Abruptly he rose, saying, “Do you have to use that jargon?”
“What’s wrong with it? It’s quicker than saying we’ll burn Bob’s instructions in this big beautiful fire.” Not so big now, she suddenly noticed. “Do we put an another log?” Colin wasn’t even listening.
“Why didn’t you tell him? Tell him you are out?”
She stared at him.
“Resigning. As of last night.”
“Colin—”
“And what was all that about seeing you in Paris? You could have told him, right at that moment—”
“I had sandwiches to make.” Her voice was cold. “An assistant prosecutor and a commissioner of police were waiting, growing impatient, possibly sharpening their questions. They were hungry and thirsty. Don’t you realise, Colin, how they had disrupted their day for your convenience?”
“Or to make sure they got my testimony. Better a live deposition than a dead witness.” He was sorry for his flippancy the moment after he had spoken. “Forget that, Avril. Sure I know the idea behind the visit was to let me leave Austria as quickly as possible. It’s just that—” He paused, weighed his words more carefully as the real reason for his anger surged out. “Renwick has even booked you to Paris. You’re going along with it?”
“Where else do I go? I live in Paris. I work there.”
“You work there?”
“When I’m not travelling around.”
“You are giving up that life. Last night—”
“I remember,” she said. She came over to where he stood near the couch. “Let’s sit and go over these instructions together.”
“Avril—” His worst fears were rising, swamping him. “You can’t have it both ways.”
Slowly, she sat down on the couch. “I know.” She laid the map and sheets of paper carefully at her side, kept her hand on them as if to make sure they wouldn’t slip away.
“Security?” he asked. His smile had little humour.
She ignored that. She repeated, “I know. This time, I have made the choice. Last night wasn’t just an affair, or a little romance between assignments. It was real, Colin. I love you.”
“And I love you.”
The words sounded strangely, spoken with a distance between them, no touch of hand, no movement towards each other. “Two people who love and know so little about each other,” she said. “Isn’t that the difficulty now?”
“We’d learn about each other. We have years ahead of us to learn and keep on learning. But not if you are still sharing your love, dividing it between me and—” He pointed to the instructions lying under her hand. “It’s me or Renwick,” he said, his mouth set. He turned and walked back to the fireplace.
“I’m not in love with him. I told you—”
“You’re still in love with your job. He’s part of it.”
“Colin—will you listen?” she asked, her voice sharpening.
“It didn’t take us long to learn how to quarrel, did it?”
“It didn’t take you long.” She drew a deep breath, calmed herself. “Please, Colin—listen!” she pleaded. “Look at it from my angle. Please. You don’t just up and leave a job like mine. Believe it or not, people have spent a lot of their valuable time in training me. I have collected a lot in here—” she tapped her head—“which I can’t switch off, forget, pack away so that it’s no good to anyone. The very least I can do when I’m bowing out is to pass on what I know to the agent who is replacing me. He or she won’t find it in the files: just small details which I have gathered and stored in my own brain. Not of highest importance, I agree, but details that could be useful—at least a small help to others. As I was helped in the beginning.” At least, Colin was facing her now and listening honestly. No side thoughts of his own to distract his attention. “Of course,” she went on, “there are other ways to leave the service. You can get kicked out, which means you are untrustworthy—not a pleasant memory to live with. You can be given a leave of absence if you crack up or fall ill, an extended leave when necessary to let you down gently and prepare you for final separation. You can be moved into a less important area if you’ve made a forgivable mistake—a quiet demotion which can be remedied in time if you don’t make any more mistakes. But you just don’t up and out when one of your investigations is still in progress. It isn’t over yet. It isn’t, Colin.”
He said quietly, “When does it end? Not with the Geneva account. Not with tracking down the people to whom cheques were paid out from that account. Not with tracing the money they passed on to others, perhaps to others beyond that. Until at last you reach the terrorist gangs, identify them, find their international link-up. It’s a year’s work. More than that. Even endless. For there will always be unexpected evidence cropping up, another defector with incredible information, always a new excitement.” He paused on that word. “Yes, excitement. It makes life interesting, it makes you feel there is an urgency, an importance—” He broke off completely. Then he said, “Avril, if you keep on with your job for even two months more, you’ll be hooked permanently.”
“Nonsense, Colin.” Her voice had faltered. She tried to laugh. “Darling, how can you believe that?”
“Because I’d be hooked.” He walked out of the room.
She didn’t try to follow him. He’s wrong, he’s wrong, she kept repeating. Two months and I’ll join him in New York. She replaced the map and papers in their envelope to take them upstairs and memorise while she changed out of borrowed clothes into her own. Memorise carefully. She’d have that little task all to herself. In his present mood, he would be likely to throw their schedule into the fire. Tomorrow morning, when they left at six, she could brief him on the route to take. Oh, God, she thought in sudden anguish, I just pray he is wrong about all this. We’ll be together. Two months, even three, we’ll come together. And stay. For ever. And ever...
She rose and went over to her suitcase left lying with Colin’s baggage near the front door. That was all her luggage except for the bag that contained cosmetics, toilet articles, and the little jewellery she owned. The rest of her belongings would be locked in a trunk and forwarded to Paris. Bob Renwick would make sure nothing was left behind. Whoever had packed the suitcase—probably one of the girls from the Embassy—had made a neat job of it, even tying the key securely to the handle. Avril’s wool suit and blouse to match were right on top, along with her raincoat and flat-heeled shoes. All tactfully ready for her journey. She picked them out, along with a nightdress and some underthings. The suitcase could stay where it was. Bag in hand, clothes over an arm, the envelope of map and detailed instructions secure under the other (her passport, driver’s licence, traveller’s cheques, ready cash, tram ticket were safe in the green jacket’s pocket), she made her way across the room to the staircase. For a moment, she halted on the step where this morning Colin had met her, his arms outstretched. She began to weep.
At least I didn’t use tears as a weapon, she thought as she brushed them away. Just words. And they were all true. Did he believe them? She dropped the bag and clothes and envelope beside the bed, threw herself on the white eiderdown cover, burying her face in its soft cloud to smother her anguish.
27
Once out of the front door, Grant came to an abrupt halt. He stood there, taking long deep breaths to steady himself. Then, as if on patrol, he walked around the house in order to calm his raw temper. There was nothing out here to worry over. Woods and fields were bathed in bright sunshine; no one in sight except Ernst and his boys still at work, raking off the last segment of meadow almost at the foot of the hill. They were within hailing distance, their faces now clearly discernible. One of them had seen him and spoken, for the four heads came up together, swivelling in his direction. They were alert all right. Grant gave a wave, Ernst responded, and four shoulders were bent once more over long wooden rakes.
Nothing out here to worry over, he repeated as he walked past the front door and stopped, this time on the terrace. Perhaps if I had brought Avril out here,
approached the subject of Renwick and her job by stages, let this Bierstadt view give us some perspective—if, if, if... Damn me for a bloody fool, curse me for a blundering idiot. Yet, there was truth in what I said—the truth as I see it. What was there in Avril’s words?
He sat down on the nearest chair, searched for his cigarettes, found he had left them on the table where Schwartz’s recording angel had registered every syllable. He didn’t rise and go indoors to find them. First he’d make sure he was under control—too much tension had built up in the Schwartz-Seydlitz visit, perhaps. That was his excuse, a poor one, just admit he was all the more jealous of Renwick because he saw so much to like in the guy. Jealous of Renwick? Or was it of Avril’s devotion to Renwick’s job? She believes in what he is doing. It’s important, it’s necessary. What about my kind of work? Sure, I think it’s important and necessary, although I can admit too—if I push myself hard enough—that art may soothe the soul and stimulate the mind but it doesn’t save one life from terrorists’ bombs or bullets.
For ten minutes or more, he watched the valley stretch out below him to the west, noted that the road was now alive with cars scudding along towards Grünau on their afternoon outings. He let his eyes range up over the hills to rest on the far mountain peaks. I should have brought Avril out here, he thought. Then it would have been easier to tell her that I was wrong. Wrong in my whole approach. My God, what would I have said if she had told me I must give up my job? What if she had been the kind of girl who’d never set foot in a museum unless she was dragged there? Was colour-blind or had no conception of line and composition? Some people were like that, just as others were tone-deaf and found music a pain in their ear. She might have hated New York and Washington, never wanted to live there. Change is good, why remain stuck with your paintings and your statues, how far have they got you? she would have asked—if she were that kind of girl. What would have been my reaction? Shock complete. And I’d have damned well put up an argument.
Okay, chauvinist, get inside and tell her you were wrong. Meet her half-way. He rose and started back towards the door.
From the trees in front of the house, a girl in a trim dirndl emerged, loaded down with two baskets. She was obviously one of the Lackner brood, an older version of Minna, a younger one of her mother. “Grüss Gott!”
“Grüss Gott! You are Anna?” He took the heavy baskets of foodstuff in spite of her protests. Chauvinist? This was one aspect of male chauvinism he’d defend to the last.
“Ada. Anna is busy. Brigitte will be here, too. Herr Fischer is coming for dinner.”
And arriving soon, he realised as he glanced at his watch. It was about four o’clock. Quickly, he steered Ada through the front entrance, explaining that the kitchen door was probably still locked—had seemed safer when no one was in that wing of the house—and, by the way, was the path she had used the quickest route down to the farm? Only four minutes if you weren’t carrying baskets? Why, he had taken just about four minutes to get up that hill by car last night. Much laughter from Ada, and a shriek of thanks following him after he dumped the baskets on the kitchen table and hurried back to the big room. Avril had been there, over at the desk, telephoning.
His heart rose again as he saw she was still there. She turned to face him with a smile. “Darling,” he said, “I’m sorry. Forgive—”
“For you, Colin.” She put the receiver in his hand. “From Helmut Fischer. It’s urgent.”
“Something wrong?” he asked softly.
“Didn’t tell me much. You find out what it is.”
Fischer was definitely disturbed. He was still in Salzburg, delayed by a very long interview over a luncheon table with his friend from the Prosecutor’s office. He would be late in arriving, perhaps wouldn’t reach Grünau until seven o’clock. He had explained this to Fräulein Hoffman—what a charming girl she was, wholly delightful.
“Yes, she’s all that,” Grant said, watching Avril as she walked over to the couch. She had changed into her own clothes. Her hair gleamed with brushing, her complexion perfect, her figure remarkable: jacket just short enough to show the wool skirt smooth over slender hips. She was wearing flat-heeled shoes, neat and small—were they meant to be sensible?—letting her move with sureness and grace. “Yes?” he had to ask Fischer. “Sorry, I didn’t quite hear you.”
Fischer was spending the night with them.
“No need. Everything is under control,” Grant told him. “Besides, you have a concert to attend.”
But Fischer was firm about spending the night. Also, totally decided about sending Miss Hoffman down to the Lackner farm. He had already telephoned Frau Lackner and she would find a bed for Miss Hoffman once dinner was over. He would explain his reasons when he saw Grant.
“Better explain them now,” Grant said, suddenly brusque.
“Too long.”
“Please,” urged Grant. “Or do you want an ulcer case on your hands?”
“My dear fellow—” Fischer sighed, then plunged into his story. “Valid, don’t you think?” he asked as he ended it.
“Yes,” Grant said. “Valid.”
“I’m just about to leave, so expect me around seven. We’ll dine at once. Auf Wiedersehen!”
Slowly, Grant replaced the receiver.
“What is it, Colin?” Avril was beside him, her dark eyes wide with questions. The length of Fischer’s call had been ominous.
“He will be here around seven. We’ll have dinner immediately.”
That wasn’t all, she saw by his face. She reached up to kiss him, tried a small joke to stop him looking so grimly serious.
“It looks as if you were right; now our evening is shot to hell.”
“The night, too.” He put his arms around her, held her close, saying, “I was wrong, darling. A foul-tempered oaf—I’m sorry. One thing I’ve decided: I’m not being shipped out to New York. I’m taking the train with you—I’ll see you safe all the way to Paris.”
She stared at him.
“I won’t break security,” he said, almost smiling. “We’ll have time to talk; we’ll work things out.”
Mischief gleamed in her eyes. “Your way or mine?”
“A little of both. Fifty-fifty decision. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” She kissed him again. “We could even start working things out tonight. It needn’t be lost just because Fischer is here.”
“You are sleeping down at the Lackner farm. It’s all arranged.”
“What?” She recovered quickly. “Isn’t he fussing too much?”
“He thinks there are valid reasons.”
Valid—that word again. “All right, tell me—”
With his arm around her waist, they started pacing slowly around the room. Fischer’s story began with a call from Leni that had reached him on his return from lunch. It was the third she had made since one o’clock. She was overwhelmed with anxiety. A strange incident that morning; she now felt something was wrong. Perhaps thieves planning a robbery? Seemingly, in the shop, just before noon, a pleasant middle-aged woman, Elsa Kramer she called herself, had made a timid visit. She was sorry not to see Herr Fischer, but perhaps his assistant could help her? She was a cook who had worked temporarily for Herr Fischer’s friends the Berensons, and she had heard from Frau Berenson—who would give her an excellent reference—that Herr Fischer needed a cook-housekeeper for his place in the country. She didn’t like the city, she came from Linz originally. She had a married daughter in Vienna and three grandchildren, and wanted to be able to visit them twice a month if possible. Was Herr Fischer’s place too far off for that? Her voice was soft and apologetic, her manner so correct that Leni felt sorry for her.
It might be, Leni had said, unless she had a small car of her own. There were no trains or buses running from Grünau. She had often advised Herr Fischer to have a permanent cook instead of relying on local help, someone to live in. The woman had interrupted her, but sadly, saying she had no car of her own, it was too bad; Herr Fischer, when he
came to dinner last week at the Berensons’, had enjoyed her cooking. She left, just as a repair man arrived. Something about Leni’s telephone not working properly. Leni was so frustrated—it was noon, and she still had to close up shop—that she almost forgot about Elsa Kramer until she reached home. She began to worry; she couldn’t recall if Herr Fischer had actually visited the Berensons last week. So she had telephoned the Berenson villa and found they had been out of town all July. The caretaker-in-charge had said there never had been any temporary cook employed by Frau Berenson. No one called Kramer, in fact, for the last thirty years. He could vouch for that.
“So there it is,” Grant ended. “Grünau uncovered.”
There was a long silence.
“How much does Fischer actually know?” Avril asked.
“About you? Nothing. He must have learned more today about the Ruysdael and the Klars and me—he was lunching with a friend from the Prosecutor’s office.” Being interviewed, Fischer had said; if Grant knew anything about Fischer, he’d do a lot of interviewing himself in his own ingenious way.
“Then why, if he knows nothing about me, is he sending me down to—” Avril cut herself off. “How stupid can I get? He expects trouble. He doesn’t want any women around.” She managed a smile. “Most gallant. I rather like that.” How very old-fashioned and darling, she thought. “Well, I’ll tell the girls in the kitchen to have dinner ready for seven o’clock, and warn them they’ll have to serve it quickly. I expect Helmut wants all of us females out of the house by dark.” She looked at Grant. “Is that when you expect something to happen?”
Her calm voice reassured him. The memories of yesterday must have begun to fade, thank God. “Night is always good for an assault. If one is being planned,” he added, keeping his own voice casual. “I still think Marck will wait for us at Annaberg.”
“Oh, Colin—take care.” Her control slipped. There was fear in her eyes. “You’d better carry that automatic—the one Bob gave me.”
“No. You keep it. I’ll borrow something from Fischer. Frankly, I don’t think it will come to that. Too many Lackners patrolling around when night sets in. Have you seen them?”
Prelude to Terror Page 32
