Cloak of Darkness

by Helen Macinnes

  There was an easy passage through the checkpoint: Alexandre was known and his passengers were accepted as tourists from the Spaarndam. But I slipped through there, Claudel thought worriedly; or did the duty officer recognise me from my visit three days ago? As Alexandre, at slackened speed, drove down the long dock past a Spanish freighter named Juanita to reach the Spaarndam, Claudel asked, “Is there a check as you board? Passports?”

  Irene waved a card at him. “Just this. All signed by the captain and authorised by the authorities. We weren’t allowed to take our passports on shore—there’s a big trade, the captain said, in stolen passports.” She glanced at William, couldn’t help saying, “And he did warn us to take no photographs, either.”

  The allusion to his camera silenced William. He was the first to get out of the cab, his hat jammed down on his perspiring brow, the back of his shirt and trousers soaking wet, his bad temper increasing with the blinding heat that engulfed him.

  “Where are the others?” Irene asked, pulling a damp skirt away from her hips as she looked up at a ship deserted of passengers.

  “Where we should have stayed,” William said. “In an air-conditioned cabin. Goodbye, sir. Thank you for the lift.” Without waiting for Claudel’s reply, he headed for the gangway.

  Irene looked at some crew members who were disembarking, dressed for off-duty sightseeing. “I hope they remember we sail at midnight,” she said. “Don’t they mind the heat? Oh, Jean, hurry! The sooner we are indoors, the better.”

  “Not indoors. On board,” Jean reminded her. “And the crew has worked hard—all night, all morning.”

  Irene ignored that, concentrated on her thanks to Claudel, exclaimed once more about the heat, and set out for the ship.

  Jean’s large handbag suddenly tilted as she stepped from the taxi. “Oh, dear,” she said as its contents spilled over the hot asphalt. She knelt to pick them up. Claudel stooped, too, and was startled to see her brush a powder compact sideways, sending it under the cab.

  At high speed, her voice low, she began speaking as he bent down to reach for a key ring. “Major Claudel—I received a warning last night by coded cable to pass on to you at the Café de l’Univers, where you are staying.”

  He had straightened up at her first words, then knelt to reach for a lipstick. “How did you learn that?” Who is she, and what?

  “We intercepted a message sent from a business firm in Paris to The Hague.” She was picking up a purse that had somehow burst open, gathering the coins as she spoke. “It concerned you. Paris requested full information about your presence here—was it Erik or was it shipments?”

  He handed her the lipstick and the comb he had retrieved. Irene’s voice called, “Jean! What on earth are you doing?”

  “My bag upset. I can’t find my powder.”

  Irene hesitated, looking back at the car in dismay. “Oh, Lord! You would! Forget it—you’ll get sunstroke.”

  “It’s the only compact I have.” Jean’s voice was cross, determined. She stood up along with Claudel, the two of them replacing the remaining items—wallet, mirror, landing and boarding card, traveller’s checks, handkerchief—into her shoulder bag.

  “It may have rolled under the taxi,” Claudel called to Irene. “We’ll find it.” Irene continued on her way, as William paused almost at the top of the gangway to look and listen.

  “He isn’t English,” Jean said, her head bent to search under the taxi. “Just imitates. A little too much, I think.” She raised her voice to reach both Irene and William. “I see it! We’ll have the taxi moved. Okay!”

  She went on, lips scarcely moving, as Claudel caught Alexandre’s attention. He had been leaning against his cab, arms folded, legs crossed, more interested in the unloading of crates from the Juanita. “He flew to Singapore from Bombay— hoped to contact Erik, probably.” There was a brief smile as Claudel’s eyes froze.

  Alexandre, following Claudel’s quiet instructions, had been having difficulty in starting the engine—enough delay to let her continue. “He made his millions out of greeting cards—was a Communist and one of Erik’s early supporters in West Berlin. Lives in England now.”

  “His name?”

  A small but determined shake of the head. “He’s our business.”

  Our? “And who are you?”

  The question was ignored. “When we were inside the market, he was meeting a man. Young. Dressed like an Arab. I saw them just after you led us out.”

  “Erik?”

  “I wouldn’t know. He’s your business.”

  The engine had caught at last. The taxi edged forward.

  “And Irene—are you two together?”

  “Just another passenger—a schoolteacher—summer is the only time she has to travel. Been saving for this trip for years.” She pointed to the small gilded box that was now exposed, and Claudel picked it up, dusted it off.

  “And you?” he asked, dropping it into her bag.

  “I write travel articles for magazines.” Her voice was normal now. “Thank you, thank you so much.”

  “But who sent me the warning?”

  “Friends. We sympathise. We may even join Interintell someday.” She was moving away.

  “That firm in Paris—whose?” he pleaded urgently.

  “Klingfeld & Sons,” she said over her shoulder and walked on.

  Irene and William were out of sight. But William would be watching. So Claudel spoke a couple of words to Alexandre; they joked and shook their heads over the vagaries of women as they got into the taxi and drove back along the dock.

  “Stop at the entrance,” Claudel said suddenly. “Just around the corner.” And out of sight from the afterdeck of the good ship Spaarndam. “Wait there. About half an hour.” His excuse for being at the port was nicely established. He might as well make use of it and see Georges Duhamel right away: there was urgent news to pass on about Erik.

  6

  If Georges Duhamel was surprised, he hid it well. Or perhaps his own excitement about the news he was about to give Claudel made other matters seem unimportant. He rose from his desk, which had several legal-size pages scattered over it. “Couldn’t wait for lunch, could you? Just as well. I’d like you to see for yourself what is happening.” He gathered the papers and clipped them onto a board. “Hope you had a good excuse for coming to the docks.”

  “Good enough. I gave three passengers from the Spaarndam a lift in Alexandre’s cab back to the ship.” And Alexandre was certainly describing them, right now, to his friends at the entrance to the pier. Alexandre’s imitations were much enjoyed. Including one of me, Claudel thought wryly.

  “Adequate,” Duhamel conceded. “Now let’s have a look at the Juanita’s cargo. Destinations: Ethiopia and Djibouti. Ethiopia’s consignment consisted of twelve crates—they have already been moved to the railway depot. The freight superintendent, after some persuasion, authorised one of them to be opened. It was described in the manifest as containing typewriters. There were typewriters on top. That, my friend—” Duhamel’s face, with its sorrowful dark eyes and long nose, looked sadly at Claudel—“was a bad moment for me. The second row, also typewriters. But the third row—well, it held out some highly sensitive communication devices. American. We are checking now with Washington to find out if they are authorised for sale outside of its own military requirements. We”—and there was the Frenchman speaking—“haven’t been allowed to buy them, even as America’s friends.”

  “Any more rows in the crate?”

  “A fourth one: typewriters.”

  “Neat. Any other crate examined?”

  “The freight superintendent has authorised a full check. It is proceeding right now. Coming?” Duhamel’s compact figure took three brisk steps toward the door. “We will have a firsthand view of the operation.”

  “One moment, Georges. Fill me in completely. Who sent these crates?”

  “Didn’t you guess? Why did I persuade—with some difficulty—the officer in charge to order a
crate to be opened? Because, my dear Pierre, I recognised a name—a name you gave me.” He held up the clipboard, riffled through the papers to the third one. “Twelve crates trans-shipped at Algiers on the Juanita, of Barcelona registry, from the initial shipment on a Liberian freighter out of New Orleans to Algiers. The shipping agent who handled this freight, from New Orleans to Algiers to Djibouti, is the representative of—yes, you guessed it!”

  “Exports Consolidated,” Claudel said, and took a deep breath. “But why the devil didn’t you say so right away?”

  Duhamel smiled. “Because it wasn’t easy tracing all that in the last eighteen hours. I thought you ought to share some of the agony.”

  Now that Claudel looked closely at his friend, he could see a night without much sleep in the deep circles under Duhamel’s eyes: always shaded, but today dark. “Pretty good work, Georges.” We’ve got Brimmer, Claudel thought, we’ve got him.

  “The Juanita is now unloading the four crates for Djibouti. Also shipped in the same way.”

  “Exports Consolidated again?”

  “Again. It will be interesting to see what these crates contain. They are listed as office equipment: desk calculators, copying machines, typewriters. Of course”—Duhamel was thoughtful— “we do need these things in Djibouti: the Arab merchants are modernising their business. And the consignment of crates is going to Asah, a regular dealer—so perhaps this shipment is quite legitimate.”

  “Asah?” The name tugged at a strand of memory. “Has he a son who trades in a small way—by dhow—called Husayn?”

  “Yes. They are Afars, strong Muslims, sharp business-men, but there is no question mark against Asah’s name.”

  Until today, thought Claudel. And what about Husayn?

  “You know him?” Duhamel’s question was quick.

  “Asah? No. I’ve met the son.”

  “He’s more of a problem.” Duhamel didn’t expand that small statement. He went on. “About that other export house you mentioned—Klingfeld & Sons—there is nothing from them on any current unloadings from the four cargo ships now docked here. But the freight superintendent tells me that Klingfeld does export office equipment; we’ve had several shipments from them in the past. It’s a reliable firm, been in business for years. In fact, they supplied us with typewriters—and there’s one of them!” He pointed to a machine on a small table near his desk. “So we can cancel out Klingfeld, I think.”

  And I might be doing just that, Claudel reflected, if I hadn’t heard that a message from Klingfeld’s Paris office to The Hague had been intercepted. Now it’s meaning became not only clearer but threatening. Full information requested about Claudel’s presence here: Erik or the shipments? “They may be involved. Office equipment is their speciality, you said, I’ve never heard of Exports Consolidated selling typewriters.”

  “Concealment of the Klingfeld name?” Duhamel shrugged. “Is that hard information, Pierre, or a guess?”

  “A piece of information that might bolster a guess.”

  “A reliable informant?”

  “I’m taking her on trust. But I think she’s most reliable.”

  “She?”

  “A professional, Georges,” was all Claudel would say. And thinking of Jean, he led into the subject of Erik.

  “Hasn’t been seen.” Duhamel was curt, slightly offended.

  “He may be in Djibouti, though. Dressed as an Arab, talking outside the market with an Englishman, so-called, who is said to be a West German and one of Erik’s early backers.”

  Duhamel recovered his usual sang-froid. “You do have your sources. Any that I can use?”

  “Have you a list of the passengers on the Spaarndam? The Englishman is called William. William what?”

  Duhamel found a sheet with the full complement of names on board the Spaarndam, ran his finger down the brief list of passengers. There was only one William. “William Haversfield.” He looked up at Claudel, said with a shrug, “If you wanted him detained for using a false passport, sorry. He’s a Dutch problem now. I think that I’ll contact the captain of the ship.”

  “No. He isn’t our business. So I was told. Most definitely. But I did need his name, his address in England, weight, height, eye colour.” That would help Interintell trace him back to his Berlin days, perhaps even lead to Erik if they made other contacts. Then another thought struck Claudel. “How many crew members are at liberty?”

  “Day passes have been issued to eleven. Don’t worry, Pierre. No one boards that ship without his pass being checked. If your Erik tries to slip in with a crowd of seamen, he won’t get far”— the telephone rang and Duhamel picked up the receiver—“I can assure you,” he told Claudel, and then began listening.

  Claudel seized the chance to read the passenger list, upside down as it was on the desk. It was a trick he had long ago perfected. There were two Jeans. One was Barton from Boston; the other was Zinner from Brooklyn, New York. Which left him not much wiser, but you couldn’t win all the time.

  Duhamel’s call was over. He repeated the report he had just received. A second crate for Ethiopia contained exactly what was stated on the manifest. But a third crate, on its bottom layer, had the latest equipment for long-range detonation of explosives. The entire consignment was being examined.

  “Quite a scene at the railway depot,” Claudel said. “What about the crates for Djibouti?”

  “They are about to be opened. Let’s go!”

  Claudel hesitated.

  “Don’t you want to see what’s inside them? Possibly nothing—as I said, the trader Asah is a reputable man. But the crates have to be opened; the name Exports Consolidated made sure of that. Come on, my friend.”

  “I don’t think I should be seen—”

  “There’s no risk—for you. I didn’t mention your name in connection with all this. Took the credit for myself in my usual modest way, said my information came from Algiers ten days ago. What more do you want, Pierre? You will simply be an old friend whom I brought along with me to see what’s going on. The innocent bystander—you always were good at that.” Duhamel clapped Claudel’s shoulder, picked up his clipboard again, and Claudel’s silent debate ended. Yes, he wanted to see the contents of these crates. Yes, it was necessary that he should see them if his report to Interintell wasn’t to be based on something he had been told. But most of all, it was a very male reaction to a friend’s remark: no risk—for you.

  As they left, Claudel said, “Georges—take care for the next few days. There could be more danger in this than we think.”

  “Danger? You and I are used to that. Now let’s talk about unimportant things, and relax.”

  They stepped into the bright burning sunshine, found refuge from it in the few minutes’ drive to a mountain of cargo stacked on an empty dock. Duhamel was talking about cars—he was proud of his little white Renault that handled so neatly and behaved like something twice its price. “All in the maintenance,” he was saying as they left it and found themselves faced by three Somali workmen and a gimlet-eyed Frenchman. One crate was already open. “It purrs along like a Mercedes,” Duhamel concluded.

  “Why not like a Citroën? Support French industries,” Claudel said. “Of course, if we didn’t, I’d choose a Jaguar.”

  “Uses too much petrol. Expensive, my friend.”

  The supervisor, eyes grimmer than ever at such a casual attitude on an occasion as serious as this, cleared his throat, said nothing, just pointed.

  The top layer of the crate had been removed, a wooden shelf with typewriters in a neat row, each secure in its nest of Styrofoam. Typewriters definitely: their covers slit open showed carriages and keys. The crate’s second layer was deep. It held large-sized boxes, each marked with authentic-looking labels, even with printed directions for the use and care of calculators. The boxes had also been slit. Inside, covered by a light packing of Styrofoam bubbles, were thin plastic envelopes showing the glint of metal. Not calculators. Weapons. Handguns, grenades, ammunition. />
  In the third and fourth layers of the crate, now ripped open, no longer carefully slit, there were M-16 rifles, automatic pistols, and enough ammunition to kill and maim hundreds.

  Duhamel’s face was white; the shadows under his eyes seemed to deepen. He spoke into his hand-size transceiver. To Claudel he said, “I’ll wait here with the superintendent until the guards and other workmen arrive. Take my car to the entrance. I’ll get a lift back.” He looked at the crate, his lips tight, his jaw set.

  Claudel said nothing. Duhamel wouldn’t have heard him. He didn’t even notice Claudel leaving in his little Renault, heading for the gate where Alexandre’s taxi waited.

  Trouble, thought Claudel, serious, deadly trouble... It was with an effort that he kept his talk with Alexandre, away from politics in Djibouti, even produced several small jokes, and spent fifteen minutes looking at white herons grouped on a grey shore.

  He left the cab near the Café-Restaurant de l’Univers. “Tonight,” he told Alexandre, “I’ll need you. Yes, double fare after dark. Around nine thirty? And, Alexandre, be on time. Please. No later than nine forty. I have an important engagement.”

  A meeting with a beautiful woman, Alexandre guessed. His smile was dazzling, a sudden burst of brilliant white.

  “Wait for me until it’s over. Perhaps an hour, or a little more.”

  So soon? wondered Alexandre. Europeans were strange. “There is no need to hurry. My brother will come to keep me company.”

  And will be handsomely rewarded, too, thought Claudel. Well, it’s all on the expense account: insurance. Alexandre’s brother was a policeman. “But not in uniform,” he said quickly. No attracting of attention to a waiting taxi, thank you.

  Alexandre looked disappointed. A police escort appealed to him, not only from the added status but also from safety. “Is it a quiet district where we wait?”

  “Near the Old Arab’s house. Tell no one, Alexandre.”

  “No one.” The Old Arab arranged many things, even meetings with beautiful women. A wife of a high official? But one did not talk about the Old Arab’s business. He did not like that. “I tell no one,” Alexandre said, this time with complete truth.