Snare of the Hunter

  “He kept his voice low.” But something had been haunting her thoughts ever since they left Bohn on the outskirts of Brixen. Now she tried to make light of her worry. “He would have had an explanation ready if we had been questioned. Wouldn’t he?”

  “Yes, he’s quick with explanations. Still, you don’t make offbeat jokes to frontier guards. Or to income-tax collectors, or customs officials. Or to anyone who can raise or lower your salary. No future in that.” He had her smiling again. “Darling,” he said gently, “what is bothering you about Bohn? After all, you did send that letter to him.”

  “There was no-one else who could help.”

  “Not even me?”

  “You didn’t know anyone in the CIA. Did you?”

  “No. At least, not that I’m aware of.”

  “Bohn knows everyone. And I was given his address in Washington. I didn’t know where you were. I did not even know you were his friend. It was such a shock—such a wonderful, wonderful shock—to find he had sent you to Vienna.” Not Bohn, David thought McCulloch had made that choice. Bohn, not too enthusiastically, had gone along with it. Bohn had kept saying—now, what had he said that night at East Hampton? Amateurs were useless. Something like that.

  “What is it David?”

  It was sweet to hear the concern in her voice. David managed a smile, kept his voice easy. “Didn’t you tell him about me, back in 1968? When he visited Prague and you met him?”

  “I didn’t meet him in 1968.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t meet him until 1970. And it was a very brief meeting.”

  “1970? He was in Prague in 1970?”

  “And last year too.”

  Now it was David who was troubled. He was remembering 1968. September it had been, when Bohn had descended on East Hampton for a quick visit. Damnation, David thought, his whole reason for that unexpected appearance had been to bring me news of Irina. “You never met him in 1968? At the time Dubcek was—”

  “No.”

  That was definite. “All right,” said David, “what about today?”

  “Why are you worrying about Bohn?”

  “I don’t know. And that worries me too. You see, there’s no real reason why I should feel like this. Just so many little things, none of them important. He could not have been more friendly, more helpful. Yet always with questions. Sidelong questions. Why is he so curious?”

  “He always has been. It’s his way. What did you talk about?”

  “Oh, maps and clothes. And father’s note-books. I think that was what really upset me. I didn’t want anyone to know about them. Except you.”

  For a long minute David was silent. “Tell me about maps and clothes and all the rest of Bohn’s jokes.”

  “As they happened?”

  “Yes. From the beginning—as they happened.”

  “But they were really nothing.”

  “And yet you’re worrying about them.”

  “I’ve become too anxious about everything.” Her voice faltered as she added, “Too suspicious.”

  “Then let’s get rid of your worries by talking them away. Come on, darling. Tell me what happened.”

  “You won’t laugh at me?”

  “No. I won’t laugh.” David listened intently to the soft hesitant voice, kept his eyes on the winding road. Sun-shadowed meadows rose and fell on either side, ending in thick dark forests that climbed steeply to the precipices falling away from sheer mountain peaks, giant ramparts of jagged rock upthrust in ancient convulsions of the earth. The highway was a curving piece of white string; the cars rushing along it were small coloured beads; and the people inside them, each a world in himself, were less than grains of dust to the stone giants towering above them.

  “And that,” Irina said, as she ended her small story, “is really all. Have I talked the worries away?” She liked that phrase. It could be possible, too: she felt better. “They aren’t important, are they? I only wish he hadn’t been so quick to remark about father’s note-books. That was what really upset me.” So it had been the small incident with the note-books that had started her chain of doubts, David thought. Without that, Irina might have forgotten all the rest of Bohn’s questions, or put them aside as small talk. Taken one by one, they did seem negligible. Together, they made a disturbing pattern.

  “Because,” Irina went on, “everyone does not know that these note-books exist. Only Jiri’s men, who seized father’s books and papers when he escaped—he was in Prague at the time, and couldn’t get back to his home at Rajhrad where he stored most of his documents—only these men could know. They thought they had found everything. But the two notebooks I have with me—they are the most important. That was why my father hid them so securely.”

  “In the drawer where you discovered the Beretta?”

  “It was not really a drawer. I had to call it that when I spoke about it in front of Jo. I did not know her well enough. You understand?” she asked anxiously.

  “Then where did you find?”

  “In the leg of a table.”

  He stared at her, but she was serious.

  “It was a dining table that had belonged to my great-grandfather—a heavy piece of oak resting on thick square legs. There were some primitive wood carvings around the edge of the top, and the pattern trailed down the four legs. Not elaborate. Just peasant decorations carved on the solid wood. But inside one of the legs there was a concealed compartment. It was not large—just hollowed out enough to hide a few objects—so that if you were to rap on that part of the leg, it sounded solid.”

  “Your great-grandfather had an inventive carpenter.”

  “There was need of them even in those days.”

  “How did you get into the compartment? I suppose it had a panel that opened?”

  “Yes. You pressed two pieces of the carved decoration, and a small panel swung out. When it was closed, it fitted into the design so perfectly that you could not guess it existed.”

  No sign at all, either by sight or by sound: a neat piece of work. David said, “So when you went to your father’s house, after it had been searched and his papers removed, you opened the panel and—”

  “No,” she said quickly, “not then.”

  “Why not?”

  “I was afraid there might be a concealed camera in the room. And also, what would I do with any documents my father had hidden? There was no safer hiding place than that table leg. I let it alone until I knew I was going to leave. On the night before I began my journey, as soon as it was dark, I took a flashlight and shielded it with my hand and opened the table leg and groped inside. There was a pistol, propped upright in the shallow space, with two thin note-books behind it.” A small smile played over her face. “I took them to bed with me that night. I read them by flashlight.”

  For a moment David could say nothing. Another world, he was thinking, a world where you moved in darkness like a thief in your own house. “What do they deal with?”

  “Names, dates, places, events. The history of conspiracies and plots in 1968, before the Soviet tanks came over the frontier.”

  Background material, David thought. “But your father is working on a novel, isn’t he? Does he need that kind of detailed documentation?” It troubled David, angered him too, that Irina had increased the danger to herself by smuggling two small books out of Czechoslovakia, all for the sake of a piece of fiction. “Surely his memory is enough.”

  “It is good; but memory is not enough when he faces critics who will say he is too prejudiced against the Communists, too fantastic.”

  “But—”

  “I know how my father works. He has never tampered with history. If he does not have the exact facts about critical events, he will not use them as political background. The novel he is writing is his first big work in years. Years, David.”

  “I know.”

  “And it must not have any gaps in it—especially about that period before the invasion of Czechoslovakia. It has to be the c
limax of the novel. It leads into the title—The Prague Winter.”

  David said, “But surely the political background of that period has been reported and published. It’s common knowledge, isn’t it?” More or less, he added to that.

  “Not the part played by Jiri and his friends—the Stalinists, the hard-line Communists. They not only plotted against Dubcek and his liberals—they are openly proud of that—but they also were planning secretly to eliminate the men who weren’t ‘progressive’, just middle-of-the-road Communists.”

  “The men who are now at the head of the government?”

  “Yes. Russia chose them—not Jiri’s group—and put them in power: she could handle them more easily, perhaps.” Irina paused, shook her head. “Strange; and comic, too. Jiri had even let Soviet intelligence agents install themselves in his Prague headquarters, the week before the invasion took place.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, that happened.”

  “Preparing for the takeover?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that may explain why the Russians didn’t exactly kick Jiri out. He is still an important man, isn’t he?”

  She half smiled as she said, “Even the Russians did not know the full story. Besides, Jiri seems to have changed—become more moderate. He now works along with the men he once plotted against.”

  “How many people knew he was involved in that conspiracy?”

  “Very few.”

  “Are they still alive?”

  “Not many. And those who survived, like Jiri, were so deeply implicated that they will not talk. Their safety depends on complete silence.”

  “That’s a dangerous little power grouping right there.” Conspiracy seemed to get into a man’s blood, a disease that flared up again and again unless it was fully exposed. And now the importance of Kusak’s notes, the exact recording of names and dates and facts, struck David fully. The material might not be acceptable in a court of law—much of it must have been supplied in bits and pieces by friends of Dubcek, and they were imprisoned or dead—but in the hands of a writer such as Kusak, it would certainly cripple any future plans of Jiri Hrádek and his surviving allies. “What are they doing—biding their time?”

  “They seem to have changed. They have become less extreme.” But she sounded uncertain.

  “Like Jiri?”

  She was silent.

  “Do you really believe he has changed?” David persisted.

  “Two weeks ago I hoped he had. But now—no, I don’t think so. Or Josef and Alois would both still be alive.” She fell silent, her eyes watching the upsurge of stone mountain, hard and naked, that rose straight from green meadows and forests. When she spoke again, her voice had lost all emotion. It was cool, detached. “How easy people like me make it for Jiri. We see, but we close our eyes. We hear, but we try not to listen. It was only when I read my father’s note-books—” She looked at David. “I know. I told you yesterday that I had only glanced at them. I was trying to make them sound not very important. Evasion—or lies—that’s something I have learned too well. It has become a way of life: never the full truth, always something kept back, something for safety.”

  David’s hand held hers. “It was only when you read your father’s notes—” he prompted her gently.

  “When I read them, all the things that had not been clear to me—everything I had tried not to believe—” She didn’t finish the sentence. And then she said, “Even two weeks ago, as I packed the note-books, I was deciding to ask my father not to use anything in them that might endanger Jiri’s life. Because of the help he had given me to escape.”

  “What help actually?” Perhaps, David thought, I’ll learn the whole truth at last.

  “He looked the other way. He knew what I was planning. He could have had me arrested for trying to leave the country. He didn’t. He gave me a message of good will for my father; my passport; soft words; and a smile. Yes, people like me make it easy for Jiri. We keep seeing signs of change so easily, because that is what we hope to see.”

  “He gave you no other help?”

  Again there was a long silence.

  “Advice.”

  “About what, Irina?”

  “My letter. The quickest way to get action was to send it to an American who had connections in Washington and who had met me. Someone who had been a journalist and travelled abroad a good deal and knew Czechoslovakia. Someone who understood the situation, and would believe me.”

  “Mark Bohn?”

  “He is the only American journalist I know who lives in Washington, and has visited Czechoslovakia, and has met me.”

  “And his address? Did he pass it on to you?” That had been Bohn’s story.

  “Jiri knew all the writers and correspondents who came to Prague. He knew all their addresses. He had a list of them. He left it with me, laid it casually on my desk. All I did was to pick out the name of Mark Bohn.”

  “You didn’t tell Jiri whom you had chosen?”

  “No.”

  “And he never suggested Bohn?”

  “No.”

  “But he knew Bohn had met you?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “If Jiri knows all the journalists who come to visit Czechoslovakia, wouldn’t he know their movements? Whom they met, whom they talked with?” I’m damned sure that Jiri Hrádek has more than a list of their home addresses.

  Her eyes widened. She said, “But Jiri never mentioned Bohn to me: I never saw them together.” She stared at him. Then, slowly, bitterly, “Jiri planned everything.”

  David said nothing.

  “Didn’t he?”

  “He planned a lot. But we’ve no real proof about Bohn. He could have been used, too.”

  “He is your friend. Surely he would not—”

  “Surely,” David said. His voice was even, but his thoughts were jagged and broken. He tried to piece them together, but it was difficult. A touch of guilt at even harbouring any suspicion about Mark Bohn kept his mind off balance. And there was a background feeling of hurt pride, which didn’t help any rational judgments. Had he been completely fooled; or was he drawing too many hasty conclusions? Either way, he didn’t enjoy his emotions at this moment. Impossible to think straight. Not with a good half of his mind needed for this road. He was driving badly. That last corner had been taken carelessly. “Let’s get a breath of fresh air,” he said, slowing down, his eyes watching for some broadening of the highway, for a space where he could safely edge off the paved surface.

  He found it, a place with a view, waiting for photographers and picnic makers. A couple of pint-sized cars were already there, two loads of families setting up folding tables and chairs—where could they pack all that stuff in? “Over here,” David said, his arm around Irina, leading her to the side of the small clearing, farthest away from the massive display of pink flesh (shirts were coming off for a lunch-hour sun tan), where a brave stand of pines still held on to the top edge of the precipice. It looked brittle. David pulled Irina back a little, caught her in his arms. Far below them was the deeply carved bed of a surging torrent; beyond it, more cliffs and crags plunged from mountainsides. They stood close together, looking in silence at the vast stretch of brooding peace.

  The sadness and strain left Irina’s face. She was young and happy again, with the wind blowing through her hair, her arm around David, his arms holding her close, her kisses meeting his. “This,” he told her, “is what I’ve wanted to do for the last hundred miles.” He kissed her once more, long and deeply. At last, he released her. “I love you, Irina. Never forget that.” Then he turned away abruptly, caught her hand, picked up her handbag from where she had dropped it, and started back for the car. His face was tense.

  By the time they reached the road, he was in control once more. He pointed to the happy picnickers, deep in potato salad and beer. “Shall we tell them a thunderstorm is blowing up?” (The clouds were darkening, light mists thickening over nearby peaks.) “Or that the
y are sitting practically on an overhang above a precipice?” Indeed they were, quite oblivious to the bite in the rock face below them, where rain and wind and sun and frost had nibbled away for years. No immediate danger, David decided: next spring, another piece of mountainside would crumble away, shaving off a chunk of picnic ground. But at the car he called back to the merry group, “You’re too near the edge!” Only one man paid attention. He laughed, shook his head, said something to his companions that sent them all into a fit of amusement. David, it seemed, was a very funny fellow.

  “Okay,” David said, and got into the car.

  “Are they really in danger?”

  “They’ll be driven back to the road when the rain starts pouring down.” The wind, ominous herald, had begun to rise. “Let’s run ahead of the storm.” He got the car back on the highway, accelerated. Driving was easy again. “Another hour at the most,” he said. “We’ll be in Merano by one-thirty with luck.” Certainly before two o’clock. Then the problem would be to find a safe room, where Irina could rest while he met Krieger. He pulled the travel folder out of his pocket and handed it to Irina. “Time to start studying this. It has a good street plan of the town. It also has a list of hotels, each of them with a number attached. So find the Bristol on that list, note its number, and then look for that number on the street plan. Got the idea?”

  She nodded, smiling. She had taken out her pencil to help her check the long list of names. It needed more lead, she noticed: she must have broken off the point when she used it last. “Bristol...” She found the name, memorised its number and location, tracked it to its street. “Here it is!” she said at last. “It is quite central. See?” She held out the map.

  David glanced at it, noting the hotel’s general situation. “Now we know what to avoid—”

  “You don’t want to go to the Bristol?”

  “No. Krieger is staying there. We’ll find something near enough, but not on top of him—”

  “But won’t he expect us to stay at the Bristol too?”

  “I guess he does.”

  Irina’s eyes widened. “Don’t you trust him?”

  David smiled. “I think we can trust Krieger.”