The Hidden Target Page 35

  “Inconvenient timing,” Claudel said. “Unless Dr. Weber isn’t planning to leave tonight.” That had been Renwick’s hunch: Theo would clear out of Bombay as soon as possible; Theo was running scared—why else cancel that vital meeting in the bank, and at such short notice? “Oh, I know,” Claudel went on, catching a sharp glance from Renwick, “his suitcases are ready to go. But some people do pack on the night before an early-morning start.”

  Renwick said, “What description did you get, Roy?”

  “Cream-coloured suit. About fifty years old, wears heavy glasses, has dark-brown hair—worn long but well brushed, carries a Panama hat. Very presentable.” Roy frowned. “Sounds possible. All open and above board, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Height? Weight?” Renwick asked quietly.

  Roy stared at Renwick, but he picked up the receiver again and—after some delay—got the information. “Medium height and weight and deeply tanned face. Anything more, Robert?” he asked with a touch of sarcasm.

  “Check with the twelfth floor. When did Schmidt enter the suite?”

  “The floor waiter will report when there is anything to report,” Roy said. “See!” he added, pointing to his expert over by a proud battery of radios and powerful transmitters who was receiving a message by means of a humble transceiver. It came from the twelfth floor. A visitor in a cream-coloured suit, dark-haired, had been admitted to 12A eight minutes ago. He was just leaving now.

  “The old shell game,” Renwick said softly.

  Claudel and Roy exchanged puzzled glances.

  “He stayed just long enough for an exchange of suit and tie, an adjustment in make-up if needed.” Renwick was on his feet, half-way to the door. “Let’s move! Come on, you two, come on!” He left.

  Claudel recovered, followed quickly.

  “I’ll warn the elevators,” Roy said and began trying to contact their operators.

  Renwick’s run through a startled accounting department brought him into a short stretch of narrow hall. He checked his pace to a brisk walk as he entered the hotel lobby. A bank of four elevators faced him: two doors open, waiting for customers; one door closed, its indicator showing an ascent; the last door, also closed, its indicator beginning its descent from the upper floors.

  Renwick nodded to Claudel, who had joined him, looked around for one of Roy’s agents. Yes, there was the Mercedes’ driver, trying to appear inconspicuous.

  Claudel said, “I see Lavji arriving—he looks a very happy man. Promotion assured.”

  “Does he see us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” So had Roy’s driver. He folded his newspaper and walked slowly forward. “Keep you eyes on that elevator,” Renwick told him. “Look for a cream-coloured suit.” And then Renwick stared at the indicator. “It has stopped.” Stopped at the second floor.

  “Not for long,” Claudel said as the elevator started down again.

  It reached the lobby. Its doors slid open. Several people emerged. Nine altogether. And not one light-coloured suit among them.

  “Goddamn it—” began Renwick. Then to Roy’s agent, “Where’s the staircase?”

  “The main staircase or the fire staircase?”

  “Where are they?” Renwick’s voice was urgent.

  “There—near the hotel desk—that’s the main staircase. The fire exit...” He was pointing now to the rear of the lobby, close to the arcade, where a handsome door had a small orange light glowing overhead, “There are other fire exits, too,” he said helpfully. “In all quarters of this building...”

  “Any of them near these elevators?” Renwick cut in.

  “That one!” He pointed again to the orange light.

  Quickly, Renwick said to Claudel, “Take the front entrance. Lavji, too. I’ll watch the arcade with helpful Harry. Keep in touch, Pierre.” He had pulled out his mini-transceiver, small enough to be concealed in his hand: not much range but good enough for the lobby’s long stretch. Pierre nodded, moved off with his transceiver ready.

  Renwick signed to Roy’s driver to follow, left for the lobby’s exit to the arcade. The bar and restaurants lay that way, each with an entrance from the lobby, each with its door on to the arcade’s covered walk. Theo would have plenty of choices for an escape if he used the fire stairs. Renwick kept his eyes on that door with the subdued orange light, expecting it to open any moment. Wish to God I had my Beretta, he thought: a courtesy to Roy, who had forbidden the carrying of any gun in crowded places; Renwick’s role was to identify Theo and leave Roy’s men to deal with him.

  Renwick glanced around for his back-up; but the man wasn’t following. He was explaining everything to Roy, who had just appeared. For God’s sake, thought Renwick—and then froze. Beyond where Roy was standing, the main staircase swept down into the lobby, its balustrades banked by flowers. A man in an ice-cream suit was descending at a leisurely pace, his shoulders visible, his Panama hat being donned over his dark hair as he prepared to step down into the lobby and join the flow of people.

  Renwick swung around, retraced his steps, resisted breaking into a run: haste would attract Theo’s attention—he had been studying the lobby, gauging its safety in his measured progress downstairs. You blasted fool, you damned idiot, Renwick told himself: you were wrong, you were wrong—he’s going to stroll out by the front entrance into a nice dark night. But why? Not just because of a grand exit—not Theo: he’d take the surest way to certain escape. Through a crowded lobby where he couldn’t hurry? Then Renwick guessed the answer. As he reached Roy, saying quickly, “He is in the lobby, just passing the hotel desk,” he raised his transceiver and pressed its signal for Claudel’s attention. “Pierre—he is taking the main entrance. Schmidt’s car and driver—they could be waiting at the front steps. Best get him there—away from the lobby. Check outside. Take Lavji and whoever is with him.”

  “Will do. He’s now in view—partially. Just glimpsed him— walking slowly—using a cane. We’ll move out ahead of him.”

  A cane... “Look out, Pierre! Warn Lavji! That cane could be dangerous.”

  Slight pause. “That kind of walking stick?” Pierre asked with an attempt at nonchalance.

  “We’ll be close on his heels.” Renwick signed off, looked at Roy. “We can risk hurrying. Theo will be keeping his eyes on the entrance.”

  Roy, without a sign that he objected to having his men ordered around by anyone but himself, fell into quick step with Renwick, his driver following closely.

  “A cane?” Roy asked, his eyes searching past the islands of ornamental trees and clusters of people. “Lavji is trained to deal with that. No, I don’t think it’s too dangerous a weapon. Look— there he is!” Roy had caught sight of the cream-coloured suit and the Panama hat. Theo had joined a small group of people: two more light suits beside him—almost indistinguishable from Theo’s. There was also another Panama hat visible, but below it was a grey suit. “He merges well. A clever man,” Roy said.

  “And cautious.” Renwick’s hand grasped Roy’s arm, slowing their rapid pace. Theo’s group had drifted away from him to the porter’s desk, and so now he had drawn close to a decorative tree, appeared to be studying the flowers around its base as he looked back along the lobby. Renwick’s face was averted. He seemed to be deep in conversation with Roy, who kept a smile on his lips and his eyes now entirely on Renwick.

  Renwick was asking, “How many men with Lavji?”

  “Two.” Roy’s smile widened. “Enough to take care of that very dangerous cane.”

  “It’s lethal. As lethal as that fountain pen James Kiley used.”

  The smile was gone. “You are sure?”

  “Why is he carrying it? Schmidt didn’t.”

  “He has started moving again,” Roy said.

  They quickened their pace, pressed through the last fringe of people standing just inside the entrance. Theo was already outside.

  He was waiting on the steps, looking for his car, speaking angrily to the puzzled doorman. “It sh
ould have been here. Where is it? A black Lancia—”

  “There it is now, sir!” It came slowly out of the darkness, reached the brilliant lights of the hotel’s entrance.

  Theo brushed the doorman aside and went ahead of him down the steps, quickly reached the car. The driver was not in uniform. Two men were in the rear seat, opening the door, coming out at him. He backed two steps, turned as he heard footsteps behind him, gripped his cane. He saw an Indian, tall, immaculately dressed, and with him a younger man, European or American, of medium height, watchful, alert. Theo stared.

  “Yes, Theo,” the American said, “I am Renwick.”

  Theo’s cane was raised. His eyes flickered towards the trees and flower beds on the right, gently illuminated, partly shadowed.

  Roy said, “Otto Remp, I am placing you under arrest for extradition to—”

  Theo moved, a sudden dash towards the trees, lunging at Renwick as he passed. Renwick caught the cane, deflecting its aim, wrenched it free from Theo’s grip. Theo tried to run on, but Claudel and Lavji had closed in, grasped his arms and forced them behind his back. Deftly, Lavji handcuffed his wrist to Theo’s.

  Roy, his Oxford English still more noticeable, said, “Otto Remp, I am placing you under arrest for extradition to West Germany. You will now be taken to police headquarters, where you will be questioned. That may delay your extradition for a few days.” His voice became cold, his eyes hard. “But we, too, as well as West Germany, have questions to ask you about certain projects you are planning.” Roy nodded to Lavji, and Theo was led to the car. His face was composed. Not one protest, not one comment. An old hand, thought Renwick, a real professional.

  Claudel said, “Here, Bob, let me hold that piece of evidence.” He tried to take the walking stick from Renwick’s fingers, found it was too tightly gripped. Renwick relaxed, attempted a laugh, slowly released his grasp. Damn me, he thought, noticing a tremble in his hand, and stuck it deep into his pocket.

  Roy eyed the cane with distaste. “Leave it in my office—you will have a report to send to London. I shall join you there. At nine o’clock.” He looked towards the Lancia. “I am taking that one in myself. A tricky customer.” Roy shook his head. “Canes and fountain pens that can kill and—”

  “I forgot,” Renwick said. “This belonged to Shawfield. He had it with him today—at Falkland Road.”

  Roy took the small cyanide pistol. It was similar to the empty one that had been found on James Kiley. It could be a useful piece of evidence—destroy Kiley’s protest that it was only a fountain pen. “Is this one loaded?”

  “Yes. He didn’t manage a shot.”

  Roy pocketed the imitation pen gingerly. “And you’ve been carrying it around?” he asked with marked disapproval.

  “I forgot,” Renwick said again, and smiled.

  Roy studied him, decided to forget this lapse of memory. “We talk too long. I must leave—”

  “The longer we talk,” Renwick suggested, “the more Theo will worry. And there is a little information you could use. He has many names. But you could shake him by dropping his real one—Herman Kroll, of East Germany.”

  “Herman Kroll,” repeated Roy. “An East German.”

  “KGB-trained. He arranged his own accidental death, came back into the world as a new man. He thinks Herman Kroll’s file is closed, if not forgotten.”

  “A little name-dropping? Yes, that is always useful.”

  “Also a little word dropped into Theo’s ear—about the kind of questions he will be facing.”

  “Concerning his future projects here in India? Yes, he has several—why else did Kiley and Shawfield have secret meetings with certain Communist students?”

  “Mention Washington, too. I have a strong feeling that’s a major project. Oh, just a feeling—but he was sending James Kiley there on a special mission.”

  “What mission?”

  “That is what we would like to uncover.”

  Roy was thoughtful. “He will not talk, that man.”

  “No. But if he believes we know about this project—he will send out word from prison by way of his lawyer. Perhaps the project would be postponed—until we are all assuming it has been cancelled. Theo’s people don’t act unless they have a good chance of success.”

  “If this project were postponed, then you might uncover it?” Roy asked slowly.

  “We’d make a pretty good try. But we need time.”

  “You don’t think the project could be cancelled altogether?”

  Renwick shook his head: “There’s been too much preparation, too much careful planning.”

  Roy nodded. Thoughtfully, he turned away.

  As the car moved off, Claudel asked, “Will it work? Will Theo believe that his Washington project is blown?”

  “A few of his plans have disintegrated recently. He’s shaken.” The attempted flight from Bombay was proof of that. “Let’s walk a little—ten minutes of fresh air to clear our minds.” Renwick chose the path that led into the garden. Soft perfumes stirred by the night, soft lights bringing out the bright pinks and purples of the flowers. The spaced trees were smooth-barked, as light and graceful as ballet dancers with the lift and droop of their arms.

  Claudel was thinking of Theo. “You were expecting him to bolt.”

  “I was watching his eyes.” Renwick tried to make a joke of that. “Always notice the front wheels of an approaching car, then you’ll know when to dodge.”

  “A clever effort. He couldn’t escape. He knew it, but he made it look like a real attempt. When he pointed that cane, it seemed as if he was fending you off—a natural movement.” And who would have known what caused Bob’s death if he hadn’t warned us the cane was a weapon? “How long does this take to kill?” Claudel held up the walking stick.

  “Depends what is used. The Bulgarian method was a matter of four days and a raging fever. The one used against Jake Crefeld—” Renwick paused, said abruptly, “Paralysis. Death in thirty minutes. And for God’s sake, Pierre, stop brandishing that damned thing around.”

  “Sorry, sorry.”

  Renwick calmed his voice. “Let’s see if it was loaded.” He took the cane, advanced near a floodlight. Then he examined the handle and found a small button that could be released sideways. He took aim at the tree beside him, pressed the button. There was no sound. Only an indent so small that Claudel had to use his cigarette lighter, holding it close to the smooth bark before they could see a pinhead hole. “I guess it was,” said Renwick.

  “Roy won’t like missing the demonstration.”

  “Better that than having Roy play around with it and shooting himself in the foot.”

  “Risky business we’re in,” Claudel said with a wide grin. And I might have shot myself in the foot, he was thinking as he remembered the casual way he had handled that cane. “Time you got out of it, Bob—out of field work at least. Why not? You’re a split personality. You’ve got ideas and you put them to work: that’s one part of you. The other is that you hate being stuck in an office: you want to see what the big bad world is doing.”

  “And it’s doing plenty.”

  “Well, fight it with ideas. You’ve got them. Bob.”

  “And sit at a desk, signing memos?”

  “You don’t have to sit at a desk. Sit in an armchair with a telephone on the floor beside you, prop your feet up, take a clipboard with paper and pencil, and let the little secretaries sign the memos. Ideas and plans come just as easily that way. You’ll have to rise now and again, of course, to study maps, or go into the hush-hush room to see how your boys in the field are coming along.” At least, Claudel thought, I’ve got him laughing. But his luck can’t run forever, and he knows it. It must have been hell for him tonight, waiting for that bloody cane to come within a few inches of his body, a replay of what nearly happened before.

  “I’m trying to imagine an antiseptic office in Merriman’s with a chaise longue for the weary brain,” Renwick said. “You forgot the pink and purple velv
et cushions, Pierre.”

  “I’m serious. I’m also serious about something else. Why don’t you marry the girl? You would if you’d stay in your think tank in London. People who work there don’t leave young widows behind.”

  Renwick said nothing.

  “If you don’t marry her, I will.”

  Renwick halted, looked at Claudel.

  “I mean that. I’ve meant everything I’ve said.” Claudel’s usual bright smile returned. “Now, come on—let’s make Gilman happy.”

  ***

  Their report to London was barely ended when the telephone rang in Roy’s office. Renwick answered it. It was Roy himself. “Get the scrambler working,” he said.

  The untalkative communications expert obliged. “Something important,” Renwick told Claudel and brought him over to the desk to listen, too. “Ready,” he said to Roy.

  “He killed himself.”

  “What?”

  “He killed himself.”

  “How? Where?”

  “In the car. He had one hand free. He was fingering his tie, pulled off one of his shirt buttons, bit into it. One minute— less—that was all.”

  “Why?” asked Renwick.

  “Difficult to say. He was silent, didn’t seem worried when I mentioned he would have to answer many questions. Just sat with a small smile on his lips. And so I dropped the name Herman Kroll, and he stopped smiling. But he was still silent— even when I mentioned his Washington project and said he would have to answer more questions about that. And then— suddenly—as quick as a snap of the fingers—he bit into the poison. Cyanide.” Roy paused. “There will be inquiries about this. My critics will be delighted.”

  “I don’t think so,” Renwick said quickly. “Not when they hear you saved Bombay from a new tourist agency that was geared to make travel arrangements for your terrorists—and supply them with expense money under the counter. That should shut up any of your critics. Besides, what have they done for Bombay?”