“Did I ever say we were going to an inn?” he reminded her and kissed her astonished mouth. “And no more thinking for the next four days, honey.”
“No work at all? No worries, no—”
“Not even a phone call.” He kissed her again, long and hard. “Surprised?”
“By everything,” she said happily, her arms around him. “You’re always surprising me.” From the very beginning— when he had rushed her away from Washington to be married. To London, she had thought, until they were in a plane that was heading for Zurich. And from Zurich to Geneva, where they had first met. “Just an old romantic under this hard-boiled exterior,” he had joked. But there was truth in that jest. Her arms tightened, holding him close.
“Why are we kissing in this damned machine as if we hadn’t a place of our own? Come on, Nina.” He was out of the car, his arm around her waist as she joined him.
“The luggage?”
“Later. No hurry for that.”
She looked at the long stretch of white sand below the dunes, at the breaking waves so clean and cool. She glanced at Bob, wondering if he had read her thoughts. Of course he had. “Later,” she agreed, “we’ll swim later.” And after that, lunch; then sleep and—“Oh, it’s wonderful!” Four days together, no office, no meetings... “I love it.”
“Be it ever so humble,” he said as the front door stuck, its wood swollen with hot weather and sea air, and he had to shoulder it before they could enter. Inside, it was neat and sparkling clean, a simple place for plain living and high thinking: basic wicker furniture and packed bookshelves. But this is one week-end, he thought, when there will be high living and no thinking. For a moment there came flickering into his mind the memory of a list—nine names marked for death. He caught Nina into a tight embrace, holding her close. The memory vanished.
***
The week-end went as they had planned, except for the weather. Torrents of rain on the Fourth of July. “No fireworks,” Nina said when they woke up to the sound of heavy drops sweeping over the roof. No picnic on the shore, watching the distant display of Catherine wheels and rockets bursting into the night sky from a village beach. Renwick took one look at the surge of dark sea and lowered grey clouds. “Back to bed—it’s the warmest place.”
“It’s four o’clock—we’ve slept for hours. Aren’t you hungry?”
“Aren’t you?” he asked, and held out his arms.
She laughed and came away from the window.
On Monday, they drove back to New York. Not even the snaggled traffic and the waiting for mile-long jams to end could dampen Nina’s high spirits. She would have plenty to do, she told him: museums and shops and so many things to see, even two of her old college friends who had come to live in New York.
“No, not yet, Nina.”
Her euphoria vanished. Back to the real world, she thought, and Bob is already deep into it.
“Wait a little, will you? Plenty of time to see them later,” he promised.
“Are we here incognito?”
“That’s one way of describing it.”
“When will I see you? In the evening?”
“As much as possible,” he said vaguely and truthfully.
“We’ll be sleeping together, won’t we?” she asked in alarm.
“That I can promise you,” he said. “And this business in New York may be over quite soon.” How to approach the two business-men, the government contractors who had become suspicious of Mitchell Brimmer and his Exports Consolidated? Phone them, arrange an appointment—yes, that was the first step. But after their experience with Brimmer claiming CIA backing, how would they react to a stranger saying he represented Interintell? Probably wouldn’t believe him, wouldn’t even listen to a warning about a death list with their names on it. Not until they had checked and double-checked Renwick, and that could take time. As for the Senator—he might believe; just might; but not quickly enough, perhaps.
Nina was saying, “Is this the Queensborough Bridge?”
“This is it. Takes us right where we are going. But first, I think we’d better drop the car at its garage. You stay there with the luggage while I find a cab and leave it around the corner from the garage. Then we’ll walk to it. Okay, honey?”
“Really necessary?” She was startled, not so much by the manoeuvre itself but by what it proved to her: there was danger for Bob in this visit to New York. “Is there trouble ahead?”
“Might be,” was all he said. “And I don’t want it to reach out and touch you.”
“Me?” She laughed that off. “Bob”—she was thoughtful now, blue eyes direct and serious, watching every small expression on his face—“why don’t you recruit me? Let me join you.”
He shook his head.
“I could help. I know it. Bob—I’m not joking.”
“Nor am I, honey. No. And no, again.”
“Don’t you have women in Interintell?”
He looked at her, almost passed a red traffic light. “Where did you hear that name?”
From Pierre, she thought. Pierre Claudel would tell her almost anything that wasn’t a deep and dark secret—if she pleaded with him long enough. And she had. “Partly because,” she said, trying to keep to some truth at least, “I saw that report from Holland—it was in the London Times—”
“Oh, that!” Yes, there had been a mention of Interintell cooperating with West German authorities and the prevention of an assassination in Greece. How international can one get? he thought. The report had come from Holland, unauthorised but true. That was typically Vroom, now the head of a section of Dutch Intelligence at The Hague and one of Interintell’s members. Johan Vroom, a good man in many ways but one who liked to talk about successes once a case was closed. But then, Renwick reflected, I’ve talked to Nina, too, about cases closed and filed away, only she doesn’t go dropping hints to reporters. “Here we are,” he said with some relief, swinging the car into the Fifty-sixth Street garage.
“You know, darling, you may keep too many secrets—”
“Not enough, I’m thinking.” He reached across the seat and kissed her nose. She never had any answer ready for that.
He went searching for a taxi, his subconscious mind at work. And, as usual, if he just waited trustingly, it came up with the answer. Or at least one that might work. Certainly the surest and quickest way to contact a senator and two government contractors would be through the FBI. His friends there, Bill Wilson and Joe Neill, wouldn’t have forgotten him; twenty months ago they had worked with Interintell and saved a president from being blown sky-high. They had been promoted for that: Joe to New York, Bill to Los Angeles. Not a case of passing the buck: he’d go with Joe to talk with the three men wherever that took him. Yes, they might begin to listen then. And keep their mouths shut. If they needed Brimmer nailed and Exports Consolidated out of all business, including assassination, they had better keep their mouths shut. But tight. Myself included, he thought as he caught sight of Nina waiting for him. My dear and beautiful Nina, don’t you know how much I want to share everything?
***
The housekeeping couple at Cooper’s one-time residence on Sixty-first Street were quiet and discreet. Breakfast could be brought up on a tray, a sandwich at lunchtime could be provided, but—
“We’ll have dinner out,” Renwick said quickly and sent them back obviously relieved to their ground-floor apartment. The house was in good order, and Nina explored it from the second floor up. “The top room used to be a study,” he told her. “It’s possibly shut tight.” But the key was in the lock. For cleaning purposes? He only hoped the electronic equipment was safely stored away. Chet Danford had seen to that: a metal cabinet held all the components, with a door securely padlocked. Now Renwick could understand the small key that had come by special messenger in a thick sealed envelope to the Stafford Hotel on Wednesday night.
“Guns,” Nina said in surprise, as she stared at their rack. “Mr. Danford’s?”
“No. I thin
k they belonged to the previous owner, a friend of his.”
“Old, aren’t they?”
Most were antiques, but Renwick’s eye noted two usable models. He examined the bookcases and then the outsize desk. Paper and pens provided in the drawers.
“Well,” said Nina, looking around her with pleasure, “you’ll have a study at last, darling, even if it’s only for a few days. Don’t you like it?” she asked quickly. He was standing so still, a look of sadness on his face.
“Just a memory... My last visit here was when Frank Cooper was alive.” He took her hand and led her out of the room. “Now what about washing up and unpacking? I’ll make some phone calls, and then we’ll go out to dinner. How’s that?”
“Wonderful. I’ll unpack for you and let you start phoning.” She gave him a sideways glance, a small mischievous look. “You didn’t bring your gun with you, did you?”
He stopped, looked at her. “I left it in Gilman’s safekeeping. But how the devil did you—”
“I saw it. Hanging on our bedroom chair with your shirt draped over it. Last Monday, when you worked late and came in tired and worried and the Gilmans and Pierre were there.”
Tired and careless and too eager to slip into bed. “Damn,” he said softly. “Quick eyes, you have.”
“I wish you didn’t need to carry it around. It worries me, Bob.”
“I don’t carry it around. Only when there might be trouble.”
“Have you had to use it?”
“I’ve never killed anyone, Nina. Just discouraged some.”
“That worries me, too. You wouldn’t be discouraging them if you weren’t in danger. Oh, Bob—”
He put his arms around her, comforted her. “One hell of a life when you chose to marry me,” he said, trying to bring a smile back to her lips.
“It’s one hell of a beautiful life.” And the smile had returned.
***
He went up to the study again and made his call to Joe Neill at the FBI office. A meeting in the Drake Room on Fifty-sixth Street was arranged for tomorrow at noon. A suitable place, cool and dark.
Then he unlocked the cabinet. Yes, all the needed equipment was there, and in good order. He examined it thoroughly, cut in the power to make certain the gear was operative. He was tempted to transmit. But there was a five-hour difference between New York and London. He would contact Gilman early tomorrow morning and set up their schedule for receiving and sending. He padlocked the cabinet and turned to have a look at the covered Telex machine standing near one of the new computer typewriters. These were Danford’s additions. Lawyers certainly knew how to make themselves comfortable. He examined the gun rack, too: one of the pistols was his favourite type of Biretta, the other a neat twenty-two; both were clean. Chet Danford, in spite of sixty years and white hair, was as much a perfectionist as the week-end hostess who not only provided the usual soap and towels in your bathroom but toothpaste and new brushes, too.
All set at this end, he thought as he went downstairs. And there was nothing illegal about the communication system; Danford, lawyer that he was, would have registered anything that needed permission for his own private use. And if Renwick used them? His reports, sent and received, would not cause the United States any harm. On the contrary. Very much on the contrary. So let bureaucratic quibbles take care of themselves, he decided. He entered the living-room that ran the length of the second floor, with windows at the front looking out at the trees along Sixty-first Street; at the back, two more trees in a small paved garden.
Nina was standing at the rear windows, looking wistfully down at the tubs of bright petunias and pink geraniums. “Out of bounds, I’m afraid.” The garden belonged to the ground floor, no doubt. She sighed as she turned away. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful—” She interrupted that sentence. Yes, it would be wonderful to have a house like this. But impossible on Bob’s salary: it was strictly on the military level. “Wonderful to have so much space,” she finished lamely. “How do I look?” She had bathed and perfumed, brushed her hair until it gleamed, applied just enough make-up to accentuate her eyes and lips, and was ready to step out for dinner in her ridiculous high-heeled sandals and soft silk dress.
“Ravishable. Come on, my would-be Mata Hari, let me show you off to the town.”
“Darling, I was being serious about Interintell. And you don’t have Mata Hari types. I know that. But surely—”
“Nina”—his voice was strained—“four years ago, in Vienna, there was a girl working with me. I recruited her. And she was killed. On a simple assignment.”
“Killed?”
“Shot. She was trying to protect someone. She took the bullet meant for him.”
“Were you there?”
“No,” he said abruptly. “But since then I never recruit any women. Certainly never you, my love. Come on, darling, let’s find some place to eat.”
Her hand touched his cheek. “I’ll never worry you again by bringing up—”
“Subject closed.” He pulled her hand to his lips, kissed its palm. “Now, where do we go? French food, Italian, Greek, or a steakhouse? They’re all around.”
Discussing restaurants, they reached the front door. A key was hooked onto the wall. Renwick lifted it, tried it in the front-door lock, and pocketed it.
“I never thought of that,” Nina said in wonder. But then, it seems I never think of a lot of things. Shot... trying to protect someone. And Bob still feels responsible for her death. She reached up and kissed his cheek. He looked at her in surprise. “I love you,” she told him.
Arm in arm, they set off toward Lexington Avenue, just another handsome couple completing their holiday week-end.
9
Gilman beat Renwick to the punch. At six o’clock next morning, New York time, his call came by regular telephone from London. “Sorry to wake you so bright and early. All well? Settled in nicely?”
“Couldn’t be better.” Renwick kept his voice low.
“I’ll be hearing from you?”
“As soon as possible. Goodbye for now.”
“Bye.”
Renwick pulled on his dressing-gown, left Nina sleeping undisturbed, found the padlock key, and ran upstairs, two steps at a time. Inside the top-floor study, he locked its door and then opened the cabinet. Now, he thought, as he got the dial set and made contact with Gilman’s office at Merriman’s, now for some real conversation. They would disguise names in a voice code that he had suggested before he left London. After all, the KGB listening post in New York was as alert as their interception unit in Washington.
Gilman’s voice came through clearly. “We’ve just had a letter from Pete.”
Letter meant a report. Pete was Pierre Claudel. “How is he? Enjoying himself?”
“Fantastic holiday—lots to see and do. I’ll mail his letter on to you, let you read it for yourself.”
Mail meant a coded message sent by transmitter. Holiday was Claudel’s assignment in Djibouti. “I look forward to that. Any talk of Bright Eyes?” Renwick asked.
Bright Eyes was, of course, Erik. “Bright Eyes was passing through. They didn’t manage to meet, not this time. Pete fell ill.”
“Serious?”
“A nasty cut on his arm. Needs attention, I think. I’ve told him he’d be better at home with his own doctors.”
Home was Interintell’s offices in London. “So the holiday is over?”
“Just cut short. He intends to continue it elsewhere. I’ll drop round to see him. By the way, some specimens of the Artful Dodger’s work were on exhibition—Pete attended the grand opening.”
The Artful Dodger was Renwick’s choice of name for Mitchell Brimmer. “Glad Pete managed to see it.” Illegal arms shipped to Djibouti... Ironic, he thought. We sent Claudel hunting Erik, and he found Exports Consolidated instead. “Impressive?”
“Significant. Confirms what your friend Warrior told you.”
Warrior, Alvin Moore, that soldier of doubtful fortune. “Don’t forget to send
me Pete’s letter. I’d like to keep in touch.”
“I’m just about to mail it, right now.”
What about Gilman’s efforts with the Europeans on Brimmer’s Minus List? “By the way, how are your five clients taking your advice? Or haven’t you persuaded them yet about their future difficulties?”
“Not an easy job. I did make tentative suggestions to two of them, but I eased off when I felt they weren’t receptive.”
“Perhaps we had better talk with their respective insurance companies—get some reassurances about coverage for their requirements. In fact, that’s what I plan to do here.”
“Which company is that?”
The FBI, chum. Renwick said, “Federal Insurance.”
“That’s an idea. Keep me posted. Phone me at the office. I’ll be here any day around three o’clock—just after I get back from lunch.”
Subtract an hour, as pre-arranged, and Renwick would be at his transceiver at nine each morning, New York time, to talk with Gilman, courtesy of Telstar. “Okay with me.”
“Over and out,” Gilman said with a laugh. The phrase always amused him.
It was a cheerful note on which to end. Claudel’s report must have held some pleasant surprises as well as the bad news. His arm—what had happened there? An accident? And Erik— elusive as ever, but at least he had been pin-pointed in Djibouti. Come on, come on, Renwick urged his radio: the report is all coded and ready to send; give me the signal, dammit.
Two minutes later, it came.
It was in a code he had used before, but he was taking no risk of error. He went downstairs to the bedroom, found the page of ciphers which he had inserted into the copy of Frost’s poems lying in his suitcase.
Nina was still asleep, head turned on the pillow, her hair— silken gold, he thought—falling loosely over slender neck and bare shoulders. Gently, he pulled the sheet to partly cover the lithe, tanned body. She stretched and sighed, fell more deeply into sleep with a last flicker of long, dark eyelashes. He left as quietly as he had entered.
Up in the top-floor room, he set to work. The report was startling. Claudel had really produced. But he shouldn’t have been there alone. Yet, of the four other Arabic-speaking Interintell agents who could have passed as Frenchmen, two were in Chad, two in Mauretania.
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