The Hidden Target (18 page)

***

Four-thirty exactly. The door to Frank Cooper’s suite had its lock released, ready for Renwick’s arrival.

“You look well,” Cooper told him, studying the younger man, lean and trim, sun-tanned, as he reactivated the lock and closed the door. There was a warm handshake, and then a quick embrace with two hefty pats on Renwick’s shoulders. “Good to see you, Bob. Pick a chair. Sorry about the decor. I take what the hotel offers, but the wives of my South American clients seem to like it.”

“You still make a good telephone call,” Renwick told him as he chose one corner of a spindle-legged sofa, glanced around the green-and-gold room, and took his turn at studying Cooper, now pouring a couple of scotches at an elaborate serving tray. Cooper was a large bear of a man, big and deliberate; he had lost weight in recent years, and his face—large and craggy— showed permanent furrows. His hair, thick and heavy, was now almost white. His fine dark eyes were more serious, almost sad in expression. His clothes hadn’t changed, though they hung more loosely on his big frame: thin dark-grey suit worn carelessly, and slightly crumpled—enough to drive his custom tailor into a nervous breakdown.

“Well,” Cooper was saying, “you know what’s expected of the typical New Yorker. He has the best intentions but he’s always too damned busy to spend much time with his friends.”

“Your ’phone is tapped?”

“Let’s say that someone likes to listen to my conversations. A recent development.”

“Because of me?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps it is just someone trying to get inside information on one of our legal battles.” Cooper’s face relaxed as he handed Renwick his drink and then lowered himself into an opposite chair. He stretched out his long legs, raised his glass in salute. “Don’t worry, Bob. We’ll find him. Or her. But it’s wiser, at the moment, to play along with them, give them no hint of suspicion aroused.” He glanced at his watch. “Quickly, any new ideas on Theo? What’s his plan, do you think?”

“It isn’t clear yet. Could be aimed at America. That’s my hunch. Just a gut feeling, mostly. Didn’t Gilman have any more details on Theo?”

“He passed on all he knew when I saw him in London two weeks ago. Including something you didn’t mention in our last meeting: the attack on you. That wasn’t pretty, not pretty at all, Bob.”

“It only proves that Theo’s plan must be damned big.”

“Any signs of interest in you recently?”

“Not in the last four weeks.”

“Then any interest in me must be the result of the inquiries I was making in Los Angeles about Herr Otto Remp and his new West-East Travel bureau.” Cooper pursed his lips. Shook his head: “And I thought I was being careful.”

“What did you find out?”

“That Theo is one smart operator. He slipped into Los Angeles, made the necessary appearance, with his lawyer and real-estate agent and his new manager in charge of the West-East office, to sign all the papers at a local bank. Also a hefty cheque for his newly acquired property. He had to use his Otto Remp identity, of course, to keep everything legal for that brief interlude. Then he departed as quietly as he had arrived, the office left in charge of his manager. Impossible to trace, so far— we’ve no idea of the name he used to enter the country or travel around in it.”

“When did he make that visit to Los Angeles?”

“Damn quick. It must have been within a couple of days after he arrived here from Germany.”

Before any of us knew he had disappeared from Düsseldorf. “So all arrangements for the purchase of an LA office must have been made while he was still in Germany. Who handled them? The manager?”

“No. The manager is a stalwart citizen. So are the real-estate agent and the bankers and the lawyer. It’s the assistant manager who is not quite what he seems to be. He’s the real boss of the Los Angeles branch of West-East Travel, affiliate of Western Travel in Düsseldorf. Theo’s contact man, in fact. Handles the finances.”

“You found out a lot,” Renwick said, recovering from his initial disappointment. Of course Theo would act as quickly as possible, before any alert about his movements could be given.

“Not enough. We don’t know if he is still somewhere in America; or has he left us? We’ve quietly circulated his description, of course, but there are a hundred ways of leaving this country without presenting a passport—even a false one.”

Circulated his description
.... “You’ve put yourself in some danger, Frank.”

“Well—like you—the more I studied Theo’s case, the greater my gut feeling that this man is worth stopping. Whatever it costs us.” Cooper laughed off his touch of drama, but his eyes held something of the old zest. He glanced at his watch, pulled himself out of his chair, lumbered towards the door and unlocked it.

Gilman, guessed Renwick: arrivals spaced twenty minutes apart? Frank and his experience—OSS agent dropping into unfriendly territory, CIA analyst in its early years, National Security adviser, and now a corporation lawyer on the international scale—might just discourage Theo’s recent interest in him. Renwick couldn’t be sure, though: the inquiries around Los Angeles must have been extensive even if discreet. And the innocent civilian was often an ignorant one, too: he never knew when to keep his trap shut, not indulge in a little gossip to enlarge his self-esteem. Some people just couldn’t resist confiding.

“He’s late,” Cooper said, glancing once more at his watch.

“Is he staying in the hotel?”

“Sure. He has brought Gemma with him.”

Gemma was Gilman’s wife. “Cosy,” said Renwick.

“Nice and normal. Probably they’ve gone shopping.”

Or something, thought Renwick.

“Maggie used to try to drag me around the stores when we were abroad.” Cooper’s voice had softened at the mention of his wife. Even if she had been dead for eight years, her memory was still alive.

Quickly, Renwick drew him away from the past by saying, “About Theo—isn’t it possible he would have invested in a furnished house somewhere in Southern California? A safe house, where his agents could stay and be subsidised by payments through his travel bureau in Los Angeles? I mean, why else would he have chosen LA if it weren’t convenient for the payment of his people’s expenses? That was the pattern he set up in Essen.”

“Somewhere in Southern California,” Cooper said thoughtfully. “That covers a lot of territory.”

“Somewhere within easy driving distance of LA—two or three hours away.” A hundred miles, as Renwick had discovered on his visit to La Jolla, was considered an acceptable distance to drive out for dinner. “He’d have negotiated that deal, of course, well in advance—like finding the premises for his West-East Travel branch.”

“Using the assistant manager?” Cooper’s interest had quickened. “Who would, perhaps, employ the same real-estate agent? But the house wouldn’t be bought under Herr Otto Remp’s name.”

“Nor under the assistant manager’s name. He’d choose something mythical: his cousin or a good friend from the East needs a winter home in sunny California.”

“Could be. We’ll start some checking.”

And be careful, thought Renwick. Tactfully, he didn’t offer Cooper that advice. Instead, he took out two snapshots. “You should look out for these, Frank. The man is definitely one of Theo’s. Maartens by name. The girl? Possibly working with Maartens. They were both in New York on the day I arrived from London.”

Cooper studied the photographs: the blond man sat at a café table; the girl’s picture was clearer, taken close up. “I’ve seen—” he began. But at that moment the door opened quietly and Gilman slipped inside. “Put that lock to work, Ron. And welcome!”

“Four minutes late. Unforgiveable.” Gilman was definitely annoyed with himself. “But Gemma went shopping and brought back two dresses. She had to try them on for my approval. You know how it is.”

“Don’t look at me,” Renwick said with a grin. I like Ron’s style, he thought: no false excuses about waiting on a back staircase until the corridor cleared of people. Gilman’s equanimity returned. He was, as usual, immaculate; tall, thin; his pleasant face made solemn by horn-rimmed glasses, and not one blond hair out of place. The perfect picture of a quiet civil servant in one of Her Majesty’s less glamorous departments. Renwick rose and joined in the general hand-shaking.

“Hope I didn’t hold up the proceedings,” Gilman said, noting the snapshots in Cooper’s hand, ignoring them politely.

“Just discussing Theo and Los Angeles,” Cooper said. He had briefed Gilman in London about them.

“And as you were saying, Frank—” Renwick pointed to the snapshots—“you’ve seen one of them? Which?”

“I’ve seen both. Last week-end.” Cooper handed over the photographs to Gilman. “Of all the damned impudence! They came visiting my house. At East Hampton. I had gone down to the beach for my daily walk. But the rain came—it’s been one hell of an August for weather—and so I jogged back. They were at my front door, trying to talk their way past Libby—that’s my oldest girl. Their story? The woman said she was a real-estate agent, heard our house was for sale; there has been a lot of selling and buying around us. The man with her, exceptionally polite, handsome, almost convinced Libby I had put our house on the market. I’ve talked about that, vaguely, in these last few months. Once the kids are off on their own—and that’s coming; I can see it—why the hell do I need a place in the country?” He took possession of the photographs once more. “Do you need these?” he asked Renwick. “I’d like to have copies made. Two more for your rogues’ gallery,” he promised Gilman.

Trying to get inside Frank’s cottage, a polite look-around? Brief enough not to be annoying, but sufficient time to plant a bugging device? Renwick looked at Cooper worriedly and dropped all tact. “Be careful, Frank.”

“I was in the business of being careful before those two were born. Or you, either. Okay, Ron—what news from London?”

“Promising, I think. The office is ready—a nice old house, narrow, four stories high—in a small side street. Top floor has my cubbyhole; and communications to keep us all in touch. Below that, two rooms of maps, reference items, filing cabinets waiting to be filled. Then there’s a floor for our borrowed computer, deciphering machine, and other miracle devices. Staff selected. Some foreign contacts already established. The first floor, above the main hall, is for genuine business, with a couple of expert surveyors dealing with any actual requests for our services. The entrance hall is for reception—and security.”

“Surveyors?”

“Just part of our firm,” Gilman continued smoothly. “Actually, here’s the full scope.” He drew out two small cards from his waistcoat pocket and handed one each to Renwick and Cooper. “For the benefit of our representatives who travel in foreign, parts.”

In restrained type, the card’s legend read:

J.P. Merriman & Co.

CONSULTANT ENGINEERS

Advisers on Construction Abroad. Surveys Made.

“Not bad,” Cooper said. “In fact, damned good. There’s a hell of a lot of construction going on all around the world. Your first-floor experts, Ron, may even make some money for you. You’ll end up as a successful business-man yet.”

“Not my line.”

“But who’s paying for all the initial expenses?”

Gilman looked bland. “Oh, there’s always a little extra money available when a state sees a threat to its security. As the free countries are linked now, like it or not, danger to one is danger to all. I think they’ll find that Interintell is the best investment they can make.” Then he studied Renwick. “Any objections to being one of our travelling representatives, Bob?”

Renwick shook his head. “I was just going over their backgrounds in my mind.” He, himself, had earned an MIT engineering degree before he went into the army. Claudel? Yes, the Frenchman had worked in aerospace dynamics before his stint with NATO. MacEwan, the Canadian, had worked in mining. Larsen and Oiehl had been sappers. “Engineers? I suppose so. But we’re stretching it a bit, aren’t we?”

“It’s the one common denominator you had in civilian life. Not much, but enough. What else would seem feasible for all you ex-NATO types? Certainly not interior decoration or textiles and ceramics.” Gilman was ruffled. “I thought you’d be comfortable with—”

“I am, I am,” Renwick cut in. “We’ll have ample cover.” If no one starts questioning us too closely. But then, that’s part of our job: avoid the questions. Certainly, I’ll be able to move around a foreign country, meet officials more interested in terrorists than in bridges, dams, or new hotels. “It gives me enough travelling room, anyway.” And Gilman had planned well. For that all-important cover, export-import was now suspect; so were tea or wine merchants, wandering reporters, news photographers, moviemakers, lecturers—you name it, they’ve tried it. “Original,” he conceded, and brought relief to Gilman’s watchful eyes. “Do I have some back-up?”

“You can choose your team. Two or three. Don’t you think?”

I do think, old boy. That’s the way I like to work. The lone eagle looks damned foolish when one of his pinions is torn off. Renwick said, “Okay. That’s that.”

“You’ll be in London soon? You’ll find Merriman & Co. at 7 Grace Street—between the Strand and the Embankment.”

Cooper had a question. “And what about some aids and comforts for your agents? Or do they just rely on karate and smoke signals?”

“Gadgets will be provided. But from another building in another location. That should baffle any of the opposition who might come prowling around. All the technology we have on the premises could be used by any modern-minded business firm. Okay with you, Bob?”

“You’re the right man for the job, Ron.”

“I agree,” said Cooper, and he meant it. “I couldn’t have handled it, not with legal cases piling up.” He hesitated, and then added, “And not with the climate of opinion that’s fogged everything over here—I don’t know if we’re coming or going. Am I depressed? You bet I am.” Then he tried to laugh that off. “There’s one man more depressed than I am. Francis O’Connell. Telephoned me this morning, a long spiel about his daughter, Nina.” He began pouring another round of drinks. “Have to watch my time. That damned cocktail party. Never could stand them. A hundred guests milling around; and that allows you one minute per person. How’s that for hospitality?”