The Salzburg Connection, Page 3

  August Grell re-entered his bedroom, closed the shutters before he turned on the light near his desk, unlocked its top, and rolled it up. Now he reached in to pull out the pigeonholes; they came away in one piece, a screen to block the gap that lay behind. Carefully, he placed this unit against the wall, keeping the pigeonholes upright so that they held their pieces of writing paper and envelopes and bills intact. The desk was old-fashioned and deep; the disclosed gap easily held his communication equipment. It was a strange mixture: the latest in short-wave radio transmitters with tape attached for high-speed receiving and sending (Russian model); a schedule for transmission—kilocycles changed according to the month as well as to the day of the week (an adaptation of the Russian methods that had worked very well in America); the usual one-time cipher pads, with their lists of the false numbers that had been inserted into the code for the sake of security, each small tissue-thin page easily destroyed after it had guided the decoding; a small decoding machine (American), seemingly accurate but which he often double-checked with his own methods; a two-way radio, the size of his palm, with which he could make contact with Anton (British invention, Japanese manufacture), but which he rarely used—open communications without being coded would be extremely dangerous if the Austrians really started having suspicions about this district; and the old but infallible field telephone (German), which always gave him pleasure to use. It was a good piece of workmanship, and would last another twenty years if necessary.

  He lifted it gently out of its hiding place, and rang Anton, less than two kilometres away. They talked in quick German, accurate and literate, dropping the slow dialect of the South Tyrol from which they were supposed to have come.

  Anton sounded brisk enough even if he hadn’t had much sleep; the cold was penetrating, but he wasn’t grumbling. He was too excited by August’s call—a sign that something might be brewing. “Then that alert last week really meant business?”

  “I’ll know soon,” August told him guardedly. “What’s the outlook up there?”

  “Nothing ten minutes ago.”

  “Look again.”

  There was a long pause. “The light is poor as yet, but I can see nothing moving either at the lake, or on the slopes, or at the picnic ground. Nothing.”

  “Keep watching.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the weather?”

  “The lake is clear so far, but some streaks of mist are beginning to drop down on this side. Might be bad.”

  “Even so, keep watching.” Bad weather could come quickly in these mountains, but it could clear just as unexpectedly. “And don’t call me for any reason after five-thirty.”

  “Not if I see—?”

  “It will have to wait. I’ll call you the first moment I can. Got that?” The message from control came first. And it could be delayed; that had happened before. He would be given a standby signal, and stand by was what he had to do.

  “Understood,” Anton said, not debating the point.

  Anton was a good lad, August Grell thought as he replaced the telephone, then the disguising front of pigeonholes, before he rolled down the lid of the desk and locked it. He was a cautious man; extra trouble was no bother at all if it ensured success, and it usually did. He shaved and washed in ice-cold water from the ewer in his room, dressed in heavy clothing, locked his old grey coat safely in the wardrobe—the marks on its shoulders and collar, where he had cut off his insignia, barely showed after all these years; and although it was now faded and tight, it was a comforting reminder of the best years of his life. SS Oberstandartenführer, equal and more to a lieutenant colonel in the army. Not bad for a man thirty-two years old. Only three years older than Anton was now. And what was Anton? A corporal in the East German army. Well, that was hardly fair, even if it was comic. Anton had “defected” to West Germany, picked up a new identity in Stuttgart which got him into Switzerland, received a new set of papers in Lucerne which took him to Milan, set off from there for the Dolomites, and then, with all the documents needed to establish him as the “son” of August Grell, he had made the usual surreptitious trip from the old South Tyrol over the mountains into Austria as a “refugee” from Italian domination. The politics and power struggles of Europe had been a great help to Anton and the young men like him in disguising the purpose of their various journeys. They were all good lads, if the stories Grell heard were true, and he had heard plenty of quiet stories. He wasn’t completely isolated up in Unterwald. In the summer, along with the usual mixture of climbers and hikers, he had his special visitors. When skiing started in late December, he had more. This grapevine was important: not just reports and rumours, but something to keep hope alive and morale high.

  What was Anton’s real name? Grell had often wondered, just as Anton must have wondered about his name. It made no matter. The important thing was that they got on better than Grell had expected when Anton had arrived here five years ago to replace Grell’s “brother”. He missed Anton’s help in getting a good hot breakfast ready on the kitchen table. (In between seasons, there were few visitors; the two men managed by themselves, with a local woman—who was reliable in the sense that she was too stupid about politics and too much in need of extra money—to cook a solid dinner and scrub the floors.) He had to settle for a slab of cheese on a hunk of bread and some heated-up coffee, which he carried through to his cold bedroom. He locked its stout door, got both his radio transmitter and his schedule for transmission out of their hiding place along with his decoding equipment, had time to put another call through to Anton (mist thickening steadily all along this south side of the lake; visibility probably zero in five minutes; nothing seen on the mountainside opposite), switched on a small electric heater near his legs, drank the coffee as he checked the schedule for the exact wave length according to the day (this was Monday) and month (October).

  The first signal came through exactly on time. The message was brief. He knew before he decoded it that either the alert was over or there was more to come. And that was what the message told him: Stand by for second weather report. Utmost importance. “Second weather report” meant another hour of waiting. I here must have been additional information to add to the message, and it was being evaluated or checked. He destroyed the top flimsy of the cipher pad, so small it was less in size than a book of matches. The next little page was ready for the next transmission, when a new series of false numerals, scattered through the body of the message, would have to be eliminated before he could start transcribing the columns of digits into letters and words.

  Utmost importance. Then something was stirring. He called Anton, and got no answer. He called again in five minutes. No answer. Worry now smothering his anger, he waited five more minutes. This time, Anton answered. Grell was so relieved that he forgot to lash out with a few well-chosen curses.

  Anton was cheerful if somewhat breathless. “I took a quick scramble down to the lake.”

  “You’re a damned fool—”

  “But I’m blind up here. The mist is draped over me like a white curtain.”

  “How is the lake?”

  “Clear of mist so far, but the light is still poor.”

  “So you had a perfect view of nothing.” Grell’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.

  “I took binoculars with me. There was nothing.” (Richard Bryant, at that moment checking over his gear, would have been delighted.)

  “Don’t leave your post again! I had to call you three times. And don’t contact me around six-thirty. I want no interruption then.”

  “There has been a delay?”

  “Yes.”

  “That might mean something.” Anton was excited.

  And I hope it doesn’t, thought Grell. He would prefer no trouble around Finstersee. He didn’t want Austrian Security to be attracted to his domain. If there was trouble, it would have to be handled with caution and skill and maximum concealment. “It might,” he agreed with little enthusiasm. “Stay at your post!”

  “Y
es, sir.”

  There were no more delays on the six-thirty transmission from control. The message was lengthy and explicit. Control seemed to be giving Grell as much information as possible, as if they did not want him acting blindly should an emergency develop. Yet they were as careful and cautious as his strong sense of security could wish. They had even used code names for places and days of the week, so that he had two jobs to do: first, decode the message; second, further decode the names in the text. Then, with all the information fixed in his mind, he burned the evidence, replaced his equipment, locked the desk and bedroom door. He took the coffee cup through to the kitchen, made sure the lights were off, picked up his loden cape from where it had been drying near the stove, before he left the inn by its back entrance and stepped into the wood.

  The mist lay heavily over the tops of the trees, and the open spaces were filled with it. He cut across the trail, saw nothing but thick white cloud where the picnic ground should have been, and made his way through the trees on the southern side of the lake towards Anton’s lookout. As he plodded up through the forest at the steady pace of an expert climber, he reviewed in his mind the information he had decoded. (Some aspects of it puzzled him in spite of its clarity. He would think about them later.)

  The message he had received could be divided into seven parts.

  One: A report, mentioning Finstersee, had been intercepted last Wednesday when it was being transmitted to Warsaw by an Intelligence agent stationed in Zürich. It dealt with the documents that had been sunk in certain Austrian and Bohemian lakes. The Zürich agent stated he had excellent reason to believe that Finstersee should be added to the list of Austrian lakes.

  Two: Another report from Zürich to Warsaw had been intercepted yesterday (Sunday). It had been transmitted by the same agent, who now had reason to believe that he would have definite information on Finstersee by this coming Friday.

  Three: At 4:45 A.M. this morning, a third message from Zürich to Warsaw had been intercepted. It was a communication of high urgency. The Zürich agent was convinced that the Finstersee operation had been advanced by several days and might even now be under way. He demanded the immediate dispatch of two suitably trained operatives to Salzburg, there to await his arrival. Extreme measures might be necessary.

  Four: The Zürich agent had been seized, as of 6:00 A.M. this morning, and was now being held. Examination in progress. Further information was expected about his employer in Warsaw, the importance—if any—of Salzburg itself, and the threat to Finstersee.

  Five: Reinforcements were being sent at once to the Gasthof Waldesruh. Two men would arrive late this afternoon or early this evening. Others would follow, if required. Usual identifications.

  Six: In the interest of speed, any urgent news or questions from Waldesruh should be directed to Zürich. Telephone to be used only in most extreme emergency; call must be thoroughly disguised and brief. Otherwise, usual radio contact with regular code must be used.

  Seven: Definite orders to handle this situation with care. There must be no repeat of the events at Lake Toplitz. Austrian Security must in no way be alerted.

  Not by me, thought Grell, I’ll make sure of that. But why the general reference to Warsaw? The Zürich agent couldn’t be in the pay of the Poles, or why was “further information expected”, even needed? And that eliminated the Russians, too, for they knew everything Polish Intelligence planned or accomplished; the Poles had become merely another arm of the KGB. Or were the Americans being ultra-devious? Or the British, or the French? Germany, either East or West? He might as well add every nation to the list; there wasn’t one of them that wouldn’t take wild chances to discover the secret of Finstersee. We are fighting the whole damned world, he thought, not without pride, as he reached the lookout. He signalled, and Anton opened the narrow door.

  Anton was wrapped in army blankets, his sleeping bag neatly folded on the low wooden platform covered with dried fir that stood in the warmest corner of the room. Food supplies were on a high shelf. Two small kerosene stoves were producing some heat. He had fixed a lamp to give him some light, and had shaded it so that its glow wouldn’t be seen from the outside. He had books and magazines, a set of chessmen, a couple of decks of cards. Anton knew how to get along.

  Grell nodded approvingly and went over to the telescope. The mists were clearing on the peak above him—that much he had been able to notice on his way up here—but they were heavy over the lake and mountainside opposite. The telescope might be blind for another hour, even two. He changed his plans. “We’ll have to go down,” he told Anton. “It’s the only way we’ll have a chance of seeing them.”

  “Expecting visitors?” Anton was busy putting out the stoves, folding his blankets, adding his cape to his heavy grey suit. He lifted his hunting knife and rifle, held them up for confirmation. Grell nodded, drawing back his own cape to show he was equally armed.

  “Any idea of what we’ll meet?” Anton asked as he blew out the lamp and Grell opened the door.

  “None.”

  “What do we know then?”

  “That we have broken someone’s code and we have got him for questioning. Come on! There’s no time to waste.” It was now half-past eight.

  It took them only ten minutes by the direct route to come down to the picnic ground. They crossed it at a run, relying on the mist to conceal them. Swiftly they climbed through the forest, following the path to its eastern boundary where the mountain track began. Anton set off across the open slope to see if anyone was actually down by that important cluster of boulders and trees by the water’s edge. Grell waited, regained his breath, kept an eye on the forest trail they had just climbed in case any unwelcome visitors, delayed by the bad weather, were now making their way up. Not everyone had Anton’s ability to lope along a cloud-streaked mountain track. He had the confidence and the instincts of a chamois; and he knew every metre of ground.

  Grell edged into the cover of a thickly branched tree. Everything seemed peaceful. Yet, the agent who had been caught in Zürich had sent that message to Warsaw: the Finstersee operation might even now be under way. If so, thought Grell, they’ll be using two men. Three would increase the difficulty of concealment, although it had taken three to lower the chest into the lake—himself and a couple of lieutenants, while a squad of five had guarded the picnic ground. He never stood here without remembering that night. And its almost failure.

  They had lowered the chest, expecting it to sink to the depth of fifty metres at that part of the shoreline. (Finstersee was estimated to be a hundred and twelve metres, just about the same as Toplitz, at its central depths.) Barely four metres down, the chest had come to rest on something solid. And could not be eased off. It was firm on some underwater ledge. And just at that moment, as they prepared to haul the chest up and try some place else, a light had been flashed across the lake from the picnic ground, warning them to move out. He had one of the lieutenants cut the chest free, well below water line so that no strands would be seen floating under the surface, and they had left with two large coils of unused rope and a pneumonia case. The other lieutenant had died, too, but much later; he was suspected of trying to buy his way out of Vienna with his story of that night. For twenty-one years it seemed as if the traitor had been eliminated before he had a chance to talk or be believed. But now? It began to look as if the execution had been too late. Someone must have listened, someone must have believed. And waited.

  Anton was coming back. Grell stepped out of cover to show himself, looked down as his foot brushed something in the underbrush. He pulled aside a low branch and picked up a green loden jacket. It had a Salzburg label, but no name.

  “Nothing at all,” Anton reported, keeping his voice low. “I searched among the boulders and trees. No sign that anyone has been there.”

  “Someone has been here.” Grell held out the jacket, folded it again, and replaced it. “He must be somewhere out on that mountain.”

  “Only one man?”

 
Grell could agree with Anton’s disbelief. But nothing made sense at this moment. Any man who was foolish enough to scout around a hillside in a soaking mist without his jacket was hardly the kind of agent that Warsaw would hire. (And why Warsaw? Why hadn’t the message gone to Moscow direct? Nothing made sense.) Irritably, he stared at the track leading eastward along the mountain now beginning to clear of mist. “He must be somewhere out there,” he insisted in a hushed but angry voice.

  “Yes,” agreed Anton very softly. He had his sharp blue eyes on the trees above them, some distance to the west. “But he is coming from the wrong direction. I think I know him. Yes. He’s that Englishman who is married to Johann Kronsteiner’s sister. He’s a photographer in Salzburg.”