The Hidden Target (38 page)

She looked normal, too. Her eyes were bright with interest, lipstick and powder and freshly combed hair perfect, as she left the ladies’ room. She passed a bank of elevators and the clearly printed English signs that directed people to the Coromandel Bar, the Victoria Grill, the Ajanta Room, the Gateway to India Restaurant. At last she found the arcade, open on one side to a lavish garden; on its other side, a series of elegant displays of gold and silver and ivory. She reached the gift shop, with a window of gossamer silks and rich brocades that would entice the last rupee out of a tourist’s pocket. Next door was the bookstore.

She halted at the entrance, beside a tall rack of newspapers, both local and foreign, quickly scanning the people inside the shop. Tables with books piled on top, shelves packed ceiling-high with more books. Was Pierre there? Bob? A clerk was near her, looking at her intently, so she pretended interest in the newspapers, glancing at a headline just at her shoulder level, and stood transfixed.
GREEN CAMPER MYSTERY—SPY ARRESTED
. And the opening line of the newspaper report was:
Ilsa Schlott, a recruiter for terrorist
—That was all she could see. As her hand went out to pick up the paper, a man’s grip, strong and painful, encircled her wrist. Tony Shawfield said quietly, “So you thought you would run off and leave us.”

Nina tried to pull her wrist free. Gopal was behind Shawfield; another Indian, too.

Shawfield’s voice hardened. “You came to meet someone. Who?” To Gopal’s friend, he said, “Get the car. Side entrance.” Then again to Nina, “Who? Who is meeting you here?”

“No one.”

“You telephoned.” Shawfield’s grip tightened.

“Let go! I’m buying a paper and—” She caught sight of Pierre stepping forward. No, she thought frantically: stay back, Pierre—you’ll be recognised.

The clerk was approaching. Shawfield had doubled his hold on her: one hand on her wrist, the other on her elbow, forcing her into the arcade.

She went unresisting. Three of them, and Pierre alone—no, this wasn’t the place for any confrontation. Her steps lagged, delaying as much as she could. Pierre would follow. She hoped. But I’m not endangering his real mission, whatever it is, and it’s not me.

“Whom did you call?” Shawfield was insisting.

“The American Consul. That was all.”

“The truth, Nina! I’m no fool. You were to meet someone at that bookstore. And he was late or you were early.”

“No. There was no one.” She sounded desolate, bewildered. And she was. They had reached a street, crowded with people. Shawfield was pulling her towards a car that was just drawing up in front of him. Pierre will never be able to follow, not here, she thought in sudden panic. She glanced back but could see only strange faces; she tried to break free, run. But Shawfield forced her through the car’s open door, into its back seat, followed her. Gopal jumped in beside the driver, the doors were locked, the car moved. Only then, as it edged its way out of the jumble of traffic and tried to pick up speed, did Shawfield’s grasp ease on Nina’s wrist.

Gopal was worried. “That clerk followed us out. Another man, too, I think.”

Shawfield’s head jerked round to look back. Too many people, too many cars: impossible to see if anyone was attempting to tail them. He gave up and studied Nina instead. He had a feeling that Gopal’s words had jarred her. Encouraged her? She needed discipline, this girl. Jim had been too easy with her. “We’ll lose them,” he told Gopal. And teach Milady a little lesson. “Falkland Road,” he said.

The driver and Gopal exchanged a startled glance.

“Falkland Road,” Shawfield repeated. To Nina he said, “So you thought you’d leave us. Why?”

“I was bored with sitting in that room.”

“And you headed for the Malabar? Why?”

“It was some place I could change a traveller’s cheque—buy a magazine, a guide to the city. I wanted to see Bombay.”

“And so you shall.” His voice had eased. He could relax a little: he had found her. A wild search, not a moment wasted after he had returned (and that was luck—arriving earlier than he had planned) to find Madge alone. “She has left,” Madge told him, “left with Shahna.” And Shahna had talked, of telephones and hotels; had even led him to the money exchange nearby. There, it took only five rupees to loosen a man’s tongue: the blonde had hired a car; it had just returned from the Malabar Hotel. There, it hadn’t been so easy: fifteen minutes of searching, of inquiries, of growing anger and desperation. Then quick-eyed Gopal had seen her, vanishing into the arcade. Did she think she could outwit me? Just wait until Jim gets back from his meeting with Theo and hears what could have happened. But it didn’t. Who planned her moves anyway? Shawfield reached for her bag, pulled it out of her hands.

He found no slip of paper with a name or address or a telephone number. The wallet held a quantity of rupees: some large bills, some coins. They went into his trousers pocket along with her remaining traveller’s cheque. “Much safer. You could have them stolen. I’ll keep them for you.”

Nina stared out at a broad square, an enormous stretch of ground where traffic circled around a statue of Queen Victoria on her lofty pedestal and streets branched off in every direction. This was far from the waterfront, from anything she knew. Her hopelessness increased with her sense of isolation. No one could follow this car, she thought as it entered a narrow thoroughfare; not Pierre, not even Bob. I know now what I should have done outside the bookstore: kicked and screamed and brought people running to help me. But would they have run? Any of them? Or would they have drawn back, avoided an unpleasant scene? Only Pierre would have come; and been recognised... How did Shawfield find me anyway? Surely Madge hadn’t... Yes, perhaps she had. Perhaps she led him to Shahna, and Shahna to the money exchange... I don’t want to believe that, Nina told herself, but despair seized her heart. “Where are you taking me?” she asked.

“Sightseeing.”

In silence, the strange journey continued.

That afternoon it had been Pierre Claudel’s turn to wait near the telephone in A.K. Roy’s most private office. It was a neat set-up, spacious, comfortable, secluded, lying behind the accounting department of the Malabar Gift Shop, with a second door into the adjoining bookstore, and a third door into the arcade itself.

He was alone except for one of Roy’s men, a silent restful type, in charge of Roy’s communications. Roy and Bob Renwick had left only a few minutes ago, allowing themselves ample time to get into position. Soon, they would be reaching the busy street where Mr. Otto Remp was scheduled to visit, at half-past three, one of the small banking establishments that offered its expert and discreet services to substantial depositors. There, in a quiet room, the banker would welcome Mr. Remp, along with the senior partner of a real-estate firm
and
its legal representatives
and
the new manager of the equally new Bombay office of West-East Travel. The final transactions would be completed: signatures here, a large cheque there, witnesses recorded, all in order, polite bows, goodbyes. And then—Claudel smiled, wished he could see that scene.

Roy was to be congratulated. Renwick, too. For the last week they had gone through the list of real-estate agents who dealt in expensive properties and foreign buyers. While Roy ran through checks on their finances, personnel, business records, Renwick visited their establishments as a likely prospect—he was interested in acquiring a branch office for his London firm, specialising in construction problems. Were they accustomed to handling requests from abroad? What calibre of sales to reputable clients? His firm insisted on dealing only with the best agents, they must understand; ones who had been successful in satisfying important customers. They understood and offered their most recent triumphs in the selling of real estate. “A highly respected firm from Düsseldorf” had been one testimonial.

Then Roy had zeroed in, concentrating on the small law firm that handled contracts for the real-estate agency with Düsseldorf connections, securing their co-operation and sworn silence. And so today, one of Roy’s agents would be among the legal representatives attending the meeting in the bank. Two plainclothes policemen would be posted at its side entrance. Two others would move forward towards its front door as soon as Otto Remp stepped inside. One of Roy’s best agents would attend to the limousine that brought Remp there, making sure its driver sent no warning message. And Roy and Renwick would be waiting in a radio car a short distance away.

Roy was making sure this time, Claudel thought with wry amusement. The disappearance of Kiley’s little band of travellers early this morning from some insignificant restaurant with a miserable courtyard had roused the equable A.K. Roy to fury. The camper itself had also evaded his two undercover agents: a well-planned manoeuvre that increased his rage. But at least he was now convinced he was dealing with a mastermind directing two very clever young men. Worthy opponents. That thought had calmed his anger, redoubled his efforts. The extradition of Otto Remp, Kiley, Shawfield, was no longer a politeness from one democracy to another: it was an imperative. As Roy said, once more bland in manner, “There is enough trouble in our countries without such men adding to it.” It was particularly gratifying that Remp had been linked with Kiley through an Essen bank, drawing him into the extradition net, too.

Well, thought Claudel, we are almost sure of one of them: Remp would be caught in the bank. He would be out of disguise, of course, for that appearance, playing the authentic Düsseldorf business-man for the benefit of his firm back home. Renwick had made a bet before he left with Roy this afternoon: Theo will get into his car wearing a wig and other removable transformations, and, as he is driven to the bank, he’ll take them off, change his jacket, march in as Otto Remp. On leaving he intends to put on the disguise again, reappear at the house or hotel where he’s staying under his fancy new name. What d’you bet, Pierre? No takers, Claudel had said.

But what about the other two? Although Kiley and Shawfield and their wandered students had faded from sight, they were in Bombay. Somewhere. The two highways out of the city, as well as the main airport at Santa Cruz, the central railway station, even the docks where coastal freighters were loaded, were now on the watch for eight young Westerners loaded down with duffel bags. The sleeping bags had been found in the abandoned camper four hours after it had slipped away from the restaurant, so they must be staying in some small hotel, some lodging house. Somewhere, Claudel thought again.

He studied the large-scale map of Bombay that he had spread over Roy’s six-by-four-foot desk, lightly tracing in pencil the streets he and two of Roy’s agents had checked this morning. All these cruddy little hotels—have you seen, have you heard, do you know of anyone who has seen, heard? He began memorising the streets of the next likely section. That would be tomorrow’s task, and Renwick would have his turn sitting at this desk while he waited for any possible call from Nina. They had agreed that one of them must be ready to answer the telephone, reassure Nina that she wasn’t among strangers in a strange city. A.K. Roy had merely raised a well-marked eyebrow at such concern; he was more perturbed by the fact that Claudel had given one of his private telephone numbers to a young girl. “It was the only Bombay number I had,” Claudel had protested. “What else could I do? She’s important. She could lead us to Kiley.” That had clinched the argument. The difficult moment was over. In any case, thought Claudel now, Roy would have that number changed once Nina made contact.

Would she? Or—and this was Renwick’s worry—could she?

An unpleasant question. If Nina didn’t, couldn’t call, then they would have to find her by searching. Claudel concentrated on his map, memorising the directions and names of the streets in the poorer sections of the city. It wasn’t likely the campers, now looking like a troupe of gypsies, would be living in a luxury hotel, or in a skyscraper apartment in the business district, or in a mansion in the green hills overlooking Bombay.

The telephone rang. It was Nina.

The call ended. Roy’s communications expert had been listening too. “Got all that?” Claudel asked him. “Then make contact with Mr. Roy’s car. Give the American all the details— every word. I am going to the bookstore. If there is any reply, any message, you’ll find me there.”

Half past three, she had said. But if she took a taxi she could be here much earlier. Would she enter by the main lobby of the hotel? Or, if the driver saw she had no luggage, he might give her the choice of lobby or arcade. It had its own entrance on a side street and was frequently used by shoppers from outside the hotel. Better to stay in the bookstore, Claudel decided, keep to the arrangement, and be available for any message from Renwick. Besides—if Nina couldn’t find a cab—he might have to wait longer than half-past three. The bookstore was the safest place: people loitered there quite naturally. But he still wished he could meet her as she got out of a taxi or came walking up the long approach to the hotel. And then? Renwick had arranged it with A.K. Roy: a pleasant room adjacent to Roy’s own suite in this hotel; well guarded, discreet, servants all tested and true, not one whisper to give away Nina’s presence. And it might be for only a day or two—until all danger was over. What could be a better hiding place than a large hotel with four hundred rooms?

***

Claudel had skimmed through two magazines, concentration broken continuously as he verified the time or glanced towards the door of the bookstore. There was only one of Roy’s younger assistants on duty here—the Theo assignment had depleted the ranks—and Claudel had stationed him, as a clerk, in the front of the shop. Lavji was his name, and eagerness was his manner. Almost too quick: he had already signalled the entrance of three various blondes, none beautiful. Or perhaps in Lavji’s eyes, all blondes looked the same.

The monotony and tension, strange mixture, were broken by a message from Renwick. Claudel took it on his transceiver, retreating to a rear table piled with books where its use wouldn’t be noticeable and he could still see Lavji. “No go,” Renwick said. “Illness prevented our boy’s appearance. He has rescheduled the signing for Tuesday. By which time he will be out of Bombay.”