Cloak of Darkness (3 page)

Moore took the rebuke with a shrug. He was tense, though.

Preserve me from a jumpy man holding a pistol, Renwick thought. If he releases the safety catch, I’ll grasp his wrist, twist it up. I could draw the Biretta in that split second, but I won’t: a shoot-out in a cab is faintly ridiculous—would upset my British friends, too. Renwick eased his voice and kept a careful eye on Moore’s right hand. “You’ve got some strange ideas about the way we carry on our business at the office. Forcing people inside is not the way we work.”

“You sure don’t consult or engineer.”

“No?”

Moore stared. “You an engineer?” he asked, unbelieving.

“I was.”

“Before the army?”

“And for the first two years of my service.”

“As I heard it, you engineer more than dams and bridges now.”

“You’ve heard a lot of things, it seems.” Renwick looked pointedly at the driver’s red neck. “A friend of yours? Then we can start talking about what you’ve heard and where you heard it.”

Moore shook his head. “Don’t know him. Just doing his job. And we’ll need more time than we’ll have in this cab. There’s a lot to talk about.” He was no longer on edge.

So Renwick kept the conversation innocuous, nothing to stir up any more tension in Moore. “How did you produce a taxi at the right moment? Quite a triumph.”

“Easy. I took a cab to Bridle Lane, found it couldn’t park there, so I settled for the square. All thirty feet of it. Some district, this.”

“And you paid double the fare, promised double again if it waited for you?”

A grin broke over Moore’s face. “With the cost of a hot supper thrown in. Easy.” He was back to normal, more like the corporal Renwick remembered from seven years ago. There were interesting changes, though: he carried more weight, but that was muscle, not fat. The deep tan, the leather skin with its creases at the eyes, and the furrows on either side of the tight mouth indicated much time out of doors in strong sun and tropical heat. His suit spelled city, however, some place like New York, where summer needed thin clothing. It looked fairly new, expensive but not custom-made. Not enough time for a tailor to measure and fit? A quick visit to America? The crisp white shirt had a buttoned-down collar, the tie was recognisably from Brooks Brothers. A nice picture of an affluent man. Except for the raincoat—definitely incongruous, probably bought in an emergency this morning when the rain had set in.

Moore noticed the quiet scrutiny. “Well?” he demanded, his eyes defensive.

“Pretty smooth. But you always did like a smart uniform.” Renwick touched the sleeve of the plastic coat. “Bought today, thrown away tomorrow. Heading for a drier climate?”

Moore’s eyes widened for a moment. Then he laughed. “I came to the right man, that’s for sure.” He looked long at Renwick. “Engineer!” he said, shook his head. “Never met one yet who noticed anything except stress and strain on a pontoon.” He settled back, began watching the streets.

Again, Renwick checked the direction they were taking. It could indeed be Paddington. Fleet Street and the Strand area were well behind them. Piccadilly Circus, as bright and garish as Times Square, lights at full glitter even in daylight, had led them to the curve of Regent Street. But not for long. A quick left turn took them into quieter streets, rich and restrained, where people didn’t stand on pavements waiting for double-decker buses. The taxi driver knew his London: a left turn, a right turn, travelling west, then north, then west and north again, through an area of exclusive shops, imposing houses, and most correct hotels. This part of London always seemed to Renwick to be floating on its own cloud nine, far above the dreams of ordinary mortals. But soon the cab would be nearing Oxford Street and touching reality again. Still a long way to travel. Renwick glanced covertly at his watch. Pierre Claudel should be already at Paddington, waiting to track him into the station. “We may miss that train,” Renwick said.

It didn’t seem to worry Moore. With an eye on a corner sign reading
Park Street,
he stopped lounging. “Nearly forgot about this.” With quick, expert touch, he removed the silencer from the revolver, slipped them into separate pockets of the raincoat. “When we leave the cab, you walk ahead. I follow.”

“And if I don’t walk ahead? Will you reassemble that piece of artillery, use it in front of a hundred people?” Renwick’s voice was soft, his eyes hard.

“I can put it together in three seconds flat. But I don’t need to use it now.”

“Why the reprieve?”

“It did its job. Got you into this cab damn quick.”

Renwick remembered Moore’s anxiety as they had left Bridle Lane. “You weren’t nervous only about one of my friends following us, were you?”

No answer to that. Moore watched the street ahead. “Just do as I say. If you took off, you mightn’t live to regret it.”

Renwick looked at him sharply, wondering if that negative had crept in by mistake.

“You might not live,” Moore repeated. He saw Renwick’s glance at the bulge in his plastic raincoat’s pocket. “No, not that. I’m no assassin. I’m doing you a favour. I owe you one.” Then he looked at the street ahead, raised his voice for the driver. “Is this it? Okay, okay. Stop at the corner. How much?” His wallet was in his hand.

Good God, thought Renwick, we’re at Marble Arch. Moore frowned at the wad of English pound notes, made a guess, began counting them. He spoke to Renwick from the side of his mouth. “Buy a ticket for Tottenham Court Road. We’re taking the subway.”

“Tube,” Renwick corrected quietly as he opened the taxi door.

Moore halted him with another half-whispered command. “When we reach there, reverse positions. I lead. You follow. Room 412.”

Renwick nodded and left Moore handing over a clutch of notes; more than enough, judging by the driver’s sudden geniality. Marble Arch, he thought again, Marble Arch! Damn me for an idiot. He fooled me. I fell for Paddington. And Claudel hanging around there, watching, worrying? Pierre Claudel would do more than raise a fine French eyebrow when he waited and waited... The French could produce a flow of curses that would outdo anything an Anglo-Saxon tried.

Can’t even dodge into a telephone booth and warn Gilman— if I could reach him. Moore would take that as a breach of faith; he’d walk away and leave me flat, and I’d learn nothing in Room 412, wherever it was. In some hotel, obviously. In the neighbourhood, again obviously, of Tottenham Court Road: no mention of another tube, or a bus, or a taxi. In Soho, perish the thought? Or in Bloomsbury? Let’s hope it’s a short distance. Tonight, I’m in no mood for a walk in the rain.

The distance was short, a two-minute walk up Tottenham Court Road, which looked even worse than usual by the grey light of a wet evening. Moore set a sharp pace, plunging through the clots of pedestrians seemingly paralyzed by weather and traffic. Although he walked at a quick march through the crowd, Renwick managed to keep Moore’s black hair in sight. He almost lost him when a left turn was made into a quiet, narrow street but reached the corner in time to see Moore disappear into the Coronet’s doorway. It was one of the new hotels, rising high, a flat-faced block of building with innumerable windows that was attempting to uplift the neighbourhood and edge in on the tourist trade of Bloomsbury.

Its lobby was crowded, people discouraged by the weather sitting on fat couches or standing in talkative groups. A plumbers’ convention, Renwick noted from the outsize announcement propped on a gilded easel. He crossed the soft mile of carpet—no expense spared—without anyone paying him the least attention and went up to the fifth floor in an elevator filled with jovial Birmingham accents and the smell of wet wool. Then he walked down one flight and in the rear of the building found Room 412.

The door was ajar. Moore turned from pouring Scotch at a table, gave his first real smile. “Take the load off. Have a drink.” The atmosphere has changed, thought Renwick. He’s still giving orders, but perhaps that’s become natural: certainly, Moore hasn’t been following them for a long time.

“Later,” Renwick said and went into the bathroom, pulling off his raincoat and hat, hung them up where they could drip themselves slightly dry. He glanced around—nothing unpacked here, just gleaming surfaces, cramped but clean; only the two-inch cake of soap and hand towel used, and the two glasses missing from their holders.

The bedroom was small-scale, too. No possessions on a miniature bureau. An air-travel bag, closed, lay on a bed that imitated an armless couch. Curtains were now drawn over the window, the overhead light turned on. Moore was back at the table pouring himself a second drink in one of the bathroom’s missing glasses. “Sure you won’t?”

“Not at the moment.” Renwick chose the chair that had a dwarf table within reach, moulded out of white plastic to match the few pieces of furniture; the other held Moore’s coat, dripping onto the carpet. “Any music available?”

“Sweet and low. Will that do?” He reached for a knob on the radio on the nightstand. “How loud?” He let “That Old Black Magic” blare out.

“Not so loud that we can’t hear each other.”

“You boys slay me. Who’s to know we’re here? They didn’t have time to plant a bug.” He was confident, assured, his voice—perhaps fuelled by two strong drinks—assertive.

“The walls are thin.”

Moore shrugged, adjusted the sound to a reasonable level. Then a cough from next door, muted but clear enough, made him stare at Renwick and shake his head. He picked up his glass, empty once more, thought better of it, and put it down. He came over to the couch, sat on its edge to face Renwick. “Not much of a room,” he said, speaking more softly. “The best we could get at short notice—a friend booked it from New York. I only got here this morning.”

And out tonight, Renwick thought. A friend? But that could wait. “All right, Moore. Let’s begin. I have some—”

“Cut out the Moore. Don’t use it, now. Al will do,” he added just to keep things friendly. He slipped off his jacket, threw it to the other end of the couch, loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar. “How the hell do you put up with these clothes?” Then he settled back on one elbow, crossed his legs, looked relaxed, but his eyes were alert. “You have some what?”

“Some questions to ask. Then I’ll listen to you.” Al seemed about to object. “Not questions about you,” Renwick went on. “Okay?”

“Any information about me comes from me when I’m damned ready and willing to give it. Understood?”

“Understood.” He would be alarmed at how much I’ve learned about him since we first met, thought Renwick. “First of all, where did you see the man who escaped from an Indian prison?”

Moore, or whatever his new name was to match a false passport, brushed that aside with his hand. “Not important. He won’t last long. Forget him.”

“I can’t.”

“Oh, yes—your outfit caught him, he said.”

“Tracked him down,” Renwick said to keep the record straight. Incredible, he was thinking: Erik the dedicated anarchist, Erik the leader of a ruthless gang of West German terrorists, Erik dismissed as “not important”. How naive could Moore get? “He was recruiting terrorists abroad, and we followed him to India. It was the Bombay police who arrested him.”

“Interintell, he called you. That was the first time I heard the name. He was teaching a class. I was standing at the back of the tent, just curious. I wasn’t a part of that crowd, see?” Moore wanted to make that clear.

“A class for terrorists? Where?”

“He was giving a couple of lectures on how you dodge arrest, but if you’re caught, then how you escape.”

“Where did you see him?” Renwick was insistent, firm.

“South Yemen.”

“At a training camp for terrorists?”

“Yes, but I wasn’t—”

“Part of the scene. Just curious.” And why the hell were you there? Renwick wondered. But that would keep. Moore seemed mollified at least, perhaps more ready to talk. “Why won’t he last long?”

“He got the Cubans flaming mad. There were two of them— not terrorists—Intelligence agents from Havana, I heard. Sent to Yemen to make sure he got to South America. As ordered.”

Casually, Renwick had eased the plastic table closer to his knee, steadied its ashtray, taken out his cigarette case. “Ordered? By whom?”

“By the people who got him out of prison, helped him reach Bombay.”

Renwick seemed to have forgotten his cigarette. “He actually chose Bombay?” His disbelief sounded real.

“A cool customer. No one would expect him to enter a city where he had been arrested for killing a cop. So he told the class.”

“And after Bombay? Aden?”

“On a freighter as a deck hand.”

“Smart customer, too. Unless, of course, he was helped all the way—by the same people who got him out of prison and need him in South America.” Renwick abandoned his cigarette case beside the ashtray, shook his head. “Perhaps not so smart, after all—not if he argued with the Cubans.”

“There was damn near a fight, words rattling off like a spray of machine-gun bullets. I’ve picked up some Spanish, other languages, too, but it’s just as well not to let others know. That way, you keep your nose clean.”

Renwick nodded. “What was the argument about, did you hear?”

“Not much. Too quick. But one thing is certain. He isn’t going to South America. A couple of nights later, he vanished. Like that!” Moore snapped his fingers. “The Cubans were fit to be tied.”

Yes, thought Renwick, he will head for West Germany, where he will reorganise his Direct Action group. He was their founder. He was their leader. He will get them moving again. To Erik, that is all that matters. “When did he disappear?”

“Ten days ago, just before I got clear of that godforsaken hole. No trace. Not at the airport, not at the docks. But he won’t get far. The Cubans have money behind them. He’ll never make it.” Moore was suddenly restless. “Think I’ll have that drink. Questions make me thirsty.” He was about to get to his feet. “Keep them short.”

Renwick made a fast decision as he lifted his cigarette case— couldn’t leave it lying there unused, not all the time, he told himself. “I’ll do better than that. I’ll postpone them until you’ve given me your information. Okay?” Moore had been stopped in his tracks. Renwick offered a cigarette, delaying him still more.