The Hidden Target (49 page)

One dismayed him: the ex-Shah of Iran was in New York Hospital, and the loud demonstrations had begun in front of it. But what did politicians and diplomats expect? God in heaven, Renwick thought, don’t they see more than six inches in front of their noses? And why the hell couldn’t the Shah have had treatment in Mexico? The doctors there were good. If American doctors had to butt in, why hadn’t they flown down there? They had travelled to plenty of places all over the world—Saudi Arabia, the Dominican Republic, among others—in order to advise or operate. These thoughts nearly ruined his appetite, but the second news item restored it: Erik and Marco, leaders of the Direct Action gang (the newspaper’s word, not Renwick’s) which had terrorised West Germany for the last five years, had been held in Bombay for extradition. Marco was already on his way; Erik was now under indictment for the murder of a Bombay security officer.

That charge may not stick, Renwick thought: what court had ever dealt with a cyanide pen as a murder weapon even if refills for the little pistol had been in Kiley’s pocket? But Roy’s anger demanded justice: a long sentence in an Indian prison; and then extradition. Kiley’s record as Erik would weigh heavily against him. Too bad for him now that the People’s Revolutionary Force for Direct Action had always been so quick to claim proud responsibility for all their deeds. Out of their own mouths they had condemned Erik.

Was Thérèse Colbert reading that paragraph, too? She possibly didn’t understand its significance—Kiley was Kiley to her—but the agent who was in control might. And if he, too, were ignorant about James Kiley’s true identity, then the resident—the central spider in the web of espionage agents woven around Washington—should know.

Unless, Renwick thought as he finished his coffee, Theo had kept his agents entirely under his complete management, had not put them under any usual control or resident, had instituted his own branch of espionage for his own purpose. With approval of one or two at the highest level, of course. He would never have had so much power, so many resources, if they hadn’t given assent to his plan. Indeed, they could very well have let him avoid the usual chain of command, bend the rules, in order to serve their own purpose: if he succeeded, excellent; if he failed, they had nothing to do with it.

In which case, Renwick decided as he paid the cheque, there could be one very ignorant resident in the Washington area tonight. Ignorant... How much was known even by those who directed the KGB? Known of Theo’s actual plan? He was inviting World War III, and why should the Soviets risk that— at a time when everything was going their way? He had been given immense power, certainly, and complete backing, but he could have added Theo’s own touch to his initial assignment. It couldn’t be that Theo had gone out of control, taking his own section or department with him?

The question halted Renwick abruptly at the restaurant’s door. Now you’re really going off half-cocked, he told himself. The KGB wouldn’t let any agent, far less the head of a department, get out of control without pretty heavy retribution to be paid. Yet, if Theo’s purpose was achieved, if he really produced a result that would send the world reeling, that would win World War III before it even began—well, the Soviets would live with that situation quite comfortably.

Renwick came out into the bright lights of Wisconsin Avenue. There was only one thing he could be sure of: Theo’s death must have shaken those who did know about his Washington project. Would they back out? Or push forward their timetable?

Suddenly, he was aware he was being followed. Two men in loose overcoats, bareheaded, had left the restaurant almost on his heels. Presentable types, young, keeping a respectful distance. Too obvious. Was this Mac’s idea, or his friends at the Bureau?
Worried about you,
Mac had said. Hell, I don’t need baby-sitters, Renwick thought angrily.

He paused on the sidewalk opposite his hotel, glanced over his shoulder as he lit a cigarette. The men were no longer behind him—not in clear view, at least. They might have dodged into one of those doorways. Renwick’s eyes narrowed, but he fought down the impulse to walk back and confront them. If they were Bill-and-Joe’s agents, they’d have a cold wait out there. He was going straight to the warmth of his room. And if they weren’t Bill-and-Joe’s agents? So Beryl had talked about Bob Renwick to her dear Thérèse, and Thérèse had gone running for advice, and her adviser had decided on action.

Well, he thought as he waited to cross the avenue, I may not carry cyanide or a knife or a walking stick, but I’m damned glad to feel the weight of my little Beretta right here in my pocket. Then, glancing over at the hotel, he saw that the window of his room on the second floor was lit. The curtains were drawn, but they were not heavy enough to darken the light completely. It hadn’t been burning there when he left.

He crossed the busy thoroughfare, entered the lobby, and took the stairs to his floor—a more silent approach than the elevator allowed. The maid had turned the sofa into a bed just before he had telephoned Nina. Fresh towels, too, had been placed in the bathroom. His room required no more attention tonight, but someone thought it needed company. Hadn’t the intruder expected him back so early? Watched him leave for dinner, calculated on his absence for an hour and a half at least? If so, the man was wrong by thirty-five minutes.

About to enter his corridor, Renwick drew back. A woman was standing at the door to his room, watching the elevator. She was dressed in black as if she were one of the maids, but no apron, no sensible shoes. All this floor had been serviced—there were no maids around. No one in the pantry, either—everyone was out to dinner.

He slipped off his coat, dropped it on the stairs’ banister, walked into the corridor, his right hand in his jacket pocket. The woman turned her head to look at him, stared, rattled the door handle as she brushed past it on her way to the elevator. Neat, thought Renwick: a complete picture of innocence; but I’ll know you again, Milady.

He reached the door. The woman was waiting impatiently for an elevator that was slow to respond. No weapon there, he decided: a warning and a quick retreat were her tactics. But why the delay from inside the room? What’s waiting inside? He drew the Beretta, threw the door open, side-stepped quickly as he entered.

Two men faced him. Young. One tall and fair, one short and dark. Both powerful. They had been preparing for him—room in disorder, apparently burglarised—the tall man had a silencer already fitted into place on his revolver.

There was a brief second of no movement, no sound. Then a knife flashed across the room, missing Renwick by inches as he swerved his body. He dropped to one knee, his eyes on the man with the revolver, and fired first. He caught the man’s right shoulder, deflecting the aim of the bullet, which plunged into the wall behind him. The small man leaped forward, a straight-legged kick aimed at Renwick’s chin, and ran.

“Far enough,” said Mac’s voice. He had a firm half nelson on the struggling man. “All yours,” he told one of the two agents who were just behind him, and relinquished his hold. The baby-sitters. Renwick would have laughed if his damned jaw hadn’t hurt: he had jerked back instinctively from that lethal karate kick, but some of it had grazed him. Nothing much, he told himself, considering what it could have been.

The tall man was no problem: a shoulder wound was painful and discouraged further action.

“Saw the light in your window,” one of the agents said. “Just wondered.”

“Thank you,” said Renwick and rose to his feet.

The other agent looked around. “A set-up.”

“I guess.”

“Don’t touch anything; we’ll want—”

“I know.” The bullet embedded in the wall; the knife there, too, deep and holding. Mac was looking at them, his lips pursed.

As the prisoners were handcuffed, Mac said, “I’ll help see them safely housed. Be with you later, Bob. You okay? Need anything?”

“Ice. A bucketful of ice.”

Mac repressed a smile. “Will do.” He followed the handcuffed prisoners into the corridor and closed the door, partly blotting out the rising voices now gathered outside. An agent was speaking with complete reassurance: nothing to worry about, everything was all right. The voices diminished. Soon there was silence complete.

***

One thing is definite, Renwick decided as he wrapped a towel around a handful of ice cubes, I cannot have it both ways. Either I take Claudel’s advice entirely—no excuses, no half-way dodges to get into the field again—and stay in my nice new office with its inspirational armchair, or I don’t marry Nina. I can’t put her through this kind of thing.

Sure, a man can die crossing a road, a man can break his neck in his bathtub, a man can fall from his roof fixing a chimney. A coward dies a hundred deaths before he meets the real one. So what?

I’m not giving up Nina.

And what am I giving up anyway? It isn’t as if I were action-crazy. I like problems, bits and pieces of information to fit into something understandable. I like out-thinking the opposition. When they challenge us, I damn well enjoy doing the greatest harm where it will do the most good. Fight their ideas with better ideas—or, at least, try. And all of that, I don’t give up.

I won’t stop travelling, either. There will be visits to various places abroad, exchanges of information. Interintell is growing—at last count we had twelve of the NATO countries and two other democracies, all interested and co-operating. Yes, there will be travel and old friends to meet. And Nina with me. In the field—impossible; not just for security’s sake, not just for rules and regulations, but for her safety, too.

He studied his jaw in the mirror. It could have been worse. That kick could have snapped his neck.

Just remember, Renwick, you may have swerved from a knife, avoided a bullet, but you almost didn’t dodge a kick. One hell of a way to learn that Pierre Claudel had been right: move over and let the men in their twenties do their stint. He took another handful of ice, wrapped it in the towel, felt his jaw go numb with its chill. If it took another five hours, he’d have this damned face back to normal.

He settled down to wait for Mac’s return with any news he had gathered about the two thugs. Bought with money? Or trained in another Rancho San Carlos? One thing he did know: whoever was now in charge of Theo’s plan was pushing forward the timetable—hard.

Saturday morning, except for Renwick’s ’phone call to Nina, was uneventful—just a part of the waiting game.

“Ed here. Thought you might like to drive out to Mount Vernon. Would you come?”

“Oh, Ed, I’m sorry. I really am. But this afternoon, Beryl’s interior decorator wants me to choose the curtains for my room. She is bringing samples of material, and I’ve got to look through them.”

“Couldn’t she postpone that until Monday?”

“I tried. But she’s borrowing the samples from some wholesale house, and she has got to return them by Monday morning.”

“Samples—you mean small scraps of cloth? That shouldn’t take you too long. Just flip through them.”

“No, no. Large samples—enough to show the repeat in the pattern.” Nina was laughing. “It’s a very serious business, Ed. There will be an hour of argument, I know.”

“When do you expect her?”

“Some time this afternoon—that’s all she said.”

“Well, why don’t you give me a ring as soon as she arrives— would you, Nina?”

“Why, yes,” Nina said slowly.

“We might make something yet of the afternoon. Just call me. Will you? And I’ll drop in unannounced and hurry the argument along.”

“I won’t forget.”

“See you then.”

Renwick put down the receiver, looked at the blue-and-white roses climbing over the long yellow curtains at his bedroom window.

“Well?” asked MacEwan. He was lounging on the sofa bed, now back into early American shape, surrounded by sections of the
New York Times
and the
Washington Post.

“What’s a repeat in the pattern?”

Mac shrugged, and had his own question. “Do you remember the days when a newspaper came in one piece and could be carried in your coat pocket?” He watched Renwick in amazement. “What the hell are you doing with that curtain?”

“Got it!” Renwick said. “Yes, these samples could be quite large. Enough to hide an attaché case being carried into the house.”

“Any case carried by Colbert will be spotted before she reaches the house.”

“That’s what she feared, perhaps.”

“When is she expected?”

“Some time this afternoon.”

Mac pushed aside the newspapers. “Trouble brewing in Iran. I can smell it.” He rose and picked up his leather jacket. “I’ll contact Bill, make sure his alarm-signal boys will keep working through the afternoon.”

“Tell them to stay near O’Connell’s study. I’ll give them the high sign when it’s time to make their move. They know what to do.”

“As planned. Shouldn’t be difficult. You’ve got the tough part.” Renwick had to keep Colbert in the house, prevent her from leaving or telephoning. “How will you do it?”

“Play it by ear.”

“She may not bring the case back today,” Mac reminded him as he opened the door.

“Then we wait for tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next.” Mac made no comment, just nodded and left.

***

After lunch, Nina went upstairs to her room and chose a book and a chair at the window. From there she could see part of Dumbarton Road, and certainly any approach to the house. There was, she noticed, a heavy-looking van parked on the opposite side of the street. Probably it belonged to the workmen now tracking the burglar-alarm failure in the living-room.

She couldn’t concentrate on reading. Even the silence of the house seemed to increase her nervousness. Her father was at the office today, a sign of disturbing news if he stayed there on a Saturday. Beryl was in her room on the floor below. Mattie, the cook, was in her far-off quarters where no one could hear her television. Saturday afternoon—a strange time to select curtain material. Nor could Nina understand why the walls had been painted blue and the strawberry-pink carpet had been laid before the curtains had been chosen. A roundabout way of decorating, she thought. And if the Colbert woman saddled me with blue and pink, why didn’t she complete the choice by herself? I’ll never like this room; never. But I won’t be here much longer. Whatever colours I choose in London for our flat, there certainly won’t be a blue wall. Or a pink carpet.