The Hidden Target Read online

  Roy was making sure this time, Claudel thought with wry amusement. The disappearance of Kiley’s little band of travellers early this morning from some insignificant restaurant with a miserable courtyard had roused the equable A.K. Roy to fury. The camper itself had also evaded his two undercover agents: a well-planned manoeuvre that increased his rage. But at least he was now convinced he was dealing with a mastermind directing two very clever young men. Worthy opponents. That thought had calmed his anger, redoubled his efforts. The extradition of Otto Remp, Kiley, Shawfield, was no longer a politeness from one democracy to another: it was an imperative. As Roy said, once more bland in manner, “There is enough trouble in our countries without such men adding to it.” It was particularly gratifying that Remp had been linked with Kiley through an Essen bank, drawing him into the extradition net, too.

  Well, thought Claudel, we are almost sure of one of them: Remp would be caught in the bank. He would be out of disguise, of course, for that appearance, playing the authentic Düsseldorf business-man for the benefit of his firm back home. Renwick had made a bet before he left with Roy this afternoon: Theo will get into his car wearing a wig and other removable transformations, and, as he is driven to the bank, he’ll take them off, change his jacket, march in as Otto Remp. On leaving he intends to put on the disguise again, reappear at the house or hotel where he’s staying under his fancy new name. What d’you bet, Pierre? No takers, Claudel had said.

  But what about the other two? Although Kiley and Shawfield and their wandered students had faded from sight, they were in Bombay. Somewhere. The two highways out of the city, as well as the main airport at Santa Cruz, the central railway station, even the docks where coastal freighters were loaded, were now on the watch for eight young Westerners loaded down with duffel bags. The sleeping bags had been found in the abandoned camper four hours after it had slipped away from the restaurant, so they must be staying in some small hotel, some lodging house. Somewhere, Claudel thought again.

  He studied the large-scale map of Bombay that he had spread over Roy’s six-by-four-foot desk, lightly tracing in pencil the streets he and two of Roy’s agents had checked this morning. All these cruddy little hotels—have you seen, have you heard, do you know of anyone who has seen, heard? He began memorising the streets of the next likely section. That would be tomorrow’s task, and Renwick would have his turn sitting at this desk while he waited for any possible call from Nina. They had agreed that one of them must be ready to answer the telephone, reassure Nina that she wasn’t among strangers in a strange city. A.K. Roy had merely raised a well-marked eyebrow at such concern; he was more perturbed by the fact that Claudel had given one of his private telephone numbers to a young girl. “It was the only Bombay number I had,” Claudel had protested. “What else could I do? She’s important. She could lead us to Kiley.” That had clinched the argument. The difficult moment was over. In any case, thought Claudel now, Roy would have that number changed once Nina made contact.

  Would she? Or—and this was Renwick’s worry—could she?

  An unpleasant question. If Nina didn’t, couldn’t call, then they would have to find her by searching. Claudel concentrated on his map, memorising the directions and names of the streets in the poorer sections of the city. It wasn’t likely the campers, now looking like a troupe of gypsies, would be living in a luxury hotel, or in a skyscraper apartment in the business district, or in a mansion in the green hills overlooking Bombay.

  The telephone rang. It was Nina.

  The call ended. Roy’s communications expert had been listening too. “Got all that?” Claudel asked him. “Then make contact with Mr. Roy’s car. Give the American all the details— every word. I am going to the bookstore. If there is any reply, any message, you’ll find me there.”

  Half past three, she had said. But if she took a taxi she could be here much earlier. Would she enter by the main lobby of the hotel? Or, if the driver saw she had no luggage, he might give her the choice of lobby or arcade. It had its own entrance on a side street and was frequently used by shoppers from outside the hotel. Better to stay in the bookstore, Claudel decided, keep to the arrangement, and be available for any message from Renwick. Besides—if Nina couldn’t find a cab—he might have to wait longer than half-past three. The bookstore was the safest place: people loitered there quite naturally. But he still wished he could meet her as she got out of a taxi or came walking up the long approach to the hotel. And then? Renwick had arranged it with A.K. Roy: a pleasant room adjacent to Roy’s own suite in this hotel; well guarded, discreet, servants all tested and true, not one whisper to give away Nina’s presence. And it might be for only a day or two—until all danger was over. What could be a better hiding place than a large hotel with four hundred rooms?

  ***

  Claudel had skimmed through two magazines, concentration broken continuously as he verified the time or glanced towards the door of the bookstore. There was only one of Roy’s younger assistants on duty here—the Theo assignment had depleted the ranks—and Claudel had stationed him, as a clerk, in the front of the shop. Lavji was his name, and eagerness was his manner. Almost too quick: he had already signalled the entrance of three various blondes, none beautiful. Or perhaps in Lavji’s eyes, all blondes looked the same.

  The monotony and tension, strange mixture, were broken by a message from Renwick. Claudel took it on his transceiver, retreating to a rear table piled with books where its use wouldn’t be noticeable and he could still see Lavji. “No go,” Renwick said. “Illness prevented our boy’s appearance. He has rescheduled the signing for Tuesday. By which time he will be out of Bombay.”

  “But why? Give up his West-East office?”

  “Something has made him change his plans, and change them damn quick. Something more than the news from London about the camper—he got rid of it this morning. His apologies arrived at the bank only ten minutes ago—by telephone. Our legal representative was chatting with the receptionist when the call came though—swears it was from some ’phone with distant voices and recurrent chimes in the background.”

  “Recurrent chimes—used for paging people in a hotel lobby?”

  “That’s the system used at the Malabar. Of course, he could have been lunching there, or passing through. But we’ll start checking on its recent arrivals. He might just possibly be staying there.” Renwick didn’t sound optimistic.

  “And how is Roy taking that?” Staying at A.K. Roy’s hotel? A bitter joke.

  “Furious. As I am, damn it to hell. A week’s work down the drain. We’re on our way back to you now. Let us know—”

  Claudel said quickly, “Signing off. Lavji has spotted a blonde.” He switched off the transceiver, shoved it in his pocket as he started forward, hoping that Lavji—this time—was giving no false alarm. He wasn’t. Nina was there. As yet, she hadn’t entered the store, was standing at the door with three men grouped around her. Shawfield. Shawfield was one of them. He had a grip on her wrist. And suddenly, as she saw Claudel, she turned and left—Shawfield firmly holding one arm, leading her towards the side-street entrance of the arcade. Left willingly, it seemed. Claudel stared at the empty doorway, signalled Lavji to get on their tail as he pulled out his transceiver and sent the message to Renwick and Roy: “Nina intercepted by Shawfield. Am following. Will keep in touch.” Then he, too, was heading towards the side street, a busy street, lined with cars, crowded with people. There was no sign of Nina.

  “She’s in that grey Fiat,” Lavji said. “We’ll take this car.” He was already inside the dark-blue Citroën that was always parked there—on Roy’s orders—for any emergency. “They haven’t travelled far. We shall soon catch up.”

  “Not too closely,” Claudel warned.

  Lavji only smiled for such a naive assumption. Wasn’t he as expert as any Frenchman in following a car through heavy traffic?

  Claudel flicked on his transceiver again, made contact with Renwick and Roy, began identifying streets and directions.
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  “We’ll join up with you,” Renwick said. “And Roy is calling in some back-up. Keep sending.”

  Gradually, as Lavji kept the Fiat in sight, Claudel’s emotions calmed. His thoughts, too. No, she hadn’t left willingly or stupidly. She must have resisted walking quickly along that short stretch of arcade to the street, slowed their pace enough to let Lavji keep them in sight. So what did you think you were doing, Nina? Trying to protect me and my cover? He almost smiled, shook his head in wonder.

  He kept sending directions to Roy’s car, somewhere across the city in the big-business belt. Ahead of him, the grey Fiat left the Victorian Gothic buildings of red brick, chose a modest street of three-storey houses and shops. No new skyscrapers here, but small businesses; men in shirt sleeves, with ever-present briefcases; women in saris of cotton instead of silk but still attractive and constantly smiling. Caste-conscious, too. They avoided a poorly dressed man and his young son, untouchables, who were sweeping a sidewalk with a straw broom near Gandhi’s house.

  Streets and more streets to be identified... Suddenly, the names and signs above the small shops changed, no longer in English but in Arabic. “Now reaching the Muslim quarter,” he told Renwick. “Quiet here, shops closed, traffic light. Friday, of course—their Sabbath.”

  “We’ll soon be with you.” Renwick paused. “Are they skirting the Muslim quarter?” There was worry in his voice.

  “No. Looks as if they’re heading straight through. Odd direction. They’ll run up against six square blocks of—” Claudel cut off the sentence. Tactless. Renwick knew what adjoined this Muslim section: he had studied the map of Bombay, too. “Turning left into a small lopsided square. Muslim quarter ending. They are slowing down—about to stop—yes, they’ve stopped. At the beginning of Falkland Road.”

  There was only silence from Renwick. Roy’s voice took over. “Stay back! Don’t intercept. Keep in your car. We’ll soon be there. A back-up car, too. Wait!”

  Lavji eased the Citroën to a halt at one side of the little square, the Fiat nicely in sight. There was only very light traffic at this time of day. By dusk—that would be a different matter. Claudel mastered his flare of temper. “Wait?” he asked bitterly as he watched the Fiat’s door open. Shawfield was stepping out, his hand grasping Nina’s wrist, pulling her to stand beside him. “What in hell...” Claudel began, staring at Shawfield, who was now at the entrance to Falkland Road.

  Nina wrenched her arm free, began running, taking the road that lay in front of her. Shawfield seemed unperturbed, let her run, followed at walking pace.

  “The cages!” Claudel exclaimed, got out of the car. Roy’s Mercedes came into the square, stopped beside him. “He’s heading her into the cages!”

  Roy stared at him, said “Wait!” to Renwick. But Renwick was already out of the Mercedes and running. Roy shook his head. “Now we may lose Shawfield.”

  “I’ll give Bob a hand,” Claudel said, and started after him, leaving Roy to give brisk orders to his driver and Lavji—secure the Fiat, hold the two men inside it, let neither escape.

  ***

  Nina had felt Shawfield’s grip slacken on her wrist. She broke free, ran into the road that stretched in front of her. It was empty of traffic. People crowded one sidewalk to her left, the shadowed side of the narrow street: men, poorly dressed, lying asleep against a house wall, loitering aimlessly or squatting near small braziers where they were cooking food; a few gaping entrances of dark cave-like shops wide open on to the pavement—a carpenter in one of them stared out at her. The other sidewalk, in sunlight, was empty; quite empty. But its long line of three-storey houses was crowded. Crowded with women, packed into every storey, standing at the huge glassless windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. They were eyeing her, laughing, calling out in a babble of languages.

  She halted in confusion, staring at the women behind the widely spaced wooden bars that decorated the open ground floors. Women of every age—from nine or ten to fifty, sixty. Slender and fat, fair and dark, samples of beauty from everywhere, all of them barely covered by transparent silks, all of them with heavy make-up carefully applied even to the exposed breasts.

  She looked at the long stretch of houses, never-ending; across from them, the crowded sidewalk with men in ragged and stained clothes, thin dark faces with unreadable eyes. Those awake were watching her with a silence that terrified her. She hesitated, fighting back her panic. No escape, she thought in despair; not this way. Or could she force herself to run on— reach another street with luck, another street that was normal? Or would it be the same as this? She froze, paralysed with fear. Shawfield’s hand gripped her wrist. “We’ll walk on,” he said, and dragged her further along the street.

  He kept talking. “Educational. See what can happen to a girl who is stupid enough to run away from her friends in a strange city. Look!” He gestured to the windows, seemed a little nonplussed by the inviting gestures and voices that now concentrated on him. “Some are sold by their families, some drift in, and some were like you today—they thought they could take care of themselves.” He may have been too absorbed in his lecture or by the street scene around him, but he didn’t notice the lightly running footsteps until they almost reached him. He swung around, dropping Nina’s hand, and faced the stranger.

  Renwick caught him by the collar of his shirt and smashed his left fist at the startled jaw. Shawfield staggered, regained his balance; his hand went to the cuff of his sleeve, pulled out his weapon. Renwick was ready, struck Shawfield’s wrist a short and savage blow that gave no time for the trigger to be pressed; the cyanide pistol that looked like a fountain pen dropped on to the road.

  Claudel reached them, in time to catch Shawfield’s arm in a locking grip and twist it behind his back. “I’ll take care of him,” he said grimly, increased his pressure, and forced Shawfield towards the cars.

  Renwick picked up the cyanide pistol, shoved it into his pocket out of harm’s way: too many eyes from the sidewalk were fixed upon it. “Nina,” he said, holding out his hand.

  She had been standing motionless, her face rigid. She looked neither at him nor at the offered hand.

  “Nina,” he said softly.

  She came to life, began walking slowly, averting her face, ignoring any help. He fell into step beside her, said nothing more. At this moment, Renwick thought, she is hating all men. He looked at the cages, at a slender child with kohl-darkened eyes and scarlet lips. At this moment, he could agree.

  ***

  Roy was at his efficient best. The back-up car—a Renault— had arrived, now giving him a total of five men available. The number was enough to quell any resistance from Gopal. His friend, the driver of the grey Fiat, had bolted—been allowed to run, more accurately, and had been picked up by the police car parked out of sight. Gopal was now sitting in the Renault, his show of righteous indignation to no avail, waiting for Shawfield to join him. Lavji and the Mercedes driver were guarding its doors, but Roy had briefed them quickly and they—like the other three—knew what was expected of them.

  Then, as Claudel marched Shawfield back to the cars with a firm and painful grip on Shawfield’s twisted arm, Roy motioned two of his men to take charge. Quickly they relieved Claudel, handcuffed Shawfield, brought him to face Roy.

  Shawfield recovered his dignity, drew himself up to his full height. “What authority have you for this outrage?” he demanded.

  Roy’s heavy-lidded eyes studied the young man; then he flashed a smile along with an identification card. “The authority to take you to the police station and have you charged with attempted kidnapping. Put him with the other,” he directed one of his men.

  Shawfield stood his ground. “There was no kidnapping.” He nodded in Nina’s direction. “We are tourists. She wanted to see Falkland Road. So we came to see it.” He looked at Renwick, who was leading Nina to the Mercedes. “I charge that man with assault. He struck me.”

  “Not hard enough,” Renwick said.

  Nina halted
, aware of the puzzled glances in her direction from the Indians who stood near Shawfield. He was saying indignantly, “She asked me to bring her here. Is that kidnapping?”

  Nina drew closer to Renwick. He said quickly, “No one believes that, Nina. No one.”

  She stood there, uncertainly. In a low voice she said, “He took all my money. It is in his pocket. I didn’t ask him to bring me here, Bob, I didn’t ask—” She broke down.

  Renwick called out, “Have his pockets searched. He took her money.” Then, with a hand on her elbow—no more resistance to his touch, thank God—he drew her to the car. Inside, away from the curious faces, she wept bitterly. This was a Nina he had never seen before, distraught, shaken. He put an arm gently around her, let her cry her anguish away. “Safe now, darling, you’re safe,” he said, smoothing her hair back from her brow. He fought the impulse to take her in his arms, hold her close, kiss the tears from her cheeks, kiss her eyes, kiss her lips. “Safe,” he repeated. It seemed to be the magic word.

  Outside, the scene had changed. A slight interruption to my plan, thought Roy, but a brief one. Shawfield’s pockets had been searched. A wad of new rupee notes had been found, quite separate from the money in his own wallet. There was also a traveller’s cheque in Nina O’Connell’s name. “She gave them to me for safekeeping,” protested Shawfield. “She was leaving her bag in the car, so she asked me to carry the money.”

  “But she left her passport in her bag,” Roy said. “Is money more valuable, than a passport?” Yes, he thought as he watched Shawfield: I won that round. “Get him into the Renault,” he told his men. To Claudel, who had been standing apart, his back turned as he watched a small group of curious Muslims gathered on the far side of the square, he called, “Let us talk with the young lady. I am interested in her story.” They fell into step. Very quietly, Roy asked, “Did he identify you?”