Prelude to Terror (43 page)

The Ferret halted, swung round to block the path. There’s a knife concealed in his hand, thought Marck, and produced a bright green handkerchief folded into a triangle, initials B.L. clearly stitched in black. The Ferret nodded, slipped the knife back into his cuff, smiled thinly, and began removing the Graz plate that had covered the Audi’s Vienna number. Turk, short and massive, had already stripped most of the thin line of red adhesive tape that had trimmed the car’s sides. So that’s how they had done it. “Any difficulties?” Marck asked.

Turk said nothing, just eased off the last of the tape from the door panel. The Ferret said, “None. Avoided the towns and police stations. Kept to side roads and villages. Took us an hour longer, though.”

“It was well timed.” Briskly, Marck gave them their next instructions. The Ferret pursed his lips, exchanged a look with Turk; if they had hoped they would be driving home to Salzburg, they made no other comment and listened intently. “Now get to it!” ordered Marck. “Half-past seven. Map is in the car. Keys are in place.”

“Guns?” the Ferret asked. “We couldn’t risk carrying them—might have been stopped and searched by the police.”

“Rifles on back seat. Grenades in boot. Hurry! Be there at seven thirty. And wait for my signal!”

“We’ll be there. We’ll wait,” the Ferret said.

“Check your time: six fifty-four.”

The Ferret synchronised his watch as he moved, his step light and sure, back towards the highway. Turk crushed the cards of narrow tape into a large untidy ball, and as he lumbered after the Austrian, he threw it behind the nearest bush. Just like Turk, Marck thought; his room will be a pigsty but he can drive a car full speed over the roughest road and handle a rifle with deadly precision.

The Volvo left, a smooth performance, with Turk at the wheel. The Ferret would be studying the map, cursing the hairpin bends they’d have to ascend before they neared Josefsberg. Between them, they’d make the rendezvous on time. They had better, Marck thought grimly. He himself had at least fifteen minutes to spare. It was now six fifty-six. Slowly, he smoked two cigarettes. Then, straightening his cheap navy jacket, adjusting the black tie to sit more smoothly under the ill-cut collar of his white cotton shirt, he got into the Audi and switched on its engine. Carefully he backed on to the highway. Luck was holding: no car in sight. He took a last look at himself in the rear-view mirror as he cocked his chauffeur’s cap in place, and was satisfied. His hair, combed straight back, was a credible deep brown, almost black, and the matching moustache looked natural. So did his darkened eyebrows and lashes. All part of the morning’s preparations, an hour well spent; not even the Ferret’s sharp eyes would recognise him once he returned to normal.

At a steady speed, easy, unhurried, he drove towards Annaberg. As soon as he was on the Grünau road, he would accelerate to the legal limit of 100 kilometres an hour, making a perfectly natural and unremarkable approach to the village at the head of the valley.

In the Lackners’ kitchen, the evening meal was over. The men, except for Willi and Hans who had been sent grumbling out to the barn, still sat around the table. Avril, banished politely to a window seat at the other end of the crowded room, her offers to help Frau Lackner and her bustling team of girls smilingly refused, could only try to make herself as unobtrusive as possible. Her welcome had been kindly though brief. I am, in fact, a perfect nuisance, she told herself. Just as Fischer’s request had been even more of an imposition. Saturday night and the men couldn’t drop down to the village, have their usual talk over a flask of wine at the local
Weinstüberl
or take their girls for a stroll through the woods. But the Lackner family, whatever their own private disappointments, were scrupulously correct, trying not to look too much in her direction, disguising their appraisal of her face and clothes, pretending to ignore her. And none of them, except Ernst Lackner himself, were taking this upset in their usual routine very seriously.

He was now pairing them off, giving them the times for their patrols. Good-naturedly, they accepted his instructions, although their rough jokes had a slight edge of sarcasm. Perhaps, thought Avril, they are right. Fischer over-reacted. The warmth of the kitchen, the lingering smell of good food, the talk increasing in volume as bellies were filled and tired muscles relaxed, all added to the feeling of security. It was easier to be tense and worried when there were only two of you in an enormous room in an empty house—and what was Colin feeling, quite alone up there? Down here, with this cluster of shirt-sleeved men crammed shoulder to shoulder around a table, with Frau Lackner and her girls scurrying between kitchen and parlour where the baked feast for tomorrow’s funeral was now being laid out, danger seemed remote, unbelievable. Even the golden evening, last lingering touch of a flaming sun as it sank behind western mountains, breathed peace.

The laughter was loud and increasing. They were joking now about the way their father had made them work today. He was having none of it. “There’ll be rain by tonight. I can smell it. The wind’s from the south and the clouds are thickening. High winds and heavy rain. The fields will be flattened—take three weeks to dry out. By Tuesday, floods. Everywhere. Not just here. You mark my words.”

Avril thought of tomorrow’s journey through the Gesäuse, and looked out of the window. Half an hour ago, even less, the clouds had been white fluffs tinged with pink, reflecting the approach of sunset. Now she saw that they had indeed thickened, grouping more closely together, joining into a heavy mass. Their apricot glow had faded, was streaked with grey, their outlines shaded black. Even on a bright clear day, the Gesäuse—well-named—was a place where the winds were never at rest: a narrow valley, but deep through towering stone peaks, with scarcely space for a road beside its swift-running river. In a violent rainstorm—if Herr Lackner’s sense of smell was to be trusted—it would be a difficult route. A tree uprooted, a rock fall, visibility only six feet ahead: more than difficult. Dangerous. Bob Renwick’s timetable could be bogged up to its armpits in a mud-slide. If Herr Lackner was right. He probably was—you didn’t live among mountains for fifty years without getting some weather sense. She had better be ready for six tomorrow morning with an alternative route to Bad Ischl. Was there one? All right, she told herself, start studying Bob’s map once more. It was in the plastic shopping bag that she had kept beside her, unwilling to let good-natured Anna or young Minna unpack it helpfully—she was sharing their room tonight. So she rose now, the bag safe in her hand—how would all those merry blue eyes look if they knew a little automatic was packed under her nightdress and toothbrush?—and began bidding them good night.

“Time for everyone to get to bed,” Frau Lackner said. “Off with you, every one of you. Except Willi and Hans who’ll go up to the big house. Right, Father?” Some small protests and a frown from Brigitte in her husband’s direction, but there was a general movement away from the table. “
Gute Nacht, angenehme Ruhe
,” Frau Lackner called after Avril, who was already mounting the steep narrow stairs, praying that she could have ten minutes to herself before whirlwind Minna came bursting into the little room. As she entered and closed the door, she heard the sound of a car. She paid little attention, absorbed as she was in spreading the map over her narrow cot, until she heard a loud sharp whistle from the barn and a clatter of feet downstairs. Curiosity drew her to the window. A silver Audi had pulled up, right in front of the tractor.

Blank astonishment gave way to a smile. So Helmut Fischer had found his car, and taken off like a hummingbird. He had made good time, too—surprisingly good; but, of course, he was bound to know the quickest route from Salzburg. It was a handsome car, jaunty and streamlined. No wonder he had been in such a flap when he thought he had lost it. She couldn’t see him—he was at the wheel, talking with Hans who had reached the Audi, while Willi stood by the tractor. How slow they are, she thought, as Willi made no effort to climb into its driver’s seat. Nor was Minna dashing up through the wood to let Colin know of the unexpected arrival. Instead, she was following her father who, still in shirt-sleeves, was striding down to the road with his dog at his heels and a shotgun under his arm. Was all this to impress Herr Fischer? she wondered. The smile left her face. There was too much talk down there. Look, Mr. Fischer, you don’t have to recount all of your adventures today, they’ll keep for tomorrow; get up to your house, Helmut! Start telling your amusing stories to Colin, will you? He needs a few laughs.

She wasn’t the only one puzzled by the long roadside chat. From underneath her window, a buzz of questions and guesses came drifting up from the front door. From the babble of sound came a voice (Peter’s) asking, “Well, who is he?” Complete silence as if no one had any answer. Peter stepped out a few paces, calling to his father, “Need some help?”

Who is he?
Not Fischer? Who? Avril’s spine tightened. Then, as Ernst Lackner waved his son back, replied to some comment from the man in the car and raised a loud laugh, Avril relaxed. All must be well, for Lackner was signalling to Willi to start moving the tractor, and Minna was sent racing towards the house.

“Father’s coat, father’s coat,” Minna called out. Reaching the family group, she explained in a rush of words, “Father’s taking him up to the big house, showing him the way.”

“What was so funny about that?” demanded Frau Lackner as she unhooked a heavy jacket from the back of the door and lifted Ernst’s battered green hat from its peg.

“He just likes a good laugh.” Minna took the coat and hat and turned to leave.

Peter caught her arm. “Who is this joker?”

“The Berensons’ man—Werner. Herr Fischer sent him ahead because Herr Fischer is driving up with the Berensons,” Minna announced.

Her mother was appalled. “They’re coming here? And where will Frau Berenson stay? Packed into your room with the English miss? Herr Fischer is crazy. Why, the Berensons needed two whole bedrooms for themselves when they came up here last September.”

Berenson—Berenson? Avril caught her breath as she remembered the name. Colin had spoken it, heard it from Fischer, who had passed it on from Leni: a cook-housekeeper, false claims, and the Berensons on holiday. Avril was about to call out a warning, then smothered it abruptly. The Berensons might be out of Vienna for the summer, but that didn’t mean they weren’t in Salzburg for the Festival. And they were definitely Fischer’s friends. That much was certain. Worriedly, she watched the tractor backing towards a section of the narrow road where the deep ditches decreased enough to allow it to jolt on to a stretch of grass. Yet the car’s engine wasn’t switched on, ready to leave. The driver seemed to have time to spare; no sign of impatience, no haste. Another joke, another laugh. It sounded easy and natural. Avril relaxed once more, thinking now that she would have cut a very comic figure with these solid characters if she had let out a scream of alarm.

She had lost the thread of Frau Lackner’s next question—there were several, actually, locked together as one, but she heard Minna’s clear reply. “They’ll soon be here. Just behind him, Werner said. Unless the champagne keeps on popping.”

“Minna!” Frau Lackner was shocked.

Indignantly, Minna said, “That was
his
joke.” She raced away to deliver the coat and hat. She returned more slowly, her brows down, still smarting from the open rebuke. “I wasn’t saying Herr Fischer drinks too much.” An open guffaw from one of her brothers made her angrier. “Well,” she said, turning on him, “there is plenty of champagne at big parties. And this was a very big reception. Opera stars and conductors and everyone who—”

“Stop the car!” Avril cried out. “Stop it!” But the Audi was already rounding the curve to climb the tree-lined road. Below her window, faces looked up, astounded, uncomprehending. She reached the cot, grabbed the plastic bag and sent its contents spilling. She seized the automatic and ran. As she pelted down the wooden stairs and jumped the last three, the group crowding the front door turned to stare in silent wonder. The back entrance, she decided, the quickest way, and she kept on running through the kitchen.

“Something wrong?” Peter yelled after her.

“Yes,” she shouted back, and startled Young Ernst and Brigitte, who were having a quiet nuzzle in the kitchen’s darkest corner. Young Ernst drew apart with a curse, froze as he saw the gun in her hand. Abruptly she halted, remembering the telephone. “Call the big house. Warn Grant. Quick—call him!”

“But why?” and “What’s wrong?” came the questions.

“Fischer wasn’t at any reception!” With that, she was out into the back porch and through its door. Will they telephone? Or argue about it? Think I’m crazy? I ought to have explained more, but there was no time. How long did it take me to get the automatic and come downstairs? Too long perhaps. The evening chill struck at her shoulders, and she shivered.

In the kitchen, Young Ernst and Peter exchanged a long look. Then they moved. “Telephone!” Peter told his mother as they pulled on their jackets, jammed on their hats, picked up their shotguns, pocketed a handful of shells.

Anna made the call. “Engaged,” she said, as the busy signal bleeped in her ear. “What do we do? Keep trying?”

“Of all things—” her mother broke out, anger disguising her anxiety. “What’s the American thinking of?” (At that moment, he was waiting patiently by Fischer’s desk. “Just one moment,” the voice from the American Embassy had said. “Mr. Taylor left an important message for you. His secretary will give it to you. Please hold.” So he held. Always the way, he thought: you dash to answer the telephone and some bright voice asks you to wait. And wait. And wait.)

Half across the field, Young Ernst and Peter raced to catch up. The English girl was ahead of them, running like a deer, taking the short-cut through the wood up to Fischer’s house.

* * *

Marck drove the Audi past the tractor, gave a friendly wave to the farmer’s lout, and hid his anger. Everything had been going well, he thought. Sure I arrived early, ahead of schedule, but better to have time to spare than risk being late. No appearance of hurry, no sign of urgency. Yes, everything had been going well until this peasant said he’d show me the way. Out of suspicion? That may just be his nature. In any case, he won’t be difficult to deal with. In fact, he could be an advantage if I use him properly. I don’t like that shotgun, though. The farmer’s quick eyes had noticed his glance. He tried to joke it away. “First time I’ve ever had an armed escort.”