached the window and asked for their papers. Ilse handed her passport to Slater, and he relayed it to the official. The man looked at it for a moment, looked briefly at Ilse, back to the passport and finally smiled.

“Thank you, Fräulein Wieland. I hope that your vacation in Austria was very pleasant.”

Ilse nodded and smiled, and Slater handed over his passport. The officer looked at it for a moment and then frowned.

“May I see your Triptych, please?”

“Yes, of course.”

Slater got out the car’s international travel papers and gave them to the official.

“Your name, please,” the man asked. His tone was becoming more and more formal. The car’s paper had disturbed him.

“Slater.
William A. Slater.” Slater was annoyed.

“This car,” said the official, tapping the papers against his palm, “is registered in Munich to a man by the name of Carmichael.”

“I know that,” Slater replied quickly, suddenly realizing what he had done. “He is a friend of mine.”

“Really?”
The passport officer raised his eyebrows. “How do I know that?”

“Because I just said so,” said Slater.

“In addition to having a car that is not yours,” the official continued relentlessly, “you have no exit stamp from Germany or Austrian entry stamp in your passport. You are in Austria illegally!”

Slater was undone, and he knew it. Carmichael’s passport and wig were locked in a suitcase in Kitzbühel, as was his forging equipment. To make matters worse, Ilse began to laugh. Slater turned on her, annoyed.

“What in hell are you laughing at?” His angry, defeated, ashamed expression made her laugh harder than before.

“Stop laughing!” he said desperately. “This isn’t funny.”

“Oh, yes, it is.” Ilse looked at him. The tears were rolling down her cheeks. She was fast becoming hysterical. “The great,” she gasped, “William Slater has been so busy being efficient, he forgot who he was.”

Ilse’s laughter filled the car.

“Please, Ilse,” said Slater. “You’ve got to stop laughing and help me.”

He turned to the official. “Look,” he said, “I’m here in Austria, that’s obvious. My passport is valid. The passport officer must have forgotten to stamp my passport when I came in. I’m taking this car back to Munich for my friend. You are free to alert the rental agency that I am returning this car.”

Ilse’s laughter had begun to have an effect on the official. He was, by now, convinced that there was at least nothing sinister about the affair and, besides, that redhead had a wonderful laugh. The corners of his mouth had begun to twitch.

“All right,” he said. “I will let you through. Possibly Fräulein Wieland,” he bowed to Ilse, “can help you with the German customs official.”

The gate raised and Slater drove through toward the German customs house. He stopped the car halfway between.

“Will you help me, Ilse? I guess I’m just a damn fool after all.”