Free The Hidden Target by Helen MacInnes Page B

cheese, a smaller box with cherries, a sliced loaf, two mugs, two plastic glasses, two paper plates, a Thermos of coffee, and a flask of gin.
    “Negative. Only a rumour.” In fascination, Renwick watched the deft way in which Crefeld’s massive hands arranged the items in logical order. “Just a nice little piece of camouflage.”
    “Because of your new project?” Crefeld poured gin into the two glasses. “That’s wise. No useful purpose in spilling the— What do you Americans spill?” He frowned at the glass he held out to Renwick. He prided himself on his command of colloquial English, acquired over his years of service with NATO.
    “Beans.” Renwick smothered his grin. It was years since he had heard that phrase.
    Crefeld inclined his head in acknowledgement. As usual, a strand of fair hair—now greying and thinning, Renwick noted—fell over his high forehead. He pushed it aside, a temporary victory, and studied his glass. “Glad it was only a rumour. You’ve still got twenty years ahead of you before you reach my age.”
    If any of us are still functioning by that time, thought Renwick. Or alive. He raised his glass. “To survival.”
    “To the project,” Crefeld said. They both drank to that. “Have you got a name for it yet?”
    “The choice seems to lie between Counter-Terrorism Intelligence and International Intelligence against Terrorism. Pretty heavy. Any suggestions?”
    “Well, your idea is based on something after the style of Interpol. Find something short and snappy like that.”
    “Interintell?” Renwick’s grin was broad.
    “Why not?”
    “Sounds like a cable address.”
    “So does Interpol. Few people know it as the International Criminal Police Organisation that began in Vienna.”
    Renwick added tactfully, “Nineteen-twenty-three,” and ended a short discourse on the history of the international crime-chasers before Crefeld could deliver it.
    “Interintell,” Crefeld said reflectively. “I like it.”
    “So you really have decided to join us?” Renwick kept his tone light, but he waited anxiously. Crefeld would be excellent as the head of Interintell’s main office. Larsen, in Oslo, and Lademan, in Copenhagen, were his close friends. Add to that trio Richard Diehl, in West Germany, who was already cooperating: his country, after all, had more than its share of terrorists who sought refuge abroad when the heat became too great. (Only a few months ago, one of the Baader-Meinhof gang had been arrested as she tried to cross into the United States from Canada.) Then there was Ronald Gilman, in London— also definite. So was Tim MacEwan, in Ottawa. And Pierre Claudel, in Paris, had been enthusiastic from the start. All were old friends, had worked together in NATO, and now were back with their own intelligence services. A real blockbuster, reflected Renwick: brains and guts, and clout to match.
    Crefeld was watching the younger man with a smile. “Of course. Did you ever doubt it? Who else has been rounded up?”
    Renwick, with relief undisguised, gave him the names. “Next week, I’ll be in Washington and talk with Frank Cooper.”
    “He has retired out of everything, hasn’t he? He’s on the old side, I’d say.”
    Not as old as you, Jake, thought Renwick. “He’s still a good man.”
    “What is he doing now?”
    “International law. New York firm with a branch in Washington.”
    “Ah—that could be useful. Well, you’ve made an excellent start... And I must say it is a first-rate idea.”
    “But borrowed, as you said, from Interpol,” Renwick added.
    “With considerable differences. They go after international crime. We go after international terrorists. But we face one difficulty.”
    Only one? thought Renwick.
    “Police forces of a hundred countries co-operate with Interpol. Will intelligence agencies do the same for us?” Crefeld shook his head. “They keep their records to themselves.”
    “We aren’t asking them to open their files. All we ask is