Snare of the Hunter (34 page)

He knows something about Irina and Dave, Bohn thought, but I’m not going to be the one who enlightens him further. Bearers of bad news have a tendency to get their heads chopped off. “Well—Irina doesn’t drive a car. Naturally, I thought she would keep travelling with Dave.”

“Naturally?” the word was emphasised.

“Just an assumption.” Bohn said hastily. “I’ll make another one: Jo Corelli is driving her to Tarasp. What’s your estimated time for their arrival?”

Hrádek was still gazing at the narrow flow of water. “So that’s the River Inn,” he said. “A small stream now but extremely ambitious. From here, it flows through Austria, edges Germany, and almost reaches Czechoslovakia. But at Passau its perseverance gives out, and it is swallowed up by the Danube. It reminds me of some people I’ve known.” Hrádek looked at Bohn.

Bohn ignored that. “When do you expect Irina and Jo to arrive?” he persisted.

“I don’t.”

“What?”

“They have been delayed.”

“How?”

“Nothing serious. A handbag missing. And a passport. Slight difficulty at the frontier—just enough to keep them from appearing while we are in the middle of negotiations with Kusak. We thought it better that way.”

Bohn relaxed. “Much easier,” he agreed. “So one of your men turned bag snatcher?”

Hrádek wasn’t amused.

“A neat job,” Bohn tried. “Just as well to make sure of Papa Kusak’s diaries.” Hrádek still had no comment. “You know,” Bohn went on, “I’ve had a delightful thought. We aren’t going to see Dave Mennery in Tarasp, after all.”

“Why not?”

“Irina would be waiting at the frontier for him with her new set of troubles. He’s there with her right now.”

“Is he?” There was the suspicion of a smile on Hrádek’s lips.

“You bet he is. The minute he saw them stopped at the—”

“He crossed the border before they reached it.”

Bohn shook his head. Hrádek certainly had been supplied with information all through the jet flight from Innsbruck—there were even a telephone and a radio in this car—but the report on Dave did not make sense. “I don’t believe it. Dave wouldn’t leave Irina behind in Merano.”

Hrádek turned away, kept looking out of the window. “Tell me about Mennery and my wife.”

Bohn’s eyebrows went up. “Wife?” Divorced, surely; but tactfully Bohn avoided all mention of that. He was still trapped. “Nothing,” he said, floundering for a safe reply, “nothing of any importance. That is,” he added carefully as Hrádek’s face swerved round to look at him, “nothing that is connected with the business in hand.”

“I see,” Hrádek said, and was silent again.

He knows, thought Bohn. Just as well that I didn’t give him a blank denial. And what are Dave and Irina to me, compared with Jiri’s past favours—or future rewards? Jiri remembers his friends. And he’s on the way up. Another few weeks, and he could be at the top.

Suddenly, to Bohn’s relief, Hrádek came out of his black mood.

“I was reading a guide-book on the flight to Innsbruck,” he said, pleasant and genial once more. “Did you know there were two Tarasps?”

Bohn stared at him, could only shake his head. That was a real shocker—if true.

“There is one near this highway—a village, apparently with a spa and a golf course. There is another, with quite a different approach, on the hill above it: it seems to be very small, just a castle and a few houses. Which is it?”

“The one marked on Dave’s map.”

“And that was?”

“Beside the highway. I told you—”

“Show me.” Hrádek had unfolded his own map.

Bohn took it. “This isn’t the same map!” he objected. But he did find one Tarasp, near the highway. “That’s it.” He pointed. As for the other Tarasp, it was a blur. He couldn’t read the name without holding the bloody map up to his nose. He peered hard, feeling ridiculous, and at last deciphered its thin tiny print “It’s called Tarasp-Fontana,” he said. “Not fair, Jiri, not fair.”

“It is still Tarasp, and that is what it is called in most guide-books. Fontana is the next hamlet, I suppose. People around here like to hyphenate their place names. You didn’t see any Tarasp-Fontana marked on Mennery’s map?”

“I couldn’t have. I didn’t have the time for any close work. What I saw was one word in normal print. Tarasp.”

“Then that settles it.” Hrádek folded the map, dropped it within easy reach. He added, half-jokingly, “And you had better be right.”

Bohn let that go. Hrádek knew he was right. Bohn would never have reported Tarasp in the first place if he hadn’t been quite certain. His information had always been reliable, and Hrádek knew that too. Why else had Hrádek acted with such incredible speed? There was no doubt, the man was a political genius; his powers of planning and organising were brilliant Dazing. In a few years, Bohn thought, there will be fifty books written about him, and a thousand articles, and I will lead the field. My book will be the best, too. With my contact, I can’t miss. He sat back and let himself be enjoyably dazed as they approached Tarasp and Jiri Hrádek began giving complicated but accurate directions to their driver. Jiri, thought Bohn with amusement, had really read that guide-book. He was now making the signal to stop. They were nicely off the highway, no nuisance to other traffic.

Pavel’s car drew up behind them and he came hurrying forward with the latest bulletins. Bohn tried to follow the rush of Czech words, get some meaning into what had been happening. And there seemed to be plenty. Pavel must have been kept busy during his drive to Tarasp: he had been in constant communication with various places. In particular, a service station on this side of the frontier, a roadside café farther west, and a camping ground after the highway had turned south. They had given him the exact time when a green Mercedes, Vienna registration, had travelled past them at high speed—no complete identification, but the numbers of the licence plate were correct. At the camping ground Stefan had begun following. He had stopped twice very briefly to radio Pavel. Stefan’s last report, ten minutes ago, was that the Mercedes was now approaching the town of Scuol. There had been no other report since.

“Separate!” Hrádek told Pavel. “Draw well ahead of us. Give no hint that we are together. Once you are round that first curve, stop. Keep in touch by radio. And tell Stefan that further reports come to this car direct.” Pavel obeyed at a run.

Hrádek broke into English again as he turned to Bohn. “We’ll stay here, on the south edge of Tarasp. No need to move until we’ve got the Mercedes traced to Kusak’s house. And it could be there any minute. Scuol is just ten kilometres to the north of us.”

“Six miles... That’s cutting it pretty fine,” said Bohn. Sunset was approaching.

“We aren’t. He is.”

“Dave?” But Dave had been travelling fast:
no complete identification
, Pavel had reported. What the devil did that mean, anyway? Identification of the driver? Possibly. Hrádek had accepted it as that—it was in line with his firm belief that Mennery was alone. And I’m not going to argue about that again, Bohn reflected. Especially when Hrádek has some new problem on his mind.

“Who else?” Hrádek asked irritably. “He is late. What delayed him? He should have been here almost an hour ago.”

“Saturday traffic,” suggested Bohn.

“He managed that well, once he was across the frontier.”

The delay, thought Hrádek, came before he reached Switzerland. What had caused it?

“Weren’t you having him followed all the way?”

“No,” Hrádek said shortly. Ludvik had failed all along the line. Mennery had left that Merano garage before there had been a man available to pick up his trail. Ludvik had been too busy with Krieger’s car. And all he had to show for it was Krieger’s bandaged hands. “There was no need. We had Stefan waiting where it was most necessary.” As for Ludvik—well, we shall deal with him later.

“Who’s Stefan? How did he get into the picture?”

“I put him there.”

“I wasn’t being curious,” Bohn protested. “Just slightly astounded.” And he was. “You’re amazing, Jiri.”

Hrádek relaxed into a smile. “Stefan reached Merano this morning. Early this afternoon I sent him into Switzerland. He prepared the ground, as it were, made sure some friendly eyes were alerted. Now, he is following the Mercedes. To its destination.” Hrádek glanced at his watch. “We should be hearing from him any minute.”

“And then?” Some of Bohn’s nervousness returned.

“He stays near Kusak’s house, instructs us how to reach there. We wait. Until the first signs of dusk, when there is enough light left to find the house easily. When it is dark, we move in.” He paused. “Simple. Surprise is always the winning factor.”

Move in
... Bohn didn’t like the sound of that phrase. Yet lie might as well face the unpleasant truth: it would take some tough persuasion to get Jaromir Kusak into a car and headed for the airport. He stared bleakly at the road ahead, now disappearing in a curve, blotted out by thick trees. His lips were dry. He should never have come, he ought to have refused. But how? Not possible, not without losing everything: his past stripped bare, exposed by subtle leaks to the American press; his future—no, he couldn’t even think about that. “And after we move in,” he said, “what happens?”

Hrádek looked at him as if he were a two-year-old child. “Whatever it takes,” he said softly. “I did not come here to fail.” Then, as he watched Bohn’s face, he added impatiently, “You have your own job to think about. Don’t worry about us. Not your department, as you keep reminding—”

At that moment, his radio signalled, and Hrádek’s attention switched to Stefan’s urgent voice. He lowered the volume for his ears alone, said, “Speak clearly. Yes, that’s better.” He listened in silence until the report was over. “Take that road! Yes, immediately. Before the light fades. And keep out of sight until we get there.”

Something wrong? Bohn wondered. But Hrádek still remained cool and efficient as he instructed the driver to start up and get moving. Almost in the same breath he was sending revised orders to Pavel and Vaclav. Once that was over, and their car was taking the curves and twists on a highway that had narrowed, seemed swallowed up by close hillsides and thick woods as the river plunged deeper into the valley, Hrádek turned to Bohn. His control slipped for a few seconds. He poured out a stream of violent Czech curses that paralysed Bohn into complete silence.

Then Hrádek’s control came back. “Stefan lost the Mercedes on one of the curves in this damnable highway. He kept on going till he had almost reached Pavel’s car. It was then he knew that the Mercedes must have crossed the river a little way back, and taken a side road on its right bank.” Stefan had also reported a new item of information: at least two people in the car, possibly three. Reinforcements, of course. Well, thought Hrádek, we can handle them. With Stefan and our two drivers, there will be six of us. Six-and-a-half, counting Bohn.

“Has he sighted the Mercedes again?” Bohn asked. Dusk would soon be here. By night a dark-green car would be hard to see.

“No.”

“Then we’ll never be able to find Kusak!” And all this nightmare for nothing, Bohn thought, all these endless hours I’ve been stretched on the rack.

“We’ll find him. The side road is short. It leads uphill. To that other Tarasp.”

Bohn’s face was drained of colour.

“The one with the castle. Remember?” Jiri Hrádek’s eyes were as hard as his voice.

David drew a quiet breath of relief once they reached the highway to Tarasp. He had taken a short cut down from the Swiss border, with a stretch full of hairpin bends that had produced a marked silence in the Mercedes. Now there was only, a steady ascent along the left bank of the Inn, flowing to meet them, and he could start concentrating on the next problem. One damned worry after another, he thought. He said, “Jo, you’re beautiful enough. Give me some help with this map.” He tossed it over to the back seat.

“You’re doing fine. Right highway, right direction,” Jo said. She went on brushing her hair to get some life back into it. Irina had already finished combing hers. Their faces and hands had been cleaned of dust and streaks; they looked presentable once more. “Better get rid of that raincoat, Irina. It’s a mess. I’ll lend you a cardigan. We can’t have you meeting your father like a—”

“Damn it,” David burst out, “check the map, Jo!”

“Tarasp lies south—on this highway. You can’t miss it.” But she dropped the hairbrush back into her suitcase. Never argue with a tired man, she thought, especially when he’s hungry. Food, that’s what we need; and hot baths; and some clothes that aren’t beginning to look straight out of a thrift shop. She opened the map, saw Tarasp at once. “Marked?” She was incredulous. “Wasn’t that—”

“My fault,” said Irina.

“An accident,” David said. “What do you see, Jo? Any side road leading out of Tarasp?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure?” His voice was sharp. “Krieger talked about an Upper Tarasp. That means two of them.” Sharing a hilltop with a castle, Krieger had said of the village. But a castle might not be visible until it was too late for David to make the right turnoff. He wanted no delay, no backing and searching.

“I see only one Tarasp, and that’s near the highway.” Jo reached into her suitcase. “I have a Swiss map—it may give more detail.” She spread it out. “Dave, can’t you ease up—just for a moment? This small print is really—” She broke off, concentrating more surely as their speed slackened. “Oh my, this
is
complicated.”

“Tell me.” David was resigned to the inevitable. He ought to have guessed that Krieger would never choose an assignation point that was easy to find: no village bang on a straightforward highway for Krieger.

Jo said. “How far are we from Scuol? Don’t you love those names?”

“We’ll reach it in ten minutes or less.” David was watching a motor-cycle that had almost caught up with them when they suddenly slowed down, and now had fallen back a little. It was a high-powered job that had been behind them for several miles. A Swiss cow-boy, he had thought, and expected the machine to zoom past them any moment. But it hadn’t. Given up the challenge? He wondered, and kept an eye on it.