Prelude to Terror

by Helen Macinnes

  “We passed some ski runs about five miles back. At Turnitz, I think.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  “Okay. Next village is Annaberg. Once we’re through there, we’ll take the first side road—uphill, to the left—it isn’t on the map, we’ll have to be on the alert for it. There should be a signpost marked Grünau.” We’d better not miss it, he warned himself: there might be no safe turning place beyond it, with cars pressing him from behind—he’d had to drive up several hairpin bends to the next village before he could find space to point the Citroën back downhill.

  She found Annaberg on the map. Still a little distance to go.

  The light was fading, if slowly, certainly steadily, a gradual yet definite diminishing. “We’ll make it. The weather is on our side. No clouds, and the moon will be clear. There’s a change predicted, though. Tomorrow night or Sunday. Rain.” Anything to keep the talk impersonal, less disturbing. “The road is certainly good.”

  “Fischer said it was a new highway. Actually, as far as I remember from seven years ago, it’s still the same old road, but much upgraded.” It had been entirely re-surfaced, carefully cambered, and widened as much as the fall of hillside would allow.

  “You know, you haven’t told me what happened at Klar’s today.”

  “That will keep until we’ve got a fire going in Fischer’s living-room. Too long a story to start now. How far to Annaberg?”

  “About five minutes. I’d guess, at this speed. We’ve lost some of our company.” The two cars ahead had turned off into a side road; behind them, only one was now in sight.

  “So I see.” Grant studied the Mercedes to his rear. Much too close, he thought. It can’t be tailing us. It must be someone eager to get up to his cottage on the mountainside before night sets in. He slowed gradually. The Mercedes hesitated briefly, swept past him. He relaxed again, saw Avril’s amused eyes watching him but she said nothing. He put on speed once more; in three minutes they were at Annaberg.

  “Now!” he said. They kept their eyes on the darkening hillsides to their left. And there was the road to Grünau. “It will be rough but short,” he told her. “Uphill all the way on to a broad green valley.”

  It was as he said. Except the colours were now lost as dusk ended and the valley was a darkling grey with distant mountain peaks serrated black against the sky. Just ahead, she saw a church spire, a cluster of houses, a swift-flowing stream that ran to meet them. Then—at the end of the little street—a low bridge with a solitary house on its far side. Nothing stirred, no one was to be seen; except for the perpetual rush of water and the Citroën’s engine purring along at reduced speed, there was nothing but silence.

  “Is this the Fischer place?” Avril asked as they came over the bridge. She looked doubtfully at the house they were approaching. It’s too close to the village, she thought worriedly, too unprotected; a sprawl of buildings dumped down on an open field.

  “No, that’s a farm. Owned by a man called—” Dammit, he couldn’t remember the name. “He keeps an eye on Fischer’s place—it’s just a short way up this hill, can’t see it until we pass the trees. A big family. It looks as if they are all in bed.”

  “At five past eight?”

  “If you rise at four in the morning, you—” Suddenly a dog barked savagely. Grant’s grip stiffened on the wheel. Avril started. The door of the farmhouse was thrown wide, and a man stood there, silhouetted against the meagre light behind him. He stepped out to intercept them, silencing the dog that followed at his heels, and Grant brought the car to a quick halt. “Goddammit,” he said under his breath. “This is all we need: explanations, excuses—” Would the man recognise him again after all these years, believe he was a friend of Fischer’s?

  The man’s stride brought him quickly to the car. He was a large and lumbering shape, purposeful. And what was his name? Grant switched on the interior light, lowered the windows. “Grüss Gott,” he tried. Thankfully, the name came to him as he looked at the rugged weathered face under its thatch of grizzled hair, Ernst? Yes, Ernst. But Ernst who?

  “Grüss Gott.” Ernst, a rough jacket thrown over his shirtsleeves, put two massive hands on the door, stared first at Avril, then studied Grant. His doubts gave way to a nod as he looked more closely. “Herr Grant?”

  “Ernst?” They shook hands across Avril. This is my friend, Miss Hoffman.” A smile from Avril, a brief bow from Ernst, and Grant could switch off the light “I sent the wife and Willi up to the house as soon as Herr Fischer telephoned. They have the fire lit and the bed ready.”

  “He telephoned?”

  “Aye.”

  “Hope it didn’t make him late for the opera.”

  “He was in a bit of a hurry,” Ernst admitted, a small smile glimmering. It vanished. Pointedly, he added, “Didn’t say there would be anyone with you.” His face, like his voice, was now expressionless. The wife only prepared one bed. I’ll send her back.”

  “No need. It’s late. I’m tired enough myself to sleep on the floor. Don’t trouble your wife. Very kind of you. Much obliged.” With a parting wave, Grant rolled up the windows and started the car. “Just around this curve, past the trees,” he told Avril, “and we’ll see the entrance of the driveway to our right.”

  The driveway was short, narrow, and rough, ending in a clearing of grass dominated by Fischer’s chalet. There, he drew up on the far side of the clearing. It was best to leave the car as hidden as possible, out of sight from the trail: too obvious to have it standing in front of the house. Had he forgotten anything else? He might have asked Ernst to keep their arrival secret; only that would have aroused curiosity, even suspicion. As for the villagers—they couldn’t all have been in bed, but no one had bothered to glance out; windows had remained tightly curtained. It was possible the sound of a car driving through on a Friday night meant only one thing: Herr Fischer arriving for his usual week-end. He hoped so. The less attention drawn to his visit, the better.

  Avril had stepped out of the car; then stopped. She drew the cape close to her shoulders, feeling the cold bite of the night air, and stood motionless, her eyes searching the deep shadows. The house was a solid black shape, two storeys high, with a wide spread of roof, everything lifeless except for one small light at the door.

  “Come on, Avril,” Grant urged her forward. “It’s warmer inside.”

  She gave one last look at the silent hillside rising behind the house, at the dark patches of forest that encircled her. It seemed innocent enough, still, peaceful: and yet—in the sudden fall of night—there was a feeling of terrifying loneliness. It’s safe, she told herself, safe. No strangers thrusting their way into my room, seizing me. For a moment, she could feel the rough grip, the hand over her mouth, the violent threat. She shivered.

  “Carry your luggage, ma’am?” Grant asked, holding out his hand for the plastic bag. He steadied her over the rough grass to the path that led up to a heavy door. With its shuttered windows, the house looked deserted except for the light at the entrance. Bless Frau Ernst, he thought: without the light, they’d have been stumbling around. He searched for the key—in the usual place, Fischer had told him—and found nothing; in dismay, he tried the door. It had been left open for him. Ernst’s wife had even turned on a table lamp to lead them safely into the main room. “No thieves around here,” he said with a short laugh to cover his embarrassment. “Just try leaving your door unlocked in New York.” Gently, he urged her across the threshold. She was still trembling. What had frightened her out there? Should he go on making inane remarks or let her come out of this alone? He found the master switch, sending beams of warm light over the vast room to blot out its deep shadows, then turned the key that had been tactfully left in its lock. “All secure,” he said.

  Avril nodded, half smiled. She was still shaking as she moved to the middle of the room where the fireplace lay, its young flames leaping in welcome from the huge circular hearth that lay under a central chimney. She dropped the cape, sat on the broad ston
e kerb that edged the hearth, felt the warmth from the crackling logs seep over her spine.

  “Old-style chalet,” Grant said as he followed her. “Historically correct.” He paused. Why the hell was he so nervous? “With all modern comforts, of course. I think you’d better move over to this couch and face the fire. Else you’ll end up a toasted marshmallow.”

  “With curvature of the spine,” Avril said.

  “What?”

  “That’s what my mother used to say: sit with your back close to the fire and you’ll get curvature of the spine.” She began to laugh.

  It didn’t sound real. He looked at her worriedly, and took her hands to help her rise. Her grasp tightened on his. “Darling, what’s wrong?” The word had escaped him.

  “With you, nothing.” She tried to smile. Her eyes—those wonderful large beautiful eyes—widened still more. “A nightmare—a moment’s nightmare, out there in the dark. Those men—the one that seized me—”

  “No more. You’re safe, Avril. Safe.”

  “I know. And yet that memory, it was so real, as if it were happening all over again. His hand—”

  “Don’t,” he said, and put his arms round her to stop the sudden trembling. She didn’t draw away. The trembling ceased. She stood within his arms, slender waist encircled, dark hair against his shoulder. He felt the softness of her body, saw the curve of smooth cheek.

  “If you hadn’t arrived—” She raised her head, her eyes on his.

  “But I did.” An unfair moment, he thought. I could take her with a kiss. And suddenly, he didn’t give a damn whether it was fair or unfair. I’m in love with this girl. I’ve been in love with her from the day I first saw her. “Avril—” he said, his voice filled with emotion. Abruptly, he let her go. For a moment, they stood looking at each other. Then just as abruptly, they came together again, her lips meeting his.

  24

  Gene Marck had rented a small attic room on this dingy street as far back as 1975. It was furnished only with essentials: a bed, a table and chair, a small stock of tinned food, a wardrobe for any necessary changes of clothes. Most important, he had installed some equipment, nothing conspicuous but sufficient enough for necessary communications. The absentee landlord was content with regular payments (cash, delivered by messenger) and a tenant, Siegmund Baum by name, who made no complaints. The neighbours, forever changing, paid little attention to anything except their own problems. This wasn’t a friendly building. The major asset, however, of this quiet room was its possible use as a hideaway if some emergency cropped up. If he had to drop out of sight for a few days until the situation was stabilised and the crisis contained, this place offered security. And today, he needed it. Today, the emergency had broken.

  Not this morning. Everything had been under control at Klar’s Auction Rooms.

  Not at midday. He had gone straight to the Sacher, quietly picked up his more valuable property (Lois Westerbrook had talked about it in her last ’phone call), and left everything innocent if anyone were to examine his room.

  Not this early afternoon. No one had followed him to Fischer’s shop. The horse-faced woman was a nonentity. So sure of herself, she’d be the last to believe that all her outgoing telephone calls were now being recorded. One of his men had been detailed to visit Fischer’s place before twelve tomorrow, when all shops closed on Saturday. The excuse? A workman checking on a defective telephone. While she argued, the man would retrieve the bug. By one o’clock tomorrow, it would be left in a safe drop—at a little café only a block away where he could be sure of a hot meal on his visits here. By two o’clock at the latest, he would listen to the miniature tape recording. He might learn something, he might learn nothing. Certainly, the shop had been a meeting place yesterday for the Hoffman girl and Colin Grant. They had talked briefly, but closely. Yet, this morning at Klar’s, they had met as complete strangers. Interesting. Enough to have her picked up at her apartment.

  There had been no alarm when she had been taken at one o’clock today. All had gone well. And considering the haste of their plan (and his use of Mandel’s men until his own two replacements could arrive to take charge), the girl’s abduction had been without incident. At three forty-five, Rupprecht’s message to Mandel had been one of confident success. Mandel’s cottage had been reached; Gruber on guard at the main house; the girl unconscious and safely installed. One hour later, a second report from Rupprecht: all quiet, the girl still unconscious.

  Then something went wrong. What? How? The time was easy to place: within that brief period between Rupprecht’s last message and the arrival of his two replacements. They had found a fire-truck on Waldheim’s meadow, several cars, and smoking embers. The girl had vanished. So had Rupprecht and the two men with him. So had Gruber. Dog and jeep were gone, too; the big house empty, no forced entry, no disorder or struggle evident.

  How? Marck asked again. He had made no mistakes; in fact, he had shown foresight. He had come here, once he left Fischer’s shop, to receive reports and send out any additional directions. He had been on top of that operation all the way, even if by remote control. If he had been at Waldheim himself, would it have made any difference? He couldn’t be blamed for staying in the background. He knew of no crisis, no impending disaster that had to be averted by personal intervention. There had been a sense of danger in these last few days, but he was accustomed to living with that; and once the Hoffman girl had been thoroughly questioned, he would have known where to take action, nullify the threat. Why had she been drugged too heavily? Mandel’s men, bloody fools, were inept or careless. The fault lay with Mandel. I took care of Lois Westerbrook all right, he reminded himself. Couldn’t Mandel have been equally capable? Too busy fussing about that gift he was sending for his American brother-in-law—even neglected Mittendorf’s advice and changed methods.

  Mittendorf—that was the emergency that really had struck fear. Why hadn’t he been sent word of Mittendorf’s arrest as soon as it occurred? He could have transmitted the alarm to Rupprecht, told him to clear out, take the girl with him. Instead, his informant had only been able to send the message by five forty-five this evening: Mittendorf visited by police at four o’clock, taken into custody. Added to that, the second shock: Kurt and Gudrun Klar arrested. The charges? Mittendorf, for misuse of company funds; the Klars for attempted theft of a Ruysdael.

  He had almost panicked, had thought of walking out—with one of his available passports and a change in his appearance—and heading for Czechoslovakia. Then reason reasserted itself. He began assessing the situation. When he was questioned, he must have replies ready.

  For instance, he had no idea of what Mittendorf was involved in—he had trusted the man as Victor Basset had trusted him—Mittendorf’s position in Allied Electronics was above question. He had never examined any cheques that Mittendorf had signed; they were handed over to Gudrun Klar. She dealt with all business matters for her firm and their clients. As for the Klars themselves—he was shocked, appalled. Couldn’t believe they’d try anything so despicable, not with their firm’s reputation at stake. All he knew about them was that they auctioned excellent paintings from time to time: the reason he had dealt with them, in order to add to Mr. Basset’s valuable collection.

  Yes, he might just manage to make these stories stick. One thing was encouraging: the charges were limited. There was no mention of conspiracy or collusion in murder, no interest in how the Ruysdael had arrived in Vienna, no awareness of Ferenc Ady’s death. The Klars, in any case, hadn’t exact knowledge of these details. If they had any private thoughts, they’d bury them deep, or else they’d talk themselves into a life sentence.

  As for Mittendorf—how could the super-clever Jacques ever have been uncovered? Well, he’d keep his mouth shut. The police had no idea of his politics, his covert activities. No knowledge either of Henri Bienvenue’s account in Geneva or of its purpose. Mittendorf was just an embezzler, juggling his accounts. He’d take his sentence for that, in silence, lips tight: no ex
planations or self-justifications. There would be no slip of the tongue to rouse further suspicions or deeper investigation.

  An emergency, yes. Devastating. Yet, not a total catastrophe. He could pull a lot out of the wreckage. But how had it happened?

  That brought him back to Fischer and Grant and Avril Hoffman.

  Fischer? A quick check had been made on Fischer before Marck had first approached the shop in Singerstrasse. Nothing much in that dossier: no political activities, no government connections; interests were art, beautiful women, music, in that order; busy social life; week-ends spent out of Vienna visiting friends or having them visit him; once an expert skier and mountain climber; small establishment, excellent collection of reproductions, framing shop adjacent, pleasant in business dealings, discreet. The brief file on Fischer had seemed adequate enough a few days ago for Marck’s purpose: the shop was safe to visit. Now, he needed more. Damn that dossier—incomplete. But not my fault: it’s Mandel’s. Again.

  As for Grant—I’ve checked and double-checked him. He isn’t connected with the CIA—our informant there had access to their list of recently recruited agents. (The old ones, we knew about, and handed their names to Fidel. One of his American protégés did the rest; a book giving names and addresses. Very skilful, that: a lesson in how to launder information.) Grant hasn’t the training for Intelligence work nor the stomach. He has brains, but he is lost in his art world. A dreamer and an introvert. In any case, we can soon stop worrying about him.

  Avril Hoffman—translator employed part time by the American Embassy—job not important—part of a secretarial pool. Our informant there said she worked irregular hours, seemed to have no close association with any member of the staff. Then last week our informant reported she had been translating for Prescott Taylor, who handles defectors. And they have one defector right now, Gyorgy Korda, the Hungarian. That’s what triggered our interest. Mittendorf put her under closer scrutiny, mostly to size her up—could she be approached? Was she in need of money, friendship, sex, or was she open to blackmail? She could, with proper handling, become a new source of information. Anyone who had been in close contact with Gyorgy Korda would be invaluable. Somehow, the girl had been difficult to follow, too elusive. Mittendorf’s interest in her turned to suspicion; two days ago, he had put his best agent on the job of tailing her. Yesterday, in Fischer’s shop, Mittendorf’s suspicions had paid off.