day.”
“You will not follow me!”
“But they are strangers.”
“So were you and Alois.” Pointedly, she looked at her watch.
“You know, Irina, you are a big responsibility.” His voice was both worried and friendly. “I just don’t want anything to go wrong. Not now.” He lapsed into silence.
Why do I always feel I am being ungrateful to Ludvik? she wondered. He’s trying to help me, and he has risked a lot for me, and all I do is snub him. I’m uneasy with him, and I don’t know why. I haven’t any real reason at all.
“Here we are,” he said as he pulled up at the corner of a massive building. He had brought her to the rear of the Opera House after all. “I’ll wait here,” he told her, “until I see you enter the café. Are you sure you don’t want me to park the car and join you? At a distance,” he added hastily.
This time she smiled when she said no. She gave him her hand. “Don’t worry,” she told him. “I’ll be all right. And thank you. Thank Alois for me too. Tell him I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye.”
“The café is at the side of the hotel. See it?” He pointed across the street, towards the left.
Briskly she got out of the car. It didn’t move away. He is doing more than he was asked to do, she thought uneasily. When she reached the terrace outside the café she gave a brief glance over her shoulder at the corner of the street. Ludvik was leaving now. But what had kept him there? Curiosity, caution, or distrust of the Americans?
As she crossed over the terrace, her confidence completely vanished. There were people having late breakfasts: a croissant , a cup of coffee. She was aware of them, and yet she didn’t see them, couldn’t even have described their faces or clothes. Nervousness increased to fear as she stepped into the room. What if no one met her? What if she waited, and waited, and no one came? At this moment she could almost wish that Ludvik was following her, watching, making sure.
* * *
Walter Krieger had arrived in good time to observe that everything went smoothly. In fifteen minutes Irina should be coming out of the tenement opposite to where he sat, enjoying morning coffee and crisp rolls in the bakery. There were four small tables at its window, and he had one of them. The only other customers for coffee were two men, young husky types, more interested in the street than in the people behind them in the shop, who were buying bread and cake and having a neighbourly gossip. After one sharp glance in his direction, they had turned their backs on him. Which suited Krieger. He wasn’t here for friendly conversation.
Yesterday he had strolled through this neighbourhood, to check the address that belonged to the Janocek number. (In six minutes by his watch, Mark Bohn would be telephoning for the last time.) He had noticed the bakery and decided that was where he would station himself and have a clear view, in comfort, of Irina’s safe departure. The address hadn’t been too difficult to track down. One of his old OSS contacts in Vienna was also a true friend, and now an inspector of police—a useful combination. There had been a possibility, of course, that Irina might not be staying at that address, but Bohn from his first telephone calls had been positive that “Janocek” was not an answering service: the response was too quick—the man who spoke with Bohn was one who could make decisions without referring his query to someone else in another place. And the fact that Bohn’s instructions last night were accepted without any argument, that Janocek saw no difficulty in having Irina leave as soon as the final call came, strengthened Krieger’s belief that this was Irina’s hiding-place. Of course (Krieger admitted to himself) he could have made a false deduction. But that was all he had to go on. Better that, even if wrong, than nothing at all. And the coffee was excellent.
He kept an eye on his watch, seemed absorbed in his newspaper. At
“You will not follow me!”
“But they are strangers.”
“So were you and Alois.” Pointedly, she looked at her watch.
“You know, Irina, you are a big responsibility.” His voice was both worried and friendly. “I just don’t want anything to go wrong. Not now.” He lapsed into silence.
Why do I always feel I am being ungrateful to Ludvik? she wondered. He’s trying to help me, and he has risked a lot for me, and all I do is snub him. I’m uneasy with him, and I don’t know why. I haven’t any real reason at all.
“Here we are,” he said as he pulled up at the corner of a massive building. He had brought her to the rear of the Opera House after all. “I’ll wait here,” he told her, “until I see you enter the café. Are you sure you don’t want me to park the car and join you? At a distance,” he added hastily.
This time she smiled when she said no. She gave him her hand. “Don’t worry,” she told him. “I’ll be all right. And thank you. Thank Alois for me too. Tell him I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye.”
“The café is at the side of the hotel. See it?” He pointed across the street, towards the left.
Briskly she got out of the car. It didn’t move away. He is doing more than he was asked to do, she thought uneasily. When she reached the terrace outside the café she gave a brief glance over her shoulder at the corner of the street. Ludvik was leaving now. But what had kept him there? Curiosity, caution, or distrust of the Americans?
As she crossed over the terrace, her confidence completely vanished. There were people having late breakfasts: a croissant , a cup of coffee. She was aware of them, and yet she didn’t see them, couldn’t even have described their faces or clothes. Nervousness increased to fear as she stepped into the room. What if no one met her? What if she waited, and waited, and no one came? At this moment she could almost wish that Ludvik was following her, watching, making sure.
* * *
Walter Krieger had arrived in good time to observe that everything went smoothly. In fifteen minutes Irina should be coming out of the tenement opposite to where he sat, enjoying morning coffee and crisp rolls in the bakery. There were four small tables at its window, and he had one of them. The only other customers for coffee were two men, young husky types, more interested in the street than in the people behind them in the shop, who were buying bread and cake and having a neighbourly gossip. After one sharp glance in his direction, they had turned their backs on him. Which suited Krieger. He wasn’t here for friendly conversation.
Yesterday he had strolled through this neighbourhood, to check the address that belonged to the Janocek number. (In six minutes by his watch, Mark Bohn would be telephoning for the last time.) He had noticed the bakery and decided that was where he would station himself and have a clear view, in comfort, of Irina’s safe departure. The address hadn’t been too difficult to track down. One of his old OSS contacts in Vienna was also a true friend, and now an inspector of police—a useful combination. There had been a possibility, of course, that Irina might not be staying at that address, but Bohn from his first telephone calls had been positive that “Janocek” was not an answering service: the response was too quick—the man who spoke with Bohn was one who could make decisions without referring his query to someone else in another place. And the fact that Bohn’s instructions last night were accepted without any argument, that Janocek saw no difficulty in having Irina leave as soon as the final call came, strengthened Krieger’s belief that this was Irina’s hiding-place. Of course (Krieger admitted to himself) he could have made a false deduction. But that was all he had to go on. Better that, even if wrong, than nothing at all. And the coffee was excellent.
He kept an eye on his watch, seemed absorbed in his newspaper. At
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