Die Rich Die Happy

James Munro - Die Rich, Die Happy

* Chapter l *

Philip Grierson drove to Queen Anne's Gate, and all the way ham Chelsea his mind was doing sums about petrol. The Lagonda did fifteen to the gallon, and at her age that wasn't too bad. Even so, it meant five and sixpence just to go to the ofBce and back. Garage, three pounds a week. Insurance, two pounds a week. Maintenance another thirty bob. Odds and ends another pound. Altogether his transport cost him at least six-fifty a year, and he couldn't fiddle half of it back on expenses. He would have to ask for a rise.

He parked in the mews behind the house then went in by the front door, past the row of brass plates: Dr. H. B.

rington-Low, Lady Brett, Major Fuller, the Right Rever-end Hugh Bean. None of the bells below the nameplates worked. Grierson pressed the bell marked "Caretaker," and the door opened at once. The man who opened it wore over-ill;. ar.d a caretaker's air of grudging y)oJiteness. He was short, muscular, and fast-moving, an ex-Commando sergeant who, to Grierson's certain knowledge, had killed three men. Beneath the overalls he carried a Smith and Wesson and a Commando knife. From time to time, Grierson was obliged to practice unarmed combat with him. He found the sessions invigorating but painful.

"Morning, guv," said the caretaker.

Grierson, still absorbed in mental arithmetic, scowled.

"That's right," said the caretaker. "His Nibs came in early this morning. He wasn't happy either."

Grierson went up the stair to his office, the flat marked Lady Brett. His secretary was already waiting for him, a mass of correspondence and memoranda before her. Grierson thought of the day when he had first been asked to join Department K, and had learned to his astonishment

that M.I.6 had been watching him ever since he left the Royal Marines. The dry little civil servant who had approached him had warned him that Department K was the most ruthless branch of the service, the branch that tackled the jobs that were too dangerous—or too dirty—for anyone else to handle, and Grierson had almost wept with joy. Well, he'd had his share of danger, and of dirt, for that matter. But always in between there was paperwork, mountains of it. He frowned again, and his secretary, a grim widow, remorselessly efficient, reflected for the millionth time how beautiful he was, and crushed the thought down ruthlessly.

"Conference at eleven," she said. "Just one item—the Middle East situation. I've got all the documents here." Grierson sighed. "Mr. Loomis said I had to tell you—" She hesitated.

"Let's have it verbatim," said Grierson. "I'm used

to it."

The secretary said, her voice expressionless: 'Tell the lazy bastard to get his bloody facts straight, just for once." She paused. "Mr. Loomis was not in a good mood," she added. "I should do as he says."

Grierson toiled at his homework until five minutes to eleven, then went to stand outside Loomis's office and to remember, as he always did, the other identical times when he had waited outside the door of his headmaster's study. As the sweep second hand of his watch passed the hour, he raised his hand and knocked discreetly, then went in at once to Loomis's growl.

Loomis was vast: a gross monster of a man with a face the color of an angry sunset, pale manic eyes, red hair dusted with white like snow on a wheat field, and an arrogant nose. Grierson had known him in two moods only, insultingly surly or savagely rude. Today it was to be the second. He wondered why he worked for this bitter-tongued mastodon, and decided there was only one possible reason. Loomis did his job superbly.

"You're on time then," Loomis snarled. "You must want something.''

Grierson abandoned all hope of a rise.

"No, sir," he said.

"So long as it isn't money," Loomis went on. "I had a memo from the Treasury. No more money. You'd think it was the P.M.'s blood." He opened a drawer with a fat man's deliberate economy of movement, and took out a map.

"I wish it were," he said, and swept the map open, weighted its corners with ashtrays, a desk lighter, an ebony ruler, then pointed at it with a meaty forefinger.

"This," he said, "is the Middle East."

"Yes, sir," said Grierson.

"And that's the last fact I'll tell you that you know already, so don't try any more of your polished irony on me," said Loomis, then the forefinger stabbed again.

"Aden, Kuwait, Muscat, Oman. On our side. Good chaps. Yemen. Against us. Bad chaps. But they have their own troubles. They don't bother us. Here's what bothers us." The finger stabbed again, at a small almost square area south of the Yemen, biting into the Aden Protectorate. Zaarb. 'The autonomous Republic of Zaarb. Tell me about it, Grierson."

"Zaarb's going to go Red," said Grierson. "The Communist Party is the only one with any power, and the place is stacked with Chinese technical advisers. When it does go, it'll be Chinese Red, not Russian. The same as Albania. Even Nasser doesn't like it."

"And we'll be up the creek," said Loomis. "Why?"

Grierson hated Loomis in his Socratic mood.

"Zaarb's right next door to Aden; and God knows we've got enough trouble there. Besides, it's one vast oil well," he said. "We—Great Britain, I mean—own 47 /2 percent of it. So does Zaarb. The other 5 percent belongs to a Greek millionaire. Chap called Naxos. He always votes with us, which is why we've been able to protect the oil fields with troops."

"Nearly right," Loomis said, "but not quite right enough. Naxos has always voted with us so far. He might be persuaded to change his mind."

"But why on earth should he?" Grierson asked. "If he votes with Zaarb they'll nationalize him."

"He could be made to," said Loomis.

"But is that so tragic? We're getting far more oil from Kuwait anyway," Grierson said.

"My God, you're bright this morning," said Loomis. "It's important for prestige reasons, sport. We got ourselves kicked out of Egypt—we can't afford to be kicked out of anywhere else. We got a treaty with Zaarb that still has forty years to run. That treaty says we can take oil out, and put troops in for our protection. And that's what we'll do. Zaarb can nationalize itself puce for all I care. The troops will stay. And there's another thing." His forefinger descended again, blotting out a long strip of territory that buffered Zaarb from the Yemen. "There's this back of beyond here. Calls itself the Haram. What d'you know about that?"

"There's nothing there, sir. Mostly scrubland, mountains, and very hostile tribesmen. They want to be left alone and they shoot very straight, so why bother?"

"It's been thought," said Loomis portentously, "I won't say by whom, but it's been thought these bloody-minded straight shooters might be a help if ever we had a to-do in Zaarb. Create a diversion, d'you see? So I sent a man out there, a very good chap. Fluent Arabic, used to the desert, sound knowledge of local customs, all that. The tribesmen caught him in two days. Sent his body to our embassy in Zaarb. Upset the Ambassador so much he nearly forgot his cliches.

"Our chap got one message out. Shortwave radio. Trouble was there was an electrical storm at the time. Screwed up the reception. All we got was five words— 'pottery,' mountain,' 'executive level,' and what we think was 'Englishman,' then finish. I hope they killed him quick, poor bastard. You know what it means?"

Grierson shook his head. The only words with a context were "executive level." They meant that there was danger in the Haram, a threat of violent menace that could be countered only by the specialist talents of Department K.

"No more do I," said Loomis. "But our feller thought it was our cup of tea—this thing he'd found. Then there's Naxos. The millionaire. His agreement with us comes up for renewal next month, and there's rumors somebody may try to kill him, d'you see, and we feel he'd be much better off living. And so would we, so he's our cup of tea too. And then there's Craig."

"Craig, sir?" Grierson looked bewildered. "But Craig's disappeared."

"I've had him reappeared," Loomis snarled. "Took me a hell of a time to find him, too. He's on a Greek island, boozing. It's time he came back."

"You're going to put him on to this?"

Loomis nodded, then glanced quickly at Grierson.

"Not jealous, are you?"

Grierson said: "No, sir." He meant it.

"Just as well," Loomis grunted. "He'll need help on this one. But he's the only fellow who can sort this mess out." He sighed. "You get on with your homework, sport. I'm going to Greece to reform a boozer. It's ridiculous. A man in my position. I'll end up in the bloody Temperance League."

* Chapter 2 *

-Schiebel finished off his dinner with a couple of fines, and thought as he drank the second that the Swiss were Germans with a talent for French cooking. He looked from the restaurant's windows to Lake Leman, and observed how punctually the steamers ran, how meticulously the pleasure craft obeyed the rules, and then, remembering his dinner, considered his judgment correct. Switzerland was too small to conquer the world, he thought, but it had a right to be smug, even more smug than it was. He called for his bill, and when it came, he over-tipped, because tonight, he was sure, was a night to celebrate. As he left the restaurant, he passed the cocktail bar. Above it was a mirror. He hesitated, then looked at his watch. He still had twenty minutes to kill. Schiebel ordered another fine, then sat down at the bar to drink it, and look at his face in the mirror.

What he saw was an English aristocrat, the head long and narrow, the nose copious yet elegant, the thin-lipped mouth wryly, fastidiously comic, the skin, tanned brown by ultraviolet lamps, stretched tight across the cheekbones. Looking at his new self gave Schiebel infinite amusement. He savored the last brandy with conscientious pleasure, winked at the mirror face that winked back at him, then set off to keep his appointment. After a bottle of Clos de Vougeot and three brandies, he still walked straight. Perhaps he swaggered a little, but the swagger was excusable. It isn't every day a man finds a new substance for blowing up the world.

He passed the discreet baroque of the Temple Neuf, and the flower stalls and caf6s of the Place du Molard. Schiebel hated the cafes that were filled with intellectuals arguing about Camus and Genet and Henry Miller, and waving their copies of Encounter and les temps Modernes and Bot-teghe Oscuri in angry triumph; talking always, never listening. They reminded him of Swyven, but Swyven had at least achieved a sense of purpose, and worked now to fulfill his role in history: the order and discipline of a truly Communist world, as Marx, Stalin, and Chairman Mao had foreseen it. One day those others, those talkers, would have to discipline themselves too, and work for the one, inevitable, classless society. If they refused, they would be punished severely, as an example to other reluctant intellectuals. Schiebel thought how much he would enjoy superintending such punishment.

The thought took him up the long, weary climb to the H6tel de Ville. He walked steadily by its unemphatic facade, and turned a corner into a poor, dimly fit quarter, dismissed in the guidebooks as of no interest to tourists. No one famous or notorious had died there, or even lived there. Schiebel walked on, then deliberately broke the rhythm of his stride. There was someone following him. Schiebel tensed, then moved a little farther from the shelter of the houses toward the edge of the pavement. His follower increased his pace as he neared an empty building, but Schiebel continued to saunter. This was a rough area by Geneva's standards, and if he ran he might be shot at and nobody in this part of the town would be rash enough to interfere. Schiebel slowed a little more, waiting for the sound of running footsteps behind him, and when it came he managed very nicely, very nicely indeed. He felt quite pleased with himself.

The man moved fast, but Schiebel waited until he'd almost reached him, then whirled round, crouching low, swinging one hard-muscled leg like a solid bar at his attacker's shins, chopping down with his hand as the other man fell past him; seeing the iron bar in his hand, kicking at once for the ulna bone, grinning in satisfaction as he heard the man scream. A tricky shot, that one, but he'd broken the wrist. Bloody good show, old boy. He grinned again, and hauled the other man to his feet, rammed him against the wall.

"Who are you?" he asked. "What do you want?"

The other man hesitated and Schiebel hit him, once. The attacker gasped and said, "Bloch, Ludwig Bloch. I—I was going to rob you."

"You were unlucky," said Schiebel. He looked at his attacker, staying himself in the shadows. A cheap crook. Cheap suit, cheap shoes. Cheap cigarettes in his pocket and twenty Swiss francs, and nothing else. A small man with small ideas, and an iron bar. Then the moon came out and shone full on Schiebel's face.

"You really are unlucky," said Schiebel, and his right hand moved in a blur of speed to bis pocket, a knife blade flicked out, a pale gleam in the moonlight, and Bloch, too late, tried to scream as Schiebel spun him round, struck under the rib cage and up, and Bloch was dead, still pressed against the wall, till his knees started to sag and he slid down, very slowly, as Schiebel pulled the knife free, wiped it on Bloch's jacket (a dead man isn't fussy) and examined his own clothes for bloodstains. There were none. There rarely are, if you strike from behind correctly.

Schiebel walked on, to an old, battered house with "T. K. Soong—Souvenirs and Curios," painted on its window. Schiebel decided he would say nothing to Soong about the man he had killed. Soong would consider such conduct incorrect, even though it had been successful, and a bottle of wine and three brandies would not excuse it.

He rang the bell, and a short, heavily built Chinese opened the door. Schiebel tried a phrase in carefully learned Mandarin, and the Chinese sneered, then stood aside and motioned him in. Schiebel walked along a corridor, the Chinese behind him. The Chinese, he was sure, was holding a gun.

He reached an open door and went inside. Soong was there, waiting for him, a tall, elegant North Chinese in a dark, Italian-made suit with a rosebud in the buttonhole. He stood up at once, hesitated, then went to meet SchiebeL

"My dear fellow, how splendid you look," he said, and dragged him into the light. "An out and out imperialist. I really do congratulate you." He took the photograph Schiebel had sent him, looked at the portrait, then at the man himself, and shook his head in amazed delight. "Utterly fantastic," he said. "You look so British. Spot of whiskey, old man?"

Schiebel said: "No. Brandy," and his voice was cold.

"Sorry, old man," Soong said. "But if you will go around looking like a Kipling hero—" He broke off then, and spoke to the squat Chinese in Mandarin. The bodyguard went out, came back with a bottle and glasses, then left them alone. Soong poured two big ones, and motioned Schiebel to a chair. The two men sipped, then Schiebel sat, waiting.

"That little thing you sent us," Soong said. "We've had a couple of our chaps look at it—flew them over specially from Peking actually." He broke off and looked at Schiebel, who continued to sit, and sip his cognac. Of the two men, he was by far the more inscrutable. "They loved it," said Soong. "It's exactly what we need."

"Really?" Schiebel said.

"You've no idea," Soong said, "the way they went on. Quite shatters one's image of the scientist. Not that I can really blame them." He stood up and rummaged in a cupboard, lifted a heavy lead canister on to the table, then rummaged again, and produced an instrument like a clumsy torch.

"Geiger counter," he said.

He opened the box then, and held the Geiger counter a couple of feet from its contents. At once it chattered like an infuriated monkey, and the chattering increased as he brought the instrument nearer, and the sound it made was almost unbroken; a pulsing, metallic click without pause, until Soong pulled it away.

"Cobalt shot with uranium," Soong said. "What a clever chap you are. May one ask where you found it?"

"On a mountain in the Haram," said Schiebel. "One of my men was there for a while. He's moved to the Greek islands now. Nice and close to Naxos. He'll have the emir of Haram's daughter with him soon to negotiate the deal. The emir wants to sell the stuff."

"That's absolutely perfect," said Soong. "I suppose you've no idea how soon we can get our hands on a piece of it?"

This time it was Schiebel who said nothing, and the young Chinese made an abrupt, nervous gesture, and the Geiger counter chattered again, until he dropped the box lid into place.

"It's very, very important," Soong said. "The uranium is of a special order of richness, superior to uranium 235. That means a bigger charge for a smaller bomb. It is also an excellent trigger for a new device our people are working on now. For that we need the cobalt. With it we could make a fallout so great that we could kill every living thing in any area we chose. We would not, of course, use it— except once perhaps, to show that we are in earnest. Simply to possess it—that is all we need. America would listen to us; very carefully, very humbly. Russia would be persuaded to act as a Communist country once more. All deviations would be corrected."

He looked almost pleadingly at Schiebel.

"Marshal Chen Yi sent me himself when he heard what this stuff might be. The two scientists will report direct to Comrade Chou. Can we get at it?"

Schiebel smiled then; smiled with the certain arrogant charm of a very superior person.

"Of course," he said. "I'm arranging to have it delivered to you."

"Albania?" Soong asked. "You could get it to Albania?"

"No," said Schiebel. "That's too clumsy. I like things to be"—his hand made a graceful gesture—"elegant. It will take a little time of course, and the British won't like it—" Soong sniggered. The noise was an ugly contrast to his smooth-fitting clothes. There was rage in it, as well as disgust.

"They still have hopes of the Haram," Schiebel said. "There may be oil there, and they still have hopes of Middle East oil. I shall have to take steps to find out their interest."

"What steps?" Soong asked.

"I might join them," Schiebel said. "With my face, what else could I be but a Queen's Messenger?" "And then?"

"Then I shall have your cobalt shipped to you direct," said Schiebel. "I'll get it to Shanghai. Then it's up to you to use it."

"Just get it to us. It will be used; I promise you," said

Soong.

» · *

Swyven felt at peace with the world. He adored sunshine, and offbeat places, and Beirut was still offbeat enough for him; a marvelous jumble of Mercedes taxis and tiny bazaar shops and plush casinos and coffee in brass pots. It was all a bit chichi of course, but chichi in an amusing sort of way, and it was pleasant to sit in a seaside cafe and drink one's campari and soda, and look at the bodies—brown, bronze, and gold—soaking in the sun. There was no anger in Lebanon either, and that was the most pleasing thing of all.

A shadow spread coolness across his face, and he looked up. A man was standing over him, a man whose photograph was in his pocket so that he knew who it must be, and yet it was so incredible that he gasped aloud.

"Hello, Mark," said Schiebel. "I hope I'm not late?"

"No, no. Not at all," Swyven said. "Please sit down."

Schiebel sat. He wore a beach robe and bathing trunks. His body was tanned to the color of milk chocolate. It was a tall, lean body, long-muscled, durable as whipcord. Between his right collarbone and breast was a patch of skin still white, like a bandage. Once there had been a series of burn scars there. The bums had been made by cigarettes. Swyven looked at it—and knew this was the man, then looked again at the face. It really was incredible.

The face was English. A long, thin nose with fine nostrils, the skin stretched tight over the cheekbones, the mouth wide, with a wry twist to it, the chin small, but firm, out-thrusting.

"I can't believe it," Swyven said.

Schiebel laughed. The laugh, like the voice, had not changed.

"They have very good plastic surgeons in Switzerland," he said. "Mine was the best I could find. Do you approve of me, Mark?"

"But of course I do," Swyven said.

"Where does this face belong?" Schiebel asked.

Swyven said at once. "In the Army. Or the Foreign Office. Or perhaps at the Bar. It's just a shade too naughty for the House of Commons, I think—"

"But it is Establishment?"

"Quite definitely," Swyven said.

"Good. My photograph please—if you are quite satisfied about who I really am?"

Swyven handed over the photograph, and watched as Schiebel rolled it up, lit it, dropped it flaming into an ashtray and waited until it smouldered to crinkled foil, then broke it into pieces.

Schiebel was as thorough as he was dangerous, and Swyven was terrified of him.

"Dyton-Blease brought the girl?" Schiebel said. It wasn't a question. Schiebel knew.

"Yes," Swyven said. "He's gone on to his island. It was quite a journey apparently. She's resting in her room."

"No one knows she's here?"

"No. I was terribly careful."

"I'm sure you were," said Schiebel.

"Her father, the emir, is quite prepared to sell—if the price is right," Swyven said. "Naturally he has no idea what the stuff is for, but he wants the money to buy machine guns."

Schiebel laughed aloud, a clear, happy sound, and Swyven stopped. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"I'm sorry," said Schiebel. "He wants machine guns, and he's sitting on a mountain of cobalt. He's got enough explosive to blow his country to the moon—and he wants to shoot bullets."

"It's that strong?" Swyven asked.

"It's fantastic," Schiebel said. "One little bomb could blow up"—he paused and grinned at Swyven—"the entire British Navy. Now you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"I hope it happens," said Swyven.

"It isn't very likely, but it's possible," Schiebel said. "Say a thousand-to-one shot. If you like outsiders."

Swyven looked across to his hotel. A girl was walking down its steps, a brown, black-haired girl in a backless pink sundress, who walked with an effortless arrogance that turned every male head in range.

"There she is," said Swyven.

Schiebel rose at once.

'The desert princess," he said. "I'd like to make a journey with her myself. Look me up before you leave. I'm in Room 108."

"Of course," Swyven said.

"I'm making arrangements to have her sent to Menos. We must be discreet for a little while. I shall have her smuggled in. Cloak and dagger stuff. Which reminds me— I've got a little surprise for you," said Schiebel. "I'm going to join the British Secret Service. Is that Establishment enough for you?"

Then he was gone and Swyven sat, open-mouthed, till the brown girl came up to him, and sank into a chair with a serene and effortless grace that brought waiters speeding like whippets. Swyven ordered her lemonade.

"How are you?" he asked.

"Rotten," she said. "You'll have to show me again how to manage that bloody girdle. I can't get the hang of it at

* Chapter 3 *

Loomis sweated until his face was shining and his shirt was a damp rag in the small of his back, oozing wetness. The hut was small and stifling with strong and recent memories of garlic, fish, and resinated wine. Outside, the heat was like a blow, the white sand glistened until the eyes ached to look at it. In the hut it was a little, a very littie cooler, but the smells had a life of their own, an assertive, extrovert life that clamored for attention.

Loomis said: "It's too dark in here," and the lean, elegant policeman beside him jerked the shutter from the window.

A bar of sunlight pierced the dimness of the room, showing him the old fisherman and his wife who owned the hut, and who were happy to hear English spoken, because the noises Loomis made assured them that he was a friend, though they didn't understand a word. Their faces were old, seamed, weather-worn, and proudly, fiercely Greek. Despite their age, there was strength in them, and endurance. They had learned well how to endure, and experts had taught them. Saracens, Turks, Venetians. Greeks like the old peasant and his wife had outlasted them all. They had even outlasted the Germans.

The white bar probed like a searchlight beam into the

comer of the hut. A man lay there on a heap of nets, face down. Loomis walked over to him. The man was tall, heavily built, dirty. He had a four-day growth of beard and his mahogany-colored hair was bleached with sun and salt spray. He wore old tattered jeans and a dirty T-shirt. Beside him was a bottle of ouzo. Loomis put his foot under the man's stomach and heaved him over. The effort of it made him sweat again, so that his vast, meat-red face looked as if it had been rubbed in oil. He looked down at the man he had turned over, at the high forehead, the thin sensual mouth, the strong, capable hands. The little finger of the left hand was crooked. It had been broken once, and reset very badly. There were other marks on him too, marks he could never remove. He was weeping.

"Yes," said Loomis. "This is the man."

The elegant policeman began to talk in Greek, and the two old people listened patiently, warily, then the old man replied, speaking to Loomis, not the policeman.

"He says he is glad that a friend of his has come. Craig is their friend also—all that they have is his—but they are worried about him. He needs his own people to help him." The old man said something else, and the policeman hesitated.

"Go on," said Loomis. "What does he say?"

"He says he needs a special kind of doctor, and they have no money, but anyone as fat as you must be very rich."

Loomis glared. His arrogant nose quivered, his eyes were pale with rage. The old man stared back, without fear or insolence, and Loomis laughed, and began to sweat once more. "You've been kind," he said, and added, in halting Greek, how grateful he was for their help. The old man nodded.

"How are we going to get him round?" Loomis asked. "He looks as if he's been drunk for days."

"Two weeks," the old man said. "He thinks he is dying of sadness."

"He's not dying of anything," said Loomis, "not just now. He's got work to do. For me." The old man and his wife left the room.

Loomis bent down over the unconscious man, hauled him upright and stuffed him into a chair, then he and the policeman went to work. By the time they had finished, the policeman didn't look nearly so elegant. They shook him, slapped him, poured water over him and coffee into him, and very gradually his eyes opened, focused, looked, and at last began to comprehend. Loomis's great streaming face became known and he began, unwillingly, to remember.

"Oh," said Craig, "I know you, don't IF'

Loomis looked at the policeman, who saluted, sardonic, weary, and left.

"Nice of you to look me up," said Craig, and looked around the hut as if even looking were a superhuman effort. "There's a bottle of ouzo here somewhere."

"You can't have it," said Loomis. "I didn't know you were a boozer."

Before his eves the man on the chair changed into someone harder, more menacing, an enormous strength of will fighting the rotgut spirits he had taken.

"It's mv drink," said Craig, "you can have some if you

like— "

"No," said Loomis.

"—but don't push your luck."

His eyes, pouched and bloodshot looked into Loomis's; the comprehension in them quickened.

"You're Loomis," he said "I did a job for you. I killed Colonel de St. Briac."

"That's right," said Loomis.

"There were others too. A man called La Valere and two Corsicans. They killed Tessa." "I know," said Loomis.

Craig spoke on, not hearing him; his eyes looking into a world Loomis could never hope to see.

"Tessa was my girl," he said. "We were going to live here—after I'd killed him. I loved Tessa. I'd never loved anybody before, but I loved her. I didn't know until it was too late—two days before she died. That's not long enough to love someone, Loomis."

"You had a job in a war," Loomis said. "Tessa Harling was a casualty. You can't choose casualties in a war."

"True enough," said Craig, "I'd have been dead years ago."

He braced himself and stood up.

"I want a drink," he said, "and I'm going to get one."

"Don't bother," said Loomis, "I know where it is."

He fetched the bottle, and a couple of thick, cheap

glasses.

Craig poured two drinks and pushed one across to Loomis. It burned viciously, but the fat man drank it with a prim lack of reaction that made Craig laugh.

"All right," he said, "you didn't come here to chat about old times. Who do you want me to kill now?"

"Nobody," said Loomis, "I want you to keep somebody

alive."

"Anybody I know?"

"A man called Naxos. Aristides Naxos. Known to his friends as Harry. Oil and Shipping. Fifty-one years old, worth a hundred million quid."

"Cigars," said Craig. "He liked cigars—Romeo y Ju-lietas. I used to get them for him, buy them cheap in Tangier and sell them rich on Naxos's yacht. That was when I was a smuggler. You knew I'd met him?"

"Of course," said Loomis, "that's why I want you."

"There was always a blonde about," said Craig. "He was daft about blondes."

"He married one," said Loomis. "He thinks the sun shines out of her, and she may be the one to die."

"Like Tessa," said Craig, and held out his hand, watched his fingers tremble.

"You're too late, Loomis. I'm past it."

He poured out two more drinks and pushed one across to Loomis.

"You should have found me a few years ago—nowadays I can't be bothered. And anyway—" he hesitated.

"Go on," Loomis said.

"I'm drunk all the time."

He took another drink, and Loomis saw how quickly it worked, how easily it softened the hard edge of his will.

"I had a bit of difficulty finding you," he said, "you were always good at disappearing. None of your Greek friends knew where you were."

"They're good friends," Craig said.

"They'd be a help in this job."

"No job," said Craig.

His hand reached out for his drink, finished it, then explored the table for the bottle, cautious not to spill it. Loomis spoke quickly.

"This girl Naxos married—she's a lot like Tessa was." The restless searching hand was still, Craig's eyes burned into Loomis's. "She's an American, and used to be

what they call a starlet. So far as I can gather, that means she had three lines in four pictures and a lot of men went to hed with her. Some women too. Very strange place, Hollywood. She also had her photograph taken from time to time—not with a lot of clothes on. After a bit somebody got her on drugs."

"Like Tessa?" said Craig. "Don't be stupid."

His hand sought the bottle once more.

"She's a very pretty girl, not very bright, very kind, very likable. Just as Tessa was. She was in a mess too, wasn't she? And she needed a man to get her out of it."

"I got her out of it all right. Right under a tube train."

"It wasn't your fault. You gave her something she needed. That's what Naxos has given this girl."

'That and a hundred million."

'That too. All right. All that money made it easier. But getting her off drugs—that wasn't easy. Trying to keep her from killing herself wasn't easy either."

"You're breaking my heart," Craig said. "Where's your violin?"

Loomis's face flushed a savage red.

"You really are past it, aren't you?" he said. "Sitting there soaking because one girl died. This girl is more important than Tessa could ever hope to be. I can't have her hurt."

"Why not?"

"Because if she is, Naxos will go to pieces, and if that happens he won't be any use to us." "Us?"

'The country," said Craig. "He own 5 percent of Arbit Oil. The British Government owns 47K percent; 475s and 5 is 52M. So long as he votes with us things go our way." He sighed. "It was a lot easier for us when Naxos was a bachelor."

'That's more like it," Craig said. "You don't really care about the girl at all, do you?"

"She's a bloody nuisance," said Loomis, "but she mustn't be hurt." He finished his drink and stood up. "There's nearly a bottle left," he said. "It should last you for a couple of hours."

He walked to the door, then turned.

"It'll have to be Grierson, I suppose," he said. "Pity."

"Why?" said Craig. "Why is it a pity?"

"Because he isn't up to it. But he's the best I've got left now that you've run away. He'll probably be killed," Loomis said.

"You bastard," Craig said equably. "Sit down and tell me more." He picked up the bottle and rammed the cork into it

"I suppose I should have thrown it at the wall, but Serafin could use it." "Serafin?"

"My host," Craig said. "He owns this luxuriously appointed dwelling."

"It stinks," said Loomis. "So does he."

"He's seventy-three years old," Craig said. "He could still put a knife in you from twenty feet away." He looked at Loomis's enormous sagging body. "He could hardly miss, could he? You're a hell of a size, Loomis. It's disgusting."

Loomis chuckled indulgently. He'd got Craig back. An insult now and again wasn't a very high price for that.

"I'll tell you about her," he said, "when you've dried yourself out. I'll give you ten days, then I'll meet you again in Athens. And you'd better be fit by then, Craig. If you're not I don't want you. Go out fishing or smuggling, or whatever your host does!" He went out then, not forgetting to slam the door, and Craig sat, thinking about Tessa, knowing that this was what she would have wanted him to do. Someone needed help; Tessa wouldn't have hesitated. It was because she had tried to help him that she had died.

Serafin came in, looked at the corked bottle and smiled. 'The fat one has gone. And the policeman." He nodded at the bottle. "This is finished for you?"

"Yes," said Craig.

"The fat one is good. A strong man under all that."

His hands gestured, curving the balloons of Loomis's belly and buttocks, as Craig dragged off his shirt and jeans,

"I'm going for a swim," he said. "Are you going fishing tonight?"

Serafin nodded.

"We'll take the caique. Under sail."

"Like old times," Serafin said. "Very like old times, if you wish it. I have goods to collect, if you will help me."

"Do what you like you old villain," said Craig. "I'm only the crew."

He walked out into the sunlight, staggering down the burning, glittering sand to the sea, that was only fifty yards

away, then fell into its warm, sustaining embrace, struck out into its incredible blue. From the hut door, Serafin watched him. Craig had finished with the ouzo and that was good. Soon his body would be hard and strong once more, and Craig would be happy. Craig was as much to Serafin as his son Stavros, and Stavros was a doctor now, with a practice in Athens, the glory and wonder of Andraki. But in 1944, Craig had saved Stravros's life. All that Serafin had was his.

# * #

The stars were big and tender, without the hard, diamond brightness of the northern cold, and Serafin and Craig took the big old caique out, the elderly diesel two-stroke clanking, coughing on a faulty cylinder. The hollow popping sound it made seemed unnaturally loud on the silent sea. The caique, like all caiques, was an unwieldy, primitive craft, broad in the beam, high in prow and stern. Serafin loved it.

They sailed out into the Aegean, until Andraki was no more than a smudge of darkness on the purple sea, and Craig killed the engine, hoisted the creaking sail, sweating with his need for a drink and cigarette.

"When do we fish?" he asked.

"Later," said Serafin. "Make for the northeast, my

son."

Craig obeyed, and the caique heeled over, eager for the breeze, the water chuckling, cackling past.

"The first fish will be in tins," said Serafin. "Hold her so! I shall sleep for a while. I am an old man. My strength has gone."

"That isn't what the girls say," said Craig, and Serafin chuckled, then almost at once began to snore, storing up sleep against the time when action would come.

Craig held the course, soaking in the darkness, the smell of the sea, and the feel of it pushing at the rudder. Here, on a boat, the chance of danger before him, he was at home. The ouzo, the raki, and the brandy he had taken had weakened him as he had no right to be weakened. Tessa should not be remembered like that. Her way was to help, as he would be helping: an old man he loved, a girl he did not know. But for that he needed his strength back, the steadiness of his hand, the speed of his reflexes. . . . He held the caique on course, and tried not to think how much he needed a drink. Except for Serafin's snores he was alone in the warm dark of the sea, fighting the misery of his memories that were too accurate, too intense for ease. And then he heard it, the whine of twin engines, high-powered and steady, and his hands grew moist as he sensed, for the thousandth time, the threat of danger. The old man stirred on the deck, and said, "Look for a light, my son. Red above green."

Craig looked out in the luminous dark, but it was the old man who spotted it, two points to port, and told him to steer towards her. As they moved closer, Serafin lit two lanterns, placed them in line on the deck, then told Craig to go into the cabin. It was not the time for him to be seen. Craig hesitated, then obeyed. Serafin knew his business.

The roar of engines quickened, and the boat came closer, a fast, sleek cruiser, beautifully handled, the engines throttled back at exactly the right moment, the fenders ready as it bumped alongside the high bows of the caique, then a rope was thrown into the old man's gnarled, deft hand. Craig heard voices talking softly in Greek, halting, unsure, then the old man's in cheerful greeting. The caique heeled as men climbed aboard, then he heard the hatch lifted off, the grunt of a man hauling, the thud of a carton on the deck. Cigarettes most likely. And Scotch. Watches from Switzerland. Copper wire. It made no difference. Smuggling was a habit with Serafin. He couldn't break it. And it paid better than fishing. In the war it had been men, men like Craig, quiet dangerous men who killed Germans. That for Serafin had been the highest payment of all.

Craig heard the hatch replaced, then the boat heeled again, as another one came up. Once more the soft voices spoke, and Serafin answered, angry, protesting. At last there was silence and Craig felt the sweat bathe his body, his hands and arms shake by his sides. Footsteps toward the cabin then, and he rolled under the bunk curtain, heard the door open, saw the gleam of a torch, before a man's voice called in German, 'There's nobody here. He's telling the truth." The cabin door slammed, then, not quite shut, bumped gently as the caique lifted and dipped. The boat heeled again, and Craig rolled from under the bunk, looked round for a weapon. There was nothing but a bottle of wine. He took it by the neck and moved to the cabin door,

heard the rope cast off, the roar of the cruiser's engines. Now there were three men aboard besides Serafin and himself.

He moved out of the cabin as the cruiser shot away, the caique bobbing in its wake. Noiseless on bare feet, he crawled to a pile of nets, easing round it to where he could see Serafin in the deck lamp's light. Two men faced him, and a third stood forward, watching the milky wake of the cruiser. One of the men had a gun.

He said: "Do as you're told, old man. This one goes to Menos. You have your orders. You will be paid."

Serafin said: "I never agreed to this. I won't—"

The other man's hand moved, fast and accurate, and struck Serafin across the face. Serafin tensed, and Craig sweated again, until he moved to the wheel.

"One of you start the engine," he said.

The man without the gun uncovered the hatch combing, and as he did so Craig moved out from the nets and hit the gunman on the back of the neck with the bottle. He dropped like a log, and the other man spun round, hurled the hatch cover at Craig. It crashed inches from his bare toes as Craig leaped back, vulnerable now to the third one for'ard, his hands shaking with weakness. The man who had so nearly crippled him moved in slowly, and Craig saw that he too was armed, with a knife, a lonj*, slightly curved blade. Craig moved warily, cursing his body s clumsiness, then the man sprang in and lunged with the knife as though it were an epee. Craig's hand grabbed for the wrist as his body swerved, but he was too slow, the blade scored and burned across his ribs, his fingers missed. The other man swerved and struck again, and again. Craig only just escaped. They circled slowly, and Craig felt the weakness mount inside him, knew he was good for one more pass, and no more than one.

Again it was the other who attacked, and Craig forced his body out of the way of the gleaming steel, struck at the man's throat with the edge of his hand. This time he was a little nearer, jarring the other's shoulder so that he gasped with pain as Craig swung the bottle. But he was quick enough to parry, and the glass shivered on the steel blade, the stump fell from Craig's hands as the other man lunged in a great, disemboweling sweep. Craig leaped inside it, his hands locked on the knife arm, and this time it was his body's weight that did the work as he pivoted from his hip, and held on. The man screamed as the pressure on his arm increased, threatening to break bone, and the knife dropped, then Craig's foot flicked out, found his throat, and he went limp. Craig grabbed the knife and swung round, facing the third one for'ard. Behind Craig's back, Serafin chuckled. He held the gun and his old hand did not tremble.

'This one will not hurt you," he said.

The gun moved toward the shadowy figure for'ard.

"Come here," he said.

There was no movement, then the gun lifted, pointed, and the figure moved into the light of the lamps. Black woollen sweater, black jeans, the dangerous grace of a cat. Serafin picked up a deck light and lifted it high.

Almond-shaped eyes, so brown as to look black; heavy hair, gleaming, glowing, oiled; a proud little beak of a nose, and a full, passionate mouth. The sweater and jeans were skintight and her figure was magnificent. Her skin was a glowing gold, her face a smooth, impassive mask that betrayed no emotion at all, as she looked into the gun's black barrel.

"What is your name?" Serafin asked.

No answer.

'Tour name," said Craig in Arabic. "Speak you."

"Selina bin Hussein," the girl said.

Craig said: "Go into the cabin. Fetch me the tin box which is on the shelf by the door." The girl made no move. "Go you," said Craig. "I will not speak three times." The girl looked into his eyes; cold, gray northern eyes, bloodshot and yet unblinking. She looked down at his hand, which was pressed tight to his side. Blood oozed slowly from his fingers, black in the lamplight. Without a word, she went down into the cabin.

"A Turk?" Serafin asked.

"An Arab," said Craig. "What's happening, you old robber?"

"These people are my suppliers," said Serafin, and nodded at the two men on the deck. "It's time you stopped drinking. You were very clumsy. I can remember—"

"So can I," said Craig. "But not now. These men will come round soon."

Serafin sighed, took a length of twine from his pocket, and stooped to tie them up. As he worked, the girl came up carrying the box. Craig told her to open it, and she did so, then took out a roll of adhesive bandage at his orders. The two men had clean, white handkerchiefs in their breast pockets, and Serafin passed them to him. Craig asked the old man for ouzo.

"Are you (irinking again?" Serafin asked.

"I wish I were," said Craig. "Oh, how I wish I were."

Serafin grinned and sat back on bis heels to watch as Craig rolled up his jersey and poured the spirit on to the wound. It ate into the raw cut like liquid fire, and Craig gasped aloud, then sprinkled more ouzo on to the handkerchiefs, pressed them over the wound, and gasped once more. Then Serafin heard him speak again in Arabic, saw the girl unwind the bandage, press it over the wound. He noticed how beautiful and sure her hands were, how deft her fingers. He noticed too, how Craig took it all without a word. Craig was his son, and he was proud of him. Methodically, with an old man's painstaking slowness, he tied his two suppliers together, then took the wheel again and thought about the girl. Beautiful, proud, lots of courage. The proper girl for his son, and she wasn't a Turk. He was glad about that. Serafin hated Turks.

The girl finished the bandaging, and Craig sat down, slowly, carefully, bis back propped up against the diesel housing.

"Selina bin Hussein," Craig said. She moved closer to him. She wore thick-soled yachting slippers, and she walked like a queen. "Sit," said Craig.

She knelt before him, within the circle of lamplight, then settled back on her neat, round haunches, her hands easy and motionless in her lap. There was no suggestion of fear in her eyes, and yet Craig had no doubt that she was terrified.

"Tell me who you are," said Craig, "and don't waste my time with lies."

'The Tuareg do not lie," said the girl.

Craig willed himself to sit impassive. The Tuareg live in the Hoggar district of the Sahara. They are a warrior nation with their own customs and their own language, and their women go unveiled. Some of them still carry the straight, cross-hilted swords their ancestors captured from

Crusaders nearly nine centuries ago. They are cruel, chivalrous, and brave, and abhor lying, even as a means of defense.

"Where are you from?" asked Craig.

"From the Haram in Zaarb," said the girl. "My Father is emir there."

"Zaarb?"

"Beyond Yemen," said the girl. 'The Haram is my father's country. He owns it all: the Arabs and the Negroes, the oasis and the desert—all except the rest of us, his kinsmen."

"The Tuareg live in the Sahara," said Craig. "Their town is Janet, their territory is beyond the Hoggar Mountains."

"My family went to help an Arab sheikh fight the Yemenis three hundred years ago," said the girl. "It was a good place. They beat the Yemenis and kept it for themselves. We have lived there ever since."

"But you left this good place?"

"I have business for my father," she said.

"With smugglers?"

"I have to go into Europe," the girl said. For Europe she used the old Arabic word—Frangistan—the country of the Franks.

"Which part of Frangistan?"

And incredibly, the place she named was England.

"You speak English?" asked Craig, and she nodded, gravely, slowly, with the pride of one who admits that, if forced, she could play the second violin part in Schubert's 'Trout" quintet.

"Speak it then," said Craig in English.

'You speak it too?" she asked, astonished.

"I am English," said Craig, and the dark, intense eyes looked for an instant hard into his, but the emotion they showed was hidden too quickly for him to read it.

"But how perfecdy extraordinary," she said at last.

Somehow Craig sat unmoved and at last she began to talk, her English fluent and easy with debutante overtones.

Her father had something to sell, something which, so he understood, all the Franks would wish to buy. He had also, in his country, an English adviser who had seen this thing and told her father how valuable it was. And yet, Craig thought, whatever the thing was, she hated and feared it. She had been chosen to negotiate the sale, because her brothers could not be spared, and in any case buying and selling were not a man's business.

"What is this thing?" asked Craig.

She said at once: "I'm awfully sorry. I promised my father I wouldn't tell anybody—anybody except the purchasers, I mean."

"And why are you coming into Europe like a thief?"

She flushed then, and her skin darkened to copper.

"My father lives in the old way," she said. "It isn't as if he had a country. The Haram is his—his private estate. I mean we don't have passports or Customs or anything like that. It would be jolly difficult for me trying to travel without a passport. Anyway that's what Bernard says."

"Bernard?"

"The Englishman."

"Bernard who?"

"I'm awfully sorry. I'm afraid I can't tell you." "You promised your father?" "No. It was Bernard actually." "Go on," said Craig.

Bernard had arranged everything. She had traveled by horseback, jeep, and helicopter, a winding secret journey across Asia Minor, ending at last in the Lebanon, and her first sight of the sea. She had gone aboard a big ship then— so big that she could find no way of conveying any idea of its size—and from there she had transferred to the cabin cruiser. It was the first time in her life that she had traveled in, or even seen, a jeep, a car or a helicopter, and the second that she had worn Western clothes.

'The men on the ship—what nationality were they?" asked Craig.

"They were Franks of course."

"But what land—English?"

"Oh no. I didn't know their language. They spoke to me in Arabic."

"And who paid them?"

"Bernard took care of everything. Of course my father paid."

"Of course. And where were you going next?"

"Menos," the girl said. The old bastard was supposed to take us there."

Craig noted that sometimes Bernard's English slipped. "And you'd be met?"

She nodded.

"Who by?" She shrugged. Her silence was grave and beautiful.

"You would have to pay, of course." "Bernard arranged that," said the girl. "And anyway—"

"You have money with you," said Craig. She sat very still.

"I won't take it," Craig said, and spoke rapidly in Greek to Serafin, who accepted it all as a matter of course. His son Craig always made things happen.

"Do we go to Menos?" he asked.

Craig shrugged. "Maybe."

He lowered a bucket over the side and threw water on the man with the gun. As he choked and gulped, Craig said to the girl: 'You will be silent." He spoke in Arabic, and his voice was harsh.

"But these men are my servants," said the girl. "I cannot permit you to harm them."

"They harmed me," said Craig, "and you have no choice."

The gunman tried to sit up, struggling with the ropes that bound him, not knowing what they were.

Slowly, in Greek, Craig said: "Your name?"

The man was silent, and Craig picked up the knife and let it move slowly, slowly to the man's throat, let it rest on the skin, a touch feather-soft, the merest hint of what a movement of his wrist could do.

"Gruber," said the gunman. "Heinrich Gruber."

"German?" asked Craig, and the gunman whispered,

"Yes."

Behind him, Craig heard Serafin sigh softly. He spoke quickly in German.

"The old man hates Germans. Your friend hit him. He's a very proud old man. He remembers what the Germans did in Andraki during the war—"

"I wasn't in the Wehrmacht," the gunman said. "I was thirteen when the war ended."

'Tell Serafin that," said Craig. "He won't listen."

He bent and hauled him up so that Gruber faced the old man. Serafin's face was iron-hard, pitiless; the old hands on the wheel like claws.

"Where were you taking the girl?"

"Menos," said the German. "We were to take her to the harbor—" "Go on."

"We'd be met there." "Who by?"

The gunman was silent, and Craig let the weight of the knife rest on his throat.

"I will count three," he said, "then I'll give you to the old man."

"An Englishman," said the German. "Mr. Dyton-Blease. A big man, a very big man. He owns the island. He will come up to us in the Cafe Aphrodite and ask us to drink wine. We say we prefer cognac and he brings out a bottle from his pocket. Courvoisier."

"And the girl?"

"I don't know anything about her. All we had to do was to hand her over."

'Two of you? He's expecting two?"

Gruber shrugged. "One of us watches the other. In our business—"

"Wine and then brandy," said Craig. "And he offers—"

"Courvoisier. His own bottle."

"Dummkopf!"

The word was like a scream, and Craig turned to look at the knifeman.

"Another German?" he asked. There was a silence.

"I owe you something," said Craig, and touched his

side.

Serafin said: "Take the wheel my son."

Craig said: "He wants me to take the wheel. If I do the old man will hurt you. Hurting Germans is something he knows all about."

"Bauer," said the man. "Franz Bauer—from Germany. Yes. All right. A messenger, that's all. We deliver parcels."

"You know a man called Bernard?"

"No."

"A man called Dvton-Blease?" "No."

Each "nein" came out as if Bauer already felt pain. "We don't want to know. All we do is deliver—and we're paid. You'll be paid too. I promise." "How much?"

"Five hundred pounds, British currency." "You have it with you?"

"In my pocket," said Bauer, and it was true. Five hundred pounds, a packet of Chesterfields and a lighter. Nothing else. No tabs on the clothes, no other currency, no letters, no papers. Just five hundred pounds.

Craig put it in the tin box and went aft to Serafin.

"Let's have a look at the chart," he said. "We'll make for Menos."

"What about the two Germans?"

Craig said, "We'll find some of your people on the way. They can take them to Andraki."

Serafin said, "It's a pity you let the German cut you. If you sleep with the girl you'll start to bleed again. She looks good to sleep with." Craig grunted and opened out the chart to the dim chart lamp, working out the course.

"Two points to starboard," he said, "and steer small."

"Very good, I should think," said Serafin, and took the new course.

"Much better than ouzo."

"You talk too much," said Craig and started the engine as he began to think of what he would do.

He had a girl with a secret, and money, and a most improbable ancestry. There was the possibility that she was lying of course, but no one sane would use such a story for a cover. It would be simplest to go to Menos and find out for himself. He lay down on the deck, and wondered what to do with the girl. Hand her over to Loomis, he supposed. Loomis would be interested, all right. There might be a trade agreement in it. Craig lay flat on his back, looking up at the big tender stars, hearing the soft creak of timbers and halyards, the even slap of water. He fell asleep.

* Chapter 4

When he woke the girl was "I wish to know what

standing over him once more, is happening," she said.

"We are going to Menos," he said. "And my servants?"

"They won't be harmed—unless they do something stupid," said Craig.

"And they're not your servants."

'They work for me," Selina said. "It is my business to protect them."

Craig looked up; she was perfectly serious.

"You haven't done all that well so far," he said.

She looked down at him, her eyes blazing with anger.

"Bernard told me that the English were always polite," she said. "Why don't you stand up when I speak to you?"

"One of your servants stuck a knife into me," said Craig. "I'm tired."

"I don't think you are behaving very well," said the girl. "I am a princess after all."

"Oh, princess, live for ever," said Craig.

The girl looked down at him, puzzled. The effect was delicious.

"You are making a joke of me!" she said.

Craig nodded. "It's an English custom."

"To laugh at women? In my country women are taken seriously."

'Tell me about it," said Craig.

She began to talk then, eagerly, of a country ringed by mountains and desert, a country high and clean and fertile, with fast-running streams and great valleys of lush grass where herds of free-running horses roamed at will. She talked of the Naked Place too, the one menace in her Paradise, then turned quickly to the castles on the hills above the valleys, little square towers that Crusaders might have built, where blue-robed men practiced, with infinite care, the arts of riding and swordsmanship. The girl talked on and on, until at last her voice began to quiver a little.

"I shouldn't speak like this," she said.

"You're homesick," said Craig, and had to explain what that meant.

At once the proud head came up, the eyes were cold and distant as a falcon's.

'You must not mock me," she said.

Gravely, Craig apologized.

"I'm a little upset," he said. "Serafin and I—we're only fishermen—"

"And smugglers," said the girl.

"—and smugglers. We're not used to entertaining princesses. We came out tonight to do some business and ended up in a fight. It left us a bit bewildered."

"You were wounded too," said the girl. "You took it

well."

"You've seen wounded men before?"

"Of course," said Selina. "Although nowadays it's rather dull, really. So little happens. Not like my grandfather's time. The Arabs came in then, looking for slaves."

"What happened?" asked Craig.

"My grandfather killed them. The people belonged to him.'* Selina looked at him very seriously. "One must always fight to defend one's property."

Craig thought that if only he had this girl to talk to he would never need ouzo again.

"That is what I did tonight," he said, and Selina nodded.

"You were absolutely right," she said. "After all, you know nothing about me."

Slowly, with great care, Craig stood up, then salaamed before her.

"Now you laugh at me again," she said. "You do not believe I'm a princess, do you?"

She stormed over to a suitcase and flung it open, burrowing like a mole into it, hurling out stockings, dresses, panties, girdles, bras, shoes, until at last she drew out a whole series of robes, silk, linen, wool; blues and reds and greens, exquisitely, painfully embroidered, heavy with gold bullion and precious stones. Craig looked at diamonds, opals, topaz, pearls; a series of gold coins; American double eagles, napoleons, louis d'or, sovereigns from George Ill's time to George Vs.

"You have a fortune here," he said. "You don't think I'll steal it?"

"I know you won't," said the girl.

"You're very kind," said Craig. "How old are you, Selina?"

"Nineteen," she said. "I'm not a girl—any more than you are English."

"Aren't I?"

"Of course not," she said. "Bernard told me what swine they all were. You're much too nice, but you shouldn't tell lies."

Craig said: "But surely Bernard is English?"

The girl said: "I'm sorry. I can't talk about him," then asked at once: "What is your name?"

"Petros," said Craig. "Serafin is my father."

The girl nodded. "That is better," she said. "You must not tell lies, Petros."

Before dawn, they found the Andraki fishing fleet, and Serafin made for two of its boats. One of them, skippered by his cousin, carried Gruber and Bauer, the other, skippered by his wife's brother, had Selina aboard, then took station with Serafin's boat as they set course again for Menos. Craig slept on as the sun came up, and picked out one by one, a spatter of islands. Serafin, tireless with age, held the course for Menos, made for its tiny harbor, then waved to his wife's brother, who sheered off to a friendly headland and settled down to wait. Serafin called softly to Craig, who groaned awake, then lurched to his feet to help Serafin bring the caique to port.

He took the wheel as Serafin's hands went to the sheets, the heavy sails tumbled and Serafin reached forward to lash and stow. Craig coaxed the caique toward the harbor, watching the white town rising in terraces from the beach's glittering sand. It was a pretty little town, merging into its framework of pine trees, vines, and olives, the white walls offset by roofs of blue and scarlet tiles. The engine sputtered on, and the boat nudged its way carefully into the bay before the town. Craig put the engine into neutral and wished for the thousandth time that a caique diesel was equipped with reverse. Already a gaggle of its kind was tied up by the quay. There was no room to throw a rope ashore. The old man said: "I'll go. You'll only start to bleed again."

He lowered the dinghy and rowed the mooring rope ashore. As he did so, wind and drift caught the caique, and drew her broadside on to the quay. Craig engaged the engine and gently gave it power, turning it to head out to sea as Serafin reached the shore, and a couple of longshoremen passed the mooring rope round a bollard and warped in the caique by sheer brute strength.

Craig killed the engine, tied up alongside another caique, and went ashore to where Serafin and the two longshoremen negotiated like managing directors the precise sum so delicate an operation involved. They reached an agreement at last, and Craig and Serafin moved down through narrow, shadowed streets to a taverna, where they breakfasted on fresh coarse bread and coffee with goat's milk, sitting at ease, not talking, until it was time to walk through the town to the Caf6 Aphrodite, sit inside in its shade, and drink resinated wine.

The thick walls, the low ceiling, were whitewashed and cool, and the two men looked out in content through the open door at the blinding whiteness of the street outside. The wine was good, and they enjoyed it in silence. They loved each other and they were content. They had faced danger together too often to be afraid, and so they waited. Serafin noticed that Craig drank only one cup of wine in an hour, and smoked not at all. His son was himself once more, fighting to regain the mastery of his body, to be again the strong and dangerous man that Serafin so happily remembered. Serafin's head lolled forward on to his chest, and he slept. Craig looked at him, and grinned. The old man was as tough as he had ever been, and likely, so it seemed, to live for ever. Cautiously, Craig moved in his seat. His wound still burned, and perhaps he should see a doctor, but that could wait until he met Dyton-Blease. He poured another cup of wine, sipped, and waited. Waiting had always been Craig's strength. He could wait for hours, for days, and still be as alert, as deadly, when action came, as if he had run straight to it. Loomis had told him to get himself fit. This way was as good as any.

The gleaming whiteness of the door went suddenly dark, and Craig's hand reached out, shook Serafin awake. The man who came into the caf6 was enormous, six-foot-eight at least, and seventeen stone; a man who walked with a lightness amazing in one of his size, a handsome man with a long, straight nose, and dark contemptuous eyes. He wore fawn slacks and an olive-green shirt, and his skin was tanned to a golden brown. Serafin woke up, and stared, then spoke. There was horror in his voice, and awe.

"Like a god come back to earth," he said. "A god without pity."

Craig poured out wine.

"You've been dreaming," he said. "This is only a

man."

"But so big—" said Serafin.

"So vulnerable," said Craig. "He's an easy target."

The big man looked around the cafe, and moved at once to Craig's table, his body looming above them, big, menacing, relaxed.

"May I join you?" he asked.

His Greek was accurate, with little trace of accent.

Craig pushed back a chair with his foot, and the big man sat, cautiously, taking it for granted that under his weight chairs often broke.

"Let me buy more wine," he said.

"We prefer cognac," said Serafin.

The big man produced a bottle of Courvoisier from one enormous pocket.

"Perhaps you know my name," he said.

"Mr. Dyton-Blease," said Craig.

He said it slowly and badly, as if the combination of sounds were new to him, and difficult.

The big man nodded.

"You have something for me," he said.

"Someone," said Craig. "I want a name, please."

"Selina bin Hussein," Dyton-Blease said. "From the Haram."

Craig nodded.

"Where is she?" Dyton-Blease asked.

"On our boat," said Craig. "When do you want her?"

"Soon," the big man said.

"Here?"

"No. I have a house on the island. You can sail your boat round to it. Look, I'll show you." He produced a notebook and pencil, and drew a map. He drew with great clarity, and his writing was tiny and precise.

Craig looked at the sketch and nodded.

"What time?" he asked.

"I'll tell you when," the big man said. "My people will be waiting for you. There'll be no trouble—from us."

"Nor from us," said Craig. 'You promised us money for this. We want it."

The big man produced from his pocket a great wad of American bills, and put a thousand dollars on the table.

"For now," he said. "The rest when you produce the

girl."

"That is a lot of money for one man to carry," Serafin

said.

"No one would dare try to rob me," said Dyton-Blease. "Believe that."

Serafin's hand reached out for the money and Dyton-Blease moved with a swift blur of speed, appalling for a man of his bulk. His own hand, shapely for all its size, slammed down to cover Serafin's, holding it still.

"I hope you have the girl," he said.

"Of course," said Craig. "Look."

His hand scooped into his pocket, and he produced a louis d'or.

"From a dress of hers," he said. "It's covered in them." Dyton-Blease reached for it, and Craig's hand became a fist.

"Let the old man go," said Craig. "We are businessmen, not gangsters."

Dyton-Blease did so, and Craig could see that Serafin's hand was limp and bloodless. He waited until Serafin had scrambled the bills together, then handed over the coin.

"What is she like?" Dyton-Blease asked.

"Like the coin," said Craig, "rounded, shining, golden," and the big man laughed.

"I like you," he said. "If you try to trick me, I will hurt you. Remember that."

He looked at Serafin. "It is easy for me to hurt people."

Craig nodded. In his state Dyton-Blease could hurt him without even having to sweat.

"No need for threats," he said. "This is purely a matter of business."

He uncorked the brandy bottle, and poured a drink for Serafin, and for himself, then looked round for a glass for the big man.

"Don't bother," said Dyton-Blease. "I don't drink."

Craig lifted his glass to his lips.

"You can finish that one," Dyton-Blease said. "Then fetch my merchandise for me." Craig shrugged, then swallowed the brandy, feeling its delicate fire touch life into his tired body. Serafin raised his glass.

"Don't hurry," Dyton-Blease said. "You're staying with me. Your friend can have you back when he brings me the girl."

He looked at Craig's face; read the wariness in it, and the rage he could not control, then he laughed so that the glasses rattled and sang on the table.

"You didn't think I would just take your word for it, did you?" he asked.

"Why shouldn't I just leave him?" asked Craig. "Aren't you afraid I might do that?"

"Not in the least," Dyton-Blease said. "You're much too fond of him for that. And you made no effort to hide it."

He looked at Serafin.

"Why are you so fond of him? Is he your father?" Craig nodded.

"That's good," said Dyton-Blease. 'That's very good. You'll have to have him back then, won't you? Whether you like him or not. Bring her to me and you'll get him." Craig didn't move. "Go now," Dyton-Blease continued. "Bring her to the bay I showed you—in two hours. Exactly two hours, mind. I hate unpunctuality."

Craig got up slowly, gauging the big man's strength and the weakening effect of the knife wound. There was no help for it. He would have to do as Dyton-Blease said.

"That's right," said the big man gaily. "No good starting anything here. I own the place and the people."

Craig looked round him. The half dozen men in the caf6 were watching Dyton-Blease, ready to move in at his signal. Craig forced himself to smile humbly at the big man, and went from the cafe. He could not look at Serafin.

Outside the cafe was a white Mercedes convertible, a 220 SE with the driving seat pushed so far back that it almost touched the rear seat. The big man's car; it had to be. No one else in the island could own anything so powerful, so elegant, and so expensive.

Craig walked down to the harbor and worked the boat out to the headland, where Serafin's wife's brother was waiting with the girl he had to give to Dyton-Blease. There was no doubt in his mind about that. When he had to choose between her and the old man, there was no choice at all.

The caique grumbled its way towards the bay, a great arc of sand that glittered like silver. Above it were pine trees, then olives and vines that looked dark and cooL in a series of plateaus cut into the hillside like gigantic steps, and capping it all a fortress, squatting on the top of the hill, massive as the hill itself: Moorish, Venetian, Turkish, or perhaps all three; its stonework glittering white as the sand in the bay.

"Don't you think it's heavenly?" Selina asked.

Craig said: "Oh yes. Beautiful."

He watched two powerboats put out from a little cove at the south side of the bay. They were heading straight for him.

"You're not very cheerful," said the girl. "I thought you'd have been pleased. Your work's almost done now, isn't it?"

"Almost," said Craig. I'm sorry about all this."

"Why on earth should you be?" she asked. "You've done exactly what I wanted."

"The people here are dangerous," Craig said.

"Naturally," said the girl. "But I can look after myself. Honestly. My father and my brothers have taught me exactly what to do. I'll be all right."

Craig watched the powerboats alter course, so that they moved one on each side of the caique, and reminded himself yet again, that he had no choice. On each boat were two men with submachine guns; one for'ard, one aft. At the moment all four guns were trained on the caique. He cut the engine, then he and Selina stood up, showing themselves to be unarmed. He couldn't see Dyton-Blease or Serafin. Perhaps Serafin was dead. Perhaps it was his turn to die.

One of the powerboats ran alongside, fenders out to protect its gleaming paintwork, two seamen fore and aft with boathooks, and two men came aboard, two men who moved neatly, swiftly, without fuss; who carried their Steyr .32 automatics with neither shyness nor bravado, treating them simply as tools of their trade. Craig watched them carefully. These were very good men indeed. One of them spoke to Selina in English. His voice was high-pitched and slightly effeminate, the accent a blend of Los Angeles and Greece.

"We're going now," he said. "You got any luggage?" Selina nodded at the pile of cases on the deck, and the other gunman lowered them into the powerboat.

"Okay," said the gunman. "Let's go."

"What about my father?" Craig asked in Greek.

The gunman said: "You'll get him. Just stay quiet." Then to Selina: "Lady, we got to go."

Selina turned to face Craig and spoke in Arabic.

"You will not forget what I told you," she said. 'You are a man and a warrior. You have no need of lies. Goodbye."

The Arabic words were grave, dignified, and not in the least out of place. She turned and went down into the powerboat.

"What did she say?" the gunman asked.

Craig tried to look bewildered.

"I don't know," he said. "Good-bye, I suppose."

"I hope you didn't get out of line," said the gunman.

"She's pretty," said Craig. "Money's prettier."

The gunman laughed.

"Listen very carefully," he said. "You and I are going to leave here now—and you're never coming back. Start your motor."

Craig obeyed, and the caique, escorted by the powerboats, sailed out into the Aegean until behind them Menos dwindled and faded into nothing.

"You never come back," the gunman said, and walked up close to Craig, shook a cigarette from a pack, and held it out to him. Craig took it, and fumbled for a match. "I mean never," said the gunman, "or you'll get what your father got. And I wouldn't call him pretty."

Craig looked up, and the barrel of the Steyr swung and glittered in the sunlight. Pain exploded on the side of his head, and then the sun went out; he dived into welcoming darkness.

· « «

The first thing he noticed was the noise; a choking, popping sound that was familiar, but wrong. His mind struggled to find an answer, but the effort was too much. Gratefully, he felt the blackness engulf him once more. The second time, all he knew was the pain, a searing agony in the pit of his stomach, a rhythmic throbbing on the left side of his head, that gradually synchronized with the popping noise he had heard before. The engine. There was something wrong with the engine. Craig groaned, and opened his eyes. He was lying on his stomach on the deck. Slowly, every inch an agony, he rolled over and sat up. He observed that there was blood from the knife wound seeping through his shirt. The fact neither frightened nor impressed him. It was simply a fact. Somehow Craig got to his feet and lurched toward the engine hold by the tiny bridge.

Serafin lay on the deck. Craig looked at him, stiffened, then looked down again to where the blood still flowed. He was weak and getting weaker. He could do nothing until the bleeding stopped. Somehow he fumbled his way into the cabin, pressed the lips of the cut together and re-bandaged it, cleaned up the mess on the side of his face, then allowed himself one drink and went up topside to work once more at Serafin.

The old man was a mess. His face and body were covered in enormous bruises, and his right arm was broken. Craig felt the old man's pulse, which was fluttering and fast. Groaning with weakness, Craig set the old man's arm, taped his ribs, put a pillow under his head and wrapped him in blankets, then switched off the engine. Getting down into the engine hold was an agony, searching for the faults in the diesel a chess match with a grand master. At last he heated the engine with a blow lamp, the only sparking plug a caique diesel possesses, swung the handle, his whole body one great pain, then staggered over to the wheel. Someone had lashed it so that the caique sailed in a great circle, half a mile in diameter. Craig set a course that would take him to Serafin's wife's brother. When he found him he sent him at once to Athens for Serafin's son, then held course for Andraki, staying up now by willpower alone, his body drained far beyond the point of collapse, and only the savage drive of his will to keep him going.

When he reached the island he fired the Verey pistol, and at once a boat put out for him, and men picked them up, carried them into the boat, and at last to the hut on the beach, where Serafin's wife stood waiting.

Craig said: "I'm sorry, mother. I—"

"No," said the old woman. "Your turn will come."

"Yes," Craig said. "I promise you that."

Then he fainted.

38

B ME RICH

» Chapter 5 «=*

Dr. Stavros Kouprassi was small, chubby, voluble. That his father and mother should be Serafin and Maria was a minor miracle to Craig. It seemed to him that Stavros must have lived at least three lives in Athens to achieve so high a degree of sophistication, so conscientiously urbane an attitude to everything that happened to him and to the world. He had been fifteen when Craig first met him, in 1943, working on his father's boat, as Craig had once worked with Ms father. Even then he had been a sophisticate, fussy about his shirt, his fingernails, his one pair of shoes. In all of Andraki there was no one who looked and acted so like an Athenian as Stavros; plump, sleek, and hard as a seal. Except for one thing. Even at fifteen, Stavros was an artist with a knife. There was no one on the island to touch him. That was why he had been chosen to kill the sentry outside the prison.

The prison held one man, a schoolteacher called Andreou, and it was guarded like the vaults of a bank. Andreou, in 1943, was intelligence officer for the Andraki Resistance movement, and the Germans knew this. It was vital that Andreou should be freed before the Gestapo arrived from Athens to learn his secrets, so vital that a message had been sent to the Special Boat Service, and a caique manned by experts had been sent to help. Among them had been Craig, and a small, dark, dangerous man called Rutter. Craig had been young then, not all that much older than Stavros, and yet he had frightened Stavros from the very beginning. He moved so swiftly, and yet so carefully; his decisions were so accurate, his weapons so apt. He handled them as a painter might handle his brushes, familiarly yet with care, almost with love. In Andraki Stavros had seen death many times; he had never seen anyone who used it as Craig used it, and he feared him.

When they went to rescue Andreou, they were betrayed. The sentry was there all right—an expendable Pole —and Stavros reached him and killed him, clinically, neatly, but then the world went mad and panzer grenadiers seemed to grow out of the ground, coming in for the kill. One had grabbed him, twisted his knife wrist, rammed his arm behind his back, and Stavros, in his nightmares, remembered to perfection how he had straddled the Pole when it had happened, how the nightingales stopped singing as a cloud covered the new moon, how Craig had appeared behind the panzer grenadier, pulled back his steel helmet, gripped its rim in his hands, spun it like a steering wheel and broken his neck, then let him drop, still twitching, and gone to help the little dark man kill Germans. They had done it like terriers killing rats, then blasted their way into the prison as alarm bells gonged and a rocket climbed, burst, in the rich dark bloom of the sky. They had found Andreou too, and carried him out—his left leg was broken—while Serafin and the others kept up the fight, and lorry loads of grenadiers came into action.

Stravos adored Andreou. The schoolteacher had taught him so much, encouraged him to believe that for him to be a doctor was not only possible, but essential, until Stavros, too, believed it, and learned all that the schoolteacher could teach him. Without Andreou he was nothing. And that night he watched the man he adored carried out by strangers. They carried him carefully, but without feeling, Stavros remembered, as if he were an object whose value might diminish at any minute. The German reinforcements arrived, and Stavros's father and the rest of the Andraki men were pushed inevitably back. Stavros stood where he was, and stared at Andreou, and the noise of battle grew louder. Stavros didn't hear it. All he heard was Andreou saying, "Can you get me out?"

Craig spoke to the little dark man, and he moved, wary as a fox, to the sound of gunfire, then signaled back to Craig. Craig looked at Andreou then, and shook his head. Andreou sighed. Stavros would never again in his life hear anything so heartbreaking as that sigh. "You had better kill me then," he said.

Craig had looked back to Rutter, and the little man had signaled again, more urgently.

"Christ, you're a man," said Craig, and while Stavros

screamed aloud, he shot Andreou between the eyes. He had gone over to Stavros then, and pushed him out on the way back to his father, stopping from time to time to help the little man kill more Germans. Stavros never knew whether he hated Craig, or adored him. . . .

Craig looked up at the small, sleek man. He was in a low, cool room and there were dull pains in his stomach and head. The man in the room beside him became first a doctor, then Stavros. Suddenly Craig remembered; he had sent for Stavros. He remembered why.

"How's Serafin?" he asked.

"He'll live," Stavros said. "He won't be much use again—but he'll five." "That bad?"

"Broken arm, broken ribs, pneumonia, multiple bruises," Stavros said. "Ten years ago he'd simply have got over it. Now he's too old."

"I shouldn't have left him," said Craig.

Stavros took his pulse, listened to his heartbeat. "Not today," he said. 'Tomorrow you can tell me."

When Craig told him he listened, unflinching, heard it out to the end. And then:

"You did far more than I have a right to ask," he said. "Without you my father would be dead. No!"—when Craig tried to interrupt: "He was an obstinate old man. Without you he would still have gone and he would be dead. As it is, he's an imbecile, but that's not your fault, Craig. You did evenihing I—or he—could expect."

He went out then to speak to Maria, and the old woman came in, lay across Craig's bed, and wept on his chest.

"Sh, mother," said Craig, "I don't deserve it."

"He would have died," Maria sobbed. "You brought h^z hick iz me."

Ar.f Sti '.Tcs wiped his hands on a very white handkerchief, ar.d v:\ved that Craig must be made well again, superblv welL no matter how long he was kept away from Athens. He new knew whether he adored Craig or hated him.

When Craig began to heal Stavros superintended his convalescence, waited for the day when he could see Serafin, and took him in, showed him an old, old man who looked like Serafin, but whose muscles were soft and slack, whose eyes were stupid and faded, who spent all day playing Xeri, a simple and undemanding game of cards, or else whittled at a piece of wood jammed into a chair, slowly, painfully, conscientiously cutting it to pieces with a small and very beautiful knife. Craig had a knife too, as elegant as Serafin's. He had taken it from the German, Bauer. He looked at the old man, and spoke to him softly and gently. Serafin began at once to ask for things; a few drachmas, a handkerchief, an orange, sweets, demanding like a child the tangible evidences of love. Craig gave him money and peeled an orange for him, then watched as the old man ate it, messily, noisily, babbling his thanks, the old voice cackling its pleasure even as he cringed. Craig went outside and Stavros followed him. "Who did it?" Craig asked.

"The big man," said Stavros. "He must be enormous." "He is," said Craig.

"It took no more than a few seconds," Stavros said, "to turn him from what he was to—that." He nodded at Serafin's room.

"Why?" Craig asked. "Why did he do it?"

"Your accent is not like my father's, nor your coloring," Stavros said. "He did not believe that you were his son. He questioned my father about it. My father insisted that you were—even while the big man did that to him."

"But why? Why didn't he tell the truth?"

Stavros paused, and looked at him.

"At first I think it was because you had said so. You wanted to be taken for his son, so he said you were. He told them you had worked in Cyprus for a while, picked up a different accent. That was at first, before the big man lost his temper."

"And afterward?"

"He believes it," said Stavros. "From now until he dies you are his son. He has owed you a debt for twenty years—he has owed you for my life. Would you say he has repaid you now?"

"All right," said Craig. "All right. I'll see that big man again."

"And what will you do? Kill him?"

"Maybe," said Craig.

"You have killed for our family before," said Stavros. "I hope we were sufficiently grateful."

"Your father was," said Craig, and Stavros flushed.

"What can I do then?" Stavros asked. "Teach you to kill more efficiently?"

"It's possible," said Craig. "You could show me how to use a knife."

"For what?" Stavros asked. "You kill well enough

now."

"A German did this to me," Craig said, and touched his wound. "I don't want it to happen again."

Stavros said: "I haven't used the knife in years."

"You were the best I've ever seen," said Craig.

"Very well, then," Stavros said. "I'll teach you."

Craig looked into his eyes, sensed the raging anger behind them that Stavros struggled to conceal for his father's sake. Stavros was ready to hate him, but that hatred might be put to use. Stavros had a skill that might be useful if he was to go back and seek the big Englishman. They practiced together every day, longer and longer sessions as Craig's strength returned, and in the end, he was satisfied. He became an artist, with a quick and deadly grace, a duelist's speed and judgment, and even Stavros found it hard to hold him. He could hold a knife like a sword, cut and thrust with appalling speed, and as he fought his left hand worked for him too, a hard edge of bone that could strike like a hammer, bruise flesh, snap bone, kill, if his aim were accurate, as quickly as the knife.

One day they fought in the open, out by the beach, using the little wooden knives Stavros had made for their practice, watched by a crowd of Andraki men, alive to each smoothly timed movement of foot and ami. At last Stavros leaped, Craig swerved too late, and he felt the wooden knife at his heart, but even then his body had twisted with the swerve, his own knife plunged beneath Stavros's ribs. The doctor laughed.

"You can't help it, can you?" he asked. "Even when you're dying, you go on killing."

There was no joy in his laughter.

"I can't teach you any more," Stavros said. "You're as good as I am. If you want to be better, you must go on by yourself."

He threw the wooden knife into the sand, and a child ran to pick it up, to slash in the air against imaginary enemies.

"It's too easy to be like you," said Stavros, then broke off as a man came up to him, waving the flimsy paper of a telegram. He glanced at it, and passed it to Craig.

"Dyton-Blease may be leaving," he said.

"You were going to visit him?" asked Craig. "Without

me?"

"I wanted to see him," said Stavros. "I wanted to know why."

"You wanted to ldll him."

"Perhaps," said Stavros. "I won't know until I meet him. But you haven't any doubts at all."

"I have met him," said Craig. "Are you going back to Athens now?"

"I'll send for a hydroplane tomorrow."

"I'd like to share it if I may," said Craig. "There's someone I have to see there." He moved nearer to Stavros. "I haven't thanked you properly for all you've done," he said.

"You're my brother," said Stavros. "Who needs a brother's thanks?"

Craig laughed, and swung Stavros up in his arms, a parody of a brother's embrace. Stavros felt the power beneath it, and thought yet again how absurd, even wicked, it was to love a man whose one talent was destruction.

* Chapter 6 *

That night Craig went to call on Serafin's cousin Elias, who was short, round, and hard, with a look of his nephew Stavros. He listened to what Craig wanted to do and agreed at once.

"Stavros will want to come, too," he said. "It's his blood feud as much as yours."

"Of course," said Craig. "That is why we musn't tell him. Stavros is a doctor. We can't ask him to risk this."

Elias looked at him, hesitating, agreeing at last.

"Very well," he said. "You're the eldest after all."

Craig smiled his thanks, marveling at the other's tact and kindliness that could live quite happily with explosive violence. He told Elias what he wanted to do, and Elias objected fiercely; there wasn't enough in it for him. And yet in the end he agreed; Andraki men never argued with Craig when it came to discussing a fight.

Elias and his son took Craig over to Menos under sail. He sat in the darkness, listening to the unending chuckle of water against the bows, and wishing only that the big man, Dyton-Blease, was still there. When the caique hove to near the headland, he stared into the darkness, searching out the denser dark of cliff and castle, then he stripped, piled his clothes into an inflated rubber raft, and lowered it into the water. He murmured good-bye to the Greeks, then slipped quietly into the calm, warm sea, and, pushing the raft ahead of him, swam out toward the island, taking his time, cautious not to tire himself, until at last he reached shingle, stood up, and dragged the raft on to a beach.

Craig took a towel from the raft, dried himself and dressed, then took Bauer's knife from it too, deflated the raft, and felt his way to the base of a cliff. Cautiously he drew out a shaded torch and hid the raft at the foot of a rock, then looked along the cliff face, searching patiently until he found the alarm wire he knew must be there. He climbed over it, and moved slowly, cautiously up the rock face, pausing near the top to search for, and find, another alarm wire.

Before him the castle stood, black and solid in the night's soft darkness. Craig looked out for dogs or sentries. There were none. He moved across the rock-hard ground to the castle wall, and made for the gate and a thin wedge of light. The small postern stood slightly ajar, and a man with a rifle leaned back against the wall, asleep. Slowly, with infinite care, Craig moved inside, then hit the sentry hard on the neck with his fist. The snoring stopped, and Craig caught the sentry as he fell and propped him against the postern, leaving his rifle with him. He looked more drunk than asleep, but the results would be the same if anyone spotted him. Craig felt in the man's pockets and found a bottle of ouzo. He poured some over the sentry's clothes and left the bottle beside him, then moved into the castle, across the courtyard to the keep. Again the inner gate was unlocked and he moved in like a cat, quiet and menacing.

The keep had been divided into three floors, and each floor had been subdivided into a series of rooms. Craig started at the top. The top floor was Dyton-Blease's. It contained an enormous bedroom, with a vast peachwood bed, a dressing room crammed with suits, shirts, shoes, all handmade—at least & 2,000 worth—and an office with a desk that contained nothing at all in its drawers and cupboards except a comprehensive collection of large-scale maps of the Middle East and some handsome writing paper headed Menos, Greece. There was also a huge gymnasium equipped with weights, medicine balls, expanders, for a man of superhuman strength. And there was a dojo—a judo practice mat. Craig paused by it, then moved down to the floor below. Every room was elegant, feminine, and beautiful. And yet somehow, every room was wrong. Craig looked at two vases, one with a beautiful flower arrangement, the other with an unsuccessful copy of the first. He saw a dining-room set for dinner for eight, at which only two people had eaten, a card table with the wreckage of a bridge game, one hand viciously torn across, and a tailor's dummy in the dressing room that was the most dressed dummy he had ever seen. Her expression of stupid aloofness didn't slip a centimeter when Craig lifted her skirts to discover she wore panties, girdle, and bra beneath her Balenciaga gown. Craig decided that Dyton-Blease had been teaching Selina how rich European women live and dress and occupy their day. He remembered the torn cards and grinned. Bridge bored him, too.

On the ground floor two men slept, the two men who had boarded the caique and taken Selina away. The silent one's room was a huge collage of pinups, the walls, the ceiling, even the floor. He lay on his back and snored, blowing bubbles of saliva as he exhaled. Craig hit him as he had hit the sentry. Once again the snoring stopped. When he searched the room he found only a Steyr automatic, ammunition, a knife, a cosh, and a series of photographs that used two or more human bodies to show how the letters of the alphabet could be portrayed in even the most absorbing circumstances. The photographs had been

E rinted in Cairo. Craig looked again at Q, grinned, and took is collection of weapons into the talkative one's bedroom. This room was austere, yet had richness. The furni-

ture was dark and old; the whitewashed walls showed only one picture: an ikon. The room smelled, very faintly, of chypre. Craig moved over to the sleeping man, searched the room, found more weapons, put the weapons down, and considered how best to wake him. A man hauled suddenly from a deep and secure sleep is vulnerable and afraid, and apt to tell what he knows. Craig pulled the sheet from him. He was naked, and the more vulnerable. Craig slapped him hard across the mouth. The man shot up in bed, and Craig hit him again, a backhanded blow that slammed him back on to the bedstead. The man lay still for a moment, then squirmed to one side and leaped at Craig, his hands grabbing for Craig's neck. Craig grabbed the other's hair, fell backward and threw him, still holding his hair. The man screamed and screamed again as Craig hauled him to his feet by the hair, and hit him on the nose, twice. The man wanted to fall, but the hand in his hair kept him up, stretched him on to his toes. His hands fell, his body went limp, and Craig let him fall.

Craig asked: "What's your name?" He spoke in Greek. The man on the floor shuddered, and said nothing. Craig stopped, and hauled him up by the hair.

At once the man screamed out. "Spiro. Georgios Spiro." Craig pushed him back against the wall, and looked at him.

"You're going to tell me things," he said. "Sooner or later, you're going to tell. The choice is yours."

Spiro leaped at him again, and again Craig threw him, dragged him to his feet, and hit him on the nose. This time Spiro fell and lay still. Craig found a water jug, slopped water over him, then, as he came round, dragged him over to a mirror.

"Look at yourself," he said. "You won't be pretty much longer. Next time I hit your nose I'll break it, and nobody's going to love you then."

Spiro looked in silence, and turned away. Craig's hand dug under his chin, forcing him to look into the hard eyes, to watch the fist clench, draw back.

"I can't tell you anything," said Spiro.

"That's a start, anyway," said Craig. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking after the place for Mr. Dyton-Blease."

"With a .32?"

"Mr. Dyton-Blease has a lot of enemies." "Me for one," said Craig. "What is it he does?" "He does nothing," said Spiro. "He's just a very rich man."

Craig moved in, and his fist unclenched, he tapped Spiro's nose with one finger. It was a very red, puffy nose.

"Tell me about the girl," he said.

Spiro had strong views on women. He expressed them then. She had obsessed Dyton-Blease; he spent all day and every day with her, teaching her how to walk, how to sit, how to eat: the little savage wasn't happy unless she could eat with her hands, and Dyton-Blease had been so patient, so gentle. He'd even made Spiro try to teach her how to arrange flowers—as if an animal like that could do anything artistic, God knows he'd done his best—

"Why?" Craig asked.

"She has to be a lady," Spiro said.

"Why?" Craig asked again.

"Because Mr. Dyton-Blease said so."

Always Spiro used the English "mister," not the Greek.

"Do you want me to break your nose?" Craig asked.

"I swear to God, that's all I know," Spiro said. "Ji he knew I'd told you that much, he'd kill me."

"He almost killed my father," said Craig. "He turned him into an idiot."

Spiro stayed very still.

"You think a lot of Mr. Dyton-Blease?"

"He pays well," Spiro said. "I'm afraid of him too."

"Why?"

"I told you. He'll Mil me." "You could run away."

"Not from him. Nobody can. You should remember that. He'll kill you too, when he finds out—"

"If he does," said Craig, and again Spiro was still.

Craig began more questioning, and at last Spiro opened up the floodgates, the words spilling out as if they would never stop; a pentup release of what had been held back too long. Craig discovered that Dyton-Blease had lived there for three months, and that Spiro and his partner had been sent to him from Los Angeles, on loan from their Greek-American boss, a narcotics peddler who was as afraid of Dyton-Blease as Spiro himself. He learned that in three months with the big man the two Greeks had done nothing

except guard the castle, terrorize the island population—who were already in mortal terror—and beat up Craig. For this they were paid $500 a week. They hated it.

They hated the tiny island, the islanders, and the castle; they lived in an agony of homesickness for Los Angeles, and they hadn't the nerve to ask for their release. When Dyton-Blease was there, they walked in terror, and they didn't know why. They had dealt before with big men, tough men; they were used to waiting in ignorance of what was to happen. The setup they were in was familiar—and yet there was always this fear. Even before Craig's father. As soon as he spoke of it, Spiro stopped, the stream dammed, one fear blocking another.

'Tell me," said Craig. "You didn't do it."

"It was done in the dungeons," Spiro said. "Your old man was tough all right. He stuck it out until Mr. Dyton-Blease lost his temper. And then it was too late."

"How long did it take?" Craig asked.

"About five seconds," Spiro said. "Then he was cool again, like ice. Five seconds—·

"Let's see the dungeons," said Craig.

"There's nothing there."

"I want to see them." He took out Bauer's knife. "All right," said Spiro. "I'll put some clothes on." "No," said Craig. A naked man is cautious and ashamed. Spiro hesitated, then looked into Craig's eyes. "All right," he said.

They went down stairs cut into the rock, opened a great door of olive wood studded with wrought-iron nails, and entered what had once been storerooms as well as dungeons. The whole place was lit with stark, unshielded bulbs. A great, vaulted room carved out of the rock, and on one side of it, hutchlike caves shut in with iron bars. It was like a museum, except that it was still in use. No guides, no pamphlets, no souvenirs. The robber baron who lived here was still in business. Craig pushed Spiro before him, and looked around. Empty packing cases, one with the name of a Paris couturier. Selina's gowns? Empty wine barrels, empty oil jars, and every cell empty. There had to be something.

"I told you," said Spiro.

Craig shoved him away, and looked around once more.

The rock walls were smooth and gray, but in one corner a square patch gleamed, smoother, paler than the rest. It was the door of a safe. Craig pushed Spiro over to it, and examined it carefully. No combination lock, just a key.

"Open it," said Craig.

"It isn't locked," Spiro said. "Ill show you."

He hauled at the door, exerting all his strength, and it swung open slowly. Then suddenly, his body flowing like quicksilver, Spiro reached into the safe. Inside it was a knife. He grabbed it, and leaped at Craig. Craig swerved so that the upper knife arm brushed his shoulder, then struck out, slamming Spiro's naked body into the rock wall. Spiro whimpered, and hesitated, then Craig met the rush as Stavros had taught him, swerving to narrow the target he presented, swaying to make him miss, his left hand striking at Spiro's wrist. Spiro screamed and his knife clattered on the stone floor. Then, still screaming, he swung round to Craig and the knife Craig held, point up, as he crouched, waiting. Craig's arm shook at the impact of Spiro's body, the fist clenched round the knife hilt that now touched the Greek's chest. He let the hilt go, and Spiro fell, his eyes already glazing.

"He'll kill you too," said Spiro, and died.

Craig pulled the knife free, wiped it on some rubbish, put it away, then went to look at the safe. Its steel door had an additional covering of lead; the rock cavity behind was lead-lined. Craig realized why Spiro had pulled so hard. There was nothing else inside but an old-fashioned metal hatbox. Craig reached out a hand for it, and found it wouldn't move. He braced himself, and lowered it two-handed to the floor. It, too, was lead-lined. Inside was nothing but a tiny fragment of pottery, old stuff, with what looked like geometric decoration. Craig put the lid back on and humped the hatbox out of the dungeon. Getting it down the cliff was a wearisome, nerve-racking business, even with the aid of a rope. When he reached the beach he looked at his watch. Only half an hour before he rejoined Elias. He still had a lot to do.

Forty minutes later he was back on board the caique, its diesel popping madly as it scuttled for safety. Craig and Elias watched in the darkness, waiting. Suddenly, there

was a great throb of red in the blackness, followed by the woomph of exploding petrol and a rattling noise like firecrackers.

"Ammunition," said Craig, and waited. Another great red exclamation mark stained the blackness.

"Both boats?" Elias asked. Craig nodded. "It's beautiful," remarked Elias.

"The way revenge should be."

"What revenge?" asked Craig. "I was too late. Dyton-Blease had gone, and Spiro killed himself. I mean that. He tried to kill me, and when he failed, he was too scared to live. He threw himself on my knife."

"So you got nothing," said Elias. "Except a lead

box."

"That's all," said Craig.

Elias asked no more; Craig was very British about secrets. Ten miles farther on, they began to fish.

When they came in next morning, Stavros was waiting by the harbor. Another Andraki boat had seen the explosion, and Stavros wanted an answer. "How should I know?" Craig asked. "Probably somebody got drunk because Dyton-Blease was away. They might have gone aboard one of the power-boats and started smoking too near the fuel tank."

"And died?" asked Stavros.

"It's likely," Craig said. "You say yourself it was a big bang. Mind you, I'm only guessing. Elias and I were fishing all night."

"Red mullet," said Elias. 'The best catch this season. Craig brings his luck with him, eh, Stavros?"

On the hydroplane that took them back to Piraeus, Stavros said veiy little. A part of him despised his cousin, and his brother Craig, for what they had done, but another part held a fierce delight that the Kouprassi family had hit back. And behind the delight was resentment, because he had not been asked to go along too. Stavros examined his emotions, and was silent. The only way out of his dilemma was a blazing row, and he couldn't fight with Craig. So he said nothing.

His car met them at Athens, and he drove Craig to the hotel on the Piraeus where his clothes were stored. Craig turned to him then, and spoke softly in English so that the chauffeur wouldn't understand. "I'm sorry I couldn't ask you along," he said. "I mean that, Stavros."

"I believe you," Stavros said, and smiled. "Sometimes I think you're more Greek than I am."

Graig left him then, for a bath and a shave, and clean, expensive clothes. The kind you ought to wear when you go to meet your boss.

* Chapter 7 *

I told you to get yourself fit, not start a private war," Loomis said.

"It looked as if it might be your sort of show," said Craig. "I thought I'd better look around."

"Look around," Loomis snarled. "You knifed a man." "He knifed himself."

"Don't rationalize at me," said Loomis. "I'm not your analyst." He began to dismember a broiled lobster, a revolting performance.

'There's Dyton-Blease and the bit of pottery," said

Craig.

"Giants went out with the brothers Grimm. He's just a biggish feller who thinks he's found Achilles' thunder jar," said Loomis.

"In a lead canister?"

"Chap's a loony," said Loomis. "They get very nervy sometimes, loonies. I'll let the technical lads have a look —but you're wasting their time."

*· Craig went back to his own lobster, and for a while there was no sound except Loomis's grunts and the crackle of the lobster's shell as it tried to defy him, without success.

"Mind you, the girl sounded interesting," said Loomis. "Pity you lost her. We could do with some chums in the Haram."

"I could find her," said Craig.

"Not now. I want you watching Naxos." "What about the big man?"

Loomis said: "His turn will come." His voice was utterly certain.

Craig said: "That bit of pottery had a pattern on it. Selina's dresses had the same kind of design."

"So?" asked Loomis.

"She told me a lot about the Haram," Craig answered. "She loved every inch of it—you could tell that—all except the mountain. She was afraid of that. The Naked Place, she called it."

"Hussy," said Loomis.

"Nothing grows there," Craig said. "It's just a mass of sandstone, with some outcrops of blue stuff. Soft. Easily worked. Looks very pretty. At one time her people used to use it for making water jars, that sort of thing. Not any more."

"They turn the tap on like everybody else," Loomis snarled.

"It's lethal. You handle it for too long—and you die. Like leprosy, she said, only worse."

"You been at the horror comics again," said Loomis.

Yet Craig knew the fat man was taking in every word. All right. Let somebody else sweat after it. He'd go for a cruise on a yacht.

"You want me to leave it then?" he asked.

"Leave what? You haven't started anything," Loomis said. "I want you to go and keep Naxos alive."

Craig looked round the restaurant. There was nobody behind them, and the nearest customer on either side was ten feet away. Before them was nothing but the Aegean, gleaming blue as if another sun lay on its bed. Loomis didn't have to lower his voice, but he might at least wipe his mouth.

'Tell me about Mrs. Naxos," he said.

"Her name's Philippa—known as Flip. A blonde. Good legs. Fat just enough and thin just enough. What they call a dish." Loomis produced the word with sly triumph, like an inept conjurer who really has got a rabbit this time.

"Used to be a drug addict. Naxos got her cured. Then he married her. He'd stick his hand in the fire for her. If you don't do your stuff he may have to."

"Who am I watching for?"

"Ah!" said Loomis. "A bit tricky, that. Zaarb's got a new security chief—a feller called Schiebel. Used to work for the Russians. They thought his work was a bit too crude, so they got rid of him."

"Any description?" Craig asked.

T got this," said Loomis.

He handed Craig a photograph. A thin man with blond, close-cropped hair and pale, narrow eyes. He wore choice, urbane casual clothes and he looked as hard as nails.

"Got a series of burn scars on his right shoulder," said Loomis.

"Speaks perfect English. He worked in London for a bit. Trained in their Executive Division—you know what that means."

"He's a Idller," said Craig.

"That's right. It also means he's good, bloody good. All the same, you should be able to handle him." He smiled expansively. "We got his fingerprints too."

"My God you've been working," said Craig, and Loomis beamed.

"Where did you get them?"

"From the comrades."

"The Russians gave you his dossier?"

"All pals now," said Loomis. "Live and let live. All that. Zaarb's a Stalinist sort of place, d'you see. They've gone off Russia. They brought the Chinese in. Schiebel asked for asylum there. Oh yes, the Russians gave us his dossier. Matter of fact if you knock him off they'll give us a few other bits and pieces as well. Chinese stuff. We could use some Chinese stuff."

"He must know a hell of a lot," said Craig.