The Hidden Target

  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 slowl
y mounted the staircase. Perhaps better.

  17

  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.

  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 t
errace. 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.