Prelude to Terror

by Helen Macinnes

  Except, thought Marck as he rose to make himself a glass of tea and open a tin of beans, except you were too late, Mittendorf. For once, you were too late. I agree, there was a lot of involved planning in those last weeks; you had more to worry about than a little part-time translator. Not my fault: I’m clear on that.

  So what now? He’d stay here, gather what information he could—his communications set-up for Vienna was excellent—and in a day or two he’d be able to gauge the situation. He might have to take a new identity to keep the Geneva account going, work from Paris or West Berlin, give up his life in America. Too bad. He had been nicely installed in Arizona—freedom to travel, generous salary and expenses. Victor Basset was an indulgent employer. As for Lois Westerbrook—what had made her turn traitor?

  He returned to the table, drank the tea slowly. But he wasn’t hungry. Cold beans were a nauseating mess. Once more, he thought of the comforts of Basset’s house. Perhaps he might be able to hang on to that job if he could play the innocent well enough. Basset trusted him, and that was most of the battle won. If his story was plausible to the Austrian police, if no further revelations confronted him in Vienna, he might face no upheaval. His mission could go on without much change. His contacts in America were good. Too bad if they were to be disrupted after so many years of careful work.

  * * *

  A knock at the door jolted him out of the story he was concocting. It was after eleven o’clock. A neighbour? Surely not. None had ever come here. Quickly, he rose and found his revolver, jammed it into his belt. The gentle knock was repeated, a light staccato of sound forming a pattern he suddenly remembered. Vladimir Solovyev? Impossible. Solovyev was a man who stayed far back in the shadows. No contact was his rule. Nothing to link him with Mittendorf or any of their covert activities. He knew about their projects of course. As a member of the Soviet Embassy’s Trade Department, he had his own ring of agents. He was in full control, but he kept it as remote as possible. If Gene Marck hadn’t trained with him in Moscow, he wouldn’t even have known Solovyev’s name.

  Impossible, thought Marck again. He opened the door as far as its tight chain would allow. “Yes?”

  “Leo,” a man said, and cleared his throat.

  The old signal, the old name. Marck withdrew his hand from his pistol, unloosened the chain. Solovyev stepped quickly inside from the dark landing.

  He took charge immediately, ignoring Marck’s surprise and effusive welcome. Removing a shabby raincoat and heavy glasses—he had excellent sight and was known as a sharp dresser—he shook hands briskly, appropriated the only chair.

  Marck refused to be impressed. Leo had been a close comrade, a one-time friend in Moscow, their rank equal until his promotion to the Vienna Embassy. “So you know where to find me.” Marck was amused. Even Mittendorf hadn’t been given that information.

  “That is obvious.” The tone was cool. Not unfriendly, just coldly factual.

  “I am flattered, Leo.” Marck studied him. He had put on weight, his hair was thinner, his face pallid. Once he had been a handsome young man, much the same type as Marck himself; now he looked older than his forty-eight years. Exactly my age, thought Marck. “You look well. But this visit is an honour I scarcely—”

  “This visit was necessary. I have important information to give you. I did not think you would want to be seen wandering through the streets of Vienna to meet me, not at this critical time.”

  Marck agreed with that. So Leo knew about the arrests. “I thought I’d wait here until we see what develops. I was going to send you a coded message tomorrow as soon as I have gathered more facts. They are scarce.” He sat down on the bed, tried to look relaxed.

  “They are disastrous. And I prefer to gather them in my own way. Do not contact me.”

  A sharp reminder that Leo was following the apparently hands-off policy that allowed Moscow to disclaim any knowledge of any covert action. “Not completely disastrous,” Marck protested. “We can salvage—”

  “Your Geneva project is finished.”

  “Wait, wait! It gathered seven million dollars in three years. Since January we paid out one and a half to—” he remembered Leo’s aversion to such details—“to various groups. The account is too useful, too important. We can’t let it—”

  “Have it transferred elsewhere.”

  “I’d have to go to Geneva. I opened that account myself, made discreet arrangements about any taxes.”

  “Only you can draw on the money?” Leo was shocked.

  “No, but I deal with the tax collector. The other two men who can draw cheques on the Bienvenue account know nothing about the tax angle.”

  “Dependable men?”

  “Yes. I selected them. I instruct them when and how much to withdraw.”

  “No particulars necessary,” Leo interrupted sharply.

  He probably knows all about them, Marck decided. How the hell did he find out about this room? He must have been watching me closely. It was a depressing thought. “Let’s drop this charade, Leo. We’re old comrades. Nothing you say will ever be repeated by me. You know as much about our activities here as I do.” Possibly even more, but Marck let that ride. “You may be sure that I search this room at each visit to make certain there are no bugs.”

  “I am sure.” Leo almost smiled. Or else he would not have come here in the first place. “I repeat, no details are necessary. If I want information, I shall ask you for it. Now, here are your instructions: transfer the Geneva money and be satisfied with what you have retrieved. End the entire project. Vienna was a test. It has failed. Drop your plans for the refugee trade in West Berlin. No more auctions. No more bank accounts opened, either in London or Paris. Nothing.”

  “Leo, it’s been too successful an operation. Vienna—yes, we can drop that market. But the plans for West Berlin—”

  “Nothing!” Leo repeated. “Until a year has safely passed. Then perhaps you can start your scheme again—with a varied approach, changes in the pattern. You’ll need a new identity, too.”

  “I don’t agree. No need to change my name and history—the legend can stay as it is. I have been thinking about it for the last three hours, and I’ve come up with a fairly substantial story.” Quickly, he poured out his ideas on how to deal with either the Austrian police or Victor Basset.

  Leo sat impassive. At the end he said quietly, “How do you deal with NATO Intelligence? They’ll watch every move that Gene Marck makes.”

  “NATO?” So not Prescott Taylor. He wasn’t connected with NATO. Nor was Avril Hoffman, according to her dossier. She had worked with a business firm in Paris—unless we’ve been fed false information. “Someone at the American Embassy? The only recent addition there has been a military attaché on temporary assignment. He has been gathering any scraps of information available about Warsaw Pact defences. No doubt that’s for NATO’s use in the next disarmament talks.”

  “That’s what it seems. Renwick’s own agents think his chief interest is in defence matters.”

  “And why didn’t you warn me?” Marck burst out.

  “I am warning you,” Leo said quietly. “Tonight I received a report. From an informant I have been successful in placing at the American Embassy. A double agent, to be precise. He’s employed by NATO.”

  Impatiently, Marck asked, “He fingered Robert Renwick? Well, if he isn’t in defence, then what?” NATO didn’t go around chasing art thieves. That was Interpol’s business.

  “My informant doesn’t know. He isn’t trained to analyse the facts he gathers. But I find them important.”

  Leo’s playing with me, Marck thought angrily. There he is, slowly lighting a cigarette, enjoying my humiliation. We were in the same class and I graduated higher on the list than he did. We held the same rank for fifteen years, and now he is showing me how justified his appointment to Vienna was. He’s a pure Russian, born and bred. My father was an American, my mother from Lithuania. Moscow never forgets that when it comes to promotions, never quite trus
ts anyone who isn’t of their blood.

  Marck’s silence irritated Leo. His voice cracked like a whip. “Are you not interested in how the Hoffman girl was taken from Waldheim? Or what happened to Rupprecht and his men? Or to Gruber?”

  Marck stopped lounging on the bed. He sat up, spine straightened, face tensed.

  “My informant—” Leo’s voice had returned to normal, smooth yet business-like, precise, calm—“did not take part in the attack on the cottage. He arrived later, when the clean-up was in progress. No explanation was given him of what had happened. It was obviously a quick and decisive operation, well planned, boldly executed. By Robert Renwick and Colin Grant.”

  “Grant?” Disbelief, dismay, shock. Marck got control of himself. “And who else?”

  “Only Renwick and Grant. Four other men dealt with Gruber, and then arrived at the meadow in a white camper—flowered curtains, many travel stickers on its sides, plate W232-259. They assisted Renwick, along with his own two agents, to remove all traces of the attack, Rupprecht and Marco had been wounded, the other man knocked out. They were driven away in the camper, destination unknown, captors unknown. But these were experts, worked in silence, knew exactly what to do. A team, obviously.”

  “Grant—” began Marck impatiently.

  “He left with Renwick, his two agents, and the woman.”

  “Still drugged?”

  “No. It seems she came out of her unconscious state with remarkable speed. There was only brief conversation in Renwick’s car—a four-door 1977 black Citroën, W533-216—talk of a hotel near the Traunsee, name not mentioned, where Grant and the woman could be hidden safely. Then they reached the outskirts of Purkersdorf, stopped at the Rasthaus Winkelman, stayed for an hour.”

  “Why didn’t your informant send in a quick report right away?” Marck asked sharply, blue eyes hard and narrowed.

  “He tried. He was interrupted,” Leo said irritably. The fool ought to have made another effort, not left it until his return to Vienna. Too cautious. Or afraid? We’ll stiffen his spine a little. “My informant was unable to hear anything that Grant discussed with Renwick at the Rasthaus. Whatever it was, the decision was quickly made. By seven o’clock, Grant and the woman drove west in the Citroën. Renwick returned to Vienna.”

  Marck’s brow knitted in a frown, his mouth tightened, and he cursed.

  Offhand in manner, bland in tone, Leo said, “It appears that Grant won’t be in Vienna tonight. I heard you had plans for dealing with him. Useless, now.”

  “Unless he has the cold-blooded nerve to return by midnight. Once he deposited the woman safely, he might drive back.” Austria was a small country, traversed in a matter of hours.

  “Hardly likely.”

  “Why not? He’d go on playing his part, hope to trap me in his room at the Majestic.” The police might not be looking for Marck, but Renwick certainly was.

  Leo shook his head. “Cancel your arrangements.”

  “At this hour?”

  “They were much too dramatic anyway. Your idea?”

  Marck ignored the jibe. “Mandel is in charge of it.” He glanced at his watch. Eleven forty-five. “Impossible to retrieve—”

  “Wasn’t remote control to be used?”

  “That was Mittendorf’s suggestion. Mandel changed it to something simpler. Distrusts remote control since that last failure.”

  “A pity.” Leo paused delicately, added, “A pity, too, about Grant. He is your greatest danger now. He can testify—”

  “I know,” Marck cut in sharply.

  “Do you also know that he delivered the Ruysdael to the American Embassy? He must have. Victor Basset received it there, I hear. It’s on its way to New York—quite out of our hands. Yes, Grant is a cool operator.”

  “Grant—” Marck’s anger broke. “I’ll deal with him. I’ll find him.” He mastered his rage, dropped his voice. “Near Traunsee, you said?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. Grant objected to it—too long a drive. Also, he refused the hotel idea. He had some place of his own in mind. He didn’t name it. He only said he would make a telephone call as soon as they arrived at the Rasthaus. My informant couldn’t listen to that call—he was sent out to the garage. However, one of the waitresses, young, talkative, overheard Grant telephoning his girl in Vienna. A girl called Leni.” A slight pause. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Leni his girl?”

  “No.”

  Leo frowned over one last detail. “Do you know of any agent whose name, real or cover, could begin with Fra—?”

  “Fratelli?”

  “He’s in Mexico City.” Leo rose, pulled on the soiled raincoat to conceal his expensive shirt and tie. A brimmed hat, well pulled down, to hide the shape of his head, the colour of his hair, the height of his brow. Glasses completed the change. Enough for the two dark streets he’d walk before he reached his parked car. He noticed Marck’s preoccupation. “Any questions?” He was impatient to leave.

  “How far can this informant be trusted?” A double agent played a two-faced game. He could be Renwick’s puppet, passing on calculated misinformation. Grant might never have been near that Rasthaus. Just a nicely planted lie to confuse the real trail.

  “As far as he wants to see his wife and child again.”

  In that case, thought Marck, the man may be dependable. Anyway, I can check his story tomorrow. By one o’clock, two at the latest, I’ll learn if Leni did have a telephone call from Grant. If so, it was Fischer he was trying to reach.

  Leo had the door open. He listened intently, then stepped out to look down the stairwell with its dimly lit landings. He nodded and began descending the worn stone steps, quickly but lightly, merging into the quiet shadows. His departure was as silent as his arrival.

  * * *

  No hand-clasp this time, noted. Marck as he locked and chained the door. For a moment he stood quite motionless. Then, as he returned to the table and cleared it of uneaten food, he forced his mind away from Leo to the information he had been given. He’d concentrate on Fischer: the man could be a link in this chain of events. Important? Or as unimportant as his small dossier? Marck’s memory went back over the facts: once an expert skier and mountain climber—week-ends spent out of Vienna, visiting friends or having them visit him... Having them visit him... Which meant he owned a place in the country. Where? If I know anything about old skiers and climbers, thought Marck as he placed his transceiver on the table, they’ll choose a view of mountains when they buy a house in the country.

  He set to work. There was no response to his first call. Damn Bernie—on a night of crisis like this, he ought to have someone listening. With Rupprecht and those two blunderers gone, was there no one he could trust? He should have stayed with his transceiver himself.

  Three more unsuccessful tries. Had Bernard Mandel left, taken a quick jaunt abroad? Marck restrained his temper, made himself some tea. A fifth attempt. This time, successful. And almost an hour lost.

  Mandel had an explanation, of course. He had been out, meeting a friend, only got back ten minutes ago. “Did you hear the news? Rupprecht—”

  “Yes. He’s alive.” Unfortunately, thought Marck. “He will be difficult to deal with. The other two will talk, of course, but he isn’t that type.”

  “We do not know, do we?” Mandel said. He sounded morose. “I must sign off. I have a lot of business to attend to.” Packing? Ready to run? Marck said quickly, “One moment—that item you sent me on Monday—it’s incomplete. Refer back to your files and give me more details.”

  “You have everything we have.”

  “Insufficient. A slovenly job. No address of country residence.”

  “Why should there be? You were interested in two things: the man himself; his place of business. I am not to blame if you—”

  “Get his country address.”

  “You will find that in any reference library.”

  “Do you think I’m an idiot?
I checked his entry in Who’s Who before I got you to fill in the details. Residence given is in Vienna. Find where he spends the week-ends.”

  “If it isn’t listed in—”

  “Find it.”

  “That may take time. You just do not walk up to one of his friends—”

  “Try the girl in charge of the shop.” That meant tomorrow morning. Delay, delay. Marck’s cold voice sharpened in anger. “Send me word as soon as you know.”

  “I may have to leave early tomorrow—my brother is sick—we are very close.”

  Reference to Mittendorf? “Your brother will be sicker if I don’t get that address,” Marck said bitingly.

  Mandel kept silent.

  He’s running scared, Marck thought, afraid that his association with Mittendorf could be traced. “All right, all right. I’ll find someone else for this job.” He ended contact.

  Now, if only he could advance the schedule for retrieving that bug in Fischer’s office. There was no way to reach the man who was to recover the recording device—he had already left for Graz, returning tomorrow in time to perform his telephone repairman act. Just before Saturday noon, Marck had instructed him. Then, Leni would be busy with closing up the shop, eager to get the workman out; also, she might have been—during the morning hours—in contact with Fischer. I was too damn clever, Marck thought, but how was I to foresee a telephone call from a Rasthaus? How the hell could I know what Grant was mixed up in? Grant... Two-faced bastard, double-dealing son of a bitch... Cursing Grant, he paced around the room until his rage ended and his mind was functioning again, calm enough to deal with the alarm signal that must be sent to Geneva.