Prelude to Terror

  “He won’t. I’ll postpone nothing. What’s over is over.”

  Grant thought he heard a touch of regret. Why not? he reminded himself. She had a career. He was asking her to break it off, leave it for ever. “What’s over is over,” he said. “We’ll both stick to that.” He looked round in annoyance as Ada’s solid step entered the room.

  Ada said, “I’ll just clear away the trays. It’s almost time to leave. A quarter before seven, you said.” With no more changes of mind, she hoped. She looked at the plates, all nicely emptied, and smiled wholeheartedly. “Brigitte and I are ready when you are, gnädiges Fräulein.”

  * * *

  Ten to seven. Grant stood watching the three women as they took the shortest short-cut down to the Lackner farm. Ada and Brigitte were ahead, Avril following them. She turned to smile and wave, and then vanished with the others behind the trees.

  “Only eleven hours,” she had said as they parted. “I’ll be ready and waiting for you. Oh, heavens! I forgot to call Bob. Will you?”

  “I’ll do that.” He kissed her, silencing any other afterthoughts.

  “Take care.”

  “I’ll do that, too.”

  “The Embassy’s number is 34-66-11,” she reminded him.

  “Okay, okay. Now stop worrying.”

  “But you’re alone here. Must you guard this house?”

  “I must. And you know it.” He kissed her again, felt her warm body tremble against his. “I’ll have some good company. Ada says the first pair of Lackners will be up here by eight. We’ll probably spend the night playing skat and drinking beer. Now, pick up your feet and get the hell out, will you, darling?” With a hasty last kiss, he had sent her away laughing, running to catch up with her two guides, swinging the makeshift overnight bag as if she hadn’t a care in this world.

  He turned and walked slowly back to the house. At the door, he looked over his shoulder. Nothing but silence, now, and the golden light of late evening, casting the trees into relief, deepening their shadows. He entered, feeling the sudden loneliness of the room. All right, he told himself: set to work. He had plenty to do.

  First, he’d secure all doors and windows, close the shutters and drapes. He’d scatter the fire’s last embers, let it die out: no smoke from the chimney. Turn on no lights except one small lamp—Fischer’s idea of a house apparently in total darkness might be an advantage. Get a rifle from Fischer’s gun rack. There was one he had handled and felt comfortable with its balance—a pity he couldn’t fire a trial shot, find how true its aim was. When the first Lackners arrived, he’d be at the door to meet them. He knew where he’d like them posted: one watching that little road that came over the hill from Josefsberg; the other stationed at the trees on the south-east corner of the house while he himself would take position at the north-west corner. That way, they’d have a clear view of all sides of the house. It would be a long, cool night. He’d borrow Fischer’s loden cape to see him through it. Rest? Well thank God Avril was an expert driver: she could take the first part of tomorrow’s journey, let him catch up on his sleep for a couple of hours, spell him at later intervals. Yes, she could handle a car. He remembered the way she had driven him from the Capuchin Church on the day they had first met.

  On the day they had first met... How short a time ago, yet so packed with shared experiences that it seemed as if he had known her for weeks, months. Known her? he wondered. It would take a lifetime to know a woman like Avril; perhaps never. Would she follow him to America, or would old ties be stronger than anything he could offer? He couldn’t even be sure of that. All he could do was trust.

  Enough of this, he told himself, let’s get moving. And then he remembered he was supposed to call Renwick. He cursed the delay, but kept his promise.

  Renwick was not there.

  He tried Prescott Taylor and found him. Where the hell was Renwick? In Zürich by this time, en route to Geneva. Wouldn’t be back until Monday. Not a pleasure trip.

  “Can you send him a message?” Grant asked. “Tell him that Grünau is blown. Marck learned about it around noon today. I’ve sent Avril down to the farmhouse. I’m staying here, with a couple of the Lackner boys.”

  “At noon?” The imperturbable Taylor had lost his easy-going calm. “Better clear out.”

  “Can’t. I’m responsible for this house. Fischer can’t get here—his car was stolen.”

  “Good God.” Regaining his cool, Taylor said, “I’ll be up as quickly as we can get there.”

  “No need.”

  “No need, hell,” said the diplomat. “Just don’t take a pot shot at us when we arrive.” He hung up. Quickly, he telephoned Commissioner Seydlitz to ask for assistance in reaching Grünau—no extra manpower necessary, he was taking two Embassy guards along, but he’d be breaking the speed limit, didn’t want to be stopped and delayed. Seydlitz caught the urgency in Taylor’s voice, or perhaps the mention of Grünau was enough for that wise old dog. He said with his soft rumbling laugh, “Only the police can break the law.” Quietly he added, “You’ll have an escort within ten minutes. Soon enough?”

  I hope so, thought Taylor as he began arranging for the guards and the car. Renwick might object to calling on Seydlitz for help, but how else did you make sure of reaching Grünau in one and a half hours? He’d be there by half-past eight. Renwick himself could have done no better. All the same, it was one hell of a way to spend Saturday night.

  * * *

  Grant was echoing that phrase as he began checking windows upstairs and down. The balconies around the top floor of the house were no longer a pleasant decoration but an infernal headache. Am I beginning to over-react? he wondered, as he left the shutter nearest the front entrance slightly ajar—just enough space to let him identify the Lackners when they came up to join him.

  Now the house was secure. He scattered the last of the fire’s glowing embers, and went back to Fischer’s gun rack. The rifle, or that heavy shotgun?

  28

  “Arrived and waiting,” they had radioed back to him ten minutes ago. “Three kilometres before you reach Annaberg.” And Marck, keeping his rented Volvo to the steady, unremarkable speed which had brought him unnoticed all the way from Vienna, could congratulate himself.

  This morning, he had nothing definite to move on. Then, at noon, the name of Grünau. By one o’clock, he had picked up the tape retrieved from Fischer’s office at the café he used as a drop. Within half an hour he was listening to Grant’s ’phone call to Leni, followed by the girl’s immediate call to Fischer—in Salzburg, at the Schwarzer Adler Hotel. How was that for a bonus? Yes, the risk he had taken in bugging Leni’s telephone had paid off handsomely. Equally brilliant was his decision to send Vera, still enjoying her Elsa Kramer success as cook-housekeeper in search of a job, on a small scouting expedition. Now the schoolteacher on holiday, she had arrived at Grünau by ten past four with her little Volkswagen and her versatile camera. She had left at six thirty, trailing along with the last of the departing tourists, drawing no attention, arousing no curiosity. On a lonely stretch of the Grünau road, she had stopped her car for a few last photographs and spoken quietly into her camera. Her report reached him as he drove towards Annaberg.

  In Vera’s usual quiet way, she had given him the details he needed: length of time at regular speed limit to reach Grünau from Annaberg; size and location of village; bridge at end of main street leading to rough narrow road past farm. Large chalet on wooded hill behind farm, identified by café owner as Fischer’s place; road, not much used, continuing over hill to meet highway near Josefsberg. Unable to approach house: tractor blocking road in front of farm; two farmhands watching. Photographed bridge and returned to café at corner of main street—owner talkative (recent incomer, no friend of the farmer named Lackner); Fischer’s house reported unoccupied, but two cars also reported arriving together early afternoon; one large, dark blue; the second, small and black. Two men and chauffeur in big car; one man driving the other. Both cars allowed thr
ough roadblock. Café owner’s wife saw them depart—same blue tweed jacket in black car, leaving first; much later, the dark blue car—same two men with chauffeur. Café owner’s wife definite about this. Fischer’s chalet not clearly visible from village; must lie near narrow road to Josefsberg. Chimney smoke observed briefly when strong breeze dropped. As last seen, tractor still blocking road, two farmhands working around barn. Otherwise, no activity. Grünau quiet.

  Yes, Marck could certainly congratulate himself on his choice of Vera. That report might seem simple to the uninitiated, but they didn’t know how much subtle questioning and delicate probing, all under the guise of chit-chat and harmless questions, had produced these bare details. (The best of his guidebooks had given Grünau three lines: charming village in Alpine setting; elevation 2,900 metres; population 409; Hotel Anny, inexpensive, 12 beds, 3 baths. Woodcarving. Eighteenth-century Church, undistinguished.) Nor did the café owner and his officious wife guess how skilfully they had been encouraged to talk by her enthusiasm for this delightful village. So there she was on her way back to Vienna, her camera now silent. She had passed him five minute ago, one of a series of cars driving homeward.

  Six forty-five, and just ahead of him—three kilometres from Annaberg—he saw the Ferret standing at the edge of the wood that lined the highway. Simultaneously, the Ferret identified the car: dark green Volvo; high make, right colour. Quickly he moved back into the shelter of the trees.

  Slowing down, drawing the Volvo off the road’s surface, Marck came to a halt. He left the two rifles, covered by a travelling-rug, on the back seat. Also the map, on which he had circled Josefsberg and marked the little third-class road with a pointing arrow as he listened to Vera’s quiet voice. Carrying his cap and radio transmitter—the Ferret and Turk had their own transceiver—he entered the broad trail into the woods, hurrying to overtake the sharp-faced Austrian. Barely ten paces from the highway, he caught his first glimpse of the silver Audi.

  The Ferret halted, swung round to block the path. There’s a knife concealed in his hand, thought Marck, and produced a bright green handkerchief folded into a triangle, initials B.L. clearly stitched in black. The Ferret nodded, slipped the knife back into his cuff, smiled thinly, and began removing the Graz plate that had covered the Audi’s Vienna number. Turk, short and massive, had already stripped most of the thin line of red adhesive tape that had trimmed the car’s sides. So that’s how they had done it. “Any difficulties?” Marck asked.

  Turk said nothing, just eased off the last of the tape from the door panel. The Ferret said, “None. Avoided the towns and police stations. Kept to side roads and villages. Took us an hour longer, though.”

  “It was well timed.” Briskly, Marck gave them their next instructions. The Ferret pursed his lips, exchanged a look with Turk; if they had hoped they would be driving home to Salzburg, they made no other comment and listened intently. “Now get to it!” ordered Marck. “Half-past seven. Map is in the car. Keys are in place.”

  “Guns?” the Ferret asked. “We couldn’t risk carrying them—might have been stopped and searched by the police.”

  “Rifles on back seat. Grenades in boot. Hurry! Be there at seven thirty. And wait for my signal!”

  “We’ll be there. We’ll wait,” the Ferret said.

  “Check your time: six fifty-four.”

  The Ferret synchronised his watch as he moved, his step light and sure, back towards the highway. Turk crushed the cards of narrow tape into a large untidy ball, and as he lumbered after the Austrian, he threw it behind the nearest bush. Just like Turk, Marck thought; his room will be a pigsty but he can drive a car full speed over the roughest road and handle a rifle with deadly precision.

  The Volvo left, a smooth performance, with Turk at the wheel. The Ferret would be studying the map, cursing the hairpin bends they’d have to ascend before they neared Josefsberg. Between them, they’d make the rendezvous on time. They had better, Marck thought grimly. He himself had at least fifteen minutes to spare. It was now six fifty-six. Slowly, he smoked two cigarettes. Then, straightening his cheap navy jacket, adjusting the black tie to sit more smoothly under the ill-cut collar of his white cotton shirt, he got into the Audi and switched on its engine. Carefully he backed on to the highway. Luck was holding: no car in sight. He took a last look at himself in the rear-view mirror as he cocked his chauffeur’s cap in place, and was satisfied. His hair, combed straight back, was a credible deep brown, almost black, and the matching moustache looked natural. So did his darkened eyebrows and lashes. All part of the morning’s preparations, an hour well spent; not even the Ferret’s sharp eyes would recognise him once he returned to normal.

  At a steady speed, easy, unhurried, he drove towards Annaberg. As soon as he was on the Grünau road, he would accelerate to the legal limit of 100 kilometres an hour, making a perfectly natural and unremarkable approach to the village at the head of the valley.

  29

  In the Lackners’ kitchen, the evening meal was over. The men, except for Willi and Hans who had been sent grumbling out to the barn, still sat around the table. Avril, banished politely to a window seat at the other end of the crowded room, her offers to help Frau Lackner and her bustling team of girls smilingly refused, could only try to make herself as unobtrusive as possible. Her welcome had been kindly though brief. I am, in fact, a perfect nuisance, she told herself. Just as Fischer’s request had been even more of an imposition. Saturday night and the men couldn’t drop down to the village, have their usual talk over a flask of wine at the local Weinstüberl or take their girls for a stroll through the woods. But the Lackner family, whatever their own private disappointments, were scrupulously correct, trying not to look too much in her direction, disguising their appraisal of her face and clothes, pretending to ignore her. And none of them, except Ernst Lackner himself, were taking this upset in their usual routine very seriously.

  He was now pairing them off, giving them the times for their patrols. Good-naturedly, they accepted his instructions, although their rough jokes had a slight edge of sarcasm. Perhaps, thought Avril, they are right. Fischer over-reacted. The warmth of the kitchen, the lingering smell of good food, the talk increasing in volume as bellies were filled and tired muscles relaxed, all added to the feeling of security. It was easier to be tense and worried when there were only two of you in an enormous room in an empty house—and what was Colin feeling, quite alone up there? Down here, with this cluster of shirt-sleeved men crammed shoulder to shoulder around a table, with Frau Lackner and her girls scurrying between kitchen and parlour where the baked feast for tomorrow’s funeral was now being laid out, danger seemed remote, unbelievable. Even the golden evening, last lingering touch of a flaming sun as it sank behind western mountains, breathed peace.

  The laughter was loud and increasing. They were joking now about the way their father had made them work today. He was having none of it. “There’ll be rain by tonight. I can smell it. The wind’s from the south and the clouds are thickening. High winds and heavy rain. The fields will be flattened—take three weeks to dry out. By Tuesday, floods. Everywhere. Not just here. You mark my words.”

  Avril thought of tomorrow’s journey through the Gesäuse, and looked out of the window. Half an hour ago, even less, the clouds had been white fluffs tinged with pink, reflecting the approach of sunset. Now she saw that they had indeed thickened, grouping more closely together, joining into a heavy mass. Their apricot glow had faded, was streaked with grey, their outlines shaded black. Even on a bright clear day, the Gesäuse—well-named—was a place where the winds were never at rest: a narrow valley, but deep through towering stone peaks, with scarcely space for a road beside its swift-running river. In a violent rainstorm—if Herr Lackner’s sense of smell was to be trusted—it would be a difficult route. A tree uprooted, a rock fall, visibility only six feet ahead: more than difficult. Dangerous. Bob Renwick’s timetable could be bogged up to its armpits in a mud-slide. If Herr Lackner was right. He probably was?
??you didn’t live among mountains for fifty years without getting some weather sense. She had better be ready for six tomorrow morning with an alternative route to Bad Ischl. Was there one? All right, she told herself, start studying Bob’s map once more. It was in the plastic shopping bag that she had kept beside her, unwilling to let good-natured Anna or young Minna unpack it helpfully—she was sharing their room tonight. So she rose now, the bag safe in her hand—how would all those merry blue eyes look if they knew a little automatic was packed under her nightdress and toothbrush?—and began bidding them good night.

  “Time for everyone to get to bed,” Frau Lackner said. “Off with you, every one of you. Except Willi and Hans who’ll go up to the big house. Right, Father?” Some small protests and a frown from Brigitte in her husband’s direction, but there was a general movement away from the table. “Gute Nacht, angenehme Ruhe,” Frau Lackner called after Avril, who was already mounting the steep narrow stairs, praying that she could have ten minutes to herself before whirlwind Minna came bursting into the little room. As she entered and closed the door, she heard the sound of a car. She paid little attention, absorbed as she was in spreading the map over her narrow cot, until she heard a loud sharp whistle from the barn and a clatter of feet downstairs. Curiosity drew her to the window. A silver Audi had pulled up, right in front of the tractor.

  Blank astonishment gave way to a smile. So Helmut Fischer had found his car, and taken off like a hummingbird. He had made good time, too—surprisingly good; but, of course, he was bound to know the quickest route from Salzburg. It was a handsome car, jaunty and streamlined. No wonder he had been in such a flap when he thought he had lost it. She couldn’t see him—he was at the wheel, talking with Hans who had reached the Audi, while Willi stood by the tractor. How slow they are, she thought, as Willi made no effort to climb into its driver’s seat. Nor was Minna dashing up through the wood to let Colin know of the unexpected arrival. Instead, she was following her father who, still in shirt-sleeves, was striding down to the road with his dog at his heels and a shotgun under his arm. Was all this to impress Herr Fischer? she wondered. The smile left her face. There was too much talk down there. Look, Mr. Fischer, you don’t have to recount all of your adventures today, they’ll keep for tomorrow; get up to your house, Helmut! Start telling your amusing stories to Colin, will you? He needs a few laughs.