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  Tom felt his throat dry and fancied a cup of tea, but while he was in the kitchen the doorbell rang. He answered it to find a middle-aged woman with a young child clutching a basket; “Tom?” she said, and after moment he recognised her.

  “Julie! Of all people! Do come in. I’ve just put the kettle on.”

  Julie introduced the child as her granddaughter Clare, and explained that they had been nearby collecting a kitten for her. It was getting a little restive, and that accounted for Flora’s interest in the basket; Tom thought it safe enough to try introducing the two. After some hesitation, the kitten emerged, a tabby with white bib and socks. It cowered before Flora who however licked its head in a motherly way, evidently calming it, and they seemed likely to be friendly enough. “What’s it’s name?” asked Tom.

  It was Clare who answered. “Tiger, of course.”

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  ALPINE ASSIGNMENT

  Martin cursed the storm clouds gathering ahead. Already the summit of the pass was blotted out, and the murk was spreading. At this time of year that would inevitably mean a heavy snowfall, and although the road would be cleared as soon as humanly possible afterwards, it would almost certainly be blocked tonight, at least as far down as the Kaiserkrone and probably a great deal further. He must get there before that happened, as there was nowhere else to shelter on this side. Almost unconsciously he increased speed as much as the road and the car would allow.

  The summons had come two days earlier. “Kaiserkrone, evening 18th. Vital. Confirm.” In more clement seasons they had often stayed at the inn (despite the grandiose title, he would hardly call it a hotel), but he wondered what had happened to make Weston call a meeting there so urgently at the start of winter. However, he was given to sudden impulses and cryptic commands that had to be obeyed instantly, so Martin had swallowed his annoyance and hastily cancelled his own arrangements for that day plus a couple afterwards, hoping that whatever Weston wanted would take no longer. He wondered who else might be involved, as such an out-of-the-way rendezvous suggested that someone would be coming from the opposite direction. No chance of that tonight, thought Martin, unless the contact had already arrived or at least crossed the pass.

  The sky darkened overhead and a few flakes of snow began to fall. For some reason Martin thought of “Excelsior!”, or rather the parody of the original Longfellow piece in which the idiot youth bore, ’mid snow and ice, not the banner with a strange device but a cage full of performing mice. The voice in his head with a habit of making disconcerting comments startled him now with an uncomfortable notion: was he himself one of Weston’s mice? The man was undoubtedly a control freak, and Martin by no means the only performer dancing to his often nefarious tune.

  He wondered how many others had come to be in this situation, four that he knew and probably several more. One, he believed, a senior cleric, had been saved from what threatened to become a particularly damaging scandal by Weston’s pressure on the cuckolded husband. Another, the chief accountant of a company in Weston’s portfolio, had been caught with his hand in the till, and the decision not to prosecute had aroused much speculation; evidently he had talents that were too valuable to lose, or more likely information too dangerous to be let loose.

  For Martin himself it was straightforward and perfectly respectable. Years before, Weston had saved his father from a more than usually distressing bankruptcy and thereafter played rather heavily on their gratitude, although in his case for no obviously discreditable purpose. It suddenly occurred to him that since his father’s death, the debt must have been just about paid off by his own services, and perhaps it was time to start standing up rather more for himself. He was pondering this when having to correct a slide on a sharp bend brought his mind sharply back to the task immediately in hand: staying on the road until he reached the inn.

  The snowfall continued but remained light, and the wind was blowing it off the road surface. There would obviously be serious drifting later on, but for the time being there was no real problem. Nevertheless Martin was greatly relieved when the lights of the inn came in sight. One other car was already there, not one he recognised but then Weston would probably have flown in and hired it at the airport.

  The cold hit him as he emerged from the car and he paused only to grab his overnight bag before heading for the door. Inside, the open fire was a welcome sight with a well-filled basket of logs beside it, the light of the flames glinting on the gilt of the imperial crowned figure that gave the place its name. There was no one in sight, but a few seconds after he rang the bell at the reception desk Lisl Gertner appeared. “Ah, guten Abend, Herr Barratt. It is good to see you again; I was afraid you might have difficulty getting here.”

  “Thank you, Lisl. No, I was a bit worried myself, but I’ve made it. It’s a good thing I was no later, though; the storm looks serious.”

  “Yes, I fear it will be. Have you any luggage to bring in?”

  “Not just now, thank you, all I need is here. Is that Mr. Weston’s car outside?”

  Lisl seemed surprised. “No. You were expecting him?”

  The question came as a shock. “Why yes, that’s why I’m here.”

  “That is very strange.” She went through the motions of checking her reservation list. “No, there is nothing about him for tonight or any other time.”

  “It’s possible he might be using another name. He does, sometimes – for legitimate reasons, of course.”

  “Hmm. We have only one other reservation for tonight, and I do not think there could be any mistake there.”

  “He sometimes sends a deputy ...”

  At that moment a tall, rather attractive blonde came from the stairs and approached the desk.

  “Has my luggage been brought in yet?”

  “I am sorry, Miss Vishinskaya, Karl is still busy; he had to fix a window before the storm gets here, but I will make sure he brings your case as soon as possible.”

  The blonde looked displeased, and Martin saw a chance. “Can I be any help?”

  Lisl demurred, but clearly would welcome it. “I’m afraid Karl may be some time ...”

  “Is your car locked, Miss Vish ...

  “Yes, but ...”

  Lisl had already produced the key from the desk drawer. “Thank you, Lisl. There are two cases but I need only one of them tonight; it’s on the back seat.” Martin evidently looked surprised, and the woman smiled ruefully. “I once slid backwards into a snowdrift, so now I make sure that everything essential is to hand.”

  “I see. But are you sure you wouldn’t like the other as well, in case it’s more difficult later on?”

  “It’s very kind of you, but no, thank you. I may be leaving in the morning.”

  Lisl pointed out that it was very unlikely to be possible; by mid day, perhaps, but almost certainly not earlier. The woman was clearly not troubled by that. “Mid day will be early enough, if necessary.”

  Outside, Martin found that the snow was falling more heavily and already building up against obstructions to the wind. Sometimes, for security reasons, Weston would arrive for a meeting at the last minute and without booking ahead, but if he was planning anything of the sort this time he had better be quick about it. Martin peered down towards the valley, without much hope as visibility was already dwindling, and indeed he saw nothing.

  He retrieved the case from the back seat, quite a small one, and he wondered if despite the owner’s disavowal she might like to have the other as well, then decided that she might have positive reasons for leaving it where it was and abandoned the idea, making sure to lock the car. As an afterthought he took the case from his own. A sudden gust of wind caught him off balance and he staggered a bit, then had something of a struggle against it back to the door. Lisl was standing ready to open it quickly and close it behind him, then excused herself and returned to her duties behind the scenes.

  The blonde seemed duly grateful. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you,
Mr. ...?

  “Barratt – Martin Barratt.” He couldn’t quite give it the right intonation as for Bond, James Bond, but at least it didn’t come out in a squeak as on one occasion in his adolescence when he had tried to impress.

  “Olga Vishinskaya,” the girl responded, and they shook hands. Martin apologised for his own’s being chilled and they moved to seats by the fire where he warmed them. Girl? he thought; no, probably mid-thirties. “Still much too young for you,” came the voice in his head. “Get lost,” he told it.

  “Vishinskaya,” he mused aloud. “Not by any chance related to – what was his name? – Andrei Vishinsky?”

  Olga beamed. “You remember him still?”

  “Not personally. But my grandfather used to work in the diplomatic service, back in the 1940s and’50s. I don’t suppose he was ever in a position to meet your Foreign Minister, but he heard a lot about him. As he told it, I’m afraid it mostly concerned his always saying no.”

  “Yes, he did have that reputation, I believe. He was a cousin of my grandfather – or was it great-grandfather? I get tangled up in the generations.”

  “Well, I’m certainly pleased to have met his great-niece or whatever the relationship may be. It’s more of a distinction than I’m ever likely to achieve in any other way.”

  Olga looked at him quizzically. “So you like to flatter? I must remember that. And just