Cloak of Darkness (37 page)

Keppler nodded. “He will be in Zurich.”

Renwick rose, shook hands, said nothing.

“Auf Wiedersehen!”
said Keppler as Renwick left.
Auf Wiedersehen?
Or was this a last goodbye? His frown deepened. Sudak was a dangerous man, too prone to violence. Ruthless and merciless. Power had corrupted him completely. Grim faced, Keppler watched Renwick enter the street, and called for the bill.

“The gentleman paid everything,” the waitress told him. Independent young cuss, Keppler thought, relaxing into a polite nod. Yes, he decided, definitely another phone call to Zurich: Renwick going in alone, his partner hospitalised, needs more help than he has requested. And he must stay alive until he finds that Plus List: I can’t be involved with that—not directly. Besides, he never did mention Lorna Upwood’s assumed name—not only an independent young man, but careful, too. I’ve always liked him; that’s the difficulty. I’m risking a lot in helping him. I’m risking everything. That’s my problem. How do I handle it?

Keppler rose and made his way into the hotel lobby toward a public telephone. His movements were slow and heavy.

There had been a mixture of good and bad luck today. Good, when Renwick found a taxi leaving its fare at the door of the Geneva café, persuaded it to wait for him while he picked up his bag at Cornavin Station. Good luck, too, as they drove past his parked Audi and saw a sharp-eyed man who had nothing much to do except lean against a neighbouring car, his ankles crossed, his arms folded, complete picture of innocence. Bad luck this early morning, though. If Claudel’s arm hadn’t acted up, if Renwick hadn’t taken him to the clinic, then Renwick would have arrived at the house in the valley before Klaus Sudak left. A matter of minutes—ten, perhaps fifteen at the most—and Sudak, caught by surprise, a bullet in his knee as discouragement, would now be under lock and key. And there would be no need for this race to Zurich. But at least Claudel was worried enough about his arm to listen to the doctors. He’d be all right. And that was a major consolation.

Strange, thought Renwick as the taxi drove through broad avenues with glistening shop windows, passed small parks of trees and flowers, skirted wide sidewalks, I’ve always liked this town, and yet today I barely noticed anything in it—had no time to stop and look at any of its pleasing prospects. Next visit, he told Geneva, I’ll see you properly. Next visit? Would there be one? He blocked that question, kept it out of his mind.

At the airport he had a wait of twenty minutes. Five of these went in a telephone call to Claudel.

“Better by the hour,” Claudel told him with his usual Gallic optimism, “I’m fine. What about you?”

“Fine.”

“Where are you?”

“In honeymoon city and watching some fireflies. Not much of a show until their tails light up at night.”

Claudel caught the allusion to Geneva’s airport and laughed. Then his laugh ended abruptly. “Some bad news here.”

“Yes. It travels fast. I heard.”

“Marchand would like to know what you think. Could it have been Sudak himself? The priest was tall, fair-haired. Sudak might have stayed in town, got someone else to drive away by seven o’clock, and then left by another route in a different car.”

“It wasn’t Sudak—unless the priest used verbena toilet water,” Renwick said. “Ask Marchand—he’ll explain.” And he slipped up on that one. “Where was he, anyway, when it happened?”

“Catching some sleep. He had been up all night.”

“You lie down and do the same.”

“I’ll be out of this bed by tomorrow. Wait—will you?—until I can join you?”

“What—aren’t the nurses pretty enough? I saw one that was a knockout.” At least he had Claudel, now talking about the sparkling brunette who liked to ski, far away from the topic of joining him. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he told Claudel and hung up the receiver.

The next five minutes were spent in a lavatory, typically Swiss in its neat cleanliness. There, he removed Claudel’s outfit, rolled pants and shoes and tops into a tight bundle, jammed it into a trash bin. His Biretta was secured in his trouser belt. And space was now waiting for a few purchases: he’d buy a shirt and underclothes as soon as he had time and saw a likely shop. Not at this airport—in Zurich, if he had a few minutes to spare, where there were giant arcades and goods of all description for sale. He might not know Zurich, but he did know its airport. Which reminded him to stop briefly at the tourist information booth and pick up a couple of folders dealing with that town. One of them had a map of the streets, a complete layout with public buildings named. Just what the well-briefed Intelligence officer needed. Renwick gave a wry smile over his present state of ignorance as he jammed the tourist folders into his pocket and made a dash for the plane.

***

Zurich and Geneva: two contrasts with much in common. They each lay at one end of a large lake from which waters poured to divide the town and begin giant rivers—the Rhine from Zurich, the Rhône from Geneva. Each had long histories of siege and war ever since their Roman days—plenty of courage and determination in those independent-minded cities. Even in religion, Geneva had its Calvin, Zurich its Zwingli. And both had bankers, boats on the lakes, boutiques and shops with enticing displays. But Geneva spoke French and Zurich German, and Geneva’s broad avenues ran straight while Zurich’s streets curved and twisted. Thank God for that tourist folder, thought Renwick.

First, he taxied to the railroad station as a simple precaution. A second taxi took him down the Bahnhofstrasse—the main thoroughfare—past fashionable shops and tramway junctions into a medieval city where the thirteenth-century cathedral, the Fraumünster, was faced by a giant twentieth-century post office. The Bürkli Platz lay just beyond, and there the street ended and Lake Zurich began.

The Bürkli Hotel was not, of course, on the plaza. That would have been too logical for this constantly surprising city. He left the taxi there—he hadn’t wanted to drive up to the hotel door, in any case—and, turning away from the astonishing view of lake and hills, he started back into Bahnhofstrasse. Again he blessed the tourist folder with its list of hotels and their locations. The Bürkli was on a small street branching off to his left, and should be only a two-minute walk. It was, he noted as he reached it, a close neighbour to the national bank as well as the Fraumünster post office. Lorna Upwood had enjoyed convenience. She also had chosen a quiet, self-effacing, and wholly respectable hotel. Staying here, she must have felt secure.

He entered the Bürkli. No doorman at its well-polished entrance, and only one elderly bellboy—a porter, or both? At the reception desk, there was a young, dark-haired man poring over a heavy ledger. Clerk, concierge, and accountant? Not exactly overstaffed. Renwick crossed the immaculate floor, barely glancing at the scattering of guests—three men, two women, all separate, each in a comfortable armchair—and reached the desk. Only one of the men had paid him much attention. Okay, he thought, I’ll know you again, too, buster. To the clerk he said briskly, “I believe you have a reservation for me. The name is Brown.”

The young man came to life. He pressed a bell, trying to disguise the movement of his foot, and wherever it sounded, it wasn’t in this lounge. Renwick studied the wall behind the desk, with its pigeonhole slots for keys and mail. Four floors, judging by the room numbers, and only ten of them to each floor: forty rooms, no more, in this hotel. Then his attention switched to the manager’s door (designation and name—Wilhelm Goss— clearly printed) that lay adjacent to the pigeonholes. It had opened. A grey-haired man in a dark suit came forward; his features bore a marked resemblance to the clerk’s, and his manner to that young man was definitely family. “I’ll attend to this, Hans! Better finish these accounts.” He turned to Renwick, gave him a quick but thorough inspection. “Welcome, Herr Brown. Glad to see you again.” His voice had carried across the lounge.

Not bad, thought Renwick, not bad. He relaxed slightly. “Glad to be back.”

“Formalities, formalities,” Goss said and pushed the register toward Renwick, but he laid aside the pen it held and kept it under his hand. “Passport?”

Renwick, his back to the room, hiding any movement of signing or not signing, hesitated but reached into his breast pocket. He didn’t like this one bit: no need for the name Renwick to be left at a reception desk.

“Thank you,” Goss said, and turned away without waiting for the passport. He reached for a third-floor key, said, “Now, if you’ll just follow me? We are short-handed today. One of my clerks was called up last week for military service, and my accountant is doing his annual two weeks back in the army. Next year, fortunately for us, he will be forty-nine and won’t need to do any more military duty. Just keep his rifle and uniform, like me, and have shooting practice once a week.” Goss was talking too much, a sign of nervousness, but at least the flow of words got them out of the lounge and into the self-service elevator. At one side, Renwick noted, was a flight of stairs; at the other, an entrance to bar and restaurant. A compact place.

Silence broke out and lasted all the way upstairs and down a narrow corridor to its end—Room 305. “Thank you for your help,” Renwick said as he took the key and unlocked the door.

But Goss followed him inside. Quickly he said, “You aren’t staying here overnight—just passing through.”

“Oh?” And where do I sleep tonight?

“Otherwise you would have to sign the register. And then— your passport?” Goss shrugged.

Yes, Renwick on the passport and Brown on the register would have been an embarrassment. “How did you know I was legitimate?”

“A good description of you and your clothes.”

Keppler, thought Renwick, was thorough.

“I understand this is of national importance?” Goss queried.

“Of security.”

Goss’s face, usually placid, with its broad cheekbones and square-shaped jaw, was heavily creased with worry. “I haven’t been told—except that this is an emergency measure. It won’t last long?”

“Not long.”

Goss lowered his voice. “There is a man from Bern—from Security—in the lounge.”

“The man with reddish hair and a thin face?” Renwick asked quickly.

“No. That one is waiting for one of his friends. Your man is reading a newspaper.”

“He hid well behind it. His description?”

“Dark hair but half bald. Eyeglasses. Medium height...” Goss floundered.

“That’s enough,” Renwick said reassuringly. “One other thing, Herr Goss. A friend of mine has been staying here—a Mrs. Upwood. What is her room number?”

“Frau Upwood? Room 201. She had stayed with us before— three weeks ago. And then returned last Wednesday. But she wasn’t here last night, and that is strange. She was so quiet, regular in her habits, always back for dinner and the evening in her room. Oh, yes—that reminds me, Herr Brown. We aren’t supplying room service on Sunday. Shortage of help. But what can one expect these days?” He was about to leave. He paused at the door. “If Frau Upwood isn’t here tonight, I shall call the police tomorrow. Don’t you think?”

“It wouldn’t do any harm.”

“Very difficult, very difficult. She may have spent the weekend with friends.” Goss sighed, now concentrating on his own problems.

Renwick said nothing at all. The door closed quietly. He placed his bag inside the wardrobe and locked it, then looked around him. It was a small room, furnished simply, with one window overlooking a courtyard, all neat and clean, a place for an overflow of guests. But there was an adjoining bathroom fitted into cramped space, and a toilet that worked.

Almost five o’clock. Klaus Sudak must be installed in Zurich by now. Yet, even allowing for his seven o’clock start this morning—letting him cross the frontier before the alert went out—his journey here couldn’t have been simple.

He would have to stop, once over the French-Swiss border, to get rid of the Citroën and rent another car. As he skirted Geneva, it must have angered him to know his own plane was parked at that airport. But he would avoid all airfields, all railway or bus stations: these were now under observation. Would he risk the main highways which would let him cross Switzerland at high speed? No, decided Renwick, he would calculate that they would be too easily watched. It would be safer to keep to the smaller roads where there was less chance of checkpoints. But on them he could only travel around sixty miles an hour with constant drops to thirty-five as he reached the villages. And there were plenty of villages. He would make sure he kept within the speed limits. Infringement brought instant arrest and fines: the Swiss took their traffic laws seriously. There were other delays, too, for Sudak: Sunday drivers and tourist buses.

So, thought Renwick, probably Sudak hadn’t reached Zurich until mid-afternoon. There, at last in some apartment or house, he could safely make contact with his agent who had forced the name Karen Cross out of a terrified woman with a knife at her throat, then silenced her swiftly, permanently. Communications took time. His agent hadn’t stayed around Chamonix to send an immediate report but would have made his escape far to the west, where he’d find a safe house, secure enough for his top-secret information to be transmitted in code. Karen Cross and her Zurich poste restante were not names to be openly trusted to telephone or radio. Sudak’s planning would need time, too, before he made his move. Or perhaps he had already made it. Renwick locked his room door and set out for the staircase.

The second floor had a wider corridor and higher ceilings, a relic of the days before elevators were installed, when lower rooms were considered superior and upper floors were only engaged by those who had less money but stronger legs. In keeping with the age of the building, there was a slight creaking at each step, which even the crimson carpet couldn’t quite muffle. The rooms themselves were silenced by their old thick walls: Renwick could hear no sound from any of them. There was no maid around, either; the service door was firmly shut. It was a sombre corridor, wood-panelled like the entrance foyer downstairs, decorated with carved heraldic emblems, lighted by parchment-shaded bulbs fixed to the walls, a peaceful place in a quiet hotel on a Sunday afternoon.