The Hidden Target Page 11

  “So you’ve traced him.”

  “Her.”

  “Luisa?” Jake’s devoted secretary? It was hard to believe.

  “Not too difficult to uncover, once I started thinking the unthinkable and delved into Luisa’s private life. Her first reaction to Crefeld’s death was embarrassing—that was the night I returned from Amsterdam with the news and told her I was convinced it was murder.” Vroom was thinking of that scene. Luisa waiting in Crefeld’s office, hours later than her usual routine allowed, her face contorted with the shock, her abnormal protest, a voice rising into hysteria: “But why— why? They didn’t have to kill him, they didn’t have to kill him!” Vroom shook his head. “She went to pieces. Excessive anguish. Yet the news about the stolen briefcase had left her quite unmoved.”

  “You told her a lot.” Renwick’s quiet voice held a touch of reprimand.

  “I trusted her,” Vroom said simply. “But after that hysterical reaction—well, we started investigating. Hard. Intensively. She’s been living secretly with a man called Maartens. Younger than she is. Handsome. Ardent. Most flattering for a woman over forty who isn’t particularly attractive.”

  “Was she aware she was being investigated?”

  “We made sure she was aware. And we got results. She asked for sick leave, pleaded doctor’s orders, a visit to a clinic in Switzerland. But we caught her yesterday at the German border, on a train for Berlin.”

  “You’ve had a busy week,” Renwick observed wryly.

  “Unpleasant,” Vroom admitted. “Most unpleasant. Except that Maartens is an important discovery. We had his telephone tapped. He has been very busy in these last eight days since Crefeld was murdered. He has connections here in Brussels as well as his little love nest in The Hague. He works on women, and through them.” Vroom drew a snapshot from his pocket, handed it over to Renwick. “Ever come across him?”

  The photograph was poor—hazy background of café tables—but the fair-haired man, face turned for a quick moment towards the hidden camera, was clear enough. I’ve seen him, Renwick thought: I’ve seen that face. Once. Briefly. With the grey-haired man? Renwick kept his voice normal. “Works on women, does he?”

  Careful now, Vroom warned himself. He said. “That’s his specialty. Some through sex. Some—” he hesitated slightly, avoided Renwick’s eyes—“through money. Subsidises a failing business, brings it new clients and success.”

  Renwick’s face was unreadable. “Any connection with the grey-haired man?”

  “Luisa admitted she had seen him once, when he paid a late-night visit to Maartens. She never learned his name, but her identification of him—we showed her a copy of the composite drawing made by the Rotterdam police artist—was definite.”

  “So that’s how he got directions to this building? From Maartens, by way of Luisa?”

  Vroom shook his head. “Not through Luisa. She didn’t know where you worked. That information must have come from—from someone in Brussels.” His voice was hesitant. He almost spoke again, and then cut himself off.

  Renwick looked at him sharply. Vroom was the voluble man, quick-witted, with phrases to match that often covered his nervousness. Tonight he had been showing a new assurance— perhaps the prospect of promotion, a sense of accomplishment, had added to his confidence. So why all this backing and filling now? “Did Maartens telephone Brussels?”

  Vroom nodded. “He wanted information about you. His call—again there was that agonising hesitation—“was to an interior decorator here. To a business he subsidised eighteen months ago.”

  And suddenly the long-buried memory of those two men rose to the surface. A cold bitter evening in November just after he had met Thérèse Colbert—a visit to her apartment an hour earlier than intended—two strangers stepping out of Thérèse’s door into the elevator, brushing past Renwick as they pulled on their overcoats. Grey hair, blond hair, one with a sharp beak of a nose, a pointed chin; the other, smoothskinned, even-featured. Clients, Thérèse had told him without any prompting, two men who were in the hotel business giving her a contract as their decorator.

  Vroom was saying, “The name of that firm is...” Again the tactful hesitation.

  “Colbert et Cie,” Renwick said.

  “Of course, Madame Colbert would have no idea what his real purpose was. He’d ask information about your office, your movements, in a roundabout way.”

  “Of course.” Renwick rose abruptly. And there, in Thérèse’s apartment, Maartens would have made sure of a photograph for his files. Together with a photograph taken as Renwick left Crefeld’s building, his identification had been easy. Small wonder the grey-haired man could recognise him on sight. Renwick drew a deep breath, slowly poured out two more drinks. “One for the road,” he said as he handed Vroom his glass.

  Vroom took the hint, got to his feet, spoke hurriedly. “Yes, we’ve spent too much time together. But I’d like to question the grey-haired man. Can that be arranged?” He finished his drink quickly. “I’ll see you on your return from America. There is still a lot to clear up.”

  “A lot,” Renwick agreed. “Can I keep this photograph of Maartens? You’ve other copies?”

  “Of course. And one thing more—” Vroom remembered as he reached the door—“did you ever come across the name Herman Kroll? This man Maartens was one of his young men. That was some time ago—in East Germany—before Kroll was killed in a helicopter crash.” With that, Vroom was out of the door, leaving Renwick to stare after him.

  Kroll—Otto Remp—Theo; and the man Maartens. Renwick set aside his glass. In that last second, Vroom had given the most important piece of information of all. Unwittingly. Didn’t he know Kroll’s death had been faked? That Theo was alive and functioning? Of course he couldn’t have known: talk of Kroll had been only between Crefeld and Renwick, and Crefeld had never lived to take Vroom into his confidence. I was too slow, too damned stupefied, Renwick thought, too shocked by Vroom’s information on Thérèse... I ought to have told him about Theo. I ought to have warned him. And why didn’t I even get around to telling him about Interintell? Or asking him to take Jake Crefeld’s place? I was just too damned stupefied.

  He still was. The agony of betrayal was hitting him hard. His fist clenched and struck his desk a heavy blow, as if physical pain could be a substitute for what he felt.

  Then he thought, I can either sit here and get soaking drunk. Or I can take a good look at myself and start reshaping my life. Too much desk work in these last eighteen months. Apart from my visits to Essen and Amsterdam, I have been Brussels-bound, tied by responsibilities. That came from my promotion, of course: paperwork and conferences, committees and decisions. Too much of that by day. And by night? Smooth white arms, blue eyes wide with sympathy, and wild embraces...

  Forget her, he told himself. You can’t even allow your vanity the luxury of doubting Vroom’s word. Vroom had been too sure of his facts. A man intent on becoming Crefeld’s replacement was not going to jeopardise his promotion by wild statements or halfcocked deductions. Vroom had more information than he had divulged. Out of friendship—or at least a desire for friendship? Or perhaps give him credit for believing this could happen to any of us. As it had done to Crefeld, with his complete trust in an invaluable secretary. Except in your case, you goddamned fool Renwick, you weren’t deceived by a woman’s efficiency. You fell for the oldest game in this sorry world.

  All right, he told himself now. Make out your report of today’s events, deliver it along with your resignation. This was as good a time as any to turn the rumours—a nice little piece of camouflage, he had told Jake—into something that could be believed by the opposition. But he would have to make two things clear in that report: he had no interest in Kurt Leitner or Maartens. As for Thérèse Colbert—no connection with Maartens, just a woman on the make.

  Quickly, he uncovered his small typewriter, began batting out the reasons for his tendered resignation. There were two of them, compressed into one page—the Big M
an upstairs liked all urgent business condensed to a quickly readable statement. First, the assassination attempt in this building (briefly described) proved Renwick was under close scrutiny: all future work, based here, was now rendered difficult and ineffective. Second, Thérèse and his stupidity (no punches pulled there) made this resignation obligatory.

  Yes, he decided as he read his brief report: this would be believed by men like Theo. The acceptance of his resignation would also be believed. (And, he reminded himself, any more mistakes like Thérèse and his resignation would indeed be accepted. How could he have been so easily gulled—as if he were a naive twenty-one-year-old, filled with the trust in sincere blue eyes?)

  The office upstairs would still be open. The Big Man worked late, never left his desk until eight o’clock at the earliest. It was now almost seven. Renwick reached for the telephone and made a request for an emergency meeting. His luck, grim today, had turned: his request was granted.

  What if, he wondered wryly as he took the elevator upstairs, I lose this gambit? What if I have my resignation actually accepted? Then no backing for any future work—no base for operations, no files to be called on, no computers to help, no pool of information, no agents working under my control. Without all that, a project like Interintell would be dead, and Theo’s man, so carefully groomed for future stardom in America, could slip away from us as adeptly as he had left Essen, Rotterdam, Schiphol Airport.

  His luck held. He won his gambit: Theo, and the file Renwick had collected on Mr. Otto Remp of Düsseldorf, won it for him.

  ***

  By nine o’clock he was back in his office, finishing his last job of clearing up. He made one final telephone call. To Thérèse.

  She sounded slightly rushed, a little flustered. “Oh, darling— I’m so glad you called. I’ve been trying to reach you for the last hour. Tonight’s impossible. I’m just leaving. Mother isn’t well—I’ve got to go to her.”

  “At this hour?”

  “It isn’t so late—a short drive to Bruges.”

  “How long will you be there?”

  “Overnight. We’ll leave tomorrow for Switzerland. Mother’s doctor says she ought to visit a clinic.”

  “Sounds dull for you. Where is it?”

  “Near Lausanne. It depends on Mother’s health how long we’ll stay. August is soon here, the shop will be closed for the vacation, so I’m free to be with her. You do understand?”

  “Of course.”

  “What about you? When do you get back here?”

  “I don’t. I’m looking for a job.”

  There was a marked silence. “Where? What kind of job?”

  “I’m still deciding. I’ve had two offers—London or Paris.”

  “You are really resigning? No more Brussels?”

  “I handed in my resignation tonight.”

  “Oh, Bob!... There’s the doorbell. It must be my driver to tell me the car is waiting. Goodbye, darling.” And the line went dead.

  Goodbye, darling. Just like that? He replaced the receiver, shaking his head. He had heard no doorbell ringing, although her telephone was on the table in the small hall only six feet away from its entrance. And that long silence—a hand covering the mouth of the receiver? There had been no sound whatsoever—a complete clamp-down. Who had been with her? he wondered. Who had shared the call, prompted her to ask what kind of job and where?

  Or perhaps he was overreacting. What had he wanted to hear from her, anyway? Words that would reassure him she hadn’t known what she had done. A voice that recalled memories of nights past. Goddamned fool, he told himself. The verdict is in but you want it miraculously reversed. Quickly, cutting off all sentiment, he seized his bag, locked the door of his office suite, dropped the keys with Millbank’s office.

  ***

  Millbank, the complete diplomat, had been waiting to make a formal goodbye. He was still a little stunned, but secretly delighted, with his sudden promotion. “I’ll take care of your office,” he reassured Renwick as they walked together to the elevator.

  He would, thought Renwick: he was a capable man. “Couldn’t be in better hands.”

  Millbank dropped his voice. “How long?”

  “Indefinitely.”

  “Oh?”

  “But I’ll keep in touch.”

  “Yes. Any time we can help—”

  “I’ll lean on you,” Renwick said. “See about renting my apartment, will you?”

  “I’ve got a secretary who’s already putting in her bid.”

  “News does get around.”

  “We’ll have your things stored for you.”

  “There isn’t much that’s valuable. But have the place gone over thoroughly, will you? We don’t want your secretary having her love life bugged.”

  That startled Millbank. “You think someone had your place wired for sound?”

  “Shouldn’t be surprised. But don’t let that bother you. I never talked business there.”

  “Careful fellow,” Millbank said.

  “Not careful enough.” There was no smile now in Renwick’s voice or eyes. But his final handshake was warm. “Take care of the shop.” He will, thought Renwick; otherwise I couldn’t be leaving with this feeling of freedom.

  “Good luck, Bob.”

  “And to you.” With committees and conferences and files upon files. Poor old Millbank, he didn’t know what he was getting into. But it was possible Millbank was the type to enjoy it all.

  “One thing—” Millbank had suddenly remembered—“I had your travel arrangements changed as you asked. You’ll have a—”

  “Yes. Thanks for that,” Renwick cut in. He would have a stopover in London to have a quiet session with Ronald Gilman. Agenda, in order of importance: Theo; the “American” from Rotterdam, travelling to London on 14 June; the tropical-disease expert, Dr. Ilsa Schlott. The last two items were difficult, might be impossible to trace. But Ronald Gilman had the resources, and the brains and the tenacity. Interintell was no longer an idea; it was now being put to work. “Thanks again,” Renwick said, as the elevator arrived at last.

  “Just watch out for men carrying walking sticks,” was Millbank’s parting advice to the elevator’s closing door.

  Yes, Renwick thought, news does get around. But in this instance he had no objections. He couldn’t help wondering what kind of reputation would be left him, once speculation had done its work: an attempt on his life, so he picked up and ran. Just part of the picture, Theo. You haven’t much of an adversary, have you? You can forget about me. You’ve more important enemies to worry about.

  10

  “So,” Nina O’Connell said, “this is Greece.” She shook her head. In the dusk, the empty sands and the curve of grey-dark waters looked desolate. More desolate still were the half-dozen blacked-out houses edging the shore. Even the lights in the adjoining café, the one sign of possible life on the beach, were dismal. Madge came stumbling out of the camper, stiff from the long jolting ride, over the Yugoslav border and down through the mountains to this stretch of flat land. She halted abruptly. “Where are we?” she asked in dismay.

  Guido Lambrese said, “It isn’t Athens, certainly. Or Sounion. Or Delphi.” Then he added a quick phrase in Italian that sounded far from complimentary. His friend Henryk came to stand beside him. “Perhaps it will look better by daylight,” Henryk suggested.

  Nina glanced at the Dutchman, the perpetual optimist, but tonight his constant smile had vanished. Nothing will look better in the morning, she thought; this place can never look better at any time. She eased her tired shoulders, tossed her long fall of hair back from her brow, said nothing.

  Marie-Louise and Sven Dissen joined the silent group. The French girl, small and plump, dark eyes flashing indignantly, said, “But this isn’t a campsite! Where do we get water, where do we—”

  “At the café,” James Kiley said as he reached them. Tony Shawfield was still in the camper. Fussing as usual, Nina thought, checking all his equipment before he
locked everything tight. “We can get food there, too. We won’t need to do any cooking for the next few days. Come on, let’s get moving.” His arm went around Nina’s waist, and he drew her towards the café. The others straggled behind them.

  Sven looked back at the far-stretching sea, halted briefly as he pointed over the darkening waters. “Isn’t that the Gulf of Salonika?” He was the avid studier of maps and guide-books. Not, thought Nina, that all his information has done any of us much good except to remind us of the capital cities we’ve bypassed. Europe had become a series of campsites, she decided angrily, with long stretches of scenery in between. Jim had always, of course, his day in the nearest town—collecting the cash that he had waiting for him at Basel, Innsbruck, Zagreb. And Tony, guarding the camper and fiddling with his radio while Jim was absent, would have his day in town as soon as Jim had returned—there always seemed to be some piece of equipment he needed to have checked or replaced. Of course, she had to admit, all of the campsites had been adequate; some of them attractive. And there were the necessary chores to take up time: laundry—my God, she thought, at the end of this trip I’ll never want to drip-dry a shirt again—the buying of food, the cooking of meals, the clean-up jobs to keep litter from gathering; details that no one had thought about back in the comforts of Amsterdam.

  “Or,” Sven was saying, forever the purist, “should we say Thessalonica?”

  Guido, the expert on Greece and archaeological remains, set him right. “It’s the Thermaic Gulf. At the head of it—to the north—” he waved a hand up the coastline—“we have Thessalonica. Or Salonika. What does it matter? It is still only a northeast corner of Greece.”

  Madge ventured, “How far away is Salonika, Jim?”

  “About twenty miles. Thirty-two kilometres, or thereabouts.” Kiley sounded vague.

  “And to the south of us?”

  “Katerini.”

  Sven said, pleased with his memory, “And across the gulf, there are three peninsulas with hotels, bathing beaches, rich Greeks—”