Cloak of Darkness (38 page)

He tried his room key in the simple lock and—as he half expected—it worked. No thieves were expected to wander around this family-run hotel. If Lorna Upwood had only known, she’d have barricaded her door at night with table and chairs. But no danger had touched her here. It was on a little street just off a busy thoroughfare, with people all around her, that she was in jeopardy. Had she been thinking how well she had planned everything? The numbered account in a nearby bank, growing in its tax shelter year by year; Brimmer’s little black book mailed to Karen Cross, Poste Restante, here in Zurich. And why the hell hadn’t she been content with an ill-gotten million safely banked? Another possible million or two from blackmail—had that been too big a lure for her greed?

Quickly, Renwick opened the door of Room 201, stepped inside, locked it. A very pleasant place with two windows and bright chintz and a large couch behind a coffee table at one end of the room. Opposite, a double bed with nightstands. On one side wall, a wardrobe and dressing-table. On the other, near the door, a small desk. Everything was in order. Yesterday’s newspaper on the coffee table was neatly folded, and beside it lay tourist brochures in a small stack close to a guide-book. Nothing looked disturbed, even to the perfume bottles and powder box that were precisely arranged along with brush and comb on the lace mat of the dressing-table.

It would be a long search: too many drawers, too many shelves. He had a full hour of safety, perhaps an hour and a half with luck. From the Zurich police, he reminded himself. Not from Klaus Sudak—he could appear any minute.

Renwick set to work. By ten minutes to six he had completed the unpleasant task. He had not only examined the drawers but felt their undersides for a taped passport or envelope. The wardrobe had only a row of suits and dresses, with nothing pinned to their folds or deep in any pockets. The bed’s covers and mattress hid nothing, the pillows were soft and innocent. Nothing inside the bathroom’s cistern; and its cabinet’s shelves contained only a few items that couldn’t have concealed even the US new-style passport, barely five by three inches. Nothing was taped behind two pictures of rustic Switzerland or behind the dressing-table mirror; and the hairbrush had a solid back, unremovable. The desk drawer was locked—a moment of expectation—but when opened it was only protecting Lorna Upwood’s regular passport, a bankbook, a list of traveller’s cheques, a note of purchases made and of expenditures for meals and tips. The window-length cretonne curtains concealed nothing in their pleats. Not one thing under the coffee table. The couch was firm, tightly upholstered; so were its three cushions, with no side openings, no zippers. Under the couch? Too heavy; she could never have turned it over by herself. He reached under it as far as his arm could stretch, and found not even a hairpin.

He sat down on the edge of the couch, looked around him. Nothing. What had he missed?

An idea flashed into his mind and was almost dismissed as fantastic, even stupid. Yet, yet... He had been searching in every place where he, a man, might have hidden something. But— with all deference to equality of the sexes—Lorna Upwood was a woman. He remembered Nina’s ingenious ploys: her solutions to a problem were always simple, seemingly ridiculous, but they worked. Nina, he asked silently, where would you have hidden a passport?

Quickly, he reached for the stack of travel folders and guide-book. Nothing. The newspaper hadn’t even been read. Then he went over to the desk, where at one side was the usual hotel literature: prices for laundry, dry cleaning, and breakfast menus—all too thin and light to conceal a passport. There was also a leather folder, well worn, containing a shopping guide and advertisements. He had a moment of hope when he picked it up but—like the desk blotter he had already examined along with the underside of the telephone—it hid no secret. A leather folder...

He glanced at the telephone on the other side of the writing table. It sat on top of a local directory encased in a mock-leather cardboard binder, faded, unremarkable. He set aside the phone, opened the binder. The directory was secured by two long, thin wires, attached at the top of the binder’s spine, that snapped down between the book’s pages and divided them into three sections. The first division held nothing. But spread-eagled under the grip of the second wire was the passport.

He pulled it loose, shaking his head. Dammit all, you just searched in the stupidest, most ridiculous place and you find it in two seconds flat. No—not so stupid. Not ridiculous, either. Just so simple that it couldn’t even be suspected. The passport seemed slimmer than usual: its twelve pages had been reduced to eight by removal of its two centre folds, carefully done so that the stitching had been left intact. Who would notice except a US immigration inspector? Certainly not a Swiss post office attendant.

He slipped the passport for Karen Cross of Wilmington, Delaware, into the deep inside pocket of his jacket. The directory, with telephone on top, was replaced exactly. One glance around the room: everything was just as he had found it.

Seven minutes past six. He was about to unlock the door. Outside, he heard the creak of a floor, a tentative fumbling at the keyhole. Police? They were prompt. Too prompt, unless Keppler had called them earlier than he had promised.

Soundlessly, Renwick stepped well to the side of the door. No escape by the window: no balcony, no ledge out there. The bathroom? A trap.

The hall floor creaked again. A smothered curse. Then a man called in German, “Room service!” There was a knock.

Renwick slipped his Biretta loose from his belt, held it behind him.

“No one there,” the voice said more quietly, and the lock was burst open. Two men entered. One was ferret-faced, with reddish hair, gaunt cheeks. The other—tall, hair now darkened, but with that unmistakable profile—was Klaus Sudak. He pushed the door shut, looked around the room, saw Renwick.

He stared, backed a few steps, kept his eyes fixed on Renwick. “What are you doing in my room?” he demanded, his hand slipping inside his jacket. Ferret-face, keeping parallel with Sudak, was quietly reaching for his gun, too. There was a fixed smile on his lips.

Renwick shot twice as two long-nosed pistols were whipped out and took aim. Their shots, muted by silencers, missed: Sudak fell even as he fired, the other man crumpling in pain as he pulled the trigger. But he would live.

Renwick kicked the red-haired man’s pistol clear of his loosened grasp, sent it spinning across the room. There was no fight left in him anyway. And in Sudak? None at all. His hand still gripped the revolver, but he would never fire it again.

Renwick placed the Biretta in his pocket and closed the door behind him. Along the hall a man came running at full speed. Dark-haired, half bald, eyeglasses, medium height, well built. He couldn’t have been waiting downstairs, must have posted himself on this floor. Renwick relaxed his grip on the Biretta, ignored the revolver in the other’s hand. “You’re Keppler’s man?”

“Security,” he answered abruptly, showing his identification as he replaced his gun in its holster. He turned his head to glare at two opening doors, answered a jumble of alarmed questions. “No need to worry,” he called to them. “Just a car backfiring.” And then to Renwick, quietly, “One shot, it sounded like. One shot and an echo.”

“Four shots. One in the chest, one through the heart, two in the wall behind where I stood.”

“Who was killed?” The question was quick, angry.

“A man who had listed nine men for assassination. Klaus Sudak.”

Keppler’s agent stared. “Well, now—we’ve been searching for him.”

“Better get your cleanup squad here—as fast as possible.”

“Won’t take long. We were expecting some trouble—and where do you think you’re going?” He stopped Renwick, who was about to leave. “Give me the facts. You saw them enter the room?”

Renwick nodded. “They broke the lock.”

“So you were suspicious?”

“They could hardly be the Zurich police.”

“They had their guns out?”

“You’ll find one in Sudak’s hand. The other is under the wardrobe.”

“Who fired first?”

“Well, let’s say they were just a split second too late.” Gently, Renwick disengaged his arm from the restraining grip. “I’m going up to my room. You’ll find me there if you have any more questions.” He added impatiently as Keppler’s agent still blocked his path, “Look—last night I had three hours of sleep. Today I’ve travelled across Switzerland. And five minutes ago it was kill or be killed.”

The man nodded, walked quickly along the corridor toward Room 201. His transmitter was already out in his hand.

Renwick reached his room, sat down on the edge of the narrow bed. Suddenly, he was exhausted, so drained of physical energy that he couldn’t move, couldn’t even draw off his clothes to lie down and sleep. He sat there staring at the thin carpet at his feet. The first time he had ever had to kill a man.

Not planned. And no choice offered. A split-second reaction that had saved his own life. He had nearly packed it in. He drew a deep, long breath. Yes, a moment’s hesitation and he would have been dead—as dead as if Brimmer’s Minus List had been given the chance to become a reality.

The first time, he thought again as he drew out his Biretta. He looked at it. Then he threw it onto a chair across the room. The hell with it, and the hell with a report I should now be encoding to send to London; or this waiting for questions now from Bern Security; or with this room which I’m supposed to leave—pack up, get out, walk into a cold street. The hell with all of it.

But he remembered to take the passport out of his pocket and slip it under his pillow. He pulled off his clothes, fell into bed, and slept for ten hours.

The early light that flooded into the room awakened Renwick. For a few moments he lay on the narrow bed staring at the plaster walls, wondering where the devil he was. The Bürkli... This was Monday. He thrust his hand under the pillow, relaxed as he found the passport there. It was ten minutes past five by his watch. And a lot to be done.

Briskly, he rose; showered, shaved, and washed in record time; and even had a change of shirt to make him feel still better. Before he set up the transmitter he began making notes. His last message to Gilman in London had been sent at three in the morning, yesterday. My God, he thought, how do I pack all that has happened since then into one brief report?

He solved that question by just giving basic facts. Elaborations and elucidations, words as tiresome as the processes they begat, could wait until he reached Paris. The emergency was over; danger, too. His relief—and the deep, unbroken sleep of last night—sharpened his wits. The coding of the information for Interintell went easily: Sudak dead, Upwood dead; necessary passport discovered, diary to be retrieved today, Keppler cooperating; Claudel in hospital but recovering. He ended with, “What news Washington? Immediate reply requested. About to leave.” It came within two minutes. No comment about the report he had just sent—that was still being decoded. But the reply to his question couldn’t have been better. “Washington all clear. Nina safe and well.”

That was a thought to keep him happy as he packed everything—including the Biretta—into Claudel’s bag. By six fifteen he was ready to leave. Time enough for a quick call to Chamonix and reassure Claudel.

“Can’t talk much now. But all is well.”

“The show is over?” Claudel’s disappointment was clear in his voice.

“Mostly. Should be simple from here on out. So relax. I’ll drop in to see you as soon as I can.”

“No need.” Claudel’s voice became decisive. “I’m signing out.”

“Too soon.”

“The doctors have fixed the arm. So where do we meet? I mean it, Bob. I mean it. Now, where?”

“Where we arrived. Early afternoon, possibly. Say two o’clock?”

“We’ll have to buy a couple of tickets. But don’t talk me out of leaving! Meet you at two—or whenever you can. I’ll wait.”

There was no arguing with that mood, even if it belonged to a man whose arm wasn’t fit enough to let him pilot his own plane. “Okay,” said Renwick, ending his call. He understood what Claudel was feeling: if he had missed the action, then he damned well wanted to be the first to hear the details.

The telephone rang as Renwick was half-way to the door. It was Keppler. And angry. “You should have kept this line open.”

What has got into him? I was only on the phone for a couple of minutes. “Sorry.”

“Did you find what you needed?”

“Yes.”

“You will be met outside the Fraumünster at seven twenty-five.”

“The cathedral?” Renwick asked to make sure.

“Yes. Main door. It’s only a few minutes to the Fraumünsterpost.”

“Met—by whom?”

“You know him. He spoke to you yesterday evening. He will accompany you and see everything safely through.”

“Won’t you be there?”

“Later.”

“When?” Renwick’s voice sharpened.

And Keppler’s voice eased. “As soon as I can get away from my office. There are several urgent problems.”

So he was still in Bern. “I thought you wanted to see that list.”

“I do. A little delay won’t matter, provided the list is safe. It won’t be in any danger now.”

“I hope not.”

“But you took care of our major problem last night. Most efficiently, I hear.”

“There could be other interested people.”

“As far as I can learn, you are way ahead of them.” With that piece of encouragement, Keppler ended their talk.

And am I supposed to hang around Zurich until he can leave Bern? Then Renwick’s annoyance subsided. He had asked for help, he had got it, and now—it was always the way—he would have to go along. Gracefully, he told himself. He picked up his bag and left the room.

As he started downstairs, he had other worrying thoughts. It could be that Keppler might have co-operated too willingly with Interintell and was now trying to pacify his chief in Bern or the Zurich police. But if Keppler was meeting difficulties, had overstepped his authority—well, whatever he learned from the names on the Plus List should get him out of that fix. And if no Swiss names were on that list?