Prelude to Terror

by Helen Macinnes

  “Wait a moment.” There was the sound of a door closing, and the music was cut off. “Colin—”

  “Yes, yes. What is it?”

  “I just wanted to tell you—” She paused.

  Her voice was still blurred, indecisive. Was she drunk?

  “Have you had something to eat?”

  She wasn’t listening. She went on, “To tell you—I’m sorry. I’m sorry I brought you here.” Her voice quickened. “But I’ll fix him. I’ll fix him for good. You know what I did? I got into his room.” Her laugh was brief, strange, unnatural.

  “Lois—” he began.

  She rushed on. “No danger, no danger at all. He won’t be back there till tomorrow morning. Too busy now with that pie-faced bitch of a floozy. I trusted him, Colin, I really trusted that man.” She was almost crying now. “Trusted him. I helped him with his job, I showed him how to please old Basset, I—Oh, Colin, I’m sorry I got you into this.” She stopped weeping, her voice rose a little. “You know what I found in his room? He thinks he is the brains, I’m just his fool. He thinks I couldn’t guess where he hides things.” That started her laughing again. “Who’s the fool? I found a tin of talcum powder, a hairbrush, a pen.”

  She isn’t drunk, she’s crazy, Grant thought in alarm.

  “Don’t you understand, Colin?”

  “No.”

  “They all come to pieces. Little hiding-places inside. Tricks of the trade, Colin. A code-book, a tiny roll of film, and a—” She broke off in sudden panic. “Time is up. I’ve no more coins. Call me back. Quick—” and she rattled off her telephone number just before her call was ended.

  Tricks of the trade... He hesitated. Then he dialled the number.

  She must have snatched up the ’phone even as it began its ring. She was saying excitedly, “There was a small list of addresses, some initials. These were in the hairbrush. Its back slides apart when you press and twist.” Another small laugh, abruptly checked. Her voice changed. “Oh, Colin—I’m afraid.”

  “Did you take these things?” Grant was horrified. She’s in danger, real danger, he thought.

  “Yes. But he won’t know it was me. I fitted all his gadgets together again. When he finds them empty, he will blame your friends.”

  Friends... Grant’s concern vanished. Was this another of her clever little stratagems to force information out of him? “Then why are you afraid?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid of what he’s into. Much deeper than I thought. Much worse. Colin—please take me to meet your friends. I’ll give them all I’ve discovered.”

  Yes, he thought, it’s all a beautiful come-on. “How deep were you into all this?”

  There was a brief silence. “Only the money angle—a percentage. Don’t you see, Colin, we had to have something to get married on?” The pathetic question ended in a sob.

  You bloody fool, he told himself, you nearly believed her again.

  She said, “Colin—please call your friends. One of them could meet me here. At the Three Guitars. Tonight.”

  “You’re mistaken about my friends. How could any of them help you?”

  “Just tell them. That’s all. I’ll be waiting.”

  “You’re crazy, Lois.”

  “Then why did you listen to me?”

  He had no answer for that.

  “Tell them,” she repeated. “They will find me easily. I don’t know who they are, but they’ll know me. I’m sure of that. Goodbye, Colin. Take care. Take very great care.”

  And that was that.

  Grant sat very still. Just another confidence trick, he told himself. Yet... He rose, lit a cigarette, walked around the room. It was now twelve fifteen. In Vienna the night was still young. Should he get in touch with Bob Renwick? Try, at least? He’d better get some clothes on, go downstairs, find a public ’phone. He dressed in haste. Within ten minutes he was calling the Embassy.

  Once through, he asked for Renwick’s extension. A voice told him that he could leave his name if his call was urgent. He left it. And smoked two more cigarettes until Renwick ’phoned. Grant wasted no time. He said, “We might have a defector on our hands—you can guess who: the one who met me at the Hofburgkeller. It could be for real, it could be a trap—another little game plan to let her meet you. Worth the risk, do you think? If so, she’s waiting now, at the Three Guitars. She’s sure you’ll know her at once.”

  “Did she talk much?”

  Too damn much even over a public ’phone.”

  “Worth hearing?”

  “If she’s telling the truth—yes.”

  “Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “I wasn’t sure whether I should—”

  “Be seeing you,” Renwick said.

  Grant took the hint and put down the receiver. I’m still not sure whether I did the right thing when I called Bob, he thought. I just hope to God it was.

  Upstairs again, he undressed slowly, tried to settle himself with another cigarette, went to bed at last. It took him a full hour before he fell asleep.

  14

  On Friday morning, at nine o’clock, they were gathered in Prescott Taylor’s office. Taylor himself had been there since eight thirty. Avril appeared ten minutes later. Frank slipped in six minutes before the hour. And Renwick—usually the first on the scene—entered at the last moment, with a small book in one hand, the file on Herr Doktor Mittendorf in the other.

  “Has Korda arrived?” Renwick asked. He looked as if he could use several hours’ more sleep.

  Taylor said, “He’s safe.” Taylor had been against bringing the defector back into the Embassy, even for one brief visit. But he had to admit it was probably better security than having the four of them confront Gyorgy Korda in the apartment where he had been living completely isolated and thoroughly guarded. Too many visitors, all arriving and leaving around the same time, could attract attention to Korda’s hiding-place. Easier, Renwick had argued, to have him brought here, heavily disguised, and smuggled up to the attic room where, six weeks ago, he had spent his first three nights of asylum. Easier for everyone, too: the auction was taking place at eleven o’clock in Werner Klar’s establishment near St Stephen’s Cathedral, a district difficult to reach from Korda’s apartment in Heilingenstadt.

  “Safe and not too uncomfortable?” Frank asked with mock concern. He was in excellent humour this morning. He looked, thought Renwick, as if he had a nice little ace tucked up his sleeve. “Any news about Lois Westerbrook?”

  Renwick shook his head.

  “Could have been a trap,” Frank suggested.

  “We’ll talk about that later,” said Renwick. “Let’s concentrate on Korda. You want to begin, Frank?”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Okay. Prescott, what about you?”

  “I saw Korda yesterday. Talked with him at length. He isn’t giving us anything more on Jack. I thought it better not to ask whether the name was Jack or Jacques, until we all meet him today. We may have to bluff him into believing we know more about Jack—or Jacques—than we actually do.” Taylor smoothed back his thin blond hair over his bald spot, adjusted his glasses. “We really haven’t too much, have we?” he asked unhappily.

  Avril said, “I’ve been over that tape where Jacques was mentioned. Several times. I think it is Jacques.”

  “He could have been pronouncing Jack badly,” Taylor reminded her. “His accent is far from impeccable.”

  “Jacques,” Avril said stubbornly.

  “I hope it is,” Renwick said with a smile. “Because all I’ve got to add to this discussion is a hunch. Jacques does exist. Here are his poems. Here’s the file dealing with them.” He laid them both on Taylor’s desk. “A quick glance will do. I’ve sidelined the report where it deals with Jacques.”

  “May I?” Avril asked, and picked up Mrs. Jameson’s report once Taylor had finished with it. “Frank, you’d better read this too.”

  Renwick said, “Frank and I talked about it yesterday. He thought it was a hunch
we could use.”

  As she read, Avril’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Heinrich Mittendorf?” She put the sheet of paper back into its folder, and lifted the book of verse. “Old Closed-Lips wrote poetry?”

  “Incredible,” Taylor agreed.

  “Not bad, either,” said Renwick. “I read a couple of his verses before I came up here.”

  “Incredible,” repeated Taylor. “Still, we haven’t enough to convince Korda that we may be a jump ahead of him and if he doesn’t start talking, he won’t have anything to bargain with. In fact, his Jacques—the VIP Communist—and your Jacques—the young poet—may have no connection at all. That would only make Korda very very amused, certainly not talkative.”

  “Except that,” Renwick pointed out, “Jacques the poet is now the treasurer of Allied Electronics, who has already signed two hefty cheques, deposited in Geneva, for a Degas and a Monet whose original owners are now missing or dead.”

  “And,” said Avril, “he’s still alive. He’s the only cheque-signer who hasn’t met with an accident or died of an unexpected heart attack in the six weeks since Korda’s defection.”

  “Not conclusive,” Taylor said. “Of course, we could risk using it to persuade Korda we may know more than we actually do. It might work. You see, he wants to tell us; he is simply waiting until he is safe in—What’s so funny, Frank?”

  For Frank had given a raucous laugh. “Wants to tell us? He doesn’t give a damn about any of us. The only one he will help is himself. When we show him we’ve got the proof on Jacques, he’d choke himself to death in his rush to get his information out. If you’d stop being so goddamned understanding about him, Taylor, you’d tell him that unless he adds to the facts we already possess, he won’t get that passport to America.”

  “But that,” Taylor pointed out, “wouldn’t be the case. He is definitely leaving here next week.”

  “Does he know?” Renwick asked quickly.

  “Not yet.”

  “Then let’s keep it that way meanwhile.”

  Taylor wasn’t finished with Frank. “What facts do we already possess?” he challenged, but mildly, so that Frank wouldn’t take offence. “Nothing, really, except deductions and inferences.”

  “I’ve got more than that.” Frank drew a batch of photographs from inside his leather jacket. (Like the two other men, he was dressed for the part they’d play this morning. Frank was driving a delivery truck; Renwick, in a casual sports jacket, was to wait in Cathedral Lane in the white Volkswagen; Taylor was the impeccably dressed diplomat who enjoyed attending auctions.) “First of all,” Frank said, “I’d better tell you how we got these.” He dropped the photographs on the desk. He placed his hand over them, anchoring them securely, and began his explanation.

  For the last few months Frank had been keeping a close watch on Bernard Mandel. He had installed two agents, with a camera and some other devices, in the front room of a house opposite the Two Crowns. There had been several interesting visitors coming to see Mandel, always in the morning when the hotel was empty—its guests out on trips or sightseeing. Mandel’s friends used the front door quite openly. That wasn’t so stupid, either: they were suitably dressed for a front-entrance visit. If they had used the back door, dressed in work-clothes, they would have been noticed by the kitchen staff—always some of them around. Herr Mandel did not receive workmen in his private office.

  Yesterday morning—before Colin Grant had arrived at the Two Crowns—there was just such a visitor. He was still there when Grant appeared: he stayed out of sight and left when the all-clear was given—five minutes after Grant’s departure.

  Frank released the photographs, spread them over the desk, and picked up two of them. “First, here is the visitor arriving. On foot. Back view of a man beginning to mount the steps. Next, view of same man about to enter the Two Crowns. Height, under six feet—notice his head barely reached the level of the hotel’s nameplate. Heavy build, dark suit, feet slightly splayed.

  “Third photograph: view of man entering, taking hat off—hair looks dark—and about to shake hands. With Mandel, of course, who is always there to guide his visitors past the reception clerk—chosen for her stupidity, we think.

  “Fourth: view of man leaving the hotel. Hat off, held partly to block his lower face. Hair is dark, but white at temples. Large, brow, skin looks pale.

  “Fifth: view of man descending steps. Carefully. Not young; sixty or so. Puts on hat and we can glimpse his face.

  “Sixth: a moment’s view of the man’s face.

  “Seventh: blow-up of that sixth view; and there we have him. Mittendorf.

  “Finally, the eighth photograph: view of Mittendorf reaching the street. Hat on, head bent, hands clasped behind his back.”

  “Good God,” Renwick said, and took a long deep breath. “I knew you had an ace up your sleeve, Frank, but I didn’t know you had all four of them. That’s Mittendorf, all right—the tight mouth is unmistakable, the hands clasped behind his back, the careful way he places his feet.”

  Taylor said, “Congratulations, Frank. Pity you hadn’t one of those long-range bugs that could pick up his conversation with Mandel.”

  Frank’s grin was broad. “Oh, we have a nice little gadget that can reach as far as seventy yards. Any talk in the hotel lobby is easy to record—straight line of communication. Mandel’s office is trickier: first there’s a door under the shelter of a suitcase, then a corridor, then the office itself; an inner room, no windows. We’ve never got much but yawks and growls from that location. Would you like a playback of the few sentences they spoke in the lobby before Mittendorf left? Useful for voice identification.”

  “Later,” Renwick said, glancing at his watch. “Better start moving upstairs.”

  Taylor ruffled his hair, smoothed it back into place. “I really hate throwing ice-water all around. But listen, you fellows—we’ve got very little to back up our story and loosen Korda’s tongue. All we’ve got is the fact that Mittendorf visited Mandel yesterday morning. He could have been reserving a room for his niece, any damned thing.”

  “Prescott,” Renwick said, “we aren’t presenting our case against Mittendorf in a court of law. Not yet, anyway. We’re going up to an attic room, where Korda is wondering why the hell he was brought back here. Let me handle him, will you? I’ll bluff him out of his skin. Frank—you do your photo act. It was damned good—had me sweating. Avril, bring your tape-recorder. And you, old boy,” he added, clapping Taylor’s shoulder, “will back me up all the way, and—when the interview is over—you can even hand Korda his lollipop. Tell him that, goody goody for him, he will be off to Washington within a week to meet all these nice nice people. New name, new face, new everything. He can even stop having nightmares about the KGB. Okay, everyone?”

  Avril left first. Then Prescott Taylor, two minutes later. Another couple of minutes, and Frank, as the visitor was escorted upstairs by Renwick. “What,” Renwick wanted to know, “did you actually pick up from the Two Crowns lobby?”

  They didn’t talk much,” Frank said. “Too intelligent for that: they had discussed all their business in the office. Mittendorf said two sentences. ‘Yes, remote control would be best. Can you handle it?’ Mandel replied, ‘I know someone who can.’ And that was all.”

  “Remote control?” Renwick frowned. Remote control for what? “Was nothing said when Mittendorf first arrived?”

  “Platitudes from Mandel, and instructions to the receptionist not to disturb him in his office. Of course, we picked up Grant’s interview too.”

  “How did he do?”

  “Not bad, not bad at all.”

  “Feeling better about him?”

  “We could have done worse. We could have drawn someone like Prescott Taylor’s twin brother.”

  “Come on, Frank. Taylor’s a pretty good man.”

  “Yeah, if he sees everything written down twice and has legal advice to back it.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing. This morning we would
get nowhere with Korda, nowhere at all, if Taylor wasn’t up there with us.”

  Frank shook his head. These Americans amused him. “Just give me Korda alone for ten minutes and I’ll get somewhere fast.”

  * * *

  Gyorgy Korda was well fed, well dressed, well slept, but bored with inaction. Yes, he agreed, he had no complaints about his security—only about this long delay in his journey to America: it was urgent he should get there soon, he had specific information for the Defense Department.

  “But Jacques is of no interest to them,” Renwick pointed out. “He is of interest to us. Jacques, not Jack. We know a lot about him.”

  “It is not always possible to remember—”

  “Try.”

  “Later—in Washington—details may...”

  “We want the details now. As a proof of your good faith.”

  “I have already proved that.”

  Which was true enough. “Prove it completely,” Renwick said.

  Korda looked at Taylor. “You know I’ve demonstrated—”

  “Yes,” agreed Taylor. “This is the final test, Gyorgy. If you don’t pass it, how can we recommend you to Washington? Don’t you see?”

  Korda saw. But he was still hesitant.

  “Let’s jog your memory,” Renwick suggested, glancing at his watch. “We’ll begin with this.” He produced the book of poems.

  Korda’s eyebrows, dark under the blond wig he had worn for this morning’s journey, rose slightly as he saw the name Mittendorf. But the verses by Jacques were something that merely amused him. “Never heard of them,” he said with a laugh.

  “And the name of Mittendorf?”

  The eyebrows now frowned in concentration, his face looked strained. There was no comment.

  “We know Mittendorf has been with Allied Electronics for the last eleven years. Excellent cover. Isn’t that so? You’ve met him, Gyorgy. He visited Budapest on several occasions. He wasn’t just sightseeing. He met you, didn’t he?”

  Again, that look of concentration, as if Korda was trying hard to remember the man.