Cloak of Darkness (33 page)

“Can’t tell colour by this light.” Claudel was depressed. No cover anywhere—just small gardens and rough hedges, shrubbery, no large sheltering trees. Then his voice quickened. “There’s a white car—parked at the side of that last house.”

“You’re sure?” Renwick kept on driving for another fifty yards before he brought the Audi to a stop. Still no cover around them—flat fields reaching the hillside on his left, the River Arve flowing far to his right.

“The car was the same colour as the house. Shutters looked grey. Could be blue by day. But I’m damned well not sure of anything at this moment. Do we risk it? Go in?” And if the car isn’t pure white, if it isn’t a Fiat, we could be in trouble.

“We risk it,” Renwick said. He was looking at the flat road just ahead of them. It rose slightly as if it were bridging some small tributary to the river. A man-made stream, a runoff for the torrents of spring from the hillside. His eyes followed its straight line, as far as they could see by the half-moon light. Yes, it ran toward the woods. “The path is just over there,” he said, pointing to the hill. He switched off the car’s lights, reversed, and drove back to the houses at low speed. “No sign of Marchand’s men.”

“They are keeping well out of sight.”

“They know this territory. We don’t.”

“Where do we park?”

“Just beyond the house—near its neighbour. It’s the best we can do.” And damn all this manoeuvring: it was taking as much time as the drive through the town and its outskirts.

They passed the house where Claudel had glimpsed a possibly white car in the driveway. It was there, all right. The next house had no shutters, its upper windows open for air; no lights, everyone asleep; and the car at its side was black.

Renwick brought the Audi to a slow and soundless halt, drawing it close to a hedge. “The best we can do,” he said again as he turned off the engine. “Now we check the car we saw. If it is a Fiat, you deal with it. I’ll cover you.”

“If Klaus did use the path to reach the house, why the hell did he delay? Why not take off in the Fiat?”

“Change of clothes, change in appearance.”

Claudel nodded. “It would be too much to hope he had sprained an ankle coming down that hill.”

“Or broken his neck,” Renwick said grimly. “Let’s move it. After the Fiat’s dealt with, we’ll have a close look at the house, see what’s stirring. You take a look around the back. I’ll watch the front. Then we meet. Okay?”

“Okay.”

They left the Audi, moved swiftly, reached their target in a few seconds. The shutters were closed, but a streak of light came from the ground-floor rooms. So people were awake. And moving around; one room darkened, another lit up. How many of them? Klaus—if he were there; the man who had driven here tonight—alone or with a chauffeur? And possibly the caretaker. Not too many, thought Renwick. Still, Marchand’s men would be useful. Were they both at the back of the house, keeping watch from the field or a vegetable patch? The front garden, small, was absolutely still.

Renwick and Claudel exchanged a nod, separating as they started up the short driveway, one on each side of it, crouching low behind a rosebush or shrub as they advanced cautiously toward the white car that was pointed toward the road. It was a Fiat.

Claudel bent down to check its plate: Milan. He signalled an okay to Renwick and opened the Fiat’s hood. Renwick waited until Claudel had dealt with the distributor—taken off its cap, removed the rotor inside and thrown it over the hedge, replaced the cap—and closed the hood again. In spite of Claudel’s extreme caution, there was a small click. Renwick’s hand went to his automatic, rested there. But no one in the house had heard anything. No door opened. Claudel signalled once more as he disappeared around the side of the house to reach its back, and Renwick relaxed. Now he could move to a bush that seemed a likely spot: larger than most, not too high but thick and heavy, a good piece of cover with a first-rate view of the house door.

He reached it, head and shoulders well down, and dropped into its shadow. His hand fell on a sleeve, a rough sweater, an arm that was still and lifeless. My God, he thought, my God... He had found one of Marchand’s men.

For a moment, Renwick froze. Then he drew his Biretta. He glanced at the body lying beside him. Face down, it had been pulled or shoved under the spread of branches. To be got rid of later, when time was less pressing? Gingerly, he reached out to the man’s back and felt a heavy dampness between the shoulder blades. The man had bled a lot, but the blood was cold. A knife wound.

He eased Marchand’s transceiver out of his pocket. Risk it? He’d better. This house was more than suspect now. He looked around him, listened. Nothing stirred, only the dappled light of a moon struggling to free itself from the clouds. They thickened, grew. As the garden was plunged into darkness, he made contact with Marchand. All he said was, “Victor. Send help.” And Marchand, after a second of shock, said, “Understood.”

Renwick put away the transceiver. Marchand knew he was here. Marchand knew he wouldn’t call for help if it weren’t urgent. Marchand knew it was police business if he made such a call. Marchand, thought Renwick, must be cursing the day when Claudel and I arrived in town.

He had to move away from here. He tried to recall the layout of this patch of ground as he had seen it in the last burst of moonlight. The heavy clouds would last another two or three minutes. He rose and began a cautious approach in the temporary blackout over the ill-kempt grass to reach a dwarf tree that stood, all seven feet of it, in the corner of the garden. Its branches were thin, its leaves sparse, but they would blur any clear view of him when the moon came out of its cloud cover. From here he would be able to see one side and the front of the house. He looked at his watch. All this—the approach to the driveway, the Fiat, the body, and now a sheltering tree— had taken only nine minutes. Yet up on the hill beside the chalet there had been almost two hours of waiting, and worrying, and waiting. It was always the same: hurry up and wait. When the action did come, it could be counted in seconds—like a torrent bursting out from a breaking dam.

The cloud was passing, the moon reappearing. Renwick caught sight of a dark figure standing at the side wall of the house, right at its front corner, barely twenty yards away. Claudel? Yes, Claudel. He had taken his time; but there he was, every sense alert as he looked around. Renwick tried a hand signal, stretching his arm beyond a branch, holding it there briefly. It was enough. Claudel’s quick eyes had seen it. He made a desperate dash before the moonlight strengthened, racing in his rubber-soled shoes to reach the thorn hedge that bounded the garden, and then the long grass beside Renwick. He fell prone, lay still, regained his breath.

Slowly, Renwick dropped to a kneeling position, keeping his body behind the trunk of the tree—however small, it gave some protection from the house. Something was wrong. Claudel wouldn’t have come directly here if it weren’t. Once he had noted Renwick’s position, he should have chosen shelter farther away. And now they were breaking their second rule. Claudel was speaking. In a whisper. Renwick bent his head to catch the words. They were certainly less loud than any murmur into a transmitter—couldn’t Claudel have risked even that?

“One of Marchand’s men—looked dead. But he isn’t. Still breathing.”

“Where?”

“At the back of the house—near a truck. I deal with it.”

“How was he hurt?”

“A knife between the shoulder blades.”

“The other one is dead. Knifed, too. I’ve called Marchand. Must have happened just after they got here, took their positions.” Renwick paused. “A throwing knife, I’d guess.”

Claudel thought over that. Then he said, “I think we’d better stay together.”

“Back to back, if possible.”

Claudel nodded. “I’ll laugh at that tomorrow.”

Renwick put a hand to his lips for silence. A light footstep had sounded. They turned their heads toward the house and watched the man who had emerged from its front door.

He looked young and trim, walked with a spring in his step. Like them, he wore dark clothes, and became barely visible as he reached the shadows of the bush where the dead man lay. He was checking, thought Renwick in a sudden rise of anger. Checking to make sure nothing was disturbed, everything just as he left it. Then Spring-heeled Jack walked on, starting a tour of inspection around the garden, pausing to look briefly at the road outside. It must have been empty—and where the hell is Marchand? Renwick asked himself—for he walked back, up the short driveway toward the Fiat. Once past it, he was lost to sight.

It was a quick tour of inspection. He reappeared from the back of the house, walking down its side, reaching the spot where Claudel had stood before his ten-yard dash to the hedge of thorn bushes. He stopped at the corner, looked around. Satisfied, he walked on. At the front door, he paused again and knocked twice. Then he stood aside, waiting.

The inspection tour was over—no more trouble had been expected, so no more trouble had been found. The signal had been given: it was safe to leave. Renwick reached for Claudel’s shoulder, touched it. Claudel nodded, his eyes on the house, his automatic ready. Renwick released the safety catch of his Biretta. He glanced up at the sky—no clouds to cover the moon for another three or more minutes. We are in luck, he thought: enough light to see by. His attention switched back to the house. Its door had opened.

Two men stepped out, barely pausing to look around the garden before they hurried to the car. One was white-haired, stoutly built, wearing a suit that was silver grey in the moonlight. The other was tall, broad-shouldered, his hair hidden by a chauffeur’s cap. He was appropriately dressed for the part he was playing: a white shirt under a dark-blue or black suit. At that moment, as they reached the Fiat, Renwick heard a distant hum—the sound of a car, two cars perhaps. Marchand? But the sound stopped.

Claudel was staring. “Haversfield,” he whispered. That dear, sweet old Englishman in Djibouti. “He’s mine.”

Renwick nodded, still listening. Only silence from the road. Perhaps the cars had been bringing people home from a Saturday-night dance, he thought wryly.

Silence, too, from the Fiat. No response from its engine. The chauffeur must be cursing it, but his voice was held too low to be heard. Just Haversfield in the back seat, his driver at the wheel, and a car that was dead.

Now? wondered Renwick but hesitated to move. Spring-heeled Jack was still standing by the house door. One warning from him and the other would be heading for the back field. He was looking now at the Fiat, wondering why it wasn’t moving. Then he ran to help.

“Now,” said Renwick. Jack had his back turned, his head bent, as he argued with the driver. Yes, the car had been in good running condition all the way from Milan; Jack had checked it after he had dealt with the interlopers; Jack was sure. A quick command sent him hastening to the hood. He started raising it.

He caught sight of Renwick and Claudel, half-way across the garden, fanning out as they approached the car. He yelled a warning, his hand reaching toward the back of his neck. The gesture was unmistakable—a throwing knife. Renwick took no chances. He fired as the man’s hand brought the knife out of its holster and threw it in one quick sweep of the arm. The blade sliced past Renwick’s head as the man fell to the ground and doubled in pain.

Everything burst loose. At the sound of the shot, two men raced up from the road. The chauffeur was out of the car, running, firing at Renwick, then at Claudel, but unable to aim properly as he bolted toward the back of the house. He never reached either the field or the truck. Renwick’s bullet caught his hip, sent him sprawling into the grip of two more men who had just burst through the hedge at the side of the driveway. Claudel, now at the Fiat, pulled Haversfield out. “Unarmed, unarmed! No weapon!’ Haversfield was saying, his voice as high as the arms raised over his head.

“Not worth the trouble,” Claudel said in disgust, and handed over Haversfield to a newcomer.

Renwick slipped his automatic back into his pocket. Yes, he thought, everything happens at once: the dam broke and the torrent swept over us; danger counted in seconds. He turned to greet Marchand, who had appeared at his elbow.

Marchand’s anger was against himself. “We parked farther along the road—wanted to give them no warning.”

“You didn’t. It was a good idea.” And Renwick meant it. If the cars had approached any nearer, all three men would have made a dash for the field. And Claudel and Renwick, over by the dwarf tree, couldn’t have hit them. There would have been a chase after them, a scattering across the field into the woods. The Englishman, so-called, could have been taken, but the other two? Renwick looked at the chauffeur, lying on the ground a short distance away. That’s the one we want, he thought; but first things came first. “You have a wounded man at the back of the house. He needs help—fast. Claudel will show your men the place.”

“How? When?”

“Before we arrived. He was knifed.” Renwick waited until Marchand had detailed two men to leave with Claudel and was, himself, about to follow. Renwick caught his arm, said very quietly, “Another over here. Come!” He led Marchand to the bush under which the body lay. “Knife in the back. There’s the man who threw it.” He pointed at Spring-heeled Jack, now moaning and clutching his groin.

Renwick left Marchand kneeling beside the body and went looking for the knife that had just missed him. The sky darkened—more of those damned clouds—he’d have to use his flashlight. A brief search, and he found the knife buried hilt-high in the earth. He handed it to Marchand. “Evidence,” he said, and went back to the driveway and reached the fake chauffeur, still face down on the ground, two men pinning his arms and back. His leg was out of commission. “Turn him over!”

Renwick flashed his light on the man’s face and pulled off the cap. The hair was blond, but it belonged to a young man. Up close, his resemblance to Klaus Sudak was superficial. Oh God, thought Renwick, and he felt suddenly exhausted, exhausted and sick. All this for nothing, and my fault. I was so damned sure. And I was wrong.