Cloak of Darkness (22 page)

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.”

Vroom looked at him.

“No skiing,” Renwick said quietly. Unless, of course, she was so proficient that she could tackle Mont Blanc’s peak.

“She likes the mountains. The air does her good.”

“She’s still going there, in summer?”

“Not
every
week-end,” Vroom reminded him.

Now what have we here? Renwick wondered. “No doubt she likes to go shopping in Geneva—it isn’t far from Chamonix.” Forty miles, perhaps even less.

Vroom stared at Renwick. “You are speaking too much about my wife. Why? You didn’t come here to discuss—”

“No,” agreed Renwick. “But now I do think we had better discuss Annabel. You talk with her a lot, don’t you? Don’t get angry! We all talk with our wives. And they ask questions.”

“I resent this, Renwick, and I’ll ask you to—”

“Do you tell Annabel much? Or leave your special notebook of very private addresses on the night table beside your bed? Along with your keys, or anything valuable?”

“Look”—Vroom was on his feet—“leave Annabel out of this! If I’m under suspicion—”

“We are all under suspicion,” Claudel broke in. “All of us. Except Bob here.”

“Why except him? Does he think that he’s above—”

“His name is on a death list.” Claudel controlled his rising temper. “He is marked for assassination along with eight other men—a list that the Paris firm has drawn up. The same firm, Vroom, that gets its information from The Hague.”

“There are a thousand people it could contact in Den Haag. All the embassies. Or gossipmongers—professional spies— plenty of them.”

“But,” said Renwick, “how many among that thousand have their own private two-way transmitters that can reach Paris? Or Geneva, for that matter? You have one in your house, don’t you? For emergencies? For your own convenience? Right?” Vroom was a man who liked his comforts.

Vroom nodded. He was no longer angry, just deeply troubled.

“What’s more,” said Claudel, pressing the sudden advantage, “who in The Hague could possibly know about Bob’s telephone number at Merriman’s? Or his old address in London? Or the names of certain restaurants where he gave you dinner? Or the pub where you’ve met—the Red Lion? Yes, Vroom, they are all noted down on that death list.”

“Oh, God—” Vroom groped for his chair, sat down. With an effort, he said, “What’s the name of this Paris firm?”

Renwick said, “Klingfeld & Sons. Offices in Paris, Rome, and Geneva.”

Vroom shook his head. “Don’t know it.”

“Once it dealt in office supplies: typewriters, desk computers, copying machines. Now it’s an arms broker. Illegal arms. It keeps in the background. Tries to pretend it is still the same old reputable dealer in office equipment.”

Vroom asked quickly, “KGB control?”

Claudel said under his breath, “Careful, Bob, careful,” and turned back to the window.

“Possibly,” said Renwick, watching Vroom. “Its headman has several names, no doubt. But he uses one for very special messages.” He paused, still watching. “Klaus.”

“Klaus?” Vroom brushed that aside. “A common name. I must have met three or four of them—”

“Recently? Within the last six months?”

Vroom stared down at the desk. “One,” he said, “one was seven months ago. In Chamonix. The week-end when I was there. Just one of Annabel’s friends.”

Renwick said gently, “Johan, why did you go to Chamonix when you didn’t intend to ski or skate? Something was troubling you. Annabel?”

“Yes.” With difficulty, Vroom nodded. “There was a ski instructor. I went there to—” He couldn’t finish.

“Throw him down one of Mont Blanc’s glaciers?” Renwick suggested. “I’d have done that with pleasure.”

Vroom recovered himself. “But he wasn’t there. Had gone. I thought the—the affair was over. Annabel swore to me that it was. Bob, she loves me. She loves the children. Believe me.”

But there were photographs, thought Renwick sadly, of Annabel and her ski instructor teaching her new tricks in bed. Photographs, threats of exposure and scandal; then her acquiescence in supplying small pieces of information that seemed harmless enough. After that, bribery—just to make doubly sure of Annabel. Tactfully done, of course: expenses paid, pleasure week-ends, and some extra spending money on the side. It was the old pattern, and Vroom hadn’t even guessed what was happening. Or had he some vague suspicion, tried to ignore it? Silence it?

“Believe me,” Vroom repeated. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow.

“I believe one thing. You’ve got to deal with her. At once!”

Vroom stared at Renwick. Then he panicked. “How?”

“Use your brains for a change. Feed her false information, try to trace her control—the man who pulls the strings and makes her jump.” Brutal, Renwick knew, but his words acted like a bucket of ice water dumped over Vroom’s perspiring forehead.

He blurted out, “Klaus. It could be Klaus.”

“Second name?”

“Sounded like Sanuk or Sunek—I only heard it once. Annabel just calls him “Klaus”. They are all first-name people—Klaus and Willi and Celeste and Pieter and Barney and Magda. Never met any of them separately. Klaus picks up the dinner checks, the bar bills. He drives a grey Ferrari; has a black one, too, for his friends. He’s older than they are—almost fifty. But I didn’t think he was important. I paid him little attention.”

“What? Your wife stayed for week-ends at his house and you didn’t check?”

“I had other worries on my mind,” said Vroom, and his lips tightened.

The ski instructor. “Where did all those first-name people stay?”

“With Klaus. But the week-end I went there”—the words were being dragged out—“Annabel and I stayed down in the town. There was no room at the chalet, and I thanked God for that.”

“What chalet?”

“The Chalet Ruskin, it’s called. It stands above—”

“Bob! Quick! Over here!” Claudel called out. “There are a couple of men in that building directly opposite. Fourth-floor attic. See?” He stepped to the side of the windows. Renwick kept out of view, too, and looked across the canal. Vroom joined them hurriedly. “They’ve been watching me for the last five minutes,” Claudel said.

“Did you install a couple of men over there?” Renwick asked Vroom.

“No one.”

Claudel’s voice was tight with anger. “Who knew we were meeting you here? Your wife? Was she with you when I called at noon?”

“No. I—”

Vroom turned on his heel, walked back to his desk. “I don’t believe this. It can’t be. It can’t!” He crashed his fist down on the heavy mahogany top, sending a large glass ashtray splintering on the wooden floor. “All right, all right. I took Claudel’s call at my office. I went home to see Annabel for lunch, explained I couldn’t drive her to the airport this afternoon. A meeting, I said. Important. In Amsterdam. Four o’clock. Just couldn’t drive her to the plane, she’d have to take a taxi or stay at home. She—she had her driving licence suspended a month ago—a silly accident—not her fault really.” He was picking up the fragments of ashtray, dropping them one by one into a waste-basket.

“You named us?” Renwick’s eyes were watching the window across the canal. The two men—or was it just one man?— weren’t visible now. But the window was still open wide.

“Not that way. No. Indirectly. Annabel asked if I couldn’t postpone the meeting until later this evening. I said, “Impossible—Renwick is already on his way, flying in from London.” And then, as I was about to leave after lunch, there was a phone call for Annabel. She took it in the library. I heard her say, “Klaus?” Then she started explaining she might be late in arriving.” Vroom straightened his back, threw the cigar stubs and some burned-out matches on top of the broken pieces of glass, looked with distaste at the white ashes left on the floor. “I didn’t listen. It was talk about the week-end at Chamonix, I supposed. Well”—he looked at Renwick, who had turned to face him—“I was wrong. I’ll resign from Interintell of course.”

“What makes you think Klaus asks questions only about Interintell? Your own department in The Hague is of vital importance.”

Vroom slumped, half seated on the edge of the desk.

Claudel was asking, “What’s that? At the window. A telescope? Or some kind of rifle? You’re the armaments expert, Bob.”

Renwick swung around to look. Too heavy for a rifle. “Even heavier than a shotgun.” And aimed right at these windows. He yelled to Vroom, “Get away from that desk! Move!” The three of them made a dive for the safest corner of the room, reached its shelter as a bullet exploded on the desk. A second followed. That was all.

“A shotgun never did that,” said Claudel, looking toward the debris of a desk. The two chairs that once had faced each other were now tilted drunkenly on broken frames, the remains of their backs torn by shrapnel.