“There they go,” he told friend Bruno, who had made himself very much at home in the dentist’s office since he had arrived from Vienna this morning. Beside Bruno’s chair were binoculars and camera, and he had set up narrow mirrors on either side of the net-curtained window, angled sufficiently to let him see arrivals and departures from both ends of the Neugasse as well as the traffic on the sidewalk below him. On the table beside the neatly stacked magazines that helped calm the nerves of the dentist’s prospective patients, Monday to Friday (closed Saturday—the dentist was an ardent fisherman and hunter, like most of Salzburg’s vanishing week-end population), Bruno had placed a two-way radio that looked remarkably like a cigar case.
This let him keep in touch with friend Chuck, patiently installed in a parked car on the Mozartplatz within easy approach of the entrance to one of the short cuts to the Bryant place. “I don’t suppose there is any need to follow Mathison and Conway into the Altmarkt. You have someone there, I expect?”
The Englishman’s diffident way of checking tactfully—if Bruno had not arranged for them to be observed all the way to the Café Tomaselli then he’d better start giving orders immediately—amused the Austrian. “They’ll be watched.” The wide curve of humorous lips in his round pink face, with its snub innocent nose, and his fine fair hair, thinning away from his high forehead into light tendrils, made him look like one of the angelic cherubs hovering over the pulpit of the pilgrimage church at Maria Plain. But there the likeness stopped. The brown eyes were sharp and watchful, and the husky body, heavy in its clothing of thick tweeds and high-necked sweater, was as hard as Mount Dachstein. There were some who said his heart was as cold as the Dachtstein Glacier itself, but his wife and seven children and even old antagonists like Andrew and Chuck Nield would have disagreed violently.
To Andrew, quiet and restrained, his thin intelligent face now tightened in speculation as he looked down at the subdued Neugasse, it seemed that Bruno would be better described as a large hot cup of strong Viennese coffee, whipped cream and all. But Andrew was one of those who had crawled beside Bruno through the darkness on the Hungarian border ten years ago, and helped pull the wounded Freedom Fighters across no man’s land to safety. Chuck had been there, too. It seemed as if at least half the attachés and agents who circulated around the foreign embassies in Vienna in 1956 had found their way to that grim
frontier. “Well, it’s good to be co-operating again,” Andrew said. And with official blessing, for a change. No reprimands or demotions this time.
“Less worrying for me than having you as a competitor.”
Andrew smiled. The Viennese were masters of the delicate compliment, veiling a direct allusion to several less happy occasions. “Chuck definitely pulled a hot coal out of the fire this time. How much has he told you?”
Bruno’s eyes never swerved from the street. “Not as much as I hope he will tell me. But, of course, we see his problem, don’t we?”
Yes, thought Andrew, we see it. If Chuck told all he knew, there would be no need for him, or Andrew either, to be here. Bruno would handle everything, and Vienna might not consider it necessary to share the knowledge contained in the Finstersee chest. “You have certainly put up the manpower,” Andrew said tactfully. “Pity we couldn’t have helped you more there.” He had at least two agents drifting into Salzburg today, and Charles Nield had possibly as many already here. But it was unnecessary to mention that and embarrass one’s host. Bruno no doubt guessed. He would have done the same himself if he were co-operating in London or New York. No Intelligence agent let any government, however friendly, take charge of his own private arrangements such as communications with his own government.
“Each makes his contribution,” Bruno was saying. “We have the men who know this country in detail; you supplied important information about Bryant and Yates and the woman Lang; and Chuck discovered the crisis and gave us warning. Also, he may have developed the best possible lead.”
“Mathison?”
“Mathison.”
“Were there no other means of reaching Mrs. Bryant?” Andrew took a dim view of involving anyone but a trained professional in matters like this.
“We tried them. Three days ago, we had two agents contact her. Two days ago, Werner Dietrich. Yesterday, Felix Zauner. Four altogether, two of whom she knows well.” Bruno shrugged his shoulders. “No results whatsoever. Perhaps they asked too many questions.”
“How else does one get information?” Especially in an emergency situation. “Chuck is really moving very quickly.” There was more doubt than criticism in the Englishman’s quiet voice.
“Perhaps. But, on the other hand, we were almost too slow,” Bruno reminded him. A signal came from the cigar case. “Excuse me, please. Would you watch the street?” Bruno turned to the radio, adjusted it, listened to the message, signed off. “They have just entered the Café Tomaselli.”
“I wouldn’t mind some coffee myself.” One couldn’t even smoke here. The antiseptic atmosphere of the waiting room must be kept virgin pure. “Most obliging dentist, though. What excuse did you give him? Police business? Hush-hush capture of a drug ring? Or of diamond thieves?”
Bruno looked bland, busied himself with the radio. Speedily, he made contacts with his other agents, who were observing the entrances to the short cuts that led to the courtyard behind the Bryant place. “All quiet,” he reported as he joined Andrew at the window again.
But shouldn’t Felix Zauner have been here, doing all this? Andrew wondered. He watched the light foot traffic on the
Neugasse below, made a few remarks about this being a very dull time on Saturday afternoon. Most of the Salzburgers seemed to have closed business and headed for the country while those who lived in the country and planned coming into town for a pleasant evening had, as yet, not arrived in any numbers. All this led quite naturally to the question that really interested him. He said most casually, “By the way, where is Felix Zauner?”
“He left for Unterwald this morning. He has some men stationed up there, wandering around as woodcutters, keeping an eye on the lake.”
“Does he know we are here?”
“He knows we are co-operating. But he hasn’t the particulars.” Bruno’s brown eyes were quite expressionless. “He left Salzburg before I could talk with him.”
“The Americans seem a little nervous about Zauner.”
“Oh, they are always worried about any penetration, and Zauner’s organisation here was certainly penetrated by Elisabetha Lang. But not to any depths; he has only used her in the most routine matters of minor surveillance.”
“At least, he has now been warned about her?”
“He was told yesterday in Vienna. He was obviously shocked.”
“It’s always a pretty hard blow to take.”
“Especially with his record. It has been excellent. His potential was high—very high. Next year he would have been considered for a top post in Vienna itself. He may still be, if he has any success with the Finstersee problem.”
“Well, he has one trump card. Elisabetha Lang, so-called, has no suspicion that any of us know she is an illegal agent.” And
for the dispensing of that small piece of knowledge, thought Andrew, I take one modest silent bow.
“I imagine he will find some pleasure in—how would Chuck express it?—in stringing her along.”
“Is that his plan?”
“So I was told in Vienna. But it may be the only way of tracking down the KGB man in Salzburg who is running her. We’d like to catch that colonel and the rest of his illegals.”
“I just hope Zauner knows who is stringing whom,” Andrew said, thinking of Elisabetha Eva. But then, he was something of an expert on the girl with the impeccable passports and papers who was also equipped with the most plausible legends to match what the KGB could fabricate, so that she could be launched illegally across some unsuspecting border, there to settle down for a few years as one of the added blessings to its democracy. “But I agree about rooting up the illegals. They are becoming a plague. It might be a bright idea if the Western nations had a discreet meeting and started a joint uncovering job. We have all had them planted on us.”
“First,” Bruno said, keeping his eyes on each passer-by in the street below, “you would have to get most Western nations to accept the premise that peaceful coexistence also includes illegal agents. How many would believe that? It is quicker if we just pick off the illegals as they—Now what does this mean? Something or nothing?” He was watching a man who had already strolled earlier along the Neugasse and was returning past the Bryant shop, slowing his pace as he reached the building, taking out a cigarette. He seemed to have some trouble lighting it, and stepped just within the shelter of the door. Now he had decided to finish his cigarette while he stood at the threshold
of the hall and casually watched the foot traffic on the street. It was increasing slightly, as if the town was coming awake from its after-lunch siesta.
Bruno reached for his camera, handed Andrew the binoculars.
“Never seen him before,” Andrew said, as the field glasses brought the man’s face right up in front of him and showed even the tightening of a face muscle, a quick shift in the eyes. He was a serious-looking man of about fifty years, dressed in heavy tweeds; tanned and lean, with dark moustache and eyebrows, strong features, and a beaklike nose. The hair that showed under the slight tilt of his green velours hat was greying, cut long, well brushed. “What is he hanging around for?” Andrew asked irritably. In another fifteen minutes or so, they might expect Mathison and the Conway girl to come around that corner; and then, minutes after that, Chuck would be making his way through the Mozartplatz short cut to Mrs. Bryant’s back door. If Mathison’s signal for Chuck had been the right one, that was. Otherwise, there would be a no-go message from Chuck and their alternate plan would have to be put into motion; they’d all take off in various directions to meet near Unterwald early tomorrow. As we should have done in the first place, perhaps, thought Andrew, even if it meant the beginning of a blind search and dangerous risks. None of us are in this business for the good of our health. “That blighter is lighting another cigarette,” he said in chagrin. “He’s there for the duration it looks like.”
“A problem,” Bruno admitted. He finished taking his last photograph, quickly laid the camera aside, and began making contact with his three agents stationed at the outlets to the short cuts from the Bryant courtyard. He passed on their reports
without comment to Andrew as they came in, one by one. The first mentioned a woman and two small boys using the short cut from the Mozartplatz within the last half hour. The second, at the Residenzplatz exit, had noted three young girls and then—twenty minutes ago—a single man, dressed in a heavy coat, about thirty-five or so, unhurried, carrying nothing, accosting no one, behaving normally. The third agent, near the Altmarkt, had only one man to report, young, fair-haired, dressed in a heavy dark coat, unhurried, carrying nothing, accosting no one, behaving normally, and he had taken the short cut twenty minutes ago.
“They ought to have appeared at least fifteen minutes ago,” Andrew said worriedly. “Unless, of course, they are visiting friends in one of the apartments inside that maze.”
“I don’t like the coincidence of their timing,” Bruno admitted.
“Like me to take a look down in the Bryant hall?” Andrew was already moving to the door.
“Yes, that’s a—Wait!” The radio had given its muted rasp, three short clearings of its husky throat. “That’s Chuck,” said Bruno, and began listening to the brief message. “He has just received the signal relayed from Mathison,” he reported to Andrew. “He is coming in. Right now.”
“Before he gives Mathison time to get here first? What kind of signal did Mathison send, for God’s sake?”
“He sent all of them.”
Andrew stared in disbelief. “Did Mathison lose his head?”
“Either that,” said Bruno, “or he kept it exceedingly well.”
Andrew was already out the door.
Bruno’s frown deepened as he looked sombrely down at the street. The waiting man had decided to move. He was
walking briskly up the slope of the Neugasse, passing the other pedestrians, his hands in pockets, head slightly bent. Just then, Bruno’s surprised eyes caught sight of a blue coat coming from the other end of the Neugasse. Mrs. Conway and Mathison were walking briskly, too, with none of the conversation that had seemed to flow so naturally between them when Bruno had seen them last. They could scarcely have drunk even one cup of coffee, he thought worriedly. So this was an emergency.
Below his window he saw Andrew emerge, and take in the situation with a glance to his right and one to his left. With scarcely a pause, he started after the man, leaving the exploration of the hall to Mathison and Chuck Nield, who would be approaching the rear courtyard of the Bryant building by this time. Andrew, thought Bruno as he picked up his cigar case once more, had kept his head exceedingly well, too.
Quickly, he called back to his three agents. “Possible emergency,” he told them one by one. “Watch everyone who leaves your exit. Signal at once. Be prepared to follow.”
Now all he had to do was wait. And speculate.
Down in the street, Bill Mathison and Lynn Conway were entering the yawning mouth of the dark hall.
“That,” said Lynn Conway as they came out of the Café Tomaselli, “was indeed a very quick cup of coffee. The quickest I’ve known outside of my own kitchen at half-past eight of a New York morning.” She thought regretfully of the pleasant room they had just left behind: a cosy place for a cool afternoon, filled with rough tweeds and soft voices; newspapers and books at practically every table, students and dowagers and solidly built squires, no one revolting, everyone relaxing and paying little attention to others’ vagaries in either dress or brief visits; and not a jukebox or a cigarette machine in sight.
“Explanations to follow,” Bill Mathison promised her. “And apologies now.” She wasn’t really annoyed though, even if she had been a little startled by their quick exit. She was looking almost amused. Speculative, too. “Also congratulations,” he added. He could have had a girl with him who wouldn’t have reacted so obligingly, someone who would have said plaintively,
“Couldn’t we just have one more cup of coffee?” or “But I haven’t really finished my cake,” although at any other time she wouldn’t have taken more than one tasting mouthful of the five hundred calories of cream and chocolate on her plate. “And thank you.”