Snare of the Hunter

by Helen Macinnes

  * * *

  Jo telephoned at eleven o’clock.

  “How are you?” she asked, letting him identify her voice.

  “Just fine. And how are you?”

  “A quiet evening, writing postcards. Ten, to be exact.”

  “Ten?” he repeated as a check.

  “That’s right. And now to bed. I’d better catch up on my sleep. Be seeing you.” She rang off.

  Ten. The time had been set. Ten tomorrow morning exactly, and Irina would be sitting at the café table. He folded up the map—Jo’s map, which he had been studying since he had come back to his room from an excellent but lonely dinner. He put it into the deep pocket of his raincoat, made sure it wouldn’t slip out. Unlike the other maps he had, it didn’t end at the borders of Austria, but covered a good part of the neighbouring countries beyond the actual frontiers. Then he packed away his guide-book and the yellow turtle neck he had worn today, discarded the magazines and paperbacks that cluttered up his bag. He didn’t think he’d have much time for reading in the next couple of days.

  Couple of days? He couldn’t tell at this stage. He wasn’t even sure where they’d make the first stop in the journey. Krieger was arranging that, Jo had said. He went over the details he did know, once more. He tried not to think of Irina, and failed. He was nervous, and he could admit it, alone in this gold-and-red bedroom, too many small tables and fat chairs so that he couldn’t even pace around and relax some of his tensions. For half an hour he stood at the long window, stared out at the neon signs and the closed shops of the Kärntnerstrasse. Sixteen years was a long stretch. She has probably forgotten me, he thought. And perhaps it won’t be Irina I’ll see. A fake, a substitute. In that case, Irina could be dead. She could have been forced to write to her father and then—afterwards—

  He got a grip on himself. He telephoned downstairs and put in an order for breakfast at seven here in his room. There was some small difficulty at first—he ought to have ordered earlier, or written it out for the floor waiter, or something—but he managed to get his way by means of some fluent German. A useful language for giving commands. He ought to try it on Jo sometime.

  Then there was nothing else to do but get to bed. Tomorrow...

  6

  Irina had lost count of the days of waiting. They were all alike, running one into another in the sameness of routine in Ludvik’s flat. Only Sunday had been made noticeable by the tolling of so many church bells. On Monday it was once more the sound of distant traffic, of children shouting in the street four floors below. All she could see outside the windows was warm sunlight streaming down on the rooftops and attics opposite. She had been told by Ludvik not to go near either of the two front windows. She had to stay well out of sight, not play the radio, never answer the door but retreat into the small bedroom and lock herself in; and, if anyone did enter the flat, she was to keep absolutely quiet.

  The top-floor flat was small, poorly furnished, and hot in this weather. Alois shared its expenses, but it was Ludvik who had rented it three months ago. Soon they would be leaving again—she had gathered from their talk that they kept moving three or four times a year. Even their jobs were makeshift, perhaps to shield their true identities. Alois, once a journalist in Brno, was now employed in nightwork at a garage. Ludvik, who had been an accountant back in Prague, had a job as a part-time waiter in a restaurant.

  This arrangement always left one of them in the flat, possibly to have a ready answering service for their telephone. Perhaps, too, it made sure that no one searched their place. Visitors were few, and stayed only briefly. The friendly but curious caretaker hadn’t even got inside the door. She lived on the ground floor, an elderly woman. Not to worry about her, Ludvik had told Irina, he could jolly the old girl along, just keep out of sight.

  Irina’s anxiety about the caretaker didn’t quite leave her. It could have been possible, when the two men had brought her here, that the old woman had seen them smuggle her quietly up the long dark staircase. The treads were of stone, she remembered. She had tried to move silently, but she had been exhausted. Had the caretaker heard her heels on the first landing? Her heart had leapt at the sound, small, but loud against the silence.

  “Nonsense,” Ludvik had said. “She would have been upstairs next morning demanding additional rent. She’s more interested in money than politics. She’s my friend, didn’t you know? I got this flat through her.”

  Alois had said nothing. But he seldom spoke. He would leave around ten in the evening, return by eight in the morning, eat the food she had prepared for him, say little more than his thanks, and go to bed. When he rose, at four in the afternoon, he ate breakfast and searched through the newspapers, and then—when she cleared away his dishes—he spread papers and notes on the table and began working on the pamphlets he was preparing for delivery across the frontier. He never mentioned his brother, just watched her with sad eyes when she tried to talk a little, said only a few words in reply, an occasional phrase.

  He blames me for his brother’s death, Irina kept thinking. If I hadn’t tried to cross the frontier, Josef wouldn’t have been left dead beside a barbed-wire fence.

  And yet Alois had been the one to give up his small bedroom so that she could sleep comfortably. It had a high window which let her breathe in these warm nights. He had moved into a little dark cubbyhole, a storeroom possibly, with only a ventilator shaft for air. On that first night she had been too distraught to notice what he had done; next day her protests were only met with a stubborn refusal. Ludvik, who slept in an alcove separated from the living-room by a faded green curtain, was amused. “Alois must think you’re something special,” he told her. “He doesn’t give up his bed to other guests. Oh, yes, we have them. Occasionally. And the caretaker has never tumbled to any of you yet.” Ludvik was the one who did most of the talking. He was making a considerable effort to keep her cheerful and confident. She ought to be grateful, but she still didn’t really like him. He tries too hard, she kept thinking. He is kind and he is competent, and I am stupid. It’s this room. It’s this waiting.

  Tonight she sat down at the table opposite Alois. It was five o’clock and he was absorbed in wording a new diatribe. He looked up in surprise. Usually she kept in the background, read old magazines, avoided the current papers as if she had come to expect nothing but bad news from them. The brief reports for this last week had been about the trials: familiar names were being listed; the more liberal Communists were being sentenced. The long pamphlet he had been writing gave fuller details and would let the people back in Prague know more than they would read in Rude Pravo.

  Irina looked at him, her large eyes pleading. For a moment both were silent. She’s too pale, he thought; too tense. “Is this Wednesday?” she asked.

  “Thursday.”

  “Whatever happened to Wednesday? And how long is it now, Alois? My eleventh night here? Oh, it can’t be!”

  He nodded. “Sometimes we have to wait. Don’t worry. You are safe.”

  “I know.”

  He laid down his pen, studied her face. “You need fresh air. You need to walk in the sun. But you’ll soon have all that.”

  “Don’t you ever get out for exercise? Can’t you ever go to a theatre, or see your friends?”

  “Oh, I’ll meet my friends and spend some days with them when—” He hesitated.

  “When I’m off your hands.” She stared at the gaunt face which reminded her so much of Josef: an older Josef, less tanned, thinner, less strong in his body, but with the same intelligent eyes. “Oh, what have I brought on you all?” she cried in agony. She rose, ran to her room.

  Alois followed her, but she closed the door. He could hear her sobbing. Something is troubling her deeply, he thought as he went back to the table. It isn’t the waiting. That is only an added strain. What is it that is troubling her? Josef? He sat down, began writing. Work was his way of forgetting. And now, with Josef’s death, with Josef’s way of dying, the words that flowed from his pen had ev
en more importance.

  Scarcely ten minutes later the telephone rang. As he crossed to the wall beside the stove and unhooked the receiver, he saw Irina standing by the bedroom door. She was always hoping, Alois thought. He answered, then listened, then spoke in English. With his free hand he beckoned Irina excitedly. He was smiling.

  She came over to him, stood hesitant and uncertain, her eyes watching him anxiously. He nodded to her, but put up a hand to keep excited questions from rushing out.

  Into the ’phone he said, “About half an hour. It depends on the time of day. We can get to the Opera House easily in half an hour when the traffic isn’t bad. She will be ready. We await your instructions.” As he hooked the receiver back in place, he turned to her in triumph. The change in his face, in his manner, was so amazing that she could only stare at him. Then she threw her arms around his neck. So Alois also had been worrying that the call would never come.

  He led her over to the table. “They are ready. They will telephone again tomorrow and let us know the exact time. The place for the meeting must be somewhere near the Opera House. They will tell us tomorrow. They are being very cautious, and that is good. They did give me a description of the man who will contact you—his clothes, what he will carry, so that you can be sure of him. But first—have you a handbag? You mustn’t take any luggage, they said. Only a handbag.”

  “I have a purse. It isn’t big enough to carry—” She hesitated. “To carry two note-books I have brought for my father. They were his note-books—he had to leave them behind, and I found them before the police came searching and—”

  “Yes, yes. How do we get you a handbag? If I can find a leather shop open—there’s one on the next street—”

  “But I shall need some of my clothes.”

  “No luggage,” he reminded her. “I wonder why? They cannot be meeting you at a street corner, anywhere in the open. It must be some place where baggage would look ridiculous.”

  She looked at him in amazement. She never could have guessed all that.

  “And they’ll want you to look different too,” he rushed on. He pulled out his thin wallet. Not much there. The rent had been paid on Tuesday.

  “Wait!” Irina ran to the bedroom, came back with her purse. She emptied out the money on the table. “Take it—can you find a shop where they’ll change Czech currency?”

  “I know a place. But the bag would cost more there.” He lifted the folded notes. He couldn’t guess how much he’d need. “You lock the door, and place a chair against it. Don’t open for anyone except Ludvik or me. No messenger, no one! Remember.”

  “And get a bag that is large enough but not too noticeable. A shoulder-strap is smart.”

  He had to smile at that. He closed the door behind him and went running lightly down the flights of steps. Then his pace slowed as he reached the street and walked normally. His excuse would be that he had forgotten his girl’s birthday until this last moment. He’d speak with a strong Czech accent to explain the money. Austrians were used to refugees.

  Within forty minutes he was back. The handbag was the best he could find in a small neighbourhood store—brown leather, large enough without being comic, shoulder-strap and all. “And here’s the change.” He placed the money carefully on the table.

  “That’s very nice,” she told him as she examined the bag. It wasn’t her taste at all. But then her clothes weren’t much either: they were the kind of thing that Irina Kusak wouldn’t be expected to wear. “Thank you, Alois.” She gave one of her old smiles. “I’ve made some coffee. Now tell me all about the ’phone call.”

  They sat down, elbows on table, facing each other, talking easily. Irina’s excitement was infectious. Alois was no longer distant, hesitating. In fact, it was he who brought up Josef’s name. “Josef would be glad for you,” he said. “I think these Americans have planned very carefully. I feel better now.” He paused. “That was a bad beginning.”

  “And I still don’t know how it happened.”

  “You’ve been thinking about it?”

  “Constantly.”

  “So have I.” He looked into her eyes. She didn’t avoid his. “You saw nothing? No one moving, no one firing from the trees?”

  “No one. Nothing. It was peaceful. So quiet.”

  “And then the shot. You said you heard only one shot—”

  “Only one.”

  He was silent.

  “I could have been wrong,” she said. “Ludvik was blocking my view. I couldn’t see where the first shot hit.”

  “It was growing dark, of course,” Alois said, almost to himself.

  “It must have struck close to us.” Unless it was a wild shot. Would a trained marksman fire wildly? Once more, she saw that last brief scene in the wide slope of field. It was becoming shadowed, vague, with only Josef’s outline clear-cut. He was stooping to pick up the wire cutters, and she had lost him from view as Ludvik’s broad back blotted him out “One shot,” she said. “That was all I heard.” And Josef fell. Then she could see him again, briefly, before she was pulled towards the car. He had lain as if he were asleep, stretched out on the grass, his face turned up to the sky.

  Alois sensed the emotion that gripped her and put an arm around her shoulder. It seemed as if the living must always ask questions, even seek blame for a death. What did it matter now? he thought wearily. Josef was gone. Buried by strangers and enemies.

  “Perhaps Ludvik had a moment of panic,” Irina said. She was still trying to find an answer. “That is when one can make a mistake.” I know, she thought; I know that only too well. “Or am I the one who is wrong? Didn’t you hear—”

  “Yes,” he said. “I heard only that one shot. Ludvik made the mistake.” But Ludvik would never admit that. And what did it matter now? Alois asked himself again. He glanced at the door, and dropped his arm as he saw Ludvik enter.

  Ludvik didn’t seem to notice the look of embarrassment on Alois’s face, or the worry on Irina’s. He was genial, and quite in control. “Well, aren’t you two chumming up!” he said. “That’s an improvement.” So they had got round to talking about Josef. Yes, I heard only that one shot. Ludvik made the mistake. It was to be expected, of course; but he had hoped it wouldn’t happen. Ludvik’s smile was broad, his pale eyes expressionless. He made a pretence of searching for a bottle of beer. He had made the mistake, had he? It wouldn’t be long before Alois’s quick mind took one further step. And then—well, he had better not wait for that moment “Any secrets to share?” he asked lightly. His thoughts were harsh and cold.

  “The telephone call. It came,” said Irina. “Alois and I were just discussing it, and—”

  “It came? When?” His voice was sharp.

  “A little while ago. I must be ready to leave as soon as they call again.”

  “Come on, Alois,” Ludvik said, ignoring Irina, “give me the details. From the beginning.” And when Alois had finished, he said impatiently, “For Christ’s sake, why didn’t they tell us the place right away? And settle on a fixed time? We could have worked the rest out by ourselves. The Americans must think they’re dealing with a bunch of boobs.”

  “A matter of security, I suppose,” said Alois stiffly. “I like their caution.” He glanced at Irina. “She’ll be safe.”

  “I wouldn’t say we’d been endangering her. Well, well, our little Irina is on her way. Almost. When does that second call come tomorrow?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  “Cagey bastards.”

  “And why not? They don’t know us.”

  “And we don’t know them. So it’s even.” He swallowed some beer. “Did I have a thirst! Walked all the way to Georg’s house. He’s expecting your pamphlets tomorrow, by the way. How many have you got ready for him?”

  “Three. Possibly four if I stay here and work tonight.” Alois rose and went to the telephone. “I’ll let them know at the garage not to expect me.”

  “Are you sure it’s your editorialising that is keeping you
here?” Ludvik asked with a wide grin that rounded his broad square-shaped face. “You know, there’s no need for both of us to be waiting near that telephone tomorrow. I can handle it and get Irina to the meeting place.”

  “What about your work?”

  “You know damn well I can come and go. There’s nothing definite about that job. They don’t pay enough.” He laughed, raised his glass of beer in Irina’s direction. “They’ll never miss me for one day.”

  “I’d like to be here when the call comes; and it may come early,” Alois said. “I just want to be sure—that’s all.” He dialled the garage. (Its owner was a Czech who had been here in Vienna since 1948. He knew enough not to ask questions. Besides, workers who made up for any absence without demanding overtime wages were hard to find these days.)

  Ludvik got to his feet, drained his glass, carried it over to the small sink. “Early, you think? Then I had better get the car and garage it in Anton’s place round the corner. Have it ready. Just in case you’re leaving at six in the morning,” he told Irina.

  “At six?”

  “All asleep by ten o’clock!” Ludvik warned her. He was in high spirits. “And you’d better get these pamphlets finished,” he told Alois as he crossed over to the door. “Georg said something about sending over for them tomorrow morning.” He left before Alois could answer.

  “Who is Georg?”

  “A friend. He takes the pamphlets with him when he visits Prague.”

  Irina picked up her new handbag. She left the money on the table. “I won’t need it now. And I’d like to think I was subsidising some of your work.”

  Alois shook his head, smiling, gathering up the notes and silver. He put them in her hand. “Never travel without money, not even when you are with friends.” She is too trusting, he thought. How can a woman who has suffered, as she must have suffered, still have any trust left? Was that what had blinded her to Jiri Hrádek? Was it trust, or misplaced faith, or the stupidity of love? Someday, if we meet again, I may find out. That’s one riddle I would like to solve.