The Hidden Target (39 page)

“But why? Give up his West-East office?”

“Something has made him change his plans, and change them damn quick. Something more than the news from London about the camper—he got rid of it this morning. His apologies arrived at the bank only ten minutes ago—by telephone. Our legal representative was chatting with the receptionist when the call came though—swears it was from some ’phone with distant voices and recurrent chimes in the background.”

“Recurrent chimes—used for paging people in a hotel lobby?”

“That’s the system used at the Malabar. Of course, he could have been lunching there, or passing through. But we’ll start checking on its recent arrivals. He might just possibly be staying there.” Renwick didn’t sound optimistic.

“And how is Roy taking that?” Staying at A.K. Roy’s hotel? A bitter joke.

“Furious. As I am, damn it to hell. A week’s work down the drain. We’re on our way back to you now. Let us know—”

Claudel said quickly, “Signing off. Lavji has spotted a blonde.” He switched off the transceiver, shoved it in his pocket as he started forward, hoping that Lavji—this time—was giving no false alarm. He wasn’t. Nina was there. As yet, she hadn’t entered the store, was standing at the door with three men grouped around her. Shawfield. Shawfield was one of them. He had a grip on her wrist. And suddenly, as she saw Claudel, she turned and left—Shawfield firmly holding one arm, leading her towards the side-street entrance of the arcade. Left willingly, it seemed. Claudel stared at the empty doorway, signalled Lavji to get on their tail as he pulled out his transceiver and sent the message to Renwick and Roy: “Nina intercepted by Shawfield. Am following. Will keep in touch.” Then he, too, was heading towards the side street, a busy street, lined with cars, crowded with people. There was no sign of Nina.

“She’s in that grey Fiat,” Lavji said. “We’ll take this car.” He was already inside the dark-blue Citroën that was always parked there—on Roy’s orders—for any emergency. “They haven’t travelled far. We shall soon catch up.”

“Not too closely,” Claudel warned.

Lavji only smiled for such a naive assumption. Wasn’t he as expert as any Frenchman in following a car through heavy traffic?

Claudel flicked on his transceiver again, made contact with Renwick and Roy, began identifying streets and directions.

“We’ll join up with you,” Renwick said. “And Roy is calling in some back-up. Keep sending.”

Gradually, as Lavji kept the Fiat in sight, Claudel’s emotions calmed. His thoughts, too. No, she hadn’t left willingly or stupidly. She must have resisted walking quickly along that short stretch of arcade to the street, slowed their pace enough to let Lavji keep them in sight. So what did you think you were doing, Nina? Trying to protect me and my cover? He almost smiled, shook his head in wonder.

He kept sending directions to Roy’s car, somewhere across the city in the big-business belt. Ahead of him, the grey Fiat left the Victorian Gothic buildings of red brick, chose a modest street of three-storey houses and shops. No new skyscrapers here, but small businesses; men in shirt sleeves, with ever-present briefcases; women in saris of cotton instead of silk but still attractive and constantly smiling. Caste-conscious, too. They avoided a poorly dressed man and his young son, untouchables, who were sweeping a sidewalk with a straw broom near Gandhi’s house.

Streets and more streets to be identified... Suddenly, the names and signs above the small shops changed, no longer in English but in Arabic. “Now reaching the Muslim quarter,” he told Renwick. “Quiet here, shops closed, traffic light. Friday, of course—their Sabbath.”

“We’ll soon be with you.” Renwick paused. “Are they skirting the Muslim quarter?” There was worry in his voice.

“No. Looks as if they’re heading straight through. Odd direction. They’ll run up against six square blocks of—” Claudel cut off the sentence. Tactless. Renwick knew what adjoined this Muslim section: he had studied the map of Bombay, too. “Turning left into a small lopsided square. Muslim quarter ending. They are slowing down—about to stop—yes, they’ve stopped. At the beginning of Falkland Road.”

There was only silence from Renwick. Roy’s voice took over. “Stay back! Don’t intercept. Keep in your car. We’ll soon be there. A back-up car, too. Wait!”

Lavji eased the Citroën to a halt at one side of the little square, the Fiat nicely in sight. There was only very light traffic at this time of day. By dusk—that would be a different matter. Claudel mastered his flare of temper. “Wait?” he asked bitterly as he watched the Fiat’s door open. Shawfield was stepping out, his hand grasping Nina’s wrist, pulling her to stand beside him. “What in hell...” Claudel began, staring at Shawfield, who was now at the entrance to Falkland Road.

Nina wrenched her arm free, began running, taking the road that lay in front of her. Shawfield seemed unperturbed, let her run, followed at walking pace.

“The cages!” Claudel exclaimed, got out of the car. Roy’s Mercedes came into the square, stopped beside him. “He’s heading her into the cages!”

Roy stared at him, said “Wait!” to Renwick. But Renwick was already out of the Mercedes and running. Roy shook his head. “Now we may lose Shawfield.”

“I’ll give Bob a hand,” Claudel said, and started after him, leaving Roy to give brisk orders to his driver and Lavji—secure the Fiat, hold the two men inside it, let neither escape.

***

Nina had felt Shawfield’s grip slacken on her wrist. She broke free, ran into the road that stretched in front of her. It was empty of traffic. People crowded one sidewalk to her left, the shadowed side of the narrow street: men, poorly dressed, lying asleep against a house wall, loitering aimlessly or squatting near small braziers where they were cooking food; a few gaping entrances of dark cave-like shops wide open on to the pavement—a carpenter in one of them stared out at her. The other sidewalk, in sunlight, was empty; quite empty. But its long line of three-storey houses was crowded. Crowded with women, packed into every storey, standing at the huge glassless windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. They were eyeing her, laughing, calling out in a babble of languages.

She halted in confusion, staring at the women behind the widely spaced wooden bars that decorated the open ground floors. Women of every age—from nine or ten to fifty, sixty. Slender and fat, fair and dark, samples of beauty from everywhere, all of them barely covered by transparent silks, all of them with heavy make-up carefully applied even to the exposed breasts.

She looked at the long stretch of houses, never-ending; across from them, the crowded sidewalk with men in ragged and stained clothes, thin dark faces with unreadable eyes. Those awake were watching her with a silence that terrified her. She hesitated, fighting back her panic. No escape, she thought in despair; not this way. Or could she force herself to run on— reach another street with luck, another street that was normal? Or would it be the same as this? She froze, paralysed with fear. Shawfield’s hand gripped her wrist. “We’ll walk on,” he said, and dragged her further along the street.

He kept talking. “Educational. See what can happen to a girl who is stupid enough to run away from her friends in a strange city. Look!” He gestured to the windows, seemed a little nonplussed by the inviting gestures and voices that now concentrated on him. “Some are sold by their families, some drift in, and some were like you today—they thought they could take care of themselves.” He may have been too absorbed in his lecture or by the street scene around him, but he didn’t notice the lightly running footsteps until they almost reached him. He swung around, dropping Nina’s hand, and faced the stranger.

Renwick caught him by the collar of his shirt and smashed his left fist at the startled jaw. Shawfield staggered, regained his balance; his hand went to the cuff of his sleeve, pulled out his weapon. Renwick was ready, struck Shawfield’s wrist a short and savage blow that gave no time for the trigger to be pressed; the cyanide pistol that looked like a fountain pen dropped on to the road.

Claudel reached them, in time to catch Shawfield’s arm in a locking grip and twist it behind his back. “I’ll take care of him,” he said grimly, increased his pressure, and forced Shawfield towards the cars.

Renwick picked up the cyanide pistol, shoved it into his pocket out of harm’s way: too many eyes from the sidewalk were fixed upon it. “Nina,” he said, holding out his hand.

She had been standing motionless, her face rigid. She looked neither at him nor at the offered hand.

“Nina,” he said softly.

She came to life, began walking slowly, averting her face, ignoring any help. He fell into step beside her, said nothing more. At this moment, Renwick thought, she is hating all men. He looked at the cages, at a slender child with kohl-darkened eyes and scarlet lips. At this moment, he could agree.

***

Roy was at his efficient best. The back-up car—a Renault— had arrived, now giving him a total of five men available. The number was enough to quell any resistance from Gopal. His friend, the driver of the grey Fiat, had bolted—been allowed to run, more accurately, and had been picked up by the police car parked out of sight. Gopal was now sitting in the Renault, his show of righteous indignation to no avail, waiting for Shawfield to join him. Lavji and the Mercedes driver were guarding its doors, but Roy had briefed them quickly and they—like the other three—knew what was expected of them.

Then, as Claudel marched Shawfield back to the cars with a firm and painful grip on Shawfield’s twisted arm, Roy motioned two of his men to take charge. Quickly they relieved Claudel, handcuffed Shawfield, brought him to face Roy.

Shawfield recovered his dignity, drew himself up to his full height. “What authority have you for this outrage?” he demanded.

Roy’s heavy-lidded eyes studied the young man; then he flashed a smile along with an identification card. “The authority to take you to the police station and have you charged with attempted kidnapping. Put him with the other,” he directed one of his men.

Shawfield stood his ground. “There was no kidnapping.” He nodded in Nina’s direction. “We are tourists. She wanted to see Falkland Road. So we came to see it.” He looked at Renwick, who was leading Nina to the Mercedes. “I charge that man with assault. He struck me.”

“Not hard enough,” Renwick said.

Nina halted, aware of the puzzled glances in her direction from the Indians who stood near Shawfield. He was saying indignantly, “She asked me to bring her here. Is that kidnapping?”

Nina drew closer to Renwick. He said quickly, “No one believes that, Nina. No one.”

She stood there, uncertainly. In a low voice she said, “He took all my money. It is in his pocket. I didn’t ask him to bring me here, Bob, I didn’t ask—” She broke down.

Renwick called out, “Have his pockets searched. He took her money.” Then, with a hand on her elbow—no more resistance to his touch, thank God—he drew her to the car. Inside, away from the curious faces, she wept bitterly. This was a Nina he had never seen before, distraught, shaken. He put an arm gently around her, let her cry her anguish away. “Safe now, darling, you’re safe,” he said, smoothing her hair back from her brow. He fought the impulse to take her in his arms, hold her close, kiss the tears from her cheeks, kiss her eyes, kiss her lips. “Safe,” he repeated. It seemed to be the magic word.

Outside, the scene had changed. A slight interruption to my plan, thought Roy, but a brief one. Shawfield’s pockets had been searched. A wad of new rupee notes had been found, quite separate from the money in his own wallet. There was also a traveller’s cheque in Nina O’Connell’s name. “She gave them to me for safekeeping,” protested Shawfield. “She was leaving her bag in the car, so she asked me to carry the money.”

“But she left her passport in her bag,” Roy said. “Is money more valuable, than a passport?” Yes, he thought as he watched Shawfield: I won that round. “Get him into the Renault,” he told his men. To Claudel, who had been standing apart, his back turned as he watched a small group of curious Muslims gathered on the far side of the square, he called, “Let us talk with the young lady. I am interested in her story.” They fell into step. Very quietly, Roy asked, “Did he identify you?”

“I tried hard to avoid it,” Claudel said. He was worried by the way the cars had been parked. The Renault was too far from the Mercedes and the Citroën, too near the empty Fiat. “The man held in the Renault—he isn’t handcuffed.”

“He heard me say I had only one pair. So I was reserving them for the one who needed them most.”

Claudel looked sharply at Roy; then wisely said nothing. At the door to the Mercedes, he glanced back at the Renault. Shawfield was being forced inside. The door beside him was closed and locked. One man guarded it. Only one? On the other side of the car, Lavji should have been on guard, but he was now advancing on the crowd that had gathered, ordering it to stay back, keep away, go home. Roy seemed not in the least perturbed by this, or by his three remaining agents, who were walking slowly away from the Renault, their duty done, their prisoner secured. Wondering, Claudel followed Roy into the front seat of the Mercedes.

Nina’s body tightened; she looked quickly at Renwick. “A friend,” he assured her. “It’s all right, it’s all right, Nina.”

Roy handed her the bag and scarf she had left in the Fiat. “Yes, everything is all right. Your money, too.” He inclined his head. “My name is Roy.”

Renwick said, “Did you mention extradition?”

“Not a word. A nice little surprise to come. But now— please!” Roy put a finger to his lips for silence, switched on the car’s radio. The voices came in, quiet but clear. It was Shawfield speaking, Shawfield and Gopal.

Shawfield was asking, “...the car keys?”

“I have them. Did you think I’d leave them?”

“Where are we being taken?”

“The central office, I heard. They talked with themselves, not with me.”

“Where’s that?”

“I’ve never been there—how can I know? Police headquarters, perhaps. But what can they arrest me for? I told them I didn’t know where we were going, I didn’t—”