Legacy of a Spy (17 page)

“A man of about thirty-five, with strong even teeth and very short, brown, slightly wavy hair,” Anton added. “That would be Herr Slater. He checked in the hotel after Carmichael checked out. Both Carmichael and Slater appear to know Fräulein Wieland.”

Gregor Slazov pushed himself out of his chair. “Are you trying to tell me that Carmichael and Slater are the same?”

Anton hesitated. “I think so, but I’m not sure. Herr Slater has been out all day, since nine o’clock this morning. I didn’t get the report from Wörgl until after that, but Herr Slater made a great point of telling me this morning how well he slept last night. When I see him again, I will know.”

Gregor Slazov paced the room. It could be so. Disguises were rare in this business, but they were used. Slazov had a pair of elevator shoes to make him taller, but he knew it was useless to try and change the face of a peasant. If Carmichael was Slater, Slazov was sorry he had exposed himself. Such a man as Slater would be dangerous, but, Slazov smiled to himself, it would also make the game more interesting.

“If Carmichael and Slater are the same, who was the tall, dark-haired young man with him near the station?”

Anton shook his head. “I don’t know but I will find out.”

“Who is this woman that knows both Carmichael and Slater?” asked Gregor.

“Fraulein Ilse Weiland,” said Anton. “She is a member of German Intelligence.”

“They are working together then?” said Slazov.

“I don’t think so,” Anton said thoughtfully.
“Anyway, not yet.
This is what we wish to avoid.”

Slazov looked at Anton closely. Somehow, Anton Reisch did not look quite so tired or so completely fit the role of desk clerk. Reisch was a smart man. Maybe Gregor Slazov should find out more about this man. It was time Slazov became more than an assassin.

“From whom do you take orders, Herr Reisch?” Slazov’s question sounded like a command.

“Not from you, Herr Slazov,” said Anton quickly. He drew himself up to his full height. He was six inches taller than Slazov.

“No,” said Slazov.
“Nor from anyone else in this area.”
He hated anyone who was taller than he.

“You may think what you
like,
Herr Slazov, but you must keep your thoughts to yourself. You have been sent here to dispose of a man named Carmichael. I will help you to find him, if he is here. Who I am, what my job is, why Carmichael is to be eliminated is not your affair.”

Gregor Slazov grumbled. This man was as bad as the Comrade General Stottoff.

“When Herr Slater returns,” said Anton, “I will let you know my opinion. In the meantime,” Anton took a calling card from his pocket and handed it to Slazov, “remain in your room until I phone you.”

Anton opened the door and left.

Slazov looked at the card. He read the message on the back first.

My Dear Herr Slazov,

Any friend of Adolph’s is a friend of mine. I would be honored if you could come to my party tonight. It will be at the Ehrenbachhöhe Hotel. Please dress in ski clothes because of the heavy snow fall.

E. v. B.

Slazov frowned and turned the card face up. Engraved in neat German script was the name Baron Erich von Burgdorf. Slazov continued to look puzzled for a moment and then smiled slowly. Apparently Carmichael or Slater was expected to attend. Slazov hoped so. A murder was much easier at a party where there were a lot of people. Carmichael would not be the first corpse Slazov had disposed of in the snow.

SLATER KNOCKED on Hollingsworth’s door at the Zima, and George let him in.

“I got it!” said George. “I got the book!”

Slater had to smile at George’s enthusiasm, but he was surprised.

“You mean you simply went up to the clerk, laid the lighter on the counter and asked if there was a book for you, and it
worked?
”

“Yes,” said George. “Well no, not quite. At first she looked at me kind of funny.”

“I should think she might have,” said Slater dryly.

“Yes,” said George, “she did. But then I told her I was picking up the book for a man who looked like Krüpl. I mean,”
he
said, “I described Krüpl, and then she gave me this.”

George held up the package. “I’ve been dying to open it.”

Slater ignored the package and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Depending on what was in the package, he had certainly gotten a break this time.

While Slater was obviously lost in thought, a thought struck Hollingsworth. He put the package on the bed and sat down heavily himself.

“You never expected me to get this package,” he blurted out, “did you, Carmichael?”

“No.” Slater still looked thoughtful. “I thought that if you stumbled into the store like an amateur, showed the lighter, and asked for a package, you would be followed by the paymaster, if he were there, or by someone else. Then,” Slater added, “I could have followed him right to your room.”

Slater was saying all this calmly,
academically,
completely unaware of the devastating effect his words were having on George.

“I would have invited him inside,” Slater continued, “for what would probably have been a very rewarding chat. You see, the lighter was only additional identification. Undoubtedly the procedure Krüpl used for getting the package was simply to ask if there were a package for a Mr. Blank. The trouble was I didn’t know the name. I don’t think you would have gotten the package if the paymaster had not just delivered it in person and, for some unexplainable reason, had been checking his own lighter. We really got a break for a change.”

“Why you cold-blooded devil!”

Hollingsworth suddenly jumped Slater and tried to get his hands on his throat. “I’ll kill you!”

Slater was taken completely by surprise. All he could think was that the young fool had gone crazy and was a hell of a lot stronger than he looked. Slater clamped his left hand on Hollingsworth’s left wrist, pushed his right hand just under the left shoulder, twisted suddenly, and unceremoniously threw Hollingsworth across the room. Hollingsworth’s back crashed into the wall and he landed, face down, on the floor. Slater rubbed his throat and looked over at Hollingsworth. George was still conscious, but his eyes did not seem to focus very well.

“What in hell’s the matter with you?” Slater said. “Have you lost your mind?”

George got his eyes to focus again, and he struggled to his feet.

“You deliberately used me as a decoy! I might have been killed! I’m no dirty spy, damn you! I’m a Foreign Service officer.”

“I see,” said Slater. “Neither was Charlie Webber a dirty spy.”

He nailed Hollingsworth with his eyes, and the eyes were hard, almost glassy. “It isn’t a very nice job being a dirty spy, is it?” said Slater.
“Hardly the sort of job for a gentleman.”

“I thought you were a gentleman,” said Hollingsworth. “At least that you would behave that way where I was concerned—show some human decency toward someone on your own side.” He looked sullen.

“Okay, George,” said Slater quietly. “You can take the night train back to Zurich. I’ll get someone else to use as a decoy.”

George walked awkwardly across the room to the bed, giving Slater as wide a berth as the size of the room would permit. He picked up the package and started to unwrap it.

“Put down the package, George.”

“But I got it. I want to see what’s in it.”

“Whatever it is,” said Slater, “no longer concerns you. Put it down!”

George dropped the package on the bed.

Slater went over to the side of the bed opposite Hollingsworth and calmly
unwrapped
the parcel. Inside it was a book. Slater riffled the pages and found a neatly folded paper. He carefully unfolded it and took it over to the window.

Could not contact you personally as was my original intention.
If Carmichael didn’t show up last night, forget him.
Have sent for specialist who will dispose of him tonight.
There will be no more payments until further notice due to presence of Carmichael in area. All employees have been notified to stay away.
Will be paid elsewhere.
I will contact you personally very soon.       S.

Slater read the message over several times. S must be Schlessinger, and Schlessinger was undoubtedly Hormsby. Slater tried to think what all this meant in terms of his immediate problem.

If Carmichael was still a threat to their operation, Dinar must still be a free man. If this message was to Krüpl, the Communists still did not know he was dead. If Hormsby did not suspect the relationship between Carmichael and Slater, Slater was still in the clear, and one other suddenly very important point, Ilse Wieland must really be a German agent. Slater looked thoughtful, for a moment almost wistful. Now, more than ever, he had to come out of this mess alive. He hoped he had not become so much of a “dirty spy” that he could no longer enter a life on the outside.

Slater turned to look at Hollingsworth, and then looked at the note again. Hollingsworth was busily getting dressed in his street clothes, obviously in a hurry to get out of that room, out of Kitzbühel, and as far away from this business as possible. Slater didn’t really blame him. He wished that his own reaction had been the same ten years ago, and he had run away from this crazy, stone-rolling, useless life; but at least, when he had made a commitment, he had always managed to find the guts somewhere to finish the job. Maybe it was his sense of the dramatic, or perhaps it was an inner loneliness, but the sudden desire to have someone know what he was walking into overpowered his better judgment.

“I’m going to read you this note, George, after all. That is,” Slater added, “if you still think you’d like to hear it.”

George nodded. He stood in the middle of the room, fully dressed, and all packed. He listened carefully while Slater read the message. When Slater finished, Hollingsworth said, “And now, I suppose, you’re going to go to this party tonight, just as though there was no paid assassin waiting to kill Carmichael.”

“I have no choice, Hollingsworth,” said Slater.

“No,” Hollingsworth’s voice was full of anger, “but I do. You get paid for taking these kinds of risks. I don’t. I thought you were tense and worried because you didn’t like the job of deceit and murder, but I don’t think so any more. I think you thrive on it, so go ahead. Kill or be killed. You won’t get sympathy from me.”

“I don’t need your sympathy, Hollingsworth.” Slater was furious. He had to clamp his hands on the back of a chair to keep from laying them on Hollingsworth. He was furious with himself. He had asked this Foreign Service fop for sympathy.

He let go of the chair and moved to the door. He turned to face Hollingsworth.

“If you’re not out of Kitzbühel tomorrow—”

“Don’t worry,” Hollingsworth cut in. “I want to keep my amateur status. I don’t want to turn into something like you.”

Slater slammed the door. He looked at his knuckles. They were still white. It was too late to get anyone else. Ilse was disgusted with him. Hollingsworth had run out. He would just have to finish this job alone. He squared his shoulders and stepped out into the snow.

THE WARM MARCH WIND held the promise of spring. It
scudded
the late-afternoon clouds across the sky, caressed the snow with its warmth, created moisture in the snow and kept it from drifting. The wind billowed out Slater’s ski pants as he walked before it and pressed flat the loose clothing of those who moved against it. And the wind was impulsive; taking sudden turns, funneling full force around buildings and, unexpectedly, up side streets until it dissipated itself in alley-ways and small courtyards.

Slater pushed down the hood of his parka and leaned his back against the warm wind, content for the moment to let the elements carry him along. Where did not seem very important at the moment. He needed time to think. He also needed food and some sleep. Tonight would be long, he was certain. The Communists had cleared all their agents not directly involved with Colonel Imré Dinar from the area. They had kept Ilse Wieland alive only so that she could lead them to the Colonel. They had brought in an assassin to murder Carmichael, and it was just a question of time before they would discover that Carmichael was Slater. The stage was set, and Slater wondered what, should his assassin
be
successful, he had accomplished so far which could be considered useful.

He had been sent to find Webber and bring him back. He had failed on both counts, but he had killed Webber’s murderers, and at the same time eliminated three Communist agents. He tried not to think of Heinz Mahler. To Slater, Heinz’s death was his greatest personal failure. It had been so unnecessary. If only this business had not made him so suspicious, he would have covered Mahler immediately and given him protection, at least until reinforcements arrived.

And what about his second assignment to determine Wyman’s place in this setup?
That he had done to his own satisfaction, but to prevent Wyman from carrying out his job was the problem that faced him now. He had the feeling he would be either a success or a failure, alive or dead, within the next twenty-four hours.

Slater passed through the lobby of the Winterhof, nodded to the desk clerk and climbed the stairs to his room. Once inside, he called room service to send him up a meal. He got out his writing equipment and sat down at the table to write.

As he laid page after page of still apparently blank paper beside his left hand, he smiled and shook his head slowly. Writing this letter was a little like writing a last will and testament. Slater reflected sadly that, after all, it was all he had to give, and he wanted to be as thorough as possible. He described the networks as he believed they operated—or had operated. Because of his own actions, much of this was history, but it all would go into the Intelligence archives as valuable folklore on the technique of clandestine communications. The menu system was clever. The Communists might reactivate it here and, if not here, then elsewhere.