The Hidden Target Read online

  Kahraman studied him. “No need for further discussion, my friend. You are needed in America. A message from Gilman, in London, came here just as I returned to this office. It is decoded.” He opened an embossed leather folder on his desk, drew out a sheet of paper. “For you,” he said, handing it to Renwick.

  The message was brief. “Frank Cooper advises you see him in Washington soonest. Interesting developments need immediate study.” Renwick passed the sheet to Claudel.

  “Developments?” Claudel speculated.

  Renwick shrugged. “Could be anything.” It was certainly urgent. And important enough to be sent as a carefully coded message. He rose. “I’ll leave tomorrow. Early. Or,” he asked Kahraman, “is there a late flight tonight?”

  “For Paris, perhaps, by way of Rome. I shall check and telephone you at your hotel. Next visit—” Kahraman rose from the nest of red silk cushions in his carved armchair—“we shall see each other more often.” There was an affectionate embrace and wishes for a safe and good journey.

  Claudel was also on his feet, uncertain whether he should go or stay.

  Kahraman decided for him. “We have much to discuss. Fahri will join us. Your strategy must be well planned.”

  “Then it’s goodbye,” Claudel said to Renwick, walking with him to the door. “Until Bombay?”

  “I wish you better luck than I had on this trip. Keep in touch if you can.”

  “I’ll keep you briefed, when possible.”

  “If you feel—sense—some crisis, some danger—”

  “I’ll make contact with Nina, show her she has friends.”

  “Get her out!” Renwick’s voice was sharp.

  “Kidnap her?” Claudel was smiling. “Fahri is just the man for that.” Then he turned serious. “Stop worrying about those spaced-out kids on that beach. Kiley wouldn’t risk drugs with Nina. He wants to meet her father, doesn’t he?”

  “Tell Nina I gave you this.” On impulse Renwick reached into his jacket for Merriman & Co.’s card. In pencil he wrote: Courtyard of the Janissaries.

  Claudel read the message, raised an eyebrow. “Adequate introduction?”

  “If you need more, remind her how she pitied the tribute children.”

  Claudel looked at his friend curiously, pocketed the card in silence. They shook hands in a tight grip. Then Renwick left, with a last salute and a word of warm thanks to Kahraman—an imposing figure standing erect beside his massive desk, not one crease in the silver-grey jacket, not one hair escaping from its brilliantine hold, not one furrow on that smooth benign face.

  “Now,” said Kahraman, “I arrange for transport to Paris. Then to business, Pierre.” He seated himself on the red silk cushions, switched on intercommunications, began giving orders.

  15

  At Dulles Airport, Frank Cooper was in the car that met Renwick. Cooper, large frame and long legs occupying most of the rear seat, white hair almost hidden by his battered felt hat, well-tailored suit worn uncaringly, had the look of repressed excitement in his broad grin of welcome. At the wheel, Salvatore Marini also showed pleasure, with a smile of white teeth all the brighter by contrast with his olive complexion. His thick hair was still dark although he was almost of Cooper’s vintage— they had worked as a team in their OSS visits to occupied territory some thirty-five years ago: Cooper, the lieutenant in charge; Marini, his sergeant and radio expert.

  Renwick dropped his bag into the front seat with a “Hi, Sal!” before he slid into a corner of space beside Cooper. Controls were pressed to lock the doors and raise the glass partition. Not even Sal, now guardian and general factotum to Cooper for the past thirty years, needed to hear all the details of his boss’s business. Sal understood: the less he knew, the safer he—and the information—would stay.

  Cooper was studying Renwick. “A bad journey?”

  “Delays. At Rome. And at De Gaulle. Sorry if I’m behind schedule.”

  “Not at all. You’re on time. How was Istanbul?”

  “It’s fine. But I wasn’t. I missed. Badly.”

  “Not your fault. A matter of luck. Sometimes it’s with us; other times, against.”

  “You’ve heard from Kahraman?”

  “At six this morning. Nina and her friends are about to leave Bursa. The camper is brown, by the way.”

  “That was a short stay.” Renwick tried to calculate it exactly, but the long flight and time changes had left his mind soggy.

  “Two nights. But productive from Kahraman’s point of view. No details, of course. I’ll hear more when I visit Gilman in London on Monday.”

  That’s where I’d like to be right now, thought Renwick, on top of all the reports coming in. Of course, they might not: there could be long gaps when I’d sit staring at a map.

  “I’ve just bought you a house.”

  Renwick’s exhaustion left him.

  “Rather, I’ve leased you a house with a view to buying it. Your hunch about Mr. Otto Remp’s interest in real estate near Los Angeles was on the right track.”

  “Theo has got himself a safe house in Southern California?”

  “I thought that would revive you,” Cooper said.

  “And you’ve rented a place near him?”

  “About five miles away by road. Half of that distance by a climb over rough terrain. Let me explain.” Cooper took out a map of the area. “Theo, as well as purchasing an office for his West-East Travel bureau, used the same agent to find a house for his friend from New York, a Mr. Walter Gunter. Gunter took possession about a month ago. It’s a large property, several buildings, many acres, called Rancho San Carlos. The house where you’ll be staying for a couple of weeks is much smaller— just room for you and Sal and Tim MacEwan. Mac is flying to San Diego today from Montreal. Sal will leave tonight to join him. They’ll pick up the keys and have the house opened and ready for your arrival. You’ll go in by Los Angeles, reaching there by Friday.”

  Today was Thursday. Or wasn’t it? Renwick asked himself. “And do I just waste today in Washington?”

  “Catching up on your sleep and getting mealtimes back to normal,” Cooper suggested. “Sorry to have brought you here on such short notice, but this is urgent business. Something is going on at Rancho San Carlos. All we could learn from our real-estate firm—don’t worry, we didn’t use Theo’s agent: we got our little house through a San Diego outfit—is that Rancho San Carlos needs a lot of improvement and the new owner has brought in his own work crew to do the job. Who are these workers, Bob? Who is Walter Gunter? We had inquiries made in Los Angeles, where he seemingly put in an appearance at the real-estate office. From the description, he comes close to the photograph you gave me—taken at a café in The Hague.”

  “Maartens.” Renwick caught his breath.

  “Could be. We’d like to know, wouldn’t we? And what’s the purpose of Rancho San Carlos?”

  “It might be a training camp, or a briefing station,” Renwick suggested.

  “Something’s being cooked up. One hell of a brew.” Cooper spread out the map and pointed. “There’s Sawyer Springs—just over seventy miles south-east of Los Angeles, about fifty miles north-east of San Diego, and some forty miles from the Pacific. Your place is three miles east of the little town—fewer than eight hundred inhabitants, a gas station, agricultural implements, a general store, not much else. You’ll find the house easily: its name, Buena Vista, is well marked. All clear?”

  Renwick nodded. “I rent a car at Los Angeles?”

  “One has been booked for you. Name of Roger Black.”

  “What’s my line of work?”

  “You’re a writer—natural history.”

  “The open-air life?” A good excuse for wandering around rough terrain.

  “That’s it. Mac is your secretary. Sal is cook and bottle washer, chauffeur and buyer of supplies.”

  “At least we won’t starve.” Sal was a master at cooking as well as an expert in electronics. “But can you spare Sal?”

  “He’s
all set to go with you. Like an old war-horse, he senses action ahead. Wish I could be there, too, but I’ll have a couple of quiet days at East Hampton to get my thoughts ready for London on Monday. After that, it’s Rome with a team of lawyers, and then over to Algiers. I’ll be in New York by the time you get back. Well, here’s your motel, Mr. Black. I hope your room is comfortable.” Cooper pushed an envelope into Renwick’s hand. “Driver’s licence and ticket for tomorrow morning’s flight to Los Angeles. You board the plane at Dulles. I thought this place would be a handy location.”

  The car drew up; the glass partition was lowered. “Good hunting,” Cooper said softly. “Sal will bring you some equipment and heavier clothes. Hope they fit.” Then he remembered one last piece of news, small but amusing. “About that cocktail party I gave on your last evening in New York—just as well you didn’t appear. We had gate-crashers. One came with a young man from the State Department: beautiful woman, brunette, an interior decorator from Brussels.”

  Renwick, reaching for his bag, looked back sharply at Cooper, who went on, “She’s now living in Washington. She asked me how you were.” Cooper laughed, shaking his head. “She was so sorry you weren’t at the party.”

  “Still using her own name?”

  “Thérèse Colbert? Of course. She thinks she is in the clear, that no one suspects. Cool customer. But damned attractive.”

  “She’s all of that,” Renwick said, tight-lipped. He opened the car door and stepped put. “Be seeing you,” he told Sal. By the time Renwick reached the motel entrance, the car was already on its way to Cooper’s branch office in Washington.

  ***

  California’s multiple-lane highways brought Renwick half-way to Sawyer Springs. The rest of the journey from Los Angeles was then on narrow roads, well surfaced against all weathers, nicely cambered for any twists or turns as the route began a long ascent. The fruit ranches, with their orange groves drinking in the hot September sun to nurture their fruit for next January, gave way to the avocado farms, acre after acre of neatly spaced trees, richly green against the red soil of the gentle slopes. Then, as the incline increased, there were rough fields with wild flowers of blue and bright yellow, with scattered boulders and outcrops of rock, with groupings of trees. To the east, further than he would travel but near enough for the dark green of bristling pines to be marked, were the forest-covered reaches of Mount Palomar, with its observatory on the crest of 6000-odd feet. But this was hardly the time for stargazing, Renwick thought regretfully. Bird-watching, and of some ugly specimens at that, would keep him well occupied for the next two weeks.

  Sawyer Springs was like the rest of the isolated small towns—villages? settlements?—he had passed: a stretch of two-storey houses along a lethargic main street. If there was a church, it was well disguised; probably hidden, spireless, in the background of eucalyptus trees. One small motel, no cars visible; a post office adjoining the general store; no police station; a volunteer fire truck near a repair shop for tractors, only one evident; a small café; a gas station, which seemed to be the one flourishing place of business—it, at least, had been given a recent coat of paint. There were few people visible at this time of day, and only two dogs asleep under the tractor. This was a town, thought Renwick, with its life ebbing.

  Beyond Sawyer Springs were more fields and a gentle slope away of land on the right-hand side of the road. To his left, there were a few houses, well separated, each with considerable acreage. Buena Vista was the third one, shielded like the others by trees and its own spread of ground. The short driveway was of hard-packed earth, no longer red but greyish brown, a colour matched by the weathered wood of the two-storey building. There was an adjacent garage, a large chimney of rough-hacked stone, a garden that had been abandoned, window boxes unplanted. The door was wide open, and Sal was standing there: one encouraging note, thought Renwick as he got out of the car. He looked back at the road. Buena Vista lived up to its name: there was a clear view of the southern hills, rolling limitlessly to the east and west. Space and peace, a feeling that nothing had been touched by man.

  Sal stood beside him, eyeing his clothes. “You’ll need something warmer for this part of the world. We’re three thousand feet high.”

  “Above snake level?” Renwick smiled. In Wyoming, that was the safety limit, he had been told. Only a month since he had been there? Scarcely two months since he had met Crefeld in Amsterdam? How much learned, how much planned since then, how much still to do. He turned to the house. “Where’s MacEwan?”

  “Mixing the drinks. Snakes—what kind of snakes?”

  “Probably not here,” Renwick reassured him. “Nearer the coast, you get rattlers in the canyons. Climb up into people’s back yards.”

  Sal didn’t believe him. “You notice the drop in temperature? Twenty degrees cooler, at least. And no humidity.” Thinking of Washington and New York, his smile was back to normal.

  They entered directly into the main room, medium-sized, furnished with odds and ends—a makeshift for renters, no polished surfaces to be marred or scarred, no carpets to be spotted by stains or burns. But there was a fireplace and logs at its side; three armchairs and a deep-cushioned couch; tables, one large and strong, two small and rickety; a shelf of paperbacks, a radio, and a TV set.

  “They work,” Mac said, bringing over a scotch-and-soda. “Everything works. Miss Gladstone tested it all. Good to see you, Bob.”

  “Good to see you here, Mac.” Renwick took a long drink. He pointed to the flowers in a vase on the mantelpiece, then at a basket of fruit centred on the large table. “Miss Gladstone?” The woman’s touch, he thought. “Who the hell is Gladstone?”

  “Works for the San Diego real-estate office. She was waiting for us there when we picked up the keys, led the way here to make sure we didn’t get lost. Actually,” MacEwan went on in his serious Canadian voice, tinged with Scots, “she was very helpful. Stopped at Escondido—that’s a fair-sized town about twenty miles from here—and showed Sal the biggest supermarket. He bought enough food to feed us for the next week.”

  “And some light bulbs,” Sal called from the kitchen, which was almost a part of the room. He came back with his can of beer. “Yes, she went around this place, switching on and off lights, turning on faucets, flushing the toilet, checking the refrigerator, stove—everything.”

  “Too helpful?” Renwick asked.

  “Just a nice warm-hearted woman,” Mac judged. Then his thoughtful face cracked into a smile. “When she left, Sal went around this place. With his useful little gadget. Found no bugs, no nasty surprises.”

  “Changed the light bulbs, too,” Sal said cheerfully.

  “Relax, Bob,” Mac told Renwick. “Have a seat.”

  “I’ve been sitting for the better part of three days.” Renwick paced around the room, looked out of its windows—two faced south, towards the road, three faced west towards a field bordered by a few old trees. Very few.

  “Well, I’m resting my legs. Sal and I’ve been unpacking for the last two hours—got all his paraphernalia set up in his room. That’s on the ground floor.”

  “Lets me keep an eye on the doors,” Sal said. “There’s a big TV aerial; we’ll have no trouble disguising our own. You want to see upstairs?”

  “Later, Sal.”

  Mac said, “Our rooms are up there. A lot of windows. View at the back of the house is mostly of hill, and of burned trees. There was a big fire in this region a few years back. So Miss Gladstone says. I tell you, Bob, she was very helpful. She was born near here, lives in Escondido, still keeps in touch with Sawyer Springs. That’s why, I guess she was miffed by the sale of Rancho San Carlos through a Los Angeles real-estate firm: she had it on her list, and LA shouldn’t have horned in.”

  “You actually asked about San Carlos?” Renwick’s step had halted. He stared at MacEwan in astonishment. Mac was a careful man; definitely cautious. That was the reason, Renwick supposed, why Gilman had sent him here—to act as a brake on Renwick’s
hunches. That reason, as well as the fact that Mac and Renwick were solid friends, a good team dating back to five years ago.

  Mac’s blue eyes, strong in colour against the contrast of his reddish fair hair and pink cheeks, were amused. “I just asked about our neighbours in the next house up the road. They are a retired couple, quiet, live there year-round. But that led to a complete tour of the district: the house after that one belongs to some Hollywood character who’s seldom here. Then the road starts turning to the north, passes San Carlos. All that, and more, came out unsolicited.”

  “Talkative, isn’t she?”

  Sal said, “And big. Must be five feet ten, a hundred and fifty pounds, in a pink pants suit.” Sal, who was close to five feet six, preferred smaller European types, nicely rounded, who wore black silk dresses.

  Mac said, “She was just hoping we’d like it here—enough to buy this place. So she wanted to make us feel it was peaceful, just right for a naturalist. We are not to let the excavating at Rancho San Carlos bother us—a few bangs now and again, but soon it will be over. The workmen keep to themselves, sleep up there in the old stable—the horses left years ago.”

  Sal finished his beer. He had heard all this. “Time to get dinner on the stove,” he said and headed for the kitchen, closing its wide double doors carefully behind him.

  Quietly, Mac said, “The workmen don’t come into Sawyer Springs, not even on a Saturday night. They are driven down to Escondido in a minibus. But some people in Sawyer Springs have sharp eyes: no beards went out last Saturday to Escondido; two beards travelled back on Sunday afternoon. Gladstone thought the workmen were coming in relays to speed up the work. She offered that little item as part of her not-to-worry theme: soon all the bustle would be over, and peace would be everywhere.”

  Renwick relaxed, poured himself another drink, sat down. “My belated apologies to Miss Gladstone,” he said. “They’re coming in relays, certainly. But what kind of work? How many at a time? Or did Sawyer Springs’ sharp eyes miss on that?”