Zürich for a short stop and a stretch of the legs in the cold morning air. Then a flight over mountain peaks between heavy towers of cumulus. From below, they’d seem like white eiderdown puffs. Up here, they were giant citadels, solid walls of powerful menace lining the careful path of the plane. “Bad weather ahead,” said the hostess, removing his breakfast tray, “but not for us. We’ll arrive on schedule, nine forty-five Vienna time. We’ll miss the storm.” A comforting thought from a comforting girl. She had red hair, too, beautifully in place in spite of an overnight journey. For the last time he thought of Ronnie Brearely and his blatant lie. Anyway, she couldn’t check up on its truth or untruth, not at this distance. Yes, he knew what his trouble was: he never enjoyed cutting down anyone to knee-level, particularly a woman. One thing he had learned, though, in those recent months: be on guard, don’t trust completely. There are deep bogs in them thar meadows.
* * *
After the small buses, standing-room only, had brought the new arrivals over the vast stretch of runways to the spread of airport buildings, everything was simple—some long walks down spotless corridors, with a thorough but quick search for concealed weapons at one checkpoint: memories of the terrorist raid on the Vienna offices of OPEC kept the security boys watchful. The luggage roundabout worked efficiently and, within minutes, customs examination was over and Grant was ready to leave for the outer hall in remarkably good humour, considering he’d like a shower and a change of clothes. Fortunately, he had managed a quick shave and washed the sleep out of his eyes somewhere over Salzburg.
The main hall had its quota of people come to welcome the new arrivals. He made his way among them, stopped for a moment to set down his suitcase and adjust his overnight bag, check his watch with the new time on the big clock, and look for the sign directing him to the taxi exit. At that moment, a man stepped in front of him.
“Mr. Grant?” The man was young, early thirties perhaps, neat in a light grey suit, fair hair well brushed; a pleasant face and quiet manner. “I am here to meet you. I have the car parked just to the side of the building—a short walk. Let me.” His English was good. He lifted the suitcase, glancing at its label, and was already two paces away towards the main exit.
“Just a moment.” Grant caught up with him, ready to grab back the suitcase. “Who sent you to meet me?”
“The Danube Travel Service. Sorry to hurry you, but the police have strict regulations about parking near the airport.”
This could be another example of Gene Marck’s (or Lois Westerbrook’s?) efficiency. I’ll give this man until we reach the street, then I’ll hail a cab, Grant decided. “I can carry my own case,” he said, and felt more reassured as the man released it. “How did you know who I was?”
“You were the only man who fitted the description that Danube Travel gave me.”
“Who supplied them with that?”
“A telex arrived last night, with description and instructions. You’re going to the Majestic? Nice place. You’ll be comfortable there.”
“Where did the telex come from?”
The man shrugged. “I just got an order this morning to meet the nine forty-five flight from Kennedy. My name’s Frank. I’m your driver for your stay here.” He turned as they reached the street “Just around this corner, Mr. Grant. Not too far. If you don’t mind, I’ll hurry ahead and make sure we aren’t getting into trouble with the police.” He had his car keys out, and now he was scanning the road he was about to cross.
A driver for his stay here? Grant shook his head. Lois Westerbrook had promised him first-class travel all the way, but this was really pampering him. Besides, what the devil would he do with a driver? He could manage very well with walking around Vienna, helped out by the odd taxi when he needed one. He
* * *
After the small buses, standing-room only, had brought the new arrivals over the vast stretch of runways to the spread of airport buildings, everything was simple—some long walks down spotless corridors, with a thorough but quick search for concealed weapons at one checkpoint: memories of the terrorist raid on the Vienna offices of OPEC kept the security boys watchful. The luggage roundabout worked efficiently and, within minutes, customs examination was over and Grant was ready to leave for the outer hall in remarkably good humour, considering he’d like a shower and a change of clothes. Fortunately, he had managed a quick shave and washed the sleep out of his eyes somewhere over Salzburg.
The main hall had its quota of people come to welcome the new arrivals. He made his way among them, stopped for a moment to set down his suitcase and adjust his overnight bag, check his watch with the new time on the big clock, and look for the sign directing him to the taxi exit. At that moment, a man stepped in front of him.
“Mr. Grant?” The man was young, early thirties perhaps, neat in a light grey suit, fair hair well brushed; a pleasant face and quiet manner. “I am here to meet you. I have the car parked just to the side of the building—a short walk. Let me.” His English was good. He lifted the suitcase, glancing at its label, and was already two paces away towards the main exit.
“Just a moment.” Grant caught up with him, ready to grab back the suitcase. “Who sent you to meet me?”
“The Danube Travel Service. Sorry to hurry you, but the police have strict regulations about parking near the airport.”
This could be another example of Gene Marck’s (or Lois Westerbrook’s?) efficiency. I’ll give this man until we reach the street, then I’ll hail a cab, Grant decided. “I can carry my own case,” he said, and felt more reassured as the man released it. “How did you know who I was?”
“You were the only man who fitted the description that Danube Travel gave me.”
“Who supplied them with that?”
“A telex arrived last night, with description and instructions. You’re going to the Majestic? Nice place. You’ll be comfortable there.”
“Where did the telex come from?”
The man shrugged. “I just got an order this morning to meet the nine forty-five flight from Kennedy. My name’s Frank. I’m your driver for your stay here.” He turned as they reached the street “Just around this corner, Mr. Grant. Not too far. If you don’t mind, I’ll hurry ahead and make sure we aren’t getting into trouble with the police.” He had his car keys out, and now he was scanning the road he was about to cross.
A driver for his stay here? Grant shook his head. Lois Westerbrook had promised him first-class travel all the way, but this was really pampering him. Besides, what the devil would he do with a driver? He could manage very well with walking around Vienna, helped out by the odd taxi when he needed one. He
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