If any of us are still functioning by that time, thought Renwick. Or alive. He raised his glass. “To survival.”
“To the project,” Crefeld said. They both drank to that. “Have you got a name for it yet?”
“The choice seems to lie between Counter-Terrorism Intelligence and International Intelligence against Terrorism. Pretty heavy. Any suggestions?”
“Well, your idea is based on something after the style of Interpol. Find something short and snappy like that.”
“Interintell?” Renwick’s grin was broad.
“Why not?”
“Sounds like a cable address.”
“So does Interpol. Few people know it as the International Criminal Police Organisation that began in Vienna.”
Renwick added tactfully, “Nineteen-twenty-three,” and ended a short discourse on the history of the international crime-chasers before Crefeld could deliver it.
“Interintell,” Crefeld said reflectively. “I like it.”
“So you really have decided to join us?” Renwick kept his tone light, but he waited anxiously. Crefeld would be excellent as the head of Interintell’s main office. Larsen, in Oslo, and Lademan, in Copenhagen, were his close friends. Add to that trio Richard Diehl, in West Germany, who was already cooperating: his country, after all, had more than its share of terrorists who sought refuge abroad when the heat became too great. (Only a few months ago, one of the Baader-Meinhof gang had been arrested as she tried to cross into the United States from Canada.) Then there was Ronald Gilman, in London— also definite. So was Tim MacEwan, in Ottawa. And Pierre Claudel, in Paris, had been enthusiastic from the start. All were old friends, had worked together in NATO, and now were back with their own intelligence services. A real blockbuster, reflected Renwick: brains and guts, and clout to match.
Crefeld was watching the younger man with a smile. “Of course. Did you ever doubt it? Who else has been rounded up?”
Renwick, with relief undisguised, gave him the names. “Next week, I’ll be in Washington and talk with Frank Cooper.”
“He has retired out of everything, hasn’t he? He’s on the old side, I’d say.”
Not as old as you, Jake, thought Renwick. “He’s still a good man.”
“What is he doing now?”
“International law. New York firm with a branch in Washington.”
“Ah—that could be useful. Well, you’ve made an excellent start... And I must say it is a first-rate idea.”
“But borrowed, as you said, from Interpol,” Renwick added.
“With considerable differences. They go after international crime. We go after international terrorists. But we face one difficulty.”
Only one? thought Renwick.
“Police forces of a hundred countries co-operate with Interpol. Will intelligence agencies do the same for us?” Crefeld shook his head. “They keep their records to themselves.”
“We aren’t asking them to open their files. All we ask is any information they have collected on terrorists, and in return we’ll give them all the evidence we’ve developed. We’ll act as a kind of clearing house for them. It’s much needed. Terrorism is international.”
“Terrorism... And that is a second difficulty. Whom do we call terrorists? We shall have to be quite clear about that, or else we’ll be in trouble. Some more gin?”
“No thanks. Breakfast is a long time away. I think I’ll make myself a sandwich.” Renwick selected a slice of ham, a slice of cheese and cushioned them between two thick slices of bread. “We’ll make the definition as clear as we can. Easiest done, perhaps, by stating what terrorism is not. It is not, for instance, resistance to alien forces that have invaded a country—against the will of the majority of its people: resistance fighters are not terrorists. Again, revolutionaries are not terrorists when they represent the will of the majority of their people.”
“The will of the majority,” Crefeld said. “That’s your measure?”
“That’s the way votes are counted, Jake.”
“In a free country,” Crefeld reminded him.
Renwick nodded agreement.
“But what if resistance fighters or revolutionaries find they don’t have a majority of the people behind them? Are they then terrorists?”
“If they use bullets and bombs to gain power over a majority that wants none of their ideas—yes, that’s what they have become: terrorists. Amateurs, of course, compared to the hardcore activists who think of power in terms of world revolution. Poor old world—whether it wants it or not, it’s to have anarchy thrust down its throat, for its own eventual good.”
Crefeld was helping himself to two of everything for a hefty sandwich. “When I was a boy, an anarchist was something left over from the nineteenth century. Bakunin—”
“‘The passion for destruction,’” quoted Renwick, “‘is also a creative passion.’ Or Malatesta declaring that ‘the insurrectionary deed is the most efficacious means for propaganda.’ Or Kropotkin cloaking the total overthrow of the state as it exists—and all the chaos that would bring—by preaching that anarchism is a moral and social doctrine before it is a political one. That has its appeal, you know. Freedom from the tyranny of national and corporate giantism. Everyone equalised and co-operating; under anarchist control of course. But where is freedom then? Somehow, no anarchist seems to face that problem. Or is their control good, and all other control bad?” Renwick shook his head, his lips tight.
“The simplifiers,” Crefeld said. “Terrible and terrifying. Not too many of them around, though.”
“Not as yet. Wait until the neo-Nazis start using them as shock troops.”
“But they belong to the left—the far left at that.”
“If the Communists can use them to create a revolutionary situation, so can other totalitarians. It’s the old delusion: you use me but I’m really using you; I’ll deal with you when the revolution is won. Where else do you think the anarchists get their money and training right now? Their ordinary sympathisers don’t carry that kind of clout. So they use their future enemy, and intend to get the final jump on them. The old delusion,” Renwick repeated, “and a mountain of trouble for the rest of the world.” Crefeld studied his friend. “Why this interest in the anarchists? Have you found some evidence that they are actually in alliance with the communists? You know their opinion of Soviet Russia—a betrayer of the revolution, curtailer of freedom.”
“But the Soviets are still socialists who could be set on the correct track again. And if there’s a choice between socialism and non-socialism, the anarchists will make it on the side of the far left. Or the far right. The Nazis called themselves socialists, remember? As for actual evidence of an alliance with hard-line communists—yes, I think we’ve found something.”
“Was that why you visited Essen two weeks ago?”
The quiet question jolted Renwick. Then he laughed. “You’ve got ears and eyes everywhere, Jake. Yes, I was in Essen. Following another lead, and found something else, too.”
“What kind of lead?” There was more than curiosity in Crefeld’s question, a definite interest. He had finished his outsize sandwich and was now on to dessert.
Renwick poured himself some coffee, lit a cigarette, measured his thoughts. Keep them crisp and clear, he warned himself, for it was a long story, beginning two years ago. “Remember my report on Vienna? Uncovering one source of the money that was subsidising terrorists?”
Crefeld nodded. “Deposited in a numbered bank account in Geneva.”
“With a million and a half dollars already paid out before we tracked down that account. So we started tracing the people who had been sent that money. Three names, in three separate cities—in France, Italy, Denmark. But before we caught up with their bank accounts, transfers had been made to three more names: customers of three banks in different cities, but all in Germany this time.”
“Half a million dollars in each account?”
“Yes. That was careless of the man who was
laundering the money—made a difficult search a little easier for us. But I guess he was in a hurry, or had a mania for keeping things as simple as possible.”
“Did you trace him?”
“We had to wait until all the money was eventually transferred to the firm where he works. Ostensibly, he’s only second-in-command there—it’s a travel agency in Düsseldorf— but his boss delegates a lot of responsibility to Otto Remp.”
“Remp, Otto Remp.” Crefeld searched his memory, then shook his head.
“It baffled us, too. Nothing on Remp. A stalwart citizen, quiet in manner, pleasant, popular in the firm. With some trouble we managed to get one decent photograph after fifty failures, and a set of his fingerprints.”
“Surely he couldn’t explain a windfall of one and a half million dollars. Wouldn’t that have been enough to uncover him?”
“But if the money disappeared into the many financial transactions of Western Travel Incorporated? Soon to develop as West-East Travel? They are expanding beyond Europe. They have begun arrangements for branch offices in Istanbul, Bombay, Singapore, Hong Kong, Honolulu, Los Angeles.”
“And you say the head of this agency, Western Travel, is mostly a figurehead?”
“He enjoys his leisure. And his income. No complaints.”
“A fool.”
“All of that.”
“And this Otto Remp—” Crefeld paused, then smiled. “What did you find from his photograph and fingerprints?”
“Your old friend Herman Kroll. Remember him? You did a pretty good report on him ten years ago when he was head of Special Operations in East Germany. Our photograph doesn’t quite match the one your agents took: basically, it’s similar, but he has altered his appearance enough to deceive most people. The fingerprints, however, are identical with your sample. That was quite a file you kept on East German Intelligence.”
“And their KGB advisers,” Crefeld said softly. Then, “Good God—Herman Kroll! So Theo is alive and well.”
“Theo?”
“A code name he used in earlier days when he was an agent in the field. He dropped it when he was promoted to an office and two secretaries. The last I heard of him was five years ago, when he was reported killed in a helicopter crash.” There was a pause, and then a sudden question. “How long has he been in Düsseldorf?”
“Five years.”
Crefeld laughed. “Theo wastes no time. You’re keeping him under surveillance?”
“Yes. We watch and wait. The old routine.”
“No results?”
“Three visits to Essen in the last eight months. He’s elusive. Remembers his past as an agent in the field.”
“You mean you lost him in Essen?”
“Twice. On his last visit he was less alert—perhaps deeply worried. He had cause to be. Three terrorists had been arrested that morning, along with the girl Amalie. Who was she working for, Jake?” Renwick ended blandly. His own guess had been based on deduction. Now he waited, hoping for a confirmation. He got it.
“For us. But I didn’t send her in. That happened a few years ago when I was still in Brussels. West German terrorists had been using Holland—they were responsible for two murders and a brutal kidnapping, so Amalie went into West Berlin, attending its Free University, and started from there. She had an independent hand, no direction except to act through the local police in an extreme emergency, and to send brief reports of progress back to The Hague—to me, in fact, since my return there. She was a good agent—just a slip of a girl.” Crefeld’s eyebrows knitted. “Why the hell do we have to employ women, Bob?” he burst out.
“Because they are often better than a lot of men.” Renwick thought of his own loss, back in Austria. Almost two years now. Avril Hoffman... No, he couldn’t forget her. But I never sent her to infiltrate, he told himself, as if to help remove the burden of guilt, the sense of responsibility, an emotion Jake obviously shared. Avril was liaison between me and—He cut off his memories. Avril was dead. “Also,” he went on, “they volunteer. They want a mission that will mean something. Just try keeping women out of intelligence work, Jake, and you’ll be picketed from here to Greenland.” That eased the tension, but Crefeld had backed away from the subject of Amalie. Renwick let it drop. For now. Amalie’s reports on the Essen terrorists could be vital.
“So on the day of the arrests in Essen,” Crefeld continued, “you managed to follow Theo.”
“Not all the way. As far as the centre of the city, near the Minster. Just over half an hour later we picked up his trail again—as he was coming out of the church. Alone. We didn’t see whom he met there. Another failure,” he admitted wearily. Then Renwick brightened. “He went to a suburban bank, withdrew his account—it was under a false name, of course. A considerable sum, almost twelve thousand dollars. No doubt it was there for the expenses of Amalie’s terrorist friends in Direct Action. Isn’t that what they call themselves now?”
Crefeld nodded. “Section One of Direct Action, to be exact. But go on!”
“With Richard Diehl’s help we found out who had been cashing cheques drawn on that account, which originally had amounted to forty thousand dollars. Always a man, young and bearded, of medium height, brown hair, greyish eyes, pleasant manner. Name of Kurt Leitner. We traced him to his rented room. But he had left on the previous night—right after Theo’s visit to Essen. Then we traced his motor bicycle—it had been left at a warehouse. But all we could learn was a vague story about a bearded young man whose motorbike had broken down and who asked for a lift in a truck. He was dropped, the driver said when the police started questioning, near the Duisburg docks. Anyway, Kurt Leitner has vanished. We have a composite drawing of him, with his late employer—a bookstore owner—and his landlady obliging. But we needed Amalie to identify him. It wasn’t heart failure that killed her, was it?”
“No. Possibly cyanide. A gas pistol disguised as a fountain pen. Theo would know her hospital room number—from the same informer at police headquarters who gave him the warning about the police raid. Amalie hadn’t, of course, submitted any full report to the police on Direct Action—just identified herself, as instructed, and told them of the addresses and names she knew, and of the imminent attack on Duisburg. It would have been a disaster. Not just the oil destroyed, but fire sweeping part of the town. Untold deaths.”
“Who was the leader of Section One? Kurt Leitner?”
“She never reported that name. She did emphasise that two of that gang were known only as Erik and Marco, definitely the leaders.”
“Any descriptions?”
“Both had beards at that time. Both dressed in the same style—wool hats pulled well down on their brows. Hair hidden, even indoors. Erik wore dark glasses. She couldn’t risk any photographs. Marco seemed to be in charge. But they were both important, she felt.”
“She was right. They were the ones who got away. An early warning by Theo? The others he left to take their chances. As if—” Renwick was now thinking aloud—“as if he wanted them safely out of Essen before the others started scattering. Yes. They’re important, all right.” It was an ominous thought. He rose. “Well, if that’s all the business on hand, I’ll start Richard Diehl on a search for Marco and Erik. They could be named in the Berlin police records of five years ago when Direct Action was robbing banks to finance its operations. A rash of bank robberies, in fact: a warning signal of trouble to come.” And then, he thought, Direct Action stopped its robberies and holdups. But not its operations. Five years ago... Just when Theo came on the West German scene.
Crefeld waved him back to his chair. “Sit down, Bob. We haven’t finished all the business. Here’s an item I thought might interest you. It ties in, perhaps, with your findings in Essen.” Crefeld pushed aside the remains of their picnic, lifted a thin briefcase on to the desk. He took out a slim folder, extracted three typed pages, glancing at them as he talked. “A coastal freighter sailed from Duisburg on the night Kurt Leitner disappeared. It docked at Rotterdam to disc
harge a cargo of cereal. Fifteen minutes after its arrival, a roughly dressed man, bearded, appeared at a house close to the docks. He was immediately admitted and taken upstairs to a room. The woman who owns that house is Cuban, pro-Castro Cuban. She spoke sharply to the newcomer in Spanish, telling him he should have waited until it was dark. He asked her in rapid Spanish whether she wanted him to hang around the docks until it was dark enough to please her.
“Our informant is a police undercover man. He works at that house, sweeping and cleaning and emptying the garbage. He was assigned there because the Rotterdam police suspected drug smuggling. But, from his reports, visitors who arrive and depart are not dealing in drugs. They arrive on some freighter, stay inside the house for a few days, get a change of clothes, leave.”
“A safe house?”
“Exactly.”
“The man spoke Spanish?”
“Fluently. Too quick for our informant to catch everything.”
“Then if this was Kurt Leitner—” Renwick broke off. Fluent Spanish?
“Whoever he is, he’s a linguist. Our informant was given a heavy bundle to take up to the stranger’s room. Before this parcel was left outside the door as instructed, our man had a look inside its brown paper cover. American newspapers. A mass of them. Another time, he left a tray outside the door and knocked. As the door opened, he was waved away, couldn’t look inside. But he heard an American voice, on a radio or from a cassette player.”
“An English lesson? Or was he learning an American accent?”
“And the newspapers?” Crefeld asked. “Studying present-day problems?” He paused. “I don’t like it, Bob.”
“Nor I.”
“There is not much more to add. Except that the man had arrived with a dark beard and moustache.”
“That could be Leitner. His hair was lighter—mid-brown?”
“Couldn’t be seen. He was wearing a close-fitting knitted cap. Also an old leather jacket and heavy glasses. Four days later, he left—14 June, 8.15 exactly. Our informant caught only a glimpse of him. No face description possible except that there was no beard. Black hair, heavy and thick. Good shoes, grey flannel trousers, jacket hidden under a raincoat. He was unrecognisable. In fact, it was only when our informant was sent upstairs to sweep out the emptied room that he could confirm his suspicion.”
The Hidden Target Page 7