Prelude to Terror (32 page)

An additional comforting thought for Grant was the fact that Braun and Slevak had been steered by Renwick into the big kitchen to share the Winkelmans’ evening meal. No objections had been raised. Slevak could have second or even third helpings of Frau Winkelman’s excellent goulash. Like many thin men, he had an enormous appetite. As for Braun—he was having an amusing conversation with the prettiest daughter; he had, it seemed, a roving eye as well as an inquisitive ear. “How long has Braun worked for you?” Grant asked suddenly.

Renwick, who had just been reporting on a successful negotiation with Uncle Winkelman for the overnight rental of his Volkswagen, halted in some astonishment. “Off and on for the last three years. Been with NATO six years, now—no, seven. Escaped from East Germany in 1970 with his boy who was killed at the frontier—the kid ran ahead and stepped on a mine.”

“No wife?”

“Wife couldn’t leave—there was a sick baby. He’s been trying to get them out. No go.”

“Looks as if he’s beginning to forget her.”

Renwick nodded. “That surprised me a little, but perhaps it is just as well. He was turning bitter.”

“Did he come to Vienna with you and Avril?”

Renwick, now studying the map spread out between them to verify the situation of Grünau—yes, it wasn’t too far from here—looked up sharply. “No. Braun arrived only three days ago, a replacement for Slevak’s usual partner who was called back to Brussels.” His frown deepened as he waited for an explanation.

“Who arranged that replacement? The man who recalled Slevak’s partner?”

“In God’s name—” Renwick exploded.

“Okay, okay. Out of turn.” Grant waited for a few seconds, let Renwick regain his cool.

“How much do Braun and Slevak know about your mission here?”

“Nothing. They don’t need to know.”

“They know nothing about the Ruysdael? Or why Avril was kidnapped?”

“They weren’t even told she was working along with me. Their job is surveillance, when needed. Or to pitch in and help—as they did today.”

“Surely they must make a guess or two.”

“Don’t we all?” Renwick asked cryptically. “Mine, at this moment, are running wild. What the hell makes you ask about Braun? He’s reliable; does his job, asks no questions. Now let’s get on with our own business. Just why were you telephoning? What was so damned important?”

“I was trying to track down Fischer’s address in Salzburg.”

“But you told me he had already offered you his house at Grünau for the week-end. So why waste—”

“A matter of protocol. He’s a stickler for that. Also, it’s just as well that I warn him I’m taking him up on his invitation. We don’t want the neighbours putting in an alarm when they see lights in the Fischer house and smoke coming out of its chimney.”

Renwick pushed aside his coffee cup to make more room for the map. Grünau was at least a two-hour drive from Vienna, far enough—and certainly remote enough among its mountains—to be safe. Safety, that was his one worry. As for Helmut Fischer—he could be trusted, a thoroughly reliable type judging from the check that had been made on him. “He comes well recommended.”

“Fischer?”

Renwick nodded.

“Glad you’re satisfied.”

“Cut out the sarcasm, Colin. We had to be sure. Did you reach him on the ’phone?”

“I called his shop in Vienna and got his assistant, Leni. He’s in Salzburg for the Festival. She’ll relay my message there.”

“
What?
”

“Ease up, Bob. I disguised the message. But he’ll get it.” Renwick’s alarm ended. Quietly he asked, “What was the message?”

“She’ll tell Fischer that I am delighted to accept his invitation.”

“No mention of Grünau?”

“Not a syllable.”

“She didn’t overhear Fischer inviting you for the week-end?”

“No.” A worrying thought struck Grant: had Fischer told Leni, mentioned it in conversation? “Dammit all,” he said, suddenly angry, “surely we’ve got to trust someone? We can’t go around with suspicions of everyone.”

Now what touched him off? wondered Renwick. “Of course not,” he said mildly. He looked at his watch and then at the map. “I think you could make Grünau in just over an hour from here. So if you leave in the next ten minutes, you’ll reach it around eight o’clock. That’s when the long dusk starts to black out. You should be at the village just before night sets in.” That way you won’t get lost on a dark country road, he thought. “You can direct Braun to the house. When he gets back to Vienna, he’ll report to me. Tomorrow, I’ll get your luggage and Avril’s clothes out to Grünau. Though I wouldn’t be surprised,” Renwick added with a grin, “if she’ll find something wearable in Fischer’s guest-room.”

“We don’t need Braun. I’ll drive. Your car, or the Volkswagen?”

“My car. It has the power you’ll need. But you aren’t driving.”

“Why not?”

“Man, you’re dead on your feet! Think of the day you’ve just been through. Braun will—”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know why,” Grant said sharply. “It’s just a feeling. He was too damned interested in our talk about where Avril and I were going to stay.”

Too damned interested? Renwick’s frown was back. If Braun had been over-curious, Renwick had missed noticing it. Part of his exhaustion? Come to think of it, Grant’s suspicions could be laid to his own fatigue. And Renwick’s earlier warning to Grant—be careful, watch out, as our chief witness against Gene Marck and his crowd you’re in real danger—yes, that hidden warning might have set him, tired as he was, to imagining threats in every small incident. Only, it wasn’t like Grant to go off half-cocked. In the short but intense time that Renwick had known him, he had seemed to be competent and decisive, a man you could trust in a crisis. “All right. Let’s not waste time arguing,” Renwick said. “Slevak can drive you to Grünau. Braun will go with me.”

“No,” Grant said, pouring himself another cup of black coffee. “I’ll drive,” The odd thing was, his exhaustion had been dissipated and replaced by cold determination. He was good for another two hours. After that, he could sleep the clock round. “You square the bill and get Avril downstairs. I’ll see you both at the car.” He glanced at his watch—hell, he thought, here I go again measuring the minutes—and began studying the map once more, memorising each detail between here and Grünau.

Renwick raised an eyebrow. Just who is in command here? he wondered again. “What’s the location of Fischer’s house?” he asked softly.

“At the end of the main street, there’s a bridge; then a farmhouse. Keep on going uphill, curve round some trees. The house is on your right.”

“Stands alone?”

“Yes. But it isn’t far from the farmhouse.”

Renwick nodded approvingly. “I’ll send your luggage tomorrow without fail.”

“Not with—” Grant didn’t say Braun’s name.

“Not with—” Renwick agreed. He half smiled, shook his head, went off to make sure of the final details. Slevak was still in the kitchen finishing his last plum dumpling. Braun? He was out in the backyard. Talking to himself? Renwick could have sworn he had heard a subdued voice. But as his footstep crunched on the gravel, Braun turned round to face him. It was a cigar case he held in his hand, not a transmitter. He was extracting a cigar, now, biting off the end as he slipped the case back into his pocket and found a match.

“Nice evening,” Braun said. “Thought I’d get some air. Like a cigar, sir?”

“Thanks, don’t use them,” Renwick said brusquely. Dammit, he thought. Grant has got me distrusting my own men. This won’t do at all. “Time to move. Just check that the Volkswagen is tanked up.” Somehow he didn’t mention the change in plans. It was enough to tell Braun he was driving to Vienna once Grant and Avril were safely away. He met Slevak at the kitchen door, sent him running to join Braun, and grew angrier with himself by the minute.

* * *

Avril looked more normal. She was even feeling hungry now that they were about to leave. Bad timing, she told herself, and kept silent. She was puzzled, though. Just Colin and herself in Bob’s Citroën? And was Bob driving to Vienna packed into that decrepit Volkswagen with Braun and Slevak? Until now, she had paid little attention to what was going on around her. She had emerged from a nightmare and entered a state of complete daze that had lasted all through the journey to this house. Then sleep, so deep and undisturbed that she couldn’t even guess how long—or brief—it had been. But she had come out of it at the touch of a hand on her shoulder, a gentle, friendly hand. She had said to the smiling girl who was offering her the green dress that no longer looked like a crumpled rag, “Time to get up?” Just as if this was an everyday morning. To get up for what; or where was she going, or how? Here she was, beginning to ask questions again. That was some kind of proof, wasn’t it, that her mind was alive once more? I’m free of those drugs, she thought, free of those brain-stealing drugs. Even her legs were steady now; as Renwick led her down the narrow staircase she no longer felt she was walking over a waterbed. “I’ll be all right,” she told his watchful eyes.

He steered her towards the backyard, picked up a white plastic shopping bag he had left at the door. “I’ll check with you tomorrow—”

“Oh, yes—my report. It isn’t much. They didn’t learn—”

“I know that,” he said gently. “Just one thing puzzles me. How did they get into your apartment?”

She hesitated for a moment. “I opened the door.”

“You
what
? Without checking?” He was aghast.

“Well, I—” She paused again. “It was almost one o’clock. I expected Colin. I—” Once more she halted.

“Avril, Avril,” he said, shaking his head. “You can’t have it both ways.”

“It’s either—or?” She tried to smile. She was remembering Bob’s early warning: no emotional entanglements while we’re on a job; that can be deadly.

“Today proved that, didn’t it?”

They reached the Citroën. Colin Grant was already at the wheel, welcoming her with a broad grin. “Better take the back seat—you can catch more sleep there.”

“Better this one,” she told him, and stepped in beside him. “My job now is to keep you talking and awake.” She glanced at Renwick for his approval. I haven’t lost my wits altogether, she told herself. “Where are we going, anyway?”

Grant gave a flicker of a glance in Braun’s direction. Renwick said, “Hey, Colin—you didn’t pack away your driver’s licence in that suitcase of yours?”

Grant shook his head. His licence was one item that never left his wallet. He hadn’t the necessary Austrian permission to drive, though. Better not bring that up at this moment. Braun was looking longingly at the Citroën as if he wished he were behind the wheel. Of course, Grant told himself, some men become addicted to certain cars, can’t bear anyone else to handle them. He switched on the engine. It had a good sound.

“All set?” Renwick asked, and dropped the plastic shopping bag in Avril’s lap. Quickly, he tucked the grey cape she abominated more closely around her shoulders. “You’re stuck with it,” he told her, and won a real smile. “I’ll send your mink tomorrow.” That made her laugh. Yes, she is recovering, he thought, and waved. And they were off.

He turned away to climb into the Volkswagen. Braun wasn’t too happy about the car; neither was Slevak for that matter. Choosy blighters. “I’ll catnap,” he told them. “You drive like hell.”

“To the Embassy?” Braun asked.

“Why not?” Where I go from there will be my own business, Renwick thought, curling himself in the rear seat’s space.

“Quite a party we had today,” Braun said. “Wasn’t it?”

“That it was,” Renwick said, signalled a final goodbye to Uncle Winkelman. He closed his eyes, didn’t have to answer Braun’s next question. No post-mortems; no slipped information. Sleep was his best excuse.

The Citroën handled well. Grant skirted the town ahead, took the road for St Pölten. From there he had only to follow the highway that led away from the flat plains into the rising hills, aiming for Annaberg. Just beyond that village, he remembered, was the side road to Grünau with its encircling mountains. “An hour’s drive, and with luck we’ll be at Fischer’s house.”

“Helmut Fischer?” Her eyes were surprised. “Does he know of our invasion?”

“I relayed a message to him.” Watching her automatic disquiet, he added with amusement, “Don’t worry. I was careful.” There was a strange tenseness in her face. “Are you always so security-minded?” he teased, but the joke fell flat.

Barely audible, she said, “No, I forgot it today.”

“Well, it all ended well. Except for your wrist. How is it?”

She brushed that question aside. “And because I forgot, Bob had to be dragged away from Vienna. He ought to have been there this afternoon, in contact with Brussels and Geneva and—” She broke off, her voice strangling. “After so much work, so many weeks—” She didn’t finish.

“What’s in that package he dumped on your lap?” At least the question had switched off her outbreak of emotion. She wasn’t really back to normal, yet. He concentrated on the road as she opened the shopping bag and began pulling out its contents.

She found two wrapped sandwiches, miniature bottles of Scotch and brandy, a thick slab of chocolate, cigarettes, an imitation-silk scarf with Lippizaner horses prancing around its borders and Vienna’s emblem complete with motto in its centre, a comb, a compact and lipstick, a package of paper handkerchiefs, and—right at the bottom of the bag, the heaviest item of all—a .22 calibre automatic with a silencer.

“Where did he scrounge all that?” Grant was grinning broadly, but he wished he had thought of it. He hadn’t. Where had Renwick found the time? He glimpsed the pistol. “That’s Frank’s.”

A reminder of danger, she thought: all right, Bob, I’m listening to you. She replaced it in the bag, and dropped it out of sight. She combed her hair, twisted the present-from-Vienna scarf around her head, looked in the compact’s mirror. “I’ll have a yellow face,” she predicted: the compact’s powder was a deep tan, one to be avoided by her fair complexion. The lipstick was scarlet—another colour she never wore. She applied it lightly. “It’s supposed to make one feel better,” she said with a smile. “Actually, I think I’ll have a sandwich.” She offered the other, but he refused. “Scotch? Brandy?”