Prelude to Terror (42 page)

Brigitte had no complaints about the change in plans. She only hoped her Ernst would be given the first patrol with Willi; three and a half hours of keeping watch, be should he in his own bed by midnight. Father Lackner and Hans would take over the eleven thirty to three o’clock shift. Dawn would be coming up after then, so Peter and August could manage easily even if the American had fallen asleep by that time. “Too bad Herr Fischer was delayed. When will he get here?”

Ada shrugged her shoulders. She laughed and said, “Have you ever known him to be on time?” She began beating the eggs for a large omelette.

“Is there really some danger, d’you think?”

“No. Now get on with that salad and arrange a cheese plate.”

“Then why all this fuss and bother?”

Ada tested the pan, found it hot enough. “Herr Fischer gets nervous with all these strangers coming into the village at week-ends. He worries about this house. Did you hear what happened last week-end at Oberdorf? The Brenner place was filled with a bunch of hippies—just moved in when the Brenners were in Italy, left with the silver and the paintings. It’s those motorcars, they make everything too easy.”

“Next thing we’ll all have to start locking our doors,” Brigitte predicted. “Didn’t Herr and Frau Brenner have someone to watch over their house when they’re away?”

“Too mean.” Not like Herr Fischer, who never counted the schillings. “And noses too high in the air.” Again, not like Herr Fischer: a pleasure to work for him. “Now, how does this look?” Ada slid the golden omelette on to a warm plate. “Ready?” Together, trays borne proudly, they marched into the big room.

“You were going to tell me about this job,” Avril said, as she halved the omelette. More eggs, she thought in dismay; I’ll have eaten enough of them today to last me for the next three weeks.

“Was I?” Grant’s smile was broad.

“Weren’t you?” she asked, all innocence. “Here, darling—you take some of this. Far too much for me. It’s gargantuan. If we don’t finish the omelette completely, they’ll think I didn’t like it.” He was scarcely listening, lost in thoughts far away from the food that was offered him.

“All right,” he began, pouring from the flask of white wine—two glasses had been tactfully brought—“here’s what Basset offered me.” He talked for the next fifteen minutes.

“You’ve got to take that offer, Colin.”

“Why?”

“Because you’d make a success of it.” Also, she thought, I saw the excitement in your eyes. Your voice was controlled, almost diffident; but your eyes, my darling, gave you away.

“I wonder.” But it was a challenge. And he needed that.

“Now you’re being too modest. Please, Colin, don’t talk yourself out of it. It’s just right for you.”

“What about you?”

“Me?” She tried to sound off-hand, concentrated on helping him to cheese and salad.

“Yes. We’d live near the museum. It’s pure country out there.” Not Paris, or London, or Vienna. “You’re a city girl.”

“Mostly,” she conceded. “It isn’t far from Washington, though. We could live there.” No we couldn’t, she thought, suddenly remembering his wife who had been murdered in a quiet Washington street. She bit her lip, tried to hide her distress.

He was silent. At last, he said slowly, “Washington isn’t all a bad memory. I had a lot of friends there, quite apart from the ones I shared with Jennifer.” The name was out, calmly spoken. “Sometimes, in those last few months I thought I was too quick to leave it. Running away is never any good, I suppose. The job at Schofeld’s was only marking time. No future in it—not the kind I wanted, anyway. As for New York—well, the old Greenwich Village crowd had scattered. And new friends?—Perhaps we’re all rushing about too much in New York, too many things to do, too little time to spend on the people you really want to know. The truth is, I was damned lonely. Kept thinking about the past because I didn’t see much future.” He shook his head. “Vienna certainly broke up that syndrome. I’m alive again.”

“Promise me,” she said quickly, “promise me you’ll stay that way. Whatever happens, now or later, you’ll put it behind you. Not keep brooding about it. Promise me?”

“Yes.” His voice tightened. “Whatever happens? Look, you are leaving your job by Christmas. No postponements, Avril. Don’t let Renwick persuade you—”

“He won’t. I’ll postpone nothing. What’s over is over.”

Grant thought he heard a touch of regret. Why not? he reminded himself. She had a career. He was asking her to break it off, leave it for ever. “What’s over is over,” he said. “We’ll both stick to that.” He looked round in annoyance as Ada’s solid step entered the room.

Ada said, “I’ll just clear away the trays. It’s almost time to leave. A quarter before seven, you said.” With no more changes of mind, she hoped. She looked at the plates, all nicely emptied, and smiled wholeheartedly. “Brigitte and I are ready when you are,
gnädiges Fräulein
.”

* * *

Ten to seven. Grant stood watching the three women as they took the shortest short-cut down to the Lackner farm. Ada and Brigitte were ahead, Avril following them. She turned to smile and wave, and then vanished with the others behind the trees.

“Only eleven hours,” she had said as they parted. “I’ll be ready and waiting for you. Oh, heavens! I forgot to call Bob. Will you?”

“I’ll do that.” He kissed her, silencing any other afterthoughts.

“Take care.”

“I’ll do that, too.”

“The Embassy’s number is 34-66-11,” she reminded him.

“Okay, okay. Now stop worrying.”

“But you’re alone here. Must you guard this house?”

“I must. And you know it.” He kissed her again, felt her warm body tremble against his. “I’ll have some good company. Ada says the first pair of Lackners will be up here by eight. We’ll probably spend the night playing skat and drinking beer. Now, pick up your feet and get the hell out, will you, darling?” With a hasty last kiss, he had sent her away laughing, running to catch up with her two guides, swinging the makeshift overnight bag as if she hadn’t a care in this world.

He turned and walked slowly back to the house. At the door, he looked over his shoulder. Nothing but silence, now, and the golden light of late evening, casting the trees into relief, deepening their shadows. He entered, feeling the sudden loneliness of the room. All right, he told himself: set to work. He had plenty to do.

First, he’d secure all doors and windows, close the shutters and drapes. He’d scatter the fire’s last embers, let it die out: no smoke from the chimney. Turn on no lights except one small lamp—Fischer’s idea of a house apparently in total darkness might be an advantage. Get a rifle from Fischer’s gun rack. There was one he had handled and felt comfortable with its balance—a pity he couldn’t fire a trial shot, find how true its aim was. When the first Lackners arrived, he’d be at the door to meet them. He knew where he’d like them posted: one watching that little road that came over the hill from Josefsberg; the other stationed at the trees on the south-east corner of the house while he himself would take position at the north-west corner. That way, they’d have a clear view of all sides of the house. It would be a long, cool night. He’d borrow Fischer’s loden cape to see him through it. Rest? Well thank God Avril was an expert driver: she could take the first part of tomorrow’s journey, let him catch up on his sleep for a couple of hours, spell him at later intervals. Yes, she could handle a car. He remembered the way she had driven him from the Capuchin Church on the day they had first met.

On the day they had first met... How short a time ago, yet so packed with shared experiences that it seemed as if he had known her for weeks, months. Known her? he wondered. It would take a lifetime to know a woman like Avril; perhaps never. Would she follow him to America, or would old ties be stronger than anything he could offer? He couldn’t even be sure of that. All he could do was trust.

Enough of this, he told himself, let’s get moving. And then he remembered he was supposed to call Renwick. He cursed the delay, but kept his promise.

Renwick was not there.

He tried Prescott Taylor and found him. Where the hell was Renwick? In Zürich by this time, en route to Geneva. Wouldn’t be back until Monday. Not a pleasure trip.

“Can you send him a message?” Grant asked. “Tell him that Grünau is blown. Marck learned about it around noon today. I’ve sent Avril down to the farmhouse. I’m staying here, with a couple of the Lackner boys.”

“At noon?” The imperturbable Taylor had lost his easy-going calm. “Better clear out.”

“Can’t. I’m responsible for this house. Fischer can’t get here—his car was stolen.”

“Good God.” Regaining his cool, Taylor said, “I’ll be up as quickly as we can get there.”

“No need.”

“No need, hell,” said the diplomat. “Just don’t take a pot shot at us when we arrive.” He hung up. Quickly, he telephoned Commissioner Seydlitz to ask for assistance in reaching Grünau—no extra manpower necessary, he was taking two Embassy guards along, but he’d be breaking the speed limit, didn’t want to be stopped and delayed. Seydlitz caught the urgency in Taylor’s voice, or perhaps the mention of Grünau was enough for that wise old dog. He said with his soft rumbling laugh, “Only the police can break the law.” Quietly he added, “You’ll have an escort within ten minutes. Soon enough?”

I hope so, thought Taylor as he began arranging for the guards and the car. Renwick might object to calling on Seydlitz for help, but how else did you make sure of reaching Grünau in one and a half hours? He’d be there by half-past eight. Renwick himself could have done no better. All the same, it was one hell of a way to spend Saturday night.

* * *

Grant was echoing that phrase as he began checking windows upstairs and down. The balconies around the top floor of the house were no longer a pleasant decoration but an infernal headache. Am I beginning to over-react? he wondered, as he left the shutter nearest the front entrance slightly ajar—just enough space to let him identify the Lackners when they came up to join him.

Now the house was secure. He scattered the last of the fire’s glowing embers, and went back to Fischer’s gun rack. The rifle, or that heavy shotgun?

“Arrived and waiting,” they had radioed back to him ten minutes ago. “Three kilometres before you reach Annaberg.” And Marck, keeping his rented Volvo to the steady, unremarkable speed which had brought him unnoticed all the way from Vienna, could congratulate himself.

This morning, he had nothing definite to move on. Then, at noon, the name of Grünau. By one o’clock, he had picked up the tape retrieved from Fischer’s office at the café he used as a drop. Within half an hour he was listening to Grant’s ’phone call to Leni, followed by the girl’s immediate call to Fischer—in Salzburg, at the Schwarzer Adler Hotel. How was that for a bonus? Yes, the risk he had taken in bugging Leni’s telephone had paid off handsomely. Equally brilliant was his decision to send Vera, still enjoying her Elsa Kramer success as cook-housekeeper in search of a job, on a small scouting expedition. Now the schoolteacher on holiday, she had arrived at Grünau by ten past four with her little Volkswagen and her versatile camera. She had left at six thirty, trailing along with the last of the departing tourists, drawing no attention, arousing no curiosity. On a lonely stretch of the Grünau road, she had stopped her car for a few last photographs and spoken quietly into her camera. Her report reached him as he drove towards Annaberg.

In Vera’s usual quiet way, she had given him the details he needed: length of time at regular speed limit to reach Grünau from Annaberg; size and location of village; bridge at end of main street leading to rough narrow road past farm. Large chalet on wooded hill behind farm, identified by café owner as Fischer’s place; road, not much used, continuing over hill to meet highway near Josefsberg. Unable to approach house: tractor blocking road in front of farm; two farmhands watching. Photographed bridge and returned to café at corner of main street—owner talkative (recent incomer, no friend of the farmer named Lackner); Fischer’s house reported unoccupied, but two cars also reported arriving together early afternoon; one large, dark blue; the second, small and black. Two men and chauffeur in big car; one man driving the other. Both cars allowed through roadblock. Café owner’s wife saw them depart—same blue tweed jacket in black car, leaving first; much later, the dark blue car—same two men with chauffeur. Café owner’s wife definite about this. Fischer’s chalet not clearly visible from village; must lie near narrow road to Josefsberg. Chimney smoke observed briefly when strong breeze dropped. As last seen, tractor still blocking road, two farmhands working around barn. Otherwise, no activity. Grünau quiet.

Yes, Marck could certainly congratulate himself on his choice of Vera. That report might seem simple to the uninitiated, but they didn’t know how much subtle questioning and delicate probing, all under the guise of chit-chat and harmless questions, had produced these bare details. (The best of his guidebooks had given Grünau three lines: charming village in Alpine setting; elevation 2,900 metres; population 409; Hotel Anny, inexpensive, 12 beds, 3 baths. Woodcarving. Eighteenth-century Church, undistinguished.) Nor did the café owner and his officious wife guess how skilfully they had been encouraged to talk by her enthusiasm for this delightful village. So there she was on her way back to Vienna, her camera now silent. She had passed him five minute ago, one of a series of cars driving homeward.

Six forty-five, and just ahead of him—three kilometres from Annaberg—he saw the Ferret standing at the edge of the wood that lined the highway. Simultaneously, the Ferret identified the car: dark green Volvo; high make, right colour. Quickly he moved back into the shelter of the trees.

Slowing down, drawing the Volvo off the road’s surface, Marck came to a halt. He left the two rifles, covered by a travelling-rug, on the back seat. Also the map, on which he had circled Josefsberg and marked the little third-class road with a pointing arrow as he listened to Vera’s quiet voice. Carrying his cap and radio transmitter—the Ferret and Turk had their own transceiver—he entered the broad trail into the woods, hurrying to overtake the sharp-faced Austrian. Barely ten paces from the highway, he caught his first glimpse of the silver Audi.