Cloak of Darkness

by Helen Macinnes

  “Also,” Gilman went on, “about those accounts you found today—you gave three copies to Federal Insurance?”

  “It saved time.”

  “What about your own copies?”

  “I’ll leave them with your aunt.” And Gilman could have them picked up and sent over to London in a diplomatic bag.

  “Good. But frankly I wish you’d return with them and stay here—you could direct things from the office. We could assign someone else to—”

  “Forget it.” Waste valuable time putting a new man in the picture? “I’ve been in on this from the first. I know the full story—all the particulars.”

  “I know, I know. Still—”

  “No delays. We’re at the stage when every hour counts. How’s our friend’s arm, by the way? Fit enough to join me?”

  “He’s been talking about that.”

  “Okay. Set it up. We’ll meet in his old stamping ground.” That was Paris, Claudel’s home town. “I’ll call you again— before I take off—arrange time and location.”

  “You’re in a hurry, aren’t you?”

  “Our competition is setting the pace. He moves damn fast. And that reminds me—I’m looking for a good watchdog to guard the household while I’m away. I was thinking of an Airedale, like the one you liked in Ottawa.” That was Tim MacEwan, one of the early recruits to Interintell, a Canadian who commuted between Ottawa and Washington. Nina knew him but hadn’t met him in the last twenty months—a safe-enough time lapse for any contact between them in Washington.

  Gilman was surprised into a laugh. Mac’s bristling reddish hair was indeed reminiscent of an Airedale. “Easily arranged. You’ll find him at my aunt’s. Anything more?”

  “Bright Eyes.” Yes, what about Erik, little by little?

  He was still on board the freighter, its rate of travel slowed by a faulty boiler, and wouldn’t reach the canal for a few more days. The captain had been instructed to search the ship. One seaman was missing. No sign of Bright Eyes. The crew knew nothing. Could be a payoff, made by his very old and very rich friend.

  “We could damn well question the friend as soon as we can board the ship.” That would be at Suez, just as the Spaarndam was being cleared for passage through the canal.

  “But we were told he isn’t our business,” Gilman said. “A quid pro quo. Remember?”

  “Yes,” Renwick said curtly, repressing his anger. Worry was causing it; deep worry. If Erik slipped away from the Spaarndam at the port of Suez, he could head easily for Cairo. And Cairo’s sprawling airport, a vast stretch of complete confusion, was just made for Erik’s talents. Once through there, he could be in Europe and practically home free. Renwick said, “I’ll be in touch day after tomorrow. The usual time,” he added and signed off.

  His anger surged back. It had been Vroom, dealing with a Dutch ship, who had instructed that goddamn captain to make a quiet search of his Spaarndam. Why the hell hadn’t he put the fear of demotion into the captain, made sure he really stirred his fat stumps? No doubt the man had assumed this was just another stowaway, what was all the fuss about? Stowaways were plentiful—a headache that could be expected. “Vroom,” Renwick said aloud, “your mind just wasn’t fully on your job. Was it? And why?”

  His anger subsided as he concentrated on routine, restoring the room to complete neatness, remembering to remove his cipher list from safekeeping in the metal cabinet before he locked its doors securely. He hesitated in front of the gun rack, then lifted down the Biretta, slipping it into his belt. In the drawer below the rack, he found an extra clip of ammunition. He still hesitated. Danford would notice the small gap left by the borrowed pistol. So he went over to the desk and wrote a brief note to keep the housekeeper clear of any suspicion: Something borrowed, something new. To be returned unused, I hope. He placed the key to the cabinet inside the folded note, sealed them in a Manila envelope with wax and Scotch tape, addressed it in block letters, and left it with its edge tucked securely into the desk blotter. As satisfied as he could be, he went downstairs with the cold touch of the Biretta against his waist.

  Nina had fallen into a light sleep. She stirred, said, “You, darling?”

  “Soon be with you.” Quickly, he packed his small suitcase. The Biretta and its refill went into a sock; the cipher list in between two pages of Frost’s lyrics. As he stripped, he looked down at Nina. Then he stared. “Oh, no!” he said. She had cut her hair. It no longer fell to her shoulders, just to her ear level. “Oh, Nina!”

  She half wakened. He slid in beside her. “Why, Nina? Why?”

  “Too hot. It will grow,” she said drowsily and fell completely asleep inside the curve of his arm.

  ***

  Next morning, Nina kept her promise: she was less than ten minutes inside Bloomingdale’s, hurrying out to the waiting taxi with a small shopping bag under her arm. She didn’t explain a thing. Otherwise, Renwick had to admit, she seemed perfectly normal. He concentrated on making the short flight to Washington as easy and pleasant as possible. He didn’t mention her hair.

  Once they had arrived, there was a short delay. “Just five minutes,” Nina pleaded, and left him at a newspaper stand while she hurried to the ladies’ room. When she returned, she was wearing a silk scarf in turban style around her head and not a blond curl showing. Her lips were altered, too: pink had given way to coral.

  “Look, Nina—” he began.

  “I know. Silly, isn’t it?”

  In the taxi, she waited until they had left the airport well behind them. Then she drew the scarf carefully away, shook her head and let a smooth sweep of dark-brown hair fall to her shoulders. “Do you like it?” she asked, showing her first touch of uncertainty.

  “You’re incredible. But you’re taking this too seriously. No need to—”

  “Isn’t there? Father has a lot of friends in this town.” True. It was also true that Nina’s blond hair and blue eyes were memorable. But so was Nina transformed into a brunette. Unrecognisable, however, unless you looked into her eyes and noticed their intense blue. “What about contact lenses?” he teased her. “And a cane to hobble with?” Then he kissed her gently. “As ravishable as ever, Mrs. Smith.”

  “Thank you, John.”

  “Not at all, Samantha.”

  She took out her sunglasses and put them on. “Better?” He nodded. The transformation was complete. Best of all was her confidence: no sign of misgivings, of nervousness, of dejection. That could have been the case, he realised, and a wave of relief swept over him. “Incredible in every way,” he said as he directed the cab to draw up at a pleasant-looking motel half-way to Basset Hill, and Nina didn’t even ask one question. Not even one when he paid for two nights in advance, signed the register with “Jimson, Philadelphia,” and they found themselves in a small sterile bungalow with a rented car waiting at its side.

  “How?” Renwick asked the question for her. “Colin Grant booked the room and car this morning. We’ll stay ten minutes. Next stop, Basset Hill.”

  “Are you sure his standing is purely amateur?”

  “Quite sure. But he catches on damned quick—and you, my pet.”

  I’ve just had a medal pinned on me, thought Nina. She looked in the mirror and adjusted her new dark-brown wig. “Tell me about the museum,” she said.

  ***

  It had once been the late Victor Basset’s eastern residence, a vast mansion standing on top of a gentle slope with nothing but parkland and trees surrounding its gardens. Four years ago its interior had been gutted and transformed into modern picture galleries, no expense spared in proper lighting and ventilation, a suitable place for the display of the valuable collection of paintings that Basset had gathered during his lifetime. He had lived to see his museum opened, to feel its future—handsomely endowed—was assured, and to know that his millions had been well spent. Fortunately for Basset now, he couldn’t see the sprawl of a city forever creeping outward, turning countryside into bedroom annex. Basset Hill still stood apart in its tw
enty acres on the Virginia border—but it was only fifteen miles from Washington. Another few years and the tide of new housing would be lapping at its massive gates.

  “Gates! But where are their walls?” Nina could only see thick high bushes leading out in a wide curve on either side.

  “High iron fence disguised. Basset combined the practical with the aesthetic. It has an alarm system, too. There’s valuable art inside that big house.”

  Nina studied it. An imposing entrance in the centre of two outspread wings, built of silver-grey stone, decorative yet simple—if huge size could ever qualify for simplicity. “Big? It’s enormous. And where does Colin Grant live? In the premises?”

  “At the back.” Renwick followed Grant’s instructions, took the driveway as far as the museum and then branched off to his right. Up here, there were flower beds and two gardeners at work. Nina glanced over her shoulder, down the long slope of grass with its small islands of trees ending in the wall of high bushes. Even the trees, she thought, had been carefully chosen for shape and size, perfection in colour and balance. “Basset had taste.”

  “And expert advisers,” Renwick said. Not to speak of a billion or so in cash. “Here we are.” Within its own wall and gate stood a neat house, built of stone, good architecture, with two small wings, nothing to detract from the overall scheme. Renwick studied it as he angled the car over a short driveway to reach the attached garage. There were some trees, but not close to the house. And the wall kept any visitors to the museum— there were many, judging by the parking area on its other side—from wandering into private territory. There had been an attendant on duty at the cars, a guard at the museum’s front steps, and a guard down at the front gates. Yes, he thought, I could leave Nina safely here. “What do you think? Like it?”

  “Yes. I just hopes he likes me.” She was looking at Colin Grant, who had come out to meet them. Tall, with dark hair turning grey, a friendly face, and—after a slight look of surprise as he saw her—a warm greeting. There was little doubt that he was a friend, a very good friend, of Bob’s. But why be surprised about me? she wondered. She took off her glasses and shook hands.

  Grant laughed. “Bob wrote me he had married a blonde,” he said. “But the eyes have it. Come in. What do I call you? You’re my cousin, you know—can’t go around saying Mrs. Smith.”

  “Samantha,” said Renwick, hauling the suitcases out of the car.

  “No,” said Nina. “Sue. Susan Smith is a very nice name.” Grant raised an eyebrow as Renwick accepted that, then took hold of a suitcase and led the way indoors. “We’ve twenty minutes before lunch,” he said after he introduced the housekeeper—Mrs. Trout, white-haired and bustling—to his cousin, Mrs. Smith, and her husband. “Mrs. Trout can show you the house, Sue. I’ll borrow your husband and let him see my own point eight nine four of an acre.”

  Outside, Grant said, “Now, Bob—put me in the picture. As you used to say, there’s a need to know. God, how I used to bristle at that phrase.”

  They paced around the grass and trees while Renwick talked and Grant listened. “Sure,” Grant said when Renwick brought up the subject of Tim MacEwan, “we can fit him in. He can be one of those foreign art experts who stay over in the guest cottage just beyond those trees—” he pointed to a roof near them—“whenever they come visiting the museum.”

  “Except that Mac knows little about art.”

  Grant thought over that. “Twice in the last eighteen months we had a scare about burglary. Each time we had an expert in security staying with us for about a week—he went over the alarm system, got to know the guards, the general layout. Is that more in Mac’s line?”

  “Much more.”

  “He can stay at the cottage. Or would he rather have a couple of rooms over the garage?”

  “Whatever raises no eyebrows. Mac’s probably the best judge of that,” Renwick suggested. “I’ll see him in the morning.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “Tomorrow night, possibly. And I don’t know how long I’ll be away.”

  “Don’t worry. Well take care of Nina—Sue. Better keep calling her “Sue”. She has a mind of her own,” Grant added with a smile. “Did you have a hard time persuading her to wear a wig?”

  “Her idea. She’s like you, Colin: the inspired amateur. But don’t let her get too inspired, will you?” Yes, he thought, everything will be all right. After lunch I’ll take a walk over this whole stretch of land while Nina explores the museum. Best not to be seen with me in public. Tonight we can stroll around the park—our last night together. “What about lunch?” he asked. “And you can tell us about the museum. It looks pretty impressive to me.”

  “A fine place to work. Strange—” Grant paused—“I wouldn’t have accepted this job if you hadn’t pushed me into it. You know—I really meant what I said back in Austria—about joining you, fighting those bastards from undercover—but you wouldn’t recruit me, and so here I am.”

  “In your own right setting,” Renwick said. “But you tempted me, Colin. You’d have been one hell of a smart Intelligence officer.”

  “We made a pretty good team,” Grant said slowly. However indirect, it was a reference charged with sudden emotion, a tribute to the girl who had fought along with them and had died. Avril...

  They both fell silent, walked back to the house.

  12

  By seven o’clock on a warm mist-heavy morning, Renwick was ready to leave Basset Hill. He stood at the side of their bed looking down at Nina as she lay asleep. A last memory to carry him through... Then he roused himself and kissed her awake.

  “So soon?” she asked.

  “The sooner I leave, the earlier I’ll return.”

  “I’m coming down—”

  “No, darling. I never like long goodbyes. And I’ll be back before you know it. I’ll send you messages through Mac. Tim MacEwan, remember him? He’ll be around to keep an eye on everything. And tell Colin I’ll leave the car at Statler Garage— it’s near the hotel. He can have it picked up there.”

  And after that? she wondered, but asked no questions. She slipped out of bed, threw her arms around him.

  “You make it damn hard,” he said, holding the soft lithe body tightly against him. A long kiss and he released her. He picked up the dark wig from the bedpost where he had tossed it the night before and clamped it on her short blond hair at an angle.

  “Oh, Bob!” She was trying to straighten it.

  That’s how parting should be, he thought: a laugh shared. Without delay, he reached the door. “I love you,” he told her as he closed it behind him.

  ***

  Renwick timed his visit to Gilman’s Aunt Chris for half-past eight. Christopher Menlo, an Anglo-American who had spent early years in his native England and the remainder in Washington, where he had served his new country well, was in his dressing-gown finishing breakfast, tut-tutting as usual over the morning paper. White-haired, pink-cheeked, tall, and thin but now rounding substantially at his waistline since his retirement from the CIA ten years ago, he showed little surprise when Renwick arrived.

  “I expected you,” he said as he shook hands and returned to his bacon and eggs. He picked up his newspaper again. “Hardly as early as this, I must say. Breakfast? You’ll find all the makings in the kitchen.” He gestured across the small living-room, a disorder of books and papers, to an open door showing a kitchen in equal disarray. Chris lived alone and— in between working on his book about the wars and politics of the seventeenth century—pottered. His word. He pottered around his small rose garden, he pottered with his large stamp collection, and he pottered with his electronic equipment in the spare room upstairs.

  “Later perhaps,” Renwick said. “But Gilman should be in his office by two o’clock. His time. I’d like to chat with him. Is that all right with you, Chris?”

  “Of course. You know the way.” Chris was relieved now he could finish breakfast in peace—a sacred hour. He eased his dressing-gown more comfortably
around him, went back to shaking his head over the news from Lebanon.

  It was a small house with a strip of garden at the back: living-room and den below, two rooms above. Half-way up the narrow stairs, Renwick halted as Chris called to him, “Your friend Mac got into Washington last night. He phoned me to say he’d be here around ten.”

  “I’ll be downstairs by then.”

  “Oh—and another thing. Farley wanted to see you. He’ll be here at noon. That’s all right, is it?”

  Maurice Farley was attached to operations at the CIA. “Yes, we’re old friends.” So Farley decided to accept my invitation, thought Renwick. Why? Yesterday afternoon, when I phoned him, he expected to have committee meetings all of today. “He’s a friend of yours, too, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, yes. Drops in here whenever he wants to pick my old brains.” Silence followed, broken only by the rustle of a newspaper.

  End of conversation, Renwick decided, and mounted the remaining steps. He had twenty minutes to get his suggestions in good order before he made contact with Interintell at nine o’clock.

  First, there was the problem of Erik. He might be able to disappear at Suez or in Cairo, but his movements could be traced. Through the fake Englishman, William Haversfield. And Haversfield’s identity, past and present, was also traceable: an early supporter of Erik’s. Direct Action (and that meant in 1973 or 1974), a wealthy greeting-card manufacturer in West Berlin, where Erik had organised his anarchist group. Yes, Richard Diehl, of West German Intelligence, could start digging in the security files and discover Haversfield’s real name and political connections. Gilman in London could start some digging, too: if Haversfield could afford to travel around the world, Haversfield had an income and must file a tax return. People such as he, living under false pretences, would most certainly obey the law and run no risk of arrest or inquiry. The income-tax boys had his address, his business or profession, and his source of income. Enough, thought Renwick, to track down Haversfield, who could lead us to Erik.