17 
Vienna Storm Clouds
Since his return to Vienna six days ago, the life of Ramsay Halifax had been as unpleasant as any week in his life.
His mother treated him with lofty silence and mostly avoided him. Mr. Barclay continued sarcastic and peevish, losing no opportunity to dish out deriding remarks, just as he had the moment Ramsay set foot back in the house after his unsuccessful sojourn into Italy.
“How could you let her get away!” Barclay exploded before Ramsay had spoken a word.
“Look, Barclay,” Ramsay shot back, “I’ve been nearly to France looking for her. I’m tired and hungry. Can’t you give me a chance to sit down before starting in on me?”
“I have bigger concerns than your comfort,” rejoined Barclay cynically.
“Why didn’t you go yourself if you think I’m such an incompetent?”
“I should have! Then she’d be back in our grasp by now.”
“Don’t be so sure of yourself, Barclay!” rejoined Ramsay testily. In truth, he was angry with himself too. He had been so close several times. He still couldn’t believe she had slipped through his fingers. It only heightened his fury toward Amanda. If he ever did get his hands on her, she would regret what she had done.
“What about Carneades?”
“He’s less than useless,” replied Ramsay. “I have the feeling Amanda walked out of the Trieste station right under his nose.—Where’s Adriane?” he asked, turning toward his mother.
“She’s gone—on her way back to Paris.”
An oath exploded from Ramsay’s mouth. He turned, left the room irritably, and went upstairs.
Hartwell Barclay wasted no time in returning to the subject of Amanda at the earliest possible opportunity, which turned out to be that same evening at dinner.
“Look, Ramsay,” he said, “you and I may occasionally have our differences. But we mustn’t lose sight of the fact that on the loose as she is, that English wife of yours poses a grave threat to our success. We have to get our hands on her.”
By now both Barclay and Ramsay had cooled sufficiently to discuss the situation practically. Ramsay had had a nap and a bath and was, if not exactly in better spirits, at least feeling more comfortable and glad to be back in Vienna.
“I cannot imagine she is dangerous to anyone,” he replied, taking a sip of a decent German red wine. “You’re exaggerating the problem.”
“She was here too long,” Barclay went on. “I have an uneasy feeling she may know more than you think.”
“She knows nothing. She was a feeble-witted simpleton.”
“We can’t take any chances. I suspect she may have stolen some documents relating to our operation.”
“What do you suggest, then?”
“We must continue the search.”
“I tell you, she vanished in Italy without a trace,” said Ramsay. “She is probably back in England by now.”
“Nevertheless, we must cover every possibility. We have people in our network throughout the region. Italy will soon be joining the war effort. I want to go over your movements in detail and set a probe in motion. If she purchased a ticket anywhere, or crossed one of the borders, there will be records. Something will lead us to her.”
“If I couldn’t find her,” said Ramsay, “—and I know Amanda—no one else is going to pick up her steps after all this time. Certainly not Carneades. Especially if she managed to get into France.”
“We have people in France as well,” replied Barclay. “We will check the border records. I am hopeful she may still be in Italy. A young single woman traveling alone leaves footprints. I will contact our man Matteos.”
“I hope he is not the fool Carneades turned out to be.”
“He will not disappoint us. We will find her.”