The Hidden Target

by Helen Macinnes

  “I’ve the impression they miss very little. And why not? They’ve been given no employment by Rancho San Carlos; no custom, either. They’ve told Miss Gladstone—she’s one of them, went to school here when there was a school—that if Gunter had any sense, he’d have hired locally, got the work done just as well, instead of bringing in five or six at a time.”

  “And what does Sawyer Springs have to say about those big bangs?”

  “There are cottages to be built. The workmen ran into rock, so they have to level the ground by some blasting.”

  “Gunter is expecting a lot of guests?”

  “He’s planning a Foundation for Ecological Studies—with seminars. Miss Gladstone thought you’d like to meet him, since your interests coincide.” Mac was enjoying himself immensely. “But not this week-end. He left yesterday, told the post office to hold all mail until Monday.”

  If Gunter is Maartens, why would he leave for a week-end when a new group of workmen was due? Renwick wondered. “Frank Cooper thinks he may be Maartens. He was the one who directed Crefeld’s assassin, you know.”

  Mac’s smile had vanished. And almost had you murdered, too, he was thinking.

  Renwick said, his voice flat and emotionless, “He also controls Thérèse Colbert. She’s operating in Washington, I hear.”

  “Are you sure—that she’s one of his agents? She could have been just another innocent caught up in—”

  “I hoped for that. I kept hoping. But no innocent makes a calculated move. She turned up at one of Frank’s parties, expecting me to be there—possibly thinking we might start where we left off. She could only have known I’d be at that party through a telephone call from Frank’s office.”

  “Cooper’s office ’phone was bugged?”

  “Must have been.”

  Mac said angrily, “Where was Sal? Doesn’t Cooper have him check all ’phones?”

  “At home, yes. But bring Sal continuously into the office? Difficult.”

  “Cooper takes chances.” Mac shook his head.

  “Let’s trust he didn’t have anyone connected with his law firm rent this house.”

  “We’re in the clear, I hope. Cooper had someone in San Diego do the renting.”

  “Thank heavens for that.” Frank did take chances, though. He must have made a lot of inquiries in Los Angeles about Mr. Otto Remp and his new branch of West-East Travel—how else had he found out so much in so short a time? Why else the tap on his ’phone? “You know, I think we ought to advise him to cancel his visit to Merriman & Co. Postpone it until Theo’s interest in him fades a little.” Suddenly, surprising Mac by his speed of movement, he was opening the kitchen doors. “Sal— can you contact the boss at East Hampton?”

  Sal looked astonished. “At East Hampton? No. In his New York house, yes. But we can always reach him by ’phone at the cottage.”

  Not from this place. “It would have to be a call from Escondido.” Even that was unsatisfactory, when you were trying to argue Frank out of a visit he was all set to make.

  Mac echoed Renwick’s thoughts. “You’ll never persuade him unless you can give details. And that’s impossible. What details anyway, Bob? You’re overworrying. Come on, let’s get some fresh air before the sun starts setting. The view from the back porch will interest you. Once it’s dark, we could take a stroll up the hill. Sal’s brought you some rough clothes, and I’ve some thick-soled sneakers you can borrow. We take the same size in shoes, remember?”

  Renwick nodded, repressed a smile. Mac wasn’t a tall man, but he always—perhaps to make himself feel closer to five foot ten rather than three inches shorter—wore shoes that were too big, and filled up the extra space with heavy wool socks.

  Mac led the way out of the back door on to the porch. A small terrace faced them (patio, it was called in this part of the world), ending in a stretch of grass bounded by a few trees that had survived the forest fire. A change in the wind perhaps? Fires played strange tricks. Beyond the trees the hill slope steepened, a place of sad reminders in the blackened trunks and leafless boughs, yet a place of new promises, too: man-size saplings, thick bushes, grass, even wild flowers, had replaced burned-out ashes.

  “That,” Mac said, looking at the hill, “is our quick route to the back of Rancho San Carlos. The distance, if my map is accurate, is less than two miles. By road, it’s between four and five. That’s because the road—once it’s past the retired couple and the Hollywood guy—takes a sharp curve north, leaving our immediate neighbours in a kind of peninsula. We’ll cut across its neck, won’t even have to cross their land—get the idea?”

  “I’ve got it.” The saplings and undergrowth should afford sufficient cover. “Tomorrow, we’ll spend the day bird-watching—see the general layout, note who is prowling around. By night, we could have a closer look.”

  “Enter the grounds? My God—you move fast.”

  The workmen, so-called, would be in Escondido; replacements not due until Sunday. There would be a caretaker and a couple of guards, but Gunter himself would be absent. “This Saturday might be the best chance we could have,” said Renwick.

  16

  That night, Renwick and MacEwan explored the hill behind Buena Vista, testing the terrain and the cover it afforded. The sky was clear; the moon in its last quarter was at half strength. Once they were over the crest, they could sit, catch their breath, and study whatever lights they could see at Rancho San Carlos. There were few of them. But at least, thought Renwick, we know the position of the place; we see the kind of ground over which we’ll travel; we can even calculate the time it will take for a closer approach, much closer than this. In daylight, with field glasses and telescope, we’ll try for a front-room view.

  “Enough?” he asked. Mac nodded. Carefully, they worked their way back to the top of the hill. All was quiet; nothing stirred around them: a peaceful scene, and an eerie one. Moonlight turned grass to pewter grey, bushes and saplings into islands of dark shadow, burned trees into black telephones poles—scarce and scattered—that pointed to the stars.

  In half an hour, they reached Buena Vista, welcoming them with lights and warmth. Sal had had his own job to do under cover of night: extending the long wire, which would act as the antenna for his transmitter, right up the outside wall from his bedroom window. Safely attached, he told them, to the base of the existing television mast. His transmitter was small but powerful; so was his short-wave radio. He could reach London with ease. Seven thousand miles were no difficulty at all. “Just encode the words and I’ll send them.” He smiled, his dark eyes amused. “I even had time for a little drive past the front of Rancho San Carlos. Nothing much to see. Just dark windows and a light over the door, a garden with a wall and a big iron gate, a driveway. How was its rear view?”

  “Quiet. But that’s where the buildings are. Tomorrow night we’ll need you.”

  “So?” Sal’s eyes beamed with pleasure. Then he went to check locked doors and downstairs windows, and there was a general drift towards bed.

  ***

  Next morning, Renwick and Mac took a normal stroll around Buena Vista’s acres. By ten o’clock, with a sideways approach, they had started climbing the hill. Movements became cautious: they were no longer two nature lovers out on a bird-watching spree. In long-sleeved shirts and jeans, both dark blue like their heavy-soled sneakers, they were not obtrusive. Mac had covered his fair skin with an anti-sun lotion that gave him a banana tan—better, he stated, than a third-degree burn. By day, September could be blistering hot in this high country, even if night was shivering cool.

  They reached the crest, went over it at a low crouch. Carefully, they selected their way downhill, headed for a spot that seemed promising, keeping shoulders bent and their heads well below the height of the bushes and saplings. They halted. But they could see only part of the buildings that were grouped around a wide field stretching almost to the base of this hillside. “Not close enough,” Renwick murmured. Mac nodded. They would have to go much fur
ther down, until the bushes began to thin out. At present, from this nice safe cover, a complete view was broken by clusters of shrubbery.

  Progress was slow, and painful on the hips. The incline was not steep, but definite enough to make them descend halfsitting, half-slipping. Give me a belly crawl any day, thought Renwick. But he’d have that, too, on his way back. The bushes became scarcer, thinning into a broken line. Over to his left, some distance away, the hillside was bare except for boulders and crags. He rejected that direction, aimed for a large bush not far from one of the burned trees. It seemed perfect: its branches didn’t hug the ground, giving Mac and himself about eighteen inches of clearance as they lay prone under its leaves.

  “Careful,” Renwick whispered, pointing upwards.

  Mac nodded. As he raised himself on his elbows for a clear view of the compound below them, he could sense the branches were only a few inches away from his raised head. One careless movement would send leaves swaying. Slowly he adjusted his mini-telescope, took out his pad and pen from one breast pocket. The other one bulged with a flask of water. It was going to be a long morning.

  Now let’s see what we face tonight, Renwick thought, and brought his field glasses into focus.

  In the foreground was the field—short grass, but rough— bounded by a tall chain-link fence, new-looking, no sign of weathering. In the background there was a two-storey house, not as large as expected but still dominant: yellow stucco in Spanish style with a ripple of red tiles on a low-pitched roof; tall, narrow windows on the second floor with wrought-iron balconies; on the first floor, fewer and smaller windows with total protection in their elaborate screens; a door that led on to a small paved terrace with a large wooden table and two benches. No driveway around the house from the road, so all deliveries must be carried into those back premises from some service door at the front of the house. Cumbersome but effective as far as security went: no curious eyes would have a chance to see the extent of the compound.

  To the left of the main house, adjoining it at right angles, was a one-storey building, whitewashed, undecorated; windows small, one door. A mess hall perhaps? At the moment, with no activity visible, it was impossible to judge.

  The old stable was easier to identify. In Californian custom it was situated some distance from the main house; a long building, solid, that—like the possible mess hall which it faced across the open ground—ran at right angles from the line of the main building. Near it was the barn, with its huge door closed and small windows boarded over. Abandoned? It looked that way. Yet there were vents under its high roof equably spaced. Air-conditioning units? One thing was definite: it was part of the compound, enclosed by the fence that ran from the right-hand side of the main house to the stable and barn, then swept in a wide semi-circle around the grass to reach the rear wall of the mess hall.

  Garage? It must lie to the front of the house, near that driveway Sal had noticed last night, with easy access to the road. He could check on that later. Now it was this rear view that interested him. The fence in particular. Where was the gate? Possibly close to the right-hand corner of the house. Only one? His eyes searched the fence, section by section. Right in the centre of its long sweep around the field, situated immediately below him, was a narrower section of fencing—perhaps three feet wide. Definitely a gate, edged by heavier supports. He tapped Mac’s shoulder and borrowed the telescope.

  Adjusting it carefully, Renwick could bring the gate right up to him, almost as if he were standing six feet away. It was secured by a lock, a solid-looking piece of metal, with a dark spot in its smooth surface. A keyhole? So that the gate could be unlocked from either side? Logical enough: anyone who came out on to the hill would need to get back into the compound, unless he wanted a long walk around the property to the front of the main house.

  Renwick’s eyes travelled up the height of the gate, about eight feet, he guessed. Well above the lock he saw something that blocked the edge of daylight between the gate and the fence. Small, neat, its colour white. A circuit connector for an alarm system? Yes: two white-covered wires were attached, carefully strung through the heavy mesh, one running around the left of the fence, the other crossing the gate to pass its upper hinge and continue around the right side of the fence. A very complete alarm system, probably switched on from the main house. Renwick drew a long breath. But problems were to be expected.

  He angled the telescope lower, studying the base of the fence. Then he noticed something resembling a path, a track made by footsteps, that led from the gate straight to the hillside. Anyone following it might pass near this spot. Too near, perhaps, for any comfort. Renwick tapped Mac’s shoulder, returned the telescope, and gestured to a bush further off to their right.

  Mac wasn’t enthusiastic about any change; he was nicely settled where he was. But Renwick was already on the move, flat on his belly, propelling himself by elbow power across the sloping hill. Mac pocketed pad and pencil and telescope, and followed. At least, he was thinking, he had made some preliminary sketches of the layout. His forebodings were correct: the new hiding place might be secure but it was hellishly uncomfortable. The large bush Renwick had chosen had low-sweeping branches so that they had practically to fight their way into the middle of its tangle. But the view, Mac had to admit, was good.

  Renwick said, almost inaudibly, “Do you see lights around the fence?”

  Mac shook his head. “Could be well hidden. Floods perhaps. Turned on by a master switch?”

  Renwick nodded. No floods were visible, but they must be somewhere, ready to beam over every inch of ground at the first alarm. It seemed as if Gunter preferred to leave his place looking as natural as possible: a nightly blaze of lights would set the sky aglow and Sawyer Springs wondering.

  Suddenly, peace ended. The house door was flung open, a voice commanded, two large Dobermans came bounding out. They made directly for the mess hall. A man—black-haired, early thirties possibly, broad-shouldered, dressed in jeans and sweat shirt—followed them as far as the terrace, stood watching them as they reached the end of the building and began a patrol of the entire fence. As they approached the barn, the man gave a whistle, fingers at his mouth. The dogs halted abruptly, raced back to their handler, stood on either side of him as the barn door opened. Six men trooped out, dressed in work clothes. Young men, Renwick saw; early twenties, he guessed. A heavy-built man, older, half-bald, was the last to leave the barn. He closed and padlocked the door, started after the others, shouting directions. There was a babble of replies, some laughter, and the troop of six jogged over to the mess hall and disappeared inside.

  Eleven-thirty, Renwick noted. A bit early for a midday meal. If mess hall it was.

  It wasn’t. The six men came straggling out. Two carried automatic rifles; two were joking about the grenades they had strung over their shoulders; one carried a small box, carefully; his mate, with a canvas bag on his back, was horsing around with something he tossed in the air and caught (much laughter) before it reached the ground. A yell from their instructor, waiting near the fence, ended the fun and games. The group joined him, drawing together as the dog handler, with his two Dobermans now leashed, came slowly down centre field to unlock the gate and swing it inwards. The six armed men and the bald-headed supervisor passed through. The Dobermans, never a bark or a whine, walked back to the terrace with their master. There, he sat down on the corner of a bench, the dogs resting beside him. Peace returned.

  Not for long, Renwick was thinking. It had been plastic that was tossed in the air. The small wooden box held blasting caps. No spool of wire had been visible, so the canvas bag carried the means for detonating the caps by remote control.

  “God,” said MacEwan as he heard footsteps on the path. “Plastic. Here?”

  “Keep praying.” Renwick rolled over on his side to watch for the armed men. Now he knew why he had seen no signs of any demolition down in the compound. The practice ground was on this hillside.

  The voices drew nearer. Too near
. American voices. They were a talkative bunch, but the phrases overlapped and Renwick could pick up nothing of importance. Except the names—that could be their supervisor who was calling them out as he posted the men to their positions on the hillside. First names or nicknames, not much help at all. Renwick exchanged a glance with Mac and received a look of equal frustration. There was a scramble of feet. (Receding, Renwick judged thankfully.) Then silence, a long silence, broken only by the heavy tread of someone approaching where they lay. The footsteps halted. Slowly, Renwick’s hand parted a cluster of leaves. The baldheaded man was clearly in sight, barely five yards away, his face turned to the hillside, his arm upraised, waiting.

  The arm dropped. There was an eruption of violent sounds. They came almost simultaneously: the swift blast of automatic fire, the explosion of plastic, the burst of a grenade. The bullets had been aimed at the blackened trunk of a burned-out tree, close enough to let Renwick see the wood splinter. The plastic had been used in a rock crevice further along the hill, with only a few shreds of stone visible as they shot into the air. The grenades—and these men had taken a big chance; they must have held them alive in their hands while they waited for the signal—left a small cloud of dust further uphill.

  Renwick glanced again at Mac. He, too, had found a viewing space between the leaves and was staring at the settling dust. Then he looked at Renwick, shook his head partly in surprise, partly in admiration. It had been a neat manoeuvre, three separate operations to sound as one. Sawyer Springs would hear only a distant bang and say, “There goes more demolition.”

  Instructions were shouted. The manoeuvre was repeated. And again. That seemed to be the allotment, possibly for the town’s sake: not enough to arouse curiosity, just enough to give the men practice. They were good, too damned good, thought Renwick. They weren’t beginners. This morning’s exercise was a matter of keeping their hand in. Or of learning teamwork? That idea depressed him still more.