The Hidden Target (19 page)

Renwick said, “What’s this about Nina?” Frank, he was thinking, is not only overworked and depressed, he’s also beginning to digress. He ought to take a vacation, travel across his own country for a change, lose some of his pessimism, come back to New York and Washington with his old sense of purpose restored. “Nina,” he repeated firmly. “What has she done now?”

“Got her father out of bed last night with a call from some place in northern Greece. She needed her money to be delivered at the American Express office in Athens instead of Istanbul. Seemingly she decided to leave the camper.”

“Good,” said Renwick.

“Not permanently,” Cooper corrected him. “She and her friend Madge wanted to see Athens and the islands. The camper is parked on a beach on the Salonika gulf—it’s staying there for six days.”

“Six days?” Gilman asked. He knew that part of the world. “Why six whole days?”

“Poor old O’Connell,” said Cooper. “Never got a postcard or letter from her all across Europe.” Thank God for my girls, he was thinking. “Her aunt Eunice—she looked after Nina for years, you know—never got a postcard, either. But here’s the strange part: Nina told him she had written him from Basel and postcarded Aunt Eunice from Dijon and Innsbruck. Of course, she might have been trying to pacify him. He’s had friends at the various embassies keeping a watchful eye for any blonde American girls travelling in a camper, but with no luck.”

“But have they been passing through any capital cities?” Renwick asked. Neither Dijon nor Basel nor Innsbruck qualified for embassies.

“It seems not. He couldn’t find out too much. Her call was brief—not enough cash to spare, she told him. She had spent a lot on a bus ride to Athens.”

“And after the Greek islands?”

“Istanbul. She’s rejoining her camping friends there by September fourth.” Cooper glanced at his watch. “My God, look at the time!” He picked up a heavy briefcase on his way to the door. “Sorry about the party, Bob. Next visit, we’ll spend a couple of evenings together.”

“Watch out for the uninvited guest.”

“A gate-crasher? Expecting you to be there?”

“And perhaps wondering if we are using the mob scene to retreat to your study for a little talk.”

Cooper was suddenly smiling. “Could be an interesting party after all.” Then to Gilman, “See you in London on the tenth.” With that, and a wave of his hand, he left.

Twenty minutes’ clearance before one of us starts leaving, Renwick reminded himself as he rose and made sure the door had locked automatically. He checked his watch. Gilman was doing the same thing.

Gilman said, “Why did Francis O’Connell ’phone him? Not just looking for sympathy, surely.”

“Probably he wanted Frank to get in touch with any friends in Istanbul, find out what they can about this damned camper. I suppose O’Connell is trying to handle everything quietly: no publicity. Everything done on the discreet old-boy level.”

“Afraid of drugs?” That wouldn’t make a pretty story if it started spreading around Washington. And what about the inevitable leaks to the press? Francis O’Connell’s daughter, no less;
the
Francis O’Connell.

“Nina isn’t the type.” But Renwick was worried. He changed the unpleasant subject. “What about those two people I asked you to check on—any luck?”

“A lot of luck with Ilsa Schlott—but it came sideways, not through our efforts. We did verify that she is a foreign medical student, postgraduate research in tropical diseases at University College. She lives at the Women’s Residence, where she met Nina and her friend Madge Westerman. Schlott attended a lot of rallies and demonstrations, seemed to be merely an interested observer studying the London scene. That was all we found out until I had a meeting with a friend in New Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorist squad. The subject of the meeting was actually those bloody umbrellas and their high-velocity pellets. After we talked about Crefeld—and you, too, old boy—I branched on to the subject of terrorists. Had my friend seen signs in London of anything being plotted on a wide international scale? Nothing so far, he assured me. Unless recruitment of terrorists could be the beginning of an international plot. And after I promised an exchange of future information between his department and Interintell—You’ve no objection?” Gilman asked, interrupting himself.

“It makes sense. Go on—recruitment, you were saying. In London?”

“Yes. Last April, four young men had been quietly selected as suitable material and, after six weeks of indoctrination and testing, were about to travel abroad—to a hard-training camp for terrorists in South Yemen. One of them—a Trotskyite— had a change of mind. He managed to break his ankle on his motorbike just in time to evade the trip. His recruiter didn’t altogether believe his story, and he became scared. Scared enough to make contact with my friend of the anti-terrorist squad and ask for protection. In exchange, he told all he knew. Including the name of the person who first approached him. It was a code name, of course: Greta. He described her, gave details about their meeting places. And with some hard-working detectives on the trail of Greta, they uncovered her identity: Ilsa Schlott. How does that grab you, my friend?”

Renwick recovered, said, “It grabs all right. Good God, Ron—”

“That’s not the end of the Ilsa Schlott story. She was put— still is—under tight surveillance. And so she was observed meeting a flight from Amsterdam on fourteenth June. She made eye contact only: she knew the man, and he knew her. Then she walked some distance to her car. He followed, got in. She drove skilfully, used every bus and truck to blot her car from sight. She managed that, too, when she skirted a bad hold-up in traffic just before it became a complete snarl.”

“So they lost him,” Renwick said, curbing his bitter annoyance. Schlott didn’t matter: the police knew where to find her. But the new arrival—that was something else.

“He is recorded as being five feet ten or eleven, medium weight, good-looking sort—brown hair, clean-shaven—wearing a green tweed jacket and flannels. He was photographed, too. Here!” Gilman reached into a pocket, produced an envelope. “And the detective who took the photograph made immediate inquiries about the passenger list of that plane. You’ll find a copy of it along with the snapshot. I’ve marked the Americans— eleven of them; but cancelling out three children, four women, two elderly men, we have only two names really to consider.”

Renwick opened the envelope. The snapshot was that of a half-turned face, as if its owner had sensed danger. The shape of the head, the cheekbone, chin, were vaguely familiar. Not familiar, exactly: just glimpsed once... Renwick’s lips tightened. Quickly he glanced at the listed names, two of them underscored in red: Wilbur Jones; James Kiley. “Kiley,” he said, his eyes once more on the photograph. “Yes. James Kiley.”

Gilman was startled. “You know him?”

“He’s conducting that camper tour.”

“Nina O’Connell?”

“Her good friend.”

“My God...”

They looked at each other. “I agree,” said Renwick. My God—James Kiley. “Which is he—Erik or Marco? Theo made sure they both got safely out of Essen.”

“There was another man,” Gilman said, recovering himself. “He was in England just a week before Kiley arrived. Met Ilsa Schlott, briefly, and then disappeared. He was six feet, darkhaired, thin. No photograph of him, I’m afraid. Could he be connected with Kiley?”

Tall, dark, thin... Again Renwick’s mind went back to the bombing in Amsterdam, to two men helping Nina and Madge to rise to their feet. Tall, dark, thin. “Is he a car buff, by any chance?”

“He vanished too quickly for anyone to notice his hobbies.”

“Check out the name Tony Shawfield, will you? Says he is English.”

“Shawfield.” Gilman spelled it out, memorising it carefully.

“Right. Could have taken possession of a green camper, custom-built probably, British registration definitely, and then had it ferried over to Holland. It might have been ordered well in advance from Ilsa Schlott’s favourite garage.”

“We’ll check,” Gilman said tersely. He rose. “Have to go, Bob. Gemma will be ready and waiting. We’re taking in a show tonight.”

“I’ll give you ten minutes and then leave, too.”

“What are your plans?”

“First flight I can get for London, so let Merriman & Co. know I’ll soon be on their doorstep. I’ll need some help, a lot of help. Including a trace put on two young blondes, who look almost like sisters, arriving on some crummy ship—a freighter, possibly—in Istanbul. Around the beginning of September.”

“Why a freighter?”

“You don’t find many Greek inter-island boats sailing into Istanbul, do you? Besides, Nina will be watching expenses. So flying is out. Also cruise ships.”

Gilman said reflectively, “But what small cargo vessels sail from any Greek island to Turkey? Coastal steamers from the Levant or Egypt?”

“Lesbos,” said Renwick. “They used to call in there, didn’t they?” As far as he could remember, it was the only island that did have that link with Istanbul.

Gilman nodded. Lesbos, in the northeast Aegean, a few miles from the Turkish shore, was on the trade route from the Levant to Istanbul. “Could be that your blondes will head for Lesbos—if they have any sense. Or else they’ll find themselves retracing their journey to Athens.”

“Why not call Vlakos in Athens and get him to steer Nina in the right direction? She’s collecting her allowance at the American Express office tomorrow,” Renwick suggested.

“You want her in Lesbos?”

“I want her in Istanbul before her friends arrive. Can’t go chasing through the Aegean after her. Nina wouldn’t appreciate that.”

“Kahraman is in Istanbul. He can help—”

“I’ll get in touch with him from Merriman’s.”

“Will you be able to persuade her to leave her friends?”

“I can try.”

“And if she won’t listen?”

Renwick said nothing.

“If she were dependable enough,” Gilman said, “she might travel along, co-operate—”

“No.” Renwick was definite. He quieted his voice. “Too dangerous.” He thought of Amalie in Essen, of Avril in Austria two years ago. “No. Not that,” he ended.

“A pity. She could be useful.”

“You’re going to be late for dinner,” Renwick said.

“We can have supper after the theatre. I’ll call Vlakos right away.”

“And perhaps see if he could send someone over to Lesbos?”

“Just to make sure the coastal steamer isn’t in the whiteslave traffic?”

“Can Vlakos send someone?” Renwick persisted.

“With luck and good friends in the right places.”

They shook hands quickly, firmly. Yes, thought Renwick as the door closed behind Ronald Gilman, that’s what it took: good friends in the right places. And a large dose of luck.

There had been a fresh breeze turning into a cool wind when the sun came up, light still weak, the Turkish coastline as yet a vague white line edging a flat stretch of land. It can’t be Gallipoli, that was before we reached the Dardanelles, thought Nina as she stood by the rail and watched the struggle of waves and current; we must now be in the Sea of Marmara. Twenty-four hours on this decrepit little freighter, but we are lucky to be here, and with no strain or stress. Yesterday, on the Lesbos quay, the crew had looked like Hollywood’s idea for a pirate movie. All they had needed was a knife held between their broken teeth to complete the picture. They might have stared but they had kept to themselves. The captain, equally in need of a bath and a dentist, had seen to that. And possibly that most amiable Greek, Mr. Christopoulos, who had befriended the girls in their little waterfront hotel in Lesbos—he was a teacher from Athens on holiday and spoke perfect English, thank heaven—and even came, down to the wharf to see them safely off, might just have smoothed the way in his talk with the captain in some incomprehensible language. Certainly, Mr. Christopoulos had bargained for the small price of their trip, paid from Nina’s dwindling store of Greek drachmas, and advised them to keep dollar bills out of sight. Not much in the way of food, he had warned them—but the coffee would be good. He was right about that. A very nice man indeed, Nina thought, and in the last excitement of boarding he forgot to give us his address. Now I can’t send him a postcard to thank him.

The light was strengthening. Nina turned away from the rail, looked at the deck behind her where Madge was still trying to sleep, head pillowed on her duffel bag, a windbreak formed by the loosely roped sacks and olive oil drums that had been dumped on board at Lesbos. Forward, at the ship’s prow, two goats were tethered. The rest of the passengers—three shabbily dressed men and two women swathed in black cotton, from head scarf down to shapeless trousers partly covered by equally shapeless tunics—were below in the cabins. Dirty grey blankets on thin straw mattresses hadn’t deterred them from a good night’s rest.

At last, Madge gave up her pretence and rose stiffly, drawing her cardigan more closely around her shoulders. “You didn’t sleep much.”

“Trying to think things out.”

“Still mad at Jim?”

“Just puzzled. That’s all.” Keep off the subject of Jim Kiley, Nina’s tone of voice said.

Madge took the hint. “Where’s Istanbul?”

“Somewhere towards the sun.”

She doesn’t have to get cross with me, thought Madge. What on earth is worrying her about Jim? He’s a perfectly normal guy; in fact, I like him. I like him a lot. “So you are going on with the trip?” In Athens, Nina had talked of spending a week there, a week in the Aegean, and the hell with Jim Kiley.

“Yes,” Nina said.

“I’m glad.” Even if I’m feeling miserable now, I’m glad. She shivered, looked wanly over the rail at the strong current battling the small waves. The boat was steady enough. It was she who was definitely shaky.

Nina said, “What about some hot coffee? That should warm us up.”

“Coffee...” Madge shuddered at the word.

“Are you all right?”

“Just a little upset. That last meal in Lesbos...” Madge didn’t finish, shuddered again.

“You shouldn’t have eaten that camel stew. Mr. Christopoulos did try to steer you away from it.” But Madge had been stubborn. Poor Madge, thought Nina, the world-wide traveller who wanted to be part of the local scene.