Snare of the Hunter

by Helen Macinnes

  The pencil stopped abruptly, a sharp jab to match her feelings; its lead broke off. Yes, that was Tarasp. And it was close to the border. No distance at all. She laid the map on the seat beside her, pocketed the pencil, and frowned. “But why all the change in our plans? This isn’t the way it was meant to be. Is it, David?”

  “No,” he said, “it isn’t the way I hoped it would be.”

  “But why—”

  “Darling, I don’t know why. Not until I see Krieger in Merano. We’ll stop there for a couple of hours.”

  “I don’t think I like your Mr. Krieger. He has arranged everything, hasn’t he?”

  “Possibly. Don’t tell that to Hugh McCulloch, though.” He put on speed. No more sweet delays. He would have rebelled if he didn’t sense that Krieger had some very strong reasons for this urgency. But they had better be good ones, he thought angrily. Then, if only to arouse Irina from her depression, he came out of his black mood and got the conversation back to a more normal level. By the time they passed through Lienz, she was even smiling at the comic anecdotes he was managing to dredge up, about crazy conductors and maddened musicians. One thing about the world of music: it provided plenty of light relief as well as heavenly sound.

  The last stretch of road, heading west to the Austro-Italian frontier, was as straight and dull as the single-minded railroad track that ran beside it through a flat broad valley of empty fields, with the mountains now pushed far back to the south and north. The cars ahead were beginning to slacken speed. Irina watched them unbelievingly. “They hardly stop. Are you sure that’s the frontier, David?”

  “That’s the border, all right.” And they had made it in good time, in spite of a heavy shower of rain as they had passed through Lienz.

  As they came closer to the small scattering of buildings, Irina could see the cars more clearly. “Some have been stopped.” She was nervous. “Why?”

  “Their own choice. They probably need gas, or are changing Schilling into Lire. Not a bad idea, come to think of it.” He put a reassuring hand on her arm. “All you have to do is show your passport and smile and say thank you as you’re waved through. The Italians, further along the road, will probably throw you a salute. Don’t worry, my pet. No barbed wire here.” As he approached the tail end of the small procession of cars, David slowed down. But his attention was caught by the man in the yellow jacket who stood at the edge of the road, with a bag propped beside his feet, watching each car as it passed him. David had seen the blob of yellow—who could have missed it?—two hundred yards away or so, and decided it was some new-style hitch-hiker. As they came closer, David could see the man more clearly: large round eyeglasses, long dark hair ruffled by the breeze through the valley, grey sideburns bulging out from thin cheeks. “Mark Bohn,” David said incredulously. “Damn it all, it is Mark Bohn.”

  Bohn was now studying the green Mercedes as it neared him: his face was blank, showed no sign of recognition. But then, David reflected, no one knew what kind of car he was driving except Walter Krieger. He sounded the horn lightly, briefly, and put out his arm to give one small wave. “I think,” he said without much enthusiasm, “we are about to be boarded.” This was one journey on which he could do without Bohn and his incessant stream of talk—or anyone else, for that matter. There went another romantic notion: to drive, alone with Irina, through the Dolomites. He passed Bohn, pointing ahead to a place where he could safely draw the car off the road. And what one hell of a spot Bohn had chosen to stop a car—what did he want, a pile-up? Of course he had been noticeable: that was probably all he had thought about.

  David pulled up behind a small group of cars parked near a service station, glanced back. “He didn’t get my signal,” David said, and shook his head. Bohn was hesitating, slightly bewildered, and a little pathetic. His bright smile of recognition had died away into a blank stare. Then, as he saw the Mercedes definitely stopped, his smile came back. He picked up the bag at his feet and started towards them.

  Irina said, “Is he a friend of yours?”

  “Yes. And a friend of yours too. That letter—by the way. I’ve wondered. Why did you send it to Bohn? Why not to London—to your father’s publisher?”

  “A year ago I sent a letter to London. Nothing secret in it. Only family news. It was stopped.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Jiri brought it back to me. He said—” She fell silent as Bohn reached them.

  Jiri again, thought David: there was always Jiri Hrádek cropping up somewhere. He was sick of that damn name. Jiri, Jiri, the hell with Jiri. He got out of the car, greeted Bohn casually.

  Bohn was saying, “I thought you weren’t going to stop.”

  “Why not? You looked like a man who needed a lift.”

  Bohn smiled broadly. “That’s Dave,” he said, “putting two and two together, scoring a solid four.” The way he said it though, didn’t make it sound much of a compliment. But that was Bohn’s style, David reflected, particularly when his mood was sour.

  Bohn reached past David, his hand outstretched for Irina. “So you’re safe and well, and twice as beautiful as when we last met.”

  Irina stared at him, politely let her hand be shaken.

  “Have I changed so much?” Bohn went on, his mood now bantering. “More hair, of course. And four years of added worry lines. And a tendency to get tired from too much standing.” He sat down on the driver’s seat. “I waited a good half hour for you, maybe more. You had to come this way. A matter of simple deduction that even I—”

  “And how did you get here?” David cut in. “On foot?”

  “With that damned asthmatic machine.” Bohn gestured to a Citroën drawn well to the side of the service station. “It coughed itself to death just as I reached this point. One of the mechanics said he could give it a thorough overhaul by three o’clock. But now that you’re on the scene. I’ll leave it here for Salzburg to pick up. That’s where I rented it yesterday.”

  “And where is Jo?”

  “Half-way to Merano with Krieger, I’d imagine. I was delayed in Lienz—had to wait for a ’phone call from Munich—I must be there by tonight if possible. Serious work starts tomorrow. No more gallivanting around scenic countryside.” He looked at Irina, said with obvious enthusiasm, “And how are you? I’m glad it all worked out so well. Really splendid.”

  “It isn’t over yet,” David reminded him. “And if you’ll just stop blocking the way. I’ll get this car moved over to a gas pump.”

  “What’s the rush? We’ve all day ahead of us.”

  “We don’t,” David said shortly. “Irina, have you any Austrian money you need changed?”

  “Plenty of time for that in Merano,” Bohn said, but he slid off the front seat.

  David got back into the car, edged it into position, talked briefly with the attendant, and set out for the exchange booth. In Merano, there would be little time for anything beyond making contact with Krieger and hearing the details about Tarasp.

  “Not wasting one minute, is he?” Bohn remarked as he rejoined Irina. “Perhaps he doesn’t intend to stay in Merano at all.” He laughed outright “Like the way he ditched us all in Lienz. We began to wonder just how reliable old Dave was.” Bohn’s eyes flickered over her dress—green wool, and surely too warm for any southward journey?

  “There was no need to be in Lienz,” Irina said. She was embarrassed. Now he will ask where we spent the night.

  But there is need to be in Merano, Bohn was thinking. He reached into the car and picked up the map that lay on the seat beside her. He looked at it, shaking his head. “You folded this, I bet. Newspapers and maps—women never get them back into the right creases. Do you want me to straighten it out for you?” His eyes were on the section that faced up. It showed the highway that ran west from Merano and then divided, one route turning north to cross eventually into Switzerland. (The other route travelled south, but it was only partly shown on this section of the map, and therefore less important.) His e
yes were now following the Swiss highway that continued from the frontier and curved around the National Park. And what was that—a pencil mark? Yes, a pencil mark, a jagged dot, under the name of a village. “I like that dress you’re wearing,” he said as he shook out the map. He folded it back into its original shape, but not before he had a second glance at the marked village. “Will it be warm enough for the journey?”

  “Quite warm enough.”

  Certainly not Italy, then, where the August sun turned humid valleys into a hot stew. He ought to have guessed that Krieger would be handing out false leads to everyone. So screw Lake Como, Milan, and Walter Krieger. “You’ll need a coat, too, for Switzerland, won’t you?” He dropped the neatly folded map back beside her. Trasp, Tarasp, something like that. He’d check later, on his own map.

  “I have one.”

  “Oh yes,” he said, looking now at the back seat where a blue wool coat, folded along with David’s raincoat lay beside two pieces of luggage and a bulging shoulder-strap bag. “Not much room for me there. Hand me the car keys, Irina. I’ll get these things moved into the trunk, and save Dave’s precious time.” He reached for the handbag.

  “I’ll take that,” she said sharply.

  It slipped out of his hands on to the floor. He released its catch as he bent to pick it up and held it out to her, upside down. Before she could grasp it, it spilled open and a clutter of objects scattered over the front seat. “Sorry, sorry! I was in too much of a hurry.” She rescued a note-book, a diary perhaps, leaving powder and lipstick and passport and wallet and all the other inevitable items strewn around. “Where’s the other one?” she asked worriedly, her voice sharp.

  “Still inside the bag—jammed at the bottom.” He pulled it out. “This it?” He opened it, riffled through its pages. They were closely written, in Czech. Dates, names—that he could see, even in this brief moment. And they were not in Irina’s handwriting, either, as far as he could remember it from her letter. “Don’t tell me you’ve smuggled out some of Jiri’s memos,” he said, and grinned widely as he handed her the diary.

  She put both note-books back into her handbag, began packing the other articles on top of them. “I took nothing of Jiri’s,” she said. “These belong to my father.”

  “Oh, all the facts and figures he gathered about your politicians?” Then, as she flashed a startled glance at him, he said, “Sure, everyone knew about that.” His eyes fell on the passport she was adding, last of all, to her bag. British. And ready for use.

  “Everyone?” she challenged him.

  “All of us who’ve been interested in Czechoslovakia. But I thought his papers and notes were seized in a house search when—”

  “These were well hidden.”

  “And they’re dynamite, too?” he asked with another broad smile.

  She said nothing, but closed her handbag and set it safely beside her.

  “Have you met Krieger?” Bohn’s voice was strangely sombre.

  With surprise, she said, “No.”

  “Between us, Irina—be very careful with Krieger. He’s playing some double game of his own. He isn’t interested in you. He’s only interested in drawing your father out of hiding.”

  “But David says—”

  “That he’s an ordinary citizen? Don’t you believe it. Krieger is an intelligence expert, a hard-boiled professional agent, and as clever as they come. Don’t even let him know that your father’s diaries exist.”

  “He is my father’s friend,” she protested.

  “He was. Thirty years ago. Trust me, Irina—I have sources. I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Then why did you choose him to help me?”

  “I didn’t choose anyone. McCulloch took that job over, didn’t even let me—” Bohn looked round as he heard footsteps behind him. “Hello, Dave. Just in time to help me put the luggage in the trunk.”

  “Later,” said David. “Let’s get moving.” He had several travel folders in his hand, advertising the beauties of Austria.

  “Look—if you could spare another ten minutes.”

  “We can’t.” David jammed a folder into his pocket as he took his seat. Its title, Meran in the South Tyrol, wouldn’t exactly please the Italians, but it was all he could find on this side of the frontier. The others he tossed on the floor behind him, and hoped they had served as a slight diversion for anyone too interested in his movements.

  “But I’d like to make a ’phone call, let Salzburg know where they’ll find their Citroën.”

  “Later,” David repeated. “Are you coming or aren’t you?” Bohn jammed his bag on the floor of the back seat. He got in, lips tight.

  They passed through both frontiers without much more delay. “Where do we drop you?” David asked.

  “Anywhere on a railway line where I can catch a northbound express.”

  “Brixen?”

  “That would do.” And I can telephone my information from there, thought Bohn. My last small flourish as I bow out. As far as I’m concerned, this assignment is over. Murder is more than I bargained for. And Jiri Hrádek knows that too. “If it isn’t too much trouble for you,” Bohn added.

  “No sweat. It’s on our route. I won’t guarantee I can take you to the station, though.”

  “Oh, just drop me where I can find a taxi. Wouldn’t want to delay you. Are you going to drive to Switzerland tonight?”

  David was taken by surprise. Then he said, “Switzerland? Is that where we’re going?” He tried to sound amused.

  Yes, thought Bohn, that is where you are definitely going. And tonight—why else was Dave in such a tearing hurry? “You’re a glutton for punishment, Dave. Night driving is my idea of hell. And over a mountain road! No, thank you.”

  I’ve no good reason to dislike all these undercurrents, David thought, and yet, somehow, they are disturbing. Krieger is right: people talk too much; and Bohn is a gossip by nature, a name-dropper by habit. “No, thank you, too,” David said briskly. “Night driving is a waste of good time.” He glanced over his shoulder at Bohn, shook his head with amusement.

  “Then what’s all the rush?”

  “Because I’d rather be in Merano than heading along this damned highway with two hands on the wheel.” He turned to Irina, strangely silent, her eyes following the rise of precipices above deep forests and undulating fields. “From now on,” he told her, “you won’t find one stretch of horizon without mountains towering into the sky. The best time is early morning—just after the dawn begins to spread. You’ll see—”

  “Then we don’t leave till tomorrow?” She was smiling.

  He put an arm around her shoulder, pulled her close. “We’ll leave when we feel like it.”

  Bohn spoke softly. “And what will Krieger have to say about that?”

  “What did he say at Lienz?”

  For a moment Bohn stared. He took off his glasses, polished them with his silk scarf. “Nothing much.” He stuck them into his breast pocket, and closed his eyes. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’ll catnap. Vertical mountains aren’t my idea of excitement. Give me a city street any day.” He didn’t sleep at first. He kept his eyes closed and listened, but there was nothing worth adding to his report. Certainly, Switzerland. Probably the Engadine. Possibly tomorrow at dawn. Two dangerous note-books being smuggled out. A British passport. As for Dave and Irina—why mention their affair? If Jiri Hrádek heard how things were developing with them, there could be action. And not my kind of action, he told himself: if there is anything I abhor it is violence. His conscience clear, he even fell asleep, cramped as he was in the crowded back seat. When he woke up they were at Brixen.

  “See you in New York,” said David.

  “And Irina?”

  “I don’t know,” she said unhappily. “It depends.”

  “Well, when you meet your father, give him my best wishes. And ask him if he would let me interview him—sometime when it suits him, of course.”

  “Why should he?” David asked
bluntly.

  “Well, after all, I did start his daughter’s escape, didn’t I?”

  “And thank you for that,” said Irina. “I’ll tell my father—”

  “Goodbye,” David said. “You can telephone for a taxi here.” He nodded to the busy café where he had halted the car, keeping the engine running.

  “I can take a hint.” Bohn was smiling. The smile still lingered as the car moved off. He picked up his bag and went to inquire where he could make a long-distance call to Vienna. His message would be relayed to Czechoslovakia, and not too late, thanks to Dave’s driving. Lord, what fools these mortals be... Bohn checked a sudden laugh. If he had left Lienz this morning, deep in worry (that bastard Krieger, how much did he know?), he was now on the topmost pinnacle of one of Dave’s god-awful mountains. What fools, all of them!

  14

  Drifts of light mist still floated vaguely around some of the giant peaks, but the heavy blanket of rain clouds had lifted. So had David’s mood. The traffic had eased, most travellers now standing in line for a midday meal—the eating places, far-spaced along this route, must be jammed tight, judging by the pack of cars and buses that had drawn off the highway. The road was clear, well made, skid-resistant. And Mark Bohn’s intrusion was already slipping away behind that huge barrier of mountains. It isn’t, thought David, that I dislike Bohn. But sometimes he can irritate the hell out of me. That damned curiosity of his. Always wants to know, even things he has no need to know. Why that interest in Irina’s passport at the frontier, for instance? “A false passport, Irina?” Bohn had asked with a touch of mockery. “Don’t you know that’s illegal? You’ll get us all arrested.” Irina had looked at him coldly. “It is perfectly legal,” she had said, cutting him off so abruptly that his only comment was a startled eyebrow and an apologetic smile.

  David laughed out loud. Irina, sitting close to him, raised her head from his shoulder, asked in surprise. “Now, why?”

  “Bohn. If anything might have had us stopped and questioned, it was his voice bleating about false passports.”