The Hidden Target Page 26

  Selim was triumphant. “We have three rooms. The Australians have one. The Turks have one. The Swedes have one. But I have obtained three.”

  “All together?” Shawfield asked.

  “Impossible. Only three bedrooms on each side of this hall. The biggest one was required for the Swedish family. We have one on either side of them.” He pointed to a corridor on his left.

  “That will do.” The three girls in one of them: Tromp, Lambrese, and Dissen in the second. “Kiley and I will take the room on the other side of the hall.”

  Selim’s eyes were pleading. “And me?”

  Nina said, “You could sleep in the camper. Couldn’t he, Tony?”

  Tony gave her a look that chilled her bones. “No one sleeps in the camper. It stays locked for the night.”

  Hastily, Selim said, “I’ll sleep in the dining-room. Okay? Now I need your passports.”

  “I’ll collect them,” Kiley said. Then to Nina, “Let’s find your room and see if you’ll be comfortable.”

  “Where are the bathrooms?” Madge wanted to know.

  “One bathroom. Very nice,” Selim assured her. “Next the kitchen.” He pointed to his right. “Very new.”

  The kitchen would be easy to find: women’s voices were loud and the smell of food was rich. Madge started in its direction.

  “But much engaged,” Selim called after her. “Everyone standing in good line.”

  Kiley led Nina along a narrow hall to its furthest room. “All right?” he asked anxiously.

  “Fine.” It was small with three narrow cots, two wooden chairs, one window and a row of pegs on one wall. “And we do have a bathroom if we must stand in good line. Poor Selim— must he sleep in the dining-room?”

  “Do you think we want him bending our ear all through the night?” Kiley looked around the room again. The window, covered by a straight hanging curtain, was barred. “All right?” he asked again.

  “Of course it is!” Nina handed him her passport. “I’ll need that back by tomorrow morning. I’m going into town, and I’d better carry some identification, don’t you think?”

  “Why not wait until the next day? I’ll take you into Tabriz then.”

  “Tomorrow you’ll be busy?”

  “Bank—a travel bureau to meet our new guide—a visit to the university to see a professor of English, an old friend from Chicago. Yes, I guess you could say I’ll be busy. Everything takes time in this part of the world. I’ll leave fairly early in the morning. Around eight. You just rest up or explore the food markets nearby. You’ll see a lot of new types there.” Again he looked anxiously at her. “All right?” he asked for the third time.

  “Yes.” Her voice softened, a smile came into her eyes. “I do notice the trouble you’ve taken. I’m not ungrateful, really I am not.”

  He caught her in his arms, kissed her long and hard, would have kissed her again but the door opened and Madge came in.

  ***

  Almost three o’clock in the morning and wide awake. Nina turned over again on her cot. Its mattress was thin, with a middle depression. Silence everywhere outside, making Marie-Louise’s snores seem louder than they were. Madge lay still, gently breathing. Both had fallen into deep sleep by midnight. I’m tired, yet I can’t sleep, Nina thought: it’s this small room and the window closed, securely locked. What are the owners of this inn afraid of? Prowlers or night air? I’m suffocating.

  She rose, drew on her dark-blue robe—practical in weight and colour for travelling—and found the pen flashlight in its pocket. She switched it on to search for her sandals, and then played its weak small beam across the floor to lead her safely to the door. Quietly, she turned the key. “Keep this door locked,” Jim had said as he kissed her good night. So she drew the key out, closed the door and locked it, slipping the key deep into her pocket as she started along the corridor. Dark and silent, with deep breathing from the Swedes’ room, with steady snores from Sven, Guido, and Henryk next door. She switched off her flashlight before she reached the entrance hall, where one small bulb had been left burning. The counter that served as a reception desk was empty. The owner of the inn must be in bed and asleep, lucky man. But voices were coming from the dining-room. One meagre light there—such extravagance, she thought with a smile, recognising Selim’s voice. The other talker? It could be the owner’s son, who had bustled around the dining tables, directing the waiters—four small boys, thirteen or fourteen years old, anxious and willing and overworked. She looked at the front door, wondering if Selim and his friend would hear the turning of its heavy key. It might be better if she told them that she was only wanting ten minutes of cool sweet air. But she knew what would happen: Selim would come with her, talk and talk. No, she decided; not that. She’d be driven inside within four minutes flat.

  She reached the door. The key in its lock was massive. It wouldn’t turn. Then she realised it wouldn’t budge because it was already in the unlocked position. Some security, she thought: windows shut and covered with iron screens, and an entrance door left open for anyone to enter. She stepped out into the yard, pulling the door closed behind her to cut off the insistent murmur of voices from the dining-room.

  There was only a sliver of moon, but the stars were clear and beautiful. She drew long deep breaths, welcoming the cold air. Dawn was still some time away. No wind, not even a breeze to stir the surrounding trees. The parked cars, three neatly placed shadows, their colour eaten up by the night, were at one side of the yard. The camper, curtains drawn, stood aloof like some proud beauty. And its lines were good, she admitted. Custom-built, outside as well as in. It must have cost Tony all his savings; no wonder he guarded it so constantly. Then, as she studied it she saw a faint almost imperceptible glow spreading into the darkness from the ventilation window on its roof. Careless of Tony, she thought at first: he has left one of the small lights turned on. Or has someone broken into the camper?

  She hesitated, looked at the door behind her. No, she had better make certain the camper really had been entered before she alerted Selim. A false alarm and she would be apologising all tomorrow for waking up everyone: Selim wouldn’t handle this quietly; of that she was sure.

  Cautiously, she approached the camper. Its hood pointed towards a line of trees, its rear end—with its door—stretched into the centre of the courtyard. If anyone is inside, she told herself, I’m not risking that back door: it could be opened at any moment. The side of the camper was safer; its curtained windows, slightly opened at the top to air it thoroughly, should let her hear the sounds of anyone moving around. She reached it and steadied herself against its smooth surface, her legs suddenly weak. She was more nervous than she had realised. Nervous? She was terrified.

  She calmed down. There was no movement inside the camper. Tony had been careless about the light, that was all. With relief, she was about to turn away. And then she heard a voice raised in a sudden burst of anger. Jim’s voice. Good old American swear words, she thought, and smiled. And stopped smiling as he broke into German. Another voice answered him, speaking German, too. Tony’s? The pitch was Tony’s—that short bitter laugh was Tony’s—but in German? Neither of them knew much German, had never been in Germany, had called on Sven Dissen for help in being understood when they were in Basel, in Innsbruck.

  Disbelief and shock seemed to paralyse her body. Unable to move, she stood with her hand resting on the camper’s side. She couldn’t hear much, now that the voices had quietened. In any case, their fluent exchange was too quick for her, far beyond the German she had learned at school. Something about “a change,” “arrangements cancelled,” “new arrangements made.” The word “Afghanistan” was repeated twice. So was the phrase “absolutely necessary.”

  And then Tony’s voice became clearer—he must have moved close to the window near where she stood. “They will call us again. At twelve noon. What is your message?”

  Jim’s reply was less audible, but it sounded authoritative.

  Tony said, “
Okay. I will tell them.”

  There was a brief silence. Suddenly, she heard the rear door open. Nina took an uncertain step away, abandoned her hope of reaching the inn. Instinctively she edged towards the front of the camper, feeling some protection from its solid body. They were talking as they closed and locked the door, their voices sounding so near that she was unnerved. Quickly, she moved to the nearest tree, only six paces away. She drew behind its trunk, her heart beating wildly, her eyes on the two men as they started a slow walk to the inn. From behind her, an arm went around her waist, a hand went over her mouth.

  “Don’t scream,” a voice whispered in her ear. “Please don’t scream. And how could we explain this situation to Mr. James Kiley?” Her struggles ceased. The hand left her lips. “Sorry. There was no other way.” The arm was still firm around her waist, supporting her now. She needed it. “I’m a friend,” the whispering voice said. “Your Turkish adviser on Persian carpets.”

  Nina turned her head to look. It was too dark to see anything clearly beyond black hair, black moustache, and a wide smile. “Your English has improved.”

  “Sh!” he told her, his eyes on the courtyard. He drew his left arm away from her waist to let him raise the small object he had been gripping in that hand to his ear.

  Nina heard a faint murmur of voices, stared at the small object. A radio? No—something else, picking up the sounds of talk in the courtyard. “You’re eavesdropping!”

  “Weren’t you?” He pulled her closer, so that she could listen, too.

  “They’re speaking English now,” she said in astonishment.

  “Someone at a bedroom window might hear them. Wiser to get back into character, don’t you think?”

  She stared at him.

  He remained silent, listening, until Kiley and Shawfield had entered the inn. Then he clicked off his receiver and slipped it into his pocket. “Did you get any of that?” he asked.

  “Not much. I stopped listening,” Nina said unhappily.

  “It was of little importance.” Nothing compared to what had been already discussed in the camper, Pierre Claudel thought. “Merely their projects for tomorrow. Shawfield will have extra work to do—he will study maps, plan a new route. Kiley leaves at four o’clock to meet his friends.”

  “At four? No, he said...” Eight o’clock, she remembered, and closed her eyes.

  Claudel glanced at his watch. “Thirty-five minutes before he leaves. I think you had better remain here until then. He might be having breakfast in the dining-room.”

  Nina nodded, bit her lip, fought back a sudden attack of tears.

  “I’ll stay with you. Bob Renwick would insist on that.”

  “Bob Renwick?”

  “Yes,” Claudel said mildly. “We are good friends. I saw him in Istanbul before I left. When I was travelling this way, he asked me to keep an eye open—speak with you—find out if you were all right.”

  This is a trick, Nina thought. This pleasant, frank-spoken man could be lying—just as Jim Kiley has lied. She said, “I don’t believe you.”

  “Bob thought you probably wouldn’t. So he gave me this.” Claudel reached for his wallet and handed her a card. Then he pulled out a thin pen, flashed on its small light, shielding it with his cupped hand as he turned his back to the yard.

  Nina read: J.P. Merriman & Co., Consultant Engineers. Advisers on Construction Abroad, Surveys made.

  “Look at the back,” Claudel urged.

  Courtyard of the Janissaries. Nina looked up in amazement, held Claudel’s eyes with hers. Then her face hardened; “You could have been there—seen us together.”

  “Yes.” He switched off his flashlight. “But I couldn’t have heard how you pitied the tribute children.” He heard her sharp intake of breath. She kept staring at him.

  “Not even with that listening device?” she asked.

  “By the time you were talking about janissaries, I was far away, too far for even the—that device to reach. It has its limits even with all its latest improvements.” That reminded him of something. He said, “Wait here. I’ll only take five minutes. I’ll come back. I promise you. Will you wait?”

  She looked towards the inn. Jim Kiley might be in his room; again, he might not. She nodded. “I’ll stay.”

  Claudel took the card from her hand. “It’s safer with me,” he told her. It went, back into his wallet. He touched her hand encouragingly. “My God, you’re freezing!” So the wallet went into a trouser pocket as his jacket came off and was placed around her shoulders. “Five minutes,” he said and left.

  He didn’t go directly to the camper, although it was only a short distance away. Instead, he used the trees on his left to circle part-way around the yard until he found a spot where the camper’s bulk would block his approach if anyone was looking out of a bedroom window. Then, as he judged it safe enough, he darted forward. Nina could see him, barely twenty feet away from her, reach the side of the camper that was not visible from the inn. His hand was raised, touching something on one of the windows, pulling it away. Then his hand was lowered and he pocketed whatever he had removed, and he was retracing his steps exactly. She watched his dark shadow merge into the row of trees, lost him completely as he worked his way back to where she stood. What had he taken from the window? Another gadget, something to let him listen clearly to any sounds inside the camper? She could only guess. And guess at this man’s interest. It wasn’t with her—it was with Jim Kiley and Tony Shawfield. Why? But I’m interested in them, too, she thought bitterly. I’ve been used. All of us have been used, manipulated. The rest of our group still don’t realise it, never will. And I never would have if Bob hadn’t sent his friend— Where has he gone? She panicked for a moment, and then relaxed as he left the neighbouring tree and stood beside her.

  “Okay,” he said softly. He fell silent, his eyes on the inn.

  That was all he was going to say, Nina realised. But she had questions. “Who are you? You are not Turkish, are you?”

  He dodged that neatly. “My mother was French. I went to school in England.” Both statements were true.

  So that explained his accent: idiomatic English with a hint, every now and again, of French. “What shall I call you?”

  “My mother chose Pierre,” he said briefly. Again, true.

  She looked at the inn. “Are they German?”

  “I don’t know. They aren’t strangers to the language, that’s certain.”

  “Why use it?”

  “They may have received a message in German, just continued talking in it.”

  “May have? Didn’t you hear it?”

  He hesitated. “It doesn’t work that way. They received a message, yes. In code. They decoded it from German and continued talking in German.”

  “Received a message... But how? On our camper radio?”

  He repressed a smile. “No. Something more sophisticated than that.”

  “Hidden. Where?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. He had noted its antenna, the long wire that ran cleverly under the edge of the camper’s roof. “It could be anywhere inside the camper.”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “No,” he said sharply. “What you have to concentrate on now is—escape. Leave tomorrow. With me. I’ll see you on to a plane to Tehran. You’ll fly to Rome. Renwick will meet you there. I’ll let him know.”

  She said slowly, “So that’s why Bob wanted you to meet me... This was his idea, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. But not exactly this kind of meeting, at this time, in this place. He wants you out. He’s counting on that.”

  “What about Madge? We’re together.” More or less. Without Madge I’d never have joined the camper. I wanted the world trip, yes. It seemed a dream for the taking. But I’d never have come alone. “I can’t walk out on her. I’d have to tell her.” Claudel shook his head to that idea. “Ask her—in a general way—if she’s had enough. Suggest leaving, but give no details. Don’t mention tonight, or this talk. If she’s
willing, bring her along. If she says no, then you’ll feel free to leave. Would that work?”

  “No. Madge would wonder, be alarmed. She’d talk. Shawfield has become her friend. It’s too dangerous, Pierre. For you as well as for me. Shawfield would have you arrested at the Tehran airport for kidnapping.”

  Nothing quite so official as that, Claudel thought. Shawfield’s type of friends in Tehran would do a little kidnapping of their own: two bodies found in some back alley. Silently, he cursed Madge and the problem she presented. “Leave,” he urged. “Get out of this mess. Why do you think I told you so much, let you see so much? Goddamn it to bloody hell, I’ve—” He broke off in frustration.

  “I know,” she said. “You risked everything in order to shock me into leaving. You did shock me. But I can’t leave. Not yet.” She reached for his arm, pressed it reassuringly. “I won’t go running to Shawfield. Or to James Kiley. Or anyone.”

  He stared at her in disbelief. “You really think you can go on, never let them know, never give your real feelings away? No, no. Now that you’ve learned so much, you’re in double danger.”

  “On the contrary. Now that I know—and it isn’t so much, either—I’m on guard.”

  “Not so much?” My God, he thought, when Renwick hears how I broke the rules tonight, he’ll—no, perhaps Renwick wouldn’t. He can guess what I’m dealing with here; he warned me about Nina. And I thought I could handle her.

  “No,” Nina was saying. “You didn’t tell me who sent Kiley’s instructions tonight.”

  His quick French wits failed him for a moment. He searched for an answer, found none.

  “Are Kiley and Shawfield working for the Russians?” she asked.

  “Indirectly,” he hedged.

  “What on earth does that mean? The Russians are in charge?”

  “From a safe distance.”

  “Then who is—”

  “Sh!” he said. Their voices had been kept to a murmur all through their talk, but now complete silence was needed. He pointed to the inn. Its door had opened. And simultaneously, from around the far corner of the inn where the gas station lay, a farm truck, small in size, loaded with baskets, drove quietly into the yard. It barely stopped at the inn’s door—less than a minute to let Kiley emerge and climb on board. Then it left, easing its way into the rough driveway, and turned right as it reached the main road. It looked like any truck heading for one of the early markets in Tabriz. Claudel glanced at Nina. Yes, she had seen it all.