The Hidden Target (43 page)

The movements in the room ceased. Carefully, he slipped past the door. Yes, he decided, we’ll reactivate Direct Action. We’ll move; in our way, not in Theo’s. We’ll scare him witless, him and his Leninist friends. We’ll show them what revolution really means. And if his plan in Washington succeeds—all the better for us. Devastating, he had said. America to be paralysed, unable to act—even temporarily? For that, Theo, thank you.

Kiley reached the end of the veranda. Suddenly, the courtyard erupted in noise: protests, shrill cries, authoritative voices. He halted, took one look over the balustrade, drew back. Police. Three in uniform, two in plain clothes.

Beside him was the last room on the veranda, its door gaping wide. He threw his duffel bag across its threshold and started down the narrow staircase. His .32 was in his right hand, held close to his thigh, unnoticeable. His left hand concealed the bogus fountain pen. As yet he hadn’t been seen from the courtyard. Walk normally, he told himself; don’t hurry, don’t rush, don’t look as if you were escaping. Keep cool, Erik. This isn’t the first time you have strolled out of a tight spot.

He reached the last flight of stairs. One man had been posted at the foot of the steps and was watching the courtyard scene with amusement. “They’ve all left, they’ve all left,” the little Indian girl was screaming, “all left in a car.” Forever the centre of attention, Kiley thought. She thrived on drama, that girl; and on a gift of clothes.

He continued down the stairs. The guard turned his head to look up at him. Kiley smiled easily, said, “What’s happening out there? A family fight or something?”

The policeman studied him. “Stay there, please!”

“Of course,” Kiley said pleasantly. He took three more casual steps and halted only a few feet away from the upturned face. He took a long deep breath and held it. He raised his left arm.

“What’s that in your—” The man’s question was never completed. Kiley pressed the release on the cyanide pistol, aiming it directly at the opened mouth. The man groped for support, began sliding to the ground.

Kiley stepped around the crumpled body, kept on walking, released his breath. The man would be dead before Kiley reached the street. But even policemen could have heart attacks, he thought as he slipped the pen into one pocket of his jacket, the .32 into the other. He kept firm hold of it, straightened his tie with his free hand, and ignored three cars drawn up in a phalanx before the entrance to the house.

Automatically, he turned to his left—away from the city’s centre and towards the docks—and mingled with the crowd.

“Stop!” came the yell behind him.

He walked calmly on, people around him on every side. Then as another “Stop!” was yelled, his pace increased. He was ready to break into a run, but he reached a side street, jammed with people and stalls and happy disorder. Well into this excellent cover, he slipped off his jacket, removed his tie as he stopped at a cart where morsels of food were being cooked. He chose two of the small brown objects, highly spiced, and enjoyed them while he sat on a narrow sidewalk beside a group of men and listened to the fading sounds of alarm from the main street.

He sat there amid dirt and debris taking stock of his resources. Money, yes. Three passports: two Canadian, one of them now unnecessary; one American, now dangerous. Three weapons.

At last, he felt he could risk walking slowly out of the market with his tie out of sight and the jacket tucked under his arm. The approach of early night was a help, too. So was the closing of the stalls: under a load of curling green vegetables, he slipped the French-Canadian passport. It would lead the police nowhere. The Kiley passport, however, would have to be destroyed, not abandoned. As soon as he reached the docks he would tear up its inside pages, drop the whole thing into the filthy waters. A sad ending for James Kiley.

And a new beginning for Louis Krimmon, graduate student travelling abroad, Toronto-born and raised, now in need of a berth on a freighter, any honest job to help him work his passage home. No luggage? Stolen. Everything lost except what he carried. Innocent Canadian deceived... Yes, that was the angle.

He had gone barely fifty yards along the street seething with people when he reached the lights of a money exchange still open for business. He saw a telephone just inside its wide door. Call Theo? Warn him of Renwick? Hell no; Theo was saving his own hide, right this minute. More important now was the group of seamen at the exchange entrance. Foreigners, all of them. This was his chance: choose an American, if possible— someone who’d be free with advice, if not help. His eyes were so busy searching out a likely soft mark that he didn’t notice a slight small figure tugging at a man’s sleeve.

Shahna said to Roy’s man, Lavji, “That’s him.”

Lavji signed to the two men who had been waiting behind him for almost an hour. All three reached Kiley, took firm hold. They disarmed him there and then: a .32 in his jacket pocket, a knife strapped above his ankle, a thick fountain pen and pellets. Their car was waiting, drove off before a curious crowd could start gathering.

As Roy had said when he had learned of the escape, of the death of a policeman, “He will telephone a warning. As soon as it grows dark, he will come out of his hiding place—it can’t be far from that house—he disappeared too quickly. So where is the nearest public telephone? Where?”

And Shahna had obliged.

“Seven o’clock and all’s well,” Claudel said.

“So far,” Renwick added to that. Nina was safely asleep nowhere near the Malabar; his friends Mahoney and Benson, the Australians whose room was opposite Renwick’s, were taking turns at guard duty.

Roy, relaxing at his desk in the office behind the gift shop, was entitled to some self-congratulation: the report from Lavji had just come through; Kiley had been taken, too surprised to offer much resistance. “Two down,” he told Renwick.

“And the biggest one to go.”

“Well, he’s still in his suite. When Lavji and the others return, we’ll pay 12A a little visit. Meanwhile...” Roy shrugged and smiled. He had installed a floor waiter to keep watch and a chamber-maid who had even entered the suite ten minutes ago with a batch of fresh towels. True, she hadn’t got beyond the central living-room, been dismissed by the red-haired valet; but she had glimpsed suitcases packed, ready and waiting.

“And when Theo leaves,” Renwick said, “he won’t be Dr. Frederick Weber with white hair, white moustache, and slow movements.” That was all the information on Weber that the hotel desk could provide; that, and the fact that he had been a normal guest—sometimes visiting the bar, sometimes eating in the grill, and sometimes taxiing out for dinner. His announced visitors had been business-men—antique dealers—which was to be expected.

“We know his height, his approximate weight,” Roy said. “That won’t be altered.”

Probably not, thought Renwick: this climate made added girth unpleasant; heavy padding around Theo’s waist would have him sweating like a pig. “I think I’ll take a walk around the elevators,” he said.

“Again?” Roy was amused, slightly annoyed, too. “I have men posted there: one on each elevator along with its operator. Anyone descending from the twelfth floor whom the operators haven’t seen before will be detained. We’ll hear about it as soon as it happens. Time enough then to have our confrontation. The elevators are only a minute away—less—from the accountants’ room next door to us. And don’t worry about the self-service elevators. They are out of commission.”

Renwick stayed where he was, even if unwillingly: Roy was in charge; he had co-operated fully and well. That’s the hell of it, Renwick was thinking: you take assistance, and you’re in a subsidiary role. No matter that all Roy’s information about Theo had come from Claudel or himself: Roy was in control at this moment and, with two successes already claimed, he was in no mood to have his excellent arrangements questioned.

Claudel said tactfully, “Extraordinary news we received from London, Bob.” Gilman had given it when Renwick had contacted him about Marco’s arrest and Nina’s safety. “Have any idea who blew up that San Carlos ammunition dump? He did more than that: he has the FBI swarming all over the place.”

And died, too. It could only have been Sal. He knew the way to enter that compound, silence the dogs, approach the armoury. “I didn’t arrange it—wish I had,” said Renwick.

“He was working alone?”

“Must have been.”

“Someone with a grudge?”

“Or his own sense of justice.”

“That can be dangerous.”

“It was—for him.” But Sal would have thought the price well worth it.

“How important was Rancho San—?”

Roy’s telephone rang. It was a message from the hotel desk. “Did you announce him? He was expected? I see. What’s his description?” The call ended and Roy could turn to Renwick and Claudel. “A visitor for Dr. Frederick Weber. Introduced himself as Schmidt, an antique dealer. Said he had an appointment for quarter past seven. The desk cleared that with Weber’s suite. Schmidt is now on his way up to 12A.”

“Inconvenient timing,” Claudel said. “Unless Dr. Weber isn’t planning to leave tonight.” That had been Renwick’s hunch: Theo would clear out of Bombay as soon as possible; Theo was running scared—why else cancel that vital meeting in the bank, and at such short notice? “Oh, I know,” Claudel went on, catching a sharp glance from Renwick, “his suitcases are ready to go. But some people do pack on the night before an early-morning start.”

Renwick said, “What description did you get, Roy?”

“Cream-coloured suit. About fifty years old, wears heavy glasses, has dark-brown hair—worn long but well brushed, carries a Panama hat. Very presentable.” Roy frowned. “Sounds possible. All open and above board, wouldn’t you say?”

“Height? Weight?” Renwick asked quietly.

Roy stared at Renwick, but he picked up the receiver again and—after some delay—got the information. “Medium height and weight and deeply tanned face. Anything more, Robert?” he asked with a touch of sarcasm.

“Check with the twelfth floor. When did Schmidt enter the suite?”

“The floor waiter will report when there is anything to report,” Roy said. “See!” he added, pointing to his expert over by a proud battery of radios and powerful transmitters who was receiving a message by means of a humble transceiver. It came from the twelfth floor. A visitor in a cream-coloured suit, dark-haired, had been admitted to 12A eight minutes ago. He was just leaving now.

“The old shell game,” Renwick said softly.

Claudel and Roy exchanged puzzled glances.

“He stayed just long enough for an exchange of suit and tie, an adjustment in make-up if needed.” Renwick was on his feet, half-way to the door. “Let’s move! Come on, you two, come on!” He left.

Claudel recovered, followed quickly.

“I’ll warn the elevators,” Roy said and began trying to contact their operators.

Renwick’s run through a startled accounting department brought him into a short stretch of narrow hall. He checked his pace to a brisk walk as he entered the hotel lobby. A bank of four elevators faced him: two doors open, waiting for customers; one door closed, its indicator showing an ascent; the last door, also closed, its indicator beginning its descent from the upper floors.

Renwick nodded to Claudel, who had joined him, looked around for one of Roy’s agents. Yes, there was the Mercedes’ driver, trying to appear inconspicuous.

Claudel said, “I see Lavji arriving—he looks a very happy man. Promotion assured.”

“Does he see us?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” So had Roy’s driver. He folded his newspaper and walked slowly forward. “Keep you eyes on that elevator,” Renwick told him. “Look for a cream-coloured suit.” And then Renwick stared at the indicator. “It has stopped.” Stopped at the second floor.

“Not for long,” Claudel said as the elevator started down again.

It reached the lobby. Its doors slid open. Several people emerged. Nine altogether. And not one light-coloured suit among them.

“Goddamn it—” began Renwick. Then to Roy’s agent, “Where’s the staircase?”

“The main staircase or the fire staircase?”

“Where are they?” Renwick’s voice was urgent.

“There—near the hotel desk—that’s the main staircase. The fire exit...” He was pointing now to the rear of the lobby, close to the arcade, where a handsome door had a small orange light glowing overhead, “There are other fire exits, too,” he said helpfully. “In all quarters of this building...”

“Any of them near these elevators?” Renwick cut in.

“That one!” He pointed again to the orange light.

Quickly, Renwick said to Claudel, “Take the front entrance. Lavji, too. I’ll watch the arcade with helpful Harry. Keep in touch, Pierre.” He had pulled out his mini-transceiver, small enough to be concealed in his hand: not much range but good enough for the lobby’s long stretch. Pierre nodded, moved off with his transceiver ready.

Renwick signed to Roy’s driver to follow, left for the lobby’s exit to the arcade. The bar and restaurants lay that way, each with an entrance from the lobby, each with its door on to the arcade’s covered walk. Theo would have plenty of choices for an escape if he used the fire stairs. Renwick kept his eyes on that door with the subdued orange light, expecting it to open any moment. Wish to God I had my Beretta, he thought: a courtesy to Roy, who had forbidden the carrying of any gun in crowded places; Renwick’s role was to identify Theo and leave Roy’s men to deal with him.

Renwick glanced around for his back-up; but the man wasn’t following. He was explaining everything to Roy, who had just appeared. For God’s sake, thought Renwick—and then froze. Beyond where Roy was standing, the main staircase swept down into the lobby, its balustrades banked by flowers. A man in an ice-cream suit was descending at a leisurely pace, his shoulders visible, his Panama hat being donned over his dark hair as he prepared to step down into the lobby and join the flow of people.

Renwick swung around, retraced his steps, resisted breaking into a run: haste would attract Theo’s attention—he had been studying the lobby, gauging its safety in his measured progress downstairs. You blasted fool, you damned idiot, Renwick told himself: you were wrong, you were wrong—he’s going to stroll out by the front entrance into a nice dark night. But why? Not just because of a grand exit—not Theo: he’d take the surest way to certain escape. Through a crowded lobby where he couldn’t hurry? Then Renwick guessed the answer. As he reached Roy, saying quickly, “He is in the lobby, just passing the hotel desk,” he raised his transceiver and pressed its signal for Claudel’s attention. “Pierre—he is taking the main entrance. Schmidt’s car and driver—they could be waiting at the front steps. Best get him there—away from the lobby. Check outside. Take Lavji and whoever is with him.”