Cloak of Darkness

by Helen Macinnes

  “Nothing at all. Glad it paid off. We’re on the same side, aren’t we? Can’t go losing good men.”

  Renwick agreed with a warm handshake. “You know, Brimmer had partners abroad.”

  Farley’s face became expressionless. “No doubt. Goodbye, Bob. And good luck with your terrorists.”

  The keep-off-the-grass sign was out: Farley had definitely a very special interest in Klingfeld. Renwick said, “One of them—Erik—but you know about him, of course.”

  That stopped Farley at the door. “I’ve heard several things. What should I know in particular?”

  “He’s on the Spaarndam. Courtesy of William Haversfield. Well hidden, too. Your girl on board could be in trouble.”

  There was a brief silence. “Now it’s my turn to thank you,” Farley said quietly, and left.

  ***

  Chris Menlo heard the front door close behind Farley and took the cue to come downstairs and say goodbye to Renwick.

  “Farley had to leave for a meeting,” Renwick apologised.

  Chris waved that aside. “He’ll be around here any day. We don’t stand on ceremony. Very decent fellow, actually, even if his friends edged me out. It was time, perhaps. Everything changes, as Bergson said. And when do I see you again, Robert? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “I really don’t know,” Renwick said frankly. “But I’ll drop in whenever I can. And thank you, Chris, for—”

  “Not at all, not at all. Always a pleasure. When you meet Gilman, give him my best. We are related, you know.” The blue eyes had an amused twinkle. “Rather distantly. Not closely enough to be traced. Security, security. It’s always with us—like the opposition, alas. Do you know a cure for blackspot, Robert?”

  Accustomed as he was to Chris’s conversational jumps, Renwick was nonplussed. Chris was delighted. “Roses, Robert, roses. I’ve tried everything, but the damned spots won’t out.”

  You and Lady Macbeth, thought Renwick, and left the old boy pottering happily through a garden encyclopaedia.

  13

  The first available flight to Paris was at six twenty-five. Renwick put in the waiting time as inconspicuously as possible: a fast-food eating place where no one he knew in Washington would choose to lunch, a visit to an out-of-the-way bank to cash traveller’s cheques, and enough time left to pick up his suitcase from a locker in a bus station.

  By nine o’clock next morning he was in a quiet back room at a little hotel on the Rue Racine, unpacked and everything paid in advance, apparently settled for the next week. Must bring Nina here someday, he thought as he shaved and tried a telephone shower in the bathtub. The room was worth a visit— giant pink and purple peonies, reminding him of Bombay, climbing all over the wall behind a bright brass bedstead with green pillows. But even if the interior decoration raised an eyebrow, the place was neat and clean. There was sunlight, too, easing in through French windows from a small and peaceful courtyard, and the café au lait was excellent.

  He stepped into the street just before eleven o’clock, glad to be back in tweed-jacket weather. Sunny but cool. He had always liked this section of the Left Bank, with its tight rows of ancient houses lining the narrow streets. At a steady pace, keeping his route complicated enough to discourage anyone trying to follow him, glancing at the small shops that edged the strips of sidewalk—ceramics, primitive masks, hand-fashioned silver ornaments, Greek sculpture, surrealist imaginings—he reached the Seine five minutes ahead of time. Claudel wasn’t in sight.

  Renwick slowed down, strolled a short distance along the quai, his attention seemingly held by one of the excursion boats now passing under the Pont Neuf. There, the river branched around the Ile de la Cité—an island well worth a long look: the delicate spires of La Sainte Chapelle opposing the massive towers of Notre Dame. Nina, he began thinking—and then cut off the thought. The sooner you finish this goddamned job, he told himself, the quicker you’ll be back to a normal life. The job? It had to be done. Period.

  He retraced his steps and paused naturally enough at a bookstall, with its overload of volumes, old and second-hand, that would attract any bibliophile in search of a treasure trove. Claudel was there, exactly on time, burrowing through a stack of dusty tomes, looking for a collector’s item. Renwick chose to examine a pile of early maps, each of them to be slipped out and held up for a closer view. Claudel, still checking the bruised and battered books, drifted nearer.

  Renwick studied a map of Paris in 1860. Voice low, he said, “Call Vroom at The Hague. Tell him I’m flying into Amsterdam today. I’ll meet him at Schlee’s Rare Books. Four o’clock.”

  “In the Bruna Building?”

  Renwick nodded, apparently over a detail of the Louvre.

  That, thought Claudel, will revive a lot of sad memories. It was in the Bruna Building that Jake Crefeld, Vroom’s one-time boss, had been assassinated two years ago. Vroom had taken over Crefeld’s job in Intelligence at The Hague, and—as a matter of course—Crefeld’s unobtrusive office in Amsterdam. Claudel picked out a likely book, began turning its pages. “Like me to fly you in?”

  “If you can pilot with one arm.” Renwick rejected the map, riffled through a few others, selected one that showed the River Loire.

  “I could do it using one foot. The arm’s mending, anyway.” Dammit, Bob noticed the bandage bulging my sleeve. But at least he wants me along. Two could be needed. “And when Vroom asks where you are now—you aren’t in Paris?”

  “Right.”

  “See you at Orly, one thirty.” Claudel moved away, bought the book—a history of Montmartre when it was a village, apple orchards and all, before girlie shows and tourists had taken over. Then he set off along the quai to cross over the bridge onto the Ile de la Cité. Not only were there churches on the island but café-bars and small restaurants. Plenty of phones from which to choose.

  Renwick put aside the maps, examined a collection of old magazines, bought a decrepit copy of transition, 1932. Those were the days when e.e. cummings declared all capital letters unnecessary, Renwick remembered—and then was astonished by the bits and pieces of nonsensical information that his mind had stored away. Like black spots on rose leaves. Still, they afforded some light relief on this sombre day: the visit to Amsterdam would be grim. But if there was any setting that could make Vroom recall the decency and honesty of Jake Crefeld, it was the Schlee office in the Bruna Building. If he was Interintell’s traitor, surely his load of guilt must double, make him more vulnerable to questioning when he faced Renwick across Jake’s old desk. God, thought Renwick in sudden dejection, let it not be Johan Vroom.

  He made his way to the nearest Métro, took a train that would drop him in the direction of Orly, and passed the journey by reading transition. So this was the magazine my father enthused over years before I was born, he thought in amazement. Strange sides to the old boy, always something new to discover about him. But he was glad his father couldn’t see this sad copy: half its pages torn, a coffee stain blotting out a poem’s lack of capital letters, a crude “Merde!” scrawled over some impassioned prose on the purity of art. He propped it on a seat as he left the subway and took a taxi for the remainder of his journey.

  ***

  Claudel was infatuated by airplanes. He had flown since he was eighteen. Renwick could relax, with the aid of a new hard-crusted roll filled with pink Normandy ham and his share of the bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape that Claudel had provided. His light plane, a twin-piston-engined craft, was kept well below ten thousand feet. “Flat as a pancake,” he said of the country below them. “No need to climb.”

  Renwick had no objections. The neat squares of green and golden fields, the darker green of trees and forests, were stitched together by the wandering streams and rivers into a patchwork quilt. Even the man-made blobs of villages and towns looked pleasing from this height. “When do we arrive? Three o’clock?” We live with watches inside our heads, he thought, watches and maps, times and distances. Their cruising speed was being held to two hundr
ed miles an hour; the distance between Paris and Amsterdam was two hundred and fifty-seven miles. “Want me to take over? I’ve done some flying, you know.”

  “My arm’s okay.” Not all that much okay; but no one, not even Bob, handles this little darling. “About forty minutes to go before we put down at Amsterdam’s old airport.”

  “Then we talk. You can stop looking for your Djibouti friend, Pierre.”

  “How the devil did you know I was doing that?”

  “You would. I found out who she is. She isn’t working for the Swiss.”

  “No? She’s Swiss-American. Mother lives in Brooklyn. Father in Basel.”

  “She’s with the CIA.”

  “Jean Zinner? You’re sure?”

  “Maurice Farley admitted it. Reluctantly. In return, I tipped him off about Erik on board the Spaarndam.”

  “Thank God you did. She isn’t there to keep an eye on Erik. We know that. But Erik doesn’t.” One small slip by Jean Zinner, and Erik would think he was her target. “She’s in double danger.”

  “Farley is warning her, will probably get her to stay on board at Suez when Erik and Haversfield leave.”

  “Will they?”

  “Wouldn’t you if you were Erik? When does the Spaarndam reach Suez?”

  “Should be there tonight.”

  “A cloak of darkness—that’s all Erik needs.” That was all Erik ever needed, not just for tonight’s escape but for concealment in his world of conspiracy. Men like Erik, fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils, cloaked their lives in darkness.

  “Why is the CIA so interested in Haversfield? He’s a small fish.”

  “Perhaps bigger than we think. What has Gilman found out?”

  “Haversfield lives in Chelsea, London. Semi-retired. That lets him travel—he’s fond of Paris, it seems. And he pays his taxes.”

  “Semi-retired from what?”

  “A large stationery business.”

  “Office supplies? Such as typewriters? An agent for Klingfeld & Sons, typewriter exporters? Visits their Paris office?”

  Claudel looked at him. “Now you’re stretching a point, Bob.”

  “Except that the CIA is interested in Klingfeld & Sons.”

  “Did Farley tell you that?” Claudel was amazed.

  “He wouldn’t even let their name cross his tightly buttoned lips. I bet the CIA guys were onto Haversfield as a dedicated Communist in Berlin. So they wondered about his frequent visits to Paris, set up surveillance, and were led to Klingfeld’s office. That’s why they monitored the messages being sent from there.”

  “You could win that bet. What if the CIA had discovered Haversfield was more than a dedicated Communist—a KGB agent? That would interest it, all right.” Claudel shook his head. “But does Erik know that he’s being KGB-controlled? He had a fight with the Communists in Aden—so Moore said.”

  “He had a fight with two Cuban Communists. The KGB may have decided they handled him badly. So—its old rule: change of tactics. He’s a valuable piece of property to those who plan trouble for the West.”

  “But will he go along with them?”

  “If and when it suits him. It’s suiting him right now.”

  “Alvin Moore said he’d never make it.”

  “Alvin Moore’s political judgment was never very good. He didn’t make it himself.”

  “What?”

  “Throat slashed. In his Seychelles hideout.”

  Claudel was silent. Then he said, “Nearly forgot—Gilman sent you this.” He reached into the pocket of his flying jacket, handed over Renwick’s Biretta. “You’ve got your papers with you?”

  Renwick nodded. There would be no difficulties at customs.

  “What about Moore’s girl?”

  “Lorna got away. She’s probably in Switzerland right now.”

  “Has she heard, do you think?” Throat slashed, my God. Klingfeld plays rough.

  “She isn’t worrying about Al Moore, just about her money and Brimmer’s little black book.”

  “Fasten up! We’re going in,” said Claudel, ditching his thoughts about Klingfeld & Sons.

  ***

  It was almost four o’clock before they approached the Prinsengracht, a street of gabled houses as ancient as the canal that ran along its side. The building where Bruna Imports conducted its trade in paper and coffee had been restored like its neighbours and now looked prosperous but restrained. Its fourth floor, a glorified attic, was unused by Bruna except for storage of outdated records, and Crefeld, Vroom’s predecessor, had secured the front room for his more private and confidential business with Intelligence friends and contacts.

  Renwick entered first. Claudel followed two minutes later to join Renwick waiting for him inside the very small elevator that took them directly and slowly to the fourth floor. They stepped out into a short corridor and reached the heavy wooden door where a small sign read: J. SCHLEE / RARE BOOKS / BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.

  Renwick knocked, and as they waited he pointed to the cutout centred in a wooden rosette that was part of the door’s carved decoration. So that’s the peephole, Claudel thought, and we’re now being checked. Johan Vroom was taking no chances.

  The door swung open and Vroom, dark-haired and tall, impeccably dressed, was welcoming them into a panelled room. It was new to Claudel. He studied it covertly: a large desk, comfortable chairs, good lighting, three telephones, a filing cabinet, two long and narrow windows whose panels of diamond-shaped panes had been opened wide. Much the same as ever, thought Renwick, and took a chair to face Vroom, now seated at the desk. Claudel remained standing, keeping near the windows as if he were more interested in watching the canal traffic below than in any conversation.

  Vroom was as voluble as ever, his American accent adopted at Georgetown University, where he had once been a student. He was slightly nervous, breaking into complete details about the search for Erik on the Spaarndam and its negative results. “We’ll board the ship at Suez, of course.”

  Renwick nodded, said nothing.

  Vroom hurried on. “I’ve sent two good men to make a thorough search of the Spaarndam there. I assure you, Bob, everything is being done.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “How was Djibouti?” Vroom asked Claudel, veering away from the Spaarndam.

  “Hot. In every way.” Claudel turned from the windows to look at Vroom. “When did you hear about Erik?”

  “When we got Interintell’s request to get in touch with the ship. Tuesday, I believe. It had already sailed.” Vroom noticed the exchange of glances between Renwick and Claudel. “Something wrong?”

  “Yes,” said Renwick. “Are you sure you heard nothing about Claudel’s visit before then?”

  “Claudel’s visit? Oh, is that what you were talking about? Yes, Gilman told me he was on his way to Djibouti—a highly sensitive matter, he said. So I didn’t mention it to the rest of my department.”

  “Not even to your chief assistant?”

  “To Van Dam? Of course not. There was no need for him to know.”

  Claudel asked grimly, “Did Gilman mention where I was staying?”

  Vroom said impatiently, “He didn’t have to tell me. I assumed it was at that Greek’s hotel—l’Univers—the one where you stayed last year. You told me about it. We joked about the name when we had dinner together in Athens.”

  Did I talk about it? Claudel wondered. He couldn’t remember much of that evening—he and Vroom had been celebrating a small triumph they had just shared. He fell silent, thoroughly embarrassed.

  Vroom felt he had won a point. “What’s this all about?” he demanded.

  Renwick decided on brutal frankness. “There have been serious leaks of information in Interintell. We have an informant among us.”

  “And you come asking me questions?” Vroom was furious.

  “Yes,” said Renwick, “we are asking you questions, and we want some answers. Because last week a secret message was sent to The Hague from a firm in Paris. It
requested details about Claudel’s mission there, mentioned Erik by name. So, Johan, who else at The Hague knew about Claudel in Djibouti? Knew he was trying to discover Erik’s trail? Who knew about Erik himself?”

  Vroom’s face became taut, his features sharpening. He said nothing.

  “Who is in your confidence? Van Dam?”

  Vroom’s voice had thickened. “He would never betray us. Never! I trust him implicitly.”

  “Someone else in your department?”

  “No.” The word exploded like a bullet. Vroom’s anger increased. “And I am not having an affair with a woman. Nor am I homosexual. I am not being blackmailed into betraying—” He stopped short, compressed his lips, suddenly avoided Renwick’s eyes. “Nor,” he continued bitterly, “do I have any surplus money. You can examine my bank accounts. No doubt you already have.”

  Claudel said, “Your wife seems to have some extra cash—”

  “That was a legacy from an aunt in Virginia. Not much— just enough to pay Annabel’s expenses—she likes to ski so she visits Chamonix for a long week-end just every now and again.” Vroom was talking too much, his usual sign of nervousness. “I tried a visit there last winter, but I don’t ski. Mountains upset me; I’m not accustomed to them. Annabel, of course, finds Holland too flat.” There was a forced smile on Vroom’s lips. “The girl from Virginia, you know—grew up with hills all around her.”

  Renwick’s grey eyes were thoughtful. “You skate, don’t you? Surely you could have done that when Annabel was out on the slopes.”

  “Skate on a rink? Nothing more boring. I’m a long-distance man.”

  On the frozen canals, of course. Renwick nodded. “But you let her go alone to Chamonix?” That didn’t make so much sense: Vroom was devoted to his wife.

  “Perfectly safe. She has friends there.”

  “What about the children—don’t they go with her?”

  “They’re away at school.” Vroom’s voice was abrupt.

  So Annabel was restless, too little to do, and went off to Mont Blanc when the mood seized her. “Well,” Renwick said, “your wife won’t be leaving you for week-ends at Chamonix now.”