Cloak of Darkness

by Helen Macinnes

  As for the spot chosen by Keppler for this meeting, Renwick wasn’t enthusiastic. But Nina and he had never used the café, or the restaurant. And with the constant turnover of visitors in a hotel with two hundred bedrooms, it wasn’t likely he would be remembered. The only excuse he could find for Keppler’s choice was that his Swiss friend hadn’t wanted to name either a café or an exact street for their rendezvous. Certainly he had kept it anonymous enough and guarded against anyone trailing him. As Renwick had done. No one had been following him. He had made sure of that.

  Avoiding the hotel lobby, he entered the café directly from the street. Keppler was already seated in a corner where the neighbouring tables were as yet unoccupied. We’ll have about half an hour to talk before the place fills up, Renwick decided; I’d better waste no time. He gave a warm greeting, a firm handshake, and took a seat with his back to the room.

  For almost a minute they studied each other. Keppler was of medium height and solid build, his close-cropped hair now white. His features were strong—a well-defined nose, a long chin, a firm mouth. Heavy eyebrows, usually knotted in a small frown above clear blue eyes, eased slightly as he nodded his welcome. His promotion three years ago—but not all the way to the top, as his friends had expected; perhaps he was too near retirement age for that—had brought him definite prosperity. In his well-cut, dark-blue suit, he looked like a most respectable burgher who had spent the morning in church and was only contemplating a large Sunday dinner surrounded by grandchildren.

  A waitress arrived with two bottles of Spatenbräu, a beer Renwick had favoured four years ago. The time was exactly twelve fifteen. “You haven’t lost your touch,” Renwick said.

  “And you haven’t lost your knack of finding trouble. I thought you were safely upstairs in Merriman’s head office.” Keppler’s English was good, its accent tinged with the German spoken in his canton.

  “It was there, in my office, that the trouble began.”

  “When?”

  “Thirteen days ago.”

  Keppler’s eyebrows lost their frown, shot up. “Thirteen days? You move fast, Robert.”

  “The opposition set the pace. And it isn’t over yet.”

  “No? I’ve read the Chamonix reports. They seem full, but there are gaps. Big gaps, I feel. Why don’t you fill me in? Tell me how it all started.”

  “How much time do you have?”

  “I am expected back in Bern by five o’clock.”

  Renwick said, “Unavoidable?” His disappointment showed.

  “Where were you hoping I’d be?”

  Renwick looked at the nearby tables: still empty, but he lowered his voice even more. “Zurich.”

  Keppler poured some more beer, lit a cigarette. “Tell me how it started,” he said again.

  “It will take half an hour at least,” Renwick warned. “A brief rundown. But with all the essential facts.”

  Keppler noticed his second glance at the tables around them. “The weather is on our side. A warm Sunday in summer means picnics or open-air cafés. We won’t be disturbed.”

  So Renwick began with the phone call to his office from Alvin Moore, the ex-Green Beret who had thought he could outwit and outrun both Exports Consolidated and Klingfeld & Sons. The essential facts, he had promised, and these he gave: Brimmer’s lists, both Minus and Plus; the lead to Klingfeld & Sons, to Klaus Sudak, to Chamonix; the death of Erik. (Keppler knew who he was, had followed his career, and had put out an alert at Swiss frontiers in case Erik had tried to cross them.) Lorna Upwood, Renwick kept to the last—she was the natural lead into Zurich.

  Keppler didn’t speak, let him finish without interruption. Even then, Keppler remained silent for almost two minutes. At last he said, “Are there any Swiss names on Brimmer’s Plus List?” His face was grim.

  “There could be. It’s international, I understand.”

  “And if you find that list? What will you do with it?”

  “My first impulse was to burn it.”

  “You’ve changed your mind?” Keppler asked quickly.

  “I’m not sure if one of those names, American, belongs to a politician who hopes to run for president—” Renwick broke off, shrugged his shoulders.

  “A problem,” Keppler agreed. “You wouldn’t want that kind of fellow in your White House.” He lit another cigarette, his frown more intense than ever. “And we could have a similar problem if one of those names belonged to an ambitious Swiss politician. Particularly if...” He paused, then questioned, “Are you positive the KGB is involved?”

  “Sudak had information that only their files could contain. And London confirmed it—at three this morning. I don’t know how Interintell learned that fact, but they sent me a definite warning.”

  “You know that there are others who are trying to solve the mystery around Lorna Upwood?”

  “The French. Naturally.”

  Keppler nodded. “Two of them were with Duval when you telephoned him.”

  Renwick raised an eyebrow. “They move fast, too.” But let’s get back to the question of Zurich. “What’s the usual procedure for collecting mail at a poste restante?”

  “You produce your passport.”

  “No signature?”

  “Not if the passport photo and physical description are identifiable.”

  “But if someone is ill, sends a friend?”

  “The passport is still needed along with a written authorisation.”

  “That could be faked.”

  “Penalties are heavy.”

  “If the fraud was discovered right then and there.” And Klaus Sudak wouldn’t delay one minute. He would be out of the post office at the first premonition of danger. “Couldn’t it be possible,” Renwick said, choosing his words carefully, “that the Zurich post offices be notified? Anyone trying to collect Upwood’s mail must be refused unless he shows proof of authorisation?”

  “All the post offices?” Keppler prodded. “Did she not name one in particular?”

  “Cathedral,” Renwick admitted.

  “Then,” said Keppler, pleased with his small victory, “she was referring to Fraumünsterpost. It is the main post office, opposite the cathedral, which is called Fraumünster. Not far from her hotel. The Bürkli, I believe?”

  Renwick nodded.

  “So,” Keppler went on smoothly, “you would like me to notify Fraumünsterpost. But how do you come into possession of her false passport? Do you know where it is?”

  “No.”

  “She was registered at the hotel under her own name, but I do not imagine she used it for the poste restante address. I suppose you must know her assumed name?”

  So he’s already been in touch with Zurich about Lorna Upwood, thought Renwick. Encouraged, he dodged an answer to Keppler’s question and said, “If I do happen to find her fake passport, would you back me up when I present it at the Fraumünsterpost?”

  “Say that you are her brother? Her lawyer?” Keppler was curt. His eyes were hard.

  “No. A matter of national security, as it may well be. You could vouch for me at the post office. When I get that Plus List, you’ll read it along with me.” That was a fair enough deal, but Keppler was still brooding over his glass of beer. What had got into him? Had he become the complete bureaucrat after all— afraid to take chances? Surely not Keppler...

  Keppler said, “One difficulty. A telephone call from Chamonix—a request from Marchand to Duval just before you phoned. He wants Duval to contact the Zurich police and have them hold Upwood’s possessions until he can have them collected tomorrow.”

  “Until his friends in French Intelligence collect them.” Some people made it the easy way, Renwick thought bitterly. “They won’t even know the importance of what they are taking. Dammit all, Marchand hadn’t even heard the name Lorna Upwood until Claudel and I—” He stopped short. No use whining. Bellyaching was something you kept to yourself.

  “Until you and Claudel...?”

  “Found her, cut her loo
se, dealt with three of Sudak’s thugs.” Renwick’s voice was brusque.

  Keppler said in surprise, “That wasn’t in any of Marchand’s reports. And you didn’t mention it when you—”

  “It wasn’t a part of the essential facts.”

  “Then you must tell me all about the unessentials when we meet again.” Keppler was on his feet. “Order more beer. And some ham and cheese. We will keep our waitress happy—and have lunch, too. Don’t worry if I’m delayed. I may be ten or fifteen minutes absent.” He left their table, walking with his usual brisk light step through the half-empty café, and vanished into the hotel lobby.

  Telephoning, thought Renwick; but he put all speculation aside. Enough to know that Keppler was interested. Keppler was still Keppler, and no bureaucrat. He had been right, too, about a warm Sunday in July: they had peace to talk in this most unlikely place for a serious meeting. Renwick glanced around at the green-and-gold room, pink-frilled lampshades on every elaborate panel, velvet-covered chairs, lace mats under glass on the spindle-legged tables. A change of scene. Sixteen, fifteen hours ago, he and Claudel had been entering a squalid room with one blinding light focused on a woman tied to a chair. In ten years of his work in Intelligence he had seen many appalling sights. But that was the worst. The worst.

  He pulled himself back into the present, signed to the pretty blonde waitress, and had food and drink waiting on the table by the time Keppler returned.

  They ate as they talked, and—conscious of the need for haste—had completed lunch and conversation by half-past one. Keppler’s news was encouraging. He had phoned Duval and suggested that—as a matter of national security—he, himself, would contact the Zurich police, and Duval had agreed. “I shall notify them at seven o’clock. I cannot delay beyond that. You understand?”

  Renwick nodded. By seven thirty, he could expect the police to seal off Lorna Upwood’s room. “I’ll take the first flight out.”

  “And are you staying overnight at the Bürkli Hotel?”

  “If I can get a room at such short notice.”

  “You have one. I took the liberty of arranging for a room for you there. Talk with the manager when you arrive. Your name for your visit is Brown.”

  “That takes care of one big problem.” Sudak had never seen him, but he knew the name Renwick.

  “You are on your own until tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you at Fraumünsterpost when it opens. Seven thirty.”

  Renwick nodded. “I’ll be there. Can’t thank you enough.”

  “Always a pleasure to work with Interintell.”

  Renwick pushed back his chair. “Do I leave first or do—”

  Keppler stopped him with a gesture. “Some bad news. I kept it to the last. Duval has just received another call from Chamonix. About the hospital.”

  Renwick went tense. “Claudel?”

  “No. Not Claudel. The woman Upwood—she’s dead.” There was total silence.

  Keppler said, “Marchand is blaming everyone. Fortunately, Claudel was asleep, and you were about to meet me here.” Keppler enjoyed his little joke. “A priest visited the hospital at noon. He came, so he explained, in place of the regular parish priest, who was taken ill that morning.”

  “A priest? Or a man dressed as a priest?”

  “Priests do visit the sick.”

  “And what about the nurse in Lorna’s room?”

  “He sent her away so that he could hear Upwood’s confession. He left before the nurse returned fifteen minutes later.”

  “And found her patient dead.”

  “With her throat slit.”

  “Good God!”

  Keppler said nothing.

  If the nurse had believed confession was possible, then Lorna must have been conscious and able to speak. So Klaus Sudak’s agent had found the information he needed, and made certain— quickly, surely—that no one else would have it. Renwick said very quietly, “Sudak now knows.”

  Keppler nodded. “He will be in Zurich.”

  Renwick rose, shook hands, said nothing.

  “Auf Wiedersehen!” said Keppler as Renwick left. Auf Wiedersehen? Or was this a last goodbye? His frown deepened. Sudak was a dangerous man, too prone to violence. Ruthless and merciless. Power had corrupted him completely. Grim faced, Keppler watched Renwick enter the street, and called for the bill.

  “The gentleman paid everything,” the waitress told him. Independent young cuss, Keppler thought, relaxing into a polite nod. Yes, he decided, definitely another phone call to Zurich: Renwick going in alone, his partner hospitalised, needs more help than he has requested. And he must stay alive until he finds that Plus List: I can’t be involved with that—not directly. Besides, he never did mention Lorna Upwood’s assumed name—not only an independent young man, but careful, too. I’ve always liked him; that’s the difficulty. I’m risking a lot in helping him. I’m risking everything. That’s my problem. How do I handle it?

  Keppler rose and made his way into the hotel lobby toward a public telephone. His movements were slow and heavy.

  22

  There had been a mixture of good and bad luck today. Good, when Renwick found a taxi leaving its fare at the door of the Geneva café, persuaded it to wait for him while he picked up his bag at Cornavin Station. Good luck, too, as they drove past his parked Audi and saw a sharp-eyed man who had nothing much to do except lean against a neighbouring car, his ankles crossed, his arms folded, complete picture of innocence. Bad luck this early morning, though. If Claudel’s arm hadn’t acted up, if Renwick hadn’t taken him to the clinic, then Renwick would have arrived at the house in the valley before Klaus Sudak left. A matter of minutes—ten, perhaps fifteen at the most—and Sudak, caught by surprise, a bullet in his knee as discouragement, would now be under lock and key. And there would be no need for this race to Zurich. But at least Claudel was worried enough about his arm to listen to the doctors. He’d be all right. And that was a major consolation.

  Strange, thought Renwick as the taxi drove through broad avenues with glistening shop windows, passed small parks of trees and flowers, skirted wide sidewalks, I’ve always liked this town, and yet today I barely noticed anything in it—had no time to stop and look at any of its pleasing prospects. Next visit, he told Geneva, I’ll see you properly. Next visit? Would there be one? He blocked that question, kept it out of his mind.

  At the airport he had a wait of twenty minutes. Five of these went in a telephone call to Claudel.

  “Better by the hour,” Claudel told him with his usual Gallic optimism, “I’m fine. What about you?”

  “Fine.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In honeymoon city and watching some fireflies. Not much of a show until their tails light up at night.”

  Claudel caught the allusion to Geneva’s airport and laughed. Then his laugh ended abruptly. “Some bad news here.”

  “Yes. It travels fast. I heard.”

  “Marchand would like to know what you think. Could it have been Sudak himself? The priest was tall, fair-haired. Sudak might have stayed in town, got someone else to drive away by seven o’clock, and then left by another route in a different car.”

  “It wasn’t Sudak—unless the priest used verbena toilet water,” Renwick said. “Ask Marchand—he’ll explain.” And he slipped up on that one. “Where was he, anyway, when it happened?”

  “Catching some sleep. He had been up all night.”

  “You lie down and do the same.”

  “I’ll be out of this bed by tomorrow. Wait—will you?—until I can join you?”

  “What—aren’t the nurses pretty enough? I saw one that was a knockout.” At least he had Claudel, now talking about the sparkling brunette who liked to ski, far away from the topic of joining him. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he told Claudel and hung up the receiver.

  The next five minutes were spent in a lavatory, typically Swiss in its neat cleanliness. There, he removed Claudel’s outfit, rolled pants and shoes and tops into a tight bund
le, jammed it into a trash bin. His Biretta was secured in his trouser belt. And space was now waiting for a few purchases: he’d buy a shirt and underclothes as soon as he had time and saw a likely shop. Not at this airport—in Zurich, if he had a few minutes to spare, where there were giant arcades and goods of all description for sale. He might not know Zurich, but he did know its airport. Which reminded him to stop briefly at the tourist information booth and pick up a couple of folders dealing with that town. One of them had a map of the streets, a complete layout with public buildings named. Just what the well-briefed Intelligence officer needed. Renwick gave a wry smile over his present state of ignorance as he jammed the tourist folders into his pocket and made a dash for the plane.

  ***

  Zurich and Geneva: two contrasts with much in common. They each lay at one end of a large lake from which waters poured to divide the town and begin giant rivers—the Rhine from Zurich, the Rhône from Geneva. Each had long histories of siege and war ever since their Roman days—plenty of courage and determination in those independent-minded cities. Even in religion, Geneva had its Calvin, Zurich its Zwingli. And both had bankers, boats on the lakes, boutiques and shops with enticing displays. But Geneva spoke French and Zurich German, and Geneva’s broad avenues ran straight while Zurich’s streets curved and twisted. Thank God for that tourist folder, thought Renwick.

  First, he taxied to the railroad station as a simple precaution. A second taxi took him down the Bahnhofstrasse—the main thoroughfare—past fashionable shops and tramway junctions into a medieval city where the thirteenth-century cathedral, the Fraumünster, was faced by a giant twentieth-century post office. The Bürkli Platz lay just beyond, and there the street ended and Lake Zurich began.