The Hidden Target (41 page)

“Amusing idea.” Theo managed a thin smile. “But forget it. A briefcase did not work with Hitler.” And that, he thought, ends all discussion.

“I imagine—” Kiley ventured a touch of sarcasm—“there have been a few slight improvements in explosives since Hitler’s day.”

“So I’ve heard,” Theo said coldly.

“I could rig a briefcase with enough power to blast not only a large room apart but also every adjacent room and corridor.” Kiley’s confidence was returning. Yes, he thought, I’ll show him that Marco and I are as good a team as he could find for any O’Connell assignment. “How to set off the explosives? We could use a timer or remote control.”

The best way to stop all speculation, thought Theo, may be to give him full rein, and then pull him up to a sudden and sharp halt. “Which would you choose? Supposing, that is, you were planning to use this hypothetical briefcase?”

“Not a timer,” Kiley decided. “A meeting in a conference room could be delayed, or ended sooner than expected. Remote control is surer—with someone in a corridor nearby to see when everyone had entered the room. We’d need advance information, of course, to make certain the meeting was important and would be well attended.”

“Of course,” Theo echoed, all innocence. “You’d have your sources for that information, I presume.”

“Right. And that makes it a sure thing. Give the room twenty minutes or more—perhaps half an hour—to settle down. Then press the button.”

“The man—or woman—in the corridor would be killed, too.”

“He—or she—wouldn’t know that.”

Theo studied his hands. “A well-trained intelligence officer might have a better solution.”

Kiley’s lips tightened.

“Your hypothetical briefcase could be installed with a miniature transmitter—give notice to someone a safe distance away to press the button.” Judging from the chagrin on Kiley’s face, Theo had pulled him up to a very sharp halt. “But your idea is interesting. You might even use it some day. With your ingenuity, it’s a pity I had to take you off the O’Connell assignment.”

“But why? Why change—”

“Because James Kiley can no longer exist. Nor can Tony Shawfield.”

“What?” Kiley’s stare passed from amazement to incredulity.
“What?”

“Tonight you will leave for the United States, using new names, new identities, and Canadian passports. You will travel separately, of course, taking different directions. You will meet at Rancho San Carlos in Sawyer Springs, California. It is easily reached from either Los Angeles or San Diego. Marco already has these orders. I saw him an hour ago.”

He actually met Theo? Actually saw him? That was a first. And he heard the orders before I did? I am being disciplined, Kiley realised. He said nothing.

“It was a brief meeting,” Theo said, as if he had guessed Kiley’s thoughts. “Minimal but necessary information, along with his instructions for tonight. He is to take his five charges to the cargo area of the airport—there is a plane arriving at nine, unloading some pilgrims returning from Mecca while others continue their flight home to Indonesia. He will dangle the prospect of Bali before their eyes, get them on board, and once he loses them in Indonesia—and I mean
lose
them—he can leave for America. You’ll see him later this afternoon and give him the money for all these expenses along with his Canadian passport. Quite clear?”

I’m still in command, Kiley thought. Five of the group to be bundled off, abandoned, lost for good... “What about Nina?”

“Your problem. A major one.” Theo was suddenly angry. He hadn’t liked the use of “Nina” in just that tone of voice: O’Connell was enough. “Do you think these changes in plans are a whim on my part?” He rose, crossed over to a bureau, removed several items from a drawer—a thin folder, a thick envelope, traveller’s cheques, and a newspaper. “Today’s,” he said curtly, thrusting it into Kiley’s hand. “I had the information last Monday. Why do you think I ordered you to make a complicated arrival in Bombay, ditch the camper, lose any possible tail on you? Oh, yes, there was one.” He dropped the envelope packed with dollars and the traveller’s cheques at Kiley’s elbow. “Read, read! The headlines are big enough.”

Kiley read. About Ilsa Schlott—“Greta”—the green camper—recruitment of terrorists for South Yemen training camps—her past association with the People’s Revolutionary Force for Direct Action...

He said, “She won’t talk. She’ll never mention Erik or Marco.” So why all this uproar? This news report was bad, but it could have been worse. Theo was losing his grip.

“She won’t need to talk. Read column two on page nine.”

Kiley found it. It was a close analysis of the “philosophy behind terrorism.” Some historical patterns were given, brief excerpts from the anarchist writings of the nineteenth century— Bakunin, Kropotkin, Malatesta—leading into the People’s Revolutionary Force for Direct Action, founded by two militant terrorists known as Erik and Marco. Past activities were listed: bombings, robberies, kidnapping, and murders. The column ended with Essen, the attempt on Duisburg—discovered in time to prevent half the town from being wiped out in a fire storm generated by the huge propane tanks on the docks—and the expert disappearance of Erik and Marco.

Kiley re-read the column, paid little attention to the redhaired man who had moved quietly in from the room next door and handed Theo two slips of paper. “That one,” the man said, “was in code. This is a report we picked up from United Press only a minute ago.”

Kiley looked up as Theo waved the man back to his room. “Who is responsible—” Kiley began. But was engrossed by the two small sheets of paper.

Suddenly, Theo’s smooth white face went rigid, carved out of marble. For a full minute he stood motionless. Then he shouted, “Klaus!” and the red-haired man reappeared.

Theo glanced at his watch: five past three. “Telephone the bank,” he told Klaus. “Say I am ill, unable to attend the meeting. We will rearrange it for—” he paused—“for Tuesday. My sincere regrets.” As Klaus started towards the telephone on the desk at the window, Theo yelled, “Not there! Downstairs! A public ’phone in the lobby. And waste no time!” He stood glaring after Klaus. Then he dropped into his chair, glaring now at Kiley, yet not seeing him, not seeing anything.

At last Theo said, his voice almost normal, his face unreadable, “The press report comes from California—from Sawyer Springs. There was an explosion at Rancho San Carlos—one building totally destroyed. The FBI were immediately on the scene. Several men, asleep in a dormitory at the time of the explosion, have been arrested. A barn was searched; its contents removed. The main house was partly destroyed. Three men living there were injured; one seriously. All three are arrested, too.”

“Who did it?” Kiley was aghast. “Were there no guards posted?” Damn those Americans, always asleep on the job.

“The fence alarm was bypassed. Two guard dogs were drugged. The body of an unknown man was found near the explosion. Unidentifiable.”

“One man alone?”

We never know, thought Theo. One thing we do know: the FBI had San Carlos under observation. How else could they arrive so quickly unless they were stationed in the village? “We will have to find you and Marco a safer house. In New York. We need you in America. No delay in leaving here tonight. No delay, you understand?” He glanced at the decoded message:
Reliable source identifies new arrivals at West Germany Embassy New Delhi as security police preparing to escort terrorists back to Essen. Extradition.
That information stays with me, Theo decided. Mention extradition and those two might not even wait for tonight—they could leave immediately. Stop to dispose of O’Connell and get rid of those five young fools? No, I don’t think Erik or Marco would waste any time on that. Extradition was a powerful word. He struck a match, pulled a large jade ashtray in front of him, and set the slips of paper burning over it.

Kiley folded the newspaper, laid it on the table. “Who informed?” he asked bitterly. “Greta?”

“It took more than informers to piece all that material together.”

“CIA—MI6—NATO?”

“It could be a new intelligence unit. I’ve had two reports based on rumours, nothing substantive as yet. But I think I know one man who may be connected with it.” And I wrote him off: his resignation from NATO seemed entirely probable—it had been rumoured for weeks, and its timing fitted in with that death scare and the stupid affair in Brussels which could have ended his career anyway. “He never seemed to be too important. He just happened to be on the scene of any action.” Such as in Vienna, over two years ago. “Always with a reasonable excuse for being there.” Such as in Essen, which he visited on his way back from observing NATO manoeuvres in West Germany.

“What makes you suspect him now?”

“His friends—who have been interested in your recent movements. Two carpet dealers—”

“I reported on them,” Kiley said quickly.

“And we investigated. One works for Turkish Intelligence. The other is French, once connected with NATO, a friend of—”

“We dealt with those two,” Kiley interjected. “They are out of the picture.”

“Indeed? The Turk is now in Srinigar on his carpet business. The Frenchman was reported to be travelling south from Delhi. To Bombay?”

“But we had hashish planted in their car at Quetta. Well hidden. And we warned the Indian customs—”

“By the time they reached the frontier, no hashish was found. So no arrest, no prison sentence. With whom did you think you were dealing? Amateurs?”

Kiley bridled, decided to make little of that jibe. It wasn’t the first time that Theo had emphasised the differences between the training of a terrorist and that of an intelligence agent. “Why Bombay?” he asked. “India is a continent in itself. South of New Delhi there are hundreds of towns, thousands of villages—”

“You and Marco are in Bombay. Nina O’Connell is in Bombay.”

Kiley stared at the placid face, had the wisdom to keep silent.

Theo said, “The Frenchman is following the girl. She leads him to you. That is his plan. Obviously.”

If he
is
in Bombay, thought Kiley. He could not resist saying, “And I lead him to you, Theo?”

“I do not think that will be likely.”

“You certainly risked a lot in bringing me—and Marco—to this room.”

“I’ve had many visitors—some quite legitimate,” Theo said sharply. “What is better cover than a large hotel with a busy lobby and five entrances? Four hundred double rooms—with seven hundred guests at least? How many outside visitors to the restaurants, grill, bar? To the arcade for its shops and bargains? To the barbershop and the massage room, and the travel bureaux? A hotel such as this is safer than any private house, provided—” he added with amusement—“you have a man permanently in your rooms who will watch the hotel maid or service waiter.”

Kiley seemed convinced. But one thing puzzled him. If Theo felt secure, why had he not kept his appointment for half-past three?

“Yes?” asked Theo, quick to notice.

Kiley shrugged.

“Yes?” Theo’s voice had sharpened. “You have something to add?”

“Why cancel your business at the bank? It wasn’t connected with me, or with Nina.”

“Too many storm signals,” Theo said abruptly. Until I find out what they mean, I do not risk a public appearance as Otto Remp from Düsseldorf. Could Renwick have traced any connection between Remp and Essen? I was careful there; used a false name and address for that bank account from which Erik drew his monthly allotments. And there was no other obvious connection with Erik: our meetings were rare and well disguised.

“The Frenchman won’t be in Bombay alone,” Kiley said thoughtfully. “I could recognise him—if I had a close look.” Unless he’s wearing a white wig and moustache. “What is his name?”

“Claudel. Major Claudel.” Theo opened the folder. It contained a page of information, very little by Theo’s usual standards. There was also an envelope marked “Negatives” with a small photograph clipped to it. Theo removed the photograph, passed it to Kiley. “Have you seen that man anywhere on your travels?”

The snapshot was of two people: a man, young-looking, handsome, laughing; a brunette beauty, with a smile on her face. Judging from the background, the bedroom belonged to a woman with taste and money. “No. Never. Who is he?”

“Claudel’s friend. If my informant is correct, he could be the originator of that intelligence unit I mentioned. It is called Interintell, according to Johan Vroom, the new chief of one intelligence section at The Hague.”

“He’s your man?” Kiley was impressed.

“No. He is just too eager to silence his colleagues—he is younger than they are, so he asserts his importance by parading his knowledge. You can keep that photograph. I have the negative.”

“Interintell... What the hell does that mean?”

“International intelligence. To be used against international terrorism. A good idea—from Renwick’s point of view.”

“Renwick.” Kiley looked at the photograph again, memorising features and the build of the shoulders.

“About your height. Your colour of hair. Grey eyes. Age— late thirties. Keeps himself in good shape.”

“I can see that. Also his good taste in women. Who is she? Someone who installed a camera in her bedroom?”

“We had it installed. With her knowledge, of course.”

“A little more action here—” Kiley tapped the photograph— “and you could have blackmailed him nicely.”

“I have other negatives,” Theo said with a small smile. “But blackmail? And risk exposure for our agent? Destroy her future value?” Theo was thoughtful. “And I don’t know if blackmail would work with Lieutenant Colonel Renwick. But some day we might try.”

“Lieutenant Colonel?”

“Ex-Lieutenant Colonel, I should have said. He resigned from military intelligence. Actually, I think—” Theo looked sharply at the door to his suite as a gentle knock, repeated twice, sounded on its panel. It opened, and Klaus returned, pocketing his key. “You are late!”

“I walked around some streets after I telephoned. I thought that was better than returning here direct.”

“We have been waiting for these passports! And the histories to go with them? Are they complete?”