The Hidden Target

Sal had one ludicrous note to impart. “The funny thing was the way that busload passed me: no more leaning out of windows; no more catcalls; all faces turned away from me.” His amusement ended. “Foul-mouthed little bastards. There was a moment when I felt like getting out of the car and ramming those twelve-letter words right down their throats.”

  So Sunday’s operation was over, thought Mac, and successfully. As a man who was devoted to the sophisticated device, he was still astonished by the simplicity of Renwick’s approach. “What about tomorrow, Bob? Got another bright idea?”

  “We’ll think of something.” A view of Gunter may not be so easy to arrange. We know he must either come through the town or make a detour by way of the Palomar highway. But there is a bad stretch of road linking up with that highway; that much we’ve learned. Can we take a chance Gunter won’t risk his silver-grey Mercedes there? He’d have to slow down to a crawl, which would make it easier for me to see him—if there was any cover nearby. But we haven’t enough men. If I’m stationed near the worst patch of road near the Palomar highway, will my transmitter carry all the way back to Buena Vista or Sawyer Springs, where Mac and Sal would be waiting? The distance could be beyond its range: we’d be left out of contact, floundering around; not know what was happening at the other end. “We’ll take the chance that Gunter will choose the regular route. But we can’t stage anything near our driveway again. We’ll keep the action closer to Sawyer Springs.” There was a long pause. Then suddenly Renwick was smiling. “How many bottles can you produce, Sal?”

  ***

  On Monday their vigil began at daybreak. “We haven’t a clue when he will arrive,” Renwick had said as they finished a hasty cup of coffee in the kitchen. “So it’s a fourteen-hour stint for us. Perhaps longer.”

  “And if he doesn’t show?” Mac wanted to know.

  “There’s tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow.”

  “After four days—what? If he doesn’t appear—”

  “Then he risked using the other route, and we’ll be facing another close-up view of Rancho San Carlos. How does that suit you, Mac?”

  “Not much,” Mac said and headed for the Chevrolet. He’d be stationed three miles below the start of Sawyer Springs’ Main Street.

  Sal and Renwick, carrying their load in two knapsacks, walked at an even pace down towards the town. On its outskirts, at a carefully chosen bend in the road after it had left Main Street, they halted and took shelter beside some trees with heavy undergrowth. They eased the packs off their backs, settled down to wait. It was now five o’clock. By ten o’clock, as the air warmed up, they had pulled off their sweaters. At eleven, they ate a chocolate bar, drank some water from Sal’s flask. A garbage truck growled uphill. A bronze-coloured, two-door Cadillac came down. An elderly man was at its wheel, a blue-haired lady sitting beside him: next-door neighbours going shopping in Escondido, or further afield for a luncheon date. The garbage truck (unnamed, but Renwick had already caught its licence number) returned, travelling at considerable speed. It made the curve safely. Well calculated, thought Renwick: the man knew this route, must be the regular driver for Rancho San Carlos. It was ten minutes to twelve.

  September heat was rising. There was shelter in the shade of the bushes under which they lay, but the sun now beamed full strength at the road in front of them. On its other side, the far vista of open countryside lost its sharp outlines and lay peacefully drowsing in a warm haze.

  At twenty minutes past twelve, Mac’s signal came through. “Silver-grey Mercedes now passing. Estimated speed seventy.”

  Renwick and Sal were on their feet and out of the bushes, knapsacks in hand. In haste, they unfastened the buckles, opened the sacks and spilled out the contents across the road. Jagged fragments of broken glass lay gleaming in the bright sun. They kicked a few pieces into a better position, didn’t waste any of them near the road’s left-hand ditch or the fall-away of land on its right side. Renwick stood back for a second, eyeing the bits and pieces of glass. They didn’t look carefully placed or too purposely set. Well worth the sacrifice of all their soda water, which had been poured down the kitchen sink, of their beer, of the jam and pickles and olives now in bowls; and of two large vases which could never have been anyone’s delight.

  Sal was already across the ditch and on to the low bank where their section of trees and heavy bushes lay. He waved frantically, relaxed as Renwick followed at high speed. They dropped on their faces, rested elbows on knapsacks, risked less than three inches of viewing space between the leaves. They wouldn’t have long to wait: seventy miles an hour must have slackened for the run through Main Street, and then back to seventy for the surge uphill, with another slowdown for the bend in the road. If the driver was paying any attention, he’d see the glint of broken glass. He’d have time to slam on the brakes, bring the car to a halt. Just in front of us, thought Renwick as he reached for the camera in his hip pocket.

  His hand had scarcely grasped it when the car came swiftly around the corner. He heard it, couldn’t see it, daren’t risk lifting himself on his elbow and twisting his head to his right for a better view. The shriek of brakes told him enough. He could almost feel the jolt of the car as it stopped dead, its hood no more than twelve feet away from him. Sal’s body had stiffened, too. They lay absolutely still, waiting for the curses to end and the driver to step on to the road.

  He wore a thin blue suit and a chauffeur’s cap well pulled down to cover his hair. His face was rigid with anger, his jaw clenched, his chin and nose prominent as they pointed at the spill of broken glass. He walked quickly towards it. Renwick, his eyes still on the car, could hear him kicking the larger fragments aside.

  “Clear it all!” a voice shouted from the car, and a man stepped out on its other side. He was tall enough for shoulders and head to be visible; the rest of his body was hidden by the Mercedes. His hair was fair and neatly cut, but that was all Renwick could see; the man was facing out towards the fine view of the hills and valleys, but not in admiration. His head turned slowly as he scanned the sloping fields below him, looking for a movement, one sign of someone hiding down there. Then he swung around to look at the opposite side of the road with the same careful intensity. Renwick held his breath, didn’t even risk an arm upraised to get his camera into position. There wasn’t much need for it anyway. Gunter was Maartens.

  The chauffeur shouted, “Can’t clear it all. Not the smaller pieces. We need a broom.”

  “Use your cap and sweep them away,” Maartens called impatiently, and studied the view once more. Now Renwick could angle his head, look up the road to catch a glimpse of the chauffeur’s back as he swept the last remnants of glass aside. The man straightened up, turned towards the Mercedes, dusting off his cap against his thigh. Grey hair, cut short. Prematurely grey, for his face was that of a fairly young man with a sharp jaw line and a beak of a nose.

  It can’t be, Renwick thought, it can’t be... For a moment shock gripped him. Then as the man reached the car, saying, “You might have given me a hand,” Renwick took his photograph, with Maartens in the background.

  “Now, Hans,” Maartens said, his bad temper subsiding as his worry and suspicion died away, “you’ve got your job, I have mine.” One last look around him, and he stepped into the car.

  Hans settled his cap firmly down over his grey hair, slid into the driver’s seat. The Mercedes gently passed over the small glass particles still clinging to the road and gathered speed.

  Renwick got up. “We better waste no time. They could send a couple of their yahoos down here to beat around these bushes, see if any trace was left.” It can’t be, he was still thinking, but it is. “We’ll keep to the rough ground, circle to the back of the house. Come on, Sal, come on.”

  Sal straightened a clump of grass, swept his knapsack across the shorter blades where they had lain, adjusted a branch. “No traces,” he said. He looked curiously at Renwick, but kept his silence until they were well away from the road. “Well?” he asked at l
ast.

  “That was Maartens. Now calling himself Gunter.”

  “And the other—you recognised him, too, didn’t you?”

  “He’s a killer.”

  “The grey-haired fellow?” Sal shook his head. “You never can tell. He looked the spitting image of a math teacher I once had. What’s his job at San Carlos—classes in assassination?” His amusement faded as he noticed Renwick’s anger.

  “How the hell,” Renwick burst out, “did he escape custody? That’s the guy who tried to kill me. How did he get loose, goddamn him?”

  “Where was he being held?”

  “Near Brussels.”

  In silence, they reached the house. Mac had just parked the Chevrolet in the garage. He looked at the two unsmiling faces. “Okay?” he asked anxiously.

  “Okay. Very much okay,” Renwick assured him.

  Sal said, “I’ll contact London. Gilman ought to know about this.”

  Renwick nodded. “I’ll encode the message.” And then he turned to Mac, clapped his shoulder. “Come on, I’ll explain later. Now I need a drink.” He led the way into the living-room, still thinking about Hans, and found the one bottle of scotch that hadn’t been sacrificed. As he lifted it, he came out of his memory of a bad dream, his thoughts now on the scattered fragments of glass gleaming in sunlight. He began to laugh. “It worked. It actually worked.”

  “No suspicions?”

  “At first, yes. Maartens lives on a diet of suspicions.”

  “He could have an attack of second doubts.”

  “We’ll pack tonight, leave early tomorrow.” Renwick frowned. “That real-estate girl—Gladstone?—yes, I think we owe her an explanation. Just can’t walk out on her cold.”

  “We owe her,” Mac agreed. “But what explanation?”

  Renwick studied his drink. “Have you noticed many birds around here?”

  Forest fire and blackened trees... “Not too many.” Mac began to smile. “Most discouraging for a naturalist.”

  “I’ll call her this evening,” said Renwick. His spirits lifted: we are leaving; our job here is finished; and ten days ahead of time. Frank Cooper had allowed them two weeks. “I’ll get that message off to London,” he said, “and then I’ll tell you about Hans.”

  ***

  Sal joined them, his eyes worried, his lips tight. “Got through to London and had an instant reply. Here!” He handed over Gilman’s message to Renwick, who read it aloud. It consisted of three words: Where is Frank?

  “He hasn’t arrived?” Mac was unbelieving.

  “Delayed,” said Sal. “I’ll contact his New York house.” But he knew, as the others did, that Frank Cooper ought to have let Gilman know if there had been a delay.

  There was no response from Cooper’s place on East Sixty-first.

  “What about his office?” Renwick asked. “Anyone there you know, Sal?”

  “Wallace Rosen and Chet Danford.”

  “How many partners are there?”

  “Forty-eight.”

  Two out of forty-eight... Possibly they were Frank’s close friends. Renwick said, “You’d better drive down to Escondido, Sal. Telephone from there.”

  Sal nodded. “I’ll try East Hampton first. If there’s no answer, I’ll try the office.” He glanced at his watch. “One-thirty. Four-thirty New York.” And it would take him half an hour or more to reach a telephone in Escondido. “I may just catch them,” he said, already at the door.

  “Let’s hope Rosen and Danford are working late,” Renwick said as he heard the Chevrolet being driven out of the garage.

  “Are they part of Frank’s brains trust?” Then as Mac watched Renwick, now walking restlessly around the room, he said, “Bob—stop that, will you? Frank’s a wily old bird. He will outlast us both. Come on, lunch is on me: bread and cheese and a gallon of coffee. Then we can start packing some of Sal’s gear. Three heavy suitcases, and a fourth for the clothes.”

  “How did he get that hardware through airport security?”

  “He didn’t. He borrowed most of it from a friend in San Diego.” That, at least, got a laugh out of Renwick. Much better, thought Mac, as they went into the kitchen.

  “Sal and his friends,” Renwick was saying in wonder, and shook his head.

  ***

  Sal was late. It was almost six o’clock before he returned. His face was set, his eyes expressionless.

  “Didn’t you reach them?” Mac asked.

  Renwick said nothing, just kept watching Sal.

  “I spoke with Rosen. Danford was down in East Hampton. Identifying the body. Frank is dead.”

  “What?” Mac burst out.

  “He was found by the cleaning woman this morning. In his den. The police think it was suicide.”

  With a vehemence that startled even Mac, Renwick said, “No! Not Frank. No!”

  “He has been depressed. Overworked. That’s what the office is saying.”

  Renwick made an effort, controlled with emotion. “When?”

  “Saturday.” Sal’s voice was unnaturally quiet.

  “How?”

  “A bullet through the head. With his thirty-eight. The pistol was beside him. The bullet was found.”

  Mac said, “I can’t believe it. Frank?” The colour had drained from his cheeks. “Any sign of intruders, Sal? Anything burglarised?”

  “Rosen said nothing was disturbed. The back door was locked, the front door, all windows. The keys were on the hall table. He was sitting at his...” Sal couldn’t finish, turned away, walked stiffly to his room.

  There was a long silence. Then Renwick said, “I don’t see Frank sitting at his desk with all the windows closed. In September?”

  “You’re telling me it was murder? Good God, Bob—the doors were secured. No forcible entry. He might have locked the windows to keep the sound of the bullet—”

  “He would certainly have locked doors and windows if he were taking a walk. Frank wouldn’t leave the house open— there were legal papers he was working on; his collection of guns and pistols was in his den.” Renwick frowned, his eyes half closed as he tried to recall his memories of the cottage. “There’s a lot of ground, left rough and natural, trees. No neighbours within sight. Yes, they could have jumped him on that driveway to the road.”

  “You’re saying he might have been knocked unconscious and carried back into the house? You’re supposing they’d find the door key in his pocket. Then they placed him at his desk, took the revolver from his collection, shot him in cold blood. God in heaven, Bob—you can’t believe that! And what about the door? It was locked. The keys were on the table.”

  Renwick’s eyes studied Mac. “I remember that door. It shut me out one afternoon. It locks automatically.” Frank had thought it a very great joke: Bob Renwick forgetting to push a button and keep a door from locking. No kind of joke, any more... He looked up quickly as he heard a footstep behind him. How long had Sal been there? How much had he heard? I hope nothing, Renwick thought. But Sal was in control again; almost too controlled, too emotionless. This wasn’t the Sal he had known. “We’d better send out word to London,” Renwick said, rising to find paper and pencil.

  He completed the message after several attempts. In the end, he simply wrote: Frank died Saturday. Will give details Wednesday. He signed it with his old code name, Bush. And suddenly his thoughts flashed back to a message he had had to send almost two years ago; a message to Brussels with the exact same wording, days and all. Except the name wasn’t Frank. It had been Avril. Oh God, he thought, the more it changes, the more it’s the same bloody thing. In silence, he handed the slip of paper to Sal.

  “Uncoded?” Sal asked.

  Mac had been watching Renwick. Old Bob has been worse hit than I thought: first Jake Crefeld; now, Frank Cooper. “I’ll do that, Sal. And then I’ll call the airports at San Diego and Los Angeles, book the first flights out of there for all of us. We’ll leave as soon as possible. The more distance we put between us and Pretty Boy Maartens and Kille
r Hans, the easier I’ll be. You’re heading for London. Right? Sal’s for New York, and I’m for Montreal.”

  Sal was suddenly himself again. “We could leave tonight, stay in San Diego if necessary,” he said to Mac. “We’ll split up, of course. Go as we came. I’ve got some things to leave with a friend in San Diego; probably won’t fly out until late tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Fine. Can you drop off the house keys at the real-estate office? Make our excuses to Miss Gladstone—we won’t have time to ’phone her tonight. Come on, let’s move it.” At the door to Sal’s room, he halted to call back, “Did you hear what we’re planning? Any improvements to suggest?”

  Renwick said, “Don’t forget the outside antenna.”

  He has recovered, Mac thought with a surge of relief. As he followed Sal into his room, he began explaining about forest fires and lack of birds—something that wouldn’t hurt Gladstone’s feelings and would raise no wonder in Sawyer Springs.

  Mac was right: keep busy. Renwick went upstairs, started emptying their rooms of small items and clothes, making sure that not even a matchbook was left behind. For a few last moments, he stood at the window, looked at the rise and fall of hills stretching far to the south. The sun had set; the light was fading. But another day would follow tonight, take him to London and reports from Claudel and his friend the rug buyer. Istanbul must have had some messages from them: by this time they’d be following the camper out of Turkey. If all went well, they’d be following.

  He carried the two suitcases downstairs. “Ready when you are,” he told Mac.

  One hour later, they were leaving. For their final minute together in the darkened driveway, all talk ended. In silence, they shook hands. In silence, they got into their cars. Mac and Sal were the first to go. Ten minutes later, Renwick followed. Sawyer Springs seemed already asleep, didn’t even notice their departure.

  19

  They crossed the Turkish-Iranian frontier in late afternoon, a small cavalcade of four cars and one brown camper, all heading for the nearest town before dusk set in. Tony Shawfield was in a thoroughly bad mood, partly due to the long delay at the border when Turkish officials were intent on how much money was being taken out of their country and Iranian officials were scrutinising passports with heavy frowns. One Englishman, three Americans, one Frenchwoman, one Dane, one Italian, one Dutchman, was a total that baffled them; or perhaps it was three young women travelling with five young men, and only one couple married. But at last, with no drugs found and the pills in Shawfield’s medical kit—all bottles clearly marked as aspirin or malaria or dysentery or digestive—briefly inspected, the campers were free to leave. Selim, their Turkish guide, who was accompanying them as far as Tabriz—this district spoke a Turkish dialect—hadn’t been much help. The Iranian border officials were not of this province, he was explaining now to Shawfield and Kiley; they came from Tehran. “Religious fascists,” he ended. “But we’ll—”