The Hidden Target Read online

  And whatever that plan is—Renwick began from the beginning again. Kiley, Nina, O’Connell. And from there? Renwick ended with the same deductions: O’Connell’s importance was only as an intermediary, leading to—leading to what? “Just can’t get my mind to take any other direction,” he told Gilman when he returned. “About O’Connell,” he added. Not about Nina. That was a torment that no thought could resolve. He loved her, would always love her. Nina? He could only hope and trust. “Did you have to haul friend Roy out of bed?”

  “He didn’t object. He’s on top of the world. That was a big haul he pulled in—at Theo’s suite. Theo was travelling light, remember? He, himself, was carrying only a new passport, an automatic, and a wad of money. All his baggage was to be taken out by his two men and that joker wearing Theo’s white wig and moustache. Yes, quite a haul for Roy, a lot of valuable stuff there.” Gilman paused, then added in his most offhand manner. “I’ll leave for Bombay tomorrow morning.”

  Renwick said, “That’s a quick decision, isn’t it?”

  “I’d like to see what Theo left behind—before it all gets listed and dispersed.”

  “Roy has no objections?”

  “None whatsoever.” In fact, the visit to Bombay had been Roy’s suggestion. “Shan’t stay around too long. Quick in, quick out. I’ll be back here in three days—let’s say by Sunday, November the fourth. Claudel will take any messages you send from Washington.”

  “I’d have liked to have had him with me.”

  “Better keep separate. You were in Bombay together.”

  “Who’ll be my back-up then?”

  “Why not Tim MacEwan?”

  “Mac?”

  “He’s in Ottawa at the moment. But he does know his way around Washington.”

  “He’s good. But does he have any helpful contacts in Washington?”

  “He has been working with the FBI. Gave them as much as possible on the layout of Rancho San Carlos, the weapons, the drill, the faces and builds of the men. Neat sketches. He has a sharp eye for that kind of detail.”

  “That he has.” Renwick grinned. “You should have seen him crawling on his belly, his face covered with anti-sun lotion, having his first close-up view of terrorists in training. Later that night...” Renwick’s smile faded as he remembered Sal. “Well, we’ll keep Dobermans out of Mac’s way in Washington. Now what about getting back to your flat? I’ll take a bus and walk the rest.”

  “It would be safe enough to give you a lift if you’ll join me on the side street.”

  “No thanks, Ron. I’d like to walk.” He left first.

  Gilman waited to make arrangements for his three-day absence. He, too, was thinking about Nina.

  ***

  It was almost nine when Gilman reached home. “Bob is taking a walk,” he told Nina, and kissed his wife. “Anything to eat, Gemma?”

  “You haven’t had dinner?”

  “Not so far. A busy day. By the way, I’ll have to leave tomorrow morning. I’ll be home by Sunday.”

  “Did Bob have dinner?”

  “No. Better make a double helping of sandwiches.”

  Nothing can be wrong, Nina thought: Ron isn’t worried; his voice and smile are easy, natural. “I’ll help,” she offered.

  “No need,” Gemma told her. “Ronnie and I have a system. And no more than two people can crowd into our kitchen anyway. Open the door for Bob when he rings, won’t you?”

  The ring came soon: Renwick entered to be met with Nina’s arms around him and a happy laugh. The best welcome a man could get, he thought as he tightened his grip around her waist and kissed her upturned face. They stood there in the small dark hall holding each other.

  At last Gemma’s voice from the sitting-room called them back to reality. “The sandwiches are getting cold, Bob.” She shook her head at her husband, who’d have left them alone for another ten minutes. “They can’t stand there forever,” she murmured.

  “Didn’t we?” he asked.

  Gemma smiled. Two thin shirts and a lightweight suit, he had told her in the kitchen. For some place hot and humid, she guessed. She’d hear about it when Ronnie got back. Perhaps. Certainly this trip must be important, highly important. He was giving up Così fan tutte tomorrow night, and he had been looking forward to it for weeks. “When do you leave?”

  “Just after breakfast.” He rose to his feet as Nina and Renwick came to join the picnic at the coffee table. He glanced at Renwick. All’s well, he thought with relief: whatever he decided on that walk, all is well. Then they sat down and relaxed. It was a very merry party.

  Gemma was talking about her morning with Nina—a visit to Harrods nearby for some last-minute shopping. “And when we got back, Nina called home.”

  “Collect,” Nina said.

  “Now I understand why. How long did that call last? Must have been ten, fifteen minutes.” Gemma poured more beer for the men, another cup of tea for Nina and herself. “Beryl must be so accustomed to money that she never asks the cost of anything.”

  “Beryl,” said Nina, “is filthy rich. But that isn’t the reason father married her. It isn’t, Bob!”

  “Okay, okay, honey. I didn’t say a thing.”

  Gilman looked over at his wife. “Now wouldn’t it be nice if you were filthy rich, darling?”

  “Indeed it would be. I could have breakfast in bed—like Beryl. Was that why she talked endlessly? All cosily wrapped in a satin quilt?”

  “Was your father there?” Renwick asked Nina.

  “For two minutes. He was dashing out—a breakfast meeting. Yes, one of those. He was a little on edge, in fact definitely cross, until he realised it was me on the ’phone. Then he became normal, started arranging my arrival. But I told him not to worry: I was taking the same flight as a friend, so I would have company all the way.”

  Renwick looked at her, a smile spreading over his face. Taking the same flight as a friend, Gilman noted. “Not bad, not bad at all,” he said, exchanging a glance with Renwick.

  “Then Beryl came on from the ’phone in their room.” Nina was amused. “She seems to listen in, doesn’t she?” It had happened in Bombay, too.

  “What did she have to say?” Renwick asked. “Is your new bedroom ready? I hope it isn’t.”

  “I’m afraid it is.” And we’ll be separated, Nina thought. “But Beryl hardly mentioned it. She was too busy persuading me that Father’s bad temper had nothing to do with her.”

  “Probably couldn’t find a cuff-link, or his shoelace had snapped and there wasn’t a spare one around. Nice picture: economics expert entering the White House tied together with string.”

  “Oh, Bob!” She laughed and shook her head. “It was his attaché case that spoiled his morning. It’s his favourite, uses it all the time. I gave it to him for Christmas two years— Something wrong?”

  “Not at all,” Gilman said quickly. “Unless he had important papers in it. When was it stolen?”

  “It wasn’t. And his papers weren’t in it—they were in his safe. It just got ruined.”

  “Ruined?” Renwick asked, avoiding Gilman’s eyes.

  “Well, not ruined exactly. That was Beryl’s word. It was badly stained—acid got spilled on it—some kind of paint remover that was being used in Father’s study. You see, the painter almost dropped the can and some of the remover splashed on one side of the desk and on the attaché case. The whole house was thrown into an uproar. Madame Colbert was furious—Beryl said it really was appalling how she screamed at the poor painter. But in a way, it was her fault for hurrying everyone with their jobs. Father wasn’t there at the time. Didn’t know his attaché case was missing until this morning.”

  “Missing?” Gilman asked.

  “Oh, he will get it back in a day or two. Madame Colbert took it to one of her ‘little men’ to have the stains removed and the leather restored. There’s a furniture polisher working on the desk now. And Father went off to breakfast with an old leather envelope holding his papers. Much ado a
bout nothing.”

  “Much ado, certainly.” Gilman took off his glasses, polished them, looked at Renwick, who was equally thoughtful.

  Renwick said, “Stains removed in a day or two? From leather? Not likely. Nina, I’m afraid your father is going to have a well-marked attaché case to carry around. Hasn’t he others?”

  “Bulky briefcases, which he hates.”

  “Spoils the silhouette,” Renwick agreed. O’Connell was a careful dresser, neat and dapper. “He will just have to buy a new attaché case; that’s simple enough.”

  “Beryl wanted to do that, but Madame Colbert wouldn’t hear of it. Said it was quite an unnecessary expense.”

  “I like that,” Renwick said, suddenly smiling, “considering the thousands of dollars she’s charging for colour schemes and wallpapers.” Yes, he thought, I like that last touch: unnecessary expense—any quick excuse to keep Beryl from buying a new attaché case; a different-looking case. Why was dear Thérèse so intent on keeping the old one in use?

  “Why don’t I buy Father an attaché case?” Nina asked. “His birthday is next month. Bob—wouldn’t that be a good idea? Sort of a peace offering for all the postcards he didn’t receive?”

  Renwick’s smile broadened. “A peace offering for bringing me into the family?”

  “Bob! He likes you—he told me in Geneva you were the brightest young man he knew.”

  “Except?” he teased.

  “Except that you were a soldier,” Nina admitted. “But you aren’t a soldier now, are you?”

  “Would it matter?”

  She shook her head. “I thought you looked wonderful, but wonderful, in uniform.”

  “And when was all this?” Gemma asked. She had never seen Renwick in anything but civilian clothes.

  “In Geneva. Six years ago,” Nina said.

  Gemma looked slightly bewildered. “When you were fifteen?”

  “Yes,” Nina said.

  “Oh,” said Gemma.

  Renwick rose, catching Nina’s hand. “We’d better finish packing.” He pulled Nina to her feet. “An early start tomorrow.”

  “Not so early,” Gemma suggested. She was enjoying herself. “Tomorrow, if you leave here by half-past nine, you’ll be in plenty of time—” Ronnie, she suddenly noticed, was giving her that fixed look, one of his specialities. “I’ve really got to do some packing myself. Ronnie, will two shirts be enough?” She let herself glance after Renwick and Nina as they entered the corridor to the guest room. “Fifteen,” she asked in a hushed voice. “Do you think he—”

  “No, I don’t think,” Gilman said. “You’re an incorrigible romantic, my love.”

  “After all,” Gemma said as she gathered plates and teacups, “Juliet was only fourteen. Would you bring those glasses, darling?”

  ***

  They were about to leave. Renwick made a last quick check of the guest room. “All clear, I think.” He looked at Nina, radiant and ready for travel. She was wearing the coat he had bought for her in Bombay, and that pleased him. “One moment, Nina.” He caught her hands. “I’ve been thinking about this—a matter of security. We can’t talk about it in the taxi or on the plane. But listen, darling, will you? I’ll leave you at your father’s house, see you safely inside. But don’t mention—not for a few days— anything about our marriage. Don’t mention we are in love. Please, Nina. Just keep those pretty lips closed.” He kissed them lightly. “Also, honey, don’t talk about Bombay—about Erik or Marco. Never mention these names in your house: Kiley and Shawfield will be enough. For a few days, anyway. I’ll explain everything, then.”

  She was startled, puzzled, too, but she nodded.

  “And don’t tell anyone that we met in Istanbul. Or that you ever saw Pierre. Or how we met in Bombay.”

  “Nothing about you at all? Not even that we met in Amsterdam?”

  “Nothing. Not yet. I’ll telephone you night and morning; and then, in a few days, I’ll call at your house—a friendly visit. That’s all. And after that...” He didn’t finish.

  “It will be difficult to hide what I feel,” she said unhappily. “Bob—must it be this way?”

  “It has to be this way. But it won’t last long.” I hope to God it won’t.

  “Am I endangering you? Is that why—”

  “No, darling. You’ve got it the wrong way around. I could endanger you.”

  “But how?”

  He hesitated. One last warning was needed. “Keep Thérèse Colbert at a distance. Be careful. Very careful. Remember the interior decorator in Brussels? I told you about her and—”

  “The black widow spider? Yes, I remember.” Then she caught her breath. “Thérèse Colbert?”

  “Yes. She’s an enemy agent.”

  She stared at him. “In Father’s house?”

  “In your father’s house. He knows nothing. Nor does Beryl. Just you—and I. Will you keep that secret, honey? Be on guard?” He caught her in his arms, held her close. “I’ve told you more than I should have. But I couldn’t leave you in that house without—”

  “I’ll take care,” she said. Her hand touched his cheek. She had never seen him so serious, not even in Istanbul when he had listened to her with eyes grave and worried. “Darling, I’ll take every care.” She kissed him. “I needed to know. It will keep me safe.” And you, too, she thought. I could stamp on that black widow, stamp her to death.

  He picked up the suitcases, and they entered the corridor. “One thing I know, Bob Renwick,” Nina said. “Life isn’t going to be dull with you.”

  Nor with you, he thought, nor with you.

  29

  A cool afternoon made pleasant walking around the sweep of Potomac waters called the Tidal Basin. Unpoetic name, thought Renwick, for a romantic spot. The encircling cherry trees, even when touched by early November, had delicacy and grace. Yellowed leaves loosened their hold on black branches, drifted gently to the grass below. Soon, bare slender arms would stretch to a winter sky, wait patiently for spring to come and cover them in sleeves of white-petalled silk. Lincoln had his Reflecting Pool, Washington his Mall, why not give Jefferson a lake? Tidal Basin... Was that the best we could do for a man who named his home Monticello?

  Renwick glanced at his watch: three forty-five. Tim MacEwan should be coming into sight any moment now. Midway between Lincoln and Jefferson, Renwick had suggested yesterday evening when they had arranged today’s encounter. He wondered now if Mac had had time enough to find the answers to all the questions. “I’ll keep out of the picture, let you meet with your federal friends,” Renwick had said. “But these questions are vital, Mac.”

  Mac had nodded his agreement, and in his own Scots way qualified his chances of success. “Not much time to find the right answers.” Renwick had reminded him grimly, “Not much time for anything, Mac.”

  There he was now, reviewing the cherry trees at a brisk march, high colour in his cheeks, red hair mostly covered by his tweed hat. “Hello, how are you?” Mac said, stopping to shake hands with a friend met by chance. A few sentences, and Renwick seemed persuaded to change his direction to walk alongside. There were several couples as well as singles taking an afternoon stroll. Renwick and MacEwan looked completely in place as they walked and talked. Nothing—apparently— serious; just a pleasant chat.

  “Did you get the answers?” Renwick asked.

  “Yes. First, that type of stain on leather is not easily or quickly removed. Wood can be scraped and refinished, but leather is a problem—usually permanently blemished.”

  “Okay.”

  “Next: there was no complaint made by Madame Colbert to the firm that employs the painter.”

  A show of temper, of real anger over a careless job, and no follow-up? “I see,” said Renwick.

  “He came to work for the firm last week. He left of his own accord yesterday. No explanation. My friends at the Bureau are having him traced, if possible.”

  “Good.”

  “Colbert was followed to the shop of tha
t ‘little man’ who does special leather repairs for her. But when we went in to see him this morning with a suitcase that needed attention, we were told he did no work on damaged leather, just stitching or reinforcing corners.”

  “So he is now being watched, too.”

  “Yes. My friends—Joe and Bill—” Mac smiled. “Simpler to keep it Joe, Bill, and Mac. Anyway, their interest is now aroused. At first, they were just politely helpful—they owed me that from the case we had in Canada last winter: two Berlin activists using Toronto to slip over the border into the States.”

  “How far does their interest reach?”

  “Far enough to have a couple of workmen in O’Connell’s house adjusting the burglar-alarm system, checking all the wiring. One window’s circuit was somehow broken yesterday—” Mac smiled again—“so the whole system went out. Work is going on there today—and tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Renwick reminded him.

  “They’ll work time and a half. O’Connell agreed. Burglar alarms have got to be in order.”

  So there would be two FBI agents in the house through Saturday. “Who is covering Sunday?”

  “Joe and Bill are planning that now. Might even tip off the two Secret Service agents to loiter around. By the way, Bill has a question for you. That briefcase was bought here in Washington, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. At Burke and Evans. Just before Christmas, 1977.”

  “Burke and Evans carry the same basic line, don’t they? There are some suit and attaché cases that are always in stock.”

  “Yes. Nina is probably shopping there right now—she wants to give her father a birthday present of an attaché case.”

  “Similar to the damaged one?”

  “As close as possible. He liked it a lot.”

  “Then Bill’s question makes sense: if a duplicate could be bought at Burke and Evans, wouldn’t it be used for the substitution?”