informed,” Renwick said as they shook hands at the door.
“The sooner the better,” Crefeld suggested.
Another handshake on that, and the door closed behind Renwick. Almost four o’clock, he noted with surprise, as he reached the street and began walking along the canal side. Yes, quite a useful, exchange of information, and possibly more to come from Rotterdam. Just where was Kurt Leitner bound for, with his nice new clothes and his travelling bag? One thing we do know for a certainty, Renwick decided: he left the name Kurt Leitner along with his leather jacket in that house by the docks.
***
Renwick chose the Breda road for his return to Belgium. Traffic was mixed in the late afternoon, fewer trucks but more sightseeing buses and small cars loaded to the gunwales with holiday baggage. Outrageous gas prices were having little effect on vacationers southward bound. At the border, there was a general slow-up, unusual in the Benelux countries, where goods and people flowed easily across frontiers. But the bombing in Amsterdam was having its effect: closer scrutiny than usual of all vehicles leaving Holland.
Renwick eased his Citroën’s speed and joined the line of cars that edged their way forward, stopped, moved forward again. A Europa bus was released and sent on. One more car behind it, then a minibus, two more cars, and Renwick’s turn would come. That wouldn’t take too long. He would make good speed on the road bypassing Antwerp, be able to wash up at his apartment before he went out to dinner at his favourite restaurant, where he could meet a couple of his friends.
Then as he looked along the road ahead of him, he noticed there was a small group, a half-dozen people or so, gathered close to the minibus. Or camper, he decided. Green, well-built body, tarpaulin strapped securely over the baggage on its roof. Would they have to open that up? he wondered in dismay, glancing at his watch. Just in case a Japanese terrorist was hidden topside? Kids, he thought now, as he heard the small group break into laughter, saw some light-hearted horseplay between two of the young men. A couple, affectionate, holding on to each other. Two girls; shoulder-length golden hair, slender, medium height, outsize shoulder bags. He looked again, amazed. Nina. And friend Madge.
He recovered from his surprise. Where were the remaining two, Shawfield and Kiley? Still inside the camper talking with the Dutch officials? But all was in order, for the group was called together, climbed back into the camper. It moved off, quickly gathering speed. The two cars ahead of him, now getting into position for identification, blocked Renwick’s view of the plate above the camper’s rear bumper. When he could see the camper again, it was too distant to note its number. An automatic reflex, he thought, excusing his curiosity. Anyway they were off, with a clean bill of health: no Japanese stowaway—that hadn’t worried him—and no evidence of drugs being smuggled or used, and thank God for that. He could smile and shake his head at that brief touch of suspicion. They were safely off, a day ahead of schedule. There would be no Dear Daddy letter written to Francis O’Connell tonight: he’d be lucky if he got a postcard from Brussels.
7
Crefeld had allowed fifteen minutes, after Renwick’s departure from his office, before he left. The remnants of their luncheon, gathered up inside the checked napkin, had been thrust back into the attaché case. The letters on his desk—addressed to J. Schlee, Rare Books—could be locked away in his cabinet. He’d attend to them on his next visit, nothing urgent, nothing important. But the slim briefcase was. With it tucked securely under one arm, his hand holding the attaché case—a nuisance, but useful, letting him avoid restaurants and crowds whenever a special meeting had to be arranged, and where else but in this office could secret reports be handled securely?—he double-locked the door behind
“The sooner the better,” Crefeld suggested.
Another handshake on that, and the door closed behind Renwick. Almost four o’clock, he noted with surprise, as he reached the street and began walking along the canal side. Yes, quite a useful, exchange of information, and possibly more to come from Rotterdam. Just where was Kurt Leitner bound for, with his nice new clothes and his travelling bag? One thing we do know for a certainty, Renwick decided: he left the name Kurt Leitner along with his leather jacket in that house by the docks.
***
Renwick chose the Breda road for his return to Belgium. Traffic was mixed in the late afternoon, fewer trucks but more sightseeing buses and small cars loaded to the gunwales with holiday baggage. Outrageous gas prices were having little effect on vacationers southward bound. At the border, there was a general slow-up, unusual in the Benelux countries, where goods and people flowed easily across frontiers. But the bombing in Amsterdam was having its effect: closer scrutiny than usual of all vehicles leaving Holland.
Renwick eased his Citroën’s speed and joined the line of cars that edged their way forward, stopped, moved forward again. A Europa bus was released and sent on. One more car behind it, then a minibus, two more cars, and Renwick’s turn would come. That wouldn’t take too long. He would make good speed on the road bypassing Antwerp, be able to wash up at his apartment before he went out to dinner at his favourite restaurant, where he could meet a couple of his friends.
Then as he looked along the road ahead of him, he noticed there was a small group, a half-dozen people or so, gathered close to the minibus. Or camper, he decided. Green, well-built body, tarpaulin strapped securely over the baggage on its roof. Would they have to open that up? he wondered in dismay, glancing at his watch. Just in case a Japanese terrorist was hidden topside? Kids, he thought now, as he heard the small group break into laughter, saw some light-hearted horseplay between two of the young men. A couple, affectionate, holding on to each other. Two girls; shoulder-length golden hair, slender, medium height, outsize shoulder bags. He looked again, amazed. Nina. And friend Madge.
He recovered from his surprise. Where were the remaining two, Shawfield and Kiley? Still inside the camper talking with the Dutch officials? But all was in order, for the group was called together, climbed back into the camper. It moved off, quickly gathering speed. The two cars ahead of him, now getting into position for identification, blocked Renwick’s view of the plate above the camper’s rear bumper. When he could see the camper again, it was too distant to note its number. An automatic reflex, he thought, excusing his curiosity. Anyway they were off, with a clean bill of health: no Japanese stowaway—that hadn’t worried him—and no evidence of drugs being smuggled or used, and thank God for that. He could smile and shake his head at that brief touch of suspicion. They were safely off, a day ahead of schedule. There would be no Dear Daddy letter written to Francis O’Connell tonight: he’d be lucky if he got a postcard from Brussels.
7
Crefeld had allowed fifteen minutes, after Renwick’s departure from his office, before he left. The remnants of their luncheon, gathered up inside the checked napkin, had been thrust back into the attaché case. The letters on his desk—addressed to J. Schlee, Rare Books—could be locked away in his cabinet. He’d attend to them on his next visit, nothing urgent, nothing important. But the slim briefcase was. With it tucked securely under one arm, his hand holding the attaché case—a nuisance, but useful, letting him avoid restaurants and crowds whenever a special meeting had to be arranged, and where else but in this office could secret reports be handled securely?—he double-locked the door behind
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