Cloak of Darkness (6 page)

“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.”

“Honey, they are the most nicely dusted crates we’ve ever sat on.”

Nina, bless her, had made curtains and installed them, bright coral stripes on white to brighten the sea-green walls. They were heavy enough to be opaque and, once they were drawn and the light switched on, no curious neighbour from the block of flats across the street could see three men choosing three of the most solid-looking boxes.

“Cosy,” Claudel said.

“All eight by twelve feet,” Renwick agreed. He looked at his watch. “Here’s the gist. The details you’ll learn tomorrow from the tape.” He took out his cigarette case, laid it beside him. “Two photographs, up close,” he said as he produced his lighter and added it to the case. “Moore has changed his hair colour since I knew him. It was brown, brindled. Probably got bleached, living in so much strong sun. So, since he is disappearing from sight, he has dyed his hair black, eyebrows, too. These photos will at least show how he now looks.”

Gilman asked, “He talked easily?”

“Incessantly. Some of it as a cover-up, a justification for his own role. But it’s all informative, more than he realised. The main points are these, in order of importance to us: first, Erik. Moore did meet him. He was in South Yemen about ten days ago. Refused to follow orders from two Cubans who had been sent to meet him there, and took off. Not by the airport and not on a freighter. Disappeared completely. Heading for West Germany, no doubt. By what route?”

Gilman said, “He would scarcely risk crossing the desert into North Yemen. The frontier is watched—an undeclared war going on. Anyone from Communist South Yemen could be shot on sight.”

Claudel had a suggestion. “What about bribing his way onto a dhow? Small boats under sail don’t use the docks. The dhows sneak over to Djibouti from South Yemen all the time. It’s a short distance—the narrow entrance to the Red Sea—a few kilometres.” Claudel ought to know: he had two agents in Djibouti, a good listening post as well as a smuggler’s delight. Once it had been part—a very small part—of the French Empire in East Africa. Now it was independent, and only recently, but still with the French presence around to guard their port.

“That’s an idea,” Renwick said. “So why don’t you leave for Djibouti tomorrow night—or the next day at latest? Erik may not be there, but your agents could have heard rumours or gossip. They sail in and out of South Yemen, don’t they? Besides the news on Erik, we’d like to know if any right-wing terrorists are being trained in left-wing camps.”

Claudel nodded, his quick mind already measuring the best means of transportation.
“Mon Dieu,
it will be hot. Djibouti in July?”

Gilman looked at Renwick. “Then you didn’t question Moore about right-wing terrorists being trained in South Yemen?”

“Thought it better not to mention terrorism at all. I just let him talk about it. He could have been on a fishing expedition, trying to find out how much we have uncovered.”

Gilman agreed, but with regret. “Who is he working for? The Soviets? Or other unfriendlies?”

“As far as I could find out, he’s now working for himself— or, rather, for Lorna.” Then, as eyebrows were raised, Renwick added, “Listen to the tape.”

“Did you find out any more details about Erik?”

“Just giving a seminar on how to escape if caught. It’s my guess he is trying to reach his old stamping ground. That’s where his real support is—the Direct Action group, with their sympathies and backers. Communists? He tried using them before, but they used him. He will be wary of them, of course, but if he needs their help, he will take it. On
his
terms. It seems the Cubans wanted him on their terms. It didn’t work. He probably became more of an anarchist than ever in that Indian prison.”

Gilman nodded. “I’ll alert Richard Diehl in Frankfurt that Erik could be heading for West Germany. Other friendly Intelligence agencies, too. But if somehow he reaches Libya or Algeria—”

“The Communists there don’t have enough diplomacy to handle Erik. The quarrel between him and the Cubans was savage. Moore thinks Erik will never make it—the Communists will take care of him. But I wonder.”

“I could wish they would,” Claudel said frankly. “It would save a thousand lives. If Direct Action has Erik back to mastermind operations—they could be on a disaster scale. Like that wipe-out he planned two years ago for Duisburg.” The oil and propane storage tanks on that huge stretch of docks on the Rhine would have started a fire storm. Claudel’s voice turned bitter. “Don’t underestimate our dear little Erik with his noble, noble ideals.”

Erik’s career, until he was caught in Bombay, had been ten years of violence. Born in Venezuela, educated in Mexico City, then at Lumumba University, then in a Communist training camp in North Korea, he had become the founder of Direct Action in Berlin, an anarchist group that had bombed and robbed, committed arson and murder and brutal kidnappings. As for the reason for his appearance in Bombay, he had been in flight from West Germany after his plans for Duisburg’s waterfront had been discovered, travelling as an innocent American eastward across Europe, through Turkey and Iran and Pakistan, selecting extreme left-wingers for training and coordination into an international force of terrorists. Dangerous? He was lethal. We won’t underestimate Erik, thought Renwick grimly. “Now, let’s get to the second main point in Moore’s information: Exports Consolidated, founded by Mitchell Brimmer.”

Gilman spoke with distaste. “Arms trafficking.”

“Illegal arms.”

“What?”

“Bought with bribes and lies, shipped with false declarations, sold to foreign countries who send them on to terrorist-training areas. Brimmer is now supplying instructors to teach the use of these weapons. Also, Exports Consolidated is expanding, has merged with a European firm—Klingfeld & Sons.”

Gilman and Claudel looked at each other. “Never heard of it,” Gilman said.

“New to me,” said Claudel.

“Details in here,” Renwick reminded them, tapping the cigarette case. “Third main point: Brimmer has a list of names which his sense of humour calls his “Plus List”. People with power or in sensitive places who have been most helpful to Brimmer and now have the amounts paid to them,
and
the dates of these payments, all nicely noted under their names.”

“Bribery and corruption,” Gilman said slowly.

“The whole bloody mess.” Claudel shook his head. “Idiots! Did they never think what they were getting into?”

“Fourth main point,” Renwick pressed on, glancing at his watch. “There’s another list which he calls his “Minus List”. I was given a copy of that.”

“Men who are
not
helpful to Brimmer?” Gilman asked. “Dangerous to him?”

“So he thinks. So Klingfeld & Sons think.” Renwick pulled the list out of his pocket. “It’s in Brimmer’s writing, mostly dictated by Klingfeld. No heading. Just nine names. Men to be eliminated.”

“Assassinated?” Claudel asked, lips tightening.

“Apparent accidents or suicides.” Renwick passed the list over. Gilman and Claudel seized it, shared its reading. “Four Americans, five Europeans,” Renwick went on. “We’ll have to warn—”

“Good God!” Claudel burst out, while Gilman raised his eyes from the list to stare at Renwick. “Your name is—”

“Yes. Doesn’t get so much space as the other eight. Minimal information. Does that mean only one source?”

Gilman’s calm face was furrowed with worry. “Someone inside Interintell?”

“Looks like it. My telephone number was given to Brimmer— or Klingfeld—by someone who has used it. The name of the Red Lion, also given by someone who has met me there. My change of address, by someone who knew my studio, heard that I had moved but—so far—hasn’t been invited to our new flat. No mention that I’m married, as yet. But Nina could be added to the list any day.” Like the other wives... There was a long pause. “I’ll get him,” Renwick said, too quietly. “But now we concentrate on warning the other names on that death list. Ron—you approach your friends in D15 here and those in French and Italian Security, get them to offer some protection. I’ll handle the American angle. Pierre will have plenty to do in Djibouti. All agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Gilman. “We’ll sleep on this information, and tomorrow morning we’ll have some ideas on how to deal with it.”

“Without alerting Brimmer. Or else we may not get three pages of his illegal transactions. Assassination and corruption aren’t in our particular field of operations. But who supplies the weapons to terrorists, who arranges for expert instructors, who receives them and where and how—that
is
Interintell’s business. Let’s not cause any flap in Brimmer’s office. We need three samples of his secret accounts, photocopied in peace and tranquillity.”

Gilman gave a nod of approval. Photocopies made hard evidence.

Claudel broke his silence. And goodbye to my own plans for tonight, he told himself. “I think I’d better take the Tube straight to Blackfriars. It’s an easy walk from there to Merriman’s. Old Bernie never leaves before two or three. He’s an owl.” And a specialist in dealing with miniature tapes as well as with more sophisticated gadgets. Bernstein found late working hours provided less interruption than normal daytime, and never wandered into his basement laboratory at Merriman’s until early evening. “The quicker he makes this ready for Ron’s tape player tomorrow”—Claudel picked up the cigarette case—“the sooner we’ll hear it. He might even be cajoled into using his back room for us.” The lighter was picked up, too. “Okay?”

Renwick nodded. “And while you’re there, Pierre, run off some copies of that list.”

Gilman looked at the Minus List still in his hand. “Two names for D15, two for French Security, one for Rome, three for the FBI. Yes, that covers the nationalities. And Pierre—use my car. Safer. This is the pickpocket season.” A mild little joke, but it eased the tension.

“We’ll move up the meeting tomorrow?” Claudel asked, pocketing all three items. “Eight o’clock?”

“Seven,” Renwick suggested. “A lot of discussion, a lot of decisions.” Then we start moving.

Gilman said, “I’ll call Bernie and tell him to expect you, Pierre. This could be one night he thinks he might knock off early for dinner at midnight. Odd bird.”

“Our mad scientist,” Claudel said lightly, “but what would we do without him?”

“We’ll need special care on this job. Sorry about that, Pierre. Hope you didn’t have a prior engagement.”

Special care, tightest security. I stay with Bernie until the work is completed, Claudel thought. He will play the minitape, transfer it to a regular tape, filter it to diminish any scratch. And it will all be done behind the closed door of his soundproof closet with both of us on the outside—once he checks the voice level of the first sentence—and not a whit wiser about the words being recorded anew. That over, the two tapes will be placed in separate containers, sealed tight, and locked away in Gilman’s ultra-safe safe. Then I stretch out on Gilman’s emergency cot. “At seven tomorrow, first order of business, I’ll be listening to that recording. So”—he said with a grin—“what’s a sleepless night against that? But one thing, Bob—could the Minus List be a fake? This Moore fellow tricked us once today.”

“Just another dodge to enlist our help and get Brimmer off his back? Yes, I thought about that. But he talked so damn much, let slip a lot of details that added up to a fairly complete picture. And from that I’d say that the Minus List is the logical development in Brimmer’s career. You shuck your moral sense, let greed take over, and one day you are talking murder and excusing it as expedient. That list is for real, Pierre.”

“Well, if a man is judged by the enemies he makes, then the list could be taken as a compliment.”

“One we could do without,” said Gilman. They entered the living-room in silence.

It was a scene of concentration. With head bent, note pad on knee, Gemma was writing. Nina, slightly bemused, sat on the couch beside her with three slips of paper in her hand. A fourth was added as Gemma tore off a page. “There—that’s the last one. I know Bob will love it.” She said to Renwick with one of her ingenuous side glances, “Just giving Nina some of my casserole recipes.” Then she noticed her husband waiting by the telephone. “Time to leave? I’d better collect the picnic basket. Coming, Nina?” She was already half-way to the kitchen.

Gemma, thought Renwick, after eighteen years of marriage to Ronald Gilman, had perfected the art of making a tactful retreat. And Nina? An almost imperceptible wink as she passed him, a small flutter of the eyelid, showed she was learning.

Gilman had already dialled Bernie’s laboratory, began speaking as the kitchen door closed. “Gilman here. Claudel is bringing your little trinket back for some adjustments. Too delicate for us to handle. Expect him within the hour. Special care,” he emphasised and ended his call.

Claudel was amused. “Little trinket?” He would hardly call the cigarette case that.

“Bernie’s word for it,” Renwick said wryly, remembering Bernie’s disapproval. “Told me it was time to give up these old-fashioned methods, wanted me to experiment with his latest idea of using a micro-bug with a chip that could record and talk back to me, too.”