Die Rich Die Happy

"He does. Mind you he was blown last year. Grierson got on to his girl friend before he went to Zaarb. She told us the lot. Only the Russians don't know that."

"What happened to her?"

"He killed her," said Loomis. 'Took his time about it. He's nasty, Craig." Craig looked at the photograph again.

"He looks German," Craig said.

"He is," said Loomis. "Hitler Youth leader. The Russians picked him up in Leipzig in '45. He killed three of 'em first. He was sixteen years old then."

"They took him alive?"

"He was good. They did a conversion fob on him— made him a Stalinist. Trouble is he's stuck there. Couldn't adjust to Khrushchev."

"Neither could the Russians," said Craig, and went back to the photograph.

"Well he's yours now," said Loomis, and flipped an imperious flipper for Turkish Delight. When it came he ate in silence, savoring the rose-petal sweetness of it to the end, then demanded brandy. He watched Craig drink it, delighted. The brandy was an Armagnac, and very special. He'd chosen it himself, and he knew it was good, but Craig drank it out of pleasure, not for need. Loomis looked positively benign.

"You can keep the photograph," he said, "and I'll let you have a copy of his dossier. There's just one snag. He may have gone to Zurich recently. For a facelift. Probably got the burn scars fixed too. They do you a very good plastic surgery job in Zurich."

"You bastard," said Craig, then threw back his head and laughed aloud. "No wonder you wanted me for this job, Loomis. I'm the only one daft enough to take it."

Loomis looked coy, and summoned more brandy.

» » »

Naxos's yacht, the Philippa, put into Piraeus two days later. It was a converted destroyer, built on the Tyne and transformed on the Clyde into the kind of floating pleasure dome that perhaps twelve men in the world can afford to own, and three of them are Greek. It was painted the obligatory, dazzling white, its brasswork glittered like sunbeams, its ropework was pipe-clayed to the snowy virginity of a detergent ad. It carried a helicopter, a swimming pool, three powerboats, a five-piece band, a cordon bleu chef, three Canalettos, nine Picassos, a Memling, a third-century B.C. statue of Aphrodite, a doctor, and a scaled-down version of a Cunarder's catering staff. Its officers were Englishmen and a Scot, who had left the service of a famous passenger line because Naxos offered them more money. All the rest of the crew were relatives of the bosun, a gigantic Hydriote Islander who preserved a discipline that would have terrified Captain Bligh. It cost Naxos a fortune, and he loved it. It belonged to his wife.

Craig sat outside a waterfront cafe watching the

Philippa come into harbor, her whiteness so pure in the sunlight that the eye ached to see it. The Philippa was beautiful, the swift elegance of her fighting ship's fines miraculously preserved, though she was now no more than the most expensive toy ever built. Good for thirty knots at least, and strong enough to face a North Atlantic gale in February. As she came to rest at last and the anchor cable roared through the hawseholes, Craig remembered that the Philippa had been built five miles from where he was born, and the thought gave him pleasure.

The waiter stood beside him and looked at the ship.

'The Naxos boat," he said. "Beautiful, eh?"

"Beautiful," said Craig.

"A palace," said the waiter. "A king could live there and not feel ashamed. And for Naxos it's only a setting for one jewel."

"Yes?" said Craig.

"His wife. A solitaire diamond for Naxos, the only one in the world. So he builds a boat for her—white on white. And I'll tell you something—it works."

"You've seen her?" said Craig.

"She passed by here once," said the waiter. "That's when I started talking like a poet."

A flotilla of small boats put out for the yacht.

"Beautiful," said the waiter. "When Naxos comes to town, everyone goes to him. Look! Health Authority, Customs, newspapers, government, they all want to visit the palace, to see the queen."

"And the money," said Craig.

"Without money, how can there be queens?" said the waiter severely.

At dusk a motorboat put off from the yacht and raced for the harbor, its cox'n using the twin screws with great skill to bring her to rest by the cafe. A white-clad sailor leaped ashore, and Craig stood up.

"Mr. Craig?" said the sailor.

Craig nodded, and the sailor exploded into a salute, then raced to pick up Craig's luggage.

"You know her?" asked the waiter. "No. Him. Naxos," said Craig.

"Hephaistos and Aphrodite," said the waiter. "Remember Hephaistos had a net. We should all be netted like that—just once in our lives.

Craig went aboard the boat and it roared into life. Behind him Piraeus faded into purple shadow, and one by one the lights came on, looping the bay in soft blobs of gold. The Philippa was dressed overall, and her whiteness gleamed like silver now under her deck lights. The powerboat slowed, stopped by the companion way, twin screws chopping the water into flashes like gems. The Aegean was dark now, and tranquil as sleep. Craig went up on deck, to where the band was playing a cha-cha, and mess stewards served long drinks, ice cubes clinking a counterrhythm to the bongos and maracas. Suddenly a voice split the music like an ax.

"John," it roared. "Where the hell ya been this last ten years? Welcome aboard."

Craig turned to face his host, his problem.

Aristides Naxos was a squat barrel of a man with an immense breadth of shoulder that even so seemed only just wide enough to sustain the weight of his head. The head was vast, yet not unsightly, with a great weight of white hair, a nose like a ship's prow, a rich, sensitive mouth and wide gray eyes that had never told anybody anything. The whole effect was of a crude but tremendous power that was beginning to tire. Naxos had had the force, the will, and the strength to achieve almost anything he wanted, and he'd done so. Now he looked ready for rest.

Before the war he'd been a sailor. His grandmother had died and left him a caique. Inside a year he owned three. In five years he had a couple of tramp steamers. When the war came he sailed them into convoy, picked up another convoy in Britain, and reached America. He mortgaged them there and bought more ships. He went to South America and got into oil. He bought real estate in Florida. And more ships. Always more ships. If the Germans sunk them he got compensation; if they survived the cargo rates were enormous. By the end of the war he'd been a millionaire many times over, and he'd come back to Europe to ransack the Middle East. Arbrit Oil had swallowed almost the whole of his fortune at first, but in the end it had paid off, leaving him with 5 percent of whatever Zaarb, the ramshackle, sun-dried little sheikhdom off the Red Sea coast produced. And what came out was oil, a thick, black river that swept Naxos's personal fortune to that of a small nation. And trouble. When it went Red Naxos was the most hated man in Zaarb, but as long as he had his 5 percent he could vote for British troops to stay there. Naxos hired a private army of bodyguards, and voted for the status quo.

It didn't seem to worry him too much. Despite his weariness he looked fit enough to go five rounds with a heavyweight champion, his skin was bronzed and firm, and his handshake hard, yet Craig knew he was fifty at least. In a white sharkskin dinner jacket, black trousers, cherry-colored cummerbund, he looked grotesque, but he looked grotesque in any clothes. After a while the sheer strength of his personality made you forget how he looked. The only thing that would do him justice would be a suit of armor, thought Craig. Then he'd look like a king.

"Where the hell ya been?" Naxos said again.

"Back in England," said Craig. "Making money."

"Selling cigars?"

"That was a personal service—just for you," said Craig. "I got fed up with smuggling and went into nuts and bolts for a while, then I retired."

"You made enough, huh?"

"I had a good offer," said Craig. "And I like traveling. It was nice of you to ask me here."

"As soon as I knew you were in Greece," Naxos bawled. "Philippa's crazy to meet you. She'll be along soon. Come and meet the others."

He took Craig's arm and dragged him over to the people on deck, men and women who were there simply because they belonged to a group that was always available, always around, in Cannes and Corfu and Sun Valley and Ig-gls. People who could ski a bit and swim a bit and drink a great deal. Naxos bought them as he bought pictures, to plug the holes in his background. Craig said hello to a French count and an Italian starlet and an English Honorable, and nodded to a dozen more. Naxos went away and came back with a glass of Scotch on the rocks, put it in Craig's hand. The other guests reacted to the personal service as a spider reacts to a tremor in the web. Craig was in. It would be necessary to be nice to him.

"You remembered my drink," he said.

"I don't forget essentials," said Naxos, and looked anxiously at the companionway. "Women take a hell of a time to dress."

"The suspense is part of the treat," said Craig.

"I talk like a married man," Naxos said. T can't help it. I am married."

The starlet sighed very softly.

"Where are we going?" asked Craig.

The starlet tried a laugh this time, a low-pitched, husky trill.

"Don't you know?" she asked.

Somehow the three words conveyed to Craig that she thought him an eccentric, and therefore sexy.

"Craig just likes traveling," said Naxos.

"Destinations don't interest you?" said the Honorable.

"I've retired," said Craig.

"I never started," said the count.

The starlet gave a very Italianate shrug. It kept her torso in motion for three seconds.

"We're going to Venice," she said.

"That will be nice," said Craig.

"You know Venice?" asked the count.

"A bit."

"Very lush," said the Honorable, "but terribly overdone. All those vistas. Like a film set."

"It is a film set," said the starlet. "I've worked there myself."

And I, Craig remembered. I was nineteen. We went to stop some Germans blowing up that bridge by the Piazzale Roma. We succeeded—that time. Their lieutenant looked younger than me. He had an iron cross. Rutter took it for his scrapbook.

"I'd like to see that clock," said Craig. "The one where the two Moors come out and belt it with hammers."

'The best thing is the Carpaccios. And there are one or two Mantegnas of course," said the Honorable.

He began to talk about the Carpaccios and Mantegnas as the moon came up. Naxos watched out for his wife. The Honorable had got on to comparative color values when Naxos roared, "Honey. There you are." There was a woman at the top of the companionway, and Naxos seemed to reach her in one great push, but that one moment alone was the one Craig remembered.

She wore silver; a straight, clinging sheath of embroidered silk that glowed cold in the moonlight. Her hair was so blonde as to be almost white, and it too was silver when the moonlight touched it. Her body was sleek, graceful, her legs and ankles perfect. She walked like the sort of queen who is rescued from robber barons in a Hollywood TV series. She looked beautiful and innocent. Craig heard the Honorable whisper to the count, "How clever of her to wait until the moon came out." Then she and Naxos moved beneath the deck lights and the innocence had gone, and in its place was a wary alertness that reminded Craig of Tessa. Loomis had been right about that: this woman had been hurt.

Naxos came with her into the group: Craig thought of Bottom and Titania as he watched the man's face. The fact that he worshipped her was obvious: what Craig hadn't allowed for was that she felt the same way about him, and that this was equally apparent.

"Honey," said Naxos, "I want you to meet John Craig."

She held her hand out to him at once. The palm was cool, slightly moist, the bones delicate, but not fragile. There was a toughness about her for all her beauty. Anyone who can conquer heroin has to be tough, with a toughness of mind that will see the body destroyed before it will let go.

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Craig," she said.

Another shock. Her voice was soft, low-pitched, the accent almost English.

"My pleasure, Mrs. Naxos," said Craig.

Naxos bellowed with laughter, a bull with a sense of

humor.

"Mr. Craig, Mrs. Naxos," he said. "You're John and Philippa."

His massive arms came round them both, forcing them into friendship.

"I'd like that," said Philippa. "So would I," said Craig.

A waiter came up with drinks then, and again Naxos picked hers from the tray. They moved round their guests together, a duo who functioned only as a duo. Once they were separated they would be lost.

"Gorgeous, isn't she?" said the Honorable.

"I didn't believe it till I saw it," said the count.

The starlet tried another sigh, but the competition was too great.

"We were talking about Venice," said the count.

"Ah, yes, the Carpaccios. Do let me go on about the Carpaccios," said the Honorable.

"Anyone can see that Craig is an art lover," said the

count

"Well of course. It's written all over him. I noticed it at once; there's a man who wants to know about Carpaccios, I said to myself."

"Did you now?" said Craig. The Honorable looked up quickly. There was nothing wrong with the words, but the way he used them made him wary.

"My dear fellow, just our boyish fun," said the Honorable.

Craig said: "I'd sooner hear about Hephaistos and Aphrodite. Try your boyish fun on them."

"Aphrodite is the Greek name for Venus, the goddess of love," said the Honorable. "She was the wife of Hephaistos—he's Vulcan in Latin—a lame god, the smith who made weapons for heroes, and so on. Aphrodite was loved by Ares, god of war—called Mars by the Romans."

"Is there something about a net?"

"A net? Oh yes. Hephaistos found Aphrodite and Ares together in a rather too basic sort of way. He trapped them in a net. . . . May I ask why you're interested?"

"It was something a feller said to me once," said Craig. "I think he was trying to show off. Talking about things he knew I know nothing about."

He left the group, walked to the rail, and looked at the moon-washed whiteness of the harbor. Silk rustled beside him, and the starlet said: "I think you will like Venice now. It is not only pictures, Mr. Craig."

"John, Miss Busoni," said Craig.

"Pia Busoni," said the starlet, "call me Pia, please."

In England, Craig reminded himself, girls had been christened Faith, Hope, Charity, even Chastity. Why shouldn't an Italian call his daughter Pious? How was a father to know his daughter would grow into a body like hers?

"I know Venice very well," Pia said. "I'd be happy to show you around."

"No Carpaccios?"

"Only a very few. He painted an awful lot of pictures," said Pia.

Craig said: "It's a deal," and they went in to dinner.

The dining room was blue and silver, and the perfect setting for Philippa. It was only when they sat down that Craig noticed something that should have been obvious from the start: every other woman there was a brunette. Naxos worked hard to keep his wife unique.

The meal drifted by, a poem in five verses, accompanied by wine from the finest private cellar in Europe. Naxos drank German beer, and his wife had one glass of wine right through the meal. Craig drank a Latour '47, and wished to God Naxos had forgotten he liked whiskey. There were seventeen guests besides himself, and they looked, every one of them, what Naxos believed they were, and Naxos would know. Yet he suspected some of them, and there might be others he knew nothing about. It wasn't going to be easy to keep him alive if someone was really determined that he should die. And yet killing him wasn't the ideal solution; Zaarb would want him alive, and voting their way. That would mean attacking what he valued most, and that could only mean his wife.

The meal ended at last, and the brandy appeared, and Craig settled down to hear about the splendors and miseries of Cinecitta; and to speculate on how long it would take Pia, other things being equal, to shrug herself right out of her dress. She'd have to be standing up of course, and the zipper unloosed say the first inch and a half. . . . On his right, the count was telling the Honorable how Putzi had come a terrible purler on the beginners' slope at Cortina last year. It had something to do with champagne, and Putzi's conviction that he could ski backwards. Suddenly Naxos appeared, leered at Pia and said: "I'm taking him away for a bit, sweetie. Dreary old business."

"But you said he'd retired," Pia pouted.

"He's got money," said Naxos. "I want some. Come on, John. Bring your glass. I'll send him back to you, sweetie. Another brandy and he's yours." He winked and walked off, leading the way to a room that was part office, part study, wholly Naxos. Massive, durable furniture, charts and maps of his wealth on the bulkheads, the only decorations a tenth-scale model of his first caique and a portrait of Philippa by the man who does all the V.I.P.'s, and gets everything right but their humanity. Naxos poured more brandy for Craig, and a massive jolt of raki for himself.

"It really is nice to see you again," he said. "Philippa likes you too."

Craig thought: He's trying too hard. All this friend-

ship for a man who used to sell him cigars He must be worried. He stared back at Naxos, who looked at Craig, as a jockey might appraise a new racehorse, a promoter a new fighter.

"You look in good shape," he said. "I'm glad of that. I hear this may get rough." Craig nodded. "You know," Naxos continued, "there was a time I thought I could lick you. Not any more. You've got the edge on me, John."

"How?" asked Craig.

"I'm married to Philippa," Naxos said. "That means I worry about her—all the time. Now you, you don't worry about anybody."

"I worry about you," said Craig.

"I'lll I've signed the agreement," Naxos said. "After that I'm on my own. Right?"

"Would you want it any other way?" Craig asked.

"God no," said Naxos. "I've made a fortune out of Zaarb, and it's cost me ten years of my life in worry. Flip and I want to enjoy what's left. And that's where you come in."

"I know it," Craig said. "That's what I'm here for."

"Zaarb wants me dead," said Naxos, "but if I die it all goes to Philippa, and she'll vote against them. So Zaarb can't kill me. It makes them very unhappy."

"I bet," said Craig.

"All they can do is get at me through Flip," said

Naxos.

"Or offer you more money."

The words were out before he could stop them, but in any case they had to be said. Ever since he'd talked with Loomis, Craig had thought of that particular risk. Naxos was a businessman, who wanted the power that money brought. More money—more power.

"I'm satisfied," said Naxos. "I've got enough."

Craig knew that he was lying.

"A hundred million pounds. A one and eight zeros. Isn't that enough?"

"I wouldn't know," said Craig. "I've still got three zeros to go."

And Naxos laughed then, threw back his head and bellowed his brave bull's laughter.

'Tell me about your guests," Craig said. "Who doesn't

fit?"

T checked the list myself," Naxos said. "So did my security people. There's only one who's wrong—Pia Busoni." "How did you meet her?"

"I didn't. She got chummy with Flip. She's very like Flip, in a way. What I mean is, she wants to act, but she's no good. And she knows it. It makes her desperate—or that's what Flip says—and believe me she would know. That kid's at the stage where she'd dive off the Eiffel Tower into a wet sponge if somebody took pictures on the way down."

'That doesn't make her an agent," Craig said.

"I told you," said Naxos. "Flip's fond of her. They spend a lot of time together. If anyone could get at my wife, it's Pia Busoni. And she's broke, and not getting the parts, and been around too long. In my book she's a risk."

"She'll be watched," Craig said. "What about those two aristocrats in search of a peasant?"

'Tavel and Swyven? They're okay. Like you say, they're aristocrats. Tavel was in Indochina. A prisoner. The Viets gave him a rough time. All they do is fool around, Craig. Believe me they're clean."

"All right. When do we go to London?"

"We got ten days," said Naxos. "Let's have some fun

first."

"Where?"

"Flip wants to go to Venice. I got a place there." "It's a bad place to protect anybody in," said Craig. "I'm sorry," said Naxos. "Believe me I'm sorry. But if Flip wants to go, we'll just have to go."

Craig looked at him in amazement. Naxos meant it. "All right," he said. "I'll send for reinforcements." "Who?"

"He'll be good," Craig said. "If you're going to behave like that, we'll need the best."

Naxos said: "I'll help you all I can. Anything you want, just ask. And I mean anything."

"All right. Give me some stock-market tips," said

Craig.

"Huh?"

'This is a business conference, right? So tell me some business. Somebody will check on it anyway."

Naxos said, "You were always a hard man to buy cigars from."

He went to a desk table, unlocked a drawer.

"Buy Magna Electrics," he said. "All you can get. And Railton Plastics. Try a flyer in Marine Foods, too. It'll do you good to use your own money."

"Greedy," said Craig. "Let me talk to your wireless operator."

"Why on earth—"

'To instruct my broker. We want it known we're in business, don't we?"

Naxos pressed a button and murmured into an intercom. "He'll be along in a minute," he said. "I'll just introduce you and leave you to it. I have to get back to Flip."

Craig said; "I wish you would reconsider about Venice."

Naxos said: "You think I want to go? Look, you know my wife was on drugs?" Craig nodded. "Well, I got her off them. It nearly killed us both. But she still wants them, Craig, and anything that takes her mind off them she can have. Including Venice."

"Suppose she was kidnapped?"

"That's up to you," said Naxos. "I know what's going to happen if we don't go. I've seen it before—and it's worse than dying."

Craig was about to speak when there was a discreet tap at the door, and the wireless operator came in, browned and handsome in whites.

"Andrews," said Naxos, "this is Mr. Craig. He has some stuff he wants you to send." He turned to Craig. "You'll do your best with that other business?"

"Of course," said Craig. "But don't ask for guarantees."

"I don't need to, do I?" said Naxos, and left.

Andrews said: "What can I do for you, sir?"

Craig looked at the photograph that Loomis had given him, compared it with Andrews's face. This looked like the man. He took out a packet of cigarettes and offered it to him.

"No, thank you, sir. Not at the moment," said Andrews.

"Don't you like this brand?" asked Craig. "Occasionally," Andrews said. "But not often." Craig took out his lighter, set fire to the photograph, used it to light a cigarette. This was the man.

Craig tore a leaf from a scratch pad, rested it on the hard top of the desk, where pencil marks wouldn't show, and scribbled "Is this room bugged?" and then handed it to Andrews.

"I'll get on to it right away," said Andrews.

Methodically the two men went through the cabin. Andrews worked on the intercom and radiotelephone as the most obvious places, and Craig concentrated on the furniture. He found it at last behind Philippa's portrait, the tiny microphone let into the molding of the frame, a flat, gilded disk that exactly matched the rest of the frame, but projected a little too far. Behind the portrait was a tiny transister recorder, with wires instead of tape, working from flat batteries linked in a series and stuck to the back of the frame.

Craig snapped his fingers, and Andrews came over, turned it off and ran the wire back on to its spool, that was scarcely an inch in diameter. "Neat," he said. "Looks Japanese —except I hear the Chinese are doing a copy now. Did you see how slowly it turned? You could get a hell of a lot from one spool."

"A bit hit or miss though, surely?" said Craig.

"No," said Andrews. "The trigger mechanism's so delicate it switches on and off when somebody speaks."

"That's fantastic," said Craig.

"It's true," said Andrews. "Come along to my cabin and 111 play it back for you."

"Later," said Craig. "You know he's going to Venice?" Andrews nodded. "He says it's vital—for his wife's health. Has he contacted her doctor?"

"He's got one aboard," said Andrews. "He's also tried to get hold of a specialist in London. Sir Matthew Chinn. The rest's all been business. Stuff to his New York office, all routine, same kind of stuff to Zaarb, an order to Paris—diamonds for the madam—and one to Venice to a chap called Trottia, a dress designer."

"Got the address?"

"In my cabin," said Andrews. "But he's clean. It's all about evening dresses and twin sets and playsuits."

"Mrs. Naxos buys clothes in Paris," said Craig. "Tweeds in London. Odds and ends in Rome. Venice is for peasants."

"Okay," said Andrews. "Whatever you say."

"I've been introduced to the Count de Tavel, the

Honorable Mark Swyven, and Pia Busoni," said Craig. "She's the one Naxos doesn't fancy. I don't like the two men. What do you think?"

"I sent the guest list to London. They said they were all clean," Andrews said.

"Ask them to check those three again."

"Will do."

"Let's go to your cabin and listen," said Craig. "This place gives me delusions of grandeur."

Andrews's quarters were about cabin class on a Cunarder, and Craig wondered why on earth Andrews should bother risking his neck when he could live in such luxury and be a coward. He wondered why he should risk his own neck, and refused to face the answer. Danger was a craving he hadn't learned to stifle since he was seventeen years old. He waited, immobile, as Andrews took a transistor recorder from beneath the bottom of his battered suitcase, and delicately, painstakingly, connected up the tiny spool.

"We're not bugging him then?" asked Craig.

"I was told it was too risky. We can get most of what we need from the wireless room anyway," said Andrews.

Craig nodded, and waited, immobile, patient. Cautiously Andrews threaded the end of the wire into an empty spool and wound on.

"It's ready," he said, and switched on.

Craig listened to Naxos imperious, Naxos mercantile, Naxos amorous—this last when Philippa came into the room. He heard him speak to his wife, his steward, his three secretaries, his bosun, his captain, and his valet. He heard radiotelephone conversations with shipping offices in New York and a new oil-rig in Zaarb. He heard him speak in English, Arabic, and Greek. When he talked to Trottia he spoke in Italian, and it was all about dresses and twin sets. When Trottia said "Good-bye," he said "Addio," but Naxos said: "You should say 'Dosvidanye' until you learn Chinese, my friend," and roared with laughter.

"Stop," said Craig, and Andrews switched off.

"Get rid of Dosvidanye, and what follows," said Craig. "Just wipe it off."

Andrews nodded.

"It'll take time," he said. 'You want to hear the rest

of it?"

"Yes," said Craig, and Andrews switched on again. The rest of it was Craig and Naxos. The sound of drinks poured, and Naxos saying: "It really is nice to see you again. Philippa likes you too. You look in good shape." Every sentence hard on top of the one before, the first syllable blurred as the sound of the voice switched on the mechanism. Craig heard it through.

"Keep the first bit—up to Tfou look in good shape'— then muck it up for a bit. Leave the stock-market tips in, that is, 'Buy Magna Electrics'—up to 'Railton Plastics. Blur the bit about 'Marine Foods.' Clean off the rest. Can you do that?"

"Cleaning ofFs easy. But blurring—I'd have to put something in the mechanism, a bit of paper or something, to explain why it happened. Otherwise whoever set this thing up would just be more suspicious."

"Not paper," said Craig. He watched a big, clumsy moth bump its way round Andrews's table lamp. Suddenly his hand was a blur of movement, the remains of the moth a powdery stain on his palm.

"How about that?" he said. "Insects get in everywhere."

"That'll do fine," said Andrews. Carefully Craig scraped it off onto a sheet of paper.

"Can you put it back?" asked Craig.

"I think so," Andrews said. "I made myself a key."

"I like that," Craig said. "I like it very much. You and I will get along fine."

This one's good, he thought. For a new boy he's bloody marvelous. He left Andrews then, and went to his cabin. The thread he had left over the lock was intact, his room untouched. Craig took a bottle of brandy from his drinks tray, poured out a large tot, and flushed it down the toilet. He ground out the stub of the cigarette he had lit in Andrews's room into the ashtray, and scribbled figures in a note pad, then wrote the words "Magna Electrics" and underlined them. From the bottom of his wardrobe he took out a suitcase, an elegant piece of pigskin that had been made by the same expert who had created Andrews's battered wreck. He removed the false bottom, and looked at the snub-nosed Smith and Wesson .38 airweight with the two-inch barrel, snug in its molded hollow, the spare rounds of ammunition and the soft leather holster. Carefully, soundlessly, he checked and cleaned the gun, then put it back. Bauer's knife was there too, in a leather sheath Loomis had had made in three hours. He left it where it was, for the time, and searched his own room for a microphone. He found none, poured a small brandy as the reward or vigilance, and went back to the party.

* Chapter 8 *

They were still on deck, drinking, dancing, and Naxos came over at once to Craig, dragging Philippa with him.

"You took a long time to send a wire," he said.

"I had to work out how much to risk," said Craig. "I don't like taking chances, Harry."

"You don't deserve to have money," Naxos bawled. "Go and dance with Philippa. You don't deserve that either."

He pushed them together once more, then stuck out an empty hand. A steward sprang out of the thin air and stuck a glass of raki into it.

She was firm and supple in his arms, touching him just enough, her hand pressing into the hard-packed muscle of his shoulder, her head uptilted, the wide blue eyes searching his face with an intensity that didn't match at all with the commonplaces she spoke.

"I hope you're being well looked after, John," she

said.

"Oh yes," said Craig. "It's fine."

"Anything you want—just ask. Harry wants you to have a good time."

"There's nothing, believe me," said Craig.

They passed Swyven, who was dancing with Pia, and telling her about the ruins of Mytilene.

"It's all too scrumptious," Craig said.

Philippa giggled softly.

"He is awful, isn't he?" she said.

"Terrible. What on earth does he do besides telling me all about Carpaccio?"

"He's a dress designer. Quite a good one really." "Paris?"

"Not that good," said Philippa. "He works with a man called Trottia in Venice."

"Do you buy his stuff?"

"God no," said Philippa, genuinely shocked. "I always go to Paris. I love dressing up. Pia goes to him. He did that thing she's wearing. Honestly, it's not too bad, is it?"

"Very nice," said Craig.

"I'm glad you think so," said Philippa. "I think Pia's taken rather a fancy to you. Would you mind awfully?"

"Not terribly. No," said Craig.

"You shouldn't laugh at me," said Phihppa.

"You shouldn't talk like that."

"It's the only way I can talk—except like a Hollywood whore. That's what I used to be. When I married Harry I wanted to start again, right from the beginning. So he hired somebody to teach me to talk like this."

"The Archbishop of Canterbury?"

"Well almost," said Phihppa. "A genuine British ladyship. She's the eighteenth countess or something, and she hasn't a bean."

Another dancer lurched towards them, and Craig swung her round, lifting her casually from under his feet.

"You're very strong," said Philippa.

"I used to work," said Craig, and she giggled again. It was a very satisfying thing, triggering off that low, rich laughter, that still held a touch of vulgar zest in it, despite all the eighteenth countess had done.

When the dance ended, Philippa took Craig's hand and led him over to Pia.

"Now be nice to her," she whispered. "It's about time someone was." Then "Darling," she said, "you must dance with John. He's so good."

"I'd love to," said Pia, and when the band started again, came to him, lifting her arms gently, submissively, moving surely to his touch.

"Philippa's right," said Pia. "You are good. I'm looking forward to Venice."

"It should be interesting," said Craig.

The Italian laughed, a clear, ringing sound that contrasted with Philippa's soft giggle. In a corner opposite, Swyven and Tavel talked together. The Frenchman heard the laughter, and scowled.

"I can never understand the English," she said. "Come here. I want to show you something."

She broke away, and walked towards the stem of the ship, down a companion ladder to what had once been the after gun turret.

The helicopter rested there.

"It's a helicopter," said Craig.

"Yes, of course. But come here," said Pia. She drew him into a pool of shadow behind it.

"Now nobody can see us," she said. "Shall we dance here instead?"

Her arms came round him again, and her mouth found his, and she kissed him with a demanding skill that brought his body to flame. Her hands loosed the button of his coat and slipped inside it, roamed delicately over his ribs, across his back. Craig wondered if he was being searched, in the most tactful way possible, to see if he carried a gun. At last he said: "You dance pretty well yourself."

"I'm very fond of dancing," she said. "See?"

Her arms reached up for him again, but he took hold of her wrists, holding her gently, but with a strength she couldn't resist.

"Not here," he said.

"But I like it here."

She tried to move her arms, and discovered that she could not.

"I've got to talk with Harry again," Craig said. "Business."

"Darling, please stay," she said. "No," said Craig.

"Ji you don't stay, 111 scream," she said, and again struggled to free her hands.

"This lot are past getting their kicks out of screaming," said Craig. She opened her mouth then, and he added: "You scream, and I'll belt you." Her mouth shut and he left her. As he went he heard a gasping sound, weeping or laughter? It was impossible to tell.

He raced for the companionway that led to his cabin.

The corridor was deserted. He stopped by his cabin door. The thread across the lock was gone. Craig flattened himself by the bulkhead near the door, and listened in concentration. There was a faint sound from inside the cabin. He waited, tense and ready, then heard the clatter of footsteps ascending the stairs from the afterdeck. Pia had got over her laughter, or her tears. For a moment he toyed with the idea of going in, facing the man inside, then he rejected it. His cover was good, the chances of anyone finding the gun in the suitcase unlikely. He sped down the corridor into the saloon. Phihppa was there alone, looking through a picture-frame window at the lights of the harbor. She spun round at once, and looked at Craig.

"Oh," she said, "it's you. I thought you were giving Pia dancing lessons."

"It turned out she was teaching me," said Craig. He listened, straining for a sound from outside. Philippa came up to him, her arm reached out and she shut the door.

T can't stand open doors," she said. "I have too many secrets."

She turned then, looked hard at Craig. "Pia couldn't teach you anything," she said. "Have a drink."

"No thanks," said Craig.

"Make me one then. Scotch. Lots of Scotch. Lots of ice."

Craig made her drink, and she swallowed it almost fiercely, gagging it down as if that were the only way she could take it.

"I don't do that often," she said.

T can see that," said Craig.

"And Harry doesn't know."

"But I doF'

"Why not?" she said. "You're supposed to be looking after me, aren't you?"

"I poured your Scotch, didn't I?" said Craig. "Why do you want to fight me, Mrs. Naxos?"

Her head jerked up then, and she gulped down the rest of the Scotch.

"Again," she said.

Craig made her another one.

"What were you on?" he asked. "Heroin?"

She slammed the glass down, Scotch slopping on to the table, and her blue eyes were dark with hate. Craig looked back at her, his gaze steady. She began to shake.

"I had to find out about you," he said. "I had to learn where you can be hurt."

"And that's where," Philippa said. "I still miss it. Scotch isn't any good. I still miss it."

"How long have you been off it?"

"A year," she said. "A lifetime. I could wish you didn't have to keep me alive, John."

The door opened then, and Naxos came in. For once he looked old, tired.

He slumped heavily into a chair.

"Make me a drink, honey," he said.

I'll get it," said Craig.

"But Philippa had already opened a cupboard and was pouring raid.

"Make one for John, too," said Naxos.

"I've got one," said Craig, and picked up Philippa's glass. Naxos took the drink his wife gave him, swallowed once, then again, and held it out for more.

"I've told him we're going to Venice," he said.

Philippa shrugged.

"I can't stop you," Craig said. "But I don't think you realize what these people are capable of."

As he spoke the door opened again, and Pia came in, with the count, who seemed drunk, and Swyven, who seemed anxious.

"They've been in business for a long time," Craig continued. They usually manage to get the things they want—and at their own price."

They won't this time," said Naxos.

The count slumped into the chair Naxos had used. Craig was conscious of a feeling of outrage, as if a scullion had dared to occupy a throne.

"I should like a drink, if it is permitted," said the

count.

"Help yourself," said Naxos. "We're through talking business."

Swyven began to mix three drinks, and his hands shook so that the decanter clattered on the glasses.

"Business," said the count. "That is all the English are interested in—eh, Pia?"

"Oh, be quiet," said Pia. "Why can't you mind your own affairs?"

"They look like men, they even try to act like men, but there is no manhood in a cash register," said the count.

"Tavel, for heaven's sake," said Swyven.

"My dear Mark, I do not include you," said the count. "You are a gentleman."

Craig sipped again at his Scotch, then turned to put down the glass, and in doing so faced both Swyven and the count.

"Craig is not a gentleman," said Tavel.

"That's right," said Craig. "I'm a businessman. You said so yourself."

"You tried to seduce Pia—" said the count.

"For God's sake," said Pia.

"—then in the middle of it you got bored and you went off to talk business."

"Did she tell you this?" Naxos asked.

"I was watching. I saw it all," said the count.

Philippa tried to speak then, but Naxos shook his head, the suspicion of a grin on his face.

"You saw it?" Craig asked.

"I did," said the Count de Tavel.

T wonder what that makes you?" said Craig. "Don't the French have a word for it?"

Tavel leaped from his chair, his whole body aimed at Craig's throat, his hands squeezing hard. Craig grabbed his wrists, pulled up, then hard down, and the hands came away. Tavel continued the movement and his hands were free. He brought his knee up, missed the blow at the crotch, and hit Craig's stomach. Craig gasped, sagged back, and Tavel came in with his fists. Craig took one blow on the shoulder, another on the cheekbone, and staggered back to the bulkhead. Tavel leaped in to finish the fight, slamming a hard right for Craig's jaw but Craig was already sagging at the knees, his head rolling on his chest. Tavel's fist brushed his hair and slammed into the bulkhead. The count screamed, and then the scream was chopped off short as Craig's fist came down like a mallet on the side of his neck. He fell hard, twitched once, and was still.

"What the hell is going on?" said Craig.

"Really it's too bad of him," said Swyven, and his hand groped out for a drink.

"You'd better wait till you stop shaking," Craig said. "And anyway it's my drink."

"I'm most awfully sorry," said Swyven.

"That's all right,' said Craig. He turned to Naxos, who was wheezing horribly, then the wheezing turned to a roaring laughter that sounded like a mob yelling for blood.

"What the hell—" Craig said again.

"You hit hard," said Swyven.

"Bloody hard," said Pia. "Bim, Bam. Ker-pow."

"He hit me," said Craig.

"He often does. Hit people I mean," said Swyven. "He was in the French army—Algeria, Vietnam, and all that. Nowadays he picks fights with people and hits them. It's a sort of emotional release."

"Don't they hit back?" Craig asked.

"Not usually. He's very good at fighting."

"So's Craig," Naxos wheezed. "He was in the Special Boat Service. They taught him pretty good."

'That was a long time ago," said Craig. "It's funny the things you remember."

"Like riding a bike," said Naxos. 'That's a hell of a Sunday punch, John. Dirty too."

"If I fight clean I always lose," said Craig.

Tavel groaned, and Naxos's smile disappeared; his features rearranged themselves into a frown.

"I told him last time—no more fights with my friends. Guests yes, friends no." Then the frown disappeared. "Ah, what the hell. He lost, didn't he?"

Craig rubbed his aching stomach, glad of the hard ridge of muscle that had taken the blow.

"Maybe he couldn't tell the difference," said Craig.

I wonder if I made it convincing, he thought. No judo, no karate, just the rough stuff they teach you on a Commando course. The count knew it all too. But he drinks too much. He's brittle. And what was the object of the exercise anyway? To see if I would fight? To see how much I knew? To put me out of action?

Naxos picked up the telephone and called the doctor, then turned to Craig.

"I really am sorry about it, John," he said. "I honestly thought he was cured."

Philippa sat in the chair, her hand running along the coarse silk of the cushion, picked at a loose piece of thread. "He hit you too," said Philippa. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," said Craig. He looked down at Swyven who had knelt beside Tavel, and was bathing his forehead with a napkin dipped in an ice bucket.

"I'm fine. So long as people don't get the idea it was my fault for not letting him beat me unconscious."

Swyven said: "He's a friend of mine. I worry about

him."

"You do right," said Craig, and turned to Pia. "Did you put him up to this?"

"Of course not," said Pia. "He isn't a friend of mine." Swyven winced.

"He's just a dirty Peeping Tim."

"Tom," said Craig. "Peeping Tomf

"Tim, Tom, I'm glad you hit him," said Pia. Then the doctor came in, and glanced quickly at Philippa before he bent over the prostrate Tavel.

« Chapter 9 *

When Craig got to his cabin he went at once to the suitcase. Someone had found the false bottom, all right. He took out the gun, and examined it cautiously, inch by inch. The screw that held the firing pin had been removed. He looked at the magazines. They were empty. Only the knife was intact. Tavel would have done better if he'd held the shells in his hand. Tavel had a broken knuckle and a bruise on his neck and a vicious headache, and he'd earned them all, but as an operator he didn't begin to make sense. Nor did Swyven. He was a physical coward. And Swyven had been afraid before the fight. He'd known it was coming. And somebody had worked out the excuse for setting up the fight: Tavel's known eagerness and talent for fisticuffs. Somebody also had a reason for setting it up, and that was obvious. Craig had to be out of the way before the yacht reached Venice. He wondered who the man was behind these clowns. His technique was brilliant—offer Tavel and Swyven on a plate—and Pia too perhaps? Make them keep Craig busy, while he, the unknown, got on with the dirty work. His only fault was that he'd overdone it slightly. He was too thorough.

He thought about the thread Philippa had picked from the cushion—black cotton thread from a red silk cushion. The chair Tavel had sat in. Naxos's chair. The thread Craig had put over the lock on his door. It looked as if he was better at searching rooms than beating ex-sailors unconscious. And Naxos had just stood by and laughed. Naxos had thought it was funny. And maybe it was. Craig would have liked to laugh too, but laughter hurt his stomach.

He woke next morning, and found he was famous. The people Naxos had asked along didn't dislike Tavel. They didn't like Craig either, but Craig had won, and that made him interesting. He discovered something else, too. The ship was moving south through the Cyclades, before swinging a great arc past the Peloponnesus, and northwest to the Adriatic at a steady fifteen knots. Two hundred miles at an unwavering fifteen knots. They would be in Venice in three days.

After breakfast Craig went to the swimming pool on the foredeck. Naxos, he learned, was cloistered with his secretaries; Philippa was still asleep. There was time for a swim. At the other end of the pool Pia lay on a mattress, her body dark, even in the sunlight, and glistening with oil. She waved to Craig, and he went into the water in a flat, smashing dive, then swam toward her, using an ugly, powerful crawl, whose only virtue was utility. It was fast. He'd learned to swim like that in the cold North Sea. He heaved himself up from the water beside Pia, and a steward came up and handed him a towel.

'VVould you like a drink, sir?" asked the steward.

"He'll have some of mine," said Pia. "Bring a glass."

The steward brought a tumbler, and Pia reached for a jug, poured out two glasses of a shining, golden fluid.

"Orange juice?" asked Craig.

"In a way," Pia said.

"What does that mean?"

"It is diluted with champagne," said Pia.

"Don't you ever give up?" Craig asked.

"Kicks," she said. "I've got to live for kicks. After all I am a starlet."

She sipped her golden firewater and Craig lay down beside her. As he did so his foot slipped on the wet tiles by the pool, kicking his glass into it.

"Sorry," he said, "111 get another one."

"Don't bother," Pia said at once. "We'll share mine."

She wasn't that good an actress. All that had gone into the pool was orange juice and champagne. She sipped again, and held the glass to Craig's hps.

"Nice?" she asked.

I'll learn to live with it," said Craig.

She was sitting up beside him, her weight supported on her arms, that were thrust out behind her. The pose brought her torso into superb relief, emphasizing its rich curves, the firm, heavy roundness of flesh that the scarlet bikini did an irreducible minimum to conceal. Her eyes held his, then she breathed in, hard.

"I like your dress," said Craig.

She breathed out in a burst of laughter, then leaned over him, the weight of her breasts just touching his chest, her lips soft on his mouth. Craig's arms came round her, held her for a moment, then let her go.

"Who will I have to fight this time?" he asked.

T am sorry about last night. Honestly," said Pia. "Next time, I promise you, he won't be anywhere near." The waiter came back.

"Suntan oil, sir?" he asked, and handed a bottle to

Craig.

"Thanks," said Craig, and lay down again. "I will rub your back," said Pia.

He felt the cool smoothness of the oil on his back, then rolled over to feel it on his shoulders, his chest, Pia's fingers moved slowly, dehghtfully across his body, then paused at the rawness of the scar he'd received from Bauer.

"Were you in an accident?" she asked.

"Skin diving," Craig said. "I cut myself on a clam

shell."

Tt must have been very sharp." "Like a knife," said Craig. 'Tell me about your pictures."

They had been religious epics mostly, and Pia the

Aad virgm from the right just before the hons came on. 5red had two tests for English companies, one for Hollywood. They'd come to nothing.

"That is how it goes," she said. "But it will change. There is time. I'm just twenty-six. With luck I've got ten years."

"And then?"

"I'll sleep," she said. "Sleep and sleep. Without pills and all by myself." She paused. "Perhaps you—sometimes if I wake up—" her nails nipped the muscles of his thigh; he stared into the richness of her breasts. She was stupid, sweet, and probably dangerous, but she held tremendous sexual promise. Craig all but groaned aloud when Philippa came up and lay down beside them.

"John," she said, "you do smell pretty."

She wore a white beach robe. Below it her legs were long, rounded, golden.

"That's the suntan oil you keep," said Craig.

"No," said Pia. "I cheated. I used mine. You smell just like me." She offered a brown shoulder to Craig, who sniffed delicately at the little mole in the center.

"If I went back to London now, I'd be arrested," he

said.

Pia was looking beyond him into Flip's blue eyes. She saw the signal there, rose, and stretched.

T think I'll just look over my things for tonight," she said. "Bye, John."

Craig watched the slow ticktock of her hips as she

left.

"She's working hard on you," said Flip. "Are you tMnking of being a producer?"

'Too dangerous," said Craig.

She unloosed the cord of her robe, let it slip from her shoulders. Below it she wore a one-piece swimsuit of white nylon, high in the front, low in the back. Against it her skin was pale gold, her hair almost white. Craig reached out for the suntan oil.

"Shall I rub your back?"

"No," she said. T might like it. Let's swim instead."

For a while they swam, fooling, splashing, competing half-seriously, each testing the other. She was a magnificent swimmer, and she dived neatly, elegantly, without fear. Craig worked hard to keep up with her. Then more guests arrived, and Craig climbed out of the pool and dried himself. The carafe of orange juice gleamed in the sunlight as if there were a light inside it. Beside it something else lay glittering. The botde of suntan oil the waiter had brought. Craig picked it up and went to his cabin.

The oil was delicately scented, heavy, silvery-clear, as the maker's label claimed it would be. Craig poured a little on to the white-painted wood of his bed, and watched. Nothing happened. He grinned, shook his head, and sat down to think about Venice. About this Trottia character. They all had to be watched. It was just as well he'd made Andrews send word for Grierson to join them. There were Pia, Swyven, and Tavel to be watched too. Or maybe he should leave that to Grierson. Grierson investigating Pia— a labor of love. He decided on a drink before lunch, showered, and started to put on his clothes. From the corner of his eye he could see that there was a bug of some kind on his bed. The brown showed up against the white paint. He went over to it and looked more closely. The bug was just the woodwork, showing up where the paint had been eaten away by the suntan oil. He took a piece of paper from his writing table, and held it to the wood. It was thick paper, heavy, expensive. The acid on the woodwork melted it like polythene in a flame. He looked at his watch. It took twenty minutes to act, but then it worked like hghtning. He thought of his back, and Pia's hands.

* Chapter 10 «?

There were too many languages. The man Dyton-Blease spoke English, always, and English she could manage very well, but in the palazzo the servants spoke Italian to each other, and Trottia sulked sometimes because she could speak no French. Trottia and the servants presented other problems, too. Trottia was the first man she had ever met who liked to pretend that he was a woman, and who disliked women at that. This meant that he disliked her, and therefore had to be watched. Her father had warned her to beware of Frangistani enemies; they had no honor, they were worse than Arabs. The servants presented another problem. They were not, Dyton-Blease assured her, slaves. On the contrary. Sometimes they seemed more like masters, so that when one of them, a seamstress, had stuck a pin in her at a fitting and she had slapped her, a swinging, open-handed smack, she had had to apologize and Trottia had had to give the woman more money. Slaves were a lot easier.

Then there was so much water in Venice. Everywhere there was water. The streets were full of it. You had to make a boat journey to ride a horse, on that ridiculous island they called Lido. On Lido, too, you had to wear a swimsuit, to he about on the sand near naked while men you did not know and would not wish to love looked at your body. This disgusted her, but Dyton-Blease insisted on it.

Selina walked to the shuttered window, looked out on the moving, aqueous light of Venice, green, shimmering, brilliant. Below her was the Grand Canal; across it a majestic parade of palaces. From the window to her left she could see the piazzo, the piazzetta, Saint Mark's, the Doge's palace. Moored to the steps of the palazzo a motorboat waited to take her to Florian's, Harry's Bar, and a dozen churches crammed with masterpieces. Selina didn't care. She wanted desert, scrubland, the sight and sound of horses. She was—what was the word that man had used— homesick. A real man, that one, slow because of his sickness but ready to fight, if necessary to kill. Without fear. Power and courage in the gray northern eyes. To he on the beach in front of that one—she dismissed the idea. He was a liar. He had said he was English.

With a sigh she let fall her dressing gown, prepared to struggle once more with the clothes European women, Dyton-Blease told her, managed so easily. Brassiere and suspender belt and panties and stockings clipped on to the belt, then slip and dress and your hair all over the place. She looked at herself in the mirror, and for the first time since she was three years old, contemplated the possibility of crying. Then Dyton-Blease knocked on the door. Everyone knocked since Trottia had walked in to find her in her slip and she had beaten him unconscious with a silver-backed hairbrush. On its back was a rehef of Actaeon surprising

Diana bathing. Dyton-Blease had laughed, but not Trottia. Diana's quiver had torn his scalp. Dyton-Blease said: "The man we need will be here tonight." Selina sighed in relief. Soon she could go home.

"He is giving a ball," said Dyton-Blease. "You and I will go. We will be able to talk; it will be quite safe. I will see that no one interrupts."

Selina looked, appraising, at Bernard's enormous size. Huge but not lumpy. Smooth-muscled. Speed to match his strength. She wondered how the man who lied would cope with a strength and speed like this. And yet she had no wish to be loved by Bernard. Since he first came to Haram she was sure he loved no one but himself.

"When you meet this man Naxos, he will agree to buy. All your father will sell him. Then you will go home."

"But why?" she said. "Why should he want such terrible stuff?"

"To sell to someone else at a profit. He's a businessman after all," Dyton-Blease said, and sneered. "That's all I can tell you."

"And if he won't buy?"

"He will. He must," Dyton-Blease said.

Another knock at her door. Trottia's knock.

"Trottia," Dyton-Blease said. "See him, please. He has your costume ready."

"Costume?"

"Tonight will be a costume ball," Dyton-Blease said. "You are going as an odalisque." He flushed for a moment as she looked puzzled, then started to explain. Selina understood the flush at once. An odalisque meant sex, and sex terrified Dyton-Blease. She smiled and his flush deepened.

"You don't mind?" he asked.

"I don't know," said Selina. "Let me see my costume."

Trottia brought it in, as plump and sacerdotal as a priest displaying a relic. Slave bangles for ankles and wrists, filmy pantaloons, a velvet jacket, gold lame breast coverings, gold necklace, a velvet cap, gold-trimmed, and a muslin veil to hide her face, but not her body. Selina looked at Trottia who stepped back two paces. His scalp wound had only just healed.

"Someone will pinch me," said Selina.

Trottia's face paled, and his carefully preserved Titian-red hair flamed scarlet against its whiteness. He re-

membered the appalling moment on the Accademia bridge when somebody had pinched the little fiend's bottom, and she had swung at the nearest male and only just missed. The nearest male had been a Dominican friar.

"No one will pinch you," said Dyton-Blease. "These people are different."

"I hope so," said Selina. "But if these are what I am to wear—why all this?" And she swept her hand in a fury down her dress.

"It may be necessary to stay with Naxos for a while, on his yacht," Dyton-Blease said. "It depends—" "On what?"

"An Englishman," said Dyton-Blease. "I expect that he will be ill by now. If not, it will be necessary to kill him."

"What does he look like?" Selina asked.

"You've met before," Dyton-Blease said. "But then I didn't know who he was. I wish to God I had." He took a photograph from his pocket, and handed it to her. She found herself looking at Craig, and realized that he had not lied.

* * »

The ship turned westward, seeking the opening in the long, low shoreline. The ringing blue of the Adriatic became shallow, opaque. Along the eastern reef there were a straggle of fishing villages; violently painted fishing boats, each one decorated on the bows with an eye or a star to ward off evil; a maze of nets, drying in the evening sun; and other boats, restless, searching for the comfort of the city. Motor-boats, dinghies, barges, wary of the shallows. The Philippa eased to half speed, as opulence took over from poverty; white hotels; caf6s, gardens with umbrellas like mad, striped toadstools, twin rows of barbered, symmetrical trees. Then the last promontory disappeared, and before them was Venice, towers, domes, campaniles, palazzos, a shimmering haze of white and pink and blue. The Philippa sailed on to the basin of Saint Mark's, and dropped anchor off Saint George's Island.

Craig stood between Flip and Naxos, and looked at the city, its waters alive with gondolas, barges, sandolos, vaporettos, and crowded on to the land, pushing in hard for room like the home crowd at a cup tie, the palaces and churches, gorgeous, arrogant, triumphal as the men who made them.

"Aren't you glad we had to come here?" Flip asked.

"It's magnificent," Craig said, "but it's dangerous."

"That's part of its charm," Phihppa said.

Naxos said: T own one of those," and nodded at the line of palazzos on the Grand Canal. "That one." He pointed, and handed Craig a pair of binoculars. Craig took the glasses and saw a slim, elegant building, with magnificent balconies and a vast shaded portico. Two gondolas tied up at the painted poles by its steps stained its honey-yellow marble. The gondolas too, were Harry's, but not the rabble of other craft that jostled to tie up alongside, row-boats, motorboats, barges, loaded with food, drink, carpets, glassware, crockery, chairs, even musical instruments.

"What on earth—"

"There'll be more round the back," said Naxos, and turned to Craig.

"I'm sorry, John. We're having a party tonight."

"How many guests?"

"About three hundred," said Naxos.

"And reporters and photographers and TV cameras?"

"Well of course. It's a big party." He paused. "Trot-tia's designing it for me."

'Trottia?"

"Yes," said Naxos. "It's very important for me, John." "Okay," he said. "You'd better show me a plan of the

house."

He worked over it carefully, in infinite detail, with Naxos. There was one way in, and one way out. That was a gain. The house looked out in front on to the Grand Canal, and was a hollow square, enclosing a courtyard that was bounded on one side by a narrow waterway, on the two others by even narrower streets. It would be staffed by the stewards of the yacht, policed by its sailors. The band was to be flown in from Rome, the guests from half Europe. Naxos deemed it a necessary exercise in public relations, and nothing Craig could say would shift him. It was too late to cancel, and Trottia had organized it anyway. "AH right," Craig said at last. "But you both get there and stay there—in a crowd. I want everybody to See you—and recognize you."

"Of course," said Naxos. "There's just one more thing. This is a costume ball, John—I have a costume for you—and everyone will go masked."

"That's all I needed," said Craig.

"We begin at midnight and unmask at dawn. Trottia says it's the way the Venetians lived in the old days. The great ones, I mean. The merchant princes."

And he's conned you into being the last of them, Craig thought.

He said at last: "You won't leave the ship until midnight. Promise?"

"Sure," said Naxos.

"Who will?"

"The stewards will leave in an hour. They have to set the house in order. The crew—the ones who will be policing the place—they'll go over at eleven."

"Your guests?"

"They'll stay here if I ask them. We're eating at ten." "Ask them," said Craig. "I will."

"I'd like to go ashore now. Can I take the bosun with

me?"

"Take what you like," said Naxos.

"Just the bosun. Have you said anything about me?"

Naxos shook his head.

"Tell him I'm your new security chief. Tell him he's to do as I say. And, Harry—" Naxos turned to him. "You know what you're doing, don't you?"

"Only what I have to," said Naxos.

5"Chapter 11 *

The small launch roared across to Lido and put Craig ashore. Craig told the Hydriote to wait and hurried to a cafe in the piazza, and a telephone. No time to go to the Danieli, near as it was. He phoned Grierson and told his friend to meet him and to bring an extra gun. He then raced for the maze of shops near the Largo San Marco, found a chemist's, and walked inside. Afterwards he returned to the Hy-driote.

"I've tried to telephone the palazzo," he said. "There's no answer. Go and see what's wrong. Ill wait here."

The Greek nodded and set off in the motorboat. Craig looked out from the piazzetta. In the middle of the crowd an Englishman walked, tall, dapper, aloof. Dark slacks, dark-blue sport shirt, handmade Florentine shoes, a hat of coffee-colored straw. He carried a map, and looked puzzled. Craig stood up and sauntered easily into the most earnest crowd in the world, as it gaped at one of its finest views. The tall Englishman bumped into him, then looked up, apologetic.

"I'm awfully sorry," he said.

'That's all right."

"Oh, you're English? Jolly good," said the tall one, then added: "I say. You don't happen to know a place where they sell a decent beer, do you?"

'There's a cafe round the corner," said Craig. "Come and 111 show you."

They turned down to the piazzetta, sheltered from the crowd in a doorway. Craig made explanatory gestures and said: "Nice to see you. Did you bring a gun?"

"Just let me show you the map," said Grierson.

He opened it wide, and Craig, holding one side, felt a weight in the pocket of his jacket.

"Thanks," he said. "You're going to a masked ball tonight."

"Oh, goody," said Grierson.

"Get yourself a costume and meet me here at eleven o'clock."

"Will do. Anything else?"

Maize pellets rattled on the stone in front of them, a flock of overfed pigeons swooped, and a flurry of German tourists aimed Leicas. Grierson lifted the map again.

"Go and get your beer," said Craig. "Have one for

me.

Grierson left him, and Craig waited for the Hydriote to return. He admired the skill with which the bosun ran the boat alongside the molo, then tied up and left it, going at once to Craig. Greeks never expected to be robbed, Craig thought, but maybe Theseus was right anyway. Who would dare rob Naxos?

"Phone's okay," he said.

"I must have got the number wrong," Craig said. Theseus said nothing.

"We've got time for a drink," said Craig.

The idea pleased the Hydriote so much he was moved to speech.

"Good," he said.

Craig led the way to the maze of alleys by St. Mark's and found the Cafe he was looking for. It was ten years since he had been there, but everything was just as it had always been. Even the cats looked the same. Everything in Venice is there for ever.

They sat outside together, their backs against a wall two feet thick, their nearest neighbors a group of market-men sitting over coffee and talking endlessly, effortlessly, about the price of tomatoes. Theseus asked for wine, and Craig ordered Orvieto, then looked at the Hydriote's enormous body.

"Bring the bottle," he said, and when it came, watched Theseus drink and ordered another.

"Busy night," said Theseus. Craig nodded. "Money. Too much money. There'll be thieves." He drank again.

"They won't have invitation cards," said Craig.

"They'll make their own," said Theseus. "They've done it before."

He drank gloomily.

"We'll have men watching," said Craig. "Sneak thieves I don't mind, but I want you to watch out for the hard boys. Have some of your sailors handy. If you see me signal, come running."

"You think there may be a fight?"

"It's possible."

"I'd like that," said the Hydriote. He poured more wine, and the empty bottle swung in his hand like a belaying pin. Suddenly his fingers clamped round the bottleneck, and he began to squeeze hard, harder, until the sweat rolled down his face, and his arms were wet with it. At last the bottle neck cracked, and opened, and he turned to the waiter who had brought the second bottle.

"Could you do that?" he asked.

"All right," said Craig. "You're strong. Just be there when I want you."

Theseus drank, poured another glass, then looked into Craig's mquiring eyes.

"No more till after the party," he said.

Craig nodded. "Me too."

"There'll be trouble tonight," said Theseus.

"What kind of trouble?"

"The women. Clothes trouble."

'Try speaking in sentences," Craig said.

"Mrs. Naxos has a costume, and Pia Busoni has the same costume."

"You're sure?"

Theseus's massive head, the head of a Hercules sunk in gloom, nodded once.

"Certain." He sighed. 'Trouble," he said. "For you. Pity. I like you."

He finished the bottle and took Craig back to the yacht. The guests were already dressed for the party, and Craig fought his way through a mob of harlequins, columbines, abbots, Napoleons, painters, poets, pirates, peasants, doges, courtesans, Othellos, Desdemonas, Crusaders, Byzantines, queens of Cyprus, and emperors of the Holy Roman Empire, who were milling around the buffet, drinking Scotch and smoking king-sized tipped cigarettes. In the big hotels on Lido, in rented palazzos, in Venice itself, several hundred more would be changing too: all in costumes that had a link with Venice as she once had been. The Serenissima, queen of the sea, the one point in the earth where East met West, lord of a quarter and a half quarter of the Roman Empire; a city of fantastic wealth, beauty, power, and cruelty. Craig squeezed past Titian's Young Man with a Glove, nodded at Swyven, a half-convincing Lord Byron, and went to his cabin.

He was a corsair—baggy trousers, soft leather boots, white shirt, black velvet waistcoat, and a scarlet handkerchief for his head. There was a red sash too, stuck with plastic imitations of daggers, cutlasses, yataghans, and pistols. Craig added his new Smith and Wesson and the German's knife to the collection. They looked at home there. Someone knocked on the door, and he pushed the pistol down into the sash. The door opened, and Andrews came in and handed Craig a radiogram.

"From your broker," he said.

Magna Electrics and Marine Foods had jumped, but Railton Plastics was sluggish. So far Craig had made £ 2,000. Beneath the stock-market quotations Andrews had written: Tavel—negative. Busoni—negative. Swyven believed to be business partner of Trottia. Important nothing happens to Naxos. Stay sober. Loomis.

"That's all?" said Craig.

Andrews said: "I dare say you'll get more news later." He turned to the door, then added: "Oh, by the way, sir, I'm going to this shindig tonight too."

Craig said carefully: "I shan't try to reach my broker tonight anyway."

"Cigarette, sir?" Andrews asked.

"No," said Craig. "You try one of these." He eased the Smith and Wesson up from the sash.

Andrews left, and Craig went to see Naxos.

He was dressed as a Turkish pasha, and he looked like a toad in a turban, a toad with the thrust of a jet. Beside him was the queen of the harem, an olive-skinned, black-haired beauty in filmy pantaloons, slave bangles on wrists and ankles, a velvet jacket, gold lam6 breast coverings, gold necklace, and a velvet cap, gold-trimmed. A muslin veil hid her face but not her body. Craig looked round for Philippa, and the olive-skinned houri laughed.

I'm still here," said Philippa, and took off her veil. "When one's husband feels like a Turk, the best thing to do is feel like a harem." She snapped her fingers, and lifted her arms above her head; her body began to writhe.

"Flip, for God's sake," said Harry. His voice was a blast from a foghorn.

Philippa let her arms drop, loosed her muslin veil.

I'm sorry, John," she said. "I feel lousy tonight."

"Give the party a miss then," Craig said.

"I can't. It's all arranged, you see. I've got to go."

"It'll do you good, honey," Naxos said. "What can we do for you, John?"

Craig looked at the woman, her hands pulling restlessly at her veil, a nerve in her cheek twitching so that her face was never still. She needed a fix. Desperately.

"I haven't got an invitation card," said Craig.

"Help yourself," said Naxos, and gestured to a pile of huge, stiff cards.

"Thanks," said Craig, and turned to Philippa. 'Tour necklace is coming loose," he said. "Shall I fix it for you?"

"I'll do it," said Naxos, and his great body came round his wife's like a wall.

Craig took two invitation cards.

I'll be off then," he said. "See you at the ball."

Grierson was waiting at the piazzetta. He was dressed in red velvet with a velvet mask, a quattrocento Venetian dandy with a rapier by his side. The two men walked along the molo to a point opposite the palazzo, watching the yacht's big tender running a ferry service of stewards and sailors from the ship to the house.

"I like your costume," said Craig.

"It's terribly me," said Grierson.

Craig handed him his invitation card. A small crowd' watched respectfully, a gaggle of gondoliers swooped to them like swallows.

'It cost the earth," Grierson said. "Every shop in Venice was besieged. Lucky I'm on an expense account."

He gestured, regally, and the selected gondolier darted forward. His day was made. Craig and Grierson sat, and the boat moved off to the Palazzo Molin, its polished marble and granite brilliant under arc lamps. "I suppose we should have arrived in the palace gondola," Grierson said, and adjusted his cloak that was black, slashed with crimson. "But I don't like ostentation."

They reached the palazzo landing stage, and sailors in white held the gondola with boathooks as Craig and Grierson stepped ashore. There was a soft "Aaah!" from the crowd on the molo. The first of the extras had arrived, the curtain would go up soon. Theseus appeared, took their invitation cards, and saluted. The crowd sighed again.

"One can't help feeling ostentatious," said Grierson.

They went inside, preceded by a sailor Theseus summoned to show them the way. The great hall on the ground floor was a blaze of chandeliers, a hot brilhant light that warmed the cool elegance of the blue walls, the blue and white stuccoed ceiling. At intervals on the walls Craig could see pictures, and Grierson stopped in front of one.

"That's the best copy of a Titian I've ever seen," he said. "I wonder who did it?"

"Titian," said Craig.

'Titian, Veronese, Tiepolo, Longhi, Carpaccio—there's about a quarter of a million quid's worth here," said Grierson. "It's fantastic." But it was more than money, it was power. And vulnerability, too. At one end of the room the band from Rome was tuning up, at the other, stewards were polishing glasses at a bar backed with flowers. Behind the bar a fountain played. It was champagne. Grierson called for a glass, sipped, and shuddered.

"It's Italian," he said.

"The French champagne's in the other fountain, sir," said the barman. "It won't be switched on until Mr. Naxos arrives."

They went up the great central staircase, massive, magnificent, galleon-like, and on to the second floor, a maze of rooms opening into each other, those looking out on to the Grand Canal shuttered, and all of them glowing like pearls in the light of candles that softened and made tremulous the richness of green brocade, the pink and yellow splendor of marble. They saw a room set up for a main, and fighting cocks clucking in basket cages, a room set for cards, where all the cards were of ivory, rooms for dancing, dueling, making love, and one long, narrow room, where the candles were islands of light on a black canal, and the wooden floor was sanded. Craig turned to Grierson. "A room for dueling?" Grierson asked.

"What else?" asked a voice.

Craig turned to the door. A fat man stood just inside its frame, a fat man with Titian hair and the face of a cupid by Tiepolo. He was dressed as a cardinal, and held a matching purple mask attached to an ivory shaft.

"You must be Trottia," said Craig, and walked toward

him.

"Designer in chief, regisseur, director, comptroller of the household," said the fat man. "Trottia." He bowed.

Craig continued toward him, his booted feet almost soundless on the sanded floor, the cutlass trailing behind him. Like a cat, Trottia thought. A deadly grace, an elegant cruelty. Precise and feline and terrible. When he kills he will move like a dancer. Yet the one he strikes will still be dead.

I'm Craig—in charge of security. This is Grierson. He's helping me."

"Splendid," said Trottia. "I'd better explain the entertainment."

As he talked, his self-confidence returned. Venice would see nothing like it, ever again. In the great hall the dancing, where ex-kings, film stars, noblemen, matadors, racing motorists, opera singers, detergent manufacturers, boxers, thousand-dollar call girls, ski champions, brewers, the members of seven governments, five armies, and nine oil companies would twist, shout, cha-cha, locomotive, and glide. And above, the happenings, the animated paintings with actors taking the part of Titian's figures, the scenes from Venetian life, the Galluppi toccatas with a concert harpsichord player improvising to order, the gambling, the flirtations, the duel.

"The what?" asked Grierson.

"The duel," said Trottia. 'Two Olympic swordsmen —it's all on the program. You have a program?"

"No," said Craig. "Naxos forgot to give me one." T find that strange," said Trottia. "So do I," said Craig. "So do I."

Grierson said: "People can wander about both floors?" "And the roof," said Trottia. "The roofr

"It's laid out as a garden. One can take supper there and hear the gondola serenade. It will be splendid."

The two men left him, and he thought again how splendid it would be, after Craig died. A hard man to kill. Trottia shivered, and went to wait for the actors.

The roof, too, was a maze—of trees in enormous tubs, of fairy lights, of chairs and tables, bars and buffets, and banks of flowers. Craig looked at it in despair. Below him the Grand Canal glowed like oil, the molo glittered with lights.

"We might as well get drunk," said Grierson. "If anybody wants to get your friend, we haven't a chance."

"We have," said Craig. "Just one. The steward."

He led the way down to the ballroom again, to the kitchens where stewards, chefs, and sous chefs worked like demons preparing a reception for the Hilton Hotel in hell. Theseus had told them who they were, and nobody bothered. They were too busy. They went back into the ballroom again and waited until the steward came in. Craig waited until he'd put down his load of glassware and spoke softly in Greek. "Walk to the end of the hall," he said, "or I'll kill you." The steward spun round, and Craig pulled the mask down from his face, a face devoid of any emotion, not cruel, not vengeful; pitiless. The steward went. From upstairs in the duehng room came the clash of steel and Trottia's squeals of pleasure. The actors had arrived. Craig led the way to a room off the hall, the room he'd been given as an office, then grabbed the steward and shoved him. The steward slammed into the wall, moaned but said nothing.

"Yell," said Craig. "That's what respectable people do. Yell for the police."

"You would kill me," the steward whispered.

"I might," said Craig.

The steward turned to Grierson, trying to reach beyond the mask for a sign of mercy, of pity.

"Please, sir," he gabbled. "I've done nothing, I know nothing—if the gentleman thinks I've wronged—"

The words faded in a babble of terror. Craig*s hand was thrust before his face. It held a bottle of suntan lotion. The band crashed into one last rehearsal of samba.

'You've got a touch of the sun," said Craig. "You're all red. Use some of this. Go on. Use it."

"I don't need it," said the steward.

"Use it anyway," said Craig. "Go on."

"But why should I?"

"It costs two thousand lire a bottle. I'll give you ten thousand if you'll use it. Twenty thousand. I'm kinky for blokes who use suntan oil."

The steward moaned and covered his face with his

hands.

Craig grabbed his hair and pulled his head up. "Watch," he said.

He unscrewed the cap with extreme care, and turned to Grierson.

"Hold him," he said. Grierson's arms came round him, and the steward was helpless.

"What's your name?" Craig asked. "Nikki."

"Don't you like suntan oil, Nikki?" "I have an allergy," the steward said. "To this kind? Everybody does," said Craig. "Who gave it to you?"

The steward was silent.

"1 saw what it did to a piece of wood," Craig said. "Went right through it. Who gave it to you?"

Nikki moaned aloud: "Suit yourself," said Craig, and tilted the bottle.

"No," Nikki screamed. "No. It was Mrs. Naxos."

The band finished, on three hard chords like right hooks to the body.

"You're lying," said Craig, and his hand moved closer.

Nikki opened his mouth to scream, and Craig's free hand flicked him like a cobra striking. The scream became a gasp.

"We haven't much time," said Grierson.

"Nikki's got no time at all," said Craig. "Look, I'll ask you once more. Who gave it to you?"

"Mrs. Naxos," said Nikki, his voice a wheezing gasp. "I swear it. She said it was a joke. It would make you turn blue, she said."

"Then why are you so scared?" Craig asked.

"I tried it on a piece of paper."

"Who got you your job, Nikki?" Craig asked. "Who do you work for?"

The hand holding the bottle was over his head now. The bottle was tilting, tilting.

"I don't know his name," Nikki said. "I swear I don't. An Englishman. Big. Bigger than Theseus."

"And what did he tell you to do?"

"I have to take my orders from Mrs. Naxos—do whatever she says. Mr. Naxos isn't to know."

"What orders?"

"I can get her the white stuff," said Nikki. "Heroin." "How many times?"

"Not yet," said Nikki. "But she knows I've got it if she wants it."

As he spoke the band blared again, and Craig's hand tilted, spilling suntan oil on Nikki's face. The steward screamed and fainted.

Grierson cursed.

"It's on my hand," he said.

Craig shrugged.

"It's only suntan oil."

He looked at the unconscious steward.

"Let's have his jacket and pants," he said. "They may come in useful."

'Tie him up?"

Craig looked at the steward; tall, soft-muscled, running to fat.

"No," he said. "He's harmless."

Behind the mask, Grierson winced. Craig always reduced things to fundamentals. It was how he had survived. But it left no room for dignity in anybody else.

"Besides," Craig added, "Once he sees he isn't marked he won't want to run away—not without his pants."

At midnight, Craig and Grierson watched Naxos arrive. From somewhere or other Trottia had found him a carnival barge, six oars a side, two cox'ns with crossed boathooks in the prow, the flag of Greece and Venice's lion fluttering at the stern, and beneath a silken canopy supported on four brass rods, Aristides I, the pasha of petroleum, his wife beside him, indolent, beautiful, while launches, gondolas, san-dolos swarmed around them, darting like gnats, the gondolas beaked prows cruel in the lamplight.

"He's mad," said Grierson.

"No," Craig said. "Just big. Bloody big. That means big risks too. And big enemies." "Nikki's friends?"

Craig nodded. "I don't think hell be along himself— he's too conspicuous. But he'll send some pals. Look out for anybody Swyven talks to. Or Trottia. And if you have to handle anybody—keep it quiet." He chuckled. "If you can," he added. 'This place'll be a nine-ring circus."

He looked again at the flotilla. The barge's crew were dressed as eighteenth-century sailors. Andrews, at the helm, wore the tricorn hat, blue coat, bullion epaulettes of a naval lieutenant of the time of George III.

"H you need help, ask Andrews if I'm not there."

"Will do," said Grierson. There was silence as he lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply. The flotilla moved up to the steps of the palace, the coxns sprang ashore, hooked on, held the barge steady as the crowd cheered.

"It's extremely vulgar," Grierson said. "But very beautiful." They went back into the ballroom. Both champagne fountains were playing now. Stewards and barmen were poised like greyhounds.

'There's someone else we'll have to watch for,"

Grierson said. The band blared Mozart's Turkish March, and Grierson winced as Naxos came in, Flip holding his hand.

"Her," said Grierson. "Divine Zenocrate over there. She doesn't seem to like you, Craig."

Craig thought of the acid.

I'll watch her," he said. "You watch him.'*

He nodded to where Lord Byron-Swyven limped over in character and bowed to his host and hostess.

"You have all the fun," said Grierson.

Craig went over, talked to Naxos and Flip, and asked about Pia.

"Oh, she'll be along," said Flip. "You know shell be dressed as my twin sister—The poor darling! When she saw me she wanted to wear something else—but I said no. Houris never come in ones, do they, darling?"

"Anything you say, honey," said Naxos. "Some party, eh, John?"

"Fantastic," said Craig. 'Tou forgot to give me a program for the fun and games upstairs."

'The happenings," Fhp said. "We must go up there.

Now."

"No," said Craig. "You go up with me—both together."

"We can't go yet anyway," Naxos said. "We've got to get this lot under way." He nodded at an advancing crowd of guests. "We'll do as you say, John. Meet us here—two o'clock."

Craig nodded and went up the stairs to the balcony. There were fifty people in the room already, and the soft sheen of Flip's half-naked body was vulnerable to them aU. Among them he could see a courtier in crimson velvet, talking to a heutenant in the Navy of His Britannic Majesty, George III. He walked through the rooms filled with actors and dancers, half-heartedly flirting, dancing gavottes, exchanging snuff, tapping each other with their fans while Trottia twittered and fluttered in the midst. The two swordsmen were arranging their fight like a ballet, and talking about football. Only the harpsichord player seemed to be absorbed. He was playing a Bach fugue. "No, no," Trottia screamed. "It should be Scarlatti." The harpsichord player ignored him, and the great structure of sound flowed from his fingers.

Craig went back to the balcony, and evaded a columbine, two gypsies, and three Desdemonas, one of them in

her nightgown. Now there were two hundred people at least, but he spotted Naxos easily enough. This time he had two houris with him, identical in dress. Pia had arrived then. He looked down at the bar and froze. Dominating it was an enormous headsman covered in black. Black shirt, black tights, black boots, black gloves. A black skullcap on his head, and his face was covered from hair to throat in a black mask, but nothing could hide his size. With him were three bravos, chic-looking hoodlums in purple and black, with rapiers and daggers by their sides. The three were drinking champagne, but the black headsman's hands were empty and still. He was watching Naxos. Grierson climbed the stairs, paused by Craig, and lit a cigarette.

"I see we've got company," he said.

Craig nodded, and stood up.

"Go and watch Trottia," he said. "This one's mine."

* Chapter 12 *

Grierson left, and another crowd of dancers swarmed in, masking Naxos and his girls. When the crowd cleared, one houri stood alone, the other was dancing with Naxos. Craig went down the stairs and through the crowd like an arrow. The woman stood motionless, and the dancers stayed carefully back from her as if Naxos had built an invisible wall around her. Her whole body was posed, carefully, to bring out the smooth curving flow of breast and belly and thigh. From the sleek blackness of her hair to her scarlet-painted toes, she was the great Hollywood sex dream incarnate; Ah Baba's girl friend with the magic carpet all revved up and waiting. And yet, Craig thought, the whole act was quite unconscious. She stood like that because she'd been taught to stand like that. If sue sat down she'd cross her legs exactly to their best advantage, breathe in to lift her breasts from their golden cups, because that was what you did; that was what the people paid to see.

"Come and dance, Flip," said Craig. "Okay."

She came into his arms, sensed the hard power in his hands as he touched her, dry and cool on her naked golden back.

"I'm not very good company tonight," said Flip. "Just take it as it comes," said Craig. "You'll be all

right."

"No," she shook her head. "I feel terrible." They danced in silence, and her body relaxed, very slightly, against his.

"How did you know it was me, anyway?" she asked. She paused, then added, "I might have been Pia." "I just knew," said Craig.

"Oh great. If you work at it hard enough you might pay me a compliment."

Her body eased to his, supple, yielding. 'Thanks for trying anyway."

They danced past the bar, where the big headsman stood. Craig felt her shiver. He said nothing.

"I like having you look after me," said Flip. "It makes a girl feel so secure." Her fingers dug into his back. "My God, you're tough."

"I do a lot of dancing," said Craig.

"Go on. Make jokes. You don't know what it's like to need the stuff the way I do," said Flip. "You know what I want to do right now? Scream and scream until even these jerks know there's something the matter. But you're so strong —you wouldn't care about that would you?" He said nothing. "You know something? I think I was wrong about you. I think maybe you're a jerk, too. A good-looking jerk, but still a jerk."

"Put your accent back on," said Craig. "Harry had you disguised as a lady."

She tried to draw free then, to strike at him, but he held her easily, forced her body to dance. At last she said: "Darling I am sorry. I can't think what came over me," and Craig let her go.

When the dance ended, they stood next to Naxos and the other golden dream girl. Naxos said at once, "Good for you, John. Flip's too much on her own."

Craig said: "My pleasure. Hello, Pia."

The houri nodded, her eyes lit in a smile. She seemed

shyer than Craig would have imagined, more conscious of her body. Craig moved towards her but Naxos's arms came round her smooth, unblemished shoulders, turned her away from him and drew her back into the dance. They danced awkwardly together, but Naxos was awkward as a charging rhino is awkward, and this was the effect of his dancing.

"She must have gone off you," Flip said. "I haven't. I may need you yet."

"How did you get your skin so brown?" Craig asked. "Suntan oil?"

The eyes behind the mask went wary.

"Body makeup," she said. "The sort strippers use. I used to be a stripper once. Did you know that?"

"Yes," said Craig.

"And a whore, and a drug addict." "And an actress," Craig said.

T made two pictures and seven cowboy films for TV. The cowboy always got the horse."

'That's a new twist," Craig said. "But I heard you were kind to your friends."

"It got to be a habit."

"I mean sincere, generous," Craig said. "Compassionate. So why hand out suntan lotion?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Fhp said. "Let's go look at the happenings."

He shrugged and walked -towards the golden staircase. At once, Naxos steered the other houri towards them, butting his way through the dancers. By the time they reached the crowd at the foot of the stairs, Naxos and his girl were only a couple of yards behind them. The crowd opened to them, then suddenly held. The three masked bravos stood in front of them. Craig let Flip's arm go, and continued to walk, slow, unhurried. At the last possible moment, the middle bravo yielded. Craig stopped, looked first left then right, and the three fell back farther. Craig moved on as Fhp took his arm again. At the top of the stairs he waited until Naxos joined them. Pia had left him. The three pretty killers played round her like piranha fish, urging her to where the massive headman waited. A gallant in crimson velvet and a lieutenant in the uniform of the Navy of George III moved after her. Craig went to look at the happenings.

When Naxos approached, things happened all right.

The clavichord moved straight from Bach's Goldberg Variations into a Galuppi gavotte, the actors and dancers who had lounged around before, smoking, talking contracts, became graceful, dedicated beings intent only on the mindless elegance of their dance. A harlequin, pierrot, and columbine threaded their movements in a perfectly timed chase, and in the long room beyond the duel began. As they walked toward it figures in framed portraits got out and changed frames, altering the grouping of Veronese and Titian, turning elegance to obscenity, passion to eccentricity.

"After midnight they're all going to be Titian's Venus with a Dog," said Flip.

"Even Trottia?'

"Of course. It was his idea."

Craig moved on toward the duel, past the pool where a chimpanzee poled a miniature gondola and a dog on its hind legs was dressed as a doge. Near by were a female Shylock and a male Portia, squabbling over the flesh of a Bassanio who seemed neither.

After that, the swordsmen were a relief. They fought as they should have done, in their stockinged feet, the florid elegance of their knee breeches and frilled shirts a baroque frame for the cold beauty of the weapons they held—and they fought with a neat and deadly precision at first, until Naxos rumbled: "I paid these boys for fencing, not to work out chess problems."

At once they began to ham it up, and the duel became an EitoIFlynn movie, with much leaping backward onto chairs, tables overturned, whistling sword blades severing candles.

'That's more like it," said Naxos, and moved in closer, taking Philippa with him.

The duelist in the blue breeches parried a thrust in tierce, and his blade shot out in riposte. His opponent parried, the sword blades sang, blue breeches' point swerved toward Flip. Craig pushed her away, a flat-handed shove that moved her into Naxos's arms, and cursed as a needle point scored icy pain across his forearm, splitting the sleeve of his shirt to show a fine trickle of blood.

"You clumsy bloody fool," said Naxos, and moved in on blue breeches, but Flip held on to him and yelled: "No, Harry. No!" and somehow Craig was between them and blue breeches' sword was in his hand and he looked at the naked, deadly point, the needle-fine score of blood on his arm.

"I thought you had buttons on these things," said Craig, and blue breeches turned pale as his shirt, stammered, scrabbled on the floor, and came up with a flat metal disk, then swore it should never have happened.

"But it did," said Craig. "Don't fight any more. I haven't got another shirt."

Flip said: "I'd better fix the arm," and Naxos nodded, massively weary now, and sat heavily down to watch Trottia play a flute while four dwarfs in court dress danced.

'Thanks, John," he said. "I'm grateful." His eyes searched for a sign behind Craig's mask. "Some party, huh?"

"The greatest," said Craig, and Naxos leaned back, but his eyes were on Trottia and he was not happy.