The Hidden Target (36 page)

Gilman noted it and shook his head: I get the nods, Renwick gets the smiles. It never failed. He opened the folder, saw the message came from Richard Diehl, in West Berlin, glimpsed James Kiley’s name. He said, “We’ll deal with this later. First, let’s finish that press release.” He poured the strong black tea, adding milk and sugar generously. Renwick, who wanted neither, took his cup without comment. “Well?” Gilman asked.

“Just after the mention of the two cars that were used for the transport of weapons, we could insert a brief description of a camper, green in colour, that was collected in June by a friend of Ilsa Schlott’s.” Renwick paused. “And then we insert more about Schlott, just after that bit about her residence in London since 1978.”

“Such as?”

“Informed sources state that Ilsa Schlott had been known to the West German police as ‘Greta’, a member of the People’s Revolutionary Force for Direct Action, which, over the last five years, has claimed responsibility for bombings that resulted in deaths and many injuries. The two founders of this terrorist group are of the extreme left and are now being sought for their part in the attempted destruction of the Duisburg waterfront in June. Reliable sources have identified them as ‘Erik’ and ‘Marco’. Although their joint manifesto for Direct Action preached the philosophy of nineteenth-century anarchism, it is how believed they are working for the more orthodox left-wing forces—temporarily, at least.” Renwick smiled. “That should throw a few fits around Theo’s circle.”

“It’s too long. The newspapers will print only half of it. A pity.” Gilman poured himself another cup of tea.

“Well, even if there’s only space for half of it, enough will get through. And I’m hoping some intelligent reporter will pick up on the anarchist angle. For that’s the key to the extreme left of today, the red-hot activists. They want no bosses, no leaders, no organisation in government, and down with all systems. Everything is to be done by committee, by joint consultation. All decisions unanimous—in the name of the people.” They forgot, apparently, that even a large-size committee became a boss over those who obeyed it; that within a committee, a leader emerged when one of them produced better ideas, better plans. “In theory, it has a noble ring: pure equality for all in each and everything. In practice, it’s either chaos or the bloodiest-minded approach to power.”

“The new dark ages.”

For a moment there was silence. Them Renwick returned to the business on hand. “Before we give out the names of Erik and Marco in that press release, we had better clear them with Diehl. The West Germans might not want them broadcast until they’ve—”

“They won’t object.” Gilman opened the folder, extracted a flimsy sheet of paper, gave it a quick scan. He handed over the message from Diehl. “West Germany is asking India for the extradition of Erik and Marco, now travelling under the names James Kiley and Antony Shawfield respectively. Wanted for arson, bombings, murders, in Berlin and Frankfurt.”

So Kiley
is
Erik, thought Renwick, and read the details. Diehl had appended his own report, giving the facts uncovered. Erik and Marco attended Lumumba University in Moscow—met at North Korean training camp for urban guerrillas—Erik sent to the United States, Marco to England—met again in West Berlin and founded the People’s Revolutionary Force for Direct Action. Three members of that group had defected, had been in hiding from reprisals for the last four years. Now, with the arrest of Erik and Marco a real possibility, they had given a full physical description of the two men. Additional help had come from the Rotterdam police—physical description of man who had evaded them at Schiphol Airport tallied with description of Erik previously obtained from three ex-terrorists: height, colouring, features. Also, description fitted young student from Mexico University (Ramón Olivar, born Venezuela of Swedish mother and exiled Spanish father) who travelled to Lumumba University, never returned under that name. Olivar had also been known as Jan Anderson, Henrique Mendes, Kurt Leitner, James Kiley. Former member of the terrorist group knew him only as Erik.

Renwick handed back the sheet of paper to Gilman. “It’s worth reading—all of it. “

“Later. You’re the one, in any case, who wanted the evidence as clear as possible. Satisfied now?”

Renwick nodded. “Diehl did a first-rate job.”

With you forever sending messages to suggest some new approach. Bob would drive us crazy, Gilman was thinking, except that his ideas pay off ninety per cent of the time, and that’s a better average than most. “What do you make of this? We’ve had three unsigned messages from America.”

“Using what wavelength?” Renwick asked quickly.

“The one you had for your Sawyer Springs transmissions. But the messages come from New York, we think.”

“Could be Salvatore Marini—Frank Cooper’s man.”

“You didn’t recruit him?”

“He was an expert at his job. I liked Sal. But I didn’t recruit him. He doesn’t even know how to reach us here, except by that wavelength.”

Gilman unlocked a file and removed a folder, studied three sheets of paper. “Two messages were brief. The first one states that Maartens and his friend Hans took a flight to New York from Los Angeles on Friday, September 7.”

“That’s all?”

“All.”

Sal must have delayed his own departure from San Diego, checked both there and in Los Angeles while memories were fresh and records easily available. But why hide that from us? Renwick’s face was grave. “And the next message?”

“It states that Maartens and Hans hired a small plane under the names Jones and Brown to travel on Saturday, September 8, to East Hampton. A car waited for them at the airfield. They returned to New York on another plane that night.”

Sal, thought Renwick, is telling us that Maartens and Hans are guilty of Frank Cooper’s death. “Has he gone to the FBI?”

“No mention of that in his third message. It came yesterday— four weeks later than the others. It is—apparently—a word-for-word transcription of a San Diego newspaper report. Have a look, Bob.”

Renwick took the sheet of paper. The news date was of last Monday, October 15. The headline read: tragic accident at sawyer springs. Renwick looked up at Gilman, and went on reading. “A fire occurred on Saturday night in the garage of Rancho San Carlos, the residence of Mr. Walter Gunter. The local volunteer fire fighters of Sawyer Springs responded as soon as they received a call for assistance. It appears that Mr. Gunter and his guest, Mr. Hans Smith, were preparing to drive out of the garage. The caretaker reports that he heard the car backfire. Then flames swept the garage, where several cans of gasoline were stored because of the present shortages. Mr. Gunter and Mr. Smith were trapped inside the car with fatal results. The firemen said there had been a delay in calling them, but they managed to save most of the house. Mr. Gunter’s caretaker and cook were the only other occupants of the establishment at that time.”

Saturday night, carefully chosen. Renwick shook his head. “For Gunter read Maartens,” he reminded Gilman.

“Marini is a lunatic! It was he, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God he isn’t tied in with us. Just acted on his own. Like that. Avenging—” Frank Gilman broke off. “You’re taking this pretty calmly, Bob. If Marini had been our man, we’d have had an agent out of control.”

“But he wasn’t our man. He was Frank’s—to the end.” Without knowing it, he had avenged Jake Crefeld, too.

“I am not shedding any tears over Maartens and that murderer of his, but an eye for an eye isn’t the best intelligence work. Is it?”

“No. But it must have given Theo a bigger jolt than we’ve administered—so far. Why don’t you try to get our press release timed for the end of next week?”

“Just as the camper is arriving in Bombay?” Gilman was thoughtful. Then he nodded his agreement.

“Well,” Renwick said, rising from his tubular plastic chair, “time to push off. Not a bad morning’s work. We’ve dealt with Schlott, and Kiley and Shawfield, too. When will the extradition process begin?”

“It usually takes a little time. But with some special effort, it could be in ten days or two weeks. In Bombay.” He studied Renwick’s face. “Bob,” he said gently, “I know you want to get Nina O’Connell safely out. But you have to remember that our first priority is—”

“Theo,” Renwick said. He hesitated, then added, “No extradition for Theo?”

“On what charges? The use of false passports, changes of identity?” Gilman shook his head. “He’s deep into conspiracy, but he has covered his contacts. That house in Sawyer Springs wasn’t bought in his name.”

Renwick was frowning. “There’s something he hasn’t covered, and that’s worrying him. A little. Not much. But enough to keep him from travelling openly as Otto Remp of Düsseldorf.”

“He must have other business on this world trip—”

“I know, I know. Other business, other contacts, and none of them to be connected with Otto Remp’s name.” Then Renwick’s impatience ended. “Essen! He set up an account in an Essen bank. And the only person who cashed cheques on that account was Erik. There’s your connection, Ron: Remp with Erik.”

“The account was under a false name,” Gilman reminded Renwick.

“Yes. But was Remp using a disguise, then? Banks take photographs nowadays—automatic surveillance—define records.”

“They could be destroyed by this time.”

“We’ll leave that for Diehl to find out. He knows the date of the last withdrawal of money from that Essen account. Twelve thousand dollars. Done in a great hurry—to pass some of it to Erik and Marco for their escape.”

“And you think Theo used no disguise?” Gilman asked slowly. “If he didn’t bother to use one when he deposited the money originally—didn’t see any need for it, no sense of danger, enough protection from a false name—then he had to look more or less like the same man when he withdrew such a large sum.”

Gilman smoothed back a thinning strand of fair hair, adjusted his glasses more securely. “It’s a long shot, but you’ve talked me into it. Poor old Diehl, you give him no rest.”

“You’ll contact him at once?”

“Right away.”

With that reassurance, Renwick left. A long shot, he echoed Gilman’s phrase, but worth a try: the one small mistake that Theo had made—if he had made it. Yet, last November, when he had opened an account for a substantial amount, there had been no alarms, no crises. Everything had been going very much in Theo’s favour. A false name, false identity cards might have seemed ample protection.

But what, Renwick wondered as he reached the street, what if the Essen bank didn’t have any system for filming its daily business? Then—a still longer shot—there might be a good memory of a client’s face, height, weight. After all, small banks did note large deposits and speedy withdrawals. Particularly withdrawals of twelve thousand dollars that closed an account for good.

The drizzling rain had stopped, but there was a chill that struck upwards from the damp pavement. A grey overcast saddened rooftops and lent a sameness to all these stone walls of tall houses converted into business establishments. It may have been the weather, it may have been a return of his depression, but when he thought of Theo being comfortably flown back for trial in West Germany, he could empathise with Sal.

The room was dimly lit: not much sun came through the diamond pattern of the wooden trellis that covered its window and protected it from the street outside. It was airless, too, in spite of the door on the opposite wall that lay open on to a veranda, narrow and covered, that ran around all four sides of the building’s inner courtyard.

A strange mixture, Nina decided, studying the carved wooden ceiling, a single bulb dangling from sagging wires that ran exposed to a plaster wall, the decorative tiles on the floor, the stone window seat, the low wooden platform—complete with thin mattress and bulky cushions—filling a large corner of the room.

Madge, seated on the bed with her back resting against the wall, glanced up from her diary. “Stop prowling around. You make me nervous.”

“And you’ll ruin your eyes.”

“Well, I’ve got to start filling up the gaps.” Madge picked up her pen.
Bombay,
she wrote. “What day did you say this was? Friday?”

Too many gaps; Madge had scarcely opened her diary in the last month. Even now it was only a half-hearted attempt. In another ten minutes she’d be asleep. Like Marie-Louise and Sven next door, like Guido and Henryk. The five now alternated between euphoria—excited talk, wild plans, high laughter— and complete lethargy. I don’t know which scares me the more, thought Nina, and began emptying her bulging duffel bag on to the window seat. She picked out the Greek dress—she hadn’t worn it since Istanbul. It was clean, but it could use some pressing. She shook it, hung it carefully on one of the wooden pegs driven into the once-white wall, and hoped that Bombay’s humid air might work wonders. Then she found her two shirts.

Inside each neckband she had inked—as if it were a laundry mark—three numbers in sequence. The blue striped shirt, her favourite, had the first three numbers Pierre had given her five weeks ago for that telephone call to Mr. Roy. The green striped shirt had the next three. A simple idea, but it made sure she wouldn’t mix up their order. Now, holding the shirts close to the light from a diamond-shaped space in the trellis, she went over the numbers again and again until she knew she wouldn’t forget them.

Money... She searched in her wallet. She had only a few rupees as well as her two remaining traveller’s cheques. She would need to cash one of them. But where? Kneeling on the window seat, she looked through a space in the trellis. Two floors below her was a busy street with workaday traffic. No shops, no taxis, no tourists visible. This was no luxury quarter of the enormous city. It was somewhere near the harbour: beyond the flat roofs on the other side of the street, she could see a crane, the tip of a distant mast, and the smokestack of some ship, hear a tug’s sharp blast. Not much encouragement: Bombay’s waterfront must be vast, with busy quays and warehouses at one end and, at the other, a place where hotels could have pleasant views. She stared out at the block of apartments across the street, with the morning’s wash hung out unevenly over every wooden balcony and window sill. It was a sad display: bits and pieces of clothing, not one recognisable as shirt or trousers, and all needing more hot water and soap than had been available.