Cloak of Darkness

  “Are you still watching the roads?”

  “All of them. When did he leave, I wonder—just after we did?”

  “As soon as he had rested—perhaps slept. He’s cool, very cool. But why don’t you have a look upstairs? You’ll find it interesting. Front bedroom to your left.” Renwick stood aside and watched Marchand climb the stairs. Tenacious— my little French bulldog, he thought, and sat down on the front doorstep to wait. The sun felt good. His eyes travelled up the mountain mass in front of him. He could actually see Mont Blanc’s white-topped peak. It does exist, he told himself and laughed.

  Marchand was back again, staring at him in amazement. The change in this man was startling: what had he to laugh at?

  Renwick said, nodding toward the mountain, “Thought I’d have to leave without ever seeing it.”

  “You’re leaving—when?” Marchand took a seat beside him.

  “After I pack and pay the bill and visit Claudel. How is he, actually?”

  “In bed.”

  “Strapped down? Better keep him there until the doctors clear up that arm. Not good, is it?” Renwick was serious now.

  “Not good.”

  “But they got the arm in time?”

  “Just in time, they think. Didn’t you warn—”

  “Sure, I tried to tell him. He wouldn’t listen. Said he was okay. He’s stubborn, you know.”

  “So are you, my friend. And now you are going after Sudak?”

  “If I knew where a black car was travelling early this morning. Have you had any reports?”

  “I’ll check as soon as I get back to my office.” Marchand rose, and Renwick with him. “I’ll leave word for you at the hospital if there is any information. Might drop around again myself. The woman Upwood is on the critical list but conscious now. This morning she even managed a few words.”

  “Oh?” Renwick kept his impatience in check. He closed the door. The lock wasn’t too badly damaged, he saw with relief. “Anything important?” he asked as they walked slowly toward the road.

  “No, no. Just like a woman, she wanted to have her clothes fetched from her hotel in Zurich.” Marchand was preoccupied. “By the way—” he began.

  “What hotel?” Not only clothes but all her possessions were there.

  Marchand eyed him, hesitated, then said, “The Bürkli.”

  “Where was she kidnapped?”

  “As she left her hotel. Yesterday morning. Drugged and brought here.” Marchand’s voice sharpened. “Why are you so interested in Upwood?”

  “Just wanted to complete the picture. I saw her arrival at the chalet and wondered where her journey began. Did she say why she was kidnapped?”

  “She hadn’t the strength for any more answers.” Just her name, nationality, where she had been abducted and how. But she had pretended to sleep again when she was asked Why? “She may have known too much about Exports Consolidated.” That seemed to remind Marchand of something, or perhaps his introduction of Lorna Upwood into the conversation had been leading up to this point. “By the way,” he repeated, “there have been inquiries from Paris.” He lowered his voice, although the road which they had now entered was still empty. “From French Intelligence.”

  “Sent to you?”

  “No, no. Inquiries sent to my friend Inspector Duval in Geneva. And to his friend Keppler in Bern. Do you know Keppler? He is with Swiss Intelligence.”

  “We’ve met. Four years ago.”

  “Keppler and Duval are now interested in Klingfeld & Sons. You see, French Intelligence has been investigating Exports Consolidated—a matter of weapons being smuggled into Djibouti.”

  And a matter of the murder in Djibouti of one of their own, Georges Duhamel. “So Paris has traced the connection between Exports Consolidated and Klingfeld & Sons?”

  “Actually,” said Marchand with appropriate modesty, “I mentioned that connection in my report to Duval yesterday evening.”

  Just after I had given him that information at the inn, thought Renwick. No objections. I expected it. “But why didn’t French Intelligence ask Interintell’s help directly? We’ve worked together before. Did they think this time there was no need to contact us? They could handle everything themselves? Or that we wouldn’t move quickly enough?”

  Marchand’s face was expressionless. He changed the subject. “Keppler is with Duval right now.”

  “In Geneva?” That was surprising in a way. Keppler rarely travelled out of Bern nowadays. He must have decided that the case of Klingfeld & Sons needed special attention.

  “Yes. They are meeting in Duval’s office for a close consultation.”

  “Surely they don’t expect to find Sudak in Geneva.”

  Marchand went further. “Switzerland is the last place he would visit.”

  Yesterday Renwick would have agreed. This morning he wasn’t so sure. Not Geneva, certainly. But Zurich? Would Sudak risk that? If the stakes were high enough, the risk might be taken. And what greater prize than—Renwick shut off that thought. No more guesswork, he warned himself. At this moment he had nothing on which to base any sound deduction.

  Marchand’s car was parked near his. Renwick said, “I think I’ll go to the hospital first.”

  “Anxious about your friend?”

  “Wouldn’t you be?”

  “Yes. But he is in good hands.”

  “I’ll have to persuade him to stay in them.”

  “I may see you there.” Marchand looked back at the house they had just left. “But first I send two men out here. Fingerprints, or course, and a thorough search.”

  “And, of course,” Renwick said blandly, “to detain the man or woman who comes to collect Sudak’s clothes and remove all evidence.”

  “That, too,” said Marchand, and climbed into his car with a smile that cost him considerable pain. What would have irritated him last night now seemed comic.

  Not just a matter of sunshine and blue skies instead of night shadows under cold moonlight, thought Renwick as he backed out of the driveway. The reports Marchand had made yesterday would be enough to bring a smile to his lips even if his jaw had been broken. And the report he would send this morning? Marchand, you’ll be the brown-eyed boy of French Intelligence.

  Suddenly, Renwick was startled. French Intelligence? Well, well, well... He must try that idea on Claudel: nothing like a good joke to cheer up a hospital room.

  * * *

  Claudel was resisting sleep. “Hoped you would come,” he told Renwick. “What did you find?”

  “He was there overnight. He was gone this morning.”

  “And now?”

  “I’m waiting for news of a black car. Marchand says he will tell us as soon as he hears anything.” And if his superiors allow him, Renwick thought. “French Intelligence is now in on the game.”

  “I half expected that. Do they know about Lorna and her—”

  “Kidnapping?” Renwick’s glance around the room was marked. He raised a warning hand: no talk about a poste restante in Zurich, it said. “They must have heard. They’re in Geneva. Probably here, too. They’ve connected Exports Consolidated with Klingfeld & Sons.”

  “They may resent us being here.”

  “They’re just friendly adversaries. You know the type.” Claudel’s eyes widened. That had been Renwick’s phrase yesterday for Marchand. And if he was connected with French Intelligence, this room was surely bugged.

  “And why any resentment? We filled in the facts for them about Klaus Sudak. And who gave them some brand-new leads and half a dozen arrests?”

  “Marchand’s damn smart,” Claudel said. He was beginning to smile. “Knows his way around here.”

  “A natural for the job. Relatives, too, to help him out.”

  Claudel’s grin was wide. “Visited his police station?”

  “I haven’t been invited. He was in his office there when I phoned this morning. One thing I admire: the co-operation here between police and Intelligence. Or vice versa,” he added, sud
denly seized by the imp of the perverse. “The name of Sudak, for instance. Traced by a professor at Grenoble. Doing research for French Intelligence?”

  Claudel burst into a laugh.

  “I thought that idea would cheer up the invalid.”

  “Shall we tell Marchand?” Claudel was enjoying himself.

  “We’ve already told him. Renwick said, “And destroy his faith in his professor? Perish the thought. How’s the arm?”

  “Forgot it in these last five minutes. You’re better than any antibiotic.” Claudel turned serious. “I’d like to leave right now with you. Don’t like the idea of you taking off alone. Where are you going? Sudak—” He compressed his lips; he had almost said too much there, almost asked about Sudak. I’m half doped, Claudel thought; brain’s not working.

  Renwick said, “First, some breakfast. Then I pack and pay the bill. Next, I’ll drive to Geneva, see Inspector Duval. A matter of saying thanks. Marchand has sent full reports, of course, with more to follow.” He paused, reflecting. He never had met any police officer who made so many reports within fifteen hours. “Of course, I’ll only be repeating Marchand’s information. We told him everything we knew. Interintell will think we’ve lost our marbles.”

  Claudel stared in amazement as the unnecessary recital began. It wasn’t Bob’s usual style. Then Claudel understood and he relaxed. We told him everything we knew. Except about Zurich. “And now Klaus Sudak is on his way to East Germany.” Claudel was all innocence.

  Renwick was just as bland. “No doubt. But that’s a problem for Geneva. And Paris. And Rome. Klingfeld’s offices will need a thorough investigation. We’ve done our part, Pierre. So get some sleep. I’ll push off, can’t spend all day hanging around for Marchand. In fact, I think I’ll drop in at the police station and pay him a call. I’d like to hear where that black car headed this morning. Always curious; you know me. Besides, it would complete my report on Chamonix.”

  “Wonder if Marchand will tell you.”

  “Why not? Unless, of course, he is working with French Intelligence. They might think we are trying to muscle in on their act.”

  “After Interintell completed their case against Sudak? They didn’t even know his connection with Exports Consolidated until we—”

  The telephone rang. It was Marchand speaking. He was still in his office, a mountain of paperwork. But he had checked on all cars leaving Chamonix this early morning. There were only three that were black. One, a Fiat, had taken the road to the Mont Blanc Tunnel into Italy. The second, a Porsche, had travelled southwest to Grenoble. The third was a Citroën using the Geneva route.”

  “Leaving when?”

  “The Fiat at five forty-five, the Porsche at six-twenty, the Citroën at six fifty-four. What do you think?”

  “Anyone’s guess.”

  “I agree. And where are you going?”

  “Geneva, actually. I’ll see Duval and thank him. And, of course, I’ll mention your invaluable help to Interintell’s friends in Paris.” Then Renwick’s formal voice changed to something more natural. “Our thanks, Marchand. You’re one helluva good cop. Au revoir.”

  And he was. Whatever Marchand really was, he made one hell of a good cop.

  Claudel was half asleep.

  “I’ll phone you. So will Gilman. Just to make sure you’re doing well.”

  Claudel nodded and closed his eyes. Renwick give up the chase for Klaus Sudak? The man who had placed his name on a death list, threatened Nina too? “I should be with you. I’ll be out—soon—I’ll...” His voice drifted. The antibiotics took over. He fell asleep, didn’t even hear Renwick leave.

  21

  Renwick had hoped he could cover the short distance from Chamonix in sixty easy minutes. But Sunday drivers were already on the road by nine thirty, and he didn’t reach Geneva until almost eleven o’clock.

  The delays didn’t irk him. It was a more pleasant journey by far than the one he had made with Claudel yesterday morning. Then, the news he had received from Washington had him worried sick: Grable was on the prowl, circling round Nina’s old home in Georgetown—too close to Basset Hill for any peace of mind. Now, Grable was safely under arrest; Basset Hill was not in danger; everything, according to watchdog Mac, was under control. Renwick’s intense anxiety was lightened, and he could concentrate on Klaus Sudak. On Sudak and on a poste restante in Zurich.

  Were they connected? Not quite. Not yet, at least. One thing was certain, though. When that little black book with Brimmer’s Plus List had disappeared from his office just as his most private and confidential secretary had taken off for Zurich, Klaus Sudak was interested. Interested enough to have her traced, abducted, brought to a remote chalet in France, and put to torture. Her abject terror when Claudel and Renwick had been trying to cut her loose gave the answer to Sudak’s questions: where was the book, where, where? Yes, Sudak wanted that list of names.

  Wanted it? Sudak needed it. It was his last chance.

  His cover was blown; his network—with seven agents captured, seven and a half if you counted Annabel Vroom— was fractured. Total failure, even in the loss of Erik, the prize terrorist who was to have started raising hell for the West Germans. It was a bleak and icy future for Sudak, unless he could arrive in Moscow with that Plus List safely in hand. Its value was incalculable: men of importance, all named and ready for blackmail and manipulation. Brimmer’s diary would give him a reprieve; not a full pardon, not until he could reorganise his network and have it functioning again. Klaus Sudak was just brilliant enough to be given a last chance—if he could deliver the Plus List.

  He has to head for Zurich, Renwick decided: he has no other choice. But what does he know?

  Not the name Karen Cross. Lorna’s handbag was searched. It didn’t hold any false passport; otherwise Stefan and the Godzilla woman wouldn’t have ripped Lorna’s clothes to pieces in search of a note with a bank account number, a key to a locker, anything at all that would give them some clue. Sudak got nothing out of Lorna Upwood.

  He does know her hotel. He will search her room there. Thoroughly. Tear it apart if necessary, go over it inch by inch. That takes time. And it’s precarious—a forced entry could be discovered. So will he try to search now, or wait until the hotel is notified by Marchand that Lorna Upwood isn’t returning? Then he could engage the room himself. A hefty tip to the reservations clerk could make sure of that.

  And when do Marchand’s friends in French Intelligence enter the scene? Are they on their way to the Bürkli Hotel to make their own search, trying to solve the question why Sudak had ordered abduction and torture?

  It would be tempting to let Sudak and the French have a battle of wits all between themselves. What branch of French Intelligence? wondered Renwick. Anyone I know?

  Well, whatever they find in Lorna’s room—the name Karen Cross, the receipt for rental of a box in a poste restante—they have two disadvantages to overcome. Just as I have. We are all foreigners in Switzerland. And today is Sunday: a day of rest, and official business closed. Monday morning could be a fascinating time when the post offices in Zurich open their doors.

  Renwick gave up his thoughts for some skilful manoeuvring of the Audi as he approached the city. He knew Geneva well— what avenues to follow, which of them to avoid for a quick run into its centre. Eight years ago he had spent weeks here along with a NATO delegation to a disarmament conference with the Soviets. At that time his Intelligence work had been directed at the military developments in the Warsaw Pact countries. Four years later he was back in Geneva, now concentrating on the spread of well-organised terrorism, the latest weapon in the Soviet secret arsenal. That was when he had met Duval and Keppler, who became as concerned as he was with a numbered account in a Geneva bank, millions of dollars culled by theft and murder in Vienna, a nicely anonymous source of income for international terrorists. Then almost two years ago he had returned here. With Nina. That memory brought a smile to his lips.

  He skirted the head of the lake, cros
sed over a bridge where its waters poured into the beginning of the Rhône, and drove to the railway station. Duval had a small office not far from there, useful for his own special conferences; and if he was indeed spending his Sunday morning at work instead of boating on Lac Leman, that’s where Renwick would reach him.

  With the Audi legally parked and Claudel’s air-travel bag safely at his feet, Renwick began dialling with zero two two and added Duval’s private number. Automatically, he was through. Duval’s voice answered.

  Delighted to hear from Renwick, but only too sorry he couldn’t manage to see anyone today—not even for lunch.

  “Next visit, then,” Renwick said, much relieved. This call to thank Duval was a necessary gesture. But he, himself, had an eye on his watch—eleven forty-five now—and another idea in mind.

  Duval was talking of Chamonix: a busy night they all seemed to have had, and congratulations to Renwick.

  “Not yet,” said Renwick. “Later, perhaps. With luck. By the way, Marchand mentioned that Johann Keppler was in town.”

  “He’s here,” Duval said, “and wants to speak with you. One moment, then. And, again, felicitations, my dear fellow.” With that, a dead silence followed.

  His hand is over the mouthpiece, thought Renwick with amusement. He and Keppler are discussing whether my words—Not yet. Later, perhaps. With luck—mean I have more information to add to the reports they’ve been studying all morning.

  The telephone came alive again with Keppler’s deep-throated voice. As usual, he was quick and direct. “I have a feeling we should meet.”

  “So have I.”

  “Then twelve fifteen in the café of the hotel where you and your wife stayed. Suitable?”

  “Perfect.”

  And the call ended.

  The old boy actually remembered about Nina and me, Renwick thought with astonishment. But the fact that he had known about their visit to Geneva was not surprising. It only reinforced Renwick’s belief that Keppler was the sharpest ear that Swiss Security possessed.

  ***

  Renwick left his bag in a locker at the station, safer there than in the Audi’s trunk. He could scarcely carry it into an elegant café on the Place des Bergues and pop it under a table. The well-drilled help would try to carry it off to the cloakroom, where it belonged. And Keppler himself would wonder what was so important in that bulging carryall. Just everything Claudel and Renwick had brought into Chamonix, with the addition now of a Biretta wrapped inside Claudel’s jogging outfit. There had been no room for Renwick’s clothes, not with the addition of the radio transmitter in its leather case. Anyway, he had been glad to get rid of his suit; that singe streak on its undersleeve kept reminding him he was damned lucky to be walking around today.