The Hidden Target (27 page)

Suddenly, peace ended. The house door was flung open, a voice commanded, two large Dobermans came bounding out. They made directly for the mess hall. A man—black-haired, early thirties possibly, broad-shouldered, dressed in jeans and sweat shirt—followed them as far as the terrace, stood watching them as they reached the end of the building and began a patrol of the entire fence. As they approached the barn, the man gave a whistle, fingers at his mouth. The dogs halted abruptly, raced back to their handler, stood on either side of him as the barn door opened. Six men trooped out, dressed in work clothes. Young men, Renwick saw; early twenties, he guessed. A heavy-built man, older, half-bald, was the last to leave the barn. He closed and padlocked the door, started after the others, shouting directions. There was a babble of replies, some laughter, and the troop of six jogged over to the mess hall and disappeared inside.

Eleven-thirty, Renwick noted. A bit early for a midday meal. If mess hall it was.

It wasn’t. The six men came straggling out. Two carried automatic rifles; two were joking about the grenades they had strung over their shoulders; one carried a small box, carefully; his mate, with a canvas bag on his back, was horsing around with something he tossed in the air and caught (much laughter) before it reached the ground. A yell from their instructor, waiting near the fence, ended the fun and games. The group joined him, drawing together as the dog handler, with his two Dobermans now leashed, came slowly down centre field to unlock the gate and swing it inwards. The six armed men and the bald-headed supervisor passed through. The Dobermans, never a bark or a whine, walked back to the terrace with their master. There, he sat down on the corner of a bench, the dogs resting beside him. Peace returned.

Not for long, Renwick was thinking. It had been plastic that was tossed in the air. The small wooden box held blasting caps. No spool of wire had been visible, so the canvas bag carried the means for detonating the caps by remote control.

“God,” said MacEwan as he heard footsteps on the path. “Plastic. Here?”

“Keep praying.” Renwick rolled over on his side to watch for the armed men. Now he knew why he had seen no signs of any demolition down in the compound. The practice ground was on this hillside.

The voices drew nearer. Too near. American voices. They were a talkative bunch, but the phrases overlapped and Renwick could pick up nothing of importance. Except the names—that could be their supervisor who was calling them out as he posted the men to their positions on the hillside. First names or nicknames, not much help at all. Renwick exchanged a glance with Mac and received a look of equal frustration. There was a scramble of feet. (Receding, Renwick judged thankfully.) Then silence, a long silence, broken only by the heavy tread of someone approaching where they lay. The footsteps halted. Slowly, Renwick’s hand parted a cluster of leaves. The baldheaded man was clearly in sight, barely five yards away, his face turned to the hillside, his arm upraised, waiting.

The arm dropped. There was an eruption of violent sounds. They came almost simultaneously: the swift blast of automatic fire, the explosion of plastic, the burst of a grenade. The bullets had been aimed at the blackened trunk of a burned-out tree, close enough to let Renwick see the wood splinter. The plastic had been used in a rock crevice further along the hill, with only a few shreds of stone visible as they shot into the air. The grenades—and these men had taken a big chance; they must have held them alive in their hands while they waited for the signal—left a small cloud of dust further uphill.

Renwick glanced again at Mac. He, too, had found a viewing space between the leaves and was staring at the settling dust. Then he looked at Renwick, shook his head partly in surprise, partly in admiration. It had been a neat manoeuvre, three separate operations to sound as one. Sawyer Springs would hear only a distant bang and say, “There goes more demolition.”

Instructions were shouted. The manoeuvre was repeated. And again. That seemed to be the allotment, possibly for the town’s sake: not enough to arouse curiosity, just enough to give the men practice. They were good, too damned good, thought Renwick. They weren’t beginners. This morning’s exercise was a matter of keeping their hand in. Or of learning teamwork? That idea depressed him still more.

The instructor was slow to leave the hill. First, he inspected the blasted tree, its trunk now split in two. He moved out of Renwick’s sight, but his heavy boots could be heard as he scrambled along the slope towards the small boulders where the plastic had been detonated. Then he returned nearer to the path and had a look where the grenades had landed, presumably checking how close they had come to some marked target. At last he was satisfied, and hurried down to the fence where his men were waiting for him. They weren’t a silent crew: talk, jokes, laughter rose up the hillside. A merry romp, Renwick thought bitterly: is that all it is to them? No sense of responsibility, no thought about the deadliness of the weapons entrusted to them? Nothing but the feeling of power—exciting, exhilarating? He nodded to Mac, and once more they were lying prone, raised on their elbows, field glasses and telescope trained on the compound.

“Close,” said Mac.

“Too damned close.”

The group eased back through the fence gate, kept well apart from the handler with his two Dobermans as he came towards them, then hurried to deposit their equipment in the armoury.

“Careless,” was Renwick’s comment. “He left that gate unlocked while they were on the hill.”

“Or too confident.” The man was taking his own good time in securing the gate. Perhaps his movements would be brisker if Gunter was around to watch him from an upstairs window.

“Comes to the same thing.” Renwick was watching a middle-aged man coming out of the main house, carrying on to the terrace a heavily loaded tray. He dumped it on the table, returned to the house for a second load. No one else in the kitchen to help him? He was the cook, apparently: a large white apron was tied around his bulging waistline. Again he lumbered back into the house, brought out a third tray. Once it was set on the table, he left without a glance at the seven men who were reaching the terrace. The handler paid no attention to them, either. With the leashed Dobermans closely at heel, he followed the cook into the house.

Two things probable, thought Renwick: the kitchen— judging from the speed of the tray deliveries—was close to the door; and there was no socialising between staff and terrorists. Security reasons? The less the exchange between the two groups, the greater the anonymity of identities and backgrounds. There was a third thing to be noted, and this was definite: not even terrorists trusted those Dobermans. That was marked: the group had kept silent, even motionless, as the dogs had been led across the terrace.

Now, with the door closed, food was set out and talk began. Voices were low. The instructor began a monologue, perhaps a post-mortem on this morning’s exercises. The others ate, listened intently. It was a long meal. Mac drew out his flask of water and handed it to Renwick with a smile.

***

The meal was over. The talk went on. And then it ended. Renwick gave a sigh of relief, stretched his back and rubbed his neck and shoulders. Mac finished his last sketches, jotted down the scant names he had heard—Joe, Bill, Shorty, Tiny, Hal, Walt—and buttoned his pad and pen securely into his breast pocket. “Dispersal?” he asked, looking back at the group.

It seemed like it. The six men were on their feet, began walking slowly towards the stable. The instructor, still on the terrace, called after them, “Leave nothing behind. Be ready to move—sixteen-thirty out front. Don’t keep me waiting!” With that reminder, he went into the main house.

Moving out by bus at half-past four? Renwick and Mac looked at their watches: three-quarters of an hour to go.

“Need we stay?” Mac asked.

Renwick didn’t answer. A cook, a watchman with a couple of Dobermans, an instructor—all of them seemed to live in the main house. Was that all? Gunter might have taken someone with him to act as driver and bodyguard. Understaffed, and yet—come to think of it—these were no ordinary men. Carefully selected, politically reliable from Gunter’s point of view. A larger number would have attracted attention from Sawyer Springs, where no help was kept. For a house the size of Rancho San Carlos? Perhaps a couple. The neighbours would accept that as a normal extravagance.

“Do we?” Mac insisted as the six men filed into their dormitory.

He was answered by the door of the main house opening to let the two dogs run free into the field. This time their handler didn’t stop on the terrace but followed them as they dashed for the fence and stood there, heads turned to watch his deliberate progress, bodies taut as they waited for him to come unlock the gate and let them loose on the hillside.

“Let’s get the hell out,” said Renwick.

***

Once they were safely over the brow of the hill, they could straighten their spines and descend almost at a half-run. They reached Buena Vista with six minutes to spare before the bus would leave Rancho San Carlos. Sal had heard it coming up from the town ten minutes ago, watched it pass. Only a driver, no one else, he reported. Also, no message had arrived from Merriman & Co.; nothing from Frank Cooper, either; and food was ready and waiting anytime they wanted it.

“Later,” Renwick said. First, he and Mac would toss to see who was first for a hot shower, the loser posting himself as near the road as was safely possible. He lost, and barely made it to a cluster of trees and bushes before he heard the bus travelling downhill. The six men were inside, work clothes discarded, dressed normally like their instructor who accompanied them. Was he responsible for seeing them each scatter in the cars that waited for them at Escondido? Responsible, too, for the new group arriving one by one—collecting them, escorting them safely here tomorrow night, keeping their arrival circumspect? Altogether a low-key operation, Renwick reflected as he made his way back to the house, but organised and deadly.

In the kitchen, he sat down heavily, still covered with dust, his shirt streaked with dried sweat, and began briefing Sal. “It’s more than either Frank or any of us bargained for,” he ended. “We can’t handle a nest of conspirators being trained for terrorist operations in this country. It’s the FBI who should be taking over—it’s their job.”

“The boss will pass the word to them. If he thinks there’s enough evidence to bring them in.”

“If?”

Sal looked curiously at Renwick’s taut face. “What’s the plan for tonight?”

“We’ll gather that evidence.”

“We are going in?”

“We’ll make a try.”

“We may find nothing. You are risking a lot.”

“I’d just like to complete our report to Frank, make his warning to Washington as strong as possible.”

“Two Dobermans?” Sal was reflective. “They’ll be loose in the compound by night. Well, we can pacify them. I expected dogs. What about their handler?”

“He relies too much on them. They’re highly trained.” And why patrol the compound for endless hours when you had two Dobermans on the loose? “At least,” Renwick admitted with a wry smile, “I’m counting on that.” The handler had been careless today, taken security for granted.

“Just the cook and the handler? That’s all? You’re sure?”

“It’s a quiet Saturday night with Gunter absent. No sign of trouble in these last three weeks, none expected now.” And I am not sure of anything. Deductions and hunches—that’s all I’ve got.

“One lock. One padlock at the barn. That shouldn’t be too difficult. But this alarm system...” Sal was frowning. “If it’s what I think it is, we’ll use wire and clamps. When do we go in?”

“Around nine o’clock. When the prime-time television is on.” Sal smiled broadly. “The baseball season is just coming to the play-offs. Wanted to watch the Dodgers tonight, myself.”

Mac came downstairs, his yellow face restored to its usual pink health, his movements once more brisk. “I’m famished,” he warned Renwick.

“Won’t be too long,” Renwick promised him. He left Sal going over Mac’s sketches and diagrams. Sal was efficient, knowledgeable, a welcome surprise. He’s as good as either of us for this kind of work, Renwick thought as he slowly mounted the staircase. Perhaps better.

They ate at five o’clock, still talking over their plans. By halfpast eight, well prepared, they were on their way. The hillside and its easier routes to Rancho San Carlos were becoming familiar. The half-moon was strong enough, the stars brilliant. Once their eyes became accustomed to the eerie shadows that played over the rough ground whenever a white cloud drifted across the sky, they found it a simple matter of putting one foot in front of the other. Renwick and Mac led the way. Sal, pockets bulging with equipment, a spool of wire dangling from his belt, followed their footsteps precisely.

As they came over the brow of the hill, they crouched low, but—provided they didn’t clatter or stumble—they could even speed up their approach to that morning’s vantage point. At the path to the fence, they halted; now Sal could see the layout of the place for himself. No one spoke. Dark-blue sweaters, the colour of night, were pulled over their dark shirts. Mac’s reddish fair hair, brightly silvered in moonlight, was covered by a navy-blue wool cap. Faces and hands were made less noticeable by a deep nut-brown tan out of a bottle.

There were lights behind the curtains of two downstairs windows near the doors on to the terrace. Three more lights, isolated, shone bleakly over the entrance to the armoury (some mess hall, Renwick thought with a smile at himself), the side of the barn door, the corner of the stable-dormitory. The fence was left unlit, attracting little attention, making the gate unnoticeable. Sal stared down at the compound, then nodded. He was ready.

Renwick waited. It was an innocent scene; a house half asleep, three buildings abandoned. But the dogs were there, a pair of dark shadows moving constantly and in unison, prowling slowly around the compound’s perimeter, alert, silent, their path undeviating.