The Hidden Target Page 8

  Renwick said slowly, “There must have been a car waiting for him. And there had to be a tailor involved—or someone who could make expert alterations on store-bought clothes.”

  Crefeld laughed. “The Rotterdam police are attending to those problems. They had the house under outside surveillance.”

  “No luggage?”

  “One large but lightweight bag.”

  “Air travel?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Again, we’ve asked the police to—” He was cut short by the ringing of one of the telephones. Unerringly, he picked up the right one. Possibly identified by its bell tone. All different? Jake, thought Renwick, is a well-organised man. A pleasure to work with him.

  “Excuse me,” Crefeld said hurriedly. “This may be a fuller report on that bombing today in Rokin Street.” He was listening now, speaking in his turn in Dutch, listening, speaking, listening. With his hand over the receiver, he made a quick aside in English for Renwick’s enlightenment. “From my office at The Hague. Johan Vroom.”

  Vroom was Crefeld’s assistant, reliable and competent and a little long-winded. Renwick waited patiently, his thoughts on the Rokin bombing. He had been only a short distance away when the explosion had swallowed up all street noises. He had halted, turned, started to run back. Nina, he was thinking, Nina... But she was all right he could see as he reached the fringe of a gathering crowd; so was Madge. Judging from the way they lay on the ground, their two friends had shoved or pushed them down, then fallen flat on their faces, too. And saved the four of them from flying debris. Near and around them, other people hadn’t reacted in time. They had paid for it. The policeman had had no chance whatsoever.

  Renwick, once he saw the girls being helped to their feet and dusted off, backed away. They weren’t hurt, except for bruised egos. As for the men—attractive-looking types, he had to admit—they seemed fit and healthy, and they were certainly capable. Must have had military training, he decided as he looked at his watch, remembered Crefeld, and began a brisk walk to the Prinsengracht: they had certainly shown a proper respect for explosives. Sensible types, too. So that was a relief. He could stop worrying about Nina.

  Or can I? Renwick asked himself now, waiting for Vroom’s long call to end. She’s so damned independent, thinks she can take on the world and come out winning. But you don’t win all the time, Nina. Not all the time. You’re the same vulnerable, romantic girl I met six years ago; in spite of your grown-up airs, you’re still just that. Why the hell did I have to meet you today, start remembering—

  “What?” yelled Crefeld into the ’phone, and Renwick’s memories ended abruptly. “What?” Crefeld repeated in a quieter voice. “You are sure? I’ll be back this evening. Call me if you hear more.” He clamped down the receiver, swung around to face Renwick, and broke into English again. “You know who the man was? The one who wheeled the bomb into position? A Japanese. A Japanese, for God’s sake.”

  There was a brief silence. Crefeld went on, “A member of some terrorist group called the Red Banner. Came here from Tokyo to arouse the conscience of the workers against the fascist government that is persecuting their Moluccan comrades. Persecuting, for God’s sake? We took them in when they left Indonesia. And a Japanese, of all things... He was outraged. Then, “If there weren’t people wounded and one man killed, I would laugh.” Another pause. “Ironic note: he was caught by three workers on bicycles. They ran him down, breaking his leg, and held him firmly until the police arrived.”

  Lucky about that leg, thought Renwick, or else he would have karate-chopped their necks and high-kicked their jaws and left three more injured Dutchmen on the pavement. “There must have been a back-up man in a car, an escape route planned.”

  Crefeld agreed. “The police have begun checking all cars parked in that area.”

  “What about garages? Or the small warehouses? The barrel organ must have been prepared some place nearby.”

  “Everything will be checked. But first, there are questions to be put to the people who live in that district. Information. A lead. That could save a lot of searching. You agree?”

  “I’m not sure,” Renwick admitted frankly.

  “But you are sure about a barrel organ? How did you learn that, my friend?”

  “I was there.”

  “You just happened to be there?” Crefeld was now highly amused. Did Renwick attract trouble or did trouble attract. Renwick? Crefeld had often wondered about that.

  “Not exactly.” Renwick gave a three-sentence explanation of meeting Nina O’Connell and her friend, escorting them to Rokin, leaving them there for Kiley and Shawfield to take over. “They’re planning a trip around the world. No, I mean it, Jake. In a camper. With some other students.”

  “I thought you looked worried when you arrived here. In a camper?”

  “It sounds as if it were a custom-built job. So that’s possibly safe. And Kiley and Shawfield are not college students: older. In their late twenties, I’d guess.”

  “Couldn’t you persuade your young friend—”

  “Nina? She has reached the point of no argument. Besides, I’m not her father. He is Francis O’Connell, by the way.”

  Crefeld was impressed. “I can see why you might be worried.”

  About Francis O’Connell? That self-centred career-artist? “What is nagging away at me is this: the girls arrive in an Amsterdam packed with tourists, no reservations of course, go to a recommended hotel called the Alba, find that two cancellations have just occurred. Lucky girls, Jake. Too lucky?”

  Crefeld’s lips were pursed. “The Alba? Don’t know it. Who recommended it?”

  “A friend in London, a Swedish doctor, name of Ilsa Schlott. She also recommended inoculations for an Amsterdam visit. The works—cholera included. Nina balked at the yellow fever shots, though. Schlott knows something about tropical diseases. She knows Amsterdam, too, obviously. So why suggest these inoculations for a visit here?”

  “She possibly heard of this world tour.”

  “She knows nothing about it according to Madge Westerman. That’s Nina’s friend.”

  “Cholera and yellow fever?” Crefeld was bemused. “For Amsterdam?” He repressed a laugh. In a desk drawer, he found a sheet of paper and began noting: “Alba—Dr. Ilsa Schlott— Madge Westerman—Nina O’Connell.” He looked up to ask, “Any other names you can give me?”

  Suddenly embarrassed, Renwick said, “Look, Jake, perhaps I’ve been exaggerating the problem.” Personal interest could distort judgment. “No need for any—”

  “You’ve aroused my curiosity,” Crefeld said. “Cholera and yellow fever in Amsterdam?” He laughed openly this time and then tapped his pencil on his notes. “I just like things complete. You know that, Bob. Who owns this camper?”

  “Tony Shawfield, English. His friend is James Kiley, American. Then there’s a Sven Dissen and his wife—Marie-Louise. Two others: Lambrese, and Henryk Tromp from Leyden.”

  “Tromp? There’s a Henryk Tromp at The Hague. A lawyer. Friend of mine. He has a son, Henryk too, who was a student at Leyden. He hopes young Henryk will join the firm someday.”

  “Possibly a father-son relationship. Young Tromp is going to law school when he gets back from this trip.”

  “Well,” Crefeld said, “if the others on this trip are like Henryk, you needn’t worry about your friends. Doesn’t that reassure you?” He didn’t destroy his notes, though, but slipped them into the desk drawer. “I’ll get word to you about any more reports from Rotterdam. Quite a useful exchange of information we’ve had. A successful launching of Interintell, wouldn’t you say? Let me know further developments. You’ll be arranging for others to join us—Italy, Greece, Turkey?”

  “I’ll keep you informed,” Renwick said as they shook hands at the door.

  “The sooner the better,” Crefeld suggested.

  Another handshake on that, and the door closed behind Renwick. Almost four o’clock, he noted with surprise, as he reached the street and began walking
along the canal side. Yes, quite a useful, exchange of information, and possibly more to come from Rotterdam. Just where was Kurt Leitner bound for, with his nice new clothes and his travelling bag? One thing we do know for a certainty, Renwick decided: he left the name Kurt Leitner along with his leather jacket in that house by the docks.

  ***

  Renwick chose the Breda road for his return to Belgium. Traffic was mixed in the late afternoon, fewer trucks but more sightseeing buses and small cars loaded to the gunwales with holiday baggage. Outrageous gas prices were having little effect on vacationers southward bound. At the border, there was a general slow-up, unusual in the Benelux countries, where goods and people flowed easily across frontiers. But the bombing in Amsterdam was having its effect: closer scrutiny than usual of all vehicles leaving Holland.

  Renwick eased his Citroën’s speed and joined the line of cars that edged their way forward, stopped, moved forward again. A Europa bus was released and sent on. One more car behind it, then a minibus, two more cars, and Renwick’s turn would come. That wouldn’t take too long. He would make good speed on the road bypassing Antwerp, be able to wash up at his apartment before he went out to dinner at his favourite restaurant, where he could meet a couple of his friends.

  Then as he looked along the road ahead of him, he noticed there was a small group, a half-dozen people or so, gathered close to the minibus. Or camper, he decided. Green, well-built body, tarpaulin strapped securely over the baggage on its roof. Would they have to open that up? he wondered in dismay, glancing at his watch. Just in case a Japanese terrorist was hidden topside? Kids, he thought now, as he heard the small group break into laughter, saw some light-hearted horseplay between two of the young men. A couple, affectionate, holding on to each other. Two girls; shoulder-length golden hair, slender, medium height, outsize shoulder bags. He looked again, amazed. Nina. And friend Madge.

  He recovered from his surprise. Where were the remaining two, Shawfield and Kiley? Still inside the camper talking with the Dutch officials? But all was in order, for the group was called together, climbed back into the camper. It moved off, quickly gathering speed. The two cars ahead of him, now getting into position for identification, blocked Renwick’s view of the plate above the camper’s rear bumper. When he could see the camper again, it was too distant to note its number. An automatic reflex, he thought, excusing his curiosity. Anyway they were off, with a clean bill of health: no Japanese stowaway—that hadn’t worried him—and no evidence of drugs being smuggled or used, and thank God for that. He could smile and shake his head at that brief touch of suspicion. They were safely off, a day ahead of schedule. There would be no Dear Daddy letter written to Francis O’Connell tonight: he’d be lucky if he got a postcard from Brussels.

  7

  Crefeld had allowed fifteen minutes, after Renwick’s departure from his office, before he left. The remnants of their luncheon, gathered up inside the checked napkin, had been thrust back into the attaché case. The letters on his desk—addressed to J. Schlee, Rare Books—could be locked away in his cabinet. He’d attend to them on his next visit, nothing urgent, nothing important. But the slim briefcase was. With it tucked securely under one arm, his hand holding the attaché case—a nuisance, but useful, letting him avoid restaurants and crowds whenever a special meeting had to be arranged, and where else but in this office could secret reports be handled securely?—he double-locked the door behind him.

  He had already summoned the elevator, so it was waiting for him. Its stately descent always reminded him of his maternal grandfather, the last Bruna to use that top-floor room when he wanted to stay overnight in the city. Crefeld had often wondered about the elevator: no heart weaknesses in the Bruna clan; possibly a lady visiting who found stairs hard to climb in her tight-corsetted waist. The days of whalebone, he thought, and was smiling broadly as he stepped into the dimly lit hall. Apart from a telephone operator at her switchboard, kept neatly out of sight, built under, the curved flight of staircase, the hall was empty. From the floor overhead came the sound of a typewriter clacking away, making good time before closing hours.

  The hall wasn’t empty. A man was standing in one corner near the front door, leaning on his rolled umbrella, his neat dark suit blending into the mahogany wood panelling of the walls. His hair, cut short, was grey—prematurely grey, for his thin face was unlined. He smiled shyly. “No receptionist here?” he asked. “How do I get in touch with the accountant’s office?”

  So he had just entered, wasn’t waiting as I first thought, Crefeld decided. His suspicion levelled off, but he still kept a distance from the stranger. “Try the telephone girl—you’ll find her just around that curve of staircase.”

  “Thank you.” The stranger came forward, but he was giving Crefeld ample room to pass him.

  “Not at all,” said Crefeld as he averted his face and made for the front door.

  Suddenly, the stranger raised his umbrella, its ferrule pointed at Crefeld’s thigh.

  Crefeld felt a sting, hot and sharp. He stared at the man, then at the umbrella. He raised his voice to shout and gave a strangled croak. He had no strength in his body at all. His legs were beginning to buckle. The man hit him sharply over his hand that held the briefcase. Crefeld’s grip was loosened; the briefcase was pulled away from his arm. He saw only a blur as the dark suit turned and hurried to the front entrance; he heard only a faint noise as the heavy door was closed.

  Crefeld fell backwards to the ground, the attaché case clattering beside him on the wooden floor. He tried to shout again, knew it was useless. Only his brain seemed to be working. He made an effort to reach into his jacket pocket, take hold of the card he always kept there in case of emergency. He could feel it, even gripped it, but he couldn’t pull it out.

  “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” It was the telephone girl, kneeling beside him, looking in horror at the man who lay staring up at her. She screamed and kept screaming until heels came running down the staircase.

  “He’s alive,” a man’s voice said. “Get an ambulance.”

  “I thought I heard the door close. Then I heard a crash.” The telephone girl pointed to the attaché case. “And another crash. Together almost. He’s trying to speak.” She lowered her ear to his lips.

  “He’s Schlee, the book collector; Saw him one day—”

  “Get an ambulance!” The telephone operator was yanked to her feet. “Call now!”

  “What’s in his pocket?”

  “His hand!”

  “But why?”

  Crefeld’s hand was pulled out gently.

  “A card. Emergency, it says. A telephone number. A name: Jake. Here,” the man’s voice said, “call this number, too. First, the ambulance; then the card. Quick, quick!”

  High heels retreated. “She’s always so damn slow,” said the man’s voice. “Hurry!” he yelled after her. Then, as an afterthought, “What did he say? Could he speak?”

  “Didn’t make sense,” the girl called back. “Sounded like umbrella.”

  “Stupid as well as slow,” the man told the rest of the small crowd. Umbrella. Schlee wasn’t carrying any umbrella. “Heart attack. Don’t move him. Keep back. Give him air.”

  Sombrely, helplessly, they watched the man whose eyes stared up at the vaulted ceiling. His lips no longer moved.

  8

  By the time Renwick had crossed the Dutch frontier into Belgium, the green camper was well ahead of him, mostly out of sight except as a distant blob when the road ran straight. Here, the long flat stretches of well-tilled fields and windmills had given way to a gentle rise and fall of land. Blue canals, reflecting the colour of the summer sky, were replaced by streams edged by woods. By the outskirts of Antwerp, the camper had disappeared from view completely, probably taken some turn-off to a picnic ground or park on the perimeter of the city. Good luck to you, Nina of the sparkling blue eyes and golden hair and warm, ready smile. Good luck to you. But why Antwerp? Why not Brussels?

  He kept
his speed steady, like the other travellers on the road, fore and aft, all dutiful citizens. It made for pleasant driving: no one zigzagging in and out like a demented hornet, no one tailgating and forcing the pace. He could relax, thinking now only of Essen and Rotterdam, of Theo and the monies paid out to Kurt Leitner; but mostly of Theo.

  Should he try to suggest that the West German authorities pick Theo up? Or should he still go along with their decision— standard practice, he had to admit—to keep watch on Theo’s movements and contacts? He hadn’t much choice: his pet project, International Intelligence against Terrorism, would have no powers to detain or arrest. Like Interpol, it could only track down, gather the evidence, and ask the participating countries to make the arrest. Or get them to demand extradition if that was necessary. But, he reflected, have we sufficient proof to set things in motion? The answer was a definite no. The evidence was circumstantial. As yet, he promised Otto Remp presently of Düsseldorf, Herman Kroll late of Leipzig, Theo. As yet...

  When he entered the busy streets of Brussels he noted a small white Fiat, which had chosen the same route as he had, following him still more closely. He hadn’t noticed it until he was just south of the frontier, and from there it had kept its place in line, like all the others, on the road, staying four cars behind him. Someone tailing him? Had someone picked him up as he left Crefeld’s office on the Prinsengracht? Kept him in sight all the way to the garage near Central Station? All the way to the Breda road? Damn me, he thought, for an idiot, too occupied with Nina and her friends, with Crefeld and his information about Rotterdam, with Theo, to notice anyone following. If surveillance had occurred, it was pretty skilful. Expert job, involving two or three men passing him one to the other. He would have noticed one man dogging his heels through the streets of Amsterdam. Yes, an expert job. If it had occurred.