Prelude to Terror

by Helen Macinnes

  “A matter of your convenience,” Renwick said quickly. “Can’t keep you hanging around Austria for the various trials to come up. We had a conference on that this morning, and decided you could leave if the prosecutor had your sworn statement. That’s why I had to bust your security here, lead them to you.”

  “Avril—how did you explain her?”

  “I told them she’s my contact—keeping an eye on your safety.”

  No more she is, thought Grant, that day is over. “You blew her cover?” Suits me, too; makes her separation from Renwick more likely.

  “Well, there isn’t much more for us to do in Vienna. That’s the way it goes: you work like hell, produce results, and then the whole investigation is no longer yours. Vienna and Geneva and Brussels take over, and you find yourself in a back seat. An empty feeling. The only consolation is that there are plenty of other jobs to be done. There’s no dearth of terrorists. Prepare yourself for some more murders and hijackings; newspapers, won’t offer pretty reading in the next few months.”

  “At least you did end one source of money. No more subsidies from Henri Bienvenue’s account.”

  “A million and a half dollars have already been paid out,” Renwick said grimly. “But we’ll follow up on the payees, track them right to the end of the line.”

  Grant’s dismay was evident “Then there’s little left in—”

  “Enough. The Swiss tell us there’s still five and a half million, give or take a couple of thousand.”

  “Good God!”

  “Yes,” said Renwick sombrely. “Gene Marck is quite an accountant.”

  “No sign of him?”

  “Not so far. The police found Lois Westerbrook, however. In a sleazy little hotel over in the Prater district.”

  “Dead?”

  “Overdose of heroin.”

  “She didn’t use—”

  “I know. And you know it. But most people will believe it.”

  “No clues who took her there?”

  “To that joint? Pay as you enter, stay out of sight, do your own thing? The slob who runs the place couldn’t care less.” Renwick became business-like again. “Your luggage is in the Mercedes; Avril’s belongings are packed and ready to go in the Thunderbird.”

  Ready to go? Grant didn’t like the sound of that phrase. “Well—that’s about all,” Renwick said, “except for a check on those people at the farmhouse. How much do they know?”

  “Only enough to be wary of strangers who come asking for Herr Fischer’s house.”

  “They did that all right. One at the tractor blocking the road, another big fellow coming out of the barn with a pitchfork. And the girl, of course. Any more of them?”

  “Four men working on the high meadow—that’s up the hill behind the house. They’re the Lackner family: mostly about to be married, so they’ll have some future-in-laws, too, if needed.” He thought over that, then said, “If needed? What the hell am I talking about? Marck has never heard of Grünau.”

  Renwick’s silence was marked.

  “Sending me a warning?” So that’s the chief reason that brought him here, Grant thought. “Okay, spell it out.”

  Renwick’s hesitation ended. “I don’t think Marck knows where you actually are. He does know by this time that Avril is with you. Also about the Rasthaus Winkelman, and the road you took in a black Citroën. Also its plates. That’s why I’ll drive off in it, leave the Thunderbird for you. I hope to God he spends his energies trying to track you down at the Traunsee. Yes, you were right about Braun.”

  “Braun?”

  From across the room, Taylor’s voice called urgently. “Watch the time. Bob. You’ll be late.”

  Renwick said softly, “Which means, watch their time. They’re getting impatient. I think.”

  “Braun?” repeated Grant. And last night I was sorry I ever mentioned the man’s name, blamed it all on too much tension.

  “On the way to Vienna, he asked a question he shouldn’t have. Some party we must have had at Waldheim—what was it all about? When we got to the Embassy, I kept him and Slevak hanging around for an hour before I gave them the evening off the chain. To play it safe, I had Braun followed. He telephoned from a public ’phone. After that, he went to a nice dark park, and met a nice quiet man, and had a nice long talk. When the stranger left, my agent decided he was the more important and switched to following him. Successfully to the Russian Embassy.”

  “Are they in this?”

  Renwick’s laugh was brief and coarse. “Oh dear me, no. How could anyone think such a thing!” He turned serious. “They’ve no obvious connections with Marck or Mandel or Mittendorf—but they know what’s going on. They drop useful tips or necessary information when there’s a crisis situation. Marck’s in one right now, up to his goddamned neck.”

  Avril appeared at Renwick’s elbow. “Bob—it’s quarter past two. You’ve a meeting, Prescott says, at half-past four.” Renwick reached for the chauffeur’s coat and cap, added the tie and glasses with a grin. “Give him these. Borrow his jacket.”

  “He won’t like it,” she warned Renwick, but she left with the clothes bundled in her arms.

  “Whatever Braun reported to his Soviet contact was passed on to Marck,” Grant said slowly. Suddenly his anger broke. “Why the hell was Braun working with you? Wasn’t he checked and double-checked?”

  “He was a good agent, reliable and honest.” There was a note of real regret of sadness in Renwick’s voice. “What turned him? Not money. Not ordinary blackmail—he had no sexual quirks, didn’t use drugs.”

  “Then how? His wife and baby?”

  “Now a girl of seven. Yes, I think that’s it. Two hostages to fortune. First comes a dangled promise: future release, safe arrival in the West. Later, to get full co-operation out of him, there will be threats. A bad deal.”

  Avril was back, the blue Harris tweed safely in hand. “He didn’t like it. But who could refuse you?”

  Renwick drew on Taylor’s jacket, too long in the sleeves and skirt. “I promise him I won’t wear it into the Embassy. I only need it for the next ten minutes anyway. Well—goodbye, Colin. Take care of my car, will you? Hey, what about the Citroën’s keys? Thank you.” Renwick slipped them into his pocket, his eyes on Avril. “And you take care of yourself, Sweetheart. See you in Paris. Taylor will give you all the details—they’re in his briefcase.” With a wave across the room to the others and a cheerful “Auf Wiedersehen,” Renwick left.

  Grant faced her. “Avril, why didn’t you tell—”

  “Darling, I’ve promised to make sandwiches and coffee.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him you won’t be in Paris?”

  “He didn’t give me time, did he?” She was on her way to the kitchen. Taylor and the two Austrians had everything ready for the deposition. Grant gave up, went over to the recording machine, sat down, and collected his thoughts.

  “It’s really quite simple,” Taylor was saying. “Your name, address, place of business. Then you can begin your statement of facts about your first encounter with Gene Marck in New York.”

  “With Lois Westerbrook. She approached me first about this visit to Vienna.”

  “Good. With Lois Westerbrook. I think we can start now, okay?”

  With Lois Westerbrook—Grant’s thoughts switched from a sleazy hotel, a contorted body left lying in some filthy room, to an elegant blonde, fastidious and beautiful, full of charm and grace. And of guile. Strangely, as if he were standing apart from the little group around the coffee table, he listened to his cool voice giving his name and address, his place of business; he even added his position there, and a quick summary of his qualifications. He paused, making sure of the sequence of events, cleared his throat and began. “On the ninth of July, 1977, I was at the Schofeld Galleries, attending a Dali exhibition, when Lois Westerbrook...”

  * * *

  “Excellent!” Prescott Taylor said as Grant ended his statement. And then, trying to disguise his incredible reli
ef, he reverted to the diplomat. “Don’t you think?” he asked Schwartz and Seydlitz.

  “Succinct,” Schwartz agreed. “Of course, there are one or two questions that should be added. Would you be so good as to answer them, Herr Grant?” The lawyer’s eyes were friendly, wide and innocent. He was young, no more than forty, but obviously competent under his shield of politeness.

  “Ask them,” said Grant. As he had guessed, the first question dealt with Renwick.

  “You mentioned that Herr Renwick had warned you to be on your guard? When and how?”

  “As soon as I arrived in Vienna. He sent Miss Hoffman to talk with me.”

  “Was that when you started being suspicious of Westerbrook and Marck?”

  “Not exactly. I was beginning to have some doubts of my own. Renwick’s warning reinforced them, and they turned into suspicion. The events at the Klar Auction Rooms confirmed them.” He paused and added, “Without that warning, you wouldn’t have had a witness here today.” He pointed to the machine, still registering every word. “No witness, no testimony.”

  “Do you think the explosion in your room at the Majestic was an attempt to eliminate you as a witness?”

  “Yes. Marck told me to meet him there at midnight.”

  “Were you expecting a gift from anyone? The chambermaid, coming in to remove the bed cover, noticed a small package.”

  “Beside the telephone?” Grant was smiling. “And I was to answer it at midnight? Marck’s an ingenious fellow.”

  Schwartz and Seydlitz exchanged a quick glance. Seydlitz nodded his assent, and Schwartz continued, “The chambermaid says there was a piece of paper slipped under the ribbon on the package. She admits she looked at it. She saw some English words followed by $30. Have you any idea of what that could mean?”

  “A description of contents, value thirty dollars. For Customs examination in New York.” Grant shook his head: good old Bernie had a black sense of humour. How he had enjoyed writing the innocent inscription—or getting some stooge to write it. (Safety first: the note could be intercepted.)

  “Could you explain that?”

  “Certainly.” He gave a brief account of his visit to Bernard Mandel. Too bad that I’m butting into Frank’s investigation, he thought as he ended, but what else was to be done? You don’t start concealing evidence to let Mandel off the hook.

  “So you believe Mandel is connected with Marck?”

  They’ve got me, he thought now. I was too damned clever. He said evenly, “All I know is that Marck arranged a meeting in my room. All I know is that Mandel wanted me to take a gift for his brother-in-law through New York Customs. I agreed, if he’d mark contents and value on the package.”

  “What makes you so sure that the package in your room was Mandel’s gift?”

  “No one else was sending me gifts.” That sounded weak, and it was. He countered with a wry smile. “Too bad the chambermaid doesn’t read English. She might be able to bear me out.” He suddenly remembered that chambermaid, like most of the employees at the Majestic, could at least speak English. “Doesn’t she?” he asked, an eyebrow raised.

  Schwartz, the lawyer, only looked at him quizzically. Schwartz, the man, broke into a smile. “She does.”

  Seydlitz was much amused. In his genial way, he added one more question. “Have you heard of the death of the woman, Westerbrook?”

  “Yes, I heard about that.” Now take care, Grant warned himself: no more bright suggestions.

  “Did she use drugs?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Her arm showed many punctures. Did you never notice them?”

  “No.”

  “She always wore dresses with sleeves?”

  “Except in Arizona. That was three years ago, of course.”

  “Did her manner suggest drugs to you?”

  “No. She was extremely capable and competent. Didn’t drink, except for a glass of white wine.”

  “When did she last talk with you?”

  “On Thursday night. Late. She telephoned. She was—well, I thought hysterical. Almost incoherent. With anger. She had broken with Gene Marck. She wanted me to put her in touch with my friends. She was convinced, I think, that I was an American agent.”

  “Have you ever been connected with American Intelligence?”

  “Never.”

  “Thank you, Herr Grant.”

  But Schwartz had his own line of questioning to follow. “Why did she want to get in touch with American Intelligence?”

  “To tell them about Marck, I gathered. She talked of talcum tins and hairbrushes and lighters that could come apart. Tricks of the trade, I think she said. Something like that. It made little sense to me.”

  At the mention of talcum tins and hairbrushes, Schwartz and Seydlitz again exchanged glances. No nods, this time. An investigation in progress? Grant wondered. Schwartz quickly changed the subject. “Why did you come to Grünau, Herr Grant?”

  “It seemed the safest thing to do. Once the Ruysdael was delivered to Victor Basset, I thought I’d better drop out of sight for a few days—until Commissioner Seydlitz has Marck safe in custody.”

  “And Fraülein Hoffman? Why is she here? Was her safety threatened?”

  “It could have been. She was seen with me at Klar’s Auction Rooms. She had come to give me a last warning. About Mittendorf. A very necessary one. I had no suspicions about him at all. He was just an honest, dependable but basically stupid man—so I thought. An easy mark, like me.”

  “Not so easy, Herr Grant,” Schwartz said very quietly. “Do you swear that this testimony, along with the answers you’ve given to our questions, is true? Please state the place and time of this interview. And the date.”

  Grant did so. The recording machine was switched off, firmly closed.

  “You’ll receive transcriptions, of course,” Schwartz said. “Sign them and return them to us. From New York, I suppose? If there is any change in your address, you will let us know immediately.”

  “I’ll do that.” There was a general handshaking, a feeling of something accomplished, a slow and friendly progress towards the door.

  Suddenly, Prescott Taylor halted. The luggage!” he said with a laugh. “If you don’t mind waiting another two minutes,” he suggested to the Austrians, “Grant and I can get the suitcases moved. I think it’s wiser if you both stay out of sight as much as possible, don’t you? It’s really much more comfortable by the fire.” He beckoned to Grant and Avril, too, and hurried them towards the cars. His briefcase was firmly in his hand.

  Once they were free of the house, Taylor said, “Okay. You did fine, Grant. Several patches of thin ice but you skated over the top. Now for Renwick’s instructions. He wants you out of Grünau by tomorrow morning. Early tomorrow morning. You’ll drive to a small town near Salzburg where Slevak will be waiting for you. Route and name of town are all in here.” The briefcase was swung on to the top of the Mercedes’ boot, quickly opened. “All in here,” he repeated, bringing out an envelope and presenting it to Avril. “Map’s inside. Distances worked out. Time schedules, also.” He drew out two smaller envelopes. “Avril, this one has your passport, et cetera, as well as your train ticket from Salzburg to Paris. Slevak will see you safely on board. Grant—you’ll drive on to the Salzburg airport once you’ve dropped Avril at the designated place. This is your envelope: Austrian Airlines from Salzburg to Zürich to New York by TWA; everything booked. First-class space, courtesy of Victor Basset. Also his cheque for extra expenses—old Basset was firm about that. And a note in his own handwriting, believe it or not. He was as mad as hell at not having a talk with you.” Taylor closed his briefcase, heaved it inside the Mercedes, unlocked the boot. “Let’s get a move on, shall we? Avril, here are the Thunderbird keys—open it up. Start hauling.”

  * * *

  The Mercedes left, with Taylor now at the wheel. Perhaps it was the success of the visit or his relief that all his forebodings had proved imaginary, but his mood was a smiling one
even under the chauffeur’s cap. The jacket fitted him better than it had Renwick. Dutifully, he wore the narrow black tie and donned the heavy dark glasses. “What drives in, must drive out,” he said philosophically. In a month or two, this would all make an amusing story over a double martini.

  Grant watched the Mercedes move gently out of sight. Then he turned on his heel, strode into the room, halted abruptly before Avril. His anger exploded. He drew out the envelope with his tickets, glared at it. “Renwick says jump and we all jump. Is that it?”

  Avril was seated on the high kerb around the hearth. She didn’t look up, kept studying the contents of the larger envelope that Taylor had given her. All the details of tomorrow’s journey were here. “We’ll have to leave at six in the morning. No later.”

  “You’re taking his marching orders?”

  She raised her head, eyes widening. “There must be a good reason for them.”

  Grant’s anger ebbed. Yes, he had to admit there was a very good reason for Renwick’s orders: its name was Braun. He jammed the plane tickets in his pocket, quieted his voice. “Everything’s arranged and decided. Just like that? He might have discussed it with us—broken the news gently. Slipping away, letting diplomat Taylor take over. Come to think of it, Taylor wasn’t so damned diplomatic either.”

  She covered her astonishment with a smile that widened slowly and then broke into laughter. “Considering he had about three minutes to deliver and explain and get our luggage out of the boot, I think Prescott is a darned good diplomat. His right hand scarcely knew what his left was doing. Certainly, neither Schwartz nor Seydlitz knew. Quite amiable, weren’t they?”

  “They scared me stiff.”

  “It didn’t show. You were wonderful, darling.” She reached for his hand and coaxed him down beside her.

  A damned uncomfortable seat for a man. “Let’s move over to the couch.”

  “Just a minute—” She was gathering together the map and two small pages of closely typed instructions. “We’ll memorise these and then destruct.”