The Hidden Target (11 page)

When he entered the busy streets of Brussels he noted a small white Fiat, which had chosen the same route as he had, following him still more closely. He hadn’t noticed it until he was just south of the frontier, and from there it had kept its place in line, like all the others, on the road, staying four cars behind him. Someone tailing him? Had someone picked him up as he left Crefeld’s office on the Prinsengracht? Kept him in sight all the way to the garage near Central Station? All the way to the Breda road? Damn me, he thought, for an idiot, too occupied with Nina and her friends, with Crefeld and his information about Rotterdam, with Theo, to notice anyone following. If surveillance had occurred, it was pretty skilful. Expert job, involving two or three men passing him one to the other. He would have noticed one man dogging his heels through the streets of Amsterdam. Yes, an expert job. If it had occurred.

He tested that, now, by heading for the crowded centre of the city, without too many twists and turns to betray the fact that he had been alerted. In spite of the heavy traffic, the white Fiat hung on, at a safe but definite distance. So he didn’t drive to his office or his apartment, or make for the garage where his rented car had been delivered that morning, but left it in the parking area of the Dove, a thriving and expensive restaurant. The Fiat decided to park there, too. No one got out. Perhaps the prices had scared him off, or—more seriously—the man at the Fiat’s wheel was alone and now debating whether to follow or wait. Always a mistake, thought Renwick, to put one man alone on a tail. He could have radio contact, though, and be calling for a back-up at this very moment. So be quick, Renwick, quick but casual.

He made a leisurely entry into the Dove. Once inside its fashionable gloom, he headed for the bar. He ordered a short drink, paid for it, gave himself just enough time to make sure that the man he had briefly glimpsed wasn’t following him after all, and then left for the men’s room. If his memory of this place was accurate, there was an adjacent service door. His departure was speedy. Into a passageway, dodging a waiter with a loaded tray, passing the clatter and heat of a busy kitchen, taking a back entrance into a small courtyard, another exit from there that led into a short stretch of cobbled alley. No one in sight. No one waiting at the other end of the alley, either, or in the narrow street that brought him into the Grand Place. There, in the huge square dominated by seventeenth-century façades, he could ease his pace, blend into the constant movement of people, pass the outdoor cafés, flower stalls, elegant restaurants, and reach a street where taxis could be found.

Within a minute, he was being driven to the air terminal, a short haul, where he had left his own car that morning. Five more minutes—he was counting each one—and he was in his Volkswagen of nondescript grey, joining the stream of cars leaving the city. Twenty minutes at most, and he would be in his office. No one was following.

First, he must call Jake Crefeld, who would be back in The Hague by this time, warn him that the House of Bruna on the Prinsengracht must be under observation. Because of Jake or because of me? he wondered. Who had led to whom? Always a baffling question, but one that needed answering.

***

Renwick, in his private office mostly occupied by a wall of filing cabinets, a desk with two telephones (one line to the general switchboard downstairs, another for direct outside calls), and a couple of hard chairs that kept visitors alert and attentive, wasted no time. He dialled Crefeld’s own special number. If Jake wasn’t in his office, he’d have to try Crefeld’s home, something he disliked doing: no scrambler available there.

His call was answered promptly on its first ring. But it wasn’t Jake at his desk. Nor Johan Vroom, Jake’s assistant. The voice was recognisable: Luisa, Jake’s faithful secretary, who, like Vroom, had gone back to The Hague from Brussels along with her boss.

“Working late, Luisa?” Renwick asked, his voice light, his manner easy. When she hesitated, he added, “Renwick speaking.”

“Oh, Major Renwick—I mean Colonel—”

“Half-colonel,” he corrected her.

“I was putting my desk in order; so much to clear up at the end of the day.” She sounded flustered. But then, he had caught her at Jake’s desk, not her own in the outer office. That didn’t surprise Renwick, though. Luisa was not only efficient but also officious, the perfect factotum who would drive him crazy. Her command of English was perfect, thank heaven. That saved Renwick from floundering around in his meagre Dutch. “Is the Brigadier available?”

“No.”

“Do you expect him soon? Or has he gone home?”

“He said he would come here first, on his return from Amsterdam.”

“Is Major Vroom there?”

“No. He hasn’t returned.”

“Oh?”

“He left about half-past four. It was—some kind of emergency, he said.”

There were always emergencies, thought Renwick. “Leave word for the boss, will you? Ask him to telephone me.”

“Your number?”

“He knows it,” Renwick said. “Good night, Luisa. Don’t work too hard.”

He went scouting in the small refrigerator next door, where there was also a cot, a closet with his tennis and running gear and change of clothes, an adjacent bathroom. He found some cheese and hard-crusted rolls, apples, a bottle of white wine, and drinkable milk—the remains of yesterday’s lunch. He chose the milk rather than the wine: it would settle the tension building up in his stomach. The cheese was a mild Edam, the rolls still fresh. It was all the supper he needed at this moment. He ate it slowly, worrying about Jake: what had delayed him? Then he went over today’s mail and the morning newspaper. And waited.

At nine-fifty, the call came on his private line. It wasn’t Jake. It was Johan Vroom, his voice easily identified by the American accent he had brought back, along with a Virginian wife, from two years at Georgetown University, but his initial words were too quick, too emotional to be fully understood.

“Take it easy,” Renwick advised, his own tension rising. He could see Vroom’s face, thin and sharp, with its dark brow knitted.

Vroom sounded hoarse. “I’ve just got back from Amsterdam. Crefeld is dead.” His voice was unsteady, then he mastered himself, went on. “I got the word at sixteen hours twenty-five. I—”

“Dead?” Renwick repeated blankly. “Dead?”

“Heart attack, they say.” Vroom was bitter, almost savage. “But I think—”

“Hold on, hold on. Get the scrambler working.” Renwick reached for his own, adjusted it to receive. He drew a deep, long breath, steadied his own emotions.

“Okay,” Vroom said. “Can you hear clearly?”

“Clear enough. So you got the word at twenty-five past four?” Just over half an hour after I said goodbye to Jake, fit and strong, vitality bursting out all over him.

“Yes. From the Bruna building—that’s where he was found. In the hall, half-way to the front door.”

“Was he already dead?”

“Not then. Paralysed. He was taken to the hospital, and I went directly there. But too late. Then I went to his office—just to make sure that nothing else had been stolen. You see—in the hall—all that had been found was an attaché case lying beside him. But he had had a briefcase, too. I saw it this morning as he left for Amsterdam. Valuable papers inside it, Bob. A police report—highly confidential. Sorry I can’t say more. He said he would be seeing someone who would be interested in it.”

Renwick hesitated. Then, as a precaution, he asked, “Only one person?”

“Must have been. Luisa was told to pack lunch for two— have it ready early this morning.”

“When was she told?”

Vroom was mystified. “Yesterday, of course. She always prepares the attaché case for his Amsterdam meetings.”

“When did Jake receive that highly confidential report?”

“Yesterday. It came by special messenger. He read it, then showed it to me. We have been working together on—well, on a problem connected with—well, the report was a possible addition to the solution of that problem. About one of our undercover agents.”

About Amalie possibly, thought Renwick. Not about Theo, thank God. Vroom knew only a tenth of the problem, perhaps not even that. “And after Jake showed the report to you?”

“He put it in his briefcase.”

“Not in his safe?” Renwick was surprised.

“That was later. First, Luisa brought us our coffee, and he made a special call to someone—don’t know who.”

To me, thought Renwick. “Then he told Luisa to pack lunch for two people—for the following day?”

“Right. And he put the briefcase in the safe once Luisa had left the room.”

“Who knew of his visit to Amsterdam?”

“No one except Luisa and me.”

“Don’t forget the man who had lunch with him.”

“He worries me. He’s in danger, too—he knows the contents of that report.”

“What if he was followed from the Bruna building but managed to shake the tail?”

“He’s still in danger—if he talks about that visit.”

“You’re in danger also. Jake discussed that report with you.” “With the door closed and no one in the outer office.”

“Not even Luisa?”

“She was in the pantry at the end of the hall, making us that cup of coffee.”

“Who, besides Jake, had access to the safe?”

“Only I had access.” Vroom’s anxiety sharpened. “Security is tight. Day and night guards in the corridor, alarm signals—”

“Take it easy, Johan. Access to the safe may have been unnecessary. All that was needed was someone in your antiterrorist section to be alerted to watch for any special delivery from—a certain quarter.” From Rotterdam.

“Someone here? Alerted?”

“And saw the document arrive; then made an outside call to his contact, who’d pass on the word to someone who could arrange the theft.”

“And Crefeld’s death.”

“And had me followed from the Prinsengracht.” But at least I know now, thought Renwick, I didn’t lead the killers to Jake. It was the Rotterdam report that focused interest on the Bruna building. Whoever planned all this was well informed. Recent information, too; the Bruna building was secure until today.

Vroom said sharply, “You took your time telling me.”

“Just like you. We’ve both been circling around each other.” Renwick’s voice hardened. “So give me the details. Who found Jake? Was he able to speak? Who telephoned you?”

“The telephone girl—from the Bruna switchboard. There was a card in Jake’s pocket marked
Emergency: Call at once
— with my number on it.”

“Who found him?” Renwick insisted.

Vroom plunged into the telephone girl’s description of the scene in the hall. “She swears it’s true, she didn’t invent it. He tried to speak, could only say one word. He said it twice. Umbrella.” There was a pause. “Everyone else in the hall thought she was crazy.”

Renwick said softly, “Not so crazy. Tell me, Johan—there’s an autopsy going on right now?”

“Yes. I’ve sent one of our medical men to attend it.”

“Call him. Tell him to look for a small, a very small puncture of the skin—not a needle mark, not a hypodermic. Not a deep puncture, either; that wouldn’t be necessary. And it’s probably some place that could be overlooked, some place seemingly protected by clothing. So have Jake’s suit examined for a neat little hole that would overlie the puncture—shoulder, back, thigh, wherever the point of an umbrella could have been easily aimed as the trigger in its handle was pulled.”

Vroom was silent. Then he burst out, “The Bulgarian refugees—the writers who were working for Radio Free Europe!”

“That’s right.” There had been one, perhaps two mystery deaths of Bulgarian intellectuals in London, from a raging fever that ended, after four days, in heart failure. Then another intended victim, in Paris, had dodged a full attack and lived to tell about the incredible weapon: an umbrella. It had been a sensation in the newspapers for almost two days.
Vive détente
, Renwick thought. “Let me know what your doctor discovers. Whatever poison was used in Jake’s case, it was something damned speedy. Not the usual four-day fever.”

Vroom was hesitant. “But the umbrella was always used logically—in a crowded street or subway. Why now, in an empty hall?”

“In Jake’s case, a briefcase had to be snatched. He would have hung on to it if a delayed poison had been used.”

“I get it. Instant paralysis, and no one around to notice the briefcase being stolen? Yes—” Vroom’s deep breath was noticeable—“that’s possible. But why not a cyanide pen? Much simpler.”

“Jake would be watching for that, Wouldn’t he?” I bet he was keeping as much distance as possible from the man in the hall, averting his face, holding his breath, ready to raise the heavy attaché case as a shield. Jake, thought Renwick, had known of too many cyanide attacks. “One thing is certain: the report from the Rotterdam police must have been dynamite. It wasn’t complete, though. They were still checking on the possible destination of that man who came off the Duisburg freighter. So hurry them up, if you can, and let me know—”

“Oh, God,” said Vroom, “how do you tell them you’ve lost their confidential file? It was a special favour from the inspector to Crefeld.”

“Do you know the inspector?” More important, does he know you well enough to grant
you
a favour? Renwick wondered. For that matter, do I really know Vroom well enough to ask him to replace Jake on the Interintell Committee? One thing is definite: I had better contact all its members, tell them to recruit replacements. Jake’s death has proven that necessary. Jake... I’m going to miss him, I’m going to miss that man.

Vroom was talking about his knowledge of the Rotterdam police inspector who had recognised a safe house when he saw it in an undercover report about suspected drug smuggling. “Bright lad,” Vroom finished.

“Young?” Renwick liked that idea.

“Yes. About our age.”

In spite of the weight of depression in Renwick’s heart, he almost smiled. Vroom was thirty-seven, two years junior to Renwick. “Only people over forty call that young.”

“I feel eighty tonight.”

“You’ll be taking Jake’s place, of course?”

“I’ll fill in. Until they find someone...” Vroom sighed.