“So he has been out of touch with them?”
“Completely.”
“And Yates?”
“He bowed out from British Intelligence in 1947. He had been given nothing important to do for almost a year, which means that the British couldn’t have been too sure about him. It was all done very quietly, of course.”
“Too quietly, it seems now.”
Nield looked as if he agreed with that, but resisted any comments and went on with his facts. “He went back to teaching science in school. Then he left for a job in Tokyo, as science editor of an English-language magazine, and branched into running a scientific digest quarterly that was published in Geneva. He came to visit America just over six years ago, in time to impress your Mr. Newhart, who was looking for an international-minded representative in Zürich.
His qualifications seemed good, I admit. But as far as being an agent for the British—well, their answer to that question was ‘Not on your life!’ Which,” added Nield with a shake of his head, “is a piece of advice that poor Bryant should have heard.” He stubbed out his cigarette in the heavy smoked-glass ashtray that lay on the coffee table. He seemed to be studying its shape. He spun it around slowly. “You will see Mrs. Bryant, won’t you?”
“Possibly.”
“She might have the answers to a lot of questions.”
“She might. But I don’t intend to ask them.”
“Why?”
“Do you want her killed, too?”
“She may be killed if she doesn’t get proper protection. Her husband needn’t have died, you know. Not if he had been in touch with us or the British. You just don’t go out alone to find—” Nield cut off abruptly. “Not nowadays,” he went on. “You need people with you, and behind you; you need a lot of help when you are up against a well-organised machine. The Nazis may be scattered and they may be few—at present, anyway. But one thing they have always been, and that’s organised.”
“So you believe the Nazis killed Bryant?”
“It’s likely.” Nield gave the ashtray one last gentle spin. He looked up at Mathison. “You had better know one certainty before you visit Bryant’s house again. It will be watched. And anyone who seems to be closely connected with Mrs. Bryant is going to be watched.”
“I’ve already been watched,” Mathison reminded him curtly.
“Possibly the Austrians were checking on you. That’s
understandable in the circumstances. They are neutrals, you know. But what you could face now is not just surveillance by a neutral country protecting its interests. It could very well be Nazis, and that is another matter entirely. If they’ve been guarding certain lakes in Austria and Czechoslovakia for more than twenty years, they aren’t going to let their secrets be discovered now—at least, not without exacting their own price. It may be no more than five years before they judge the time to be ripe for them to come out into the open. And when that happens, they don’t intend to come ill-prepared. What they have saved from the past, they’ll keep. If they can.”
“Bluntly, you’re saying that if the Nazis did kill Bryant, because he was edging too close to one of their secrets, then they’ll eliminate anyone else who might just share his knowledge.”
“Exactly. I hope for Mrs. Bryant’s sake—if she does know anything—that she’s playing absolutely dumb.”
Mathison said with a touch of sarcasm, “Until, of course, you can start protecting her.” And what guarantee could there be, anyway?... Dear Mrs. Bryant, we assure you that you’ll be safe for a month. Or would you prefer six months? There is nothing to fear, believe us... “And how the hell do you manage that?” he asked angrily. Damned if I go near Salzburg, he thought. I’ll write her a business letter, enclose the photographed documents for her files. Period. I’m not going to push her into further danger.
“First, we have to learn whatever she knows. Then we can work out a plan to find whatever Bryant was searching for. We’ll take the action. And she’ll be protected, because we won’t let her seem to be connected with us in any way. Don’t worry about that.”
“What if she doesn’t want to tell you anything?”
“Then we’ll have to act on our own. And so will three or four other interested countries. It could be a nasty mess. The Nazis might be the only winners.” Nield reflected for a long moment. “My own fear is that Anna Bryant or her brother—Johann Kronsteiner—will try to go it alone, and they’ll fail. Just as Bryant failed. That would be the real disaster for her.”
“Go it alone?”
“Sell to the highest bidder,” Nield said shortly.
“She didn’t strike me as that kind of—”
“What about her brother? He could persuade her. She sounds the dependent type—the type of woman who leans on someone else. With Bryant gone, who is she going to lean on?”
“She may have more strength than you think,” Mathison said. He was remembering her flight from the Dietrichs’ house, her insistence on staying in her own home.
“Let’s hope the Nazis don’t hear you say that,” Nield said grimly. “Her best chance at present is to look completely helpless. And totally ignorant.”
Mathison rose, paced the narrow length of his living room for a couple of turns. His anger was cooling and, with it, his resolve to change his plans, not go anywhere near Salzburg, not ask Anna Bryant any questions. He would have to go. He had no intention of probing into her private business, but someone had to warn her to keep quiet. Someone had to tell her she shouldn’t trust people as quickly as she had trusted him. “I’ll try to see her and persuade her to play innocent. That won’t be difficult for her. She is an innocent.” He turned back to face Nield. “You may not like it, but I’m going to advise her to forget all about anything her husband told her—for her own safety.”
“That’s a start at least,” Nield said amicably. The important thing was to reach Anna Bryant. She would decide for herself. He rose, looking pointedly at his watch. “Don’t tell me our aerial artist is going to be late.” But Lamberti was already ringing the door bell. Mathison broke off staring at Nield, went to answer it. Either Nield is a good loser, he was thinking, or I’ve just agreed to what he wanted done in the first place.
Lamberti was regretful. “The super followed me up on to the roof, wanted to see what I was about. He says he won’t have any more yards of spaghetti dangling down the side of his building. So no aerial. Too bad.” He picked up his box of tools and handed the looped length of line to Nield. “Ready? I bet you can’t wait to get out of that fancy dress.” To Mathison, he said with a wide grin, “Chuck is really the diplomat type. You may find it difficult to recognise him next time you meet. Well, good luck with your journey. You won’t forget what I told you?”
“Phone number, no. Keller, yes.”
“That’s it. Good-bye.”
“Auf Wiedersehen,” Nield said.
Mathison turned off his record player, closed the windows, and then stood looking out into the street for a few minutes. Put together the various small pieces of information that Nield had discreetly dropped here and there, and the total result was an indirect answer to Mathison’s first question about Finstersee and its importance. All in all, it had been a fair briefing, Mathison reflected. Incomplete, of course; it had to be. But sufficient to keep him from obvious blunders or way-out guesses that would
add to the possible dangers. Danger... Was there really as much at stake as Nield thought?
The solid block of buildings stared back at him from across the street. His eyes swept over the sameness of its windows, over the small strips of balcony rising in exact tiers like shallow drawers half opened in a giant’s dressing chest. Each had its planters of green shrubs, pots of frost-wilted geraniums or newly added chrysanthemums, reminders—like the white chairs and tables—of the city dweller’s perpetual schizophrenia: the longing to be in the country, with an open door and garden, while living in the middle of a metropolis.
On impulse, he opened the window wide and looked down on Sixty-ninth Street, eight floors below him. All was late-afternoon confusion: cars parked, cars moving, cruising taxis, an ambulance wailing its way through the cross-currents of traffic. From the avenues at either end of this block came the steady roar of a busy city, a constant surge of sound. Anyone who wanted to enjoy his miniature terrace must not only keep his eyelids closed, but develop a system of ear flaps too. Then Mathison saw Lamberti and Nield emerge from the service entry and cross the street to a panel truck parked between a battered Chevrolet and a polished Jaguar. New York, New York... They looked completely authentic, even to the way they walked. And the expert method by which Lamberti eased the light truck out of a tight squeeze into the stream of west-bound traffic seemed part of his daily stint.
ACME RADIO QUICK SERVICE
was the legend that now was putting on a spurt of speed to make the light at the corner.
Certainly quick, Mathison thought, as he closed the window again. The sky was pale blue greyed over with a fine film of
smog, clear of clouds, no storm blowing in from the Atlantic, no cut-throat wind sweeping from Canada. Good flying weather, at least. He headed for the bathroom for a shave and shower, pulling off his sweater and open-necked shirt as he crossed the hall. He was back to thinking about the Acme Quick Service boys. But he reflected as he dried himself vigorously, was all that setup actually necessary? A purely civilian remark, they’d possibly think if they could hear him. They weren’t the type to waste time and energy, not even in answering that kind of question.
He weighed himself on the scales. One hundred and sixty-eight pounds, just holding the line. His muscles were firm, thank heaven, and his hair still thick, his colour healthy. That was the trouble with being a lawyer: there was a tendency to become desk-bound. He’d make a point of getting some exercise in Zürich, some fresh air free of smog. Would there be any time off at all for some mild mountain climbing? Usually there was never much time off for anything—office work was a slave driver. But after he was dressed in tweed jacket and flannels, he repacked his bag, adding a heavy sweater and socks, thick walking shoes, and a wind-breaker. With his two business suits and good shirts waiting for him in Zürich, he was all set for anything.
One last look around the apartment... He picked a couple of books for company (one was
The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich
, the other
The Last Battle
). Then he wrote a cheque and a quick note of directions for Mrs. Pyokari. (“Keep some food in the refrigerator,” he added as a postscript, remembering the emptiness that had welcomed him home on Tuesday night.) And that was everything. Except for the unanswered correspondence that had piled upon his desk in the last week. Two invitations to weddings of people he scarcely knew, a suggestion for a
week-end at Aspen this winter from a girl he had never liked in the first place, several cocktail notes from acquaintances who did their entertaining in all-at-once style, the usual summonses to black-tie dinners from hostesses eager to find the unattached man to balance the extra woman at their tables. But there were also the first-of-the-month bills, two letters from friends, and a list of engagements he had already made. These he slipped into an envelope addressed to his secretary down at Strong, Muller, Nicolson and Hodge, along with a quickly scribbled note. She could deal with them. And as for the rest—The bachelor syndrome, he thought gloomily. Well, there was one way to get rid of that before you were properly hooked. He swept the pile of cards off his desk into the trash basket.
The light breeze whipped the blue lake into a dance of broken ripples that sparkled in the early-morning sun. A few die-hard yachtsmen had sneaked down to the little boat anchorages strung along Zürich’s left shore, and were spending their breakfast hour in a quick sail. Bill Mathison unpacked, watching them from his hotel room, which overlooked Uto Quai’s wide promenade with its constant succession of small harbours and swimming pools, and quite frankly envied them. They were expert in the way they’d sense the change in wind, tacking or veering neatly as they kept close to this side of the lake. Few careened dangerously, even as the breeze quickened, or came to an ignominious jobble with sails flapping helplessly. Fine fun, he thought, just ten minutes away from your office.
And that reminded him to call the Zürich branch of Newhart and Morris as soon as he finished breakfast. Perhaps he’d even wait until nine o’clock and give Miss Freytag the chance to be
fully established at her well-run desk before he let her know that he had returned from New York. Come to think of it, his New York visit was all she did know about his recent movements; when he had left Zürich for Salzburg last Sunday, there hadn’t been time between his quick decision and his flight out from the Kloten airfield to leave any message with anyone. Not that he had wanted to leave any message; not that he needed to, either. Remembering the cool restraint of Miss Freytag’s welcome last week, he had felt he would never be missed if he didn’t show up on Monday morning. Possibly Yates had been to blame for the polite-freeze treatment, although Yates had been genial enough to Mathison’s face. “Why, Bill, good to see you! Too bad I’m just rushing off.” Hearty handshake, hefty pat on the shoulder, a broad honest beam on a big handsome face. That was Yates, good old warm-hearted, quick-witted Yates. Where was that son of a bitch?
But by half-past eight, Mathison had shaved and showered and changed his clothes and finished the pot of coffee; and the sailboats had already come back to shore. Perhaps the clouds now swelling over the hills around the lake had a special message for yachtsmen. All offices were open and bustling. It might be time to telephone Miss Freytag.
She was there. She was so upset that she could hardly speak. Yes, she said in the first series of monosyllables in reply to his questions: had Mr. Newhart called yesterday from New York to let her know he was returning? Was Mrs. Conway arriving later today? Had she found a comfortable hotel for Mrs. Conway? Had she any news of Mr. Yates?
“Yes.” The dam broke. She was weeping. “Dreadful news,” she said in between her tears. “He is dead. He was—he was—”
Dead? Yates dead? “I’ll be right around.”