Snare of the Hunter

by Helen Macinnes

  “He went down the left side of the road.”

  “Then he entered the car’s right-hand door.”

  “It sounded like that.”

  “You have good ears.”

  “That’s my job,” David said, and he had a sudden impulse to laugh. “I’m a music critic.”

  The captain drew something out of his pocket. “Only a cigarette lighter,” he told David, and smiled. “Not a pistol.” Lightly, he tapped David’s pocket. “And I’m glad you did not use yours. What kind is it?”

  “An automatic. A Beretta.”

  “A simple solution, I agree. But of a type that always brings too many complications, usually unpleasant.” The captain smiled again, very briefly. “Do not use that automatic. We shall manage.” He was walking to the centre of the square. “The minute they start moving up the hill, get behind your car. Weber—”

  Like hell I will, thought David. But he drew his right hand out of his pocket.

  Weber, at the captain’s voice, looked round. He was still standing beside Jo. “Yes, Captain Golay—what can I do?”

  “Get the girl out of this square.”

  Weber took Jo’s hand. “Captain’s orders.”

  “No.” Jo looked at the house behind her. Three windows were now unshuttered, with dark figures pressed against the glass. Its front door was open, too, and a man stood there half-concealed, with an army coat drawn over his shoulders. She saw a gleam of metal in his hand. “More captain’s orders?”

  “The man, yes. But those upstairs—just curiosity.” Weber had felt more than a touch of it himself, as he watched David and Captain Golay in close conversation. He had missed that, damn it, because of this girl; but how could he have left her, cold and miserable, practically out on her feet? “Please,” he urged her.

  “I’ve got to stay. Bohn’s friends must see me too. Or else they won’t believe him, and—” She stared at the road as the cars roared into sight. “David—look out!”

  The lead car missed him, dodged the Mercedes by a few feet, made a frantic left turn to avoid a crash against a wall; the second car followed it exactly. And the men inside them had seen more than Jo in that split second: a house with shutters open, figures at the windows; a man at the doorway, rifle in hand. There was a shriek of brakes as the two cars pulled up abruptly, one almost on top of the other. The first car had just saved itself from smashing into the stone staircase.

  The captain moved with incredible speed. He had readied the second car, taken its left side, rapped sharply on its window, gestured for it to be lowered, even before David could join him. The two men in the back had been badly jolted by the sudden stop. Bohn was one of them; he was heaped in the far corner, and shouting as he struggled up. “I told you I saw a policeman. I told you there must be others. I told you!”

  The man in the left-hand seat said, “Stop it! Stop it!” He turned to face the captain, lowered the window with a finger on the electric control. “What do you want?” he asked in German. He looked more closely at the uniform. “I thought someone might have been injured.”

  The man’s voice became less truculent. “Nothing, nothing. A small shake-up.”

  “I understand you lost your way coming to Tarasp. Perhaps I could help you make sure of your direction when you leave.” Captain Golay had a small map ready in his hand; he extended it as he leaned on the car door. “Much too dark to see,” he said. “You need this.” He flicked on his cigarette lighter. Flicked again. It didn’t flare.

  Sharply, the man turned his head aside. “We have maps.”

  And who is he? David wondered. Someone, certainly, who doesn’t want the captain to have a clear view of his face. Too bad the lighter hadn’t worked, but a neat try. Curiously, David kept staring at the head firmly turned aside and held there.

  “Very good.” The captain was as equable as ever. Then his voice changed. “Drive out!” He stood back, signalled the chauffeur to reverse, gave an authoritative sign when to stop. Now he took charge of the first car, backed it up slightly, eased it round the corner of the steps, and urged it on with a go-and-keep-on-going wave of his arm. It went partly round the square; stopped. The captain swore under his breath, signalled to it again. It stayed where it was.

  “No!” Bohn had caught Hrádek’s arm as he raised the transmitter for his final instructions. “For God’s sake, Jiri—risk everything? And for what?”

  “This matter is my own.”

  “Will Prague listen to that?”

  Hrádek shook off Bohn’s hand. But the warning had taken hold. The failure here was bitter, but if it spread to Prague—disaster. His hesitation ended: “Drive!” he told the man at the wheel. And then he said to Pavel, “The plan is cancelled. Follow me out. No delays.” Hrádek laid the transmitter aside. He sat well back, his face averted from the two men who kept watching his car as it moved towards the road.

  “That’s Weber—the journalist,” Bohn said in alarm, pointing to a solitary figure at one side of the square. They had passed close to where he had stationed himself.

  “He did not see me.”

  “He tried.”

  “What does he matter?” Hrádek asked impatiently. “Before his report can be published I shall be back in Prague.” With a sound alibi, already prepared, for this Saturday afternoon. Can Bohn really be so naive as to imagine I have not planned an alibi in advance? “Your Swiss journalist will be the joke of the newsrooms.” Hrádek glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Pavel and Vaclav were following dutifully. They were. “Hurry!” he told his driver. “Get moving!” He drew back into his corner, head bent, eyes half-shut, arms folded. But his rigid jaw and tightened lips were signs that he was far from sleep.

  “You are well out of that,” Bohn tried. There was no answer. Bohn fell silent. He had enough brooding to do of his own. At least Dave Mennery had not been forced into Pavel’s car, to be, dealt with later. But it had been a damned close thing. Dave, thought Bohn, will never know how much he owes to me.

  Behind them Tarasp had vanished. Only its bitter memory lingered in the car.

  24

  David kept watching the road, listening to the two cars’ steady descent. Their sound lessened, diminished at last into nothing. Complete silence. “They have gone,” he told Jo, who had come to stand beside him. He couldn’t believe it.

  “Can we be sure?” Jo asked.

  “Yes,” said Captain Golay. He was jotting down some figures in a note-book.

  “I don’t know,” said David. His nerves had tightened, his tensions had mounted; and suddenly—nothing. “They meant business. They came in here looking for trouble. And then—and then they just left. Why?”

  Weber grinned. “We had a deterrent.” He pointed to the man who now stood in front of his doorway, well in view; so was the rifle held ready. “Captain Golay, I think you can dismiss your troops.”

  Golay completed the last digits on the cars’ licence plates, and put his note-book away. He called over to the man. They both shared a laugh. The man added a sentence of his own, moved into his house, closed the door. Upstairs the shutters were closing too. Captain Golay was still smiling broadly. “I told him our visitors would not return. His description of them cannot be translated—” he glanced at Jo “—but I think we would all agree with it.” He noticed her strained face. “Believe me, Miss Corelli, the danger is over.”

  Jo tried to cover her despondency. “They’ll come back. Perhaps not here. But—”

  “No, no. I think we can make an end to this threat. Perhaps we have already made it tonight. Mr. Weber—did you recognise the man?”

  “I had only a glimpse of his face. He turned his head away. For a moment I thought I had seen that profile before—when I visited Prague two years ago. But it could not be. Impossible.”

  “It could not be Jiri Hrádek?” Golay asked.

  “Hrádek?” David and Jo had spoken the name together.

  Weber said, “Then it was Hrádek?” His astonishment gave way to
jubilation. “And you actually recognised him. We are in business, captain.”

  “I recognised him from a photograph I have seen. The likeness was exact.”

  Weber’s smile faded. “Not sufficient. You will need my corroboration of what you saw. And I cannot give it to you. I did not see the man closely enough to swear that he was Jiri Hrádek.”

  “This,” said Golay, “is all the proof that Colonel Thomon will need.” He drew out his lighter, held it up briefly before slipping it back into his pocket.

  David said, “A camera—infra-red film—” He began to smile. Krieger, he suddenly thought, ought to have seen that little gadget at work. The captain’s performance would have delighted him. Krieger. David’s smile vanished. Krieger should have been here—by this time—surely...

  “Now,” said Golay, “I have some messages to send. After that I can drive you out of here. I could take you as far as Zurich.”

  “Oh no!” Jo said softly.

  “Samaden,” said Weber, “would be better. It is only a short journey. I think that is what Miss Corelli wants.”

  Miss Corelli, decided Jo, wants no journey at all. She glanced at David, but he was preoccupied with his own thoughts.

  “We do not use Samaden tonight.” The captain was firm about that. He had several good reasons, but he kept them to himself. Bohn had let the name of St Moritz slip out. It was a mistake often made by adept liars when they were fabricating an explanation: they invariably added some provable fact to bolster their fictions. Dinner at St Moritz. Yes, that was where Bohn intended to be seen tonight. His mention of Innsbruck was interesting too: he must have been there, must have felt his journey to Innsbruck could be easily traced; and so, out came a little fragment of truth. But what he hadn’t realised—another mistake often made by liars—was that one fact can lead to another. So now, we know that Hrádek’s plane touched down in Innsbruck. We can trace its flight pattern into Switzerland. “Samaden,” Golay explained, “will soon be under close surveillance. We do not want to complicate matters.” Nor, he was thinking, do we want to have you come face to face with any of Hrádek’s rear guard. Hrádek was bound to leave at least one of his men behind as an observer. “Decide where you are going tonight,” Golay said, backing away. “Let me know before you leave.” There was a friendly salute for Jo, and he hurried off.

  “Well?” asked Weber.

  “Don’t worry about us,” David said. “We can stay here overnight,” It was the last thing he wanted, but Jo wasn’t fit to travel. And there was Krieger too. “Krieger said he had booked a couple of rooms—some place—” David looked around vaguely. God, he was tired; but even so, he would travel anywhere just to lose sight of that house. He stared at it now, and saw Captain Golay running up its flight of steps. The house where Irina had walked out of his life.

  Weber was saying with relief, “Well, that is fortunate. The inn has not many rooms. Let me show you the way.” He took Jo’s arm to hurry her. “It is not far—just beyond the house that Mr. Krieger borrowed for tonight’s meeting.”

  “But where is Krieger?” Jo asked. “Dave, what happened to Krieger?”

  “Nothing.” Weber smiled. “He will arrive and be angry that he missed all the excitement. Please—there is no purpose in standing here. Mr. Krieger knows where the inn is.”

  Jo began walking. Nothing could happen to Krieger, she kept telling herself: not to Krieger. But why hadn’t Dave answered her? He was staring down that road as if he hoped to see the Chrysler zooming up there any minute. “Dave—” she called back to him.

  “He is coming,” Weber said, and urged her on. David was following slowly, his head turned away from the house. Jo had an impulse to call out, “Please—don’t worry. Irina will be all right. You’ll see.” No, she decided, don’t mention Irina’s name; not at this moment.

  David passed the house, a heavy wall rising at the side of the stone stairs, blotting them from sight. He wished they could blank out the last picture he had of Irina, standing on these same steps, half-way, hesitating, looking round at him for reassurance. Is this right, is this what you want? she had seemed to ask. And he had answered with a smile and a wave that had sent her on her way. Tomorrow, or the next day, he could let himself think about her. Tonight the wound was still raw.

  He started up the short rough road, trying not to believe that life kept repeating its pattern, that once again Irina and he were separated; and there would be no third chance. Another thought slid into his mind, took hold. You made the choice this time. You. This was not Vienna sixteen years ago, when there had been no choice at all, and nothing he could fight. Then there had only been unseen forces, beyond reach, powerful enough to twist a man’s life against his will. But he was not helpless now. He knew what was against him, what he could expect. And that way, he could fight. At least, he would make a damned hard try. Jiri Hrádek... There stood the real threat to Irina’s future. Not her father, not duty or sentiment. Jiri Hrádek.

  Weber was waiting for him at the door of the inn, a house like most of the others in the village except for a few lights and its small sign. “Miss Corelli has gone upstairs. Oh, not permanently. She wanted to—freshen up, I think the expression was—before supper.” Weber was smiling as he thought of Jo. “A remarkable girl. Quite attractive too. Don’t you think?”

  “Wait till you see her freshened up,” David told him. “She’ll knock your eye out.”

  Weber laughed. “Only one eye?” Another American idiom for his collection. But, more important, Mennery seemed to be recovering. Not completely. Just enough to let the dismal prospect of a wordless supper, steeped in heavy gloom, seem more remote. A man could share his joys around, thought Weber, but never his troubles. He clapped David’s shoulder lightly. “Let us move inside and have a drink. I think we can allow ourselves a little celebration. After all, we have won the battle of Tarasp.” He pointed to the castle on its hill above them, looming like a white ghost against the night sky. “It never looked down on a stranger skirmish in all its eight hundred years.”

  David halted. “Is that your lead story on Hrádek?” he asked with a touch of bitterness.

  “No,” Weber said patiently. He lowered his voice. “I shall write about Irina Kusak’s safe escape from Czechoslovakia, and it will be published immediately. The story on Hrádek comes later, once his political enemies have dealt with him. They will. And soon.”

  “But how will they know—”

  “Let Colonel Thomon and his superiors attend to that.”

  “Hrádek would never have risked leaving Prague unless he could produce a good cover story.”

  “Oh, he will try that, I am sure. A brief hunting trip in the Tatras, or an afternoon’s fishing, with two companions who will swear that every word is true. But his alibi will crumble to pieces.”

  “It will take more than a couple of photographs to shake it.”

  “I think,” Weber said very softly, “you are forgetting the source of these photographs. We Swiss do not fabricate international incidents.”

  “Sorry. My mistake.” He relaxed a little.

  “And are you forgetting Captain Golay’s preoccupation with Samaden? It is the nearest airport to Tarasp. Hrádek’s plane must be waiting somewhere close at hand. Don’t you think?” David could almost smile. Under surveillance, the captain had said. Arrivals and departures recorded; photographs of men boarding the jet. There would be a heavy use of cigarette lighters and other neat devices tonight. “That may nail Hrádek,” he said. He added, “As far as the Swiss are concerned.”

  “As far as others are concerned, too,” Weber insisted. “The men who head the regime in Czechoslovakia do not tolerate any power-play except their own. Hrádek is neo-Stalinist; he is also a strong nationalist. Russia does not trust that combination—not in a satellite country. And the Czechs who are now in command follow that line. Hrádek has been very clever: he has never opposed them openly. But secretly? I think he has made his own plans, and I cannot be the on
ly Hrádek watcher who has these suspicions. He is close to the top, as it is. But a man who reaches out for the highest peak, and loosens his grip, has a long way to fall.”

  “He is just clever enough to fall on to a ledge, and wait there until he can boost himself up again.” Perhaps, thought David, exhausted, despondent, he may even climb off that ledge before Kusak’s book can be published. “And he has friends. He would not have risked today’s wild action unless he was sure of them. If he feels he is beginning to slip, he won’t wait to fall. He will give the signal. They will seize control.”

  “The Czechs in power will think of that too. They will move, and with all speed. Hrádek will be eliminated within a week.”

  David looked at him sharply, but Weber was serious.

  “Perhaps even sooner,” Weber said. “His enemies will not lose any time. That is one certainty.”

  A certainty? If Weber had only been able to talk with Irina about Hrádek, he might not be so sure. “All right,” David said. “So Hrádek is faced with tonight’s photographs and sees his alibi destroyed. What then? He will plead necessity, and add a touch of sentiment,” David could almost hear Hrádek’s smooth defence: Irina, his wife until a month ago, had to be stopped from leaving Czechoslovakia. Harmful propaganda for the state, apart from his own deep feelings about her desertion. Tarasp was his last chance to find her—and Jaromir Kusak—and bring them both back to Prague. A desperate journey, Hrádek would admit, but its secrecy protected the state’s image. And so on and so on and so on, David thought wearily.

  Weber was shaking his head. “Sentiment? There is little room for that in power politics. His enemies would laugh—”

  “And he would seem more foolish; therefore less dangerous. He might gain the time he needs to—”

  “You actually believe he could extricate himself?” Weber was incredulous. “But I assure you, my dear fellow, the present regime in Czechoslovakia will not tolerate tonight’s—”

  “What they need is a real scare, hard evidence of—” Of a past conspiracy against them. They would call it treason. “Yes,” David said slowly, putting the brief thought of Kusak’s notes right out of his mind, “that would have jolted them right into action.”