Cloak of Darkness Read Online Free PDF

soldiering abroad—in Africa, mostly.” Moore noticed Renwick’s expression. He said quickly, defensively, “I wasn’t a mercenary. Sure I was paid, but I trained troops to fight. Troops.” He shook his head over that memory. “A bunch of slobs when I got them, but I turned out soldiers, all right.”
    “Guerrillas?”
    “Call them what you like, but they damn sure weren’t terrorists. They meet the enemy in a fire fight, a fair skirmish. They don’t infiltrate a town and pretend they’re ordinary folks, and then start plotting where they’ll hide the bombs to blow up civilians. That isn’t war, kill or be killed. That’s bloody murder.”
    “There’s a difference,” Renwick agreed, but it was a subtle one and sometimes fragile. Guerrillas on a rampage could leave a lot of innocent civilians maimed, raped, or dead. “So you’re against terrorism. And assassination.”
    Moore looked at him sharply.
    “You told me that. In the taxi,” Renwick reminded him. “But you haven’t finished about your wars in Africa.”
    “Two years were enough. In seventy-eight I came back to New York and met—met my friend. She was Brimmer’s good right hand by that time. She told me I was just the man that her boss was looking for. Or one of the men—he hired three of us, all with plenty of experience. Exports Consolidated was by then into selling arms to countries that could pay for them—or had rich friends who’d oblige. They wanted the newest and best, and instructors to show them how to use the weapons. Sure, I jumped at the job. It was big money, and travel, and I got respect, too.”
    Don’t rush him, Renwick decided. He has got to justify himself. But even in Moore’s self-explanations, the shape of something ominous was beginning to form.
    “One thing I made clear to Brimmer from the start. I’d train soldiers. I’d instruct them in weapons. But I wasn’t teaching a damn thing to terrorists. I wasn’t running a school for assassins, either.”
    “He agreed to that?” What about South Yemen? Renwick wondered.
    “With a joke and a slap on the back. So everything went fine. Big and bigger money. Brimmer can afford it; he’s making millions. He’s got business contacts everywhere. And three months ago, he joined up with another big outfit that sells arms. It’s international, so my friend says. Based in Europe.”
    That was news to Renwick. “Their name?”
    “Brimmer isn’t telling. And you won’t find the merger in any financial pages. Anyway, when I got back to New York—”
    “Your friend”—Renwick cut in quickly—“surely she knows the name of that firm.”
    “It isn’t important.”
    “Just part of the picture, Al. I must have all of it, as complete as possible, if you want my help. That’s why you brought me here, isn’t it? You don’t need money, that’s obvious.”
    “Wouldn’t take it—” Moore began angrily.
    “That’s right. You are no informer. What’s the firm’s name?”
    “Klingfeld & Sons. They don’t sound like much, but she says they’re high-powered. Offices in Paris, Geneva, Rome.”
    “Each firm is keeping its own name?” A strange merger. Stranger yet was the fact that Klingfeld & Sons was not on any list of armament traffickers that Renwick had ever seen.
    “They’re a silent partner in Exports Consolidated. She says it’s funny: Klingfeld is bigger than Brimmer.”
    “Can’t go on calling your girl ‘she’, Al. What’s her name?”
    Moore’s lips tightened.
    Renwick’s voice was sharp. “Look—how many personal and invaluable secretaries does Brimmer have? We can trace her. Easily.”
    “Lorna.” The name, incomplete, came unwillingly.
    Had dear Lorna instructed Moore not to give her name; not Klingfeld’s, either? It had been like pulling teeth to extract these two small items from Moore. “I take it Lorna is a close friend of yours. Very close? Then you can believe what she tells you. You trust her completely?”
    “Trust her?