The Hidden Target (12 page)

“Who is eighty?”

“Oh, well, I’ve had no experience in the field. I’m a desk man. Analysis and—”

“Stick to that.” You’ve a pretty little wife, Renwick told him silently. “Leave the action to unmarried types.”

“No guarantee that I’ll live. Look at what happened to Crefeld.”

“It happens. Listen, Johan, when you are finding out about Jake’s office—who had access, who drifted in and out—just remember one thing.”

“To trust no one?”

“Play it safe. No open ’phone calls to Rotterdam, or to me.”

“You think we have a mole in our department?”

“All the best people have that nowadays,” Renwick said bitterly. “But perhaps not a fully trained mole—just a small mouse picking up crumbs of information.”

“We must meet—”

“Carefully, carefully.”

“Carefully,” Vroom agreed. “I’ll keep you informed. About the umbrella. About Rotterdam. About my search for the mouse.”

“I’ll be here around six every evening. Until next Friday. Then I leave for ten days’ vacation.” A visit to his own country would be a vacation, Renwick hoped, even if it was coupled with a little business. Suddenly, he felt tired and sad and drained of words. “Good night, Johan. A bad day for all of us.” He switched off, went into the small room next door, flung himself down on the cot, stared up at the ceiling.

***

Half an hour later, Renwick rose and went back to his desk. Not to work. No more work tonight. He picked up his telephone and called Thérèse. She was long in answering, and his hopes faded. Then he heard, her voice clear and light,
“Ici
Madame Colbert.” His heart rose.

“Hello, Tessa,” he answered. “What about seeing—”

“Bob—I’ve been trying to reach you all day. The party is off tomorrow night.”

“Forget tomorrow. I want to see you tonight.”

“Tonight? It’s eleven o’clock. I’m just getting ready for bed. Oh, really, Bob, why didn’t you call me earlier?”

“I’ll be with you in twenty minutes.”

“But you can’t come here. Not tonight. Mother has just arrived from Bruges—she’s staying with me for a few days.”

He broke into English. “Tessa, I need you.”

Thérèse hesitated. “She’s asleep in the spare room. At least I think she’s asleep.”

“Lock her in,” he suggested, and heard a ripple of laughter.

“I believe you would,” Thérèse said. “But no, Bob, we can’t risk it.”

“Then what about my place? I’ll be outside your door in twenty minutes in my little Volkswagen. Just pull a coat on. No need to dress.”

“And how would I look tomorrow morning, leaving your apartment in nothing but some black lace with a coat pulled over it?”

“In twenty minutes,” he said.

Luck held. At this time of night, traffic through the approaches to the city had eased. Renwick reached Tessa’s apartment with three minutes to spare. She was waiting, and watching: he saw the light in her living-room flick off. He found he was smiling. Tessa, never forgetting her upbringing by that old battle-axe from Bruges, switched off lamps, went marketing in the mornings and counted her change, turned down the heat when she wasn’t indoors, didn’t leave the radio or television playing, and yet looked like a girl on the front cover of
Elle
. She dressed like it, too: a combination of much taste and some money. That came from her interior decorating business, certainly not from her late husband, who had provided her only with eight years of miserable marriage. Now she was free, and staying free by choice; a convert, through sad experience, to complete independence. Which suited Renwick’s own life-style. He’d marry someday, once he was content to stay with a desk job and concentrate on analysis and evaluation. But now—well, you served where you felt you were useful. In his line of business, that could mean unexpected absences, indefinite hours, friendships and secrets that couldn’t be shared even with a wife. Nor could danger be shared, everpresent danger making her vulnerable, a hostage to fortune. Perhaps some men could carry that load of worry around in their minds; he couldn’t.

And there was Tessa at last, her smooth dark hair highlighted by the bright door lamps, a white coat covering what she was or wasn’t wearing, coming decorously forward. Then her pace quickened as she neared the car’s opened door, and she was beside him, eyes smiling, lips soft and inviting.

In the week that followed, the work piled up on Renwick’s desk, and he was on the point of deciding to postpone his visit to New York. Another four days, what did it matter? But suddenly it did matter. A report came in from Richard Diehl, of West German Intelligence: Herr Otto Remp, of Western Travel Incorporated, had left Düsseldorf and was now said to be in the United States. Diehl had contacted both the CIA and the FBI, but no confirmation of Remp’s movements was available.

Diehl’s inquiries at Western Travel Incorporated had been discreet, but produced no further information. Remp’s sudden departure was considered normal: he was now making a world-wide tour in connection with the firm’s expansion into West-East travel. He would set up financial arrangements and oversee the selection of qualified staff to begin operations early next year. Such things took time, various employees of Western Travel had stated. They were more interested in the promised increase in their pay, once West-East Travel was established. As for Remp’s itinerary, the same list of place names was supplied; but when he would visit these countries, or how long he would stay, depended on any difficulties he might encounter. He would overcome them, an assistant manager had said emphatically: Herr Remp was a seasoned and successful negotiator.

Indeed he was, Renwick thought as he read the report. A very successful con man might be closer to the truth. Shipped out, had he? Yet Renwick couldn’t blame the West Germans for that. This was no sudden exit by Theo: it was long planned, carefully arranged. Once out of Germany, he was free: no extradition possible unless there was evidence of a crime. If the Germans had even one piece of real evidence against him, they would have arrested him four weeks ago.

So all we can do, Renwick decided, is to watch him. Where?
Now said to be in the United States...
If this was accurate, then it seemed as if Theo had started his travels in the opposite direction from his listed itinerary. It had begun with Istanbul, gone on to Bombay, Singapore, Hong Kong, Honolulu, and ended in Los Angeles. Or can we even be sure he will take that list in order? Why not Los Angeles, then jump to Bombay, just to keep us guessing? Difficult to follow him in any strength: two of the countries concerned were outside of NATO, while Hong Kong and Honolulu thought more of the Pacific than they did of either Atlantic or Mediterranean problems.

If only, Renwick’s mind raced on, if only we had Interintell all set up and ready to go. With luck, it would be in good working order in another two months. Two months... And where will Theo be then? What will he have already accomplished? The places listed were possibly accurate. Possibly? More than possible. Theo as Otto Remp, big wheel in an expanding travel agency, would have to give his company a true list, for the simple reason that he would indeed be expected to open branch offices in these cities; and if he didn’t—if he switched to other locations—he’d rouse so many questions back in Düsseldorf that his entire job would be at stake. Which meant he would have blown, all by himself, a most useful cover. No, no, Theo wasn’t stupid. Remember, too, that Theo had no way of knowing that he had been traced to Essen, far less to East Germany. If he had known, he wouldn’t be setting out on this long business trip; he’d be in East Berlin, heading for Leipzig at this moment.

Thank God, thought Renwick, that no one did try to stop him leaving Düsseldorf. He’d have got away, in any case, either by a sudden manoeuvre or by the help of his lawyers. And he’d have known we were on to him. End of the trail for us. Reappearance of Theo a year, two years later: just a slight deferment in plans. His agents, gone to ground, would be there to carry them out. They never give up, these bastards, thought Renwick; they’ll take one big step backwards if that lets them jump two forward.

He rose and went into the bathroom. He pulled wide the open neck of his shirt, splashed the cold water over his face. Then he stared at himself in the small mirror. He looked normal, not like a man under the worst attack of anxiety he had experienced in a long time. He smoothed down his rumpled hair. If you were Theo, he asked himself, in what country would you begin? Wherever you had most to do, to arrange. You’d make sure of all that before you moved on to less important places on your list.

So, Renwick decided, no postponement of New York. He’d leave tomorrow. There was a full afternoon and part of the evening ahead of him before he packed and saw Thérèse.

He began reading a folder that dealt with 3000 fully equipped Soviet troops now in Cuba. When does Washington admit this? one report ended bitterly. (Six weeks later, to keep the record straight, Washington admitted it.) Renwick just shook his head, and moved on to a bulkier file dealing with a Soviet breakthrough in thermonuclear fusion. Renwick was no armaments expert, but he knew enough to be able to maintain a credible cover. Three hours, four reports, and one final staff meeting later, he could consider he was actually ahead of schedule. Except for one thing: news from Vroom at The Hague. He had heard nothing at all, either about the confirmation of the use of an umbrella in Jake’s death or about Rotterdam’s additional information on the travels of a man once known as Kurt Leitner. Or about the mole in Crefeld’s section. Which could mean nothing at all had been discovered. There must be something, Renwick thought irritably. Vroom knows I’m off on my own travels tomorrow. So what’s delaying him? It’s five o’clock now. Do I just hang around here hoping for a call from The Hague?

Ten minutes later, as he was packing his tennis gear (part of the vacation myth), his telephone did ring, a call from the lobby downstairs. A special messenger had arrived from The Hague with a sealed envelope to be delivered to Renwick. “We’ve checked it,” the sergeant on duty was saying. “No booby trap. The messenger’s credentials are in order, too.”

“Then have it sent up.”

“That’s the trouble, sir. The messenger has instructions not to hand over the envelope to anyone except you. Shall I have him escorted up to your office?”

Vroom is really taking no chances, Renwick thought. But I don’t have any messenger, however reliable, coming up into this department. “Tell him the house rules.”

“I’ve tried that, sir. He insists he must see you. He has a verbal message to deliver.”

“I’ll come down,” Renwick said. He reached for his tie, pulled his shirt sleeves into place and buttoned the cuffs, found his jacket, and left.

The lobby was crowded and bustling at this time of day. Between forty and fifty people, some in uniform, some in civilian clothes, were in constant movement in and out of the building. The sergeant and two guards were at the desk near the entrance. No sign of any messenger. “Where is he?” Renwick asked.

“Over there, sir, standing by the bulletin board. Grey hair, dark-blue suit, and a cane.”

“I see him.” The man was holding a large envelope tightly against his breast. “Doesn’t trust anyone, does he?” Renwick asked as he started towards the sombre-faced messenger: a man who took his duties seriously, Renwick thought as the stranger caught sight of him and, after a moment’s hesitation, came to meet him. The man moved slowly; his left leg limped heavily. And then Renwick noticed that the cane was held in the wrong hand—the left hand. No proper balance for any injured left leg; he’s faking it, Renwick thought, suddenly alert. A crowded lobby, a press of people, a walking stick instead of an umbrella? He halted abruptly, let the man approach. What now?

The manoeuvre was subtle. The envelope slipped from the messenger’s free arm, fell to the floor. The man tried to pick it up, but his left hip appeared to make that painful. “Sorry,” he said. “Could you?”

So I bend down for the envelope, and the tip of the cane just happens to strike me? Renwick said with a smile, “Sorry, too. I’ve a slipped disc.” He kept his eyes on the walking stick, took a step backwards. “We’ll call the guard, shall we?”

The man’s face froze; he made an attempt to reach down, stumbled slightly. The cane seemed to skid on the waxed floor, came pointing up towards Renwick’s thigh in a sharp angle. Renwick caught it midway on its shaft, held fast. He could feel the full strength of the man’s arm trying to direct the cane at its target. “Easy, easy,” Renwick said, twisting the cane suddenly to slacken the man’s grip. “Or do you want to lose an eye?” The man stared at him, let go, ran for the entrance.

“Stop him!” Renwick shouted, and the two guards came to life. The man never reached the front steps. “Detain him for questioning,” Renwick told a startled sergeant. “Make sure he doesn’t escape,” he added grimly. “Get highest security on to this.”

The envelope contained only two sheets of typed paper giving this week’s weather reports for western Europe. Renwick left it in the sergeant’s charge as evidence of an attempt at false entry. The walking stick he trusted to no one but carried it carefully upstairs, not even risking the elevator with its jostle of people. He’d let the laboratory boys experiment with it. Pressure on the handle at a certain spot that ejected a miniature pellet coated with poison? And then a raging fever that would begin to work on him half-way across the Atlantic?

Down in the lobby, the brief sensation had subsided. Few had even been aware of it. “Another kook?” someone asked, and got a shrug for an answer as the man, now subdued and under heavy guard, was led away.

***

Renwick reached his office, placed the cane carefully along the centre of his desk, its tip turned well away from him. He telephoned Security, just to make sure they’d fully understand the possible importance of this prisoner, and then called Evans in the lab. He explained, quietly and succinctly, what was needed. “Is this one of your jokes, Bob?” he was asked. So he lost his temper and let a few curses burn up the wire. Within ten minutes, Evans and an assistant were carrying away the cane, handling it with the proper respect.