The Hidden Target (2 page)

Theo was smiling as he shook his head. “Forget the CIA. Its throat is cut. Bleeding and paralysed.” He liked that picture. “She isn’t with the British or French, either. But we’ll find out. She had no direct contact with the Essen police; her information was usually passed to them through some Western intelligence unit. Just as well for us that she never was familiar with police headquarters, or she might have stumbled on my informant there.” Theo paused, his eyes watching the nave. “Yes,” he went on, “that’s how I learned this early morning about the midnight arrests.”

“Then you had time to warn Töpferstrasse,” Leitner said with relief. “But Marco and Karl are already in Duisburg.”

“Marco is on his way to Hamburg. Karl is in hiding. Time enough to warn the others when you and Marco are safely out of Germany.”

“Time enough? The police could be moving in on them right now.”

“No, no. The police are keeping the arrests quiet—no publicity for thirty-six hours. That way, they hope you will all be unsuspecting and gather as arranged for tomorrow night’s meeting in the Töpferstrasse apartment. Then a mass arrest.”

Yes, tomorrow night was to have been the celebration party for the Duisburg blowup. A surprise party for most of them— only Marco and Erik and Section Two had known the exact timing of that project. So that was one defeat for Amalie. At the last general meeting in Töpferstrasse, Marco had mentioned the end of next week as zero hour. Leitner’s idea: security, security... And it had paid off. Partly, at least; for the police must be watching those oil and propane-gas storage areas even if they expected the attack to come ten days away.

Theo seemed to guess Leitner’s worry. “The police won’t cover the entire waterfront. They’ll be nowhere near the Hafentreppen.”

Duisburg’s quays stretched almost thirty miles along the Rhine. The Hafentreppen, a seamen’s bar, was close to the docks but far from the target area. “I contact Sophie?” She worked there regularly; a raddled, blowzy blonde with a quick ear and sharp eyes, one of Theo’s prized undercover agents.

Theo nodded. “She’ll have one of her clients take you to his ship. It’s loading right now. A coastal freighter. Sailing at midnight.”

Half an hour to Duisburg, a ten-minute walk to the Hafentreppen, another half hour making careful contact with Sophie, ten minutes or so before he could follow her seaman out of the bar; and how much distance to the freighter? He hoped it was short. “Do I stow away or stay topside?”

“You’ll stay in the hold. Quite safely. The first mate needs money. It was easy to arrange that—easier than getting you seaman’s papers at such little notice. Besides, your hands would have given you away.”

“Sailing at midnight...down the Rhine to where?”

“Rotterdam should suit you.”

“And there—the usual place?” A safe house, all necessities provided, from money and clothes to the American passport for his new identity. There would be a careful life history worked out for him, too.

Theo answered with a nod, drew a thick envelope from an inner pocket, slipped it into Leitner’s hand. “For the journey as far as Rotterdam. Pay the seaman. The mate has had his in advance, but he could need a sweetener. There may be others, too, who’ll look aside—with their hands out. That covers everything, I think.” Theo glanced at his watch. He didn’t need to ask if Leitner had memorised the details of the long journey in the months ahead of him. They had been over all that in their meetings in the woods beside the onetime estate of the Krupp dynasty. An excellent place for quiet conversations: visitors to the Krupp museum were constantly arriving and departing, so access was safely covered. And the visitors spent their time in the mansion or its vast gardens, had little energy left to explore the wild woods. “You’ll arrive in London by next week. Good luck, Erik.”

The code name had slipped out. Or a mark of confidence? Leitner wished he were as sure of the London assignment. It was unnecessary, an addition to the original mission. “The girl worries me. Do we really need her?”

“Yes—an opportunity in a million.”

“I know little about her. I’ll need information, background—”

“You’ll get everything from Greta. She’s been in London for almost a year, scouting for talent. It was Greta who discovered the girl.”

And added several headaches, possibly serious complications. Leitner shook his head. “Frankly, I’m wary about this. Didn’t you tell me that Greta decided against recruiting her?”

“But not,” Theo said sharply, “against using her. She’s important to your mission, ultimately important. Once we heard who her father was—well, the decision was made at the highest levels. Not by Greta.” He paused, added softly, “And certainly not by you.” His white round face was set, all its usual amiable softness banished.

It’s still a crazy idea, thought Leitner. “How do you know she’ll even like me?” He tightened his lips, again shook his head. “Without that, there is no trust. Without trust—I’ll never get her beyond Amsterdam.”

“If you sense danger, then back away—drop her—continue your assignment as originally planned. But I insist you meet her—make your own assessment. Keep remembering that we consider her to be of the utmost importance to our future plans. Never forget that.” The hidden command ended. Theo’s voice lightened. “There’s one small change in your itinerary. After Bombay, fly direct to Indonesia. Omit Malaysia, Singapore. You will reach Bali by early November. You and the girl leave Bali on the seventh of that month—by the cruise ship
Princess Royal.
You will have space reserved for part of that world trip—not unusual—I am taking a segment of the cruise myself. We shall have a very safe opportunity to meet for your last briefing before America.” Theo’s smile became almost angelic. “I’ll join the ship one stage ahead of you—at Singapore—and leave it one stage later than you do. You and the girl disembark at Hong Kong.”

“Why the diversion to Bali?”

“It will be a suitable place to leave your travel companions behind.”

“Except the girl. If she is still with us.”

“Except the girl. And she will be with you. I’ve never known you to fail with women, Erik. This time, no personal involvement for you, remember! The girl is an assignment, more important than you can guess. Blowing up oil tanks will seem a child’s game compared to what I plan for America.”

I plan? Not we plan? But it made a good exit line, thought Leitner as Theo pulled out a pair of heavy-rimmed glasses and walked into the nave. A good moment, too, to choose: Theo would have excellent cover all the way into the street. A straggling party of tourists was passing Leitner now, heading for the church door. Theo merged with them, wasn’t even noticed.

Leitner waited for five minutes before he started up the aisle. Just what is planned for America? he couldn’t help wondering. He and Marco would be working with local talent there. Perhaps they were being selected right now and sent to South Yemen, or to North Korea where he had been given specialised training almost ten years ago. But would they be as efficient as Section One? Marco, of course, would still be with him. The others—where? Regrouped or assigned to Section Two in Duisburg? Perhaps scattered, sent underground? Lying low for how long? Six months? A year? How would they feel tomorrow when Theo gave them the warning signal to clear out? As I am feeling, Leitner knew: enraged to the point of blowing up all of Duisburg, not just setting off a chain reaction of explosions in an oil-storage area. Section One was not dead—after America, he’d be back to give it life again—but it was badly mangled. Last week, it had been the most effective operational unit of the People’s Revolutionary Force for Direct Action.

***

He came into the busy street, the June sunlight strong after the gloom of the church. For a brief moment he paused, lighting a cigarette. Anyone loitering around, waiting to follow him? Just a normal crowd, he decided, and stepped into the stream of people. Intense anger was controlled. Now he was planning his exit from Essen.

First, the bookstore and his pay collected. (What good German boy would disappear without the money he had earned?) Second, Frau Zimmermann, his elderly and inquisitive landlady. (What good German boy would leave by night without rent fully rendered until the end of the week?) In both cases, he would rely on the same story: a father in traction, hospitalised for months; mother ailing; Uncle Ernst needing urgent help with the family’s butcher shop in Munich. Bloch, his boss at the bookstore, would let him leave early (half a day’s pay, of course). Zimmermann would shake her head over the crisis that forced a young man back to a business he had never wanted—and would he be able to finish the book he was writing? So much work, so much reading he had done for it... He could guess the phrases, have brief replies ready, back away gracefully. But he had at least silenced the questions of eight months ago, by giving her just enough in the way of answers so that she, in turn, could answer the questions of her friends. It was a neighbourhood of small gossip. Dangerous? Not if you kept your story straight, leaving Zimmermann’s romantic imagination to supply an unhappy love affair. Besides, what police spy would think that anyone hiding something important would choose to live in the Zimmermann house?

***

Everything went according to expectations—except for one surprise punch delivered by Bloch. As he busied himself with Leitner’s work papers, he looked up from his desk, cluttered with catalogues. “Have you returned all the books you took out?” Then he went on signing.

Leitner’s face tightened. Briefly. “Yes, sir,” he said, his eyes fixed on Bloch’s bald head, as smooth and gleaming as an ostrich egg. “I brought back the last two books this morning. They were all from the secondhand shelves. I was careful with them, didn’t harm them.”

“Interested in travel, I see. You’d have found a wider selection in the public library.”

And have my name noted along with the subject matter? Leitner looked apologetic and said, “I did try that, but it is difficult to get there when it’s open. I’m sorry if I—”

Bloch waved a large expressive hand. “It’s over. Forget it. No damage done to the books, but you should have asked permission. So you’ve got to go back to Munich and give up your travel plans.”

“Plans? Oh, no. Nothing immediate. Not for some years yet. First, I read and gather background material. Next, I write. And if my book is successful—then I can start travelling.”

“A writer, eh?” Bloch pushed his heavy glasses up over his domed head and studied this young optimist—a handsome fellow with steady blue-grey eyes, a beard and moustache and a thatch of brown hair that Bloch could envy. “Better stick to selling books. You’d eat regularly, at least.” He dismissed Leitner with “I hope your father recovers” and a clap on the shoulders.

No bad feeling there, Leitner thought with relief as he hurried back to his room. But that was a surprise punch right to my jaw. Who’d have thought the old boy could notice so much through those thick lenses? Did he also notice the pattern of travel that, interested me? Western to Eastern Europe, Asia Minor to India, the Far East... But I was careful not to take the books out in that order, and I added several old chestnuts— early journeys of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries—just to keep my interest looking general. I underestimated Bloch: a sharp reminder to take nothing for granted, to remember that the smallest mistake might be the big one. Like Willy falling for Amalie’s shy smile. Damn them both to everlasting hell.

***

There was no problem at all with Frau Zimmermann. In her best flowered print, she was preparing to leave for early supper and a game of bingo. That should hold her until nine o’clock, at least. He could pack without interruptions.

He did not need to burn any documents; anything important was well disguised. Such as his cryptic descriptions, no definite place names, of the camping grounds outside the towns and cities he was scheduled to visit in the coming months—all part of the folder boldly headed “Notes for a novel.” There was also a page of scrawled first names, some scored out for the sake of realism, above which he had written “Suggested characters.” And on another sheet of paper he had made out a list of ages for his proposed characters, giving date and place of birth. The places were entirely a random choice, meaningless. So were the years. But the days and the months were to be remembered. On them, precisely, he would make the arranged contact with the small terrorist factions of the various countries he would visit.

As he placed the folder carefully in his duffel bag, he reassured himself again that these dates appeared quite innocent. He needed that list. He had easily memorised the names of the localities where meetings would be held, but the dates were tricky. Theo had given him a quantity of them, and he couldn’t risk any mistiming. Could there be so many groups of would-be guerrillas? Well, he would soon judge, once he met with them, listened to them, studied their leaders, decided whether they were worth taking seriously or not. His reports would go back to Theo, harmlessly phrased about the state of the weather—good, promising, disappointing—and on them the future of the local terrorists depended. Either they’d be found wanting and left to continue their hold-ups and wild shoot-outs like a lot of cheap gangsters, or they’d be accepted as potentially valuable. In which case they’d become, once their natural leaders had been given specialised training, members of the New International—Direct Action United. They would be ready and waiting for their assignments by the time Leitner was established in America.

Once more he found himself wondering at the cost of all this, at the months of preparation. But no important project came off the drawing board in a week or went into full production within a year. Revolutionary patience, he thought, and smiled. The marriage of opposites. Yet natural complements. Like love and hate. Like destruction and creation...

He finished clearing the room of all traces of his existence. Goodbye to Essen; and in Rotterdam, farewell to Kurt Leitner. And to Erik? No. He would always keep Erik, his one constant identity.

Erik arrived at London’s Heathrow Airport, his American passport (new to him; well used in appearance) stating he was James Kiley, born in Oakland, California, on 10 October 1952. This made him two years younger than he actually was, but he looked it with his beard and moustache shaved off, his mid-brown hair shorter and more controlled. It was, he had to admit, quite a transformation. American nationality was no problem: his accent was good, his vocabulary excellent; after all, he had spent a year in Berkeley after his return from North Korea. And one thing he could rely on: his future activities in the United States would certainly not be in the San Francisco area, where he might—a long chance, but still an added worry—be recognised.