The Hidden Target (6 page)

He left the bar, paying scant attention to the clutter of strangers around him. Foolhardy? Scarcely. German Intelligence, far less the Essen police, didn’t know he was in London. His escape had been clean. Amalie had certainly given them the name Erik as well as his description, but now he was unrecognisable: no need to look over his shoulder as he reached the street, no need to avoid brightly lit thoroughfares or crowded restaurants. Even so, he warned himself, don’t let your guard be too far lowered. It’s enough to stay alert, without acting the conspirator. This whole assignment was turning out to be easier, more enjoyable, than he had foreseen. He had even stopped brooding about the Duisburg fiasco. If it ever could be resurrected, that was Theo’s responsibility. His responsibility, too, to have his lawyers win the release of those who had been arrested.

Theo... Was Theo having him watched right now? Probably, he admitted, and felt a slight chill. It passed. Theo would receive only reports that James Kiley had merged nicely into the London scene. A beginning had been made, no suspicions aroused, progress favourable. Just give me three weeks, perhaps less, he told Theo, and I’ll have these two girls in Amsterdam.

It was a cheerful morning, bright and sparkling, spreading its smile over the waterways of Amsterdam. Robert Renwick had allowed himself an extra hour in his early-morning drive from Brussels—in July there were thousands of tourists and hundreds of sightseeing buses as well as the usual trucks to cope with, not to mention some unexpected delay at the frontier. Today, there had been no complications at all. He had an hour and a half on his hands before he met Crefeld. Purposely, he chose a garage near Central Station: it lay on the far side of the old town from Crefeld’s discreet office. Not his official office; that was in The Hague with the rest of the government buildings. Because Crefeld, in his scrambled call to Renwick yesterday, had suggested Amsterdam for their meeting, there must be a piece of highly important business to discuss. Crefeld, of Dutch Intelligence, attached to the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation until two years ago, was not inclined to suggest a face-to-face meeting unless the information he had was both urgent and vital. Renwick’s response had been quick. He had dropped the work that had piled up on his desk during his absence in Germany last week, and headed in a nicely anonymous rented car for Amsterdam.

An hour and a half... Well, a walk would stretch his legs. He set out at a leisurely pace, in keeping with his civilian clothes—tweed jacket and flannels, nothing flamboyant; just old favourites that made him feel comfortable. The man-made island on which Central Station lay was well behind him. He headed south, then slightly to the west to escape the main thoroughfares and their jam of traffic. Here, in the close huddle of streets, medieval houses edging ancient canals, pointed gables, brick, and sandstone decorated with elaborately trimmed cornices, walking was almost pleasant: still too much traffic, torrents of flying Dutchmen on their bicycles. So he changed direction again, travelling a little to the east to reach the long narrow stretch of Kalverstraat, where traffic was banned and pedestrians could walk without any nervous glances over their shoulders. Too many shops here, for his taste, but you couldn’t have everything. And most of Amsterdam, the tourists, too, seemed to be window gazing.

It was the usual problem, he was thinking, of an old city trying to cope with the twentieth century. From a bird’s-eye view, central Amsterdam would seem to be a completely geometric layout, a concentric sweeping of straight-running canals and parallel streets suddenly twisting, but neatly, carefully, in true Dutch fashion, to let canals and streets run as straight and parallel as ever until the next sharp turn. On a map, the pattern would be logical and easy; on foot, especially a stranger’s foot, it could be mystifying. It had taken him several visits to Amsterdam to master short cuts.

Ahead of him were two of the mystified, pausing in the stream of pedestrians, hesitating about their direction. Two newly arrived lemmings—Renwick’s word for the trek of backpackers swarming off the trains for a week or two of reclining on grass, cosily squashed together, unperturbed by the mixtures of music from a hundred radios or by the polite policemen trying to separate the heroin users from the dreamers on hashish. But these two girls weren’t bent under backpacks: their shoulder bags were large but smart. Striped shirts were tucked into tight blue jeans that didn’t have a quarter inch to spare over neat buttocks. Their blonde hair, shoulder length and no doubt parted in the centre to swing free, was gleaming clean. Two most attractive lemmings, he thought as he noted the slender waists and thighs, the well-proportioned legs poured into skin-tight trousers. From this rear view at least, he added to that. Then one of them obliged his curiosity by turning to face him. Good God, he was now thinking, it can’t be, it couldn’t be—but it was.

Nina O’Connell’s casual glance turned to wide-eyed astonishment. “Robert Renwick—Bob!” She came running towards him, arms outstretched. He had been about to shake hands. Instead, he was caught in a tight hug. Laughing, he hugged right back. She hadn’t changed much in six years. She had been fifteen then, against his thirty-three. Hopeless from the start, he reminded himself as he felt the soft touch of her cheek against his. Then just as quickly, she released him, suddenly remembering she wasn’t fifteen years old any more. But she was still beautiful, a glowing girl, with the same direct glance he remembered only too well. “Madge,” she told her friend, “this is Bob Renwick. Bob—Madge Westerman. Oh, Lord—I got that all the wrong way round, didn’t I?” She was slightly flustered, perhaps embarrassed by that spontaneous hug.

“Let’s forget protocol,” Renwick said with a grin. No, she hadn’t changed much. He shook hands with Madge; gentle brown eyes, he noted, with warmth and a lurking smile. “And I don’t need to ask what you are doing here. On your way to Paris or points south?”

“Much further,” Nina told him. She glanced at Madge and laughed.

Madge said, the smile spreading to her lips, “It’s a chance we couldn’t refuse.”

“It isn’t a joke, Bob.” Nina had been watching his face. “We really
are
travelling. We decided this morning.”

“Just like that?”

“The same annoying man as ever! You never take me seriously. But why are you here? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

She remembers too damn much, Renwick thought. Better get it over with, quickly, and hear more about this far journey. They’re in earnest, both of them. Two innocents abroad. “I’m considering a change in jobs.” Which was true enough.

“What? Are you leaving NATO?” Nina was astounded. She turned to Madge. “He’s a disarmament expert—”

“Oh, come on, Nina,” he interjected.

“Well, you were at that disarmament conference in Geneva—”

“A minor flunky,” he informed Madge. “I opened doors for the generals and saw that the pencils on the conference table were properly sharpened. What about getting out of this foot traffic? An early lunch?” And a fast one. He had only an hour to spare.

“Can’t possibly,” Nina said with real regret. “We’re meeting our friends in—” she glanced at her watch—“forty minutes. How far is the university from here?”

“Which one?”

“The one near the palace.”

“Ten minutes away, perhaps less. What about some coffee? There’s a café in that alley.” He pointed to its sign.

“Indonesian?”

“Why not? Java, after all.”

Madge laughed. “A cup of Java—but of course!”

“All right,” Nina said, starting towards the alley. She was a little annoyed she had been slow to catch his small joke. “And afterwards, will you point us in the right direction?”

“I’ll deliver you there in five minutes—if you can walk as quickly as you once could.”

They entered the café, barely ten feet wide, with miniature, closely packed tables along one wall. “Cosy,” Renwick said, “but the coffee smells just right.” One good thing: they had friends; they weren’t travelling alone. Stupid of him to worry. They were two competent young women. He noted the unobtrusive way they placed the large handbags between their feet, their ankles guarding against any expert snatch from a quick-fingered thief. “The floor is clean,” he reassured them.

“You notice
everything.”
Nina shook her head.

“All your valuables?” he teased.

“Well, it’s the safest way to carry them. We’re travelling light, you know. A duffel bag for our clothes; they roll up easily, don’t crush, drip dry.”

So this was no usual tour, he thought. “Where are you staying now?”

“In a small hotel near the waterfront. The Alba. Perfectly respectable and clean, although it isn’t much to look at.”

“You’re lucky to find a room at this time of year.”

“A friend in London—she’s a Swedish doctor, knows all about tropical diseases—she recommended it. And we were lucky. There were two cancellations on the day we arrived.”

“You see,” Madge said, “we delayed leaving London until the last minute. So many things to be done. And I—well, I really had to be sure I had enough money for a week here.” He looked a little puzzled, so she rushed on. “I’m cashing in my return ticket to New York, so that helps me get around the world.” And I’ll pay back the Scholarship Foundation later. They were accustomed to that, James Kiley had said.

“Around the world?” Renwick asked. On a shoestring? “How are you travelling?” On a freighter, possibly. Even so...

“In a camper,” Nina said. “And it’s a beauty. It’s really a minibus. Plenty of room. All the comforts of home. Air conditioning. A refrigerator—”

“Four-wheel drive,” broke in Madge, “and an eight-cylinder engine. Tony has even got an extra gas tank installed, and there’s storage for canned food and space to sleep at least three. The men will be outside in sleeping bags, of course, and—”

“Hold on,” Renwick said with a wide smile. “You’re travelling way ahead of me. How many are going?”

“Eight. Three girls and five boys, with two guitars, one cassette player, and of course there’s a very special radio. James and Tony were getting that installed this morning, making sure it really will keep us in touch with the world.”

He kept his voice casual, amused. “And where are you going?”

“Across Europe first of all, but we are still deciding about Asia. Tony will have the last say, of course. It’s his camper, and he does know that best routes.”

“Oh?” He didn’t need to do more prompting. Now that the world tour had come into the open, the two girls were explaining how this magic opportunity had come about. Tony Shawfield was English, a car buff who knew all about engines; this trip he was planning was a test run for a firm that had supplied all the special equipment—a kind of promotion job. James Kiley was an American they had met at college in London; he was hoping to get some stories that could give him a short cut into freelance journalism. The others who were going—well, Tony had to choose from fifty students clamouring to join him. Once the news, was out about the trip, he had been besieged. James hadn’t made up
his
mind about going until a few days ago: he wanted to be sure about the camper, about travel companions.

“He sounds sensible,” Renwick conceded. He kept trying to think back to himself aged twenty-one. Would he have jumped at the chance of such a trip? Yes, he damned well would have. “How old are James and Tony?”

“Twenty-seven, I think,” Nina said. “Much more practical than we are. It’s really all right, Bob.” She sensed some reservation on his part. “James is a good friend. I trust him. He really is reliable.”

“And the others?”

“Near our age, I’d guess. There’s a French girl, Marie-Louise, married to a nice Dane. And a Dutch law student—at least, he’s going into law after he gets back from this trip. And a friend of his from Italy. But we won’t have much trouble with languages. Tony insisted that anyone travelling with him had to speak English.”

“That figures.”

“He
isn’t
your typical Englishman,” Nina protested. “It’s just that he’s the captain of the bus, as it were.”

“He will have to know more languages than English to let him pilot it through all these foreign countries—”

“But he does speak three languages. James knows even more—not well, but enough. And Marie-Louise knows some Syrian—she was born there. And Sven Dissen, her husband, who is in medicine, has been working with Pakistani students in Paris. Guido Lambrese was in Greece and Turkey last summer— he’s an archaeologist. And Henryk Tromp—he’s Dutch, from Leyden—can speak Spanish. They all know English, of course. Madge knows French. So do I—and a little German, too. We’ll manage.”

It was certainly a well-arranged travel group. “What’s your route?”

“Oh, we’re still arguing about that,” Madge said. “We’ve all got ideas, but Tony says we’ve got to be sure they are possible.”

“And James says he wants to avoid Communist countries,” Nina added.

That, thought Renwick, with the way things are going might not be so easy nowadays. “Just keep out of the trouble spots.”

Nina laughed. “You sound like Father.”

I suppose I do, Renwick thought. It wasn’t a role he fancied. Damn it all, I’m thirty-nine, he told himself, not Francis O’Connell approaching sixty. “What does he think about all this? No, don’t tell me—I can imagine.” He expected Nina to join in his amusement. She didn’t. “He doesn’t know?”

“Not yet. I’m writing him tonight.”

“And when do you leave? Tomorrow?” he asked jokingly.

“Tomorrow.”

“You know, I’ll be seeing your father when I’m in New York next week. Any messages?”

“You do get around, Bob.”

“Just visiting my friends before I settle back in Europe.”

“You’re taking a job in Europe? I think it’s sad that you’re leaving NATO. Why, really?”

“I’m still making up my mind about a change. Advancing years, you know.” His smile was infectious.

Madge thought, he isn’t old. But of course NATO never made any man rich.

“What will you do?” Nina asked.

“At the moment, if I don’t hurry you out, we’ll have to run all the way.” He was counting the money for the coffee, adding a lavish tip with some guidance from the smooth-faced waiter in his Indonesian turban. “I like their headgear. Natty. That twist of cloth sticking out in front—” But he wasn’t to be let off so easily.