Read The Last Two Weeks of Georges Rivac for Free Online Page A

at herself although the run-up to action was familiar to her. In competition on horseback or with foil in hand she was never nervous. She sized up the opposition; she did her best; and then all that mattered was the excitement of the contest, lost or won. Luck seemed to be attracted by such indifference.
    In this new sport, too, luck did not fail her. Head Office had no objection to her leaving Vienna for a holiday in the mountains. She could take a fortnight if she liked. She had intended to specify Innsbruck, but before she could do so her boss suggested Switzerland and the inspection of a promising hotel with which they had had some correspondence. That partially solved the only problem which was bothering her. Her passport, if ever examined by hostile eyes, would have shown a visit to Belgium when she should have been enjoying herself in Austria. If, however, she were combining holiday with work in Switzerland she could reasonably claim to have travelled up the Rhine and on to the Belgian Ardennes for fun.
    She reached Brussels by train from Basle, arriving the night before Kren was due. Next morning at the airport it was easy to remain inconspicuous, mixing in a drift of package tour travellers off to the Mediterranean and purchasing from the airport shop a straw sun hat which she pulled well down over her forehead. Not many passengers came through into the concourse from Kren’s flight and he was not among them. At last she spotted him at the Sabena desk. Evidently he had managed to slip out by the wrong gate and was now buying a ticket for the London flight.
    But other eyes were more practised than hers. As he was hurrying towards the departure lounge with his briefcase, he was accosted by a uniformed chauffeur and a companion. He greeted them with a convincing show of surprise and pleasure as if he had not a care in the world and was looking forward to a successful business trip. His position was now deadly. He would have to explain the ticket to London in his pocket.
    Zia for once was shaken. She had her first experience of the immense and ruthless power which was removing Karel Kren from ordinary life without any fuss and bother. He should, she thought, have bolted for the departure lounge, but then activities only suspected would be proved. Presumably he intended to bluff until his opponents disclosed their hand.
    She bought a drink and sat at a table wondering what she ought to do. The alcohol gave no answer except that she should not sit there like a dummy. Whether or not there was anything more to see or hear she should be on the spot like a newspaper reporter. She jumped up and took a taxi to the Czech Embassy.
    After changing hats and making such simple alterations to her appearance as she could, she stopped the taxi short of the Embassy and walked past it to a café in the same street where she had a distant view of the front door. From her table she could watch—possibly nothing, possibly Kren being driven away to his hotel after a quick interview in which his explanations had been accepted, possibly his arrival at the Embassy if he had interrupted the journey in the excuse of doing some shopping in order to find out how closely he was guarded.
    Something of the kind must have indeed have happened, for she was not too late to see a black car drive up. The chauffeur opened the rear door. Karel Kren got out. The other man followed carrying the briefcase and as he lowered his head in the doorway Kren delivered a smashing uppercut. He either dodged or used his knee on the chauffeur—she could not see which—and was away with his case in his hand. He walked fast without running. The car slowly followed, the man in the back seat holding a handkerchief to his face. Fugitive and pursuers were careful to avoid any public curiosity. Nobody in the distant café seemed to have observed the incident, and at the moment of the attack nobody was on the pavement in front of the Embassy. Kren must have