“Hear this!” Frank was saying. He began repeating the conversation that had just been relayed to him, pausing between the two men’s remarks to keep their dialogue clear. “Get her ready. It’s almost time now.—What kept Rupprecht so long?—Just making sure he wasn’t followed.—Is he driving us all the way? He won’t like that.—He has no choice; he’s the only one available who knows the road. Think you could get us there? You’d lose us (two words blurred) woods.—I know that area. Used to visit the Heuriger (two words unintelligible) damned ulcer.—But you don’t know the cottage, and Rupprecht (several unintelligible words).” Frank ended his quotes. “Got that?”
“Woods,” Renwick said, “and the Heuriger... Yes, they go together.” For Grant’s benefit, he expanded it. “In the Vienna woods the Heuriger are the taverns beside the vineyards.”
Where, thought Grant, a green pine-branch is hung over the Heuriger door to tell everyone the new wine is being served. He nodded, didn’t say, “I know.”
“Could be Grinzing or Sievering. Or Nussdorf. That’s a lot of country.”
Frank’s voice said, “Well, how’s this? My file on Bernard Mandel says he once owned a small tavern in the Vienna woods—near Grinzing. Still keeps it as a summer cottage. Is that how Rupprecht knows the road so well?”
“Could be. But Grinzing stretches far. Got the address?” Grant caught Renwick’s arm and pointed. A Fiat, four-door, black in colour, W531-735, was passing at a leisurely pace. It didn’t slow up, it didn’t stop. It continued to the end of the street, turned the corner.
Renwick said, “He’ll be back. He’s just scouting.”
“Who?” Frank sounded annoyed.
“Rupprecht. Careful bastard. He’ll be difficult to tail. What’s that damned address?”
“It’s on the left of Neustrasse, far up the hill toward Höhenstrasse—no number, just a name: Waldheim.”
“Displayed?”
“Are you kidding? Take the third roadway into the woods once you pass a restaurant with a French name.”
“Left of Neustrasse, French name, third road into the woods, Waldheim. How far into the woods?”
“One hundred metres or less.”
“That’s—” Renwick cut off his calculations. “Here’s Rupprecht again, just passing us. And this time he’s stopping. Frank—get hold of Prescott Taylor. Tell him to contact Braun and Slevak for me: he knows where. We’ll need support.”
“You’ll get it. Look in the compartment under the seat. You may need that too.”
Grant’s eyes were on the house before which the Fiat had halted. The men must have been ready to leave. The minute the car stopped, they were already through the door, with a woman supported between them. She was huddled into a shapeless grey cape, a scarf around her head. She could have been anyone: they had disguised her efficiently. They looked neither right nor left. One of them had his arm around her shoulders, the other had a grip of her wrist as they hurried her down the steps to the pavement. Then two boys came running towards them. Avril drew her free hand out from the cape, pulled off the scarf around her head. She stumbled with the effort it had cost her. But the boys, perhaps ten or eleven years old, only stopped for a few moments to stare at the girl, and ran on. If questioned, they might remember a girl with dark hair, who nearly fell, and two angry men.
“She tried,” Renwick said softly. “And look at those people across the street—did they even notice?”
“The boys have stopped again,” Grant said. They had turned to look back at the car. Avril had been half-pushed, half-lifted inside. The taller and heavier of the two men faced the boys, like a bull about to charge. His lips moved—swearing at them, no doubt—and they ran on. “They’ll remember him.”
“A mistake,” Renwick agreed. “Never antagonise any eleven-year-old boy.” He was watching the Fiat. It was beginning to move. The Two Crowns had no one at its entrance. The house next door looked totally unoccupied once more.
Grant opened the glove compartment, and drew out the map. It had several sections, and he chose the one that dealt with Vienna, and its surrounding countryside. Carefully he folded it to show the area around Grinzing. “Remember that green button,” he told Renwick, who had slipped the gear into drive.
“And you duck out of sight, until we’ve passed the hotel.” Gently he eased the Porsche out into the street. But at the Two Crowns there was no face at the window, not one tremor of a curtain. The Porsche picked up speed, and they were safely out of Schotten Allee.
19
It was, as Renwick had predicted, a difficult job to keep track of the black Fiat. It had headed north as soon as it left the inner city, and followed the long stretch of busy thoroughfares, one threading into another, stitching old-time villages and country outskirts into the spread of Vienna. Early afternoon traffic was heavy, often blotting the Fiat momentarily from sight. Renwick wasn’t chancing any close tail—Rupprecht had already proved himself to be a wary type who’d be keeping constant watch for everything that followed too persistently. One small consolation, thought Renwick: the number of cars, buses, trucks on this route was an advantage as well as a drawback; he could conceal the Porsche very nicely from Rupprecht’s watchful eye. It was a strain, though: he had to admit that, as the Fiat well ahead of him dropped again out of sight, stayed unseen for three nervous minutes, and then reappeared.
“At least,” Grant said, “he’s travelling in the right direction for Grinzing.”
“So far.”
“Have you doubts about the address Frank gave us?”
“No. His files are usually accurate, and he’s been working on Bernard Mandel’s case for months. If he says Mandel has a cottage in the country, then Mandel has a cottage in the country. But we don’t know if Avril is being taken there. It’s a good possibility, that’s all. So—we’ll keep following that Fiat. By guess and by God,” Renwick added as the Fiat disappeared from view. “These damned buses,” he said, gritting his teeth. Another anxious minute, and the Fiat was again in sight.
Now they were driving through Heiligenstadt. Later, thought Renwick, if we get through this day, I’ll remember to laugh. For the Fiat was passing the little house where Gyorgy Korda, defector, had been hidden for the last six weeks. Briefly, he had the impulse to tell Grant, brighten this part of the journey for him. Later, he told himself again—once Korda is on that plane for America. His own spirits lifted.
“I know this place,” Grant was saying. “I came out here seven years ago to visit the house where Beethoven wrote the ‘Pastoral’ Symphony. I found a small tavern. Had a garden at the side, though. Sort of eased the blow. Everything changes, I suppose. Nothing stays the same.”
Suddenly, he thought of Jennifer. Not even grief stayed the same. In these last few days, so much had filled his mind, so much had kept him moving, that no time had been left for bitter memories, or—let’s face it, he told himself—for self-pity. Was that really what intense preoccupation with private sorrow could degenerate into? Grief for the past that overwhelmed the present, cut off the future? Perhaps that imbalance could only end as a perversion of honest emotion. There were some who began to mourn more for their own loss than for those who had been snatched away from them.
“These roads change too damn much, that’s for sure,” said Renwick. They had been passing along a suburban street lined with gardens and trees that shielded wide-eaved houses from the traffic’s noise and dust. No longer was there a flat broad thoroughfare with a steady stream of cars and buses, but roads that branched, or twisted, or climbed a gentle curve. The problem of tailing the Fiat had changed too; now it was an unexpected crossway, or the turn of the street around a cluster of heavy trees, that made surveillance at a discreet distance almost impossible. “We’ll chance this one,” he decided as they reached a division of Grinzingerstrasse and took the right fork. The Fiat was out of sight, could have chosen either of the two roads.
Grant scanned the map. “They both lead to Grinzing, anyway—keep apar
t until they meet west of the village. When they join up again, that’s the start of Neustrasse. We’re there, Bob!”
And a long way to go, Renwick thought, but he smiled and nodded. One mistake even now—for it was barely three thirty—and Rupprecht would alert Mittendorf. They were bound to be keeping in touch with each other. If so, that wily old buzzard wouldn’t be found in his office at four o’clock. He might not make a dash for the frontier, not until something stronger than a suspicion of danger was verified, but he’d take himself to some safe address until the final report came through from Rupprecht. Even if the alert was cancelled, there would be no return to his office. For by that time he would have been warned by one of his trusted employees at Allied Electronics that the police had come visiting at four o’clock. Yes, a mistake even now, thought Renwick—and almost made one.
They had come through the quaint street of vintners’ houses, squeezed past the parked cars around the old church on the village square, taken the cut towards Neustrasse. Suddenly, there—just ahead of them where the two roads through Grinzing came together again—was the Fiat. Renwick swung the Porsche behind a stationary bus, almost rear-ended it. He stopped less than two feet from its broad back.
“Good brakes,” said Grant. Good split-second reaction, too.
“God,” Renwick said, and drew a long breath, “I was about to pass the bus. We’d have run full tilt into them. What took them so long, anyway?”
“Must have been some hold-up on their route.” There were several cars closely following the Fiat out of that road, an angry bunching together which was the usual sign of a traffic delay. “Rupprecht didn’t see us, Bob. The bus blocked a clear view. Those cars behind him were what he was worrying about.”
Could be true, thought Renwick. He backed off slightly from the bus, but held his position behind it. “You big beautiful monster,” he told it.
“You were cussing them out only half an hour ago,” Grant reminded him.
“I’m converted. I’ll love them for ever and ever.”
“How long do we wait here?” Other cars were passing; one honked derisively at the timorous driver who wouldn’t risk flanking a stationary bus. “Rupprecht must be half-way up Neustrasse.”
“Suits me.” Renwick was still a little shaken. “Just three more seconds, and he would have seen us. If he remembered the brown Porsche parked on the Schotten Allee—” He tightened his lips, glanced at his watch. Three thirty-three. Twenty-seven minutes to go.
Still thinking of that four o’clock deadline. “Let’s look at the good news,” Grant suggested. “They have entered Neustrasse. Mandel’s cottage could be their destination. Frank may have been right after all.”
“So you thought he could be wrong?” Renwick was amused.
“Didn’t you?”
“Let’s put it this way: he is often right, but when he’s wrong—he can equal the worst of our mistakes.” Then Renwick looked at the blue button faintly glowing on the dashboard, and laughed. “Still there, Frank?” No answer came. “He’s off rounding up some support. I hope.” Renwick reversed the car until it could sweep easily around the bus, and started up Neustrasse.
It was lined with more vintners’ cottages, their window-boxes laden with bright petunias. Each had its walled courtyard, whose wide entrance doors stood partly open to show barrels and tables and more flowers. All of them had their own individual vineyards, long and narrow, stretching like a spread of stiff fingers up the sloping fields. Everything was precisely measured: mine and yours clearly marked off; no doubt about who owned what. As the neat houses thinned out and the vineyards were drawn further apart, Renwick could risk more speed. Grant exchanged the map for the binoculars. “Just preparing for the bad news,” he told Renwick.
“Ah yes. There’s always that. Let’s have it.”
“Frank could have over-guessed—he’s dead set on nailing Mandel. But what if the Fiat kept on going, never stopped at Mandel’s place?” We wouldn’t have a chance of tracing them if they continued on Neustrasse until it reached Höhenstrasse. Not far off, either. That long highway wandered around the crest of the adjacent hills, plunging deeper into the Viennese woods. How many hidden cottages and chalets could be scattered through there? Grant’s lips tightened angrily. He tested the binoculars. “Damn it, they won’t be any use,” he said as he found that the trees, beginning to replace the fields and vineyards, were even now, sparse as they were, blocking any view of the road above.
You won’t be any use either, thought Renwick, if you let bad news begin to look like disaster. He said, “We’ll have a quick look at the Höhenstrasse.” The Porsche went into high speed.
“Special souped-up job?” Grant’s brief attack of astonishment gave way to approval. “Trust Frank to have the best.”
Frank’s voice broke in, faint but definitely pugnacious. “You’re damn right.”
“Where are you?” Renwick asked.
“Like you said, rounding up support. And next time, buddy boy, have a Little more faith in me. You’ll find the Fiat at Mandel’s. Want to bet?”
“Next time,” Grant told him, “I’ll remember big uncle is listening.”
“Bob, have you a transceiver—once you leave the car?” Frank asked quickly.
“Yes. But if you’re further off than five miles or so, I won’t reach you.”
“Then one of you stays with the car and keeps in touch. See you!”
“Hey—one moment! When do we expect you?”
“Working on that problem right now. Five o’clock?” Frank settled any objections by switching off, temporarily at least.
Five o’clock... “We’re not waiting until then,” Grant said. “Or are we?” he asked angrily.
Renwick didn’t answer. “There’s that French name,” he said as they passed a restaurant whose outside terrace was smothered with flowers. “Begin counting the side roads on our left. Duck before we pass the third. They know you by sight, don’t they?”
Rupprecht certainly did. And he might be wary enough to have someone watching the entry to Mandel’s place. “There’s the second road,” Grant said and slid low, head averted.
“Okay,” Renwick told him within a minute.
Grant sat up in time to see a fourth road, narrow and curving, like the other three, back into the woods. He had a glimpse of a small roof, a chalet set among beeches and pines some distance from the highway. “Secluded area,” he observed. “And all so peaceful and innocent. What size is Mandel’s cottage—could you see it?”
“Not visible. He hasn’t cut down any trees for a view of the valley below. He’s blocked in, completely.”
“Did you notice anyone at all?”
“Couldn’t see a thing except a green jungle. It’s secluded, all right. Well—here we are.” They had climbed to the end of Neustrasse, and reached its junction with the roads along the heights. The woods had thickened, too.
Grant took one look, and shook his head. Useless, he thought, as he set the binoculars down. We’ll have to depend on Frank’s judgment. Our only other choice would have been to follow the Fiat so closely that we could have seen where it turned off. And be seen. “Okay,” he said as if to reassure himself, “we know what surrounds Mandel’s place.”
“That was the idea.” Renwick had already reversed the car and was heading downhill. The powerful growl of the engine became a low and gentle purr.
So this had been just a reconnaissance trip, Grant thought. Or was he humouring me? Am I so damned difficult to handle?... Perhaps I’ve been too much on edge. Calm down, calm down... You don’t have the answers to everything. At least Renwick has made sure that no one saw us loitering near the entrance to Waldheim, Probably the few minutes spent on this manoeuvre weren’t wasted after all. “Waldheim,” Grant repeated with a smile. “Bernie’s little home in the woods. Trust him to choose a name like that. But where do we leave the car? Down at the restaurant, climb back through the trees?”
Not bad, thought Renwick, not bad
at all: he has got his brains together again. “We’ll try some place nearer, first. Like here.” He slowed down as they approached the side road that lay above Mandel’s, made a quick turn into it, followed it for a short distance until he found a small clearing between the trees. He edged over the grass, halted the Porsche close to a thick curtain of leaves. He looked around him. The chalet was still out of sight; even its roof was now lost to view. And the highway behind them was hidden by a surge of bushes. Satisfied, he switched off the engine. “Now we think up a good excuse if someone comes asking what we are doing among his beech trees.” Simultaneously they glanced at their watches. It was three fifty-five.
“Well?” asked Grant as they got out of the car.
Renwick gestured at a batch of fir trees. “Waldheim should be just south of there. I made a rough check of the distance between its side road and this one. It’s no more than two hundred yards, if that. Then, according to Frank, it is about a hundred yards from Neustrasse itself. So that pin-points it. I’ll scout around.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Someone stays here for Frank’s next message. That’s you, Colin.” Renwick’s glance took in Grant’s well-cut grey suit, light blue shirt, dark blue tie, all carefully selected for this morning’s appearance at Klar’s Auction Rooms. “You don’t look much like a hiker lost in the woods.”
“We city folks get lost too.” Beyond that. Grant didn’t argue. He had to admit that Renwick’s old tweed jacket, open-necked shirt and scuffed shoes blended better with the country scene. He didn’t like it, but he stayed by the car and watched Renwick disappear behind the cluster of trees. At another time he would have enjoyed the bland sunshine, the crisp air, the dappled shadows cast on the grass by the gentle stir of leaves overhead. There was the rustle of water from a small stream near by, a sense of protection from the surrounding hills. Today, the peace flowing around him only intensified his restlessness.