Moore’s face went blank. “I didn’t say that.”
“Just a lot of loose leaves clipped together?” Renwick asked, openly disbelieving; but he got no rise from Moore. “If Lorna has a copy...” Renwick left the suggestion floating. No doubt she had, for Moore’s strange small smile seemed to confirm it.
“That’s not for you,” Moore said. “That’s for Lorna and me to deal with.” He rose, started over to the bottle of Scotch. “The Minus List is yours. You can nail Brimmer with that.”
So that’s my function, thought Renwick: nail Brimmer and let clever Lorna and her devoted Alvin deal with corruption in high places. With Brimmer out of circulation, they’d feel safe to start a new life—new names, new country—financed, of course, by some of the dirty money now in numbered bank accounts: blackmail barefaced and simple, no matter how they justified it, and they would. Brimmer’s friends had been overpaid, could well afford to transfer some of their hidden assets to those who had done the hard work. And if anyone ignored that suggestion? He’d lose more than twenty percent (or was Lorna aiming at thirty?) if Internal Revenue were to receive a copy of his page in Brimmer’s little account book. Renwick shook his head. Al, he told the big man’s back, you may have survived battles and bullets, but I doubt if you’ll survive this.
Moore, coming back with a drink in his hand and a quick one inside him, noticed that head shake. “You’re the man to deal with it. But you’ve got to move soon. And fast.”
“Well need real evidence. Nine names listed for what?”
“Real evidence?” Moore swallowed a gulp of Scotch as he sat down again. “Real? It’s in Brimmer’s own writing. Just jotted down the names at his last meeting with Klingfeld’s men in Mexico—two weeks ago, Lorna said. He wouldn’t even allow it out of his hands to be typed.”
“Nine names listed for what?” Renwick repeated. Careers ruined, possibly, with the help of Brimmer’s powerful friends.
“Assassination.”
For a long moment, there was no sound or movement in the room. Then Renwick’s eyes narrowed.
“It’s true, believe me! You know what he wanted me to do? Pick out ten men I could trust—two squads of five men each— train them to co-ordinate, plan, and execute.”
“And how did you handle that suggestion?” A refusal, and Moore would never have reached London with all that money in his pocket. In spite of his protestations—I’m no assassin— could I be facing one right now? He’s nervous, on edge, increasingly worried. Why?
“I stalled. Told him the job of searching for the right men would take a couple of months, perhaps more. Training and planning needed double that time at least—if he wanted the deaths to look like accidents or suicides.”
Renwick put out his hand. “The assassination list. Come on, Al. Give!”
Moore emptied his glass and dropped it on the bed. Reaching for his jacket, his eyes never leaving Renwick, he fumbled with a zipper in an inside pocket. “You’ll deal with Brimmer?”
“Yes.”
Moore relaxed, pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Just making sure you’d do the job. Your word on it, that’s all we wanted.”
“Or else you’d have found someone else?” And I, thought Renwick, would have been the man who had been told too much. Not a happy thought.
Avoiding Renwick’s eyes, Moore handed over the folded sheet as he rose and headed quickly for the Scotch, empty glass in hand. He spoke over his shoulder. “Your name is there, sir.”
“What?”
“Your name is third on the list.”
Renwick stared at him, then unfolded the closely written page. Yes, there it was: Robert Renwick (Col.)—Interintell—cover of Merriman & Co., Consultant Engineers, 7 Grace Street, London. His private number was given; two restaurants he favoured on occasion were named; so was the Red Lion, with a cryptic note saying “special meetings”. Home telephone was noted as unlisted. Residence changed in April—address to follow.
Address to follow... Renwick drew a long slow breath, steadied himself.
“Gave me a bit of a shock,” Moore said. He looked over at Renwick’s grim face, fell silent.
Renwick scanned the list. He recognised six of the names: two inquiring reporters; a crusading editor; a United States senator who kept a sharp eye on sales of armaments abroad; two Intelligence men, in Paris and Frankfurt, now investigating terrorists’ weapons and their sources of supply. Two names were unknown to him: business-men, heads of chemical firms. “What’s their danger to Brimmer?” he asked, pointing them out on the list as Moore returned, bringing him a drink. This time, he didn’t refuse.
“Oh, them! Government contractors. They turned him down when he tried to buy some new type of explosive. Offered big money, talked of national security, hinted at connections with the CIA. He uses that line when he’s pressing hard. It has worked. Who’s to know it’s fourteen years since he’s been with the CIA? But these two guys got together: they are making inquiries, stirring things up. It will take time before they get anything out of the CIA. You know these Intelligence boys— never apologise, never explain.” Then he looked quickly at Renwick, gave a brief laugh, and covered his gaffe by pointing to the list. “A bunch of unknowns. You wouldn’t think they’d be important.”
“Not one head of state among us,” Renwick said drily.
“Strange how they’ve got Brimmer so damned scared.”
“We’re flattered. But this list won’t nail Brimmer. It’s useless as evidence.”
“What?”
“No heading, no indication what it concerns. Brimmer will talk his way out of it. His handwriting, yes. The names? Just people he wanted to meet or entertain. He gives lavish parties, doesn’t he?” One of his methods of operation, establishing his credentials with a likely prospect by having credible people around him.
Moore was aghast. The brown eyes hardened, seemed as black as his hair. “You said—”
“I must have evidence, something to stand up in court. Either Lorna or you can testify: she can verify the purpose of that list; you can bear witness about Brimmer’s death squads. Or— Lorna gets hold of a record of illegal purchases in the States, of false export declarations, of deliveries abroad.”
The idea of testifying, as Renwick had guessed, was rejected. Moore concentrated, as Renwick had hoped, on the record of illegal sales. “She’d have to wait until Brimmer is in Washington. That’s early July.” He frowned, calculating. “Doesn’t give her much time. She’s leaving—” He halted abruptly, concealed his lapse by adding, “Okay, okay. She’ll get a copy of these records for you. One page enough? Two?”
“Illegal transactions,” Renwick emphasised. “Three pages. When she has something to give me she can send a signal to Merriman’s and I’ll contact her—”
“No! She can mail the records. No more contacts.”
“But if I have to reach you—”
“You don’t. Nobody does.”
“Travelling far?”
“As far as I can get.”
“Lorna, too, of course. But later.” Renwick glanced at Moore’s bag. Travelling light and all ready to leave. “When you call Lorna from the airport, tell her to include a statement of Brimmer’s hidden profits for the last year. The income-tax boys could add fifteen years to his sentence.”
“Airport? Who the hell mentioned calling—”
“But you will. She’s probably sitting near a telephone right now, waiting for your report.” Renwick rose, folding the sheet of paper, slipping it into an inside pocket. He picked up his cigarette case. “Now it’s my turn to do you a favour. Avoid any country where there’s no extradition. For that’s where Brimmer will run, if he skips bail. Also, don’t forget Klingfeld & Sons. They will know you have the Plus List as soon as you start making use of it.”
Moore’s eyes were disbelieving. “They’ve never seen it. No one has.”
“But they’ll assume Brimmer had one—just as they must have a list of their own. Don’t underesti
mate their interest in your disappearance. And Lorna’s.” Especially Lorna’s.
Something amused Moore. “We’ll make no move for a year. We’ve got enough money to tide us over until then. And by that time, who knows? You’ll have nabbed Klingfeld, too.” He pulled on his jacket, buttoned his collar and tie. “I leave first. Room is paid in advance. Take five minutes before you leave.”
Renwick tried once more. “That Plus List is as dangerous as any nitro you’ve ever handled. As soon as Klingfeld starts looking for it, there will be whispers, rumours. There isn’t an Intelligence agency that wouldn’t join the search. You’ll have plenty of people on your trail.”
Moore, unheeding, was drawing on his raincoat. The allusion to Intelligence agencies baffled him. “Why them? Are they into blackmail? Wouldn’t be surprised,” he said, shaking his head.
“It’s a ready-made list of men who could be manipulated or threatened into betraying their countries. They are half-way there already, poor devils.”
“What would you do with the Plus List?” Moore was enjoying this moment.
“Destroy it. Saves trouble all around.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Crazy enough to think Lorna didn’t need to make a copy of that list. It’s in book form, small, easily carried. How many pages, one to each name—thirty, forty? She’ll bring the book out with her, complete.”
That stopped Moore. Briefly. “That’s wild,” he said, and lifted his bag.
“It’s obvious. If you were Brimmer, how would you plan an escape if you ever had to make a run for it? Destroy the secret accounts with a fire or a bomb, but take the Plus List for future use. So it’s a book, small enough to be pocketed, lying right now beside a false passport and a bundle of dollar bills.”
Moore had reached the door. “You know all the tricks, don’t you? Too smart for your own good.”
“For Brimmer’s good, I hope,” Renwick said, and won a brief nod from Moore. The door closed, and Renwick could safely stow away his cigarette case.
As he turned off the music, he checked the room. The almost empty bottle of Scotch was in keeping with Moore, and so was one glass. The half-smoked English cigarette was not, so he carried it into the bathroom, along with the tumbler he had used, and flushed it down the toilet. His coat was half dry, his hat still sodden. Three minutes had passed. Quite enough, he decided, allowing for his call downstairs from one of the public phones. He wondered, as he closed the door quietly behind him, if Moore had been idiot enough to use that room phone today.
The lobby was less crowded at this hour—it was nine forty, he saw by his watch—but with enough stragglers to keep him unnoticed. He dialled his number, heard Nina’s voice. “Darling,” he told her, “I’ll be home in an hour. Yes, everything’s okay. Are you all right?”
“Ron and Gemma came round to have supper with me, so I wasn’t alone. And Pierre has just arrived. We’re all having coffee and brandy right now. Have you eaten yet? No? Oh, Bob! I’ll put one of Gemma’s casseroles in the oven right away. She brought lashings of food in a picnic basket. You know Gemma.” Nina’s laugh was a happy one, infectious.
He found he was actually relaxed, worry and strain banished for these moments. “No casserole. Can’t face it. Make a sandwich—heat up some soup, will you? I love you, darling. Be with you soon.”
Outside, the rain had stopped. Wet streets and pools of water reflected the shimmer of lights from never-ending traffic in Tottenham Court Road. Moore might be taking that obvious direction, so Renwick headed into Bloomsbury. There were hotels a short distance away, and his best chance to find a cab would be near one of their doorways. With regret, he had had to ignore a taxi at the Coronet entrance; just a minimal precaution. His luck was good. First, a taxi to Euston Station, where he could easily find another cab after a few minutes’ delay. Then, sure that no one had been interested in him, he decided to cut down the time spent in this dodging game—it was tedious, and comic, too—and head for home. His heart lifted at the thought. Nina’s voice on the phone had brought him back into normal life, blotted out the obscenity of Brimmer’s world.
He paid off the cab at Kensington High Street and chose one of the three streets that would lead to Essex Gardens. Once it had been a stretch of Edwardian houses; now there was a block of flats. He looked up at the third floor, saw the lights of his living-room, and quickened his pace.
4
Inside Renwick’s small flat—it had seemed so much bigger when they had viewed it empty in March—the living-room was full of light and warmth. Still better was Nina’s welcome, arms around him as they stood in the almost-privacy of the entrance hall, a six-foot-square breathing space inside the front door. He kissed her so vehemently that the breath went out of her body, and her eyes, blue and large, widened in surprise. Then they turned serious as she helped him pull off his raincoat and saw it had been drenched, now only half dry and the hat still sodden. He answered her unspoken question with another kiss and drew her into the room.
“Sandwich and soup,” she told him. Very hot soup: his hands had been cold. “Are you sure that’s enough?”
“Plenty.” They sounded perfect compared to a casserole, his least favourite dish. Thank heaven that Nina hadn’t adopted Gemma’s art of cooking, a little bit of everything in a heavy sauce with a touch of whatever herbs were in favour at the moment.
Gemma’s pretty but indefinite face showed obvious relief. “Now we can all stop pretending not to worry,” she told him in a whisper as she dropped a light kiss on his cheek. “I’ll help Nina,” she said to her husband, and as Gilman gave a thankful nod, she hurried toward the kitchen. Renwick watched her— tall and thin, elegant as usual, her dark hair now showing unabashed grey—until she closed the door behind her. Then he turned to the two men. Gilman, he noticed, had been sitting close to the telephone. Pierre Claudel was pretending unconcern, lounging in the most comfortable chair, but his brown eyes— bright and clever, alive in typically French manner—held a decided question; several questions, in fact.
“I’m sorry,” Renwick said. “He fooled me with that Paddington dodge. Sorry.”
Gilman deserted the phone to pour a Scotch. “You look as if you needed this.”
“I do.”
“Well?” asked Claudel, rising to help himself to another brandy, a neat compact figure of medium height, quick in movement.
Renwick glanced at the kitchen door. “Later.”
“You got something?” Claudel’s English, schooled at Downside, was perfect, with the addition nowadays of American phrases thanks to his years of close friendship with Renwick.
“Plenty. What happened at Paddington?”
“I waited. When you arrived, I was all set to follow you into the station, find what train you were taking. But you didn’t arrive.”
“He was in a taxi outside the Red Lion, invited me in, with a thirty-eight and silencer pointed at my stomach. Then it was Marble Arch and the Underground to Tottenham Court Road, and then a short walk to a hotel room.” Renwick glanced once more at the kitchen door. “Details later, if requested.”
Gilman’s tall, thin figure drooped into a chair. “We were really quite worried, Bob.”
“Worried?” burst out Claudel. “I was practically having fits. Thought I had slipped up, somehow missed you. And then, with almost two hours gone and no show, I went into the station. I had a feeling that we had been tricked. I asked the information desk—a nice girl, pretty, very helpful—if the train to Oxford was modernised. Certainly. All trains from Paddington—”
The kitchen door opened, and Nina carried in a tray. “They are doing a good job, I hear,” Renwick said.
“Who?” asked Nina.
“British Railways. Thanks, darling.” Renwick began his supper.
“Still haven’t beaten the French records,” Claudel said, “but they’re on the way. For instance, in every train running out of London—except from Fenchurch Street—all old-style single compartments have had t
heir walls ripped out and central gangways made. No more privacy.” He smiled over at Renwick.
“I heard about that,” Gemma volunteered. “Privacy is thought to encourage vandalism and attacks on women.”
“And it did,” said Gilman. “But no more having a quiet compartment to oneself. Frankly, I didn’t know that all railway carriages had been altered.”
“It only proves we don’t travel in trains very much,” Renwick observed. He was eating soup and sandwich in record time. So we were all misled—even Moore: his idea of British trains had probably come from the movies he had seen. Renwick shook his head.
“We may have to,” Gilman said, and led the talk into a possible scarcity of petrol for cars, even with the North Sea oil pouring out by the barrel-load. Rumour had it that it was being used up too quickly: people didn’t realise that it couldn’t last forever.
“What does?” Claudel asked. “Carpe diem—seize the day.”
“And seize half an hour before we start heading for bed,” Renwick said. “That meeting we have scheduled for tomorrow—I think we’d better discuss its agenda right now and be prepared for any opposition we’ll meet from Thomson and Flynn.” He rose, the last half of his sandwich in his hand. “No, darling,” he told Nina, “you stay here with Gemma. We’ll move into the small room.” His study, it was supposed to be; but Nina, thinking a year ahead, had been suggesting it would make a wonderful nursery. Not much of anything at the moment, except a dumping ground for the unpacked crates of bibelots and boxes of books which had so far defeated arrangement. Wall space for shelving was limited in this living-room with its large windows, its mantelpiece trying to make an electric fire look natural, its radiator that produced more groans than heat, its doorways. “Gemma, you might have some ideas about bookcases. I vote we take down the pictures, except for the two painted by Nina. What do you think?” And with that he could start leading Gilman and Claudel into the temporary box room with no more delay.
In alarm, Nina said, “But there are no chairs, darling.”