Cloak of Darkness Read Free Page A

could be a student from the school of music near Magpie Alley, passed their table. This one was lighting a cigarette. But no red lighter.
    “One meeting with proper signals would be enough,” Gilman agreed. “An odd bird. Perhaps—” He heard footsteps slowing down behind his left shoulder, barely turned his head to glimpse the man who was about to light a cigarette, went on speaking. “Perhaps this foul weather will be over before the Wimbledon finals.”
    “Did you get tickets?” Renwick looked down at his watch. The man continued towards the door. A red lighter, a heavy signet ring... And a face that was deeply tanned, fine wrinkles at the side of the brown eyes glancing briefly in Renwick’s direction; hard features, thick black hair. His suit was well cut, fitted his broad shoulders, but its fabric was too light in weight for London. Passing through? Certainly the opaque plastic raincoat over one arm was easily packable.
    Gilman, with a good view of the man’s departure, dropped his voice. “Straight spine, strong back, about six feet tall. Did you get a full view of his face?”
    Renwick’s voice was now at a murmur, too. “His name is Moore. Albert, Alfred—no, Alvin Moore. He was one of the drivers at NATO—his second enlistment. First one was in Vietnam, saw a lot of action, good record. But in Belgium he got involved with a couple of sergeants who were caught selling stolen supplies to a dealer in Brussels—they drew seven years each. There was no real evidence against Moore. They used his car, that was all. He had a mania for automobiles and speeds of ninety miles an hour.” Renwick kept an eye on his watch.
    “Did he drive for you?” That couldn’t have been very often. Renwick liked to drive himself.
    “Occasionally—when I had a meeting and had to be in uniform. Staff car, driver, that kind of thing.”
    “Then how did you remember him?”
    “When he was brought up on charges, he needed me as a character witness.”
    “And you appeared?”
    “He was honest—as far as I knew. One time I carried a briefcase, some sealed folders, an armful of maps. I had a clip of dollars—emergency cash—in my trouser pocket. Belgian francs were in my wallet. The dollar bills slipped out. I didn’t notice, didn’t even remember where I had lost them. Corporal Moore was my driver that day. He returned the bills intact. Found them slipped down in the back seat of the car.”
    “Did your testimony clear him?”
    “Every little bit helps, doesn’t it? But he was transferred stateside, discharged. Joined something more to his taste—the Green Berets, I heard.” Renwick glanced at his watch once more. “That was about seven years ago.”
    “He’s the type who needs action, I think.”
    Renwick agreed. “His trouble at NATO was boredom.” Then his voice changed. “On the phone he addressed me as colonel. Just once. Yet I was a captain when he knew me.”
    “Where did he get that information?” Gilman asked quickly. Renwick’s promotion had been kept very quiet indeed; he never used his rank, just as the others in the Interintell group didn’t use theirs. Civilians for the duration and the preservation of peace, it was to be hoped.
    “That,” said Renwick, “needs finding out.” There were too many damned questions needing answers. His eyes left his watch. “Time to start trying. It’s five minutes to the second.” He rose, unhooked his coat and hat. In a voice back to a normal level, he said, “Sorry I have to leave. Be seeing you.”
    “See you, old boy.” Gilman’s eyes were troubled, but he gave one of his rare smiles, warm and real. Just hope that Bob has been keeping up his karate sessions, he thought as he watched Renwick pull on his Burberry and jam his rain hat well down on his brow before he stepped out into the cold world of Bridle Lane.
    ***
    For a moment, Renwick hesitated on the sidewalk. Walk to Fleet Street, try to find a cab there? Or would that taxi parked outside