The Hidden Target

by Helen Macinnes

  9

  In the week that followed, the work piled up on Renwick’s desk, and he was on the point of deciding to postpone his visit to New York. Another four days, what did it matter? But suddenly it did matter. A report came in from Richard Diehl, of West German Intelligence: Herr Otto Remp, of Western Travel Incorporated, had left Düsseldorf and was now said to be in the United States. Diehl had contacted both the CIA and the FBI, but no confirmation of Remp’s movements was available.

  Diehl’s inquiries at Western Travel Incorporated had been discreet, but produced no further information. Remp’s sudden departure was considered normal: he was now making a world-wide tour in connection with the firm’s expansion into West-East travel. He would set up financial arrangements and oversee the selection of qualified staff to begin operations early next year. Such things took time, various employees of Western Travel had stated. They were more interested in the promised increase in their pay, once West-East Travel was established. As for Remp’s itinerary, the same list of place names was supplied; but when he would visit these countries, or how long he would stay, depended on any difficulties he might encounter. He would overcome them, an assistant manager had said emphatically: Herr Remp was a seasoned and successful negotiator.

  Indeed he was, Renwick thought as he read the report. A very successful con man might be closer to the truth. Shipped out, had he? Yet Renwick couldn’t blame the West Germans for that. This was no sudden exit by Theo: it was long planned, carefully arranged. Once out of Germany, he was free: no extradition possible unless there was evidence of a crime. If the Germans had even one piece of real evidence against him, they would have arrested him four weeks ago.

  So all we can do, Renwick decided, is to watch him. Where? Now said to be in the United States... If this was accurate, then it seemed as if Theo had started his travels in the opposite direction from his listed itinerary. It had begun with Istanbul, gone on to Bombay, Singapore, Hong Kong, Honolulu, and ended in Los Angeles. Or can we even be sure he will take that list in order? Why not Los Angeles, then jump to Bombay, just to keep us guessing? Difficult to follow him in any strength: two of the countries concerned were outside of NATO, while Hong Kong and Honolulu thought more of the Pacific than they did of either Atlantic or Mediterranean problems.

  If only, Renwick’s mind raced on, if only we had Interintell all set up and ready to go. With luck, it would be in good working order in another two months. Two months... And where will Theo be then? What will he have already accomplished? The places listed were possibly accurate. Possibly? More than possible. Theo as Otto Remp, big wheel in an expanding travel agency, would have to give his company a true list, for the simple reason that he would indeed be expected to open branch offices in these cities; and if he didn’t—if he switched to other locations—he’d rouse so many questions back in Düsseldorf that his entire job would be at stake. Which meant he would have blown, all by himself, a most useful cover. No, no, Theo wasn’t stupid. Remember, too, that Theo had no way of knowing that he had been traced to Essen, far less to East Germany. If he had known, he wouldn’t be setting out on this long business trip; he’d be in East Berlin, heading for Leipzig at this moment.

  Thank God, thought Renwick, that no one did try to stop him leaving Düsseldorf. He’d have got away, in any case, either by a sudden manoeuvre or by the help of his lawyers. And he’d have known we were on to him. End of the trail for us. Reappearance of Theo a year, two years later: just a slight deferment in plans. His agents, gone to ground, would be there to carry them out. They never give up, these bastards, thought Renwick; they’ll take one big step backwards if that lets them jump two forward.

  He rose and went into the bathroom. He pulled wide the open neck of his shirt, splashed the cold water over his face. Then he stared at himself in the small mirror. He looked normal, not like a man under the worst attack of anxiety he had experienced in a long time. He smoothed down his rumpled hair. If you were Theo, he asked himself, in what country would you begin? Wherever you had most to do, to arrange. You’d make sure of all that before you moved on to less important places on your list.

  So, Renwick decided, no postponement of New York. He’d leave tomorrow. There was a full afternoon and part of the evening ahead of him before he packed and saw Thérèse.

  He began reading a folder that dealt with 3000 fully equipped Soviet troops now in Cuba. When does Washington admit this? one report ended bitterly. (Six weeks later, to keep the record straight, Washington admitted it.) Renwick just shook his head, and moved on to a bulkier file dealing with a Soviet breakthrough in thermonuclear fusion. Renwick was no armaments expert, but he knew enough to be able to maintain a credible cover. Three hours, four reports, and one final staff meeting later, he could consider he was actually ahead of schedule. Except for one thing: news from Vroom at The Hague. He had heard nothing at all, either about the confirmation of the use of an umbrella in Jake’s death or about Rotterdam’s additional information on the travels of a man once known as Kurt Leitner. Or about the mole in Crefeld’s section. Which could mean nothing at all had been discovered. There must be something, Renwick thought irritably. Vroom knows I’m off on my own travels tomorrow. So what’s delaying him? It’s five o’clock now. Do I just hang around here hoping for a call from The Hague?

  Ten minutes later, as he was packing his tennis gear (part of the vacation myth), his telephone did ring, a call from the lobby downstairs. A special messenger had arrived from The Hague with a sealed envelope to be delivered to Renwick. “We’ve checked it,” the sergeant on duty was saying. “No booby trap. The messenger’s credentials are in order, too.”

  “Then have it sent up.”

  “That’s the trouble, sir. The messenger has instructions not to hand over the envelope to anyone except you. Shall I have him escorted up to your office?”

  Vroom is really taking no chances, Renwick thought. But I don’t have any messenger, however reliable, coming up into this department. “Tell him the house rules.”

  “I’ve tried that, sir. He insists he must see you. He has a verbal message to deliver.”

  “I’ll come down,” Renwick said. He reached for his tie, pulled his shirt sleeves into place and buttoned the cuffs, found his jacket, and left.

  The lobby was crowded and bustling at this time of day. Between forty and fifty people, some in uniform, some in civilian clothes, were in constant movement in and out of the building. The sergeant and two guards were at the desk near the entrance. No sign of any messenger. “Where is he?” Renwick asked.

  “Over there, sir, standing by the bulletin board. Grey hair, dark-blue suit, and a cane.”

  “I see him.” The man was holding a large envelope tightly against his breast. “Doesn’t trust anyone, does he?” Renwick asked as he started towards the sombre-faced messenger: a man who took his duties seriously, Renwick thought as the stranger caught sight of him and, after a moment’s hesitation, came to meet him. The man moved slowly; his left leg limped heavily. And then Renwick noticed that the cane was held in the wrong hand—the left hand. No proper balance for any injured left leg; he’s faking it, Renwick thought, suddenly alert. A crowded lobby, a press of people, a walking stick instead of an umbrella? He halted abruptly, let the man approach. What now?

  The manoeuvre was subtle. The envelope slipped from the messenger’s free arm, fell to the floor. The man tried to pick it up, but his left hip appeared to make that painful. “Sorry,” he said. “Could you?”

  So I bend down for the envelope, and the tip of the cane just happens to strike me? Renwick said with a smile, “Sorry, too. I’ve a slipped disc.” He kept his eyes on the walking stick, took a step backwards. “We’ll call the guard, shall we?”

  The man’s face froze; he made an attempt to reach down, stumbled slightly. The cane seemed to skid on the waxed floor, came pointing up towards Renwick’s thigh in a sharp angle. Renwick caught it midway on its shaft, held fast. He could feel the full strength of the man’
s arm trying to direct the cane at its target. “Easy, easy,” Renwick said, twisting the cane suddenly to slacken the man’s grip. “Or do you want to lose an eye?” The man stared at him, let go, ran for the entrance.

  “Stop him!” Renwick shouted, and the two guards came to life. The man never reached the front steps. “Detain him for questioning,” Renwick told a startled sergeant. “Make sure he doesn’t escape,” he added grimly. “Get highest security on to this.”

  The envelope contained only two sheets of typed paper giving this week’s weather reports for western Europe. Renwick left it in the sergeant’s charge as evidence of an attempt at false entry. The walking stick he trusted to no one but carried it carefully upstairs, not even risking the elevator with its jostle of people. He’d let the laboratory boys experiment with it. Pressure on the handle at a certain spot that ejected a miniature pellet coated with poison? And then a raging fever that would begin to work on him half-way across the Atlantic?

  Down in the lobby, the brief sensation had subsided. Few had even been aware of it. “Another kook?” someone asked, and got a shrug for an answer as the man, now subdued and under heavy guard, was led away.

  ***

  Renwick reached his office, placed the cane carefully along the centre of his desk, its tip turned well away from him. He telephoned Security, just to make sure they’d fully understand the possible importance of this prisoner, and then called Evans in the lab. He explained, quietly and succinctly, what was needed. “Is this one of your jokes, Bob?” he was asked. So he lost his temper and let a few curses burn up the wire. Within ten minutes, Evans and an assistant were carrying away the cane, handling it with the proper respect.

  Strange, thought Renwick, that it takes a string of oaths and a voice raised like a drill sergeant’s to make people listen. As for the fact that he would look like a bloody fool if the cane turned out to be harmless—well, he’d just have to sweat that one out.

  He poured himself a scotch and settled down to wait for Evans’ report. The grip of his right hand was still painful, a sharp reminder of that short desperate struggle in the lobby. The man had recognised him, had come forward to meet him without waiting for a signal from Renwick. The man had known in which building he’d find Renwick’s office—and in the huge complex of NATO’s sprawl, that was quite an achievement. Especially when Renwick’s office was in no official listing, and when his name was in no directory. But what really perturbed Renwick now was the feeling that he had seen the man before. Just once. Fleetingly, yet in circumstances that had stamped the solemn face—grey hair, tight lips, pointed jaw line, high-bridged nose—on Renwick’s memory.

  ***

  His ’phone rang. It wasn’t Evans. It was Millbank, whose office lay at the other end of the hall. “I’ve got Vroom here,” Millbank said. “He’s down from The Hague arranging a memorial service for Crefeld. You knew Crefeld didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll bring Vroom along to meet you. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “We’ll be with you in three minutes flat.”

  “Okay.”

  But nothing was okay at this moment. Delayed shock, Renwick told himself. The attack had shaken him more than he had been willing to admit: a near thing. Much too near. Much too quickly arranged. Someone—and who the hell was someone?—had wanted to deal with him before he left for America, make sure he’d never return. One moment more and he might have lost that battle if the assailant’s will power hadn’t suddenly weakened and let his grip loosen. That was all it would have taken, one moment, in a crowded lobby with only two or three bystanders even noticing—and not understanding a damned thing.

  The door opened and closed. “Are you all right?” Vroom was asking as he waited for Renwick’s greeting. It wasn’t given. Vroom noted the untouched drink, the half-packed bag, and drew up a free chair to face Renwick. He might have congratulated me, Vroom was thinking, on the way I managed to see him—no attention drawn to this particular visit, buried as it was among all the other interviews I’ve been conducting in the last two hours. “Sorry I couldn’t contact you before this. But I do have some results to give you. First, about Crefeld’s death.”

  That captured Renwick’s attention.

  “It was murder. A close examination of Crefeld’s body and clothing showed a matching puncture on both. A miniature pellet no bigger than a pinhead was found under his skin.”

  “What poison, this time?”

  “No definite opinion, as yet. Does that matter so much?”

  It didn’t. Dead was dead.

  “Secondly,” Vroom went on, “about the Rotterdam report. It was easier to approach the police inspector than I had thought: their files on the safe house near the docks are missing, too. The Narcotics Squad is blaming the anti-terrorist section, and they in turn are blaming Narcotics. But what isn’t missing is the final report on the escape route of that man who came off the freighter from Duisburg. For the simple reason that no report has yet been drawn up. There are just pieces of information from the detectives who were trying to follow his trail from the house in Rotterdam.”

  “Trying to? They didn’t succeed?”

  “Not altogether. Again we had the conflict between two different departments: the anti-terrorist section taking over midway—almost at the end of the trail, in fact. Which was at Schiphol Airport, in Amsterdam.”

  “An international flight? To the United States?”

  “No. At the time he disappeared, there was only one flight scheduled to leave—for London. En route to New York, possibly. That could be... Why else did he study so much about the United States in that safe house in Rotterdam?”

  Renwick nodded a tentative agreement. “But how the hell did he manage to dodge the cops at Schiphol?”

  “By way of the men’s room. It had only one entrance, no window. He was only one minute there. Walked out with a couple of strangers. No longer wearing a raincoat or his black wig. They were found later, stuffed into a cistern. And he had help. Someone ran interference for him—collapsed against the cop just as he was about to enter. A grey-haired man who seemed to have lost his balance.” Vroom paused, frowned. He was getting ahead of himself. Further information about the grey-haired man belonged in the next segment of his story. He liked things in their proper order, neat and clear. He was saved from his indecision by the telephone.

  Renwick reached for it at once. “This should be Evans—I hope. Pour yourself a drink, Johan,” he said quickly, and gave his full attention to the message. “Better contact Security,” he told Evans. “Make sure that they don’t release that man, and they don’t spread the word around about assault with a deadly weapon. Once you’ve tracked down that substance, the charge could be attempted murder. Meanwhile, tell them to keep it quiet, will you? Also, you’d better get in touch with New Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorist squad. The poison their scientists found in a similar pellet was ricin.” Renwick replaced the receiver, looked at Vroom’s startled face. “So I wasn’t a damned fool, just damned lucky.” He picked up his glass and drank deeply. “Go on. He took a flight to London?”

  Vroom recovered from his bewilderment. Murder? Whose murder had been attempted? He said, “That was the deduction, once he couldn’t be found anywhere in the airport.”

  “Any attempt to check the passenger list of that flight?”

  “Not until later. Much later,” Vroom conceded unhappily. “I made my own inquiries, but remember that all this happened five—almost six weeks ago. And the carrier was British Airways. We should have any further checking done in London.”

  “What about immigration?”

  “I checked with them, too. They have a record of eleven American citizens travelling to London that day from Amsterdam. No names.”

  “They had no warning to keep a watch for any American?”

  “The man wasn’t known to be an American. And the policeman who was watching the passengers loading had a different description in mind. No
t just clothes and hair, but also the wrong age. When he was wearing a raincoat, the man had seemed middle-aged—hunched shoulders, slow movements, heavy around the waistline.”

  Renwick nodded. “An adept performance.” More than police routine had been necessary. If only Crefeld’s department had been alerted five weeks earlier... Well, it hadn’t been. “I’ll see what help Gilman can give us in London,” he said, but without much hope. The trail was cold by this time. And yet—Renwick’s thoughtful grey eyes studied Vroom’s unhappy face. He said, “There may be one link, one connection. Someone, tried to eliminate me today. He was using a cane, not an umbrella.”

  “The grey-haired man in the lobby?” Vroom burst out. “Attempted murder? Was that the one? My God, I never realised... Just saw him being taken away by the guards. I was coming in with Millbank, stopped at the desk for identification—” Vroom broke off, shook his head. “I thought—we all thought—it was someone trying to gain unauthorised entry. Kept it quiet, didn’t you?” Then Vroom’s thin dark face broke into a wide grin. “I think we’ve got that link. Two, in fact.”

  “Two?” The obvious one was quite enough, thought Renwick: the identity of the man who had been followed from Rotterdam to Schiphol Airport had to be protected at all costs. Crefeld had known of his importance; I could know; so, get rid of us both along with any existing copies of that police report.

  “Two,” Vroom insisted, now enjoying himself. “And that grey-haired man is both of them. Attempted murder today; running interference at Schiphol five weeks ago. It’s the same man, Bob. What do you think I was doing at the Rotterdam police station a couple of days ago? Studying a composite drawing of the man’s face, reading his description. Grey hair, sharp jaw line, narrow lips, thin, high-bridged nose.”

  That could be the man, all right. Renwick stared at Vroom. “Why didn’t you tell me—”

  “I was just coming to that. He is part of our investigation on the informer in our department.” There was no disguising the triumph in Vroom’s voice.