Snare of the Hunter

by Helen Macinnes

  Eastern Europe in that autumn had been simmering with revolt. The first Polish riots had taken place in July, and failed, with fifty killed and hundreds wounded. By September there were still dangerous tremors in Warsaw. So he left Vienna for Prague, thinking that he might reach Poland by way of Czechoslovakia; or if that failed then he’d try for Hungary, where—the talk in Vienna had it—there could be some trouble too. Just the brash bright young observer, about to produce some inspired reporting, definitely a find for The New York Times and a future winner of the Pulitzer Prize. Yes, he thought now, I was very young.

  And on his first day in Prague he met Irina. He forgot everything else. It was Irina, Irina... Three weeks of laughter and music and love. He had never felt that way before, never since. A mad and wonderful kind of happiness, a joy that floated you over the solid grey buildings, set your heart dancing in prosaic city streets. Yes, it was love in all its first tenderness and delight, world without end. Except that it was ended for them. Power politics took over. Irina was locked in. He was locked out, sent back to Vienna scarcely knowing how it had all been done so adeptly. But that was what happened to you when you fell in love with a girl whose mother was a Communist party official and whose father was far from Prague, unable to help anyone. He was a prisoner confined to the limits of his house and garden. And that was what could happen even to a major novelist, a Nobel Prize nominee, if he was too admired among his own people, too famous abroad to be jailed without international protests.

  “Dave,” Mark Bohn’s voice said with marked patience. “Dave didn’t you hear me? Jaromir Kusak managed to get out of Czechoslovakia four years ago. He’s living in exile. Irina wants to join him. She needs help.”

  “Then give it to her,” David answered sharply. He got control of himself, and added in a quiet unemotional tone, “You have connections in Washington who would know how to help. Get your friends in the CIA to take on the job.”

  “They won’t touch it.”

  “What?”

  “Neither will the British. MI6 has backed off too.”

  “Aren’t they interested?” David was incredulous.

  “Definitely. Most sympathetic. They wish Irina all the luck in the world, but they won’t become involved.”

  “Why not?”

  McCulloch broke the long silence. He said to Bohn, “I think we are getting a little ahead of ourselves. Why don’t you start your story from the beginning, and give Mr. Mennery a better idea of the whole problem?”

  David cut in, getting well ahead of both of them. “If you’ve come here thinking I can be of any use, forget it.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not trained for this kind of job. I’m no escape expert. I’d be no help at all. I couldn’t get into Czechoslovakia in the first place. Not legally. I was thrown out of there pretty damn quick in 1956.”

  “That was quietly done, all sub rosa. No official record was made. Irina’s mother saw to that. She had the power at that time, and she used it.”

  “All for the sake of her husband,” David said bitterly. That was the reason she had given him before she had him deported. If he stayed, if he insisted on seeing her daughter, she would be powerless against her husband’s enemies. They’d say that his daughter was being used to reach him. A Western militarist (wasn’t David barely out of the army?), certainly a capitalist and an anti-Communist, possibly an agent of the CIA (proof wasn’t necessary, only an official statement)—yes, there was enough there to have her husband arrested on conspiracy charges. Neither his reputation nor his name could save him then. A serious charge, always: a deadly charge at this moment, when a revolt had just started in Poland in spite of the magnanimous handling of the July riots. Even now, David could hear the rat-a-tat of her angry words, streaming at him like machine-gun fire. “And for her own sake too, I guess.”

  “There’s always that,” McCulloch agreed. “But she did protect her husband, even when they were miles apart, both ideologically and physically. And what would have happened to her, do you think, if her daughter had left, without permission, for America? She would have been held accountable. They take that kind of thing rather poorly in Communist countries.”

  “Well, even if I’m not on any official blacklist, I still haven’t been trained for the job of getting Irina out. Safely. And, it’s her safety that matters.”

  “We don’t want a man with special training. We need a man who can identify Irina. We need a man who is a capable driver and can bring her out of Vienna.”

  “We?” There was challenge and wariness in David’s eyes. McCulloch repressed a small sigh. “I am not connected with the CIA, or any other branch of United States Intelligence.” And why should any of us have to apologise like this? he wondered. If we had no intelligence agencies we’d be back to the stupidities of Pearl Harbour. “I am a lawyer, working mainly in Washington, who was once with the State Department. My firm specialises in legal work for American businesses investing abroad, and for foreign firms who are setting up branches here. We have offices in Paris and Geneva. That is as far as my international involvements extend.”

  Once with the State Department? David said, “I keep thinking I ought to remember you somehow. Should I?” He looked at McCulloch long and carefully. “Vienna?” he tried.

  “Yes. October 1956, although I don’t suppose there was any reason for you to remember me: I was one of the junior officers and no help to you at all.”

  That was when I haunted the consulate and the embassy, pleading with them to get Irina Kusak out of Czechoslovakia so I could marry her. “And I was another citizen making a nuisance of himself. My God, I was young, wasn’t I?” he added, and he could smile at himself. “But how the hell could you remember me? You had hundreds of complaints and demands.”

  “Mostly forgotten. But I noted you. The name of Jaromir Kusak rang all the bells. I was one of his enthusiasts. I still am. A very great writer, a very great man.”

  Bohn, who felt he had taken a back seat long enough, broke into the conversation. “It was Hugh here who suggested you as the best candidate for this job. I made out a list of five Americans who had known Irina personally. One is a symphony conductor, now on a world tour. Another is a geologist, testing for oil somewhere in the wilds of Alaska, not available at such short notice. The third is with a branch of national security. The fourth is running for Congress. I still think we should have twisted an arm or two in the CIA, and got them to take action. However, time is short, I just had to settle for you.”

  “How about an Englishman? Jaromir Kusak has friends in London—the publisher who brought out a collected edition of his early works last year.”

  “George Sylvester? Yes, he’s an old friend. It was through him I tried to get British Intelligence interested. No go. And as for two Englishmen who met Irina when they were in Czechoslovakia some years ago—well, one of them is now with NATO and the other works for the British Government.”

  David made one last try. “I only had a few phrases of Czech. I can’t even speak it now.”

  “You aren’t going into Czechoslovakia. You are going to Vienna. You speak German well. You can handle a car. You know the Austrian roads—you’ve driven there, haven’t you?”

  “Only in certain areas.”

  “And you’ve driven through northern Italy, Switzerland, Germany.”

  “Only in certain areas,” David insisted. And I’ve told you too damn much about my life, he thought as he eyed Bohn.

  “You’re a natural,” Bohn said with a wide grin. “You have a good reason for being in Austria for the next couple of weeks.”

  “For one week.”

  “You could stretch it.”

  Yes, I could stretch it. But do I want to stretch it? It could be too painful. And what about Irina? Would she want to see me again?

  “No one, not even the Czech state security boys,” Bohn was saying, “could possibly guess that you were going to be involved. You’re in Salzburg, right? Black tie and dinne
r jacket, doing your thing. All arranged months ago, long before I got a letter from Irina. You’re perfect.”

  “I thought I was your last choice,” David said dryly, and rose to pour himself another drink. He refilled McCulloch’s glass too. Bohn was already at his third.

  “Not among the amateurs,” Bohn said.

  “What about that letter?” David asked suddenly.

  “What about some food?” countered Bohn. He led the way to the kitchen. The late Caroline had left some improvements here, he thought as he headed for the refrigerator. Did Dave know she was divorcing her second husband, and had already staked out her third? No, better not mention it tonight. Dave had to be kept in a serious mood, and Caroline was a comic character.

  * * *

  They ate a quick meal, and Bohn began talking as they finished their coffee around the heavy wooden table at one end of the kitchen.

  Late in June a letter had reached Bohn in Washington. It was mailed in Vienna and it came from Irina. It had been written in Czechoslovakia and—this was Bohn’s fairly obvious assumption—smuggled out of that country by one of Irina’s friends in some resistance group. The letter stated that her mother was dead, her two children were dead, she had left her husband who was now divorcing her, and she had contacted some friends who were willing to help her leave the country. They could take her as far as Vienna. From there she needed help to reach her father, wherever he was. She was enclosing a note for Bohn to forward “to anyone who can reach my father.” The note was brief. Please let me see you. I need you. She gave a Vienna telephone number which Bohn could use to make contact with her. Any message sent there, using the name Janocek for identification, would be passed on to her. She begged him to let her know if he was willing to help her. If so, she could leave in a matter of weeks.

  “Everything stated clearly and simply,” Bohn said.

  “And that telephone number was real.”

  “You telephoned?” David asked.

  “Why not? I wanted to test that letter. The Janocek dodge worked. And I also learned that they plan to get Irina out of Czechoslovakia by early August. So that’s our target date: the first week of August. My guess is that she will be hidden in a safe house in Vienna by her Czech friends until we can pick her up.” He noticed David’s frown. “No compliments on my efficiency? Come on, Dave, what’s bugging you?”

  “You actually telephoned you were going to help her? Even before you had anything lined up?”

  “What would you have done—left her unanswered?”

  “No. I’d have said I was trying. I’d have said I had got the letter, and I’d let her know if I could get something worked out.”

  “But I was working on it,” Bohn said with some annoyance. “I began that very day. I went out to Langley and saw one of my CIA pals. The letter was passed on to someone else out there, presumably higher up. I heard that other agencies were consulted too. Big huddle. But Jaromir Kusak is a big name, and now more than ever.”

  As Bohn paused to pour himself some brandy, McCulloch leaned over to David and said quietly, “I can fill you in on the increasing importance of the name. Later. Along with any other points you may want developed.” He went back to drinking his coffee.

  Bohn again took centre stage. “I was pretty sure that one of our intelligence outfits would come to the rescue. I was wrong. I was even told that they didn’t know where Kusak was. So I called George Sylvester on the ’phone—that’s the London publisher who must be in contact with Kusak, or else how could Kusak’s manuscripts reach him? I told him I had a note from Irina for her father, and I had just mailed it to him; he’d better make sure he was the only one to open it. I asked him to call me back when he had received it, and let me know how he could help. I thought his friends in Whitehall might be interested and could arrange for everything to be handled efficiently. I also said I was ready to fly to London as soon as he had something definite to suggest, have a private discussion, and show him a letter I myself had received from Irina.” Bohn drew a deep breath. “Yes, I think you can say I did go to work on it.” He looked pointedly at David. “Then I called on Hugh and enlisted him for the battle. He has connections, knows ways and means.”

  “You were really desperate,” McCulloch said, smiling.

  “No results with George Sylvester?” David asked.

  “Yes and no. He had sent Irina’s note to Kusak, but he wouldn’t give me Kusak’s address. Said he didn’t know it: he only knew the first step in a series of contacts that led to Kusak. And there had been a lot of interest among Sylvester’s friends in the intelligence field, but they suggested I should do the job myself. Funny fellows. The last time I was in Czechoslovakia, I left with rumours chasing me out. I’m definitely on the Czech blacklist. Of course I had no actual connection with any intelligence agency, but the Czechs were paranoiac about that.”

  “And still are,” murmured McCulloch.

  “Anyway,” said Bohn, walking up and down the kitchen, getting into full stride as it were, “Sylvester was helpful on three points. One: Kusak wanted to see his daughter—her note was authentic, all right: he had identified her handwriting. Two: if I could arrange Irina’s escape beyond Vienna, Sylvester would arrange Kusak’s appearance. And three: Kusak authorised him to pay expenses, drawing on Kusak’s royalties.”

  “Expenses will be kept down,” McCulloch said. “I’m going on business to Geneva anyway. And Jo Corelli also is on a business trip—to Vienna. And Walter Krieger is about to return to Austria, which he visits frequently. So we pay most of our own way. The extra costs will come from a car, or travel expenditures by Irina and Mr. Mennery. That is, if Mr. Mennery is going?”

  David said, “Who are Jo Corelli and Walter Krieger?”

  “We are all friends of Jaromir Kusak. It is as simple as that.”

  “They all know their way around,” Bohn assured David. They know the score.”

  David drew a deep breath. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Well, well,” said Bohn. “Let’s all drink to that.” He went over to the Welsh dresser for two more brandy snifters.

  “I’ll give you the details on the plane tomorrow,” McCulloch told David. “What’s your flight by the way? Got the particulars?” He took out a small diary and pencil from his inner pocket. “I suppose you’re taking the direct route to Vienna, touching down at Amsterdam?”

  David looked startled. He nodded, gave time of departure, flight number, and space. These were details he always memorised, just in case of a misplaced ticket. “But isn’t that a risk—I mean, if you and I take the same flight and are seen talking?” He foundered slightly.

  “Why shouldn’t I take that flight? Or Jo? Or Krieger? We’re pressed for time, and you’ve got to be able to know them again. What is a quicker way? I’ll talk with you. I’ll point them out. That’s all. Don’t worry. Not even one of Jiri Hrádek’s agents could possibly tie us together, not at this stage.”

  “Jiri Hrádek?”

  “Chief aide to the head of state security in Czechoslovakia. That means secret police. Gestapo powers.” McCulloch hesitated. “He was Irina’s husband.”

  There was a brief silence. “Irina’s mother could certainly pick them, couldn’t she?” Bohn remarked. “Hrádek is in line for the top spot in security.” He studied David with a touch of amusement “Want to back out?”

  McCulloch was annoyed, and let it show. “Stop fooling, Mark. Or else we’ll forget some important point.” He turned to David. “When can you be in Vienna?”

  “By the second of August.”

  “No sooner?”

  “No.”

  “And how long could you stay there? There may be delays.”

  “Until the twentieth.” And goodbye to Bayreuth, Lucerne, and Edinburgh.

  “All right I’ll pass your dates on to Krieger, let him play around with them. He’s making the Vienna arrangements.”

  “When do you want me there?” Bohn asked.

  “Krieger wil
l let you know if that’s necessary.”

  “Of course it’s necessary,” Bohn said good-naturedly. “You aren’t going to cheat me out of a story, are you?”

  “I think you’d better clear that with Jaromir Kusak. If he doesn’t want any publicity about his daughter joining him in exile, he doesn’t get it. Understood?”

  “Understood.” Bohn was smiling. “I’ll outlive the old boy. The story can be told someday, and I’ll be the only one who can do it. Say—look at the hour! Better get back into town, Hugh. I want to call Vienna as early as possible tomorrow morning, let them know we’re all set. That should give them enough time to bring Irina safely out of Czechoslovakia by the beginning of August.”

  McCulloch nodded. He was watching David. “Something wrong?”

  “No,” David said. “Just puzzled.”

  “By what?”

  “Jaromir Kusak. Is the place where he is living in exile so well hidden that no one knows where it is? Not even his publisher?”

  “It’s the best-kept secret since the atom bomb,” said Bohn.

  “He has his reasons,” McCulloch said very quietly. He hadn’t touched the brandy. “I’m driving,” he explained with a grin, and finished his third cup of black coffee. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dave.” The slip-over to a first name was unobtrusive.

  David nodded, walked with him into the living-room. Bohn was already on the front porch, pulling on his jacket. McCulloch lifted his briefcase from the side of the armchair, opened it. He took out two or three sheets of paper, typed clearly, lines well spaced, easy reading. “If you have time tonight, you could glance over these notes. And burn them once you’ve read them.”