Cloak of Darkness

by Helen Macinnes

  Lasch only stared at him.

  Renwick went on, “What is more, Major Lasch, I signed for this envelope. My name is on record. If there is an inquiry and I can’t account for the contents, what then? I got it and I lost it, all within forty seconds. Is that what I say?”

  “Inquiry?” That astonished Lasch, horrified him, too. “No need for any—”

  “What do you expect if someone is trying to prevent Keppler’s future promotion? Sure, there will be an investigation, an inquiry. So whose orders were you following? Your general in charge of operations who—”

  “No.” The sharp rebuttal was spontaneous, indignant. “Then whose orders?” Renwick was curt, authoritative.

  Lasch looked the unhappiest man in Zurich. “Inspector Keppler’s. It was understood that you should get the book for him.”

  “It was not!”

  “But—”

  “Look,” said Renwick, becoming the civilian again, “you must have misunderstood Keppler’s instructions. He was to see the names in this book and act on them—if any of those names do belong to Swiss citizens. That was all. There was no talk whatsoever that the book was going to Bern.” Then Renwick paused, said, “You haven’t been told why these names are so important, have you? They belong to men of several nations— several. Not just Swiss. They took money to aid and abet the illegal business of Exports Consolidated and of Klingfeld & Sons. You’ve heard of them, haven’t you?”

  “Of them, yes.” The tight control over Lasch’s face was slipping. There was anxiety now, mixed with doubt and uncertainty.

  A man who is loyal, obeys orders, but he’s not stupid: if he let me talk, it was to find out what I could tell him. And he’s listening. Renwick said, “When did you hear of Exports Consolidated? In the last few days? But not in the last two weeks when you should have heard.”

  Lasch looked at him sharply.

  Renwick said, “Who could have smothered any report on Exports Consolidated? Who could have sidetracked its link with Klingfeld?”

  There was a long silence. Lasch glanced at the hall’s entrance. Two men had stationed themselves there, blocking its exit.

  Renwick noticed the glance and the men.

  Lasch said crisply, “You refuse to hand over that book to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if you were to be threatened with arrest, with questions about the death of Klaus Sudak, you would still refuse?”

  “Yes.”

  “For the reasons you have given me?”

  “Yes.” No other exit, thought Renwick. But the business day had begun: people moving around, lines forming in front of the grilled windows, stamps being bought, packages mailed. If he could mix with a group as they left, reach the street?

  Quietly, with an abrupt hand sign, Lasch signalled to the two men. They left.

  Dismissal. Renwick’s breath came more easily.

  Lasch said, “You wait here. I shall telephone Bern.”

  “And tell Keppler to stop playing hard-to-find. I promised to show him the names in the Plus List, and I’ll keep that promise. Tell him also—”

  “Plus List?”

  “Exports Consolidated’s list. The man who kept it had a peculiar sense of humour. Useful friends were a plus,” Renwick explained patiently. “So when you call Keppler in Bern, tell him to get over to Zurich as fast as he can. I’ll wait until noon. That gives him four hours.”

  Lasch’s eyes were hard. “Inspector Keppler is not in Bern.”

  “In Zurich? Has he an office here, too?” As soon as I can get away from my office. Keppler’s words.

  “No.” Lasch turned and hurried toward the doorway.

  Renwick’s face tightened. He took out Brimmer’s diary. Thirty-eight names were on the Plus List, one to each page. There were only two Swiss names. One was Johann Keppler.

  For a moment, Renwick felt paralysed. He hadn’t wanted to believe it. It couldn’t be, he had told himself in those last few minutes, it couldn’t be. But it was.

  He snapped the book shut, picked up his bag, and reached a counter. There, with the bag safe at his feet, he pulled out the Bürkli envelope. Into this he slipped the Plus List, sealed and addressed it to J.P. Merriman & Co., with Attention Ronald Gilman across one corner of the envelope. He marked it Luftpost—Par Avion— Airmail. Then he had the envelope weighed and stamped and registered. He asked for special delivery. Contents? A personal diary. And so noted. And so mailed.

  It was with mixed emotions that he let the envelope fall out of sight through a slot for delivery abroad. I’ll rely on the Swiss, he thought as he walked back to the spot where Lasch had left him: their mails, like their trains, run on time. No sign yet of Lasch; or of any self-effacing man standing against a wall, watching.

  How could Keppler have done it? Thirty years or more of honest service, and then this. What made him? Why? Disappointment over promotion? Savings vanished with the expenses of his sister’s illness? Retirement on little money? But other men had faced these questions and hadn’t answered with betrayal.

  It was a recent involvement. The first payment came last October: fifty thousand deposited in a Nassau bank. A second deposit of fifty thousand in March. The third was made two weeks ago: seventy thousand. Peanuts compared to what some of Brimmer’s helpers had been paid. Keppler would never know how cheaply he had been bought.

  And then, in one last desperate hope, Renwick wondered if Keppler could have mounted a secret investigation of his own into Exports Consolidated and Klingfeld. Had he thought he could infiltrate, get proof of their bribery and corruption? Yet, that wasn’t Keppler’s style: he never took wild chances. Everything he did was calculated. One of the most capable and reliable men I’ve ever met, thought Renwick. He was all of that, four years ago, when we first worked together. What happened? Or did it happen? Am I condemning a friend who took a fantastic risk to furnish real evidence?

  Heartsick, he stood motionless, scarcely heard Lasch’s voice at his elbow. “Inspector Keppler will meet you at noon.”

  Renwick nodded.

  “At the Belvoir Park, north entrance.”

  No park, thank you. Renwick shook his head. “At the airport. Twelve o’clock. I’ll wait one hour. Then I leave.”

  “Where do you wait?”

  “Inside the terminal—the corridor with the long stretch of shops.” And plenty of people around. “There’s a café at its far end.”

  “Which end?”

  “If you stand looking out toward the runways, then it’s to your right-hand side.” Not brilliant, but the best he could do at this moment.

  “I know the café.” Lasch paused. His face was impassive, but his eyes were worried. “Did you look at the Plus List?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were there names of Swiss citizens?”

  “Two.”

  “Will you show the list to Inspector Keppler?”

  “I will tell him.”

  “You promised—” Lasch began. And then, “so you don’t trust us.”

  “At this moment I trust no one,” Renwick said bitterly.

  Lasch wasn’t too surprised. “The list does concern our national security?” he persisted.

  “Very much so. Interintell will keep your government fully informed.”

  “Then,” said Lasch softly as he gestured in the direction of the poste restante where Renwick had received the envelope addressed to Karen Cross, “all that was of importance?”

  “Of vital importance to Switzerland. And to six other countries.”

  Lasch’s relief was transparent. “There will be no inquiry about this morning.”

  “Not concerning you and me, at least.” Renwick picked up his bag, and they walked out together.

  “May I give you a lift?” Lasch asked as they left the Fraumünsterpost.

  Renwick looked at the olive-green car that waited by the curb. The two men inside it were those who had blocked the exit from the main hall. “Very kind of you, but I think I need some air. B
y the way, what changed your mind about giving me a lift earlier today?”

  Lasch hesitated, seemed to take Renwick’s measure, said very quietly, “Your questions: who smothered any reports on Exports Consolidated—who sidetracked its link with Klingfeld?” There was another hesitation. “That happened two weeks ago. But I thought it was a mistake in judgment, an error.”

  Seventy thousand dollars two weeks ago. Renwick’s small hope grew fainter. “You have a phone call to make. I won’t delay you any more. Goodbye, Major Lasch.”

  Lasch smiled, showed a small transmitter concealed in his hand. “No need to telephone. Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Renwick.”

  So Keppler isn’t far away. He could have met me here and now. Grim-faced, Renwick made his way toward the crowded Hauptbahnstrasse.

  24

  It had been a long morning of walking, of thinking, of trying not to think, but eventually Renwick took a taxi and reached the Zurich airport. He entered the café in the terminal building at twelve o’clock exactly.

  It was almost filled. People waiting for planes, people spending time between connections, people concentrating on their own worries—schedules, safe transfer of luggage, delays. People everywhere, but no sign of Keppler. Renwick made sure of a table, vacated in near panic by an elderly couple as they heard their flight being called, by sitting down as the remains of their lunch were being cleared away. He ordered a pot of coffee.

  By half-past twelve he ordered more coffee and a sandwich as his pretext for occupying the table. Its position was too good to lose. He lit his fourth cigarette.

  He had always liked this café, a pleasant place to relax in the middle of an airport’s turmoil. It wasn’t walled in; it needed no door, no windows. It was simply a large space roped off from the broad indoor avenue, lined with shops, that ran the length of this giant terminal. Its decorative plants didn’t block the view of anyone walking outside its boundary; its tables weren’t jammed together: Keppler would see him easily. And Renwick had taken a chair that let him have clear sight of anyone who stepped out of the crowd to enter this oasis.

  So there he was, sitting in a place he usually liked and hating every minute of it. He stubbed out his ninth cigarette. It was one o’clock. He pushed aside the uneaten sandwich, looked no more at the entrance in front of him, began counting out Swiss francs to cover the bill and tip. Five past one. Keppler wasn’t coming. No talk; no clarification. But, then, there was the old-time rule for Intelligence officers: never apologise, never explain. If your friends couldn’t take you on trust, they were no friends at all.

  He reached for his bag—that goddamned bag filled with old Bernie’s little goodies he had been lugging around Zurich as if it were Fort Knox in miniature. He sensed a movement toward his table, looked up sharply. It was Lasch who stood there, his face set and his arm stiff as he indicated the chair opposite Renwick. “May I?” he asked.

  Renwick straightened his back. What now? A last-minute summons to a police station? Questions about the shooting of Klaus Sudak?

  Lasch sat down. “I am glad I found you. I only heard half an hour ago. I came at once.”

  Renwick waited.

  “He is dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “Drove into a stone marker at the side of the road. He was travelling at high speed. It was a dangerous curve.”

  “On the highway to the airport?” Renwick could remember no sharp curves.

  “No. On the road to Luzern. He must have left Zurich just after—just after I talked with him.” There was a long pause. Then Lasch forced himself to say, “He knew that road well. He used to say he could drive it blindfolded.” Renwick’s last shred of hope was gone. He felt stifled, couldn’t speak.

  “In Luzern—there was a woman. Very young. Forty years younger.”

  “Since when? In the last year?”

  Lasch nodded. Again a pause. He said slowly, “Death was instant. He made very sure. It was one solution. The only one perhaps?”

  Yes, Renwick answered silently. For Keppler it was the only solution.

  Lasch went on talking, but his voice was now brisk. “You said there were two Swiss names on the list of men who had taken bribes from Exports Consolidated.”

  Renwick nodded.

  “You said that Interintell would send these names to my government. Will they?”

  “Yes. I think that’s the way. Interintell must handle that list: names to each government of its citizens who have taken those bribes. The government concerned can keep an eye on their future ambitions—it won’t want men like that running for public office or occupying positions of power and trust. But,” Renwick added, “there would be no need for Interintell to send a dead man’s name. He would no longer be a—” and this was difficult to say—“a security risk.”

  “I agree,” Lasch said, and relaxed. He looked at the American’s tight face, then at the heap of cigarette stubs and the uneaten food. “One more thing. It is important. To me.”

  “Yes?” Renwick had pushed back his chair, was about to leave.

  “Yesterday evening—at the Bürkli—I had no idea you were in Upwood’s room. No idea. I wasn’t told you could be there.”

  Renwick stared at him.

  Lasch rushed on. “In the lobby I saw the red-haired man keep looking at his watch. At six o’clock he rose and went through the bar into the restaurant. A tall man, dark-haired, arrived within a few minutes. They took the service stairs from there—without a word, moved quickly. I followed. Discreetly. When I reached the second floor, they were already at the door of the room. I was calling for my backup as they broke the lock and entered. I thought—I swear before God—that I would let them start searching, and then I would surprise them, hold them until my two men arrived. I did not know you could be in there—facing them—alone.” Lasch’s eyes hardened at that thought. “Believe me,” he said, his first sign of anger showing against Keppler, “I wasn’t told. That is not how I work.”

  “I believe you.”

  “My report reads that there was an exchange of shots. You were standing to the left side of the door. Facing the men. They had their backs to the couch at the window. Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew it! The two bullet holes were in the wall of the room, just behind you. The bullets we extracted were matched with their revolvers. There will be no doubt that the two men fired at you. But missed, Gott sei Dank. So, Herr Renwick”—Lasch actually smiled—“as you were acting for Interintell, there should be no difficulties, no unpleasantness for you. It was self-defence, in the line of duty.”

  Then I’m free to leave, Renwick thought.

  Lasch said, “More important, your actual name will not be mentioned. There is no need to have it recorded for the benefit of any KGB file.”

  “No need,” Renwick agreed. “And thank you for that.”

  “The least we can do. You have done us a service.”

  “Not one of my choosing.”

  Lasch said quickly, “You didn’t destroy him, Herr Renwick. He destroyed himself.”

  Yes, last October, Keppler destroyed himself. “Goodbye, then. I’m glad we talked.” Renwick was rising to his feet. He couldn’t resist adding, “And thank you for letting me sleep last night.”

  Lasch’s white face flushed. “I entered your room to ask if you had found the passport.”

  “And to persuade me to entrust it to you for safekeeping?” Renwick asked gently.

  “I was instructed—” Lasch broke off. “You understand?”

  “Fully.”

  “Of course, if you haven’t found the passport, then all our plans for this morning would have been changed. Nicht wahr?”

  “True,” Renwick agreed, and eased the look of embarrassment on Lasch’s unhappy face. Plans would have been changed, and Keppler would have been still alive, still undiscovered. He would have searched for the passport, and when he had found it, he’d make sure this time that Brimmer’s Plus List would be delivered into his hands. As
it was meant to be, this morning. Renwick resisted one final question. Why didn’t you grab harder at that little black book, Karl—or force me with a gun at my ribs into your car? Instead, he put out his hand. “It was good working with you, Karl. Fortunate for me, too.” And that was the solid truth.

  “A pleasure to work with Interintell.” Lasch was on his feet, his hand crushingly strong in its firm grip.

  “Goodbye.”

  “Auf Wiedersehen.”

  Renwick was three paces away. “Herr Renwick!” he heard. What now? He wondered as he turned around.

  “You forgot your bag, Herr Renwick.” Lasch handed it to him with a bow.

  Renwick took it, shook his head, and walked on, back into his thoughts about Keppler. Strange: they had talked about him for the last fifteen minutes and never once had they mentioned his name. Yet not so strange: Keppler, as they had known him, had died nine months ago.

  Now, where was a telephone? In Washington it would be half-past eight. He would waken Nina with the best news in his life: he was coming home.

  25

  In Zurich, Renwick hadn’t been able to reach Nina. There was only the housekeeper’s voice, cool and impersonal, telling him they had left Basset Hill. Yes, Mrs. Smith had left. And Mr. MacEwan. With Mr. Grant driving them in his car. No, she didn’t know where they were going.

  The short flight to Geneva became a long plunge back into frustration and anxiety. He had expected too much, he told himself, when he hoped to find Nina waiting by the phone for his call. Everything was all right, must be. But the last message from Basset Hill, relayed by London this morning, had been sent out from Washington last night. Anything could have happened in that time-lag. Anything.