The Hidden Target Read online

  “He left. He will come later.”

  Good. “Has the Englishman arrived? Mr. Shawfield?”

  Shahna shook her head.

  Good again. “I need to telephone. Is there a place near here where I can find a ’phone?” If there was one in this house, which was doubtful, Nina had decided to avoid it. Gopal had recommended this place, and his relatives and friends were all around. Even now, eight men of various ages—some old, some mere boys—were sitting in the shaded side of the courtyard, talking, as they had done all morning. The women were out of sight, but audible even at this distance from the kitchen on the ground floor: voices drifted up along with the lingering smells of cooked spices. Not a word was understandable to Nina—among themselves, the clan of closely knit families who occupied this collection of rooms spoke Maharathi. English was kept, so Kiley had said, as a kind of lingua franca, useful for other Indians in Bombay who spoke quite different languages. Lucky for me, thought Nina as she waited patiently for Shahna’s reply: lucky, too, that all the shops and street signs she had seen on the drive through the city this morning had been in English. She drew out her wallet, selected one rupee but held it in her hand.

  Shahna began walking along the veranda, lithe and graceful. She kept close to the house wall, as far from the railing as possible. But with its overhanging laundry, it would be difficult for anyone in the courtyard—if he could spare a moment from talking—to see what was happening on the third-floor veranda. At the narrow staircase, Nina stopped, looked back. Madge had come to their room door. Nina beckoned. Madge shook her head. But she waved. Nina waved, too, and with a lighter heart she followed Shahna down the enclosed staircase. They reached the entrance to the courtyard and turned towards the street.

  Hot, narrow, bustling with traffic, filled with people. Nina halted in dismay.

  “This way. It is near,” Shahna said. She looked at Nina’s dress, touched it lightly with her thin fingers. “Pretty.”

  “Are there taxis?” Nina could see none. Plenty of cars, a bus, trucks, small carts. She began walking quickly.

  Shahna shrugged. “Sometimes from the pier.” She gestured vaguely along the street. “Ballard Pier. Very big. Very nice ships.”

  “How far is it to the waterfront where the big hotels are?”

  “What hotel?” Shahna’s eyes gleamed. “I’ll come, too. I’ll show you.”

  “In what direction are they?”

  “Back there.” Shahna pointed behind them.

  “How far? One mile, two miles?”

  “Two miles, maybe three.” She was charmingly vague.

  She’s probably never been there, thought Nina. So how do I calculate how long it takes to walk from here to the Malabar Hotel?

  Shahna stopped, pointed to a wide doorway.

  “A money exchange?” The room inside was cavernous, without windows, dependent on light from its wall opening on to the street. Nina hesitated.

  “Much business. Sailors come here from ships. It has a telephone.”

  I bet it has, thought Nina, which is more than can be said for that side street we have just passed: a local market of crowded stalls with strips of canvas overhead and a mass of people moving around. “Thank you, Shahna.” Tactfully, she slipped the rupee into the delicate little hand. “Now you must go back.” The girl looked at her reproachfully. “Thank you,” Nina said again.

  The decision was made for them both by the man standing at the side of the door. He was young, alert, and much on guard. He raised his voice to Shahna, lifted the back of his hand: clear out, he must have, said; no beggars allowed here. Shahna was accustomed to this apparently, for she retreated quickly out of his reach, gave Nina a bright smile to retrieve her dignity, and walked away with her hips swinging and her head held high. The man nodded to Nina, stood politely out of her path.

  Nina halted at the threshold. The place was bare and clean, its one counter securely caged, a man behind it, two customers with red perspiring faces, fair hair, and bright Hawaiian shirts. Three other men—one a venerable figure in white tunic and narrow trousers; two young and strong, dressed like the guard at the door in European clothes—sat along the opposite wall. And there was the telephone, strangely encased in a plexi-glass stall—privacy?—only four paces away from the door. She looked at the old man, who scarcely seemed to have noticed her. “May I use your telephone?” Everyone lost interest in her, except the two sailors.

  “How much?” Nina asked.

  One of the younger men rose, came forward, saying in excellent English, “Twelve rupees! You pay me, and I shall dial your number.”

  “Five rupees. It is a local call. And short.”

  “Eight rupees.” The tone of voice was polite; the smooth face—fine-boned, light-skinned—broke into a persuasive smile.

  “Five rupees.” Nina was definite. There was a slight pause. She shrugged, looked towards the street, seemed about to leave.

  “Five,” he agreed, and held out his hand. He had a handsome wrist watch, a heavy gold ring. Like the other young men, he wore a cream silk shirt and well-cut gaberdine trousers. “The number?”

  “I can manage.” Nina gave him five rupees and stepped into the plexi-glass enclosure—no door, just two transparent side walls. The telephone was a dial model, much the same as she had used in London. The young man stood close, perhaps curious to see the number or hear her conversation. There was nothing she could do about that, except turn her back to him, try to hide the dial from his interested eyes, and keep her voice low. For one blank moment she almost forgot the figures she had memorised; and then, her nervous fingers began turning them in careful sequence. A distant voice said, “Malabar Gift Shop.”

  I have the wrong number, she thought. “Mr. A.K. Roy?” she tried timidly. Oh, God, I’ve got the wrong number—what now?

  “Who is speaking?” The voice was clearer. “Who is there?”

  “Pierre?” In her overpowering relief, she was almost incoherent. “Nina. I’m near the Ballard Pier. I think. I’ll need perhaps an hour to reach you.”

  “I’ll come and get you.”

  “No. Not here. I can’t wait here. It’s a money-changing place. And the street outside—impossible.”

  “Then meet me in the hotel’s bookstore. It is in the arcade— next to the gift shop.”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I am now. I’ll see you—” she consulted her watch—“at half-past three. Perhaps later. I can’t judge.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll wait. Your old friend is in Bombay—the Courtyard of the Janissaries—remember? He’ll be glad to see you again.”

  Bob Renwick? She said, her voice suddenly unsteady, “I’ll be more than glad.” She hung up the receiver.

  The young man stopped lounging against the plexi-glass partition, followed her to the door. “The streets are very crowded. It is very difficult to walk alone.” He was summing up her dress, the silk scarf that covered her shoulders, her earrings. But most of all, it was her manner that impressed him: she did not belong in this quarter. “Too many beggars ready to follow you. They give no peace. Perhaps you should take a taxi.”

  “Is there one?” Nina glanced along the street.

  “My cousin’s car is there.” He pointed to a vintage Chevrolet standing by the kerb just ahead of them.

  “How much?”

  “To where?”

  “Oh—” she floundered a little, recovered enough to say— “to the waterfront near the big hotels.”

  “Which hotel? There are several of them.”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty rupees.”

  “What?” She was scandalised. “Impossible.” She began walking.

  He caught up with her. “Fifteen.”

  “Twelve.”

  “The price of petrol is high,” he said sadly.

  “Twelve,” she repeated. “Not twenty, not fifteen. Twelve.”

  With his gentle smile, he led the way to the Ch
evrolet. His cousin could have been his twin, but he spoke little English. The two of them had a quick conversation, unintelligible to Nina.

  It was a long long street lying ahead of her, and how many other long streets after that? “It’s a short distance,” she said, trying to appear as if she knew her way around Bombay.

  “If you would pay me now,” her mentor suggested.

  First, she got into the car, making sure it wouldn’t drive away without her. Then she counted out the last of her rupees. He accepted them gracefully, handed over three of them to his cousin, and bade her a polite good-day. Now I know, she thought as she nodded her thanks, why the cousin wears a cotton sports shirt and a cheap wrist watch. It was a wild ride, and speedy. She reached the approach to the Malabar International Hotel with fully thirty minutes to spare.

  She entered the vast lobby and was greeted by ice-cold air. Shimmering lights cascaded from the vaulted ceiling, marble floors and walls gleamed, trees—twice her height—had ornamental shapes to match the flowers around their feet. People everywhere; and from everywhere: many well-fed and well-groomed Indians, Japanese, Singapore Chinese, all in well-tailored business suits. Europeans and Americans were noticeable by less expensive clothes—sports shirts and linen jackets. Their women in limp drip-dry dresses were quite silenced by the bright-coloured saris that floated past them.

  Nina recovered, looked around for the arcade. It must beat the other end of the lobby, perhaps at the back of this incredible palace. But she saw a large travel desk, a counter where Thomas Cook and American Express had staked their claims. She’d have time to cash one of her cheques; then she’d stop being destitute. It had been a horrible feeling, all through the journey here, to realise she had nothing spendable in her wallet. At least I’ll be able to visit the powder room, she thought as she took her place at the counter. And I’ll find out where the arcade is, and I can buy a paper or a magazine in the bookstore if I have to wait for Pierre. Her fear and terrors were leaving her. She began to feel normal again.

  She looked normal, too. Her eyes were bright with interest, lipstick and powder and freshly combed hair perfect, as she left the ladies’ room. She passed a bank of elevators and the clearly printed English signs that directed people to the Coromandel Bar, the Victoria Grill, the Ajanta Room, the Gateway to India Restaurant. At last she found the arcade, open on one side to a lavish garden; on its other side, a series of elegant displays of gold and silver and ivory. She reached the gift shop, with a window of gossamer silks and rich brocades that would entice the last rupee out of a tourist’s pocket. Next door was the bookstore.

  She halted at the entrance, beside a tall rack of newspapers, both local and foreign, quickly scanning the people inside the shop. Tables with books piled on top, shelves packed ceiling-high with more books. Was Pierre there? Bob? A clerk was near her, looking at her intently, so she pretended interest in the newspapers, glancing at a headline just at her shoulder level, and stood transfixed. GREEN CAMPER MYSTERY—SPY ARRESTED. And the opening line of the newspaper report was: Ilsa Schlott, a recruiter for terrorist—That was all she could see. As her hand went out to pick up the paper, a man’s grip, strong and painful, encircled her wrist. Tony Shawfield said quietly, “So you thought you would run off and leave us.”

  Nina tried to pull her wrist free. Gopal was behind Shawfield; another Indian, too.

  Shawfield’s voice hardened. “You came to meet someone. Who?” To Gopal’s friend, he said, “Get the car. Side entrance.” Then again to Nina, “Who? Who is meeting you here?”

  “No one.”

  “You telephoned.” Shawfield’s grip tightened.

  “Let go! I’m buying a paper and—” She caught sight of Pierre stepping forward. No, she thought frantically: stay back, Pierre—you’ll be recognised.

  The clerk was approaching. Shawfield had doubled his hold on her: one hand on her wrist, the other on her elbow, forcing her into the arcade.

  She went unresisting. Three of them, and Pierre alone—no, this wasn’t the place for any confrontation. Her steps lagged, delaying as much as she could. Pierre would follow. She hoped. But I’m not endangering his real mission, whatever it is, and it’s not me.

  “Whom did you call?” Shawfield was insisting.

  “The American Consul. That was all.”

  “The truth, Nina! I’m no fool. You were to meet someone at that bookstore. And he was late or you were early.”

  “No. There was no one.” She sounded desolate, bewildered. And she was. They had reached a street, crowded with people. Shawfield was pulling her towards a car that was just drawing up in front of him. Pierre will never be able to follow, not here, she thought in sudden panic. She glanced back but could see only strange faces; she tried to break free, run. But Shawfield forced her through the car’s open door, into its back seat, followed her. Gopal jumped in beside the driver, the doors were locked, the car moved. Only then, as it edged its way out of the jumble of traffic and tried to pick up speed, did Shawfield’s grasp ease on Nina’s wrist.

  Gopal was worried. “That clerk followed us out. Another man, too, I think.”

  Shawfield’s head jerked round to look back. Too many people, too many cars: impossible to see if anyone was attempting to tail them. He gave up and studied Nina instead. He had a feeling that Gopal’s words had jarred her. Encouraged her? She needed discipline, this girl. Jim had been too easy with her. “We’ll lose them,” he told Gopal. And teach Milady a little lesson. “Falkland Road,” he said.

  The driver and Gopal exchanged a startled glance.

  “Falkland Road,” Shawfield repeated. To Nina he said, “So you thought you’d leave us. Why?”

  “I was bored with sitting in that room.”

  “And you headed for the Malabar? Why?”

  “It was some place I could change a traveller’s cheque—buy a magazine, a guide to the city. I wanted to see Bombay.”

  “And so you shall.” His voice had eased. He could relax a little: he had found her. A wild search, not a moment wasted after he had returned (and that was luck—arriving earlier than he had planned) to find Madge alone. “She has left,” Madge told him, “left with Shahna.” And Shahna had talked, of telephones and hotels; had even led him to the money exchange nearby. There, it took only five rupees to loosen a man’s tongue: the blonde had hired a car; it had just returned from the Malabar Hotel. There, it hadn’t been so easy: fifteen minutes of searching, of inquiries, of growing anger and desperation. Then quick-eyed Gopal had seen her, vanishing into the arcade. Did she think she could outwit me? Just wait until Jim gets back from his meeting with Theo and hears what could have happened. But it didn’t. Who planned her moves anyway? Shawfield reached for her bag, pulled it out of her hands.

  He found no slip of paper with a name or address or a telephone number. The wallet held a quantity of rupees: some large bills, some coins. They went into his trousers pocket along with her remaining traveller’s cheque. “Much safer. You could have them stolen. I’ll keep them for you.”

  Nina stared out at a broad square, an enormous stretch of ground where traffic circled around a statue of Queen Victoria on her lofty pedestal and streets branched off in every direction. This was far from the waterfront, from anything she knew. Her hopelessness increased with her sense of isolation. No one could follow this car, she thought as it entered a narrow thoroughfare; not Pierre, not even Bob. I know now what I should have done outside the bookstore: kicked and screamed and brought people running to help me. But would they have run? Any of them? Or would they have drawn back, avoided an unpleasant scene? Only Pierre would have come; and been recognised... How did Shawfield find me anyway? Surely Madge hadn’t... Yes, perhaps she had. Perhaps she led him to Shahna, and Shahna to the money exchange... I don’t want to believe that, Nina told herself, but despair seized her heart. “Where are you taking me?” she asked.

  “Sightseeing.”

  In silence, the strange journey continued.

  23 />
  That afternoon it had been Pierre Claudel’s turn to wait near the telephone in A.K. Roy’s most private office. It was a neat set-up, spacious, comfortable, secluded, lying behind the accounting department of the Malabar Gift Shop, with a second door into the adjoining bookstore, and a third door into the arcade itself.

  He was alone except for one of Roy’s men, a silent restful type, in charge of Roy’s communications. Roy and Bob Renwick had left only a few minutes ago, allowing themselves ample time to get into position. Soon, they would be reaching the busy street where Mr. Otto Remp was scheduled to visit, at half-past three, one of the small banking establishments that offered its expert and discreet services to substantial depositors. There, in a quiet room, the banker would welcome Mr. Remp, along with the senior partner of a real-estate firm and its legal representatives and the new manager of the equally new Bombay office of West-East Travel. The final transactions would be completed: signatures here, a large cheque there, witnesses recorded, all in order, polite bows, goodbyes. And then—Claudel smiled, wished he could see that scene.

  Roy was to be congratulated. Renwick, too. For the last week they had gone through the list of real-estate agents who dealt in expensive properties and foreign buyers. While Roy ran through checks on their finances, personnel, business records, Renwick visited their establishments as a likely prospect—he was interested in acquiring a branch office for his London firm, specialising in construction problems. Were they accustomed to handling requests from abroad? What calibre of sales to reputable clients? His firm insisted on dealing only with the best agents, they must understand; ones who had been successful in satisfying important customers. They understood and offered their most recent triumphs in the selling of real estate. “A highly respected firm from Düsseldorf” had been one testimonial.

  Then Roy had zeroed in, concentrating on the small law firm that handled contracts for the real-estate agency with Düsseldorf connections, securing their co-operation and sworn silence. And so today, one of Roy’s agents would be among the legal representatives attending the meeting in the bank. Two plainclothes policemen would be posted at its side entrance. Two others would move forward towards its front door as soon as Otto Remp stepped inside. One of Roy’s best agents would attend to the limousine that brought Remp there, making sure its driver sent no warning message. And Roy and Renwick would be waiting in a radio car a short distance away.