The Hidden Target (28 page)

Watching the rate of their patrol, Renwick calculated quickly. A near approach to the gate should be made when the dogs had reached the barn. From there, they’d pass the stable; then the main house; then the armoury and the beginning of the fence; then the sweep of the fence itself. When they reached the gate, that was the moment to face them. On this round he let them continue on their appointed way. Just making sure they followed their training to the last detail, he told himself grimly. As they passed the gate for the second time and headed towards the barn, he signalled and moved forward. Mac and Sal followed, equally cautious in their movements. They knelt down, stayed low, waited for the dogs’ long patrol around the compound to come their way again.

Sal was already prepared for work. Around his head he had slipped a broad elastic band with its attached shaded flashlight over his brow ready to be switched on. He had uncoiled a length of insulated wire from the spool at his belt and was now feeling the small, high-pressure spring claps at either end of the wire as if to make sure they were secure. If he had misjudged Renwick’s description of the alarm system in use, tonight’s operation would end before it had even begun. But Sal would have had a close look at the circuit connection, would have seen how it could be put out of action. After that, all that could be done was to retreat to Buena Vista, prepare for another attempt next week-end when the dormitory was empty again. In one breast pocket he carried keys; in the other, delicate probes if the keys proved useless. He had a small transmitter in his hip pocket, a sheathed throwing knife down the back of his neck.

Renwick and Mac also had transmitters in their pockets. In their hands were the pacifiers—dart pistols loaded with just enough sleeping power to put the Dobermans out of commission for one hour. (“No longer than that,” Renwick had warned Sal as he prepared the dosage. “We want the dogs on their feet again before anyone sees they are doped.” And what if the handler came out before the hour was over? Mac had wanted to know. Sal had grunted and said he’d take care of that.)

The dogs were nearing the gate, heads down as if they were following some scent—and perhaps they were, thought Renwick: was that the secret of their well-trained patrol? He signalled; the three men rose, moved swiftly. Renwick was praying he could rest the pacifier on the mesh of the fence and have a steady shot at the dog on the left. Mac would take the one on the right. “Chest,” Sal had advised, and Mac had said bitterly, “Yes, they jump and go for your throat.” A Doberman wasn’t his favourite animal.

Abruptly, the Dobermans halted, heads lifting to the gate at the first sign of danger, teeth showing, muscles tightening as they began an instinctive leap. Renwick and Mac pulled the triggers. The pistols were soundless. Renwick even wondered if his had misfired. But the dogs’ leap ended in a weak fall back to the ground. “Quick-acting,” Sal had said. And the drug was certainly that. Their weak struggles to rise were soon over, ended in complete collapse and sudden sleep.

Sal hadn’t waited for the pistols to be fired. With his flashlight switched on, he was examining the alarm system. Yes, it was a single-wire circuit with a make-or-break connector of two contacts linking the current that ran through them when the gate stood shut. Break that circuit by opening the gate, and the alarm would sound.

Sal nodded to Renwick. This job was his: the tallest of the three, he had a better chance of reaching the connector at its seven-foot height from the ground. But it wouldn’t be easy, reaching up, keeping arms steady, making sure that the teeth of the two clamps—sharp as razor blades—would bite into the wire on either side of the connector as the same split second. Timing was everything.

Renwick shoved the pistol into a pocket, grasped a clamp in each hand. Sal held the wire that joined them, kept its length from twisting into a tangle—he had allowed double what they’d need for entering a half-open gate, but he never could tell how far the gate might swing with its heavy weight. He angled his flashlight upwards to let its small beam shine on the circuit connector.

Renwick braced himself, slowly lifted the clamps, kept them parallel as he forced the small jaws open against the pressure of their springs. Briefly he hesitated, made sure he was aiming the teeth of each of them to bite cleanly into the wires. He took a deep breath. Then—at the same exact moment—he released the clamps, let them grip. No alarm sounded.

He stood back, arms dropping to his sides, hands suddenly weak, and stared up at the clamps. The long loop of wire, through which the circuit now ran, curved out like a balloon.

Sal redirected his flashlight, began working on the lock. It gave him an unexpected problem: the first key, useless, almost stuck. Two minutes passed, with seconds ticking away on Renwick’s watch. One hundred and twenty-four seconds now, and more to come. They could only sweat it out while Sal eased and coaxed the recalcitrant key. Suddenly, it came free. Sal tried another one; it wouldn’t go into the keyhole. The third fitted and turned. Gently, Renwick pushed the gate inwards while Mac and Sal eyed the circuit connectors. The clamps were working.

Sal was the first through, running towards the barn. Renwick drew the gate closed as they entered the compound. Then Mac and Renwick, one dog apiece, had the heavy task—a nerve-racking one, too—of dragging the animals as far from the gate as necessary. Almost at the gable end of the armoury, they judged the jut of the building would block any view of this spot from the terrace, and dropped their burdens. For a brief moment, regaining their breath, they looked down at the slumped bodies. Mac still couldn’t believe it: he had hauled a Doberman over a stretch of ground and hadn’t been mauled. Then, with a grin, he was racing towards the barn.

Renwick let him reach it and began a full-speed run. Rubber soles were soundless on grass, thank God. And praise be that the barn door faced the hill and was out of sight from the main house. He reached its safety with his heart beating wildly. Sal’s work was finished there. The padlock had been easy. He had the door open and waiting. Renwick and Mac, stepping over the threshold into darkness, brought out their penlights.

Sal closed the door. With equal care, he started making his way along the side of the barn; from there to the stable that served as a dormitory when school was in progress; and at last, to a chosen patch of ground near the right-hand side of the terrace. It was deep in shadow—the lighted windows lay to the left of the door—with a small tree and some shrubs to reassure him. He got rid of his equipment in pockets that he buttoned securely, pulled out his small transmitter and held it close to his ear. The barn was the objective, and the objective had been reached. Half-way home: he’d feel better when they were safely out of this damnable place. If lights had been strung along the top of its fence, it would have looked like a prisoner-of-war camp. His thoughts flickered back to one he had known. Along with Frank Cooper. A joint escape that made them friends for life.

He waited patiently, scanning each building in turn. “No need to waste time on the armoury,” Renwick had said. “We can guess what we’d find there. And we know what to expect in the stable. But in the barn? A classroom with maps—books left for the next batch of pupils? Thirty minutes, Sal. Just give us thirty minutes inside that barn. Perhaps less.” Sal checked his watch once more: eleven still to go. They must have found something, or else they’d have left before this. It was a comforting thought to help him through the last minutes: they were always the worst.

The door on to the terrace opened. Sal drew himself against the tree’s thin trunk, reached for the back of his neck to grip the handle of his knife. Then he stood motionless, eyeing the light that streamed over the central flagstones, listening to the outpouring sound from a distant TV set. A sports commentator’s voice was raised, a roar from the crowd burst out.

At his left ear, he heard Renwick’s quiet voice. “Leaving. Okay?”

He risked a whispered reply as the roar from thousands of throats rose to a crescendo. “No! Wait!”

The door closed as unexpectedly as it had opened: this was an inning not to be missed. “Okay now. Hurry!” he told Renwick as he left the shelter of the tree. How near was the inning to its end? After that would come commercials and time to have a beer and look outside. Sal sprinted for the barn.

Renwick had already snapped its padlock in place. At a wild run, he and Mac—with Sal at their heels—headed for the gate. They were through, out, safe. “Quick, quick!” Sal told them as he locked the gate while Renwick released the clamps simultaneously and withdrew them at exactly the same instant. Some muffled curses from Sal as the wire almost snarled when he was winding it around the spool. Then they were scrambling up the path, all caution abandoned for speed until they reached the fringe of bushes. There, in good cover, they dropped to the ground. Slowly, breath returned to normal.

Mac pointed to the empty compound. “Look!” Two dark shapes were coming slowly out of the armoury’s shadow, still unsteady, still unsure of what had happened to them. “My God, Sal, an hour you said. Like hell it was.”

Sal raised a hand for silence, his eyes on the main house. “Don’t move yet,” he whispered.

Renwick and Mac exchanged a puzzled glance, but they stayed where they were. The door to the terrace opened, a path of bright light spread half-way towards the fence. The silhouette of a man stood at the threshold took three-dimensional shape as he crossed the flagstones. He halted again, looked around the compound as if puzzled. Then his hands went to his lips. The whistle cut through the night. The Dobermans heard it. They came slowly around the armoury’s end wall, hesitated. A second whistle, and they were out of their dream world. Obediently, they began their patrol. “Don’t play tricks with me,” the man yelled at them. He turned to go inside, met the small fat cook. “Lazy sons of bitches,” he was saying, “thought they’d take it easy for...” The voice dwindled to nothing as the door was shut behind the two men.

Who’s the lazy son of a bitch? Renwick was thinking. He rose and led the way. Mac made an effort and smothered his fit of laughter. Sal was grinning widely. “Wonder who’s winning that game,” he said softly.

They were over the top of the hill. Their pace increased on the home slope, the lights of Buena Vista welcoming them from behind carefully drawn curtains. Just as we left it, thought Renwick as they reached the back porch and heard the radio playing. First, we’ll unload our gear: next, food and drink; then questions and answers. He could sense Sal’s impatience. “Yes,” he said to hold him meanwhile, “we got something. Enough, I think, to make Washington’s eyes pop.”

“Then it was worth it?” Sal asked.

“It was worth it.”

Mac had a sudden fit of laughter. “Those dogs—” His laughter choked his words. “Groggy. A couple of old soaks—” The laughter increased.

Sal looked at the usually solemn MacEwan in amazement. “He has these attacks,” Renwick said. “Just be thankful he didn’t let one explode on the hillside. Come on, let’s heat up that soup. I’m starved.” Strange ways we all have, he thought. After tension and fear are over, I get hungry. Mac goes into uncontrollable laughter. And Sal? Renwick studied him as he got rid of his tools, placing them carefully in a neat group on a counter top. There was much more to Sal than he, or Mac, had ever surmised. Chauffeur, cook, guardian angel? Not on your life, Renwick told himself. Without him we’d have accomplished little. He watched Sal unfasten the light harness that held the throwing knife between his shoulder blades. “Thank God you didn’t have to use that,” Renwick said.

Sal only smiled.

***

Supper was quickly eaten. The windows were firmly closed, the radio turned on once more. The three men still sat at the table, plates pushed aside.

“So here’s what we learned from the barn,” Renwick said. “It looks abandoned, shuttered tight. But it
is
a classroom, with desks and chairs and good lighting. Air conditioning, too. The blackboard behind a lectern had been rubbed clean—except for some faint chalk marks on one low corner. They didn’t mean much at first, until we began examining the big maps fixed on the wall. I took photographs of them—directed the strong light on the lectern at them, hoped they’ll be clear enough. Three maps. One of them covered the south-eastern states with red circles near certain small towns, but not on highways or roads. The circles were on railway lines. That was Mac’s discovery: freight routes for inflammable material, dangerous chemicals.”

Mac turned modest. “I just noticed one of the circles was crossed off, and remembered the name of the town. A bad derailment near there three weeks ago: town evacuated; two deaths; everything blamed on faulty equipment.”

Renwick went on. “The next map showed the United States—not the usual relief map. Just a large stretch of white paper with the states outlined, and across them a spider web of black lines: heavy for main highways, thinner for first-class roads. Only certain towns were named. Near them, or within reach by road, were small red squares. We recognised some of these locations—major storage facilities for oil. At first we wondered if the markings meant atomic energy plants, but these can be dealt with by someone on the inside who forgets to turn a little wheel, or turns the wrong one. You don’t need a squad of trained terrorists for that job.”

“The third map was a real puzzler,” Mac said. “It was a city, streets and buildings clearly plotted but unnamed. However, the layout—if you knew Washington—became recognisable.”

“Washington?” Sal asked. “And where were the red markings this time? The White House, the Cap—”

“No. Not the White House. Not the Capitol. Not the busy centre of the city, either. They were—most of them—in a row along one street. Bob’s guess was—foreign embassies.”

“Embassies?” Sal was incredulous.

Renwick said, “Seize them, blackmail their governments, prevent them from helping America when she’s under attack.”

Sal stared at them in open disbelief. “Listen you two—” he said, suddenly breaking into a broad smile—“railroads, oil and gas storage, embassies. And all that taken care of by six young bastards with a week’s training behind them?”