The Hidden Target (3 page)

As for his real identity—Ramón Olivar, born in Caracas, Venezuela, in 1950—that was past history. Like his parents. Father, a Spanish lawyer from Barcelona, with intense Anarcho-Syndicalist opinions that made him a professional exile; mother, a medical student from Sweden, with Marxist-Leninist views that were in constant argument with her husband’s politics, each trying to convert the other. Ludicrous people. But they had taken him to Mexico when they escaped there. Ramón Olivar’s name had last been used at the university in Mexico City (1967-69) and in 1970 for his trip along with forty-nine other socialist-minded students to Lumumba University in Moscow. A new name and passport for the concealed journey to North Korea. For the journey back to Mexico, another passport. Yet another, Dutch this time, for the flight into California once the Mexican police had started questioning the 1970 crop of Lumumba graduates (two of them, idiots, had been caught with dynamite all set and ready to explode). And still another passport when he was ordered to proceed to West Germany.

The only constant in all these travels had been the cover name Erik, his own invention. Chosen, unconsciously perhaps, because of his mother? Just as, like her, his hair was light, his eyes blue-grey? He certainly did not look Spanish. There his mother had won out over his dark-haired, dark-eyed father. But not in politics. (He was now far to the left of his father, much further to the left than his mother.) He hadn’t seen either of them since 1970. His father had escaped from Mexico and ended—literally—in Chile. His mother was still alive, and suitably in Cuba.

Other times, other places... All distant, all shut away in tight mental compartments. Now he was James Kiley, a footloose American. He had his history at tongue tip: California born, moved from Oakland with his parents to Illinois; and when they were killed in an automobile crash, became a ward of his well-to-do uncle in Illinois who owned a wire and sheet company—gold and silver, in other words, necessary for jewellery manufacture. No brothers, no sisters, no other relatives, no marriages, no complications... He looked the part he was playing: a young man travelling, with some ambitions to be a roving correspondent, looking for wider horizons than his uncle’s factory in Chicago.

He passed through Heathrow’s arrival formalities, no trouble at all, and walked briskly to the main entrance. Greta, Theo’s devoted talent scout, would be waiting for him. And she was. A red-and-white-checked suit, a red purse over her left arm, as prescribed, so that his eye could pick her out even before he saw the familiar face. She gave no hint of recognition, either. As he drew near, she left. At a leisurely pace, he followed the red-and-white-checked suit until she had stepped into her dark-red car. Then, with his one bag heaved into its small back seat, he slipped in beside her and they were on their way. For the next hour, Greta would be responsible for his safety.

They hadn’t met since Berlin, almost five years ago, but Greta, close up, hadn’t changed much: the same slight figure, rusty-brown hair, eyes so light in colour that their blue was almost colourless, a white skin that never tanned, pale lips, a furrow between her eyebrows that made her look helpless and anxious, and a smile that was deceptively sweet. He knew neither her real name nor anything about her origins, although his guess was that she came from the Berlin area itself—the accent was there when she spoke German in her brusque voice, and she had shown an intimate knowledge of its streets and shops that one didn’t find in a guide-book. She had been well educated, obviously; a medical research scientist, registered for a course on tropical diseases at London’s University College. She had entered England almost a year ago and was now established there as Dr. Ilsa Schlott from Stockholm.

“We are taking the quickest way into London,” she told him. “Route A4. Then the Great West Road.” Having announced that, she seemed to be concentrating on driving, but two brief side glances showed she was studying his new appearance. “If Theo hadn’t told me to look for a light-green jacket and dark-red tie. I’d have taken longer to spot you. The beard always did make you look older than you were.”

“That was the idea.”

“You’d pass for twenty-six or -seven now.”

That was also the idea. He said, “How are our prospects?”

“Fairly good. I’ve got them thinking about travelling.”

“Them? More than one girl? How did you meet them?”

“They live where I live—at the Women’s Residence for University College. It houses a lot of foreign students.”

“How well do you know them?”

“Enough. I never force the pace. I sit near them at breakfast— long tables shared with other students. I have a weekly game of tennis with Nina O’Connell. In fact, that’s how I managed to become her friend.”

“Who wins?” Greta had been an excellent tennis player.

A smile parted the pale tight lips. “Somehow, she always manages to beat me in the third set.”

“Nina O’Connell. Main target?”

Greta nodded. “The other is Madge Westerman. Two Americans meeting at college in London, bolstering each other in a strange new world. A peculiar thing about Americans: once the novelty of a different life wears off, they get homesick. Won’t admit it, of course. But you’ll find them grouping together, lusting after hamburgers.”

“Attend the same classes?”

“No. O’Connell persuaded her father to let her come to study at the Slade School of Fine Art. She is just completing her first year there—still as unsettled as when she arrived. In America, Vassar and then Berkeley—one term only at each. Her father remarried two years ago, and that could be the key to her behaviour. Westerman is the overseas scholarship girl, every penny budgeted. She’s in escape from a middle-class home in Scranton. Her year is almost over—English literature, the history of the English novel, that’s her field. At present, she’s in a state of gloom. But so is the poor little rich girl. She doesn’t like facing a year alone at the Women’s Residence. She only landed there, in the first place, because it was either a room in that safe location or staying with friends of her father. That was his stipulation.”

“Then he supervises her carefully?” And that could be a major difficulty.

“Actually, he’s lax. And indulgent. He’s like all busy and famous men. Every now and again they remember their fatherly duties and lay down a rule, and feel they’ve done a good job by insisting it be followed. Then they feel they might have been too strict and relax the reins again. Besides, Francis O’Connell is also learning to be married once more after being widowed for so many years. He was stationed in India when his first wife fell ill—some infection that never did get cured. She was sent back to Washington with Nina, aged four; she was in and out of hospitals for three years, and then died. Nina lived with her aunt and uncle while her father was stationed in various places abroad. Eight years ago he returned permanently to Washington, and Nina joined him there. Any trips abroad, after that, were always high-level conferences in Europe, where his daughter wouldn’t catch a wasting disease like her mother in India. So from 1972 until 1977, Nina went with him, acted as hostess.”

“Heady stuff for a teenager.”

“She wasn’t a gawky child, always seemed older than she was. From what I could find out, she was bright and selfpossessed. Quite sophisticated, even between the ages of fourteen and nineteen. And then—” Greta was smiling again— “her father married. Nina was packed off to college; and I’ve told you the rest. Reach over into the back seat, Erik, and you’ll find an old
Time
with the story of Francis O’Connell. He is being groomed for something important. The new Secretary of State? Or foreign affairs adviser to the President? And pick up that day-old
International Herald Tribune,
too; it’s interesting. Or perhaps you’ve read it?”

“I’ve been busy,” he said curtly. Four days in Rotterdam, holed up in a room with cassettes of American voices for company to get his ear tuned back in, with recent editions of New York and Washington papers to let him see what were America’s current problems. He had read the columns, political as well as personal, and even studied the sports pages. From his set of new clothes, with Chicago labels sewn into place, to his accent and vocabulary and grasp of current events, he could face most real Americans.

“This,” Greta said, her annoyance showing, “has all been a very great nuisance. I have other work to do.” And she was not referring to a cram course in tropical diseases.

“A nuisance for all of us.” He was studying the
Time
article on O’Connell. New wife given a nice play, too: a most successful Washington hostess. No reference to Nina—possibly the new wife had seen to that.

“What
is
Theo’s idea behind this?” Greta asked suddenly, showing her own importance by dropping his name.

“He didn’t say.”

“Could it be to apply pressure—threat of scandal, important government official’s daughter consorting with hippies and drug addicts? Possibly with Communists, too?”

“Would Theo risk blowing Marco’s cover and mine?”

“If he comes to believe you are still anarchists, he will ditch you and Marco when he pleases,” Greta said with a small laugh. But there was a jab of truth in her half-joking words.

Not as long as we are useful to him. And we’ll put up with his Marxism-Leninism as long as Theo is useful to us. He said, “What gave you the idea that we were anarchists?” He pretended considerable amusement. Careful, he warned himself: Greta’s ideas are cut from Theo’s cloth, and everything I say will be reported back to him. “Because we use plastic and dynamite? When did Lenin ever ban them?”

“Marco talks too much about the absolute freedom of the individual. That means no obedience except to himself, doesn’t it?”

“He was probably testing you to see if you had anarchist sympathies.”

“I?” She was indignant enough to drop her sweet smile. She almost missed a traffic signal.

“If I remember you, five years ago, it was as the wildest bomb-thrower in Berlin. I had to straighten you out.”

“And had me removed from your group?” It still rankled.

“That was Theo. He needed you elsewhere—for more important work than aiming a machine pistol. Any nitwit can do that. By the way, when did you see Marco?”

“He was here five days ago.”

“Here?” Then Marco had been quick out of Hamburg.

“He’s on his way to Amsterdam now. With a handsome caravan—”

“Caravan? Oh, you mean camper.”

“Just right, he says, but too new looking. He hopes it will develop some scars on the car ferry across the Channel.”

“British registration and plate?”

“All set, along with Tony Shawfield’s British driving licence and passport.”

“Tony Shawfield? What part of Britain does he come from? Manchester?” Marco had lived there when Erik had been in the States, before they joined up again in Berlin.

“What does it matter? His papers are good, so is his accent. You’ve been together a long time, haven’t you?”

Ever since we trained in North Korea. “Off and on.” He unfolded the
Tribune.
“What page?”

“Three. But leave that until later—you can read it in your room. Where do I drop you?”

“Regent Street.”

“Which end?”

“Wherever I can find a taxi.”

“Cautious as ever, Erik.”

And fishing as always, dear Greta. “Just following Theo’s instructions.” To mollify her, he added, “I’ll let him know what an excellent job you did on O’Connell—you really got her talking.”

“No, no. Too obvious. Westerman was useful,” she said abruptly. She became absorbed in the problem of traffic, now increasingly complicated by pedestrians and buses and unexpected side streets.

London’s maze always baffled him. He knew they had approached it from the west, but he had paid little attention to the initial stretches of suburbia, followed by warehouses, apartment houses, offices, pubs—he wasn’t using this route for his exit; no use cluttering up his mind with unneeded details. Now he was beginning to recognise street names from the map he had studied. Soon they would be reaching streets that were recognisable by appearance as well as by name. A large green park on his left gave him a clue. Kensington— or Knightsbridge? Greta was heading in the right direction, anyway. Thoughtfully, he said, “Westerman...has she any final lectures to attend this week?”

“A couple, I hear.”

He might be able to audit one of these. A visit to O’Connell’s art class would be hard to explain: not within his competence. So he had better concentrate on Westerman first, although ten minutes ago he had almost decided to separate her from O’Connell, leave her out of this project as unnecessary baggage. “How close are they?”

“Like sisters. That’s one of their jokes. Might pass, too. Except for O’Connell’s blue eyes. Westerman has brown.”

Then Westerman wasn’t so unnecessary after all. One probably would help persuade the other... “Does Marco know I’m bringing two girls to join us in Amsterdam?”

“I told him. He didn’t like it. He’s the recruiter for your trip.”

James Kiley thought back to Amalie and Willy. “He’d better make sure we take no informants along with us,” he said grimly.

Greta nodded. “That’s the reason he didn’t stay here any longer than it took to pick up the caravan—everyone he recruits in Amsterdam will be checked.”

“Triple-checked. Theo’s friends can start using their computers.”

Greta dropped all her defences, became the ingenuous girl who had enlisted in Berlin. “Do you actually know who Theo’s friends are?”

“No. But we can guess. Who else had us trained?”

“They certainly have the power.”

“And the money.” In the last couple of years, there had been plenty of that.

“Changed days from the time you and Marco founded the People’s Revolutionary Force for Direct Action. When I first joined—”

“I remember.”

“That manifesto you and Marco wrote—do you still believe all you declared in it? Destroy to build. The insurrectionary act is the best propaganda.”

Suddenly, he was alert. Was this how she had edged Marco into his talk about absolute freedom? And get the quotations right, he told her silently. He curbed his irritation, laughed, made his own small attack. “Don’t knock that manifesto. It brought you running to join us.” He looked around him with interest. “Piccadilly, I see. Now I’m beginning to know where I am.”