The Hidden Target

by Helen Macinnes

  Watching her, Renwick made up his mind. He hadn’t the time, but he couldn’t leave her looking dejected like this. “We can try,” he said, picking up the ’phone, enlisting the help of the ex-sergeant. No problem at all, he was firmly assured: he’d have a Washington line in a matter of minutes. “Now we wait,” he told Nina as he replaced the receiver. He looked at it thoughtfully. “Dammit, my brains are really scrambled this morning. Look, honey—if your father wants to know how you found his new number, just tell him you had telephone-operator assistance.”

  “Didn’t he give you that number?”

  “No.” Renwick looked at her in surprise.

  “He didn’t send you?”

  “He doesn’t even know I am here. No one sent me looking for you. No one.” My God, he thought, if she only knew how everyone kept prodding me to think of that damned camper first and put her second. He lightened his voice. “There wasn’t any camper in Lesbos, was there? Or in Istanbul when we met?”

  “You arranged all that?” Her eyes brightened.

  “You bet I did. All I wanted was to get you out—away from Kiley and Shawfield.”

  “And I wouldn’t listen.”

  “You’ve got a pretty strong mind of your own.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “No, no. I love it. It may be hell at times—have you any idea what you put me through?—but you’ve got spirit, darling. Did you think I just adored you for the way you look? Oh, there’s that, too.” He thought of last night, this morning. “Very much so,” he said, and watched a blush spread delicately over her cheeks. “God, you are the most beautiful girl. How many men have wanted to marry you, Nina?”

  “I never said yes to any of them. And I never—” She halted in embarrassment. “You’re the first man I’ve ever been—who’s ever made real love to me.”

  “And you’re the first woman I’ve ever asked to marry me.”

  “The very first?” Her heart lifted.

  “The first. And the last.”

  “Oh, darling—”

  The telephone rang. “We’ve got through.” He handed her the receiver. “Keep me out of it.”

  Of course, she thought, no one knows he is here. With a smile in her voice, she began speaking. “Daddy? Yes, it’s me. In Bombay... Why yes, I’m fine—wonderful, in fact... Look, I can’t talk long—this call is costing the earth. But I’ll be home soon. Next week probably. I’ll ’phone you from London, let you know.” Then she looked over at Renwick, gestured helplessly as the ’phone call went on and on. “Please, Beryl—don’t worry about my new room... Yes, I’ll be home next week, but don’t worry... I’m sure it will be beautiful... Yes, yes... My love to both of you.” With a decided bang, Nina put down the receiver.

  Renwick tightened the knot on his tie, reached for his jacket.

  “She means well. But it’s really comic. Father doesn’t know a thing about anything: he is so glad I had such a splendid time, but wishes I had sent more than one postcard. I sent four, actually, and two letters. Then Beryl cut in. All she’s worried about is that my new room isn’t ready, but Madame Colbert will have the painters start on it at once.”

  Renwick had been drawing on his jacket. He stopped for a moment, then jammed his arm into one sleeve. “Colbert?”

  “Some interior decorator—French or Belgian, Beryl said, with marvellous taste. A pink-and-blue bedroom for me. That’s where I ended the ’phone call.”

  So James Kiley hadn’t won entry to the O’Connell household, but Thérèse Colbert had. Renwick settled his jacket comfortably on his shoulders, eased his shirt collar slightly. “I’ll be back by one o’clock. No—” he looked at his watch— “make that one-thirty.” I’ll have to warn Gilman to get in touch with Washington immediately and prepare the way for some FBI collaboration: Colbert to be put under discreet but complete surveillance. And what is security like at O’Connell’s home? Check workmen, all visitors. Any bugs installed? Any ’phone taps? Gilman can make a start on that before I reach Washington—without delay, critical. Yes, he thought, critical. “No goodbye kiss, Miss O’Connell?”

  She came running over to him. He caught her, kissed her, said, “We’ll have lunch here in the room.” And four hours at least to wait before leaving for the airport. “Lock the door behind me. Don’t let anyone enter.”

  “I’ll be safe. Don’t worry about me.”

  “I always will,” he said softly. “My pleasure.”

  “Bob—” She looked around the edge of the door as he stepped into the corridor, keeping her body out of sight from the rooms opposite. “About Madge—”

  “I’ll find out what I can.” He looked at her anxious face, kissed the tip of her nose, started her smiling as he pulled the door shut, waited until he heard the lock turn. Then briskly he took the stairs—quicker than the elevator—and ran lightly down. For a man who had had less than a couple of hours’ sleep, he felt wonderful.

  28

  It was the last day of October. Nina and Renwick had spent the four nights since their arrival from Bombay in the Gilmans’ London flat. By day, Nina—with Gemma Gilman’s help—had rescued her trunk from storage and selected some suitable clothes for November in Washington. The rest went back into the trunk for further storage until she and Bob returned to live in London. When that would be, she didn’t know: Bob had said simply, “It depends.” Depends on what? She didn’t ask: she was learning quickly.

  Gemma was a help there, too. “Why ask questions if they can’t be answered?” she said in her quiet, competent way. A pretty woman of forty—even that age didn’t disturb her—with dark hair and eyes, and almost as tall as her husband’s six feet.

  “Doesn’t Ron tell you anything about his work?”

  “Whatever can be told, sweetie.” Gemma smiled encouragingly at Nina’s thoughtful face.

  “You must trust him a lot.”

  “Why not? He trusts me.”

  “I know. He must,” Nina said quickly. The Gilmans were happy; and close friends, too. That was evident as soon as you saw them together. “It’s just that truth is part of trust, isn’t it? I mean—” She halted, sighed helplessly.

  “Bob will give you the truth if it can be given. If not—then he won’t answer you at all. That’s your signal to ask no more questions. Inquisitive people aren’t really very attractive, are they?”

  “No,” Nina agreed with a smile.

  “Truth and confidences,” Gemma mused. “Oh, you’ll have plenty of them, don’t worry. Provided you don’t gossip. And you don’t. It’s a very private kind of life, actually. Rather nice, too: it draws you closely together. It has to. Or else it would all fly apart.”

  A very private kind of life... “A lot must depend on the woman, doesn’t it?” Nina asked hesitantly.

  “Of course. And very flattering it is,” Gemma said cheerfully. “Now, what about that call to your father to let him know you’ll be home tomorrow? It’s eight in the morning, Washington time. You’ll catch him just before he leaves for the office.”

  “Yes, I’d better tell him. But this has to be a collect call, Gemma. Really, it must! If Beryl comes on the ’phone, she’ll talk and talk.”

  “No telephone sense at all?”

  “Not much. She’s never had to worry about money. Oh, well—” Nina’s smile was real—“Beryl keeps Father happy— he doesn’t even have time to worry much about me any more. And that, frankly, is a relief. I’m free and can choose my own life.” And have Bob to worry about me, she thought. “A very private kind of life,” she added softly, and went into the hall to telephone.

  ***

  Renwick and Gilman spent a long day at J.P. Merriman & Co. collecting last reports and pieces of information about Francis O’Connell’s house, habits, and job in Washington. There wasn’t much to establish any kind of purpose behind Thérèse Colbert’s interest in O’Connell.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got,” Renwick said at last. They were, seated, facing each other, at Gilman’s desk
. Renwick’s office would be ready for his return to London, with the antiseptic furnishings removed: all he wanted was one large table with one telephone, some maps on the wall, good lighting, a small safe, a radio for some music, and a leather armchair with a leg rest. (The file room was next door, the typist pool was at the end of the hall, the communications set-up was within easy reach. What more did he need?) “Take it from the beginning, Ron.”

  “Washington listened to us and was receptive. They are studying Colbert carefully; she is now under close surveillance. So far, they’ve found nothing derogatory in her past. She arrived from Switzerland in July, had some helpful friends to establish her in Washington, where she has been a success—both socially and as an interior decorator.”

  “Nothing derogatory.” Renwick shook his head. “Didn’t Belgian security spread the word?”

  “Seemingly not. Perhaps they couldn’t find much against her. You didn’t spread the word, either,” Gilman reminded him.

  “And let Theo know I was still functioning?” If I had been the one to pass the word to Belgian security, Theo’s listening post would have picked that up. I’d have had more to worry about than getting Interintell working, Renwick thought. Still, that had been a door left unlocked—my fault, even with good reasons—and Thérèse Colbert had slipped through.

  “You hadn’t much choice,” Gilman agreed. “Anyway, Colbert is moving around the best circles quite easily. They like her charm and her French accent. She has become Beryl O’Connell’s friend as well as her adviser on colours and wallpapers. So far, her telephone conversations have been blameless. She doesn’t take circuitous routes to appointments. She has had no meetings with anyone outside her own circle of acquaintances.”

  “During the last five days.” Before then? When she wasn’t under surveillance? Perhaps, thought Renwick, the warning about Colbert has gone out too late. “So she seems totally harmless. Yet we know she was working for the late Mr. Maartens, who worked for Theo. We know Kiley worked for Theo, and Kiley was heading for the O’Connell house. She headed for the O’Connell house, too. Were they to work together? Is she now adding his assignment to hers?”

  “Is she capable of that? Could she carry out this assignment by herself?”

  “If it’s intricate, no. She’d need outside help. What’s the security like at O’Connell’s place?”

  “He’s against it. The Secret Service insisted on the usual two guards, but all he wants them to do is to drive him around. He can’t conceive of anything happening to him right in his own home.”

  “Frankly, I don’t think anyone will take a pot shot at him even in the streets or at his office. Kidnapping? I’d rule against it. It’s not money that Theo was after. Top-secret papers to be stolen or photographed?”

  “The FBI says he keeps them in the safe at his office. He’s not known for breaking the rules. He brings no highly classified material home.”

  “And the FBI reports they found no bugs,” Renwick said, frowning. They had sent in two men to check the telephones on Monday. Yesterday, they had had an agent appear as an inspector of all the new electrical wiring. “Nothing.”

  “A lot of workmen have been in and out of that house in the last six weeks. But no doubt they are being checked right now. I must say, Bob, Washington did take our warning seriously. I just hope...” Gilman sighed. “Well, it would be rather a sour joke on us, wouldn’t it, if no warning was needed?”

  “But it is.”

  Gilman said nothing.

  “Kiley used Nina to be accepted by O’Connell.” Renwick ran his hands through his hair rose, walked over to the electric fire, stood staring down at it. “What if—” he paused—“what if Kiley was then going to use O’Connell?”

  “Use him?” Gilman was suddenly interested. “For an introduction higher up? Could be, could very well be.”

  “Except,” Renwick said, “that would have to be a long-term project. Kiley gets the entrance into high circles of government, but he’d need time to insinuate himself even with all his powers of persuasion. Theo didn’t die to protect some project in the distant future. What’s more, Kiley was trained as a terrorist, not as a diplomat.”

  “He could have been aiming at assassination.”

  Renwick nodded. “Use O’Connell to get him into some place where Kiley could get off one shot—” He stopped, reconsidered.

  “That could mean Kiley’s death, too. I don’t think he would be in favour of that,” Renwick said with a brief smile. “He’s a man with a mission: Direct Action. He was following Theo’s plan because it would help the cause—his cause. His death wouldn’t help it one bit. In fact, as its leader, he’d intend to stay alive.”

  “Hold it, hold it!” Gilman exclaimed. “You’ve got something there, Bob! He was following Theo’s plan because it would help his cause—Direct Action. And what is that but anarchy?”

  “Theo would have got more than he bargained for.”

  “Always the danger when you play along with terrorists.”

  “But,” said Renwick, beginning to walk slowly around the room, his head bent, his hands in his pockets, “Theo might have been aiming at a temporary anarchy—just enough confusion and disaster to throw America into panic. The Western world, too. Make them helpless, unable to move if aggression took place—” He halted his pacing, stared at Gilman. There were three danger spots in this world right now, ripe for aggression. Last night, he and Gilman had discussed them at length and ruined a perfectly good chess game. First turmoil; and then aggression; and propaganda to wrap it all up.

  “Throw us into confusion and panic,” Gilman repeated. “An attack on your White House—kill the President? Kiley was to use O’Connell in order to reach the President?”

  Renwick thought quickly over the report they had received on O’Connell’s duties beyond his daily office routine. Special advisory sessions at the White House—but others were present, too. Breakfast last week at the White House—but with others there, too. A National Security meeting last month—full attendance. “He never sees the President alone.”

  “Then,” Gilman said, “Theo may have planned something bigger than we thought. What was he aiming for—the National Security Council?” It was intended as a joke.

  “A full house,” Renwick said slowly.

  “Look—we might just be allowing ourselves to get carried away.” That was always the danger with thinking out loud. But he still brooded over Renwick’s wild and outrageous idea. “They couldn’t possibly turn poor old O’Connell into some bomb. Wire him for an explosion?” He began to laugh, choked off his amusement. “Would it really be possible to have some explosive device on O’Connell without him knowing it? In his watch—in the heels of his shoes?”

  “Nothing that would be powerful enough except to blow him to pieces. If he carried some reference book to back up any statement he wanted to make—”

  “It would be examined by security, before he ever reached the council table.”

  “Yes. Any briefcase, too. He does carry a briefcase, doesn’t he? Now that could pack a real blast.”

  “As you said, it would be opened and examined, wouldn’t it?”

  “I hope to God it would be.” Dead end, thought Renwick. He stopped pacing around, dropped back into his chair. “Theo’s target,” he said softly. “Hidden. With extreme care and cunning.”

  “And how the devil do you hit a hidden target?”

  “You can damn well think your way towards it. And then be ready—for one small glimpse. Just one quick sight, that’s all we’ll need.”

  “Perhaps a little pressure on Madame Colbert?” Gilman suggested.

  “Yes. I think that’s what we’ll try. Shock tactics. They worked on Theo. Damn it all, Ron, we keep talking of that man as if he were still alive. Who’s in charge of Colbert now, I wonder? It could be Boris or Kolman or—what the hell. Let’s call them the opposition.”

  “What kind of shock tactics on dear Thérèse?”

  �
�Sudden confrontation. Inform her that I know she’s one of their agents. That might shake her. But then, the opposition might try shaking me.”

  “How?”

  “Blackmail. They must have taken photographs in her Brussels apartment. How else did Maartens’ killer recognise me so quickly when he came at me with that damned walking stick?”

  “Blackmail.” Yes, that was always a possibility, thought Gilman. “What would be your reaction?”

  “Publish and be damned.”

  “But now there’s Nina.”

  Renwick said nothing.

  “Would she stand by you?”

  Still Renwick was silent.

  Gilman studied his friend. “I’m sure she will, Bob.” Then he rose quickly. “I think I’ll get in touch with my friend A.K. Roy. We had a long chat yesterday. But there’s something I’d like to ask him. Shan’t be long.”

  “It’s probably early in the morning Bombay time,” Renwick reminded him.

  “Then I’ll be certain of reaching him at his home,” Gilman said briskly and left Renwick to his thoughts.

  They weren’t pleasant.

  But I’ll be damned if I’m taking myself off this case now. I’ve been with it since Vienna—uncovered that terrorist bank account—found it in Geneva, one and a half million dollars already paid out. And I traced them, even if they had been carefully laundered, to Düsseldorf and Herr Otto Remp. Then there was Essen, and Erik and Marco bowing in. And Otto Remp, once Herman Kroll—nicely dead in some helicopter accident, now Theo again. We got him; we got Erik and Marco. I’ll be damned if I take myself off this case.

  And Nina? I’ve told her about Brussels, thank God for that... At least, the shock won’t be so vicious if she finds photographs with an anonymous letter in the mail some morning. That’s how Theo would have worked it: no press release, just a quiet threat using Nina.

  Who is succeeding him? More important, who is in Washington directing Colbert? She has a control, possibly a resident well disguised in their embassy: the harmless chauffeur, the quiet press attaché. Well, if we move quickly enough, I’ll nail Colbert and get her out of the picture. Who takes over for her, then? That could delay Theo’s plan, set it back some weeks, some months before a new operative could insinuate himself into O’Connell’s household.