The Last Frontier by Alistair MacLean

Jansci had treated this danger, but the Count had explained as he had driven the Mercedes through the snow-filled street to this hotel on the banks of the Danube, The changing of their hideouts because of suspicious neighbours had become so frequent as to be almost routine, and Jansci had a sixth sense which, so far, had always led them to pull out in good time. Annoying, the Count said, but no serious inconvenience, they knew of half a dozen bolt-holes just as good, and their permanent headquarters, a place known to Jansci, Julia and himself, was in the country.

Reynolds' thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door across the hall opening. He looked up to see a man hurrying across the parquet floor, the tap-tap of his metalled heels urgent and almost comically hurried: he was shrugging a jacket over a crumpled shirt, and the thin, bespectacled face was alive with fear and anxiety.

'A thousand apologies, comrade, a thousand apologies!' He wrung white-knuckled hands in his distress, then glared at the porter following more slowly behind him. 'This oaf here -- '

'You are the manager?' the Count interrupted curtly.

'Yes, yes, of course.'

'Then dismiss the oaf. I wish to talk to you privately." He waited till the porter had gone, drew out his gold cigarette case, selected a cigarette with due care, examined it minutely, inserted it with much deliberation in his holder, took his time about finding his matchbox and removing a match, finally lit the cigarette. A beautiful performance, Reynolds thought dispassionately: the manager, already on the tenterhooks of fright, was now almost in hysterics.

'What is it, comrade, what has gone wrong?' In his attempt to keep his voice steady, it had been louder than intended, and it now dropped to almost a whisper. 'If I can help the AVO in any way, I assure you -- '

'When you speak, you will do so only to answer my questions.' The Count hadn't even raised his voice, but the manager seemed to shrink visibly, and his mouth closed tightly in a white line of fear, 'You spoke to my men some little time ago?'

'Yes, yes, a short time ago. I wasn't even asleep just now -- '

'Only to answer my questions,' the Count repeated softly.

'I trust I do not have to say that again.... They asked if you had any new arrival staying here, any fresh bookings, checked the register and searched the rooms. They left, of course, a typed description of the man they were looking for?'

'I have it here, comrade.' The manager tapped his breast pocket.

'And orders to phone immediately if anyone resembling Chat description appeared here?'

The manager nodded.

'Forget all that,' the Count ordered. 'Things are moving quickly. We have every reason to believe that the man is either coming here or that his contact is already living here or will be coming here in the course of the next twenty-four hours.' The Count exhaled a long, thin streamer of smoke and looked speculatively at the manager. 'To our certain knowledge, this is the fourth time in three months that you have harboured enemies of the State in your hotel.'

'Here? In this hotel?' The manager had paled visibly. '1 swear to God, comrade -- '

'God?' The Count creased his forehead. 'What God? Whose God?'

The manager's face was no longer pale, it was ashen grey: good communists never made fatal blunders of this kind. Reynolds could almost feel sorry for him, but he knew what the Count was after: a state of terror, instant compliance, blind, unreasoning obedience. And already he had it.

'A -- a slip of the tongue, comrade.' The manager was now stuttering in his panic, and his legs and hands were trembling. 'I assure you, comrade -- '

'No. No, let me assure you, comrade.' The Count's voice was almost a purr. 'One more slip-up and we must see to a tittle re-education, an elimination of these distressing bourgeois sentiments, of your readiness to give refuge to people who would stab our mother country in the back.' The manager opened his mouth to protest,