The man who sold death

CHAPTER 12

Loomis's club was, inevitably, in St. James's, and there Craig went to lunch with him, on canned shrimps, cold beef and salad, apple pie, Cheddar cheese, and a pint of bitter. As food it was barely edible, but Loomis praised it for its modesty.

"You can get all the exotic fodder you want in Nice," he said. "This is the stuff to calm you down. Haute cuisine peps you up. This is grub."

"Do I need calming down?" Craig asked.

"Dunno. I do. I got a bit of news for you. Pucelli's on to the judo clubs. He's looking for Hakagawa."

"Go on," said Craig.

"We won't let him get far," Loomis said. "Don't worry. If he starts getting warm, we'll find something wrong with his passport and boot him off home. Unless-" he looked hard at Craig, "you'd like to attend to him yourself?"

"No," Craig said.

"Suit yourself." Loomis sawed savagely at his beef. "I take it you are going to do that other little job for us?"

"Yes," said Craig. "But just St. Briac. That's all."

"Grierson says you had quite a chat with McLaren last night. Has he been preaching at you?"

"He preaches at everybody," Craig said. "He has to. He doesn't believe his own gospel."

"Has he changed your mind?"

"No," said Craig. "He's a phony-like me. And he knows it. He couldn't have changed my mind, anyway. Now I've got Tessa into this, I have to do what you want. It's the only way she'll be safe."

"You could leave her," said Loomis.

"That's the one thing I couldn't do. Except go on like this. Once I've dealt with St. Briac, that's the lot."

"St. Briac is all I want," said Loomis. "But the others may want you. These boys are fanatics. They don't know where to stop. That's why I say they're mad, but when it comes to organization, they're as sane as you or me and as clever as monkeys.

"They work in cells, like the Communists. They're not proud, they'll steal ideas from anybody. Now St. Briac's is the murder cell. Five men. The 2-I-C is called La Valere. A bit of a nit, but good with a pistol. Duclos and Pucelli-I'll come to them in a minute-for the rough work. They used to have Cadella to help them, until you ran into him. Then there are two or three men acting as bodyguards for his nibs, and that's the lot. A self-sufficient unit. And they believe in vengeance, son. Pucelh's a Corsican, and so was Duclos's mother. Hurt one of them and they'll all be on your neck. Hurt their chief, and you may not find it all that easy to retire. They're what you might call devoted to him. Or so I've heard anyway."

"So I've heard too," said Craig. "I'll have to chance it."

Loomis took alternate bites at apple pie and cheese.

"You seem to hear a hell of lot," he said. "Where do you get it all from?"

"Arabs," Craig said. "They've got their own network. Pretty good too. And they had to keep me alive at the time. They needed the stuff I was bringing."

"Want to tell me about them?"

"No," Craig said.

"Suit yourself." Loomis pushed his plate away. Then, heedless of his own theories, he said loudly, "God, that was awful."

The elderly headwaiter, utterly deaf, said, "Thank you, sir," and Loomis led the way to the reading room, where three aged men slept noisily.

"They're deaf too," he said. "Still, we'd better not take any chances."

He rang for a waiter, and ordered coffee in the writing room.

This was huge, deserted, and crammed with Edwardian writing desks with great wads of club stationery on them, as if the committee had yet to learn that Edison had made enough of a breakthrough for the club to buy a telephone. The waiter poured out coffee, and Loomis groaned aloud.

"Terrible, terrible," he said.

"Why eat here?" asked Craig.

"I'm used to it and they're used to me," said Loomis. "When you get to my age, you get set. You aren't flexible any more. Not like you."

"When do you want me to go?" Craig asked.

"That's what I mean," Loomis grumbled. "You're always in a hurry. Now I like a bit of small talk. I can't stand bashing straight into things. But you won't adapt yourself to me. You're too selfish, son." He scowled. "You'll go as soon as I can fix it. Grierson will go with you."

"Don't you trust me?"

"How can I?" Loomis asked pettishly. "Anyway, he can be very useful, Grierson can. And he seems to like you, God knows why. That's Grierson's trouble, getting fond of people."

Craig lit a cigarette.

"You work hard at it-being nasty, I mean," he said. Loomis, unasked, helped himself from Craig's packet.

"I'll tell you something," he said. "I'm down on the books as a civil servant-assistant principal in the Ministry of Dither and Footle. Everybody thinks I've been shelved because I'm so bloody rude. There aren't thirty people in the world know as much about me as you do -and they're all like you. They can't give me away."

"They could be made to," said Craig.

"Sooner or later one of them will," Loomis said. "When he does I'll know, and I'll be ready for it. Till then it's all jolly fun. Only remember this, son. I'm anonymous because I'm good at my job."

"Having people killed?"

"Sometimes. Not often. Your bit of business happens to be one of the times, that's all. When there isn't any other way I use this one, if I think it's justified. That's what I'm for."

"Does it bother you?"

"No," said Loomis promptly. "Not unless I fail, and I don't fail all that often. I'm certainly not going to fail this time. If St. Briac doesn't die, a lot of other people will. And they'll be nicer people than he is. Now tell me about him again."

Craig repeated what Ben Bakr had told him, in the little restaurant near the Jardin du Pharo in Marseilles. It had been hot in the restaurant, he remembered, but the bouillabaisse had been good, and so had the Provencal wine. Mohammedan or not, Ben Bakr had drunk his litre. He needed something; twenty-four hours a day he was in danger. St. Briac hadn't yet found out who he was, but Ben Bakr had got on to Pucelli, and from him at last he had discovered the existence of St. Briac's cell and the character of its leader. St. Briac, inevitably, had been to St-Cyr, he had won the Croix de Guerre in Indochina for displaying exceptional courage where courage was a commonplace. He had been an Intelligence officer in the Atlas Department of Algeria, and had been removed for being too cruel, though in Algeria at that time cruelty was a commonplace too. And yet, Ben Bakr had insisted, he was not a sadist, like some of the men who worked for him. He was simply using cruelty because it was efficient. It produced the results he needed so urgently. St. Briac was determined, utterly determined, that Algeria should remain part of France, that the country and the army he adored should suffer no more defeats, no more humiliations. Measured against this tremendous aim, no human life, including his own, had any importance.

Slowly, patiently, at incredible risk, Ben Bakr had built up a dossier: modus operandi; personnel; financial aid; and some of this he had told to Craig. In the end St. Briac had caught him, but Ben Bakr had died too quickly, and for another year Craig was safe…

Loomis asked, "Did you see him after they finished with him?"

Craig shook his head. "I heard," he said. "He was a mess."

"You scared?"

"Of course," Craig said. "I wanted to get out as soon as I heard, but I couldn't. You were right about me. Partly right anyway. I don't enjoy killing people, whatever you may think, but I couldn't live without danger. I was an addict. I didn't enjoy it, you understand. I had to have it."

"Had to? You mean you don't need it any more?"

"I want the girl," Craig said. "So you don't have to worry, do you? If I don't do this job, we'll never find any peace."

"That's all right then," Loomis said. "I'll get you off in a couple of days. After that, you've got four days to do the job, and that's all. He could be off to Aden in a week. He's got plans for Aden. Big plans. Or so I'm told. Strikes, riots, massacres. We'll have to move in troops and kill a hell of a lot of Arabs, and even then the thing might spread, and if it does we'll have the Russians on our backs. He'd better not go to Aden. It's your business to see that he doesn't. If possible, I'd like you to get some more information about what he's up to. But that isn't important. The main thing is to see that he doesn't go. O.K.?"

Craig said, "He won't."

"Funny bloke," said Loomis. "Ruthless, treacherous, nasty with it. Yet he thinks of himself as a gentleman. His personal honor's important to him. You should bear that in mind. It might help you to reach him." He peered at Craig, assessing his strength, his skill, the speed of his reflexes, his ability to kill. At last he sat back. He was content. "That's about it then," he said. "Unless there's anything you want?"

"I want to work with Grierson for a bit. There are one or two things I can teach him."

"Use the gym in the cellars. Anything else?"

"Pucelli. When we go, I want him arrested. Not deported. Arrested. Keep him here till we get back."

"Will do," said Loomis, and grinned. "I wish I'd met you earlier, son. I really do."

Baumer had gone to Sao Paulo, not Rio de Janeiro. Rio could wait until things cooled off. He'd read about Rutter, and being a sentimental man he'd wept for him, but otherwise he had been happy in Sao Paulo. It was gay, noisy, brash, and the sun shone all day. In time

Baumer thought he might do business there. For the present he was enjoying a holiday: going to concerts, looking at pictures, loafing in the sun. It was very pleasant to be able to do that, after a childhood in Germany, a headlong flight to North Africa, and statelessness, then more Germans, more hiding, and for a while, prison in Spanish Morocco, before he managed to reach England, start a business, meet Lange, meet Craig.

He was not surprised to read that Craig had been killed. Craig was the strongest of them all, but he was also the most vulnerable. That was why he'd made the most money, and failed to five to enjoy it. Craig had had no talent for enjoyment. Baumer was sorry about that. He'd have liked Craig to five long enough to discover the value of pleasure, as he himself was doing. But Craig all his life had been at war. For him there was neither a public nor a private peace. For him Mozart and Velasquez were no more than names, a sunset the prelude to a night raid, a woman a few minutes of vulnerable relief. Baumer, for three weeks, enjoyed them all.

After that, Cavalho found him. A girl he knew had danced with Baumer in a Sao Paulo club and had remembered him because he was generous. In the end, Baumer had to tell Cavalho and his assistant where his money was, and they killed him. After that they got drunk, and smashed his records, ripped and tore his books. The girl Baumer had danced with was given a present. She chose a golden St. Christopher.

Loomis had final instructions for them. He came in and talked to them as they lay under a sunlamp, soaking up a tan that wouldn't disgrace them on beaches where to be pale was to be conspicuous, and hence to be discussed. Their contact, Ashford, would meet them in St. Tropez and tell them exactly when St. Briac would return to Nice. After that, he would keep out of their way.

"He's bitter, you see," Loomis said. "Bit of a fairy. That's how we got on to him. He's a friend of St. Briac's 2-I-C-that Valere feller I told you about. Chaps in our line shouldn't have friends, Craig."

"I'm not in your line," Craig said, "and I'm not sorry."

"It isn't all that fragrant, is it?" Loomis said. "But I had to think of the alternative, and I told you what that was. Certainly mass murder and very possibly war. So I put the squeeze on him, just like I did with you. I didn't have much choice, son."

"You've met him then?"

Loomis shook his head.

"Grierson arranged the details-and Grierson's going to tell Ashford he's working for you. This is an amateur's job. Grierson's just a gentleman crook you met in the old days in Tangier."

"You were very sure I'd help you," Craig said.

"It made very little difference," said Loomis. "We'd have done it in your name, whatever happened. Now I've promised Ashford that La Valere won't be touched, or rather you've promised him-unless it's absolutely unavoidable. La Valere's nothing without St. Briac, anyway. Just another barmy para officer. As I told you, he knows how to kill but he hasn't got much brains. And anyway he's in love. We needn't bother about him.

"Duclos now, he's another matter. Ex-Algerian police. Bit of a sadist, from all accounts, and a very single-minded lad. So long as someone's there to give him orders, Duclos's dangerous. So are the bodyguards. You'll have to get past them somehow, and it won't be by bribery.

"There are two places where you might get him. One's his villa in Villefranche, the other's the Association's offices in Nice itself. Ashford's briefed you on those." He looked at Grierson, who nodded. "If you can get any more about the organization, I'll be grateful, but the important thing is that St. Briac should die. Now what sort of stuff do you want?"

"It ought to be a bomb," Craig said, "but I'm not risking that. They kill too many people. Rifle?"

"We've had a good look at him," Grierson said. "A rifle might be possible, but he's on the lookout all the time-always has people around him. The only way we can be sure of him is to get in close, and if we do that we can't carry rifles."

"Target pistol then," Craig said. "Something like a Colt Woodsman. Can you get me one?" Loomis nodded.

"Grierson has the escape route," he said. "He'll brief you on that himself. There's just one more thing. If they get hold of you, you know what will happen, don't you?" Craig nodded. "We'll give you a pill for that. If you can't use it, they'll learn all about me." He shrugged. "It'll be a nuisance, but not the end of the world. According to Her Majesty's government, Loomis doesn't exist." Still seated, he bowed, very formally, to Craig.

"Good luck, son," he said. "All the good luck in the world."