The Hidden Target

by Helen Macinnes

  “That worried me, too. But it could mean too difficult a job to line a case with some explosive device and have it absolutely, perfect with no sign of any tampering. And—” Renwick paused for emphasis—“with no alteration of the inside space for O’Connell’s papers. So my guess is that the substituted case will be custom-made.”

  “You mean,” Mac said thoughtfully, “the outside dimensions might have to be increased a little to hold the explosives? So that the inside measurements would stay the same?”

  Renwick nodded. “Who notices if his attaché case is a bit longer and deeper? But he damn well notices if he finds his papers curled up at the edges instead of lying smoothly in place. Does that answer Bill’s question?”

  “I guess it does. Theo really thought of every detail, didn’t he?”

  “Right to the end.”

  “Well, that’s about all. Have you met Colbert yet?”

  “I decided to keep our little confrontation for the right moment. I’m depending on Bill and Joe for that.”

  “Oh, they’ll know when Colbert carries a case back into the O’Connell house. She is being tailed.”

  “And they’ll send me the message? No delay.”

  “You’ll receive it on that communicator Bill supplied.” It was a small beeper, the type that gave the warning to call headquarters at once. In Renwick’s case, he wouldn’t need to telephone. One small signal, and he’d know what that meant and he’d be on his way. Since his arrival with Nina yesterday afternoon, he had never travelled far from the area. This meeting place today was within direct reach, and his hotel on Wisconsin was only a few blocks from O’Connell’s house on Dumbarton Road. “I think it’s pretty well arranged,” Mac went on. “How long do you think we’ll have to wait?”

  “I don’t know. But I think that accident to O’Connell’s case could have been the beginning of the action.”

  “There could be a delay in returning it—with the excuse it needed a lot of repairing.”

  “Yes. But too much delay and O’Connell will get impatient. He will buy himself a new one. Wouldn’t you?”

  And Mac, who was neither extravagant nor impatient, agreed completely. “How’s Miss O’Connell holding up?”

  Renwick smiled. “Pretty good, I think.” He had called her this morning—as old friend Jack. Tonight he’d ’phone again, as Tommy. Tomorrow it would be Ed and Steve. Nina and he had agreed on this idea on the flight across the Atlantic. And if she managed to find the right attaché case, she’d just say, “Sorry I couldn’t meet you for lunch. I had a birthday present to buy.” Any mention of the present, and Renwick would know it was now wrapped up as a gift and waiting in her closet.

  “She doesn’t know we expect an attaché case to be substituted?” Mac asked.

  “No. Nor what it could contain. Nor how it might be used. I just told her to be careful answering questions about her trip; and extra careful with Thérèse Colbert.”

  “I suppose you had to warn her about all that,” Mac said.

  “You’re damn right.”

  “A tricky situation. What if she panics, thinks she is in some danger?”

  Renwick’s face tightened. “I gave her a number to telephone.” And I’ll be at Dumbarton Road within six minutes.

  “Not your number?” Mac was horrified.

  Renwick didn’t answer that. “By the way, who has Colbert been calling? Any particular friends?”

  My God, thought Mac, still staring at Renwick. Renwick was taking too many chances, and all for Nina’s sake. Gallantry and security didn’t mix, that was for damned sure. “She has two. One is State Department. The other is a French journalist.”

  “Any contact with the Soviet Embassy?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Doesn’t the journalist have meetings with any press attaché there?”

  “He is covering the White House at present, concentrates on that. Joe says he is young and pleasant and well liked. He is constantly around—attends briefing sessions. He’s accepted.”

  “Qualifications?”

  “The best. He is deputising for Le Temps’s correspondent, who is back in Paris for a couple of weeks.”

  “Bill and Joe—”

  “Are checking him out,” Mac answered Renwick’s question before it was asked. “Also Colbert’s friend at State. He has been introducing her around. That’s how she met Beryl O’Connell— at one of his parties.”

  “I don’t like that particularly.”

  “Too many moles everywhere,” Mac agreed. “But you know what’s worrying Bill, Joe, and me? You, Bob. Colbert hasn’t seen you yet, but she probably heard you brought Nina home. Who was there when you both arrived?”

  “Beryl O’Connell.”

  “See what I mean?” Taking chances again. Like staying at a hotel instead of a safe address, just to be close to O’Connell’s place.

  “I didn’t even enter the house. She didn’t remember who I was.” An old friend of Father’s, Nina had explained briefly. “All very casual.”

  “Even so,” Mac began doubtfully. “The fact that you’re here in Washington could send Colbert running to the ’phone.”

  “In that case, the Bill-Joe team certainly overheard that message.”

  “Not if she telephoned from a drugstore.”

  “Well, whom did she meet after that call?”

  He’s got a point there, thought Mac: a possible lead to her control, who might in turn lead to the resident agent who is in over-all command? But I’m still worried about Bob. “You are the one guy who can name her for what she is,” Mac insisted.

  “She may think I’m just an easy mark.” She must have been testing that out in New York last August when she arrived with her State Department friend at Frank Cooper’s cocktail party and hoped to find me there. “Or,” Renwick went on calmly, “she may think she can have me blackmailed and made impotent.” Then he laughed. “I don’t turn impotent so easily.”

  No, he wouldn’t, thought Mac. He said, “I’ll be moving into your hotel tonight.”

  “Oh, who set you up as my baby-sitter? Billy-Joe?”

  Mac extended his hand, said, “Goodbye, old scout. Be seeing you in the distance. I’m your back-up, goddamn it.”

  “Goodbye. Nice meeting you.” And Renwick meant that. They separated with a casual wave, MacEwan to pay a short but elusive visit to the Smithsonian, Renwick making for a taxi and—eventually—Wisconsin Avenue.

  There was no signal from the alarm in his pocket.

  ***

  Before six-thirty, when Beryl O’Connell might be in her predinner bathtub and safely out of the way, Renwick called Nina. No, she couldn’t really make any appointment for tomorrow, and she was sorry she hadn’t been able to lunch with him today: she had been shopping for a birthday present and hadn’t found what she wanted until two o’clock. Next week, she would have much more free time—the first days home were really hectic. “Next week,” he said, “we’ll take in a movie and have late supper. I’ll call you on Monday. Okay, Nina?”

  He would have something to eat himself. Then he’d read. Then a long lonely night. But at least she sounded fine—a laugh in her voice that reassured him. So far, she was safe.

  He decided on one of the nearby restaurants—there was a string of them along this busy part of Wisconsin—and chose one where he could have a rare steak and a real Idaho potato. That was one thing about European cooking, even in the best of places: no idea of how a baked potato should look or taste. With a tankard of nicely chilled beer, he had a pleasant meal. Quick service, too. He had little time to read the newspaper he had brought with him as insurance against a long wait. But the front page had two items of interest.

  One dismayed him: the ex-Shah of Iran was in New York Hospital, and the loud demonstrations had begun in front of it. But what did politicians and diplomats expect? God in heaven, Renwick thought, don’t they see more than six inches in front of their noses? And why the hell couldn’t the Shah have had treat
ment in Mexico? The doctors there were good. If American doctors had to butt in, why hadn’t they flown down there? They had travelled to plenty of places all over the world—Saudi Arabia, the Dominican Republic, among others—in order to advise or operate. These thoughts nearly ruined his appetite, but the second news item restored it: Erik and Marco, leaders of the Direct Action gang (the newspaper’s word, not Renwick’s) which had terrorised West Germany for the last five years, had been held in Bombay for extradition. Marco was already on his way; Erik was now under indictment for the murder of a Bombay security officer.

  That charge may not stick, Renwick thought: what court had ever dealt with a cyanide pen as a murder weapon even if refills for the little pistol had been in Kiley’s pocket? But Roy’s anger demanded justice: a long sentence in an Indian prison; and then extradition. Kiley’s record as Erik would weigh heavily against him. Too bad for him now that the People’s Revolutionary Force for Direct Action had always been so quick to claim proud responsibility for all their deeds. Out of their own mouths they had condemned Erik.

  Was Thérèse Colbert reading that paragraph, too? She possibly didn’t understand its significance—Kiley was Kiley to her—but the agent who was in control might. And if he, too, were ignorant about James Kiley’s true identity, then the resident—the central spider in the web of espionage agents woven around Washington—should know.

  Unless, Renwick thought as he finished his coffee, Theo had kept his agents entirely under his complete management, had not put them under any usual control or resident, had instituted his own branch of espionage for his own purpose. With approval of one or two at the highest level, of course. He would never have had so much power, so many resources, if they hadn’t given assent to his plan. Indeed, they could very well have let him avoid the usual chain of command, bend the rules, in order to serve their own purpose: if he succeeded, excellent; if he failed, they had nothing to do with it.

  In which case, Renwick decided as he paid the cheque, there could be one very ignorant resident in the Washington area tonight. Ignorant... How much was known even by those who directed the KGB? Known of Theo’s actual plan? He was inviting World War III, and why should the Soviets risk that— at a time when everything was going their way? He had been given immense power, certainly, and complete backing, but he could have added Theo’s own touch to his initial assignment. It couldn’t be that Theo had gone out of control, taking his own section or department with him?

  The question halted Renwick abruptly at the restaurant’s door. Now you’re really going off half-cocked, he told himself. The KGB wouldn’t let any agent, far less the head of a department, get out of control without pretty heavy retribution to be paid. Yet, if Theo’s purpose was achieved, if he really produced a result that would send the world reeling, that would win World War III before it even began—well, the Soviets would live with that situation quite comfortably.

  Renwick came out into the bright lights of Wisconsin Avenue. There was only one thing he could be sure of: Theo’s death must have shaken those who did know about his Washington project. Would they back out? Or push forward their timetable?

  Suddenly, he was aware he was being followed. Two men in loose overcoats, bareheaded, had left the restaurant almost on his heels. Presentable types, young, keeping a respectful distance. Too obvious. Was this Mac’s idea, or his friends at the Bureau? Worried about you, Mac had said. Hell, I don’t need baby-sitters, Renwick thought angrily.

  He paused on the sidewalk opposite his hotel, glanced over his shoulder as he lit a cigarette. The men were no longer behind him—not in clear view, at least. They might have dodged into one of those doorways. Renwick’s eyes narrowed, but he fought down the impulse to walk back and confront them. If they were Bill-and-Joe’s agents, they’d have a cold wait out there. He was going straight to the warmth of his room. And if they weren’t Bill-and-Joe’s agents? So Beryl had talked about Bob Renwick to her dear Thérèse, and Thérèse had gone running for advice, and her adviser had decided on action.

  Well, he thought as he waited to cross the avenue, I may not carry cyanide or a knife or a walking stick, but I’m damned glad to feel the weight of my little Beretta right here in my pocket. Then, glancing over at the hotel, he saw that the window of his room on the second floor was lit. The curtains were drawn, but they were not heavy enough to darken the light completely. It hadn’t been burning there when he left.

  He crossed the busy thoroughfare, entered the lobby, and took the stairs to his floor—a more silent approach than the elevator allowed. The maid had turned the sofa into a bed just before he had telephoned Nina. Fresh towels, too, had been placed in the bathroom. His room required no more attention tonight, but someone thought it needed company. Hadn’t the intruder expected him back so early? Watched him leave for dinner, calculated on his absence for an hour and a half at least? If so, the man was wrong by thirty-five minutes.

  About to enter his corridor, Renwick drew back. A woman was standing at the door to his room, watching the elevator. She was dressed in black as if she were one of the maids, but no apron, no sensible shoes. All this floor had been serviced—there were no maids around. No one in the pantry, either—everyone was out to dinner.

  He slipped off his coat, dropped it on the stairs’ banister, walked into the corridor, his right hand in his jacket pocket. The woman turned her head to look at him, stared, rattled the door handle as she brushed past it on her way to the elevator. Neat, thought Renwick: a complete picture of innocence; but I’ll know you again, Milady.

  He reached the door. The woman was waiting impatiently for an elevator that was slow to respond. No weapon there, he decided: a warning and a quick retreat were her tactics. But why the delay from inside the room? What’s waiting inside? He drew the Beretta, threw the door open, side-stepped quickly as he entered.

  Two men faced him. Young. One tall and fair, one short and dark. Both powerful. They had been preparing for him—room in disorder, apparently burglarised—the tall man had a silencer already fitted into place on his revolver.

  There was a brief second of no movement, no sound. Then a knife flashed across the room, missing Renwick by inches as he swerved his body. He dropped to one knee, his eyes on the man with the revolver, and fired first. He caught the man’s right shoulder, deflecting the aim of the bullet, which plunged into the wall behind him. The small man leaped forward, a straight-legged kick aimed at Renwick’s chin, and ran.

  “Far enough,” said Mac’s voice. He had a firm half nelson on the struggling man. “All yours,” he told one of the two agents who were just behind him, and relinquished his hold. The baby-sitters. Renwick would have laughed if his damned jaw hadn’t hurt: he had jerked back instinctively from that lethal karate kick, but some of it had grazed him. Nothing much, he told himself, considering what it could have been.

  The tall man was no problem: a shoulder wound was painful and discouraged further action.

  “Saw the light in your window,” one of the agents said. “Just wondered.”

  “Thank you,” said Renwick and rose to his feet.

  The other agent looked around. “A set-up.”

  “I guess.”

  “Don’t touch anything; we’ll want—”

  “I know.” The bullet embedded in the wall; the knife there, too, deep and holding. Mac was looking at them, his lips pursed.

  As the prisoners were handcuffed, Mac said, “I’ll help see them safely housed. Be with you later, Bob. You okay? Need anything?”

  “Ice. A bucketful of ice.”

  Mac repressed a smile. “Will do.” He followed the handcuffed prisoners into the corridor and closed the door, partly blotting out the rising voices now gathered outside. An agent was speaking with complete reassurance: nothing to worry about, everything was all right. The voices diminished. Soon there was silence complete.

  ***

  One thing is definite, Renwick decided as he wrapped a towel around a handful of ice cubes, I cannot ha
ve it both ways. Either I take Claudel’s advice entirely—no excuses, no half-way dodges to get into the field again—and stay in my nice new office with its inspirational armchair, or I don’t marry Nina. I can’t put her through this kind of thing.

  Sure, a man can die crossing a road, a man can break his neck in his bathtub, a man can fall from his roof fixing a chimney. A coward dies a hundred deaths before he meets the real one. So what?

  I’m not giving up Nina.

  And what am I giving up anyway? It isn’t as if I were action-crazy. I like problems, bits and pieces of information to fit into something understandable. I like out-thinking the opposition. When they challenge us, I damn well enjoy doing the greatest harm where it will do the most good. Fight their ideas with better ideas—or, at least, try. And all of that, I don’t give up.

  I won’t stop travelling, either. There will be visits to various places abroad, exchanges of information. Interintell is growing—at last count we had twelve of the NATO countries and two other democracies, all interested and co-operating. Yes, there will be travel and old friends to meet. And Nina with me. In the field—impossible; not just for security’s sake, not just for rules and regulations, but for her safety, too.

  He studied his jaw in the mirror. It could have been worse. That kick could have snapped his neck.

  Just remember, Renwick, you may have swerved from a knife, avoided a bullet, but you almost didn’t dodge a kick. One hell of a way to learn that Pierre Claudel had been right: move over and let the men in their twenties do their stint. He took another handful of ice, wrapped it in the towel, felt his jaw go numb with its chill. If it took another five hours, he’d have this damned face back to normal.

  He settled down to wait for Mac’s return with any news he had gathered about the two thugs. Bought with money? Or trained in another Rancho San Carlos? One thing he did know: whoever was now in charge of Theo’s plan was pushing forward the timetable—hard.

  30