Cloak of Darkness

by Helen Macinnes

  But he remembered to take the passport out of his pocket and slip it under his pillow. He pulled off his clothes, fell into bed, and slept for ten hours.

  23

  The early light that flooded into the room awakened Renwick. For a few moments he lay on the narrow bed staring at the plaster walls, wondering where the devil he was. The Bürkli... This was Monday. He thrust his hand under the pillow, relaxed as he found the passport there. It was ten minutes past five by his watch. And a lot to be done.

  Briskly, he rose; showered, shaved, and washed in record time; and even had a change of shirt to make him feel still better. Before he set up the transmitter he began making notes. His last message to Gilman in London had been sent at three in the morning, yesterday. My God, he thought, how do I pack all that has happened since then into one brief report?

  He solved that question by just giving basic facts. Elaborations and elucidations, words as tiresome as the processes they begat, could wait until he reached Paris. The emergency was over; danger, too. His relief—and the deep, unbroken sleep of last night—sharpened his wits. The coding of the information for Interintell went easily: Sudak dead, Upwood dead; necessary passport discovered, diary to be retrieved today, Keppler cooperating; Claudel in hospital but recovering. He ended with, “What news Washington? Immediate reply requested. About to leave.” It came within two minutes. No comment about the report he had just sent—that was still being decoded. But the reply to his question couldn’t have been better. “Washington all clear. Nina safe and well.”

  That was a thought to keep him happy as he packed everything—including the Biretta—into Claudel’s bag. By six fifteen he was ready to leave. Time enough for a quick call to Chamonix and reassure Claudel.

  “Can’t talk much now. But all is well.”

  “The show is over?” Claudel’s disappointment was clear in his voice.

  “Mostly. Should be simple from here on out. So relax. I’ll drop in to see you as soon as I can.”

  “No need.” Claudel’s voice became decisive. “I’m signing out.”

  “Too soon.”

  “The doctors have fixed the arm. So where do we meet? I mean it, Bob. I mean it. Now, where?”

  “Where we arrived. Early afternoon, possibly. Say two o’clock?”

  “We’ll have to buy a couple of tickets. But don’t talk me out of leaving! Meet you at two—or whenever you can. I’ll wait.”

  There was no arguing with that mood, even if it belonged to a man whose arm wasn’t fit enough to let him pilot his own plane. “Okay,” said Renwick, ending his call. He understood what Claudel was feeling: if he had missed the action, then he damned well wanted to be the first to hear the details.

  The telephone rang as Renwick was half-way to the door. It was Keppler. And angry. “You should have kept this line open.”

  What has got into him? I was only on the phone for a couple of minutes. “Sorry.”

  “Did you find what you needed?”

  “Yes.”

  “You will be met outside the Fraumünster at seven twenty-five.”

  “The cathedral?” Renwick asked to make sure.

  “Yes. Main door. It’s only a few minutes to the Fraumünsterpost.”

  “Met—by whom?”

  “You know him. He spoke to you yesterday evening. He will accompany you and see everything safely through.”

  “Won’t you be there?”

  “Later.”

  “When?” Renwick’s voice sharpened.

  And Keppler’s voice eased. “As soon as I can get away from my office. There are several urgent problems.”

  So he was still in Bern. “I thought you wanted to see that list.”

  “I do. A little delay won’t matter, provided the list is safe. It won’t be in any danger now.”

  “I hope not.”

  “But you took care of our major problem last night. Most efficiently, I hear.”

  “There could be other interested people.”

  “As far as I can learn, you are way ahead of them.” With that piece of encouragement, Keppler ended their talk.

  And am I supposed to hang around Zurich until he can leave Bern? Then Renwick’s annoyance subsided. He had asked for help, he had got it, and now—it was always the way—he would have to go along. Gracefully, he told himself. He picked up his bag and left the room.

  As he started downstairs, he had other worrying thoughts. It could be that Keppler might have co-operated too willingly with Interintell and was now trying to pacify his chief in Bern or the Zurich police. But if Keppler was meeting difficulties, had overstepped his authority—well, whatever he learned from the names on the Plus List should get him out of that fix. And if no Swiss names were on that list?

  Renwick paused at the second floor, looked down the corridor. A workman was busy at the door of Room 201. On impulse, Renwick strolled along. The man was installing a new lock, didn’t even lift his head to glance at Renwick. The bloodstained rug had been removed. Another workman had filled two holes in the opposite wall with plaster and was now touching them up with cream-coloured paint. A woman was packing Lorna Upwood’s possessions into two suitcases while a young policeman watched her carefully. Renwick, at the threshold, didn’t wait for any questioning. He left as quickly as he had appeared.

  He felt the better for that brief visit. Keppler had taken care of everything. And if Keppler had any difficulties in Bern, he was capable of dealing with them, too. With that reassurance, Renwick could blame his attack of bad temper on the fact he needed a good solid breakfast.

  In the empty lobby Manager Goss, even at this early hour, was busy at the reception desk. He was posting sealed envelopes—no stamps on them, no addresses, just names in large handwriting—one by one in each correct pigeonhole. Renwick said, “Good morning,” and received a glare. Herr Goss placed the last bill in its allotted space and faced him.

  Renwick laid his passport on the counter. “I think you need this. Temporarily. I’ll be leaving as soon as I’ve had something to eat. And”—he drew the register toward him—“I should sign here.” Not Unknown Brown, either, but Robert Renwick, London.

  Goss stared blankly. His glum expression changed, first into surprise, then to relief. He took the passport, compared it with Renwick’s signature, made a note of its number and address, returned it most politely. “I am afraid the dining-room is closed, Herr Renwick—until seven o’clock.”

  “Then where is the nearest place where I can find something to eat?”

  “Not near. It’s early, you see.”

  And in less than an hour I’ve to meet Keppler’s man—Losch or Lasch or Lesch. He flashed his identification so damned quick, or I was so damned tired, that I didn’t read it properly. Karl was the first name. That I did see.

  Goss was watching him. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “we could stretch our rules.”

  Considering the rules that had been already stretched, Renwick could only smile. “Very kind of you.”

  “You did not come down to dinner last night,” Goss observed.

  True, true. “I fell asleep.”

  “Yes. So we saw. This way, Herr Renwick. May I suggest you eat at my table? That would be the easiest place.” He led the way through a small bar into a small dining-room, and reached a corner table near the kitchen door. His son, finishing a last cup of coffee, rose to his feet, said, “Yes, Father, I’ll attend to the desk,” even before he heard the command, and hurried away.

  And now, thought Renwick as he sat down and placed his bag close to the leg of his chair, I’ll be questioned. Goss is curious, wants to talk. But I have a question of my own: who saw me asleep?

  Goss fulfilled the prediction. He took an opposite chair, summoned his daughter from the kitchen (the family likeness was strong) and ordered a substantial breakfast for Herr Renwick. “So much happened last night,” he began.

  “Sorry I missed it.”

  Goss dropped his voice. “Two men—burglars, we think�
�� attempted to rob one of our rooms. When they were intercepted, they fired their pistols. Yes, they were armed!”

  Renwick shook his head in wonder.

  “Fortunately, Inspector Lasch was there. He was with the military for several years—an expert marksman.”

  “Oh?” Renwick’s interest was real.

  But Herr Goss’s information stopped short of one man dead, another wounded and arrested. Such things did not happen in his hotel. “You didn’t hear anything last night? Nothing at all?”

  “As you saw, I was asleep.” Renwick tried to keep everything light and easy. “Were you actually in my room? I never heard a thing.”

  “Just for a moment. When Inspector Lasch saw you were so soundly sleeping, we left.”

  “Lasch was there?”

  “This is the way it was. After the—the disturbance, he was checking the rooms.”

  I bet he wasn’t. Not rooms plural. Just mine. But why? “Of course,” said Renwick.

  Goss rushed on, feeling the need for an apology by way of an explanation. “He came to me for a key to your room. He hadn’t been able to get any reply when he knocked at your door. Naturally, I insisted on going upstairs with him. No one enters a guest’s room without his permission—or mine.”

  “So you stayed with Lasch when he entered my room?”

  “Certainly. But you were deeply asleep. He couldn’t ask you any questions. So we left.”

  An honest man, thought Renwick as he looked at Goss. Perhaps Lasch is honest, too: all he wanted to do was to ask me some questions for his report on the disturbance, as Goss had put it so eloquently. Perhaps. But I’ll keep an eye on Inspector Lasch.

  Yet why hadn’t he broken the lock instead of trying to borrow a key? One answer could be that a broken lock would have had me tight with suspicions when I discovered it this morning. Or perhaps I’m in a doubting mood until I get something into my stomach.

  Breakfast arrived. Herr Goss rose tactfully, prepared to go back to supervising his son. “I’ll have your bill prepared for you when you leave.”

  “In half an hour. And, by the way, Herr Goss, could I trouble you for a strong envelope? I’ll collect it when I pay the bill.”

  “An airmail envelope?”

  “A Manila envelope, if possible. Heavy.”

  “Certainly, Herr Renwick.” Goss didn’t seem mystified. Guests make stranger requests than this one.

  Renwick poured the coffee. Once he was in possession of that little black book, once Keppler had been shown its contents, as promised, he would mail it from the airport. He wasn’t going to carry it around with him half-way across Europe, that was for damn sure.

  He began eating. It was an excellent breakfast.

  ***

  There was a fresh touch to early sunshine that invited a brisk walk along the lakeshore. But with regret Renwick turned north on Bahnhofstrasse. He passed Fraumünsterpost, an imposing edifice, lying just across a side street from the cathedral buildings. He reached the Fraumünster itself, ten minutes early.

  So was Inspector Lasch. He looked friendly, even if his face was white and tired. He couldn’t have had much rest last night. Yes, definitely friendly; and very correct. “Colonel Renwick— good morning!”

  “Good morning, Inspector Lasch. Or should I say colonel, too?”

  Lasch’s eyes wavered. “Perhaps it is better if we do not use rank.”

  He’s a major, Renwick thought with amusement. “Much better. I prefer it. Shall we walk a little?” Or just stand here and look obvious.

  They strolled around the cathedral’s precincts. “Were you,” asked Renwick, “with military Intelligence before you joined Keppler’s outfit?”

  “Outfit?” Lasch’s English, good, didn’t stretch that far.

  “Section—department—whatever he heads. He is chief of operations, isn’t he?”

  “Of his division, yes. But of the whole department—no. Last year when our new chief was appointed—” He broke off; he may have felt that his politeness had let him say too much. His voice changed. “These are matters we do not talk about.”

  “Sorry. You know my status. I’d like to know about yours. But if it’s a state secret, then we’ll drop the subject.”

  “Not a state secret. Just security.”

  “I don’t think we are being overheard here. Do you?”

  Lasch smiled too.

  “So you are with Keppler’s anti-terrorist division, and not with the department. You couldn’t have a better boss— probably the most capable man I’ve met in any Intelligence service. Certainly, he carries a lot of clout.”

  “Clout?”

  “Important, powerful.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “Why was he passed over last year?” The question seemed aimless.

  “Never had any training in military Intelligence,” Lasch said abruptly.

  “And that disqualifies him? Permanently?”

  “No, no. With Inspector Keppler’s record, that may be overlooked next time. Changes are happening. But he may reach retirement before that position is open again.”

  “That’s a problem in all careers.” The man who makes it to within touch of the top job, Renwick thought, and then is defeated by age. Retirement on what? Half pay? And a life of pottering around a small garden like Gilman’s Aunt Chris in Washington. “He never married, did he? Lives with his sister, as far as I remember.”

  “She died last year. A long illness.” Lasch shook his head in sympathy.

  “Sorry to hear that. Well, I just hope Keppler gets that final promotion before he retires. But of course there will be other competitors for it, too. There’s always a lot of infighting between various Intelligence departments. That happens in every capital I’ve visited.”

  “Does Interintell suffer from that?”

  “So far not, thank God. But we aren’t large-scale; we are more concentrated. On terrorist activities. And we don’t pull rank. We began as friends—people who knew each other—and we keep it that way.”

  “Interesting.” Lasch liked the idea.

  “I just hope that Interintell’s request for help hasn’t put Keppler in a difficult position. His competitors might—”

  “Inspector Keppler can handle all difficulties.” Lasch looked pointedly at his watch. “I think it is time.”

  Time to close a delicate conversation? “I believe it is,” Renwick agreed. They retraced their steps and began to approach the Fraumünsterpost. “So you’re my bodyguard, as it were,” Renwick joked.

  “There is nothing to guard. Just formalities.”

  “Do you know what I am collecting?” Renwick watched the man’s face.

  “An envelope. But it is of some importance, I understand.”

  He’s telling the truth; he has no idea what the envelope contains. “It’s damned important,” Renwick said, and saw Lasch’s eyes open in surprise. “Just keep a sharp lookout, will you?”

  “There is nothing to worry about, I assure you.”

  But there he wasn’t telling the truth. The sharp eyes were suddenly uneasy. The white face was strangely taut. “Good,” said Renwick, “good.” And as he seemed to forget any possible danger, Lasch relaxed also. One thing I did find out, thought Renwick: Keppler has enough power to handle any difficulties. If some quibbling is going on in Bern this morning, Keppler can take care of it. And thank God for that. If I had got him into some real trouble, I’d have had that on my conscience for a long, long time.

  “Everything is arranged,” Lasch was saying as he led the way into the post office. “You have also your own passport? Identification papers?”

  “What about the authorisation?”

  “That has been given.”

  It sounded easy. Although there could have been complications from the current renovation of the Fraumünsterpost’s interior, with scaffolding and a work-in-progress around, Lasch knew exactly where to head for the post restante section. The actual transaction was simple. Renwick and Lasch wer
e expected, and at this early hour they had the place almost to themselves. Lasch flashed his identification, then turned everything over to Renwick, who showed Karen Cross’s passport. Yes, he said, he was acting on behalf of Karen Cross, and signed a paper to that effect. Then there was his own passport to be examined briefly, and his signature compared with the one he wrote on the receipt. That over—a matter of minutes—he was in possession of an envelope, addressed to Miss Karen Cross at this poste restante in Zurich, and mailed in New York two weeks ago. “One moment!” he told Lasch and opened the envelope. It held a thin black note-book, four by three inches, no more, in size.

  He riffled through some pages. This was it. The Plus List. Suddenly, Lasch’s arm shot out, his hand trying to grasp the book. Just as quickly, Renwick jammed it into his inside pocket. He stared at Lasch as he closed its zipper, made the pocket secure. “What the hell were you trying to do?”

  “You are to give me the book.”

  “I what?”

  Lasch gave a worried glance around the room. “No argument here, please. Keep your voice down. My instructions were that you give me the book.”

  Renwick walked on. He reached a long row of grilled windows now open for business and stopped abruptly. He dropped his bag at his feet, took his stand. He lowered his voice but spoke with a fury that startled Lasch. “Whose instructions? Whose?”

  “We should leave. We talk outside.”

  “We talk in here. Whose instructions? The Chief of Intelligence? Or someone who wants Keppler’s job?”

  “No, no. Please. I can’t tell you. You understand?” Renwick was recovering. The book was still in his pocket. Lasch was armed—that formidable Swiss army pistol he had drawn last night was in its holster under his jacket—but he hadn’t tried any threats with it to force Renwick to walk outside into a waiting car. Renwick’s voice lost its intensity, became low but clear; and he didn’t move from where he stood.

  “No,” he said, tight-lipped, “I don’t understand. And you don’t understand, either. This book, which you tried to grab, was Interintell’s discovery. We learned about it, we risked a lot for it—one helluva lot. Including yesterday evening. Do you think I enjoy having to fire to kill? Do you? If I hadn’t, I would have been dead. Sudak would have searched my pockets, discovered the passport. And he would have found a way to get this book. Oh, yes, he would have. He must have had his plan all arranged: a woman who resembled Karen Cross, who’d pass muster. Easy enough.”