Renwick had crossed the Dutch frontier into Belgium, the green camper was well ahead of him, mostly out of sight except as a distant blob when the road ran straight. Here, the long flat stretches of well-tilled fields and windmills had given way to a gentle rise and fall of land. Blue canals, reflecting the colour of the summer sky, were replaced by streams edged by woods. By the outskirts of Antwerp, the camper had disappeared from view completely, probably taken some turn-off to a picnic ground or park on the perimeter of the city. Good luck to you, Nina of the sparkling blue eyes and golden hair and warm, ready smile. Good luck to you. But why Antwerp? Why not Brussels?
He kept his speed steady, like the other travellers on the road, fore and aft, all dutiful citizens. It made for pleasant driving: no one zigzagging in and out like a demented hornet, no one tailgating and forcing the pace. He could relax, thinking now only of Essen and Rotterdam, of Theo and the monies paid out to Kurt Leitner; but mostly of Theo.
Should he try to suggest that the West German authorities pick Theo up? Or should he still go along with their decision— standard practice, he had to admit—to keep watch on Theo’s movements and contacts? He hadn’t much choice: his pet project, International Intelligence against Terrorism, would have no powers to detain or arrest. Like Interpol, it could only track down, gather the evidence, and ask the participating countries to make the arrest. Or get them to demand extradition if that was necessary. But, he reflected, have we sufficient proof to set things in motion? The answer was a definite no. The evidence was circumstantial. As yet, he promised Otto Remp presently of Düsseldorf, Herman Kroll late of Leipzig, Theo. As yet...
When he entered the busy streets of Brussels he noted a small white Fiat, which had chosen the same route as he had, following him still more closely. He hadn’t noticed it until he was just south of the frontier, and from there it had kept its place in line, like all the others, on the road, staying four cars behind him. Someone tailing him? Had someone picked him up as he left Crefeld’s office on the Prinsengracht? Kept him in sight all the way to the garage near Central Station? All the way to the Breda road? Damn me, he thought, for an idiot, too occupied with Nina and her friends, with Crefeld and his information about Rotterdam, with Theo, to notice anyone following. If surveillance had occurred, it was pretty skilful. Expert job, involving two or three men passing him one to the other. He would have noticed one man dogging his heels through the streets of Amsterdam. Yes, an expert job. If it had occurred.
He tested that, now, by heading for the crowded centre of the city, without too many twists and turns to betray the fact that he had been alerted. In spite of the heavy traffic, the white Fiat hung on, at a safe but definite distance. So he didn’t drive to his office or his apartment, or make for the garage where his rented car had been delivered that morning, but left it in the parking area of the Dove, a thriving and expensive restaurant. The Fiat decided to park there, too. No one got out. Perhaps the prices had scared him off, or—more seriously—the man at the Fiat’s wheel was alone and now debating whether to follow or wait. Always a mistake, thought Renwick, to put one man alone on a tail. He could have radio contact, though, and be calling for a back-up at this very moment. So be quick, Renwick, quick but casual.
He made a leisurely entry into the Dove. Once inside its fashionable gloom, he headed for the bar. He ordered a short drink, paid for it, gave himself just enough time to make sure that the man he had briefly glimpsed wasn’t following him after all, and then left for the men’s room. If his memory of this place was accurate, there was an adjacent service door. His departure was speedy. Into a passageway, dodging a waiter with a loaded
He kept his speed steady, like the other travellers on the road, fore and aft, all dutiful citizens. It made for pleasant driving: no one zigzagging in and out like a demented hornet, no one tailgating and forcing the pace. He could relax, thinking now only of Essen and Rotterdam, of Theo and the monies paid out to Kurt Leitner; but mostly of Theo.
Should he try to suggest that the West German authorities pick Theo up? Or should he still go along with their decision— standard practice, he had to admit—to keep watch on Theo’s movements and contacts? He hadn’t much choice: his pet project, International Intelligence against Terrorism, would have no powers to detain or arrest. Like Interpol, it could only track down, gather the evidence, and ask the participating countries to make the arrest. Or get them to demand extradition if that was necessary. But, he reflected, have we sufficient proof to set things in motion? The answer was a definite no. The evidence was circumstantial. As yet, he promised Otto Remp presently of Düsseldorf, Herman Kroll late of Leipzig, Theo. As yet...
When he entered the busy streets of Brussels he noted a small white Fiat, which had chosen the same route as he had, following him still more closely. He hadn’t noticed it until he was just south of the frontier, and from there it had kept its place in line, like all the others, on the road, staying four cars behind him. Someone tailing him? Had someone picked him up as he left Crefeld’s office on the Prinsengracht? Kept him in sight all the way to the garage near Central Station? All the way to the Breda road? Damn me, he thought, for an idiot, too occupied with Nina and her friends, with Crefeld and his information about Rotterdam, with Theo, to notice anyone following. If surveillance had occurred, it was pretty skilful. Expert job, involving two or three men passing him one to the other. He would have noticed one man dogging his heels through the streets of Amsterdam. Yes, an expert job. If it had occurred.
He tested that, now, by heading for the crowded centre of the city, without too many twists and turns to betray the fact that he had been alerted. In spite of the heavy traffic, the white Fiat hung on, at a safe but definite distance. So he didn’t drive to his office or his apartment, or make for the garage where his rented car had been delivered that morning, but left it in the parking area of the Dove, a thriving and expensive restaurant. The Fiat decided to park there, too. No one got out. Perhaps the prices had scared him off, or—more seriously—the man at the Fiat’s wheel was alone and now debating whether to follow or wait. Always a mistake, thought Renwick, to put one man alone on a tail. He could have radio contact, though, and be calling for a back-up at this very moment. So be quick, Renwick, quick but casual.
He made a leisurely entry into the Dove. Once inside its fashionable gloom, he headed for the bar. He ordered a short drink, paid for it, gave himself just enough time to make sure that the man he had briefly glimpsed wasn’t following him after all, and then left for the men’s room. If his memory of this place was accurate, there was an adjacent service door. His departure was speedy. Into a passageway, dodging a waiter with a loaded
Similar Books
