The Hidden Target Read Free Page A

signing.
    Leitner’s face tightened. Briefly. “Yes, sir,” he said, his eyes fixed on Bloch’s bald head, as smooth and gleaming as an ostrich egg. “I brought back the last two books this morning. They were all from the secondhand shelves. I was careful with them, didn’t harm them.”
    “Interested in travel, I see. You’d have found a wider selection in the public library.”
    And have my name noted along with the subject matter? Leitner looked apologetic and said, “I did try that, but it is difficult to get there when it’s open. I’m sorry if I—”
    Bloch waved a large expressive hand. “It’s over. Forget it. No damage done to the books, but you should have asked permission. So you’ve got to go back to Munich and give up your travel plans.”
    “Plans? Oh, no. Nothing immediate. Not for some years yet. First, I read and gather background material. Next, I write. And if my book is successful—then I can start travelling.”
    “A writer, eh?” Bloch pushed his heavy glasses up over his domed head and studied this young optimist—a handsome fellow with steady blue-grey eyes, a beard and moustache and a thatch of brown hair that Bloch could envy. “Better stick to selling books. You’d eat regularly, at least.” He dismissed Leitner with “I hope your father recovers” and a clap on the shoulders.
    No bad feeling there, Leitner thought with relief as he hurried back to his room. But that was a surprise punch right to my jaw. Who’d have thought the old boy could notice so much through those thick lenses? Did he also notice the pattern of travel that, interested me? Western to Eastern Europe, Asia Minor to India, the Far East... But I was careful not to take the books out in that order, and I added several old chestnuts— early journeys of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries—just to keep my interest looking general. I underestimated Bloch: a sharp reminder to take nothing for granted, to remember that the smallest mistake might be the big one. Like Willy falling for Amalie’s shy smile. Damn them both to everlasting hell.
    ***
    There was no problem at all with Frau Zimmermann. In her best flowered print, she was preparing to leave for early supper and a game of bingo. That should hold her until nine o’clock, at least. He could pack without interruptions.
    He did not need to burn any documents; anything important was well disguised. Such as his cryptic descriptions, no definite place names, of the camping grounds outside the towns and cities he was scheduled to visit in the coming months—all part of the folder boldly headed “Notes for a novel.” There was also a page of scrawled first names, some scored out for the sake of realism, above which he had written “Suggested characters.” And on another sheet of paper he had made out a list of ages for his proposed characters, giving date and place of birth. The places were entirely a random choice, meaningless. So were the years. But the days and the months were to be remembered. On them, precisely, he would make the arranged contact with the small terrorist factions of the various countries he would visit.
    As he placed the folder carefully in his duffel bag, he reassured himself again that these dates appeared quite innocent. He needed that list. He had easily memorised the names of the localities where meetings would be held, but the dates were tricky. Theo had given him a quantity of them, and he couldn’t risk any mistiming. Could there be so many groups of would-be guerrillas? Well, he would soon judge, once he met with them, listened to them, studied their leaders, decided whether they were worth taking seriously or not. His reports would go back to Theo, harmlessly phrased about the state of the weather—good, promising, disappointing—and on them the future of the local terrorists depended. Either they’d be found wanting and left to continue their hold-ups and wild shoot-outs like a lot of cheap gangsters, or they’d be