Prelude to Terror

by Helen Macinnes

  Taylor said to Frank, “Better show him the photograph of Mittendorf. That may help.” He smiled for Korda. “Wouldn’t it?”

  Korda took the photograph showing Mittendorf’s face. He studied it in silence.

  Renwick said, “You know, the sooner you start talking about Jacques, the sooner you’ll be out of reach of the KGB. I can understand your hesitation, but it’s no way to get our vote of confidence. No way at all, my friend.”

  Taylor urged, “We’ll be able to give you better protection in America. Don’t delay our departure from Vienna.”

  “Can you guarantee that I leave soon?” Korda asked Taylor.

  “You’ll leave within three days. I promise you.”

  Renwick added to that, “As soon as we’ve compared your information with ours. Why not let us start comparing right now? Speed your departure?”

  Avril spoke for the first time, and in Hungarian. “Gyorgy, listen to them. Trust them. They need to know.”

  “We mean to know,” Frank broke in harshly, also in Hungarian. In English, for the benefit of the two Americans, he said as he took back the photograph of Mittendorf’s face and thrust another into Korda’s hand, “See this?” It was the view of the Two Crowns with its identification, on the plaque at its entrance, clearly legible. “See?” Frank repeated, tapping the name of Mandel with an angry finger. “Also known as ‘Kurt’, aka ‘Ulrich’, aka ‘Alexander Rose’. How many face names has his friend Mittendorf?”

  “Two that I know of,” Korda said slowly.

  Renwick nodded to Avril, and the tape began recording. Once started, Korda needed no prompting. Perhaps, as Taylor had said downstairs in his office, the man really wanted to tell them everything he knew about Jacques, and the prospect of leaving Vienna within three days was the final spur to his memory.

  * * *

  He ended his recital. He looked exhausted, yet relieved. Prescott Taylor stayed with him to talk of the plans for flying him to Washington. As she left, Avril shook his hand. “Goodbye, Gyorgy. Your journey will be safe; your arrival, too. Good luck all the way.” That seemed to reassure him their promise would be kept. He could even smile and give her an eloquent goodbye in Hungarian. From Renwick, he got a nod of thanks. From Frank, a last measuring look.

  Once outside the door and past the two men in civilian clothes who were standing guard, Frank said, “He could have told me something, perhaps, about Bernard Mandel. Why the hell didn’t you give me another ten minutes with him?”

  Renwick held out his wrist, pointed to his watch. “We’re late as it is.” It was ten fifteen. “How do we reach Grant to warn him?”

  “We can’t,” said Frank. “He’s already on his way to Klar’s. Probably stepping out of the taxi right now.”

  Avril said urgently, “He must be warned before he faces Mittendorf.”

  “And scare him into making a mistake?” Frank asked. It was one thing for Grant to talk with the treasurer of Allied Electronics; quite another to know he was meeting Jacques, trained by the KGB, a long-time Soviet agent, now in control of the group that was running the Vienna-Geneva operation. The man, thought Frank bitterly, who had caused the deaths of so many—perhaps had ordered them.

  Renwick—a sign of intense worry—was silent. We’ve got Mittendorf, he was thinking, but meanwhile he has got Colin Grant.

  “I’ll go to the auction,” Avril said.

  Renwick shook his head. “Taylor will be there. He can pass a word of warning to—”

  “Colin doesn’t know him. He knows me.”

  “Even so,” Renwick objected, “Grant is totally ignorant about Jacques. You wouldn’t have time to explain—too dangerous.”

  “All I need to tell Colin is that Mittendorf is poison.”

  “No,” Renwick decided. “No more exposure for you. You had enough yesterday at Fischer’s gallery.”

  “I lost the man who was following me,” Avril insisted. “I made sure of that.”

  “He saw you with Colin. What if he turns up at the auction and sees you with him again?”

  “An outside chance.”

  “Avril—no! We’ll let Taylor handle this.”

  Frank said, “Get me a copy of that tape you’ve just made. There are some references to people I’m interested in. Will you? Thanks, Bob.” They were reaching the floor where Renwick and Taylor had their far-separated offices. “It’s too crowded here. See you on the job.” He left as Prescott Taylor’s secretary came hurrying along the corridor.

  “Mr. Renwick?” she called anxiously. “Mr. Renwick,” she said as she reached him, her voice discreetly lowered, “is it at all possible to reach Mr. Taylor now? It’s urgent.”

  “What is?”

  “Mr. Taylor has to be downstairs at half-past ten. To meet—” She dropped her voice still more. “To meet the VIP who is arriving this morning from New York.”

  Victor Basset? Renwick cursed silently.

  “Mr. Taylor must be here. Special request. He is to give all the information possible on something that is important to the VIP.”

  “Better let Mr. Taylor know.” That’s Basset all right, thought Renwick as the secretary hurried off. He arrives from New York, wants all the details available—as though he hadn’t been told enough in Washington—stays one night as the guest of the Ambassador, and flies off tomorrow with his precious Ruysdael safe in his hands. But what about us? What about Grant?

  Avril said, “That decides it, Bob. I’ll warn Colin.”

  “Don’t hang around Klar’s place. Once you’ve tipped off Grant, get the hell out. Don’t come around to Cathedral Lane, either—you can’t risk leading anyone to the delivery entrance. Go home. Stay put for the next few days.”

  “But I wanted to be in the Volkswagen—oh, just to see him make a safe exit,” she ended as Renwick gave her a sharp look. “I really wouldn’t lead anyone to the car. I’ll have plenty of time to dodge—”

  “No. Get home. Stay there. When Grant arrives, keep him there. I want the two of you out of sight until we neutralise Mittendorf.”

  Avril nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.” She started towards the staircase. That was quicker than the elevator.

  “Take a taxi,” he called after her. It would save time and difficulties in parking near the auction rooms.

  She nodded, gave a wave and a smile, and began running downstairs. Don’t worry. I’ll be careful. Yes, Renwick thought, Avril would be all of that. Yet sometimes, no matter how careful—He cut off a sudden depression. He ought to be bursting with optimism. In his hand, he was carrying not only Jacques’s verses and Mittendorf’s file, but also a tape that had given him facts beyond anything he had expected. Korda’s information, all twenty minutes of it, contained specific dates, places, names. There would have to be a thorough check, of course; and other units alerted—American and British Intelligence would be highly interested in Mittendorf’s visits to New York and London—perhaps Interpol too; and certainly Vienna’s security forces, if not its police. My God, thought Renwick, we hoped to trap a fox and we’ve stumbled into a den of wolves.

  But, he told himself, all that will take days and weeks, and that is a job for others to handle. Ours is to track down the owner of the bank account in Geneva. Then we’ll get NATO to move—an approach to the Swiss authorities on the highest level. No Geneva banker is going to withstand that kind of official pressure, especially when it’s backed with evidence of criminal activity and intent. The bank records of this dubious account will be available to us, and we’ll discover not only the deposits made, but also—and here’s our target—the withdrawals of money: how much, and when, and to whom paid? To whom? That’s the answer to all our search. Find that, and we’ll uncover the happy band of terrorists who have been worth subsidising.

  Everything depended on Grant, Renwick thought. Too much? His brief elation vanished. Grim-faced, he locked the precious tape of Korda’s deposition into his safe. It was fireproof, and—unless the equivalent of a ton of dynamite
was dropped on it—shatterproof. The one disappointment in Korda’s statement was that the defector knew no more about the Geneva account than what he conveyed to Taylor six weeks ago. It existed: that was all Korda could tell. If only he had known the name of the owner of the bank account, then Avril could have been telling Grant—right now—to forget the payee’s name on that damned cheque: just concentrate on the Ruysdael and forget everything else. But there was always an “if only”. That was what depressed him this morning.

  At the Three Guitars last night, for instance... If only he could have reached there in time. If only Frank had been able to alert his informant who worked there as a waiter, to watch Lois Westerbrook until Renwick arrived. He did arrive, too, after hauling himself out of Irma’s soft bed and dressing in frantic haste. (That ended his affair with Irma, no doubt about that, she had thrown everything she could reach—slippers, ashtray, even a telephone—as he hurried with vague excuses to the door.) But there was no sign of Westerbrook in the Three Guitars.

  A trap? That was what Grant had half thought: that was Frank’s opinion. And Renwick? He couldn’t decide. All he could discover last night, from a discreet talk with the waiter—the man had just received Frank’s message as Renwick arrived on the scene—was that a woman—an American, dressed in grey, young, beautiful—had sat at a table by herself. Yes, she had left the table after she had asked for a telephone and been directed to the ladies’ room. Yes, she had returned to her table and ordered more wine. A young man, handsome and well dressed, had joined her about twenty minutes later; they sat talking in English—perhaps for five minutes, no more—and then they left.

  No, the waiter had insisted, she didn’t look as though she was being forced to leave. No, he couldn’t quit his duties and follow them into the street to see if any other persons were waiting for her there. Yes, the young man seemed to be an American. The waiter had thought, from the way the man joined her at the table, that he was expected and very welcome.

  Expecting one of us? wondered Renwick. Or, if a trap, expecting a friend to escort her out of the Three Guitars once her part was played, duty done for the night? Leaving, of course, another of her friends to watch who would come inquiring for Miss Westerbrook.

  Well, he hadn’t been too obvious. The waiter was a help, steering Renwick to one of his tables, hovering around while he ordered a late supper and asked questions under the pretence of selecting from the menu. He had to eat most of that chicken paprika, too, and spend the next hour as if he were enjoying that godawful sweet white wine. No one paid him any notice when he left, the Schrammel music buzz-sawing into his ears, or when he walked five lonely streets before he could find a taxi. He had managed to get three and a half hours of sleep—one hell of a way to begin the day of the auction.

  He still had some time before he’d be sitting in a Volkswagen as near as possible to Klar’s delivery entrance. So he called for his favourite girl in the secretary pool. “Joan,” he asked her, “could you rassle me up some breakfast?”

  She was a straightforward blonde with blue eyes and a willing disposition. “I brought in some Gugelhupf. Would that do? It’s cake, but very plain. The Austrians often have it at breakfast,” she added reassuringly. “Or I could ask Marge for some of her Linzertorte?”

  “Gugelhupf be it. Also the biggest pot of coffee you can brew. And, Joan, make it black as midnight. No cream, no sugar.”

  Here I am, Renwick thought, talking of cream and sugar, while the day before me could be pure vinegar, even vitriol.

  15

  If Colin Grant had thought—after a disturbing night—he would be allowed to sleep until eight o’clock, his telephone decided otherwise. At seven, it rang and kept ringing until he swung himself out of bed. That blasted bloody ’phone, he’d rip it out of the wall. Instead, he picked up the receiver and heard the voice of Gene Marck. “Klar’s Auction Rooms, Schulerstrasse 15A, at eleven this morning. Auction begins then. Promptly.”

  “This morning?” Sleep made Grant sound stupefied enough. “At eleven. I’ll repeat the address.” Marck did that. “Know where that is?”

  “I’ll look it up in my guide-book.”

  “It’s near St Stephen’s Cathedral. I’ll see you, once you’ve completed bidding.”

  “Just a moment—” Grant said sharply. “Don’t I see the picture before the auction?”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “It’s customary. Is there a viewing room?”

  “Yes. Open at ten, I believe.”

  “You might have given me more warning.” Grant jabbed down the telephone. At least, he thought, I had the last word in that little exchange.

  He ordered breakfast in a better frame of mind.

  From then on everything went smoothly. Well before ten o’clock he was ready to move out, even remembering to detach the labels from his suitcase and overnight bag. The room, he decided, looked too abandoned, so he left a couple of books by his bedside, three magazines on the desk, along with a scrawl on the memo-pad: Tuesday, lunch 1:00—Donauturm Restaurant—Fischer. Downstairs, the concierge’s desk was busy. Grant dropped his key on the counter, didn’t even have to make any explanation that he was off for the week-end. The three men on duty were fully occupied: one with a plane reservation that had gone wrong, another explaining the porter’s charges on a bill that was being bitterly questioned, the third dealing with a long complaint about theatre tickets. Grant left.

  Ten o’clock to the minute, he was in the street, and entering the cab that moved forward as soon as he appeared. The right cab, too: its driver was the young man who had shared a doorway with him yesterday afternoon, while they sheltered from the rain. Within moments his luggage was stowed away, and they were off. “You know where I’m going?” he asked, noticing they had taken the wrong direction.

  “Relax, Herr Grant. Just a small detour.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Just call me Walter.” A friendly grin accompanied that information.

  “Well, Walter, make the detour as small as possible.”

  “I’ll get you to Klar’s in fifteen minutes. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Grant sat back in his seat, marshalled his thoughts, and tried to stop worrying.

  In fifteen minutes he was in front of Klar’s Auction Rooms, a sombre building in an old and narrow street. He looked pointedly at his two pieces of luggage. “Relax, Herr Grant,” he was told again. “I’ll take good care of them. They’ll be waiting for you at your new address.” Walter’s grin was broader than ever. “Better get out.” He gave a cheerful salute as Grant closed the cab’s door.

  What new address? Grant wondered, tried to look unperturbed, and stepped into Klar’s entrance. Forget everything else, he warned himself: just concentrate on every moment of the next two hours—perhaps even three. The Ruysdael had been added at the last moment to Klar’s list of offerings—so Renwick had warned him. That meant it was probably the final auction of the day, with most people already leaving for lunch. Ensuring, thought Grant, greater privacy for the sale, and wasn’t that the keynote of all Gene Marck’s arrangements?

  Certainly Renwick’s other information was good. There was the cloakroom, just inside the entrance, with an attendant insisting that every coat and umbrella be left in her care. She was alarmed now, about the oversized shoulder-bag one woman carried. Grant left them arguing, and passed into the room where the items for auction were on view.

  Here there were several attendants, mostly young, dressed in subdued black, watching everyone. The crowd seemed small—only about thirty so far—but that may have been due to the size of the high-ceilinged room, which could have held two hundred visitors. It was an ornate plate, with wreaths of fruit and flowers carved on the wooden pillars that supported a balcony, encrusted in its turn with puff-cheeked cherubs blowing trumpets. There were no windows, but the ceiling lighting was brilliant with shimmering crystals. On the whole, godawful, thought Grant. He was relieved to see that the pictures were well space
d around the centre of the floor, each on its easel, keeping a safe distance from the late nineteenth century’s conception of baroque. Vases, sculptured heads, goblets, jewelled eggs imitating Fabergé’s were among the items displayed on two long side tables. A notice requested politely, but in large firm lettering, that Ladies and Gentlemen would Please Refrain from Touching or Handling the Objects on View. In small letters, there was a modest statement that, to the best of their ability, the attendants would welcome any questions.

  Grant had one. “May I have a catalogue?” he asked a gravefaced young man with carefully waved hair. A printed list of items for auction was found for him—they weren’t being handed out too liberally, he noted—and he could begin circulating. As he walked around, he studied the catalogue. To his amazement, the notice of the Ruysdael, inserted neatly between Items 5 and 6 on the list, was numbered 5A. All the preceding items were frankly trash—the better stuff was kept towards the end of the catalogue. Which meant, if his guess was correct, that the first five on the list could be auctioned quickly, and bidding on the Ruysdael might start well before noon. Had Renwick planned for that?

  He began searching among the easels, and found the Ruysdael placed between a fine Corot and the sour-faced portrait of a Flemish banker, school of Memling. Grant stood there, arms folded, studying the View of Utrecht. He had seen other Ruysdael paintings of this scene—or almost the same—and this one was less successful. Still, it had the same quiet beauty, far-off spires and roof-tops seen across the distance of a smooth-flowing river and its marshlands. Then he looked closely at the simple frame—perhaps only fifty years old, but decrepit; there was a thin line beginning to split its left side, not too noticeable, but definitely a hairline of a crack. He moved around the easel. The back of the frame was covered with a fine canvas, or heavy muslin. It was yellowed, slightly spotted with mildew, and possibly the same age as the frame itself.

  “You find this picture interesting?” a woman’s voice said behind him. He turned to see a blonde, pink-cheeked and smiling—about thirty, he guessed, even less—with a remarkable figure filling out her black dress in the right places. An attendant? Then he noticed the thin strand of pearls, the small diamond brooch, and the emerald solitaire almost obliterating her wedding-ring. And he remembered Renwick’s description of “well-stacked”. Yes, this could be Gudrun Klar, the daughter-in-law herself. Moving around the room like any other attendant? He’d soon learn who she was: the auction would begin in ten minutes.