Prelude to Terror

by Helen Macinnes

  Grant opened the cab door, ignoring the doorman’s galvanic rush into last-minute assistance, and climbed in. “I think,” he told the man, “I have enough strength to close the door myself.” He banged it shut, gave the driver his address. Then he was thinking of Marck again and that well-organised flow of instructions. An intelligent, capable man; slightly devious, too. But it was no concern of his how Marck spent his time off the chain. He had plenty of his own business to complete: a pad of paper on his desk, thorough notes to be made and read with concentration. He’d be lucky if he got to bed before three o’clock. That wasn’t a complaint. Now that he was by himself, he could admit to a rising excitement. He laughed out loud.

  The cab driver glanced at him in the rear-view mirror, and shook his head. Some guys had all the luck. Good looks and clothes to match, and not one goddamned care in his world. If he had a wife in the hospital and one kid into dope, the other pregnant (my God, what kind of high school was that?), and was hacking at night to make ends meet, shut away like a bloody prisoner in this cab with a protective screen to guard his head and a wrench at his feet ready to use—yeah, just let him feel like a laugh then. The tip was generous, something he hadn’t expected after the Albany doorman’s brush-off. He grunted his thanks, gave a nod, drove off with a screech of gears and the rattle of tin.

  New York, New York... Grant went indoors, and to work.

  5

  Grant left Kennedy at seven o’clock, scarcely believing that he had actually caught the flight for Vienna. All kinds of small details—the must-dos and the have-tos and the don’t-forgets—had piled up in the last few days. Who said bachelor life was an easy one? Not when O’Malley’s apartment, with a good collection of books and records and elaborate stereo systems, had to be made secure, quite apart from discontinuing the small services that simplified daily life. But the newspapers and magazines had been cancelled (don’t leave them gathering outside the door, the superintendent had warned him: invitation to forced entry) and the laundry collections and the milk and twice-weekly food deliveries; and O’Malley’s mail (a couple of letters addressed to the apartment instead of his office) forwarded to him in Geneva with a scrawled note that Grant was leaving for a week or two in Vienna. Add to all that, a trip to lower Manhattan to have his camera registered: he had left it too late for the mails to handle, had forgotten, in fact, that his passport was on the point of expiring—he still broke into a mild sweat at the memory of that discovery.

  However, he had finished his article for Perspective, and shaken himself free from Ronnie Brearely’s sweet sympathy. No more offers of a room with a view on Long Island. Three ’phone calls had come after her Medusa performance outside his front door. The first two he had cut off, didn’t reply to her gentle “Colin?” The third had caught him unawares and he had answered it at once. The usual invitation to a week-end on a cool beach.

  “I’ll be out of town in August,” he said when Ronnie paused for breath.

  “Where?”

  “Vienna.” She’d find out anyway. She went to talkative parties.

  “All alone, Colin?” She sounded horrified at the dreariness of his situation.

  He could see where that was leading, and quickly scotched the snake. “No. I’ll be with the prettiest redhead this side of the Mississippi.”

  A long pause. “Do I know her?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. She’s much younger than you.” Cruel, but necessary. “Goodbye, Veronica.” Most definite.

  She hadn’t returned the goodbye. The receiver was banged into place. A quick and final end.

  Final? Yes. In his last game of tennis with Jerry Phillips, his old adviser about the Brearely predicament, there was a bit of really good news. Veronica had latched on to Phillips.

  “You know what you’re getting into?” he had asked Phillips, becoming adviser in turn. Phillips wasn’t listening. Any week-end out of New York in August was a good week-end, and Ronnie wouldn’t be the only girl on the beach. He had then double-faulted his service, and lost game and set.

  Perhaps, thought Grant, I should have reminded him that it didn’t take a week-end to have Veronica on your back. All I ever did was to accept an invitation to one of her dinner parties, never held her hand, never even dropped a kiss on her cheek. Ah well, anyone who forgets his own advice as quickly as Jerry Phillips can’t be warned. That solves my Brearely problem. What the devil did she see in me, anyway?

  He unbuckled his seat-belt and relaxed with a generous double Scotch. The air-hostess had almost as strong a hand as Lois Westerbrook when it came to pouring a drink. A very efficient girl was the beautiful Lois. The reservations for the Hotel Majestic in Vienna had arrived last week by special messenger with his cheque and the plane ticket. Not a return ticket, just one for the eastbound flight. Easily explained: his return home wouldn’t take place until Basset could meet him in New York and take possession of the Ruysdael, and Basset couldn’t meet him until this Budapest friend was safe in Austria with a new name and new identity. It all hinged on the man’s escape.

  The painting itself, according to Gene Marck, was already out of Hungary. How else could Marck say that it had been examined by an expert and judged authentic? It must be in Vienna, well hidden. No doubt (Grant was guessing again, but it seemed the logical succession of facts to him) the auction would take place as soon as the man from Hungary had made his successful escape. This would allow Grant to take the next day’s flight back to New York. Too bad if it cut a day or so from his two-week stay, but he didn’t like the idea of hanging around Vienna along with a Ruysdael...

  What if the man’s escape was delayed? Ended in disaster? Well, Victor Basset would have his painting. And the Hungarian—Grant shook his head. He finished his Scotch, drinking to the man he didn’t know and would never see, wishing him a safe journey through forests or swamps, hidden in decrepit barns or deep in the bowels of a Danube river boat. However he travelled, it would be rough.

  Not a journey like this one, thought Grant with a sharp touch of guilt as he accepted another Scotch and the smiling intimation that orders for dinner were being taken. Did he wish lamb or chicken or fillet of beef?

  Our Hungarian will get out, he told himself at the end of his second drink. Gene Marck had been confident enough. He was a natural planner. The only thing he had been wrong about, in his detailed instructions to Grant, was his talk about the necessity of having a cover story to stave off any suspicions among Grant’s friends. Not one of them had asked why he was going to Vienna. Each and every one had thought it a good idea, a natural. Why not take off for a couple of weeks, enjoy yourself? They’d have done the same thing if they weren’t tied down by the kids, too expensive a deal nowadays to take them all along—or by the office, a new contract coming up, had to stay within easy reach of New York.

  The women had said, “How wonderful! That’s what I’ve always wanted to do—wake up some morning and decide I’m going to Europe for two weeks. Why not four?”

  Why not? If he hadn’t to bring back a valuable painting to New York, if he could have handed it to Marck in Vienna, saying, “It’s all yours,” he’d have made it four or six weeks, or even three months. It was seven years since he had been in Austria. Before he met Jennifer...

  * * *

  He slept on the plane, waking up as they touched down at Zürich for a short stop and a stretch of the legs in the cold morning air. Then a flight over mountain peaks between heavy towers of cumulus. From below, they’d seem like white eiderdown puffs. Up here, they were giant citadels, solid walls of powerful menace lining the careful path of the plane. “Bad weather ahead,” said the hostess, removing his breakfast tray, “but not for us. We’ll arrive on schedule, nine forty-five Vienna time. We’ll miss the storm.” A comforting thought from a comforting girl. She had red hair, too, beautifully in place in spite of an overnight journey. For the last time he thought of Ronnie Brearely and his blatant lie. Anyway, she couldn’t check up on its truth or untruth, not at this di
stance. Yes, he knew what his trouble was: he never enjoyed cutting down anyone to knee-level, particularly a woman. One thing he had learned, though, in those recent months: be on guard, don’t trust completely. There are deep bogs in them thar meadows.

  * * *

  After the small buses, standing-room only, had brought the new arrivals over the vast stretch of runways to the spread of airport buildings, everything was simple—some long walks down spotless corridors, with a thorough but quick search for concealed weapons at one checkpoint: memories of the terrorist raid on the Vienna offices of OPEC kept the security boys watchful. The luggage roundabout worked efficiently and, within minutes, customs examination was over and Grant was ready to leave for the outer hall in remarkably good humour, considering he’d like a shower and a change of clothes. Fortunately, he had managed a quick shave and washed the sleep out of his eyes somewhere over Salzburg.

  The main hall had its quota of people come to welcome the new arrivals. He made his way among them, stopped for a moment to set down his suitcase and adjust his overnight bag, check his watch with the new time on the big clock, and look for the sign directing him to the taxi exit. At that moment, a man stepped in front of him.

  “Mr. Grant?” The man was young, early thirties perhaps, neat in a light grey suit, fair hair well brushed; a pleasant face and quiet manner. “I am here to meet you. I have the car parked just to the side of the building—a short walk. Let me.” His English was good. He lifted the suitcase, glancing at its label, and was already two paces away towards the main exit.

  “Just a moment.” Grant caught up with him, ready to grab back the suitcase. “Who sent you to meet me?”

  “The Danube Travel Service. Sorry to hurry you, but the police have strict regulations about parking near the airport.”

  This could be another example of Gene Marck’s (or Lois Westerbrook’s?) efficiency. I’ll give this man until we reach the street, then I’ll hail a cab, Grant decided. “I can carry my own case,” he said, and felt more reassured as the man released it. “How did you know who I was?”

  “You were the only man who fitted the description that Danube Travel gave me.”

  “Who supplied them with that?”

  “A telex arrived last night, with description and instructions. You’re going to the Majestic? Nice place. You’ll be comfortable there.”

  “Where did the telex come from?”

  The man shrugged. “I just got an order this morning to meet the nine forty-five flight from Kennedy. My name’s Frank. I’m your driver for your stay here.” He turned as they reached the street “Just around this corner, Mr. Grant. Not too far. If you don’t mind, I’ll hurry ahead and make sure we aren’t getting into trouble with the police.” He had his car keys out, and now he was scanning the road he was about to cross.

  A driver for his stay here? Grant shook his head. Lois Westerbrook had promised him first-class travel all the way, but this was really pampering him. Besides, what the devil would he do with a driver? He could manage very well with walking around Vienna, helped out by the odd taxi when he needed one. He followed Frank across the road. He ought to be grateful for the neat black Mercedes, whose doors were now being unlocked: the few cabs around were already taken.

  “In here, sir,” Frank was saying, holding open the rear door. “You’ll be more comfortable.” He made that certain by taking the suitcase and dropping it by the driver’s seat.

  They took the long highway north-west from the airport near Schwechat. Frank was an excellent chauffeur, holding the steady pace of sixty miles an hour with no compulsion to pass every vehicle in sight or to tailgate the car ahead. When they came to the little town itself, he took a left turn, saying easily, “We’ll make a small detour to the south-west and avoid the traffic block on the main road. It was bad earlier this morning—thought I’d never get to the airport.”

  “You’re the driver,” Grant said. “What’s the trouble with the traffic?” He was remembering the spider-web of highways around Vienna.

  “Ever since that Danube bridge collapsed last year we’ve had one big headache. Besides,” Frank added, “the route I’ll take is much prettier. We’ll be in the country most of the way.” He lowered his speed to fifty as they turned on to a narrower road.

  And Grant, remembering that the unique thing about Vienna was that hills and woods and vineyards often began on the immediate outskirts of city streets and concrete, found no fault with that. “How much longer will this detour be?”

  “Just over half an hour. I know the short-cuts well. In fact I follow this route most of the time. It’s easier on the nerves.” Anything would be better than the monotony of a long straight highway, thought Grant. “Your English is excellent. American accent?”

  “I was two years in Chicago. But I missed the mountains and forests. Here, a three-hour drive at the week-end and I’m among the big boys—nine thousand, ten thousand feet high.”

  So they talked about climbing and skiing as Frank drove through woods and villages. As he had said, the empty roads he was so skilfully following, branching from one to another without any delays or traffic jams, were much prettier.

  “Isn’t that Baden?” Grant asked, suddenly jolted into vigilance. The country town lay south of Vienna—probably some twelve, even fifteen miles south.

  Frank pointed to the cosy houses, nestling between trees and multitudes of flowers. “Quite recovered. You’d never know what it went through in forty-five.”

  “I know,” Grant said curtly. This peaceful place had been the most raped—from young girls to grandmothers—and the most systematically looted town in all of Austria, perhaps in western Europe.

  Frank sensed his disquiet. “We’ll take the road to Mayerling—no traffic there, pure country—then swing up to Vienna. No trouble at all. I’ll have you at your hotel in good time.” He looked round to add, “No extra charge. Your drive is paid for.”

  Grant just shook his head, restrained a smile. He had to admit that there was no urgency in reaching his hotel: he had no meetings, no business to attend to. For the next few days he was entirely free to do as he pleased. He relaxed, settled back in the comfortable seat of the Mercedes. The airport was a long drive from the city, so why fuss over a few extra miles? He might as well enjoy a taste of scenery before he plunged into city streets: this twisting road, as empty of traffic as Frank had promised, displayed plenty of it.

  Frank was looking worriedly at the sky, bright blue only five minutes ago, now darkening with a mass of clouds moving in from the west.

  The cumulus clouds have caught up with me, Grant thought. “Rain?”

  “And plenty of it. Glad we’re not in the middle of a traffic jam.”

  “What about this road?” It was running straight now, along a narrow valley with wooded hills on either side.

  “Good surface. No problem, even in a downpour. There’s less wind-force here than on an open highway.”

  “There’s someone who already has a problem,” Grant said, pointing just ahead. A small grey Fiat was drawn up at the side of the road, its hood raised. A man straightened his back from his inspection of the engine and looked at the oncoming Mercedes. A girl, sitting by the opened door, swung her legs out on to the ground, and rose. She had smooth dark hair, cut short to show—even from this distance—the neat silhouette of her well-shaped head.

  “Do we stop?” Frank was asking, slowing his speed.

  “Sure.” Grant recovered from his initial shock. The girl could have been Jennifer if her hair had been longer. She was the same height, had the same proportions. “They don’t look like terrorists to me.”

  Frank didn’t smile. But he agreed, for he brought the Mercedes to a halt. He spoke in German. “Can we help?”

  “Nothing can be done. I’ve checked,” the man replied in German, closing the hood. “It’s the battery. Just faded out on us. Can you give us a lift to the nearest place where I can find a tow-truck?”

  “That will be on the o
utskirts of Vienna itself,” Frank said in English, looking at Grant.

  “Better tell them to hop in,” said Grant, opening a door. The first isolated drops of rain, large and heavy, were beginning to plop on the car’s roof, promising a sudden deluge. The girl made a dash for the Mercedes, hands over her head, her blue summer dress fluttering round her excellent legs, laughter in her voice as she said, “Thank you,” and then “Vielen Dank!” as she slipped in beside Grant.

  “English will do,” he told her.

  “Bob!” she called in delight to the man who was now leaving car keys under the Fiat’s visor, “we found an American!”

  He ran to join them—a man about Grant’s own age, of medium height, with even features and longish brown hair. He was dressed in tweed jacket and flannels. He came round to the other side of the car and climbed in, so that Grant—a little to his surprise—now found he was sitting between the newcomers. Even if his feet had a precarious hold on the raised central section of the floor, he was comfortable enough once he had hoisted his overnight bag into the front seat beside his suitcase.

  Apart from the fact that she was slender, the girl didn’t take much room: she had pulled herself as far into the corner of the seat as possible, leaving extra space for him. “No need to do that,” Grant told her, and won a shy smile. She still kept her distance. For a moment, he watched her profile, her face now turned to frown at the heavy rain. No, she wasn’t like Jennifer: not close up. This girl’s eyes were dark brown, not blue; her features were less perfect, pretty but not startlingly beautiful. Definitely not a replica of Jennifer, not even in manner. Jennifer would have been talking, making amusing comments with her usual vivacity, getting them all to smile and relax. This girl seemed withdrawn, almost cold in her detachment. Or painfully shy? Nervous?