Free Prelude to Terror by Helen MacInnes

He’s on our side, honey. For the time being.” Frank Krimmer had been more co-operative than the usual Israeli agent. Those Mossad guys were tough... “He’s friendly. Even if our interests don’t always coincide, he’s—well—” Renwick searched for the right word, but everything he thought of was too soft in feeling. Frank could be as rigid as a block of granite. “Well,” Renwick ended lamely, “he’s helping us as much as we help him.”
    Avril said, “He never really jokes—only on the surface, but not deep down.”
    “He may not have much to joke about,” Renwick said grimly, and Prescott Taylor nodded his agreement.
    “But,” she insisted, “you joke all the time, both of you.”
    “Which means we are two gentle lambs,” Renwick told Taylor.
    Avril said stiffly, “That’s carrying it too far. I was only saying—”
    “I know, my pet.” Renwick squeezed her shoulder. “Where’s your own sense of humour? Caught a chill on that damned road?”
    “I never did see Mayerling,” she said.
    “We passed it—one small store waiting in the rain for the tourists.”
    “There’s the hunting lodge too, where the Archduke and his Vetsera—”
    “All for love. Touching. You know, I never thought much of that double-suicide story. What about two murders, made to look like a death-pact? Could have been political. Archduke Rudolf was not behaving like an Emperor’s proper son and heir.”
    “I still want to see the hunting lodge.”
    “You can’t. No one is allowed to enter its gates, unless she’s a Carmelite nun. And then she stays for good.”
    Taylor said, with a touch of impatience, one hand smoothing his thin fair hair back over an incipient bald spot, “Before we scatter, what’s our next move?”
    “With Grant? We wait.”
    “Not too long,” said Taylor worriedly.
    “Not too long.” Renwick turned to Avril. “Cheer up, old girl. The nuns say a prayer every day for the soul of the Archduke Rudolf. Doesn’t that make you feel good all over?”
    “What about La Vetsera?” Avril demanded.
    “The Archduchess and I never mention that name.”
    “Oh, Bob! Really—” But she was laughing.
    “We drop you here, Prescott,” said Renwick, “and you can taxi in style to the Embassy. You don’t want to be seen arriving in a rented car with a low-grade attaché.”
    “Certainly not. Especially when he’s a newcomer, of very temporary status, who can’t be taken seriously.” Taylor was giving his proper-Bostonian imitation. “Just one of those nuisances that get foisted on us—”
    “Like me?” Avril asked. Her dual citizenship had raised an eyebrow for the first week or two. After that, acceptance—especially when her work was only part-time, helping out with a shortage in translators.
    “But such a charming nuisance,” said Taylor, “proficient in six foreign languages.” He drew up the Fiat at the kerb, disentangled his long legs, saying, “Why the hell don’t you get a car with room?” as he closed the door behind him.
    “Now,” said Renwick as he took the wheel, “here’s what I think we should do in the next few days.” He began detailing the problem, words, explicit, sentences concise. The quizzical tone of voice had vanished. Avril listened intently, her face as grave as his.

6
    Just who were these people? Grant kept coming back to that question. Speculations had been pouring through his head as he showered and had a closer shave than he had managed on the plane, and then—in the terry robe that the Majestic provided for its guests along with heated bathroom floors—a second, if belated, breakfast of croissants and coffee. Now, still wearing the comfortable robe, he flopped down on the bed (one of two in this giant room, full-size each of them) and might have fallen asleep except that his mind wouldn’t let him.
    He tried a soothing explanation. Coincidences did happen. This guy Renwick knew Dwight O’Malley, and it was quite natural for O’Malley to