LITMIR.BIZ

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      Copyright

      Dedication

      I: Pre-War 1939

      Prologue

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

II: War 1939–45

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       III: Postwar 1945–46

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       IV: Cold War 1955–56

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter Seventeen

       Epilogue

       Keep Reading …

       About the Author

       By the Same Author

       About the Publisher

       Prologue

      George Farrar had his first inkling that something was wrong when he collected his room key from reception.

      The manager himself was behind the desk. He was a plump Viennese, almost as small as Farrar himself, and he always wore a flower in the lapel of his black coat. He was also a compulsive talker.

      Tonight, however, he produced the key as soon as Farrar reached the desk and slapped it down on the counter between them. Immediately afterwards he bent his head over the register, as if the pressure of work prevented him from exchanging pleasantries with his guests.

      ‘Any messages?’ Farrar said. He was hoping that William McQueen might have telephoned.

      The manager didn’t raise his head. ‘No, Herr Farrar.’

      Farrar noticed that the white carnation was beginning to wilt. He also noticed that the manager’s face was shiny with sweat. Still, it was uncomfortably warm in the foyer.

      He said goodnight and took the lift up to his floor. A tall man wearing a camelhair overcoat came up with him. He was smoking a cigar and had small, sad eyes.

      They both wanted the same floor. The tall man gave a polite little bow when they reached it, indicating that Farrar should leave the lift first. Farrar smiled his thanks.

      The long corridor was empty. Farrar walked quickly to his door; behind him he could hear the soft, slow pad of the other man’s footsteps. He unlocked the door and opened it; his hand brushed against the light switch.

      Everything happened very suddenly. A hand slammed into the small of his back, propelling him into the room. Simultaneously, he saw that the carpet was strewn with his belongings. Another man was lying on the bed, with his hands behind his head. He was smiling. When Farrar tripped over his own upturned suitcase, the smile became a chuckle.

      Behind him, Farrar heard a click as the tall man locked the door.

      The man on the bed stopped chuckling. Farrar’s stomach lurched as he recognized the Bavarian he had met last night.

      The Bavarian raised his heavy black eyebrows. ‘And how is our lovely Gretl this evening?’

      Farrar groped for his glasses, which had slid to the foot of the bed. Camelhair brushed his cheek. A large brown shoe stamped on the glasses and twisted them into the carpet.

      The tall man sucked in his breath. ‘Ach,’ he said. ‘I am so clumsy.’

      ‘What a pity,’ said the man on the bed. ‘Still, accidents happen.’

      Farrar got slowly to his feet; his muscles tightened, ready to receive a blow from the tall man. He moved more slowly than he needed, pretending the fall had winded him. His own stupidity angered him: last night he had assumed that the man on the bed was nothing more than a tourist who had had too much to drink; he should have known better. He remembered the manager’s behaviour and realized that his visitors must be police of some sort: German, not Austrian. He was a fool to have run any unnecessary

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