There was a discreet knock at his door. It was the waitress, with a tray piled like a pyramid. “That’s fine,” he told her, and helped her bring the heavy load down from her shoulder. “Just splendid. Wonderful. We’ll fix the table. You’re in a hurry, I know. Please, no. We won’t detain you any longer. Vielen Dank.” She left, still breathing heavily, but with a broad smile (relief combined with a sense of achievement?) and a stream of good wishes floating back along the corridor.
“Irina,” he said, knocking at her door. “Food’s here. Come and get it. It’s picnic style, do you mind?”
Irina was dressed, ready to leave. She was calm, her face carefully made up and all signs of tears banished. She followed him to his room, helped him place the covered dishes on every available bit of free space. “I like picnics. Do you remember, David, the day we went to visit the Moldau?”
“I remember,” he said. And there we go, right back to the far-off past, avoiding the present, escaping the future. “We took almost as much food as this with us. Where do we start? Soup? And I think we should leave the talking to later. Let’s concentrate on getting some nourishment into you.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “These dumplings look good. One or two, David?” She delved into the tureen.
He shook his head, amazed at her recovery. Or was it all part of the act? He almost destroyed his own appetite with that question. “We’ll have to eat in record time. Like one of my friends in Vermont. A farmer. Eighty-two years old. He says, ‘I can eat a square meal in ten minutes.’ And just listen to me, David thought: how’s that for the carefree companion?
“A square meal?”
“Direct quotation.” David translated it for her. She was smiling, asking him now about Vermont. Wasn’t that where his grandfather had lived? She remembered him telling her about the maple trees and sugaring off. She had never forgotten that phrase.
Sugaring off... That’s what we are doing now, he thought. There wasn’t one hint in those beautiful blue eyes that only half an hour ago they had been filled with terror. Whoever telephoned had traced her to Graz: still more worrying to David, she had been traced to this hotel. And only he had known its name, only he and Jo Corelli had known it in advance. Krieger had been told, up on the castle hill. Time enough to— No, David decided angrily. You’re playing right into Jiri Hrádek’s hands. If we start distrusting one another, seeing some betrayal behind every unanswerable question, we’ll split wide open. That was one way to take care of any opposition. Hrádek must know that dodge well. How else had he clawed his way up, in a tight power structure? And yet, and yet—who the hell knew about this hotel?
“What’s wrong, David?” Irina asked suddenly. “You’re so silent.” She watched him nervously.
“Just trying to plan our route. I’d better have a look at the map.” He spread it out on the bed, took his plate over to the night table. “Finish your goulash,” he told her. “And then pour me some coffee. No strudel: it will put me to sleep.”
“How long exactly will you have to drive?”
“That’s what I’m figuring out.”
She fell silent, and let him study the map.
* * *
By half-past seven, and waning light, they were ready to leave. There was a new desk clerk on duty, one who had his own private problems. The exit was simple, after all. The Geneva call was added to the bill, and passports returned. Irina had been given her instructions. She went ahead of David, the elderly bellboy insisting on carrying her small luggage (did he ever go off duty? too old for union rules?), and unlocked the Mercedes. (Ten yards from the door—less than ten metres, David told her.) She was waiting, all set, by the time he came out into the street. It was totally empty at this hour. Not a pedestrian in sight, no car moving out to follow them.
The route to Lienz—about one hundred and eighty-five miles, he had calculated—would be easy and direct, longer but simpler than his afternoon journey. Yet, even at the cost of an extra ten minutes, he made a small detour, watching the road behind him, driving south as though he were heading for Yugoslavia. Then, satisfied, he turned west and picked up speed.
“Is everything all right?” Irina asked.
“I was just checking. No one has followed us out of Graz.”
“They may not need to follow.”
“What makes you think that?” It was a good lead-in for her. Now she could bring up the telephone call quite naturally. But she didn’t. She said nothing more.
David concentrated on the road and let her be the first to break the silence. It lasted almost sixty miles, practically a third of the journey. Her eyes were closed as if she had fallen asleep.
At last she stirred, stretched her cramped legs, eased her shoulders. “How much longer?”
“Two hours or more.”
“It’s so far away?”
“As far as we can get tonight. Safely.”
“And are we safe?”
“At this moment, yes. But you’ll be in serious danger, and your father too—once you lead them to him.”
“Once I lead them—?” Irina was aroused. “My father won’t be in danger from them. They’ve never touched him. There would be bad publicity—an international scandal. He has too many friends in other countries.”
“Is that why he has hidden himself away for these last years? You’d better ask Jo about your father. She met him in London when he was still moving around openly. What changed his life-style, d’you think?”
“But—” she began, and stopped. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “I haven’t heard from him in all that time.” Then she added, “Nothing will happen to him. They’d never risk that. It would be bad propaganda.”
“What about a simple little accident?” David persisted. “Would that arouse public opinion? Something like a fire in his house, and both of you trapped in it.” Now I am being brutal, he told himself, but he kept on. “And the completed manuscript for his new book destroyed. People would be shocked, regretful. They’d hold sad memorial services. But aroused and angry? Public protests? Denunciations? How could that happen with an ordinary everyday tragedy such as a fire?”
Slowly she said, as though she were still persuading herself, “Jiri would never—”
“Wouldn’t he?”
Again she fell silent. At last she asked, “Alois—what happened to Alois?”
“It isn’t a pretty story.”
“Tell me.”
And so he gave her Krieger’s account.
“And those two men I saw on the staircase?”
“Acting under Ludvik’s orders.”
“Ludvik?”
“And now,” said David, “let me tell you what Krieger found out about Josef’s death.” He gave her full details, sparing nothing.
“Ludvik.” This time she believed it.
Hurriedly he added, “There is also some pleasant news. About your father. He’s at work. There’s a new novel—a big one—almost finished. It will be published next year.”
“If it survives a fire,” she said.
So now she could believe that too. “We shall just have to out-think Jiri, that’s all.”
“Out-think him? Useless—David, it’s useless!”
“That is just what he wants us to believe.” When she didn’t answer, he said, “You know, people can persuade themselves into defeat. They can hold a trump card, and yet never play it on time. They’re left with it in their hands, because they doubted, hesitated; they listened to some glib talk or were too impressed by their opponent. And what’s a trump card when you’re stuck with it, and the game has passed you by? It’s useless. And that’s the right meaning of that word.” He paused. “Isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Her voice was low.
“Another thing to remember, Irina, is simply this. When stakes are high—and there are no higher stakes than in power politics—your enemy plays for keeps. He will give you no credit for even a kind thought or hesitation. He will twist everything that you say or do, when i
t suits him, and use it to his own advantage. He intends to win. And in the terms of his tight ideology that means he intends you to lose. There’s no real contest, as he sees it: it’s only a matter of time. Your hopes against his plans.”
“Once, David, you were such an optimist.”
“I’m still an optimist. I said we could out-think Jiri, didn’t I?”
“But you also said there was no real contest.”
“As he sees it. I said that too, didn’t I?”
“Yes.” And then she added. “Perhaps I’ve become the pessimist.”
“You’d be fine if you’d get rid of that word ‘useless’.”
“Tonight,” she said, “Jiri had someone telephone me. When you were out, David.”
“I know. And if I had been there, they’d have cut off the call and tried again later. And again. Until they got you alone.”
“You knew?” And right there was one big difference between David and Jiri. If Jiri had known about the call, he might have waited, like David, to let her talk about it. But he would never have admitted he knew all along. He would have kept it to use against her.
“Clever set of bastards. Sorry—I’m getting just a little bit teed off by all this. Damned if I’m going to keep running and looking over my shoulder. They threatened you, of course.”
“No. They were friendly.”
“What?” He almost swerved over the line. He got his lights beaming straight again along the dark empty road. “And that’s what scared you?” She hadn’t become as simple-minded as he had thought in his most depressed moments.
“That too. But chiefly because they had tracked us down so easily. And we had taken such care.”
“Just what you were meant to feel. Remember, Jiri was an expert in propaganda before he went over to the strong-arm department. What is propaganda? Just persuading someone to believe what you want him to believe.”
“They persuaded me—almost.” She reached out in the darkness and touched his arm, briefly. “They said they were worried about me. So they would keep following, make sure that I was safe.”
“Safe from what in heaven’s name?”
“From Krieger. You are just a pawn, they said. So is Jo. Krieger is the one who cannot be trusted.”
“Trusted with what?”
“To deliver me safely. He doesn’t want me to reach my father and give him my message from Jiri.”
For a moment David took his eyes off the road and stared blankly at her. He thought of her passport; he thought of the way she had been able to escape—no difficulties at all, seemingly—through Czechoslovakia. “Did you make a deal with Jiri Hrádek?”
“Not a deal,” she said quickly. “Just an agreement. He gave me the divorce; and the passport. And he promised to hide my disappearance for as long as it was possible. I was to ask my father to return to Czechoslovakia. That was all.”
“You were to persuade your father?”
“No—no! Just ask; that was all. Please—David, believe me.”
“Did you think your father would agree to return?”
“No, of course not. Not with all hope of democracy gone. He won’t return. Why else did I bring out two of the note-books he had to leave behind? I didn’t tell Jiri about them. Why should I? I took what he offered me. And I’ll keep my promise to him. That was the agreement.”
“And when your father refuses to return—what then?”
“Jiri said nothing about that.”
“What then?” he insisted.
“I plan to stay with my father, keep out of sight. Then when he has his book published—well, perhaps by that time—when it is too late for Jiri to take action—it may be safe for both of us to come out live normally.” She looked at him through the darkness, seemed uncertain. That could be true, couldn’t it?”
“Yes. Except that these aren’t plans. They’re hopes.”
“And Jiri has his plans,” she said slowly, remembering David’s words. “My hopes against his plans.” She gave a strange small laugh. “And I thought it was the other way round,” she added almost in a whisper.
“Let’s get back to the telephone call,” he said brusquely. “What else was said?”
“Only that they would find us wherever we went, as easily as they had traced us to Graz. I wasn’t to be alarmed. It was for my safety.” She took a deep breath. “They sounded the way Ludvik did—when he drove me to the Opera House this morning.”
Thank God she hadn’t believed them, David thought; or else she wouldn’t have been so terrified. “Did you recognise the voice on the telephone?”
“No. He spoke in our language. His accent was real. He was a Czech.”
“Gentle and friendly?”
“Yes.”
The hell he is, thought David. “The call came from the airport. Perhaps he had just arrived from Vienna.”
“Was that why we really left—before he could get to the hotel?” The idea delighted her.
“It did us no harm,” David said. There were too many maybes attached to be able to give a firmer answer. The man could have reached the hotel just as they were leaving, but perhaps he had gone to the garage to check on the Chrysler to reassure himself they were still in Graz; that might have seemed safer to him than hanging around a café or watching a small lobby. Or perhaps the man had driven straight on to Lienz—if he knew so damned much about their movements. “But why talk of one man? There could be two of them.”
“The two who passed me on the stairway to Alois’s flat?”
“Would you recognise them again?”
“I—I don’t know. I only caught a glimpse; I drew back against the wall, didn’t stare at them. I hoped they wouldn’t pay attention to me.”
“Then we’ll stop at the next town. We may as well get some gas, and you can wash up.”
“There’s no need—”
“We’ll stop,” he told her. “And I want you to look at two photographs in a quiet place with a good light. Memorise the faces this time.”
“Of the two men?”
“It would be just as well to do that before you reach Lienz.”
“They’ll be there?”
“I don’t know.” But someone would be there, if not these two. Of that he was certain. “In that telephone call were you asked about our route?”
“Yes.”
“And you said?”
“I said nothing.”
“Did they mention Lienz?”
“No.” Then a new, and disturbing, idea flashed into her mind. “David—please! Don’t you believe me? I’ve told you everything.”
“Everything, Irina?”
“Everything that matters.”
Yet something that might not seem important to Irina could be something that was absolutely vital to her safety. He let her answer go, asked no further questions. He could hear the exhaustion in her voice. Tomorrow, he thought, when she has had a decent sleep. I’ll ask her to search her memory; I’ll get her to tell me more about Jiri, about the way he approached her, about her permitted escape. For that was what it had been: a permitted escape.
The highway now followed the long line of a lake. There were lights from a scattering of houses, well spaced within their gardens, that faced towards the water. Summer cottages, perhaps, and people behind their solid walls, looking at TV and thinking of tomorrow’s boating. At the far end of the lake there was a glow of illumination, a town lit up for its holidaymakers. There would be a constant movement of visitors, and plenty of cars. “That’s where we’ll stop,” David said. Then he had another impulse. “We’ll stay overnight—”
“And not go to Lienz?”
“Why should we?” Jo might be there; but Krieger would certainly telephone her tomorrow morning as arranged, and instruct her to move on to Merano. Krieger wasn’t planning to meet him in Lienz anyway. “We’ve come far enough: a hundred and five miles from Graz. That’s about one hundred and sixty-eight kilometres,” he added helpfully. “Okay?”
“Yes.
But Jo will be alone—waiting for us. She’ll worry. They’ll all be worried.”
“I’ll let Hugh McCulloch know we’re safe.”
“You’ll tell him where we are staying overnight?”
“I’m telling nobody except you.”
She laughed unexpectedly. “Oh, David, you’re going to confuse everyone, including Jiri. You know what you are doing? You are kidnapping me, just as he warned me. Only it isn’t on Krieger’s orders, is it?”
“No. Any objections?” They were reaching the town. Ahead of them was a handsome square, with low houses and town offices, where the road to Lienz branched to the right. He kept to the left, entered the main street. It was happy and busy—a pleasure place geared for the holiday money, but not in brass-ring Las Vegas style. Nor was it a beatnik heaven either. Everything looked comfortable, placidly gay: enjoyment on a leisured, middle-class scale. Above all, it looked safe. It had its quota of elderly couples, but it was mostly filled with smart girls and their tanned young men, and the distant sounds of old but well-played jazz.
“No objections,” she was saying. Bright lights were all around them, and he could see her face clearly now. She looked sixteen years younger. Even that smile was the same one he remembered from long ago.
“Too late for them anyway.” They had reached the end of the little thoroughfare and passed through the gates to an enormous spread of courtyard and gardens, guarded by a right angle of buildings that shut out town and streets. “Scratch an Austrian hotel, and you find a castle,” he said with a wide smile. And even if it was a pseudo castle, the place still looked good. Everything looked good to David at this moment.