Snare of the Hunter by Helen MacInnes Read Free Book Online Page B

relegated to silence—at least they had been brushed aside in the Reuter’s account: in the months before the trials began Western correspondents heard less than usual from the underground opposition movement .
    David folded up the paper, placed it beside McCulloch. He closed his eyes, searched for the key to the riddle. The underground was not dead, or else Irina would not now be safe in Vienna. But it was obviously cautious, avoiding any open publicity. And the American intelligence agencies, the British too, were keeping well away from the Czech opposition movement. Was that the key? No link-up of any kind between Western governments and the Czech underground? No chance of handing the hard-line Communists an excuse for show trials, and for a takeover of power to ensure full discipline? Certainly, bigger and better trials needed sensational evidence, something to keep the world startled and silence its objections. “Sure,” people must be persuaded to say, “sure they’re guilty, look how the CIA is behind it all: damn shame the way they stir up trouble and leave these poor fools to pay the bill.” All they’d see would be the results of the agony: arrests, wholesale purges, sentences that brought a life-time’s hard labour if not execution. They’d never know the real cause of it: that would be buried under a massive mudslide of propaganda. Which, of course, was exactly what the hard-line Communists wanted. It made their power-plays that much easier.
    Well, this time, he thought grimly, we’re not obliging the propaganda planners. We’re a purely civilian outfit. He looked at McCulloch, who was glancing at the aisle, almost said aloud, “I take it all back. I’m clued in. Washington is best kept out of all this.” But he restrained himself. You may be an amateur, he told himself, but at least you can try to seem professional. And just then he felt McCulloch’s elbow dig quickly into his side.
    A man, thickset, healthy colour in his cheeks, was passing down the aisle. David noted a shock of grey hair, a heavy moustache, strong eyebrows, and a lightweight tweed jacket, neutral in colour. So this was Walter Krieger. He carried a pipe in his hand and a book under his arm. He looked neither right nor left.
    Five minutes to wait. At the end of them David said, “Think I’ll stretch my legs,” and made his way over McCulloch’s feet. Jo was coming back to her seat. He stepped aside to let her pass, acknowledged her “thank you” and was on his way.
    In the lounge, definitely close quarters, there were five men and three women and a general eyeing of every newcomer. David took a seat, smiled around, and ordered a Scotch. “No,” Walter Krieger was replying to a man who had sat down beside him, “I don’t live in New York any more. Just visit it.”
    “I’m from the Midwest myself. Plastics. Better than glass and china. There’s a big market for them in Europe. New. That’s what they like: something new. We can’t keep up with the orders.”
    “That’s fine,” said Krieger. He had a deep rich voice, full of resonance. If he ever turned it on full power, David thought, he could blow out the side of the plane. A physically strong man who might be pushing fifty, but could possibly outfight the rest of us in this room. Not tall. Less than medium height, but well muscled and taut. He had a magnificent head—perhaps it looked imposing because he was short in stature. Beg pardon, David told Krieger silently, you aren’t short, just five feet six, with a chest development that puts the plastics guy to shame. Most of Plastics’ girth had settled around his waist. A nice guy, though: baby-faced and openhearted.
    “Yes,” he was saying, “there’s a great future in synthetics. The world’s before us. All we need is peace. Right? But it’s coming, it’s coming.”
    “That’s good,” Krieger said.
    “I’m on my way to Vienna. Then to Czechoslovakia, if all the arrangements hold up. You never can