Snare of the Hunter

by Helen Macinnes

  “Top-secret?” David asked with a smile.

  “My own special brand. Let’s say they are a greater risk, if anyone left them lying around, than you and I accidentally meeting on a plane tomorrow. By the way. I’ll take the liberty of changing your space from economy to first class. That’s much quieter at this time of year. Any objections?” David had none.

  There was a general handshaking but no talk on the dark porch. McCulloch produced a pocket flashlight: Bohn and he made their way easily to the car. A last wave from Bohn, and they were off.

  David stood for some moments, listening to the sea, looking at the sky. A clear and beautiful night. A strange and fantastic night.

  He came back into the house, sat down at his desk, pushing his manuscript aside, placing McCulloch’s pages in front of him. They consisted of three crisply written but fairly detailed biographies: Jaromir Kusak: his wife, Hedwiga Kusak; Jiri Hrádek, Irina’s husband. When he finished reading, he burned them in the fireplace and stirred up the black ashes with a poker until they were crumbled into powder. Now he knew some of the background to Irina’s life in those last sixteen years. Sadly, he shook his head, gathered up his own papers, and began packing them for New York.

  4

  David settled himself comfortably in his new location. Hugh McCulloch had managed the change-over to first class on the flight to Amsterdam-Vienna. It wasn’t that McCulloch was a sybarite or a wild spender. It turned out that his under-statements had double meanings. “Quieter,” he had said yesterday, which meant simply a better chance of finding last-minute space for himself and his travelling companions. McCulloch was a planner, no doubt about that. He had even got the seat next to David.

  McCulloch gave a casual but friendly nod as he took his place. Just one stranger briefly summing up another who would share close quarters with him on a long journey. David took his cue, nodded back. Where were Jo Corelli and Walter Krieger? he wondered. He had made several amused guesses while waiting at Kennedy for the usual business, nowadays, of getting on board: individual searches—this airline was really careful, thank God—for concealed weapons on possible hijackers. And anyone who looked Neanderthal, or muttered to himself, or talked aggressively, or shifted his eyes like a spooked horse, or glowered with general hate at the world around him, might find a coldly appraising psychoanalyst studying him with growing interest. Now it was time for seatbelts and nervous silence. The plane lifted off, gained altitude, stayed there. Everyone could unfasten and relax. “Cuba next stop?” David asked.

  “As long as we don’t have a prolonged visit—” McCulloch shrugged his shoulders to end the sentence. The airline hostess, waiting for their orders, wasn’t amused. Funny way some people had of breaking the ice, she thought, but she smiled her warm, enveloping smile and talked of dinner in half an hour. “Or a little later,” McCulloch guessed. “Anyway, time for a double Martini.”

  “Scotch on the rocks, water added,” David told her. “Make that two, please.” It would save any gap in service: the girl would have enough to do with the batch of women on the aisle opposite, not to mention the child behind him.

  She left, neat and demure in her crisp suit, pretty face still carrying the beautiful smile. No trouble with these two, she thought. (There would be plenty with the small boy and his mother one seat back; or with the group of women, elderly and still nervous, who were making their first flight over the Atlantic to see bulb farms in Holland, lace shops in Brussels, and chateaux on the Loire.) What were they, anyway? The older one looked like a professional man—he had kept his thin briefcase beside him, saying he had some work to finish. Lawyers were always doing that, never seemed to get rid of their offices. The other had magazines with him—no bright front covers, all serious-looking—and a couple of paperbacks. A reader, obviously. Someone in teaching, or in publishing, or a young executive? They were all mixed up nowadays: you couldn’t tell much from their clothes any more. Not stage or movies—his hair wasn’t wild enough, and he wore a tie. Not a talent scout, either: he hadn’t that wandering, how-do-you-look-stripped gaze. Light brown hair, dark eyes—a neat combination with a healthy tan. Very attractive. Molto simpatico. The only thing she hadn’t liked about him was his sense of humour. Cuba, indeed... When she brought back a tray of various orders, she noticed that they were introducing themselves but hadn’t reached the stage of talking freely. Must be the reserved type, both of them. Well, that never caused any bother. No complaints from her on that score. She bustled away, happily. Plenty to do elsewhere.

  David studied his double Scotch in a single glass, soda added, and shook his head. No one really listened, it seemed. He hoped that this would also hold for his fellow passengers—he was still worrying about the risk of any talk with McCulloch being overheard. He assessed the immediate field.

  Across the aisle, the women had rediscovered their voices. In pairs, they were discussing future plans over their champagne cocktails, and dropping heady names with abandon—Chaumont, Chambord, Chemonceaux, Cheverny. And to hell with exact pronunciation, thought David, enthusiasm was the thing. But where were the husbands? In flight from culture? Gone fishing? Anyway, he could relax about the Ladies’ Self-Improvement Society: it was too absorbed in its own projects to overhear McCulloch’s.

  Behind David, the small boy was raising his own barrage. He blotted out any voices within a six-foot radius with his constant argument. His mother sounded young and harassed, when she could be heard, and then only by raising her voice. She’d pay no attention to anything except the battle on hand.

  And in front of him there was the only risk to privacy. It came in the nicest possible form, too. A girl travelling alone, sitting by herself, who had boarded the plane just ahead of him. Dark hair, smooth and shining, carefully shaped. That was all he had seen, except for the way she carried her head. A slender, erect figure dressed in a smartly cut pants suit that may have hidden her legs but certainly emphasised trim hips and waist.

  McCulloch took off his eyeglasses, folded back the newspaper he was reading, dropped it on his lap. He had been judging their surroundings too. “We can talk,” he said quietly, and tucked his glasses into his breast pocket.

  David made a small gesture to the seat in front. “That’s Jo.”

  For several moments David was wordless. Jo Corelli. Well, well, well. Neatly positioned too. He looked at McCulloch. “I wouldn’t like to play you at chess.” Then he had a reservation about Jo. “Is she up to this job?”

  McCulloch’s serious face rounded into his genial smile. He dealt with that question by leaving it unanswered. Dave would find out soon enough. “She’s leaving this flight at Amsterdam, along with me. Before then you’ll have a chance to see her and hear her. Listen to her voice carefully: make sure you can recognise it over a telephone. Memorise her face too. The same goes for Walter Krieger. When he walks past on his way to the lounge. I’ll tip you off. You can follow him five minutes or so later. See him and hear him, that’s all.”

  “And where’s Bohn? I thought he’d be hanging in.”

  “He’s done his part of the job. No need to have him around.”

  “He’ll be in at the finish, though. You can’t keep him away from a good story.”

  “No doubt.”

  “So this is all of us?” Jo Corelli, Krieger, McCulloch, and myself.

  That’s it. I’ll be in the background, in contact with all of you. Krieger will keep within reach, if you need him. Jo will be with you most of the time.”

  “I don’t know if I like the sound of that.”

  “Jo is capable.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of Jo. I was wondering who is in charge?” I don’t want any arguments on that trip west, he told himself.

  “You. You have to make the decisions, choose the safest routes. And you’ll be there, all the time, until you make our—our special delivery into the right hands.”

  “Where?”

  “To be arranged. You’ll learn your destination as soon as I do. And
on that journey, let me know your progress; or tell Jo. She’ll keep me informed if you can’t. Here’s my number”—he slipped a card into David’s hand along with an envelope of cash—“and that’s your expense account. Keep in touch with me. There will be someone by that telephone day or night. And why Geneva?” he asked, forestalling another question. “It’s central. Good telephone service, good airport, roads and trains. And I have two members of my staff there, who are completely discreet and absolutely honest.”

  David resisted looking at either the card or the envelope, stashed them safely in a deep pocket, and brought out his cigarettes as an excuse for reaching into his jacket. “Can you give me a rough idea how long we have to wait before I start making the delivery?” That would be the worrying time, just dawdling around Vienna waiting in uncertainty.

  “That depends on your last concert in Salzburg.”

  “A week from tomorrow—Wednesday. Eight o’clock that evening.”

  “Where is it being held?”

  “The Grosses Festspielhaus.”

  “Ah, the big theatre. Black tie? And supper to follow, no doubt?”

  “Yes, I’ve arranged to meet some friends—”

  “Then we’ll skip my idea and you can leave Salzburg in the morning.”

  “I could cancel the supper date.”

  “No, no. Keep everything as it is, and raise no one’s curiosity. But next morning, take only necessary clothes—travel light—and leave the rest in Salzburg for later pickup. Or have them sent to London or Paris, or wherever suits you. You’d better hire a car in Salzburg for a week; and once you reach Vienna, stay at the Sacher. We’ll have a room reserved in advance. In your name. Then Jo will know where to find you. She’ll be able to give you more details on the arrangements we’ve managed to make. We’ll have quite a week, getting it all squared away.” McCulloch gave that surprising smile of his, and his eyes sparkled at the prospect. Then he was back to his business-like self. “You’ll have one night at the Sacher. Get set to leave by next morning.”

  So soon? “Can you be sure of that?” David asked. If McCulloch had only eight days to make all his plans, the resistance group helping Irina to reach Vienna would certainly need more time than that. Escapes took preparation. There would be delays, postponements.

  “She is already out,” McCulloch said very quietly.

  Irina? Out of Czechoslovakia? David stared at him briefly, recovered. “When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Good God,” said David under his breath.

  “She is safe. And waiting.”

  “Look, I can’t cancel any of this coming week. I’ve got to be in Salzburg.” David was low-voiced but angry.

  “I didn’t ask you to cancel anything.”

  “I just don’t like the idea of her hanging around Vienna for more than a week.”

  “She won’t be doing that. She’ll be kept out of sight—indoors. Stop worrying about something we can’t change. We’ll stick to our schedule.” McCulloch’s mouth was definitely tight-lipped.

  David said bitterly, “Jumped the gun, didn’t they?”

  “Someone did. Bohn was given the news this morning when he telephoned our okay to them.”

  “I bet it gave him a bit of a shock.”

  “Damaged his ego slightly. But he soon recovered. He’s a resilient man.”

  David was suddenly off on another tack. Irina’s friends must have been pretty sure we’d come through. What had led them on? Bohn’s initial approach, no doubt; optimistic and confident, that was Bohn. “Good God,” he said again, realising the full force of this latest piece of news. “What if I had refused last night?”

  “We’d have been searching wildly for a replacement. And by the end of this week I’d have been on my hands and knees pleading with the pros to lend me one of their bright young men.” McCulloch shook his head over the likely reply to that request.

  “They’d have still refused?” What has turned Washington into a bag of jelly beans? David asked himself and glared at McCulloch, who merely lifted his newspaper, held it out, pointing to a long report with a circle pencilled lightly around one paragraph.

  David took the newspaper and looked at a Reuter’s dispatch from Prague, dated yesterday. The headline was TWO MORE SUBVERSION TRAILS BEGIN IN CZECHOSLOVAKIA. He started to read, got only as far as the first sentence. The dinner trolley was arriving.

  “Keep it for your coffee,” McCulloch suggested. “Read it carefully. It may clarify some things. And anyway, cold steak isn’t worth eating.”

  The hostess was apologetic. “I’m sorry it was a long half-hour.”

  Not long enough, thought David, as he laid aside the newspaper unwillingly.

  “Scarcely noticed it at all,” said McCulloch, the ex-diplomat. “I think this gentleman and I might share a bottle of Bordeaux.” He turned to David with grave politeness. “You will join me?”

  * * *

  David reflected, as the dishes were cleared away, that McCulloch had scored again: their close conversation had been well timed, for now—with food served and eaten—there was a satisfied silence around them, a general drift towards settling in for the rest of the evening, and no more busy interplay of voices and laughter. Even the small boy, after some last protests, had subsided into sleep.

  David adjusted the reading light over him, picked up the newspaper. But from the seat in front, the girl spoke to the hostess as she passed down the aisle after a quick visit to the pilots. “Are we on time? That’s splendid. Then we’ll arrive on schedule.” She was rising now, still talking with the hostess. “How are the weather reports?” The hostess assured her they seemed fine.

  “Wonderful,” said the girl, leaving her seat, turning towards the rear of the plane, letting David have a clear view of her face. “All disturbances are over, I think.” She glanced in the direction of the sleeping child and the hostess joined her in a bright smile. Then Jo was on her way to the washroom.

  Girl? If she were Women’s Lib and insisted on being addressed as Ms., she’d be annoyed with that description. But, thought David as male chauvinist, she might be a grown woman in her late twenties, and she might be brighter and more intelligent than he was (McCulloch, that careful codger, wouldn’t pick a fly-brained cutie for this job), yet she was still a charmer, and definitely of the purely feminine gender. An oval face with smooth pale skin and good bone structure. (The profile view had been clear and well defined.) Large eyes, dark eyelashes, carefully marked eyebrows, all very pleasing below the gleaming dark hair. He wouldn’t forget that face. Nor the voice: well modulated, nothing hoarse or raucous; middle register, with a hint of something else than purely American. English? Just a slight influence in the vowels, he thought, with Italian (her name pointed to that) in the softness of some syllables. At least, if she started giving him orders, her voice wouldn’t add to his annoyance. Let’s hope she doesn’t, he decided; let’s hope we both keep the level of command at fifty-fifty. He had his doubts. Jo seemed to be a capable woman, all right. The way she had handled herself there was damned neat.

  He returned to his newspaper. McCulloch had taken out some legal-sized sheets from his briefcase, put on his glasses, uncapped a ball-point pen, and was apparently absorbed. David began reading. It didn’t take him long to finish the Reuter’s dispatch—its four columns covered about a quarter of the full-sized page of the newspaper. Its headline had been misleading. “Two More Subversion Trials” meant, in fact, two places—Prague itself and the town of Brno—where a number of trials, each involving groups of the more liberal Communists, had been going on for the last week and were still continuing. The defendants were all educated men and women: doctors, historians, a philosopher, two engineers, a clergyman, lawyers. They had been arrested last November, before the Czech elections, for handing out leaflets which reminded citizens of their constitutional rights in voting. Some, too, had given interviews to Western newsmen. They could get as much as ten years in prison. It was, so the paragraph lig
htly circled by McCulloch’s pencil told David, an attempt “to eliminate any remaining active political opposition once and for all. That this is evidently declining is indicated by the fact that in the months before the trials began Western correspondents heard less than usual from the underground opposition movement.” And there was another eye-catching detail: the present Communist party leader, now in control of the government, was trying to keep the trials in low profile, not disturb the general calm of the country, and give no opportunity to hard-liners “to step in with tougher measures.”

  There’s a clue there, thought David, to the way our intelligence agencies are acting, and I can’t quite find it. He re-read the dispatch. The due was there, still evading him. But he had learned something. There were four political groupings in Czechoslovakia. First was the minority who now held power; they were middle-of-the-road, trying to show Russia they were all good Communists too—see how we can keep discipline? Secondly, there was a majority, now out of power, as liberal but not quite as daring as Dubcek in the Prague Spring of 1968, who were being disciplined to encourage them to hold their heads down. Thirdly, there was the group in the background, the hard-liners, the new Stalinists, ready “to take tougher measures”—which meant the seizure of power and shock tactics. They’d hold bigger and better trials: staged shows with charges of treason, just like the old days. And fourthly, there were the non-Communists and ex-Communists, possibly the smallest group of all, now relegated to silence—at least they had been brushed aside in the Reuter’s account: in the months before the trials began Western correspondents heard less than usual from the underground opposition movement.

  David folded up the paper, placed it beside McCulloch. He closed his eyes, searched for the key to the riddle. The underground was not dead, or else Irina would not now be safe in Vienna. But it was obviously cautious, avoiding any open publicity. And the American intelligence agencies, the British too, were keeping well away from the Czech opposition movement. Was that the key? No link-up of any kind between Western governments and the Czech underground? No chance of handing the hard-line Communists an excuse for show trials, and for a takeover of power to ensure full discipline? Certainly, bigger and better trials needed sensational evidence, something to keep the world startled and silence its objections. “Sure,” people must be persuaded to say, “sure they’re guilty, look how the CIA is behind it all: damn shame the way they stir up trouble and leave these poor fools to pay the bill.” All they’d see would be the results of the agony: arrests, wholesale purges, sentences that brought a life-time’s hard labour if not execution. They’d never know the real cause of it: that would be buried under a massive mudslide of propaganda. Which, of course, was exactly what the hard-line Communists wanted. It made their power-plays that much easier.