Snare of the Hunter (33 page)

His attention switched back to the small jet. It had completed its landing as his plane was approaching the Samaden airport; now it was drawn neatly out of the way. There were still two crew members standing beside it. On guard? He studied the plane for a moment, and his frown deepened. Then he continued his way towards the formalities: passport and papers and general proof of innocence. They wouldn’t take long. His legal residence was in Switzerland, and his firm in Vevey was practically a national institution. Besides, he used this small airport for occasional week-ends at St Moritz. He wasn’t exactly a stranger. All of which were little drops of oil to help the machinery of officialdom turn smoothly. He was not disappointed. He had no luggage (his bag was still in Merano, he hadn’t even gone up to his room once he had picked up Dave’s message) and that hastened the process. There was only one delay. The car, complete with driver—he had radioed ahead for them—had not yet arrived. “It should be here any moment, Herr Krieger,” said the man in charge of passengers’ predicaments. “There is a village festival today. Processions make traffic—well, uncertain. You understand?”

Krieger nodded. He consoled himself with the fact that Samaden was on the highway that led north, straight to Tarasp. Thirty-three miles... With luck he could be there in half an hour. With luck, and no more processions or Saturday slow-ups.

The man glanced at Krieger’s bandaged hands. “I can see why you requested a driver with the car,” he said sympathetically.

“Nothing serious. Just slight burns.” Nothing to what it could have been, Krieger thought, and certainly nothing compared with what had been intended. He looked at the man’s quiet, strictly Swiss-movement face, and wondered what would happen to it if he was to say, “Back in Merano, in a peaceful courtyard behind a reputable hotel, the door of my car was fixed so that when I got in and closed it, the driver’s seat would blow up. But a couple of ten-year-olds came wandering around, opened the door just to find out what the inside of a big American car looked like, and then saw me approaching, and slammed the door shut. Yes, that did it. How was that for a send-off? As for the boys—no damage to one; a partly burned jacket on the other. The flames didn’t get full hold, could be soon beaten out. So he was left with only a scare, and I with some skin off my hands. And a problem. How to get out of Merano? Solution: a twenty-mile ride by taxi to the Bolzano airport.” But Krieger refrained. Instead, he looked at the bandages, thoroughly soaked in good old bicarbonate of soda (courtesy of the hotel kitchen), and said, “The damnable thing is that I can’t fill my pipe.”

The man lost some of his worry about the delay. The American was taking it well—not like those others who had arrived just before him. “I’m truly sorry about this inconvenience.”

“Not your fault I just chose the wrong time to get here. By the way, what’s a Russian-built plane doing in Samaden? Don’t tell me they are now jet-setting here for a week-end in St Moritz!”

The Swiss laughed. “Just a short visit.” He dropped his voice. “They aren’t Russians. Czechs. Three Czechs and one American.”

“You don’t say.” Krieger was casual.

“From Innsbruck, I understand.”

Krieger was all innocent astonishment. “I’d have thought Prague more likely.”

“I believe the flight originated there.”

“Ah, they just stopped briefly at Innsbruck?” Odd, distinctly odd, thought Krieger. He looked around him. The place was almost empty. Most week-enders had arrived either yesterday or this morning. They seem to have left. They must have been luckier with their transportation than I was.”

“No, no. They are still waiting. For two cars. Nothing to do with us, of course. We didn’t make the arrangements.” (But that didn’t keep them from blaming me, as if I were responsible for a traffic jam.)

“Two cars?” Krieger was amused. “They travel in style. Where are they now?”

“In a waiting room.” The Swiss was unable to repress a small grin. “Quite by themselves.”

“Diplomats, possibly. Who else would be so discreet, and retiring?”

“Yes, indeed,” said the man, something of a diplomat himself. So far I’ll talk, his polite smile seemed to say, but no farther.

“Well,” Krieger said, “I think I’ll, step outside and try a little willpower on my car—hurry it up. Or have you the telephone number of the garage? We might jog them a little.” The Swiss gave him its number, and then had second thoughts. “But your car is on its way. I’m sure of that. There’s really no need to call.” And it’s possibly my brother-in-law who is driving, he worried. “It might just complicate—”

“Of course,” Krieger agreed. “I don’t want to get the driver into any trouble.”

“It really, is not his fault. Believe me, Herr Krieger.”

“I do, I do.” Krieger gave a preoccupied smile, and moved towards the front entrance. His mind was giving him no rest: it jumped from one guess to another. Cut it out, he told himself. Innsbruck, plus an American, doesn’t necessarily mean that Mark Bohn was instructed to get off the train on his way to Munich, just so that a new team of Hrádek’s experts from Prague could pick him up there and bring him along. Why should they? Because they think we still trust him? Because he’s their pet Trojan horse? Cut it out, he told himself once more: why the hell would Hrádek’s boys be coming to this part of the world, anyway? They didn’t know anything about Tarasp. Switzerland, yes—if Bohn had added up his observations correctly. But Tarasp? No. That was something else again.

Yet Krieger still couldn’t persuade himself; not fully. The question mark at the back of his mind was too big and bold, an instinctive doubt that cold calm reason could not answer. When his car arrived a minute later, he told its driver to wait; he had forgotten something.

The driver was philosophic. All that rush for nothing, he thought as he watched his passenger step out of sight. Then he drew the car farther along the kerb to leave plenty of space for two new arrivals: high-powered jobs, these were, and not a local hire at that. The chauffeurs were not known to him either. Stolid-looking men, but—at this moment—rattled. One of them was running inside to look for his clients. What was all the hurry? “Take it easy,
du Kerl
; you’ll live longer,” Krieger’s driver called out. He shook his head, pulled out a tattered German paperback, and found the dog-ear that marked his place in chapter eleven of
The Oregon Trail
. How was that fight around the wagon train going to end?

* * *

The four men left the waiting room, with the chauffeur leading the way to the two cars. He was full of explanations. “That’s enough!” Jiri Hrádek said. “Keep moving.” He was dressed in quiet dark grey, unobtrusive; but he was tall, straight-backed, and carried himself well, and nothing could disguise a certain authority in his manner. The Swiss, watching him leave with his two subordinates on either side, considered him a handsome man—strong features, carefully brushed dark hair, a healthy colour in his tanned cheeks—not like the other Czechs who had arrived with him, big potato faces. But they were neat enough in their dress and in their movements. The American who walked closely behind them was a mess by contrast, his hair ridiculous, his jacket wrinkled.

The Swiss looked away before they’d notice his interest, but he had the strange feeling that the American wasn’t altogether a happy member of the tight little group. Then the sharp Swiss eyes saw the other American, back again, standing by the telephones, his head averted from the hall. If it hadn’t been for the bandaged hands, the Swiss thought. I’d never have noticed him. He must have slipped in by a side door while I was watching the main entrance for his car to arrive. “Mr. Krieger!” he called in English. “No need to telephone. Your car is outside.”

Krieger appeared not to hear, but his hand gave up the painful pretence of dialling. He stood very still, as if he were listening to the receiver cradled between shoulder and chin. God, he was praying, make this look good, and Mark Bohn deaf, and my Swiss friend dumb. But the man was calling out again, “Mr. Krieger!” He sounded nearer, as though he were hurrying in this direction. Then his footsteps stopped.

Krieger dared not risk a backward glance. He could move out by the side door, and make it to the car. But that would give Tarasp no advance warning. Desperately he dialled, and managed it too. All he had to say was one word, “Firetrap!” and Hugh McCulloch would take action.

But he didn’t even get the chance to speak. There was a light footstep behind him, a hand pressed hard against the back of his neck, a deep sting. And then a sagging of his knees. He tried to yell out, and couldn’t. He half turned as he began to slip. He saw his helpful Swiss, now with his back to him, engaged in conversation by one of the Czechs. He looked up at the other, who had caught him and lowered him to the ground. No sound. No sound at all. The receiver dangled, a distant voice came through, “Who’s there? Who’s there?” Krieger’s eyes closed.

The Czech replaced the receiver, stepped briskly over to the Swiss, tapped his shoulder. “There is a man over by the telephone who seems to be ill.”

“What?” The Swiss whirled round, stared at Krieger lying motionless.

“I think you’d better call an ambulance,” the Czech said. “Perhaps a small heart attack?” He watched the horrified Swiss run towards Krieger, calling out to two girls at the desk and the young man chatting with them. “No one noticed,” he remarked with amusement as he began walking with his colleague to the door. Hrádek and his American were already on their way out.

“Very neat,” his friend agreed. “And I didn’t do such a bad job of distracting that Swiss dolt, either. All you had to do was to pour on the thanks for their kindness and efficiency, and you’d get them listening every time. “No trouble at all.”

The pair reached the sidewalk, stopped briefly at Hrádek’s car. Mark Bohn was already inside it, grey-faced and silent.

“Did he speak on the telephone?” Jiri Hrádek asked.

“He hadn’t time.”

With a nod, Hrádek got into the car. It moved off at once. A good operation, not a moment wasted since he had halted at the sound of Krieger’s name and sent Vaclav and Pavel to attend to the problem. They worked well, together, needed little direction. In a way, he thought, this was a test run for tonight.

He looked over his shoulder. Vaclav and Pavel were already following in the second car. He relaxed completely. “You know,” he said, smiling, “we could have missed him. He was out of sight from us. Clever fellow, Krieger.”

Bohn said nothing.

Hrádek went on, “I have a theory. I think it proved itself this evening.”

Still Bohn said nothing.

“I have a theory that it is the small unexpected things that are the most dangerous traps for a clever agent. He can cope with plans and counterplans, but a friendly voice calling out his name—” Hrádek shrugged his shoulders, laughed. Then he looked at Bohn. “Get rid of that tense face,” he said abruptly.

“Krieger saw me.”

“You are travelling with three fellow journalists, all on their way to verify the fact that Jaromir Kusak is being restrained, against his will, from returning to his own country. That’s your angle, Bohn. And we’ll make it stick.”

Yes, thought Bohn, but how do I explain Tarasp? Of course I can say that I learned about it from Irina. That might hold, if Irina were out of earshot. “There are just too many complications,” he said haltingly. Deeper and deeper; I didn’t bargain for all this.

“There always are.”

“What if Krieger—”

“Forget Krieger. He is out of the picture.”

“Dead?” Bohn’s stare was wild.

“Don’t be ridiculous. A man dead in a small Swiss airport? There would be an investigation. Police, questions, suspicions, detentions. No, no. I intend to use that airfield tonight, without any of these embarrassments to hinder our leaving.”

“Do I go back with you?” That point had not been cleared up, and it troubled Bohn.

You can go to hell, thought Jiri Hrádek. He said, “How about a week-end at St Moritz? You’ll have your usual skilful news reports to write. I’ve got five papers lined up for them. Don’t worry, your by-line won’t be attached—not until the story is widely accepted and distributed round the world. Then you can take a bow, write your book, become the expert on the Jaromir Kusak affair. And you are, aren’t you?”

That’s to get my mind off Krieger, Bohn thought. “How long will Krieger be unconscious?” I don’t want to face him again. He’s tough opposition, won’t believe a word of my explanations.

“Long enough to suit us. Stop worrying about him, Bohn. He is definitely incapacitated.”

“And the others at Tarasp—will they be incapacitated too?” Bohn demanded. “I want no part in it, Jiri. That’s not my business.”

“Of course not. All you do is talk your way into Kusak’s house. Pavel and Vaclav and their chauffeur will do the rest.”

“But I’ll be there. I’ll be linked up with—”

“Not if you are quick on your feet. I’ll be nearby, waiting for you.”

That’s right, thought Bohn, you’ll be waiting, safely hidden in a dark car. “Stupid of me,” he said. “I forgot. You prefer remote control.”

“Don’t you?”

Bohn managed a smile and eased his voice. “But no violence, Jiri. That was your promise. I only agreed to make this journey if there was—”

“Of course. No violence.” Bohn’s euphemism amused Hrádek. Violence, to Bohn, seemed only to mean murder. What did he think the attack on Krieger was? An act of nonviolence? “We haven’t many to deal with. McCulloch will be there, no doubt; and David Mennery. He must have arrived by this time—he left Merano in mid afternoon. Alone.” And he should never have been allowed to leave. A lost opportunity. Ludvik had slipped up badly on that Red Lion incident; he hadn’t even known Mennery was there with Krieger until it was too late. “What kind of man is this Mennery?”

But Bohn was still following his own startled thoughts. “He left Merano alone? Without Irina? I don’t believe it. You’ve been getting some inaccurate information, Jiri.”

There was a deep silence. Hrádek looked out at the small river flowing steadily down the valley along which they were travelling. “I do not get inaccurate information,” he said. “And why don’t you believe it?”