Legacy of a Spy (21 page)

“Obviously, Mr. Slater is a fast worker,” said Wyman dryly.

“What does that—fast worker—mean?”

Ilse frowned. She knew what it meant. She looked up at Wyman again for a moment. His remark surprised her. It indicated that he was more intuitive than she had expected. She had better watch herself carefully from now on. Herr Wyman must be more dangerous than she had thought.

“Forget it,” said Wyman, picking up her skis and poles, which were leaning against the railing. “That must be our car. Let’s move up so we can be among the first inside. I’d like to be by the window to watch the view.”

Wyman led the way and Ilse followed him. She was as anxious as he to get to the top.

They were not the first, but Wyman’s broad shoulders managed to secure a spot by the front window. Ilse found herself wedged in between Wyman and a short chunky man whose body was as unyielding as a slab of marble. She was annoyed and turned to ask him to please move over, but his attention was elsewhere. She started to grab his sleeve to get him to notice her when something about the man’s appearance made her hesitate. He looked vaguely familiar. Ilse tried to remember where she had seen him before. He was dressed in street clothes and was wearing a felt hat. His face, what she could see of it from the side, was heavy—the face of a peasant. Ilse shook her head. What did he look like without a hat? He was probably bald. She shrugged, started to turn back to Wyman, and then she became conscious of the smell of bay rum. It was a scent all its own that she could never forget. She turned her head again; but this time it was not necessary. She knew who he was. He had been pointed out to her at a party at the Russian Embassy in Vienna and had later danced with her. She had been told that his name was Gregor Slazov, and he was an assassin for the Communists—a paid killer who had murdered more than one member of German Intelligence. He was also used as a hatchet man within Russia.

Ilse shivered and tried to make
herself
as small as possible. At first she thought he might be here to dispose of her, but she did not flatter herself that she would be that difficult to eliminate. Then she thought of Dinar, but rejected that idea because of her conviction that the Communists wanted to take him alive. Suddenly she knew. It was Slater he was after, and Slater would not come near her so she could warn him. He didn’t trust her. Ilse closed her eyes and bit down on her lower lip to keep herself from crying out.

As Ilse and Wyman stepped out of the car and out of the building which housed it, they were met by a pony-driven sleigh and whisked away, up along the ridge to the hotel. It was a wonderful way to be taken to a party, to be carried to the accompaniment of sleigh bells along the ridge of night with a small crisp moon just beginning to silver the snow on the mountains all around.

The hotel looked like a great ship in the middle of an open sea. The moon was not sufficiently high in the sky to pale the brilliance of the hundreds of lights in all the windows. Ilse allowed Wyman to help her out of the sleigh, and the driver stacked her skis and poles into the snow by the wide wooden veranda which served as a balcony from which the guests could observe the valley far below between them and the range of peaks beyond. Ilse had never been up there at night before, and the view was breath-taking. The porch was deserted as it was quite cold, and Wyman hurried Ilse inside.

An orchestra was playing American music, which was now so popular in Europe; and the main floor was jammed with couples. Ilse reflected that most of them had more enthusiasm than rhythm. About half of the people dancing were wearing ski boots. Judging by all the skis stacked outside, a good many of them planned to ski down to Kirchberg when the party broke up at dawn. Maybe, she thought, some will even try to ski by moonlight. She decided to keep her boots on. They were somewhat awkward to dance in until you got used to them, but she didn’t believe she would be doing much dancing.

Ilse checked her parka separately from Wyman’s, which, she noted, seemed to annoy him, and turned to inspect as many of the older men as she could see.

“Let’s dance,” said Wyman, starting to take Ilse in his arms.

“Oh, please,” she said, “not yet. Let’s look around first and see everything the Baron has provided us.”

Ilse took Wyman’s hand and walked along the wall the length of the main dining room. She could not see Slater anywhere. She led Wyman, protesting every inch of the way, into the other public rooms. A bar had been set up in the smallest room at the far end of the building. Judging by the crowds, it should have been set up in the biggest room. It was there that she spotted Dinar. There could be no question. He looked exactly like his picture: thick gray hair, stocky, ruddy complexion, bushy mustache and eyebrows—a powerful-looking man whose years as a soldier had etched fine lines around his eyes and deep lines in his cheeks. He looked, at the same time, older than fifty and yet more fit than the average man of that age.

Ilse liked his face. She would have liked to have the opportunity to paint him some time. She turned and looked up at Wyman. It was too bad that this healthy, rugged-looking young man was a Communist. She could have used such a man.

“Will you get me a drink, Herr Wyman?”

“Why can’t you call me Ronnie, Ilse?” He shook his head. “Mister is pretty formal, don’t you think?”

“All right, Ronnie,” Ilse laughed. “Now, may I have a drink?”

“You certainly can. Wait
here,
and I’ll bring it to you.”

Wyman shouldered his way into the crowd around the bar, leaving Ilse alone in the middle of the room, but directly in the Colonel’s line of sight.

It was fortunate for her, since she was not a man, as her predecessor on this
assignment, that
the Baron had asked his guests to wear ski clothes, because her next move would have been too conspicuous otherwise. She hoped Dinar would notice and interpret it correctly. She started to take a step forward but stumbled. She looked down at her feet in surprise and immediately bent over to tie her boot lace. It took a second or two as she had to undo it first and then retie it. She straightened up, looked around the room as if embarrassed at her clumsiness, and her eyes rested for a brief second on Dinar, just long enough to see him pick up an ivory-stemmed cigarette holder from the table and start to fit a cigarette into it. Ilse held her breath and looked anxiously for Wyman. She was too excited. Dinar had seen her, and now she was afraid to look back.

Wyman arrived with the drinks.

“Sorry I forgot to ask what you wanted,” he said. “I brought you a Scotch and soda. I hope that’s all right.”

Ilse nodded and took the glass. She glanced quickly at Dinar. The holder, with the cigarette now in it, was in his mouth, but it was still unlighted. He had returned her signal.

She turned to Wyman. “Yes,” she said, “that was just fine. I love Scotch and soda.” She did not need to look at Dinar again. She knew by now that the cigarette would be lighted.

Now, she thought, we know each other. What shall I do next? How am I to get him out of here? If he is seen with me, they will kill us both. She was frantic.

“There’s your friend, Slater,” said Wyman. “I suppose he’s going to ask you for a dance, and,” he added bitterly, “I don’t imagine you’ll refuse him.”

Ilse looked expectantly toward Slater as he approached them from the next room. He walked past them with nothing more than a curt nod and headed into the crowd around the bar. She turned back to Wyman, trying not to betray her exasperation.

“You see, Ronnie,” she shrugged. “He does not even know that I breathe.”

Ilse looked over Wyman’s shoulder and saw Slazov moving casually toward them.

He is going into that crowd after Slater! I know it, she thought. He will kill Slater there. Well, let him! Slater is only an American. It is my duty to get the Colonel out of here. If I interfere now, it will only endanger my mission.

Before Ilse realized what she was doing, she found herself in front of Slazov, blocking his way.

“Oh, Herr Slazov!” she gushed. “What a wonderful surprise. I haven’t seen you since that Embassy party in Vienna.” Ilse took his arm. “I remember what a wonderful dancer you are. You must dance with me immediately. Come!”

Ilse turned Slazov around and led him to the main dining room.

Her action caused quite a stir in the bar. There was more than one man who had already noticed the copperhaired woman and envied her handsome American escort. Now, as Wyman stood, confused and angry, in the middle of the room, they wondered why such a lovely woman would prefer the company of an ugly, bald Russian. Slater had not apparently noticed a thing. He had been too busy edging his way into the bar.

“It is not very gracious of me to say
so,
” said Slazov in German, “but I cannot remember where we met.”

“We met at a party at the Russian Embassy in Vienna, two years ago.”

Ilse smiled. She tried to look at him without looking down. Slazov was not much shorter than Ilse, but he had almost no neck, and his eyes were lower than hers.

“I don’t blame you for not remembering me, Herr Slazov. You danced with so many women that night.”

It was the truth. Slazov was an excellent dancer, in spite of his thick body, and he had danced almost every dance.

“So!” said Slazov, visibly flattered. “I always like to be remembered by a beautiful woman.”

She is a lovely creature, he thought. Is too bad I am not here for pleasure.

He frowned. He had already waited too long to get rid of the American.

The music stopped, and Ilse did her best to keep the conversation going, but this dance with Slazov had had an effect contrary to what she had wanted. Slazov left her abruptly, determined to finish off the American in a hurry and come back to Ilse a free man.

Ilse stood there on the edge of the dance floor, where Slazov had left her, and stared after him. She watched him turn suddenly and start out toward the main exit. She looked ahead of him and saw Slater open the door and disappear
outside,
apparently completely unaware that anyone was following him. Slazov followed at a leisurely pace. He reminded Ilse of a small steamroller—the pace was slow but inexorable. Ilse closed her eyes. Was there nothing she could do to stop Slazov? Turning, she went as fast as she dared to the coat room. She got her parka and went outside onto the veranda. She looked around for some sign of Slazov or Slater. There was nothing out there but wind. The moon was considerably higher and brighter, and the stars had lost some of their brilliance. The place was as deserted as the moon above her. Ilse shivered and slipped cautiously down the veranda stairs.

THE SNOW was granular, and the tiny crystals of ice reflected the light from the moon. It looked as if someone had scattered a thousand diamonds over the white expanse.

Ilse started carefully down toward the cable station. The snow and the thinner atmosphere at six thousand feet deadened the night sounds. She could barely hear the crunching of her own footsteps. Ilse thought she could make out two dark figures moving along the ridge below. They seemed very far away. If they were Slazov and Slater, she would never catch up in time to be of any use. She turned back to get her skis. The sight of the small hotel immediately above her, nestled just below the summit, its bright lights paled by the moon’s reflection, created momentarily an eerie sensation within her. She was less than fifty yards away from the music, noise and laughter of over a hundred people, yet the building was apparently as silent as a tomb.

Ilse moved quickly now, convinced that she would be too late, no longer caring about her mission or her country. She had to try to save Slater.

After putting on her skis, she pulled a Belgian .32 from her parka and skied without poles to the ridge and started down. She did not want poles to interfere with her aim. She bent her knees until she was in a very low crouch. That way her silhouette was lower, and she could build up more speed.

She found herself unaccountably angry, not at Slazov—she despised him—but at Slater. As her skis began to pick up speed, all she could think of was that Slater was nothing but a stubborn, high-strung fool who had rejected her offer of love. She would show him who was a Communist! No man was ever going to spurn her affections and get away with it! He would owe his life to her, and then she would make him pay. The cold night wind stung her eyes and made them water. She blinked them so she could see.

The two figures ahead were almost life-size now, and the farthest was still at least fifty yards from the cable house. It was Slater, all right, and he was standing up as straight and conspicuous as a tree in a desert. Slazov was moving along steadily about sixty yards behind. His walk seemed as confident as a person out for a Sunday stroll through the park. Suddenly, the picture of what was about to happen flashed in her mind. Slazov was almost above the marker for the Streif ski run. In less than a minute he would be below the ridge, and he could fire and lean up against the mountain for protection.
In that minute Slater would be in the open space below, completely exposed.
If she were going to do anything, she would have to do it now.

She took aim with her .32, knowing she was too far away for accuracy. She squeezed the trigger three times and screamed at Slater to run for cover. Then she pointed her skis straight down the mountain and deliberately fell into the deep snow twenty-five yards below Slazov. From her position, she could not see either man, but she could hear shots coming from her left and from above her. Slater had at least had a chance to fire. Unless Slazov was pressed against the ridge, he must have been hit. Ilse knew without any doubt that Slater must be a crack shot. She unfastened her harness and began to crawl slowly up toward the spot where Slazov had been. As she climbed higher, she could hear shots coming from the direction of the cable house. When she was finally high enough to see, she lay flat in the snow, her automatic in front of her, and waited for Slazov to appear. She waited at least a minute, but nothing happened. She could see Slater’s body lying on the snow immediately in front of the cable-house door. She could not be certain whether he was still alive.
If Slazov were still above her and alive, he was taking great pains to keep out of sight.
Another minute went by, and her right hand was almost numb from the cold. Suddenly, a whole series of shots sounded thinly above her. Slazov appeared, she fired twice, and his body fell forward and sprawled head downward in the snow. Ilse remained where she was, motionless, waiting for some movement from Slazov. Then she heard somebody yelling in English at Slater and, lifting her head, saw a tall young man appear above her where Slazov had been. Ilse looked in the direction of the cable house and watched Slater get to his feet and climb, almost casually, up to the Streif trail marker. She decided he was the handsomest, most wonderful man alive. She turned and let herself slide down to her skis. She put them on and began edging her way back up to the ridge. When she got to the top, after crisscrossing twice, she was exhausted. She stood on level ground and her legs trembled.