Snare of the Hunter (7 page)

“Give or take half an hour,” he cut in. She was full of instructions, this girl.

“I’ll be winetasting under the vines in the back garden. It’s heady stuff, so don’t be late.”

“No, ma’am,” he managed to insert before she hung up quickly.

“Goddammit,” he said as he gathered up the maps and guide-book, locked his bag. The telephone was ringing again, but this time with a brief call from the desk. “I’ll be down,” he told the porter. He made one last hasty check around the room—incredible how well you could tuck yourself into a place in eight short days—and then he was on his way.

* * *

The steady drive to the outskirts of Vienna had been easy; the small detour to Grinzing a little more complicated. David felt some satisfaction when he managed to arrive at five minutes past two. He parked the car, freshened up in a washroom littered with the debris of departing tourists, and found his way to the garden behind the inn. Jo was there, as promised, looking fresh and untroubled in a simple white dress. Strangely, she didn’t seem out of place either, sitting in a vine-covered alcove with the sunlight playing gently through the leaves overhead. The garden was large, filled with close-packed tables and benches: only half of them were now occupied, none near her. In front of her was a thick goblet half-empty, and a carafe of white wine misted over with the warmth of the day. It was almost full, he noted as he reached her. Well, he thought with relief, no apologies necessary: she can’t have been here for long. “Well timed,” he said, putting out his hand for a quick, polite shake. “And congratulations on the table.” Then his smile turned to a look of surprise. She was still holding his hand.

“I think this is necessary,” she said. “The waitress would never forgive you if you weren’t demonstrative. She helped me get this alcove. She was beginning to worry about me—a romantic soul.”

“And what did you tell her to get this table?” He tightened his grip. If anyone was going to hold hands, he’d do it, thank you. He slid on to the bench beside her. “Let me know when you get a cramp.”

“I’ve got to eat,” she said as she pulled her hand loose. And the food was already arriving on an enormous tray, balanced on the shoulder of a middle-aged and ample blonde in a dirndl costume.

“So soon?”

“I took the liberty of ordering,” Jo said. “I told her you’d be hungry. Besides, there wasn’t much choice left. Pork or veal. I chose veal. Okay? Just as well to get all the service over, and then we can really talk. How was the journey?”

“Fine.” A hot-plate, with its warming candle lit, was being set before him.

“And how was the music? Up to standard?” Down went the large platter, piled with schnitzel, on the hot-plate.

“Definitely.” At this moment Salzburg seemed very far away. A deep plate of sliced cucumbers afloat in marinating liquid was expertly placed. Slices of black bread. Another heavy goblet along with another carafe.

“Darling,” said Jo, “it really is so
wonderful
to see you!” If she had wanted to get his attention away from the speed of the service, she certainly managed it. He smiled appropriately, kept his eyes fixed on her face, and hoped the waitress would think it devotion. A clatter of heavy plates, a rattle of knives and forks, the slap of two small checked napkins on the wooden table, and with one last understanding beam from the waitress and a parting good wish for their appetites—they were left to themselves.

“What
did
you tell her about us?” he insisted. “Am I supposed to be stealing you away from a jealous husband?” That would be in the best light-opera tradition, and all Vienna loved its Strauss.

“I didn’t have to say much.” Jo was unexpectedly embarrassed. “I just lowered my eyes and blushed a little.”

He had a sudden suspicion. “How long were you waiting for me?”

“Well—I wanted to be sure of this table, and there was still a crowd to cope with.”

“How long?” he repeated.

“Oh, about half an hour. Perhaps a little more. You see, I couldn’t time my arrival very well. So—” She shrugged her shoulders.

If so, that was the only thing she couldn’t do well. “Look,” he said with some asperity, “I can serve myself. Heap your own plate first.”

“Mr. Mennery, we are in the land of dutiful women. Relax and enjoy it while it lasts.”

He took a long drink of wine. A little sweet, but light and pleasant.

“It slips up on you,” she warned him. “Strange how a young wine—it’s practically straight from the press—can pack a stronger punch than a vintage year.”

“You seem to be holding up well. Not a consonant slurred.”

She bridled at last. “I have drunk exactly half a glass.”

In spite of himself, he was amused. “Then you’re a magician to hold this table for three-quarters of an hour at the price of one small carafe of wine.”

“That’s my second. I emptied the other out behind me. It’s all right. No one saw. Besides, it wouldn’t harm the vine roots.”

He laughed outright. “No damage done. It will probably strengthen the flavour of the next batch of grapes.”

“Our waitress is delighted,” she reported. “She now thinks I’ve quite forgiven you for almost standing me up.”

“Is she so important?” he asked, still amused.

“Everyone is important. And even more so in this little game we are now playing.”

A game? Was that what it was to her? Something to break the monotony of her social rounds? Something new, something different? He concentrated on the paper-thin veal cutlet encrusted in egg and bread crumbs. It was always palatable in Austria, even digestible.

She was studying him. “Sorry there are no anchovies on top: I guess they’ve run out of them. But cheer up—the zither music doesn’t start till the evening.”

“I like zither music in its home base.”

“So do I,” she agreed. “I love all of this. But just now and again,” she added quickly, “not as a permanent diet.”

Like the game we are now playing, he thought. “Breaks the monotony?”

She had sensed something in his voice. She frowned, helped him to the cucumber salad, didn’t splash any of the liquid dressing over him. “One of the reasons we met here was an idea I had. I thought it would be useful if we could get to know a little about each other before we started work tomorrow.”

It wasn’t a bad idea at all, he admitted to himself. “What are the other reasons?”

She dropped her voice. “We had to make a change in plans. Krieger is being followed.”

He looked at her quickly.

She went on, low-voiced, calm and business-like. “So he has pulled out of the Sacher, and I’ve been told not to contact you there, and we can’t have that little meeting in your room tonight, as he had planned. He’s still in Vienna, of course, keeping an eye on things, but he’s lying low. He even called Bohn to Vienna.”

“Bohn here too?”

“This morning. And delighted to be of help. He was in London last week-end, trying to persuade Uncle George and Hugh McCulloch to let him accompany them to the happy reunion of Jaromir Kusak and his daughter. Big story, and Mark Bohn is going to get it.” She laughed softly. “Can’t keep a sharp journalist down: he’ll bounce up every time.”

“What’s Bohn going to do here? Travel with us?”

She shook her head. “Krieger needed him to make two telephone calls for him. To the number that Irina gave Bohn in her letter to him. Remember?”

As if I’d ever forget, he thought. “The Janocek identification routine?”

“Why
two
calls?”

“Right.”

“Krieger is cautious. The first one is to warn Irina to get ready to leave. And also to find out just how much time her friends will need to drive her by car from the place where she has been hiding to the Opera House.”

The Opera House was a central location, with plenty of traffic around it and busy streets leading to it. And the Sacher was close by—just at the back of it, actually. That makes things simple for me, thought David: no chance of losing myself in Vienna streets on my way to pick up Irina.

“You see,” Jo was explaining, “we have no idea of where Irina actually is, whether outside the city or within it. So the only way—”

“I’ve got that. Their estimated time will give us a basis for our own calculations, and we can arrive on the spot—with luck—almost simultaneously. And I suppose Bohn’s second call is to give Irina the exact time to leave for the Opera House?”

“He’ll make the call tomorrow morning, give her five minutes to leave. But her friends won’t bring her to the Sacher. That’s too noticeable. They’ll be told to drop her at the Opera House, and it’s only a short block to—”

“—The hotel? She’s walking there to meet us? That’s insane, absolutely insane.”

She said coldly. “Far from it. She won’t enter the hotel. She’ll walk into the café from its street entrance. And that’s where you’ll see her.”

“Look—it would be safer and simpler if I just parked tomorrow near the front of the Opera House, waited until I saw her being dropped from her friends’ car at the corner, cruised along, and then—”

“Can you be sure of identifying her at a distance? She won’t be dressed the way you remember her.”

He hesitated. “Have Bohn give exact instructions about where they are to let her out of the car. I’ll be at that very spot.” He drew a deep breath. “And I can recognise her if I’m near enough to see her face.”

“You’ll do that in the café.”

“Why there?” he asked angrily.

“Because you’ve got to make sure that she
is
Irina, and not a substitution. Not some girl from the Czech secret police who’s a good imitation of Irina’s last photograph. I’ve seen it—Krieger has a copy—but I couldn’t really know if she was authentic. And you will know, won’t you?”

“Yes,” he said at last. “I’ll know.” There was another pause. “And if she’s not Irina—what then?”

“Dump her. Leave her sitting at a café table. We want no part of this escape attempt unless it’s for real.”

“I just rise and walk out?” he asked unbelievingly. “Or I could say, ‘Hell, no, you’re a damn fake. Find your own way back across the frontier!’”

“You don’t rise, because you won’t be sitting down. Let me explain—” She paused as she noticed the waitress coming their way. “Later. I’ve also got some other instructions for you.”

I bet you have, he thought.

“From Hugh McCulloch this time,” she said, and her dark-blue eyes smiled. “Let’s skip the strudel and have a gallon of coffee. Okay with you?”

“Of course,” he said. Was there any other choice? But he did notice that she let him do the ordering. “Didn’t you say McCulloch was in London last week-end?” he asked, once the food had been cleared away. The waitress was shaking her tight blonde curls at their small appetites. He hoped she would blame that on unrequited love (Act II, Scene 3).

“Yes. All arrangements are completed with Uncle George. Hugh is in Geneva now.”

“Is that where we are heading once we leave Vienna?” Central, Hugh McCulloch had called it. But would Kusak have chosen Geneva for his hiding place? Too many exiles were there already.

“I don’t know.”

“We still don’t know?”

“You and I don’t. Safety precaution. Uncle George is strong on security.”

“Uncle George—you mean Sylvester? Kusak’s publisher?”

“Yes. And he
is
my uncle.”

That was a mild surprise. “So that’s how you got enlisted. I wondered.” We are all friends of Jaromir Kusak, McCulloch had said. “Do you know Kusak?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve actually met him?”

“In London, when he was staying with Uncle George almost four years ago. But that’s the kind of story we can keep for later. Now, I’d better remember all Hugh’s instructions. In the right order, too.” She stirred her coffee, allowed one spoonful of whipped cream. “Now, where was I? Really, you can be disconcerting.”

That makes two of us. He said, “We were driving to some place called Nowhere.”

“West will be our general direction, if that’s any help.”

“I didn’t think we’d be driving south to Yugoslavia.”

“Hugh wants you to head for Switzerland.”

“Because it’s so central?”

“Well, it is! And it has a choice of good airports in various places too. We won’t be driving all the way to—well—wherever it is. It could be Paris or Rome. I imagine, and this is only my hunch, that we get to Switzerland first and then we’ll be told what airport to reach, and after that we fly out. It’s simple enough: we keep on going until we get Hugh’s final instructions from Geneva.”

“I could suggest even a simpler plan: pick Irina up and drive straight to the Vienna airport. It’s new, and big, one of the best in Europe.”

“And it is being watched. You can bet on that. As the railroad stations in Vienna are being watched. Perhaps even the Danube boats too. No, you see, the point is that the greatest danger for Irina is anywhere near Czechoslovakia, and Vienna is only about thirty miles away. Not much more. The further west we get, the looser the net will be. The sooner we reach Switzerland, the safer.” She took a deep breath. “That is Hugh’s judgment, and Krieger agrees.”

“They’re possibly right,” he admitted as he thought it over. “Any special instructions on our route?”

“Krieger is working out our first stop now. After that, you will have to choose the best roads. I think we’d better avoid the logical way through Innsbruck.”

“Too simple?” he suggested with a smile.

“Too clogged. At this time of year everyone is travelling in their pretty new automobiles. There were traffic jams yesterday, as long as three hours at a time, all through that valley. And if you’re thinking of detouring through southern Germany and coming down into Switzerland from the north—well, only two days ago I was in a line of cars seven miles long at the German-Austrian frontier.”

“Sounds as though I were back on the Long Island Expressway.” Seriously, though, bumper-to-bumper traffic was always a strain, and with Irina in the car it would be worse than that. Her nerves wouldn’t be too good, these days.

Jo had opened her bag, a nice capacious travelling pouch in the smartest black Gucci leather. “Which reminds me, you’ll need a map.”

“I have several, thank you.” Not very adequate. He hadn’t had time to shop in Salzburg for the map he wanted. He’d find it in Vienna.