Free Snare of the Hunter by Helen MacInnes Page B

they drove in his rented Mercedes, a compact four-door in unobtrusive dark green, into the centre of Vienna. It ended abruptly when she said, “You can’t park for more than ninety minutes at a stretch.”
    “Taking charge again, was she? “Then I’ll try a garage near the hotel. I’ll drop you there first.”
    “I’ll come to the garage with you. There’s a big one near the Neuer Markt.”
    “Now, is there? And you just happen to know it?”
    “Well, I had an idea—”
    “I bet you had.”
    “I just thought—for tomorrow morning—that I ought to be able to pick up the car for you. It would fit in with your plans.”
    “Nicely. But my plans?”
    “Krieger’s.” She spoke with a nervous smile in her dark-blue eyes, quickly covered by the lowering of long lashes.
    “It was well named the Office of Strategic Services.” He shook his head. But he was pleased somehow that this girl was not much of a liar.
    “You know,” she said as they approached the Neuer Markt through heavy traffic, “it might be easier if we each had a name—just to tag on to the end of a sentence or something. Mine is Jo, short for Joanna. And you are Dave, or is it David?”
    “Dave. That’s what they call me.” Except Irina...was that why he used David in his own mind? He turned the car abruptly into a quieter street, halted it by the kerb. He took out his bag and raincoat, and said, “Okay, Jo, it’s all yours. Don’t forget the keys.” He was crossing the narrow street, walking smartly in the direction of the Sacher, before she slipped over into the driver’s seat.
    * * *
    Jo telephoned at eleven o’clock.
    “How are you?” she asked, letting him identify her voice.
    “Just fine. And how are you?”
    “A quiet evening, writing postcards. Ten, to be exact.”
    “Ten?” he repeated as a check.
    “That’s right. And now to bed. I’d better catch up on my sleep. Be seeing you.” She rang off.
    Ten. The time had been set. Ten tomorrow morning exactly, and Irina would be sitting at the café table. He folded up the map—Jo’s map, which he had been studying since he had come back to his room from an excellent but lonely dinner. He put it into the deep pocket of his raincoat, made sure it wouldn’t slip out. Unlike the other maps he had, it didn’t end at the borders of Austria, but covered a good part of the neighbouring countries beyond the actual frontiers. Then he packed away his guide-book and the yellow turtle neck he had worn today, discarded the magazines and paperbacks that cluttered up his bag. He didn’t think he’d have much time for reading in the next couple of days.
    Couple of days? He couldn’t tell at this stage. He wasn’t even sure where they’d make the first stop in the journey. Krieger was arranging that, Jo had said. He went over the details he did know, once more. He tried not to think of Irina, and failed. He was nervous, and he could admit it, alone in this gold-and-red bedroom, too many small tables and fat chairs so that he couldn’t even pace around and relax some of his tensions. For half an hour he stood at the long window, stared out at the neon signs and the closed shops of the Kärntnerstrasse. Sixteen years was a long stretch. She has probably forgotten me, he thought. And perhaps it won’t be Irina I’ll see. A fake, a substitute. In that case, Irina could be dead. She could have been forced to write to her father and then—afterwards—
    He got a grip on himself. He telephoned downstairs and put in an order for breakfast at seven here in his room. There was some small difficulty at first—he ought to have ordered earlier, or written it out for the floor waiter, or something—but he managed to get his way by means of some fluent German. A useful language for giving commands. He ought to try it on Jo sometime.
    Then there was nothing else to do but get to bed. Tomorrow...

6
    Irina had lost count of the days of waiting. They were all alike, running one into another in