Die Rich Die Happy

Flip led Craig down the corridor, and as they passed the pictures, she said in her brightest duchess voice: "Gracious, it's after midnight. Aren't they scrumptious?" And Craig, grateful for his mask, saw Venus after rosy Venus, pink-tipped white, every one, except for the Negress in the middle, and each one waved to him as she passed. Flip swayed in front of him, hips and breasts showing a rhythmic compulsion, and the graceful dancers stepped aside as his blood dripped on the rosy marble floor.

He trudged on down the fine, hating Flip and Naxos, Trottia, the naked women, even himself, then acknowledged his embarrassment, turned at the end of the room, and stared, cold-gray eyes demanding a response, until the dancers looked away and the Venuses lay still. He thought then that he was fighting the whole party, all the wealth and power of Europe. But that meant he was fighting Naxos too. The idea was stupid. He followed Flip to her room, and waited while she bathed his arm, cleaned off the blood, and peeled a Band-Aid on to the fine red scar.

"It might have been me," said Flip. Craig nodded. "I wish it had been."

"Your old man's playing king tonight," Craig said. 'That makes you a queen. Queens can't die just to please themselves."

She pressed the Band-Aid down.

"It was an accident, wasn't it?" she asked.

"Don't you know?" Craig asked. "You were there."

She began to shake.

"Craig, look at me, please," she said. "1 need a fix. I've , got to have one," and she held out a fine-boned, shapely hand, and as he watched it trembled to an ugly desperate claw.

"The steward—Nikki—where is he?" Craig shook his

head.

"Craig, please. Oh darling, please."

She was in his arms all ice and fire, her tongue a darting torment to his mouth, her body restless and yielding at once, her hands an eager stimulus until he pushed her away, held her by the elbows, and shook her till her head flopped.

"Are you crazy?" he said at last, and let her go. She fell on to a long, black sofa, a shoulder strap slipping to reveal a round and tender breast, and she was the most beautiful, most desirable woman in the world.

"Cover yourself up," he said harshly. "Suppose the monkey came in?" Her hand went mechanically to the golden strap, and her breast was gold again.

"Crazy?" said Fhp. "Did you say crazy? Of course I'm crazy. No heroin and no strong man to cling to."

"Naxos," said Craig. "Isn't he strong enough?"

She looked at him, tried to speak, and could not. She began to shake again. "Get out," she said at last. "Just get out."

He went at once. Naxos sat where he had left him, looking down the gallery, seeing nothing. Above him was a great golden dome, but a section of it was now dark, night dark, and studded with stars. Craig cursed, and ran for the stairs that led to the roof.

The roof garden was dark and empty. Bar, tables, dance floor, aU deserted, and that segment of dome gleamed white from the lamps beneath. Craig moved warily toward it, stooped to feel the runners on which it had been pulled back, then froze, sensing movement to his right. He looked round, and the other houri stood facing him, cloudy as a dream in the darkness.

"Pia," said Craig. "What the hell—?"

Then the houri's eyes narrowed, her mouth opened to yell, and Craig turned, far too late, as the night sky fell on him and he dived deep into its blackness where there were no stars.

* Chapter 13 «

Grierson was worried about Craig. He'd been away too long, and so had Andrews, whom he'd sent to follow the giant headsman. He thought perhaps he'd better go upstairs, but on the way the three bravos jostled him, blocking his path, and two pretty girls grabbed his hands, whirling him into a long dancing chain of maskers as balloons drifted from the c«iling like the atoms of a rainbow and people grabbed and pushed to burst their prettiness. Grierson couldn't get to the stairs and found himself by the room Craig said they could use. He thought he'd better check on Nikki.

He went in, and it was very quiet, and Nikki would never again know anything but quiet. He lay on his back, in cheap and grubby underwear, an elaborate dagger, the kind called a poniard, deep in his chest. The dagger looked familiar. Its shaft was of silver, inlaid with red Venetian glass. The poniard belonged on his right thigh, in a soft leather sheath, but the sheath was empty. Grierson moved closer to Nikki, and the door opened behind him, the two pretty girls looked at the body and began to scream.

He should have moved then, but there was no point. The only way out led to the ballroom, and that was already blocked by people pushing in to enjoy the screaming. Grierson simply stood there, and said: "No comprende," and was cursed, bullied, sometimes struck, by a succession of waiters, sailors, guests, and policemen. At last Naxos came down, identified Nikki, and looked inquiringly at Grierson.

"Who is this man?" he asked.

"My name's Grierson," Grierson said. "Craig must have told you I was coming here." "Craig?"

"Yes, Craig. The man who was looking after your security."

Naxos turned to the policemen.

"He's lying," Naxos said. "I don't know anyone called Craig. My bos'n looks after my guests."

"But listen"—Grierson looked round desperately. "I didn't do this. I came here to look after people. You can ask—"

"Yes?" said Naxos.

But Grierson couldn't name Andrews. Craig might need him.

"Nobody," Grierson said. "But I didn't kill him."

"No?" said a policeman. "Then why is he wearing your dagger?"

He turned to Naxos. "I'm sorry, sir, I shall want a list of your other guests. No one had better leave."

"They can't," said Naxos. "No gondolas until four. What about him?" He nodded at Grierson.

"We'll take him to the station," said the policeman, and produced handcuffs, snapped one band round Grierson's wrist, the other round his own. They had all the room they needed as they walked across the ballroom, Grierson and the senior policeman in the lead, Naxos a half dozen steps behind, the other pohceman promising action immediately and with the minimum of fuss.

As they passed through the door, Grierson saw a powerboat ready to go, and a young man dressed as Meph-istopheles waiting with massive patience as two sailors scurried to cast off. Grierson hesitated, but there was no choice at all. He had handled that dagger; his prints would be all over it, and the bravos wore gloves. This time all he had left was violence, crude, vulgar, and one hoped, efficient. He stumbled dehberately on the steps, pulling the pohceman off balance, then cooked him off with a judo chop just as Mephistopheles, bless him, revved up his engines and blotted out the yells from behind him. He let his handcuffed wrist go slack, and slammed the steel against the pillar as he had been taught. When his manacles snapped open he leaped down the steps in three frantic bounds, gathering momentum as he went, and the fourth bound sent him soaring over the canal, to land with a crash on the bottom boards of the boat. He felt a blow like a fist low on his chest, and only then remembered that he carried a gun. The police had been too overawed to search him properly and he'd been unaware that he had anything to hide. The powerboat rocked, and its owner looked down on him.

"I agree," he said. "A truly awful party."

He accelerated, and his wash set a row of gondolas bobbing like frantic swans. He was monumentally drunk. "Awful on an epic scale," he continued. "A significant achievement in awfulness: a Ninth Symphony say, or a War and Peace. Big, painstaking, costly—and awful. I only went because everybody else did. I'm always doing that and regretting it. Where can I drop you?'

"Anywhere at all," said Grierson. "I just felt like some

air."

"Good," said the devil, and hiccoughed. The powerboat slithered past San Marco, and Grierson crawled wearily to his feet and took the wheel.

'Thanks," said the devil. "I really am rather drunk."

"Yes," said Grierson.

"You are British, I take it? It's funny, isn't it, I assumed at once that you were. I'm Italian, you know. My name's di Traverse—Count Mario di Traverse as a matter of fact. I'm usually called Nono."

"I'm Philip Grierson," Grierson said.

Nono bowed, uncomprehending.

"I speak English like this because I went to one of your schools," Nono said.

"As a matter of fact so did I," said Grierson.

"My dear chap, I realize that," said Nono. "One can tell by the noises you make. Exactly the same as mine. A sort of clipped quacking." He tilted back his head. "Quack, quack," he bawled, in a very gentlemanly voice. "Quack, quack." He slumped back into his seat. "I don't make noises like that in Italian," he said.

Grierson took the boat into the darkness of the lagoon, and risked a quick glance over his shoulder. A police launch, lights blazing, sirens screaming, bulldozed its way through the boats around it. Grierson stepped up the revs.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"I've got an island near Murano, about a mile east of it as a matter of fact," Nono said. Grierson altered course.

"I've got a girl there. That was one habit I didn't acquire at school. Not being fond of girls I mean. As a matter of fact that's how I came to be sacked. My mother was awfully upset. I had to change schools. That's why I left this party so early."

"I don't think I follow," said Grierson. He looked back again. The police boat was well behind.

"Seeing old Swyven," said Nono. "I hated old Swyven. He was my house tutor you know. At my new school. Fearfully down on women.'

"What was he fond of?"

"Boys," said Nono.

"Nothing else?"

"No," said Nono. "He was the sort of chap who was always against things."

"What, for example?"

"Oh, capitalism, the British Empire, women, the H-bomb, me. He was rather a menace actually."

"Really? I should have thought you could handle him."

"Oh yes. I could handle him. It was his cousin." Nono yawned softly.

"A chap called Dyton-Blease. He was enormous." He chuckled reminiscently.

"He didn't like girls either. Or boys. Just his muscles. Bit of a narci—narcissi—fond of himself, you know. And the Middle East. Funny that." He chuckled. "Claimed Europe grows decadent every few hundred years or so, and it needs a cleansing desert wind to make it pure. Last thing he ever said to me was that he was going to Arabia and fetch back the wind from the desert. Told me I wouldn't last five minutes, as a matter of fact. Suppose he was joking."

"No," said Grierson. "He means it."

Nono's head lolled on his chest; he snored. Quack, quack. Grierson circled Murano and looked out for Nono's island. There was a tiny one near by, a sliver of beach, a house, another powerboat, and a tangle of garden, nothing more. Grierson edged the boat up to a half-rotted jetty, stopped the engine, and hauled Nono upright. He was still out cold.

The house door was open, and he walked straight in. It should be easy—hand Nono over to the girl, borrow some clothes, borrow the boat. If she were all that fond of Nono, and she must be, to come out here, she'd be too busy pouring coffee down him to argue. There were lights just off the hall, and he pushed open another door. Two women were waiting for Nono, two tall, cool blondes in slacks and blouses of heavy silk. They sat facing each other in icy silence,

Mice a sister act after a quarrel, and whatever they had expected to see come through the door, it had not been a masked gentleman in crimson with a rapier over his hip, carrying the devil. They rocketed out of their seats like cool, blond pheasants, and Grierson laid Nono tenderly on a divan and turned to the two women, who had begun to scream. Grierson took a very deep breath.

"Shut up," he roared, and the noise of it blotted out the screams for a moment, but the screams went on. Grierson took another breath, and the screaming stopped. The women watched him, wary as cats at a dog show, but terrified that he might roar again.

"Look," Grierson said. "Nono wasn't feeling well—"

"Drunk," said one blonde.

"Again," said the other.

"He asked me to drive him home. Under the circumstances I thought I'd better."

"Who are you?" the blondes said together.

"My name's Philip Grierson," he said. "Nono and I were at school together. Who are you?"

"I'm Angelina Visconti," said one blonde.

"And I," said the other, "am the Countess di Traverse. Now that we're introduced, don't you think you should take off your mask?"

"Yes, of course," said Grierson, and did so.

"And your sword," said Angelina. He obeyed once

more.

"It was a costume ball, you see," said Grierson. "I know," said Angelina. "He promised to take me." "And me," said the countess.

"I think he went alone," said Grierson, and hoped, for Nono's sake, that this was so.

"Would you mind taking him into the bedroom?" Angelina said. "I don't terribly want to look at him."

"We have to talk," said the countess.

"Nono won't be able to talk for days," Angelina said. "You shouldn't let him drink."

"I shouldn't—"

"After all you are his wife." She turned to glance at Grierson, who felt suddenly chilly. "Well!" she said.

I'll put him to bed with pleasure," Grierson said, and the countess giggled, then scowled. This was serious business, after all.

"Then do so," said the countess.

"The only thing is—how do I get back to the mainland?"

"In the boat of course," the countess said. "Nono stole it. It's mine."

"It goes very nicely," Grierson said.

"Who bought it for you, darling?" asked Angelina.

Grierson picked up Nono again, and hauled him into the bedroom.

Nono lay where Grierson dropped him, but incredibly his eyes opened.

"Old chap," he whispered. Grierson bent over him. "Was my wife there too?" Grierson nodded. "Oh dear God," said Nono.

"I said you'd passed out," Grierson whispered. "You'd better do that until I take your wife away."

"That's awfully decent of you," said Nono. "Anything I can do—"

T would rather like a change of clothes," said Grierson.

"Help yourself," said Nono, and gestured to a wardrobe.

The clothes in it fitted Grierson admirably and the coat he chose was just loose enough to hide the bulge of his Smith and Wesson. There were cigarettes too, in the bedroom, and Scotch. Grierson helped himself and went back to Nono. He looked down at the death-pale face, cunning with pretended sleep.

"What you told me about Swyven and Dyton-Blease, is it true?" he asked.

"Gospel old chap, every word," said Nono. "For God's sake keep your voice down."

"But they kept it all secret, didn't they?" Grierson whispered.

Nono, very weakly, nodded. "Then why did they tell

you?"

'They wanted me to join them. I was supposed to be going into the Diplomatic Service, but all I was any good at was women. I can't drink."

"Just as a matter of interest, whom did you go to the ball with?"

"A Swede, old chap. Name of Helga. Trouble was her husband turned up." Nono's hand reached for Grierson's glass, sipped at his Scotch. "She's nearly as tall as I am. So fair her hair looks white."

"You seem to like tall blondes," said Grierson.

Nono drained the glass. "Who doesn't?" he said loudly, and passed out cold. Grierson poured himself another drink and went back to the blondes.

"I heard Nono speak," said Angelina.

"He came to just for a moment. Said I might borrow these clothes," said Grierson.

"No doubt," Angelina said. "They are my husband's." She hesitated. "I suppose you really did me a favor—bringing Nono back to me. You keep them."

"Thanks," said Grierson.

"He brought Nono back to us," said the countess.

"Poor Nono," said Angelina. "I'll bring him over to visit you when he is stronger, darling."

"Oh, very well," said the countess. "I suppose we have to be seen together sometimes." She rose. "We really must go now, Philip dear."

Grierson, who had risen too, moved to the door, watched the two women kiss, and went outside, then pulled the plug from Nono's powerboat. It was a crime, he thought, a lovely job like that, but he couldn't afford to be followed, and maybe Nono had it insured. He got into the other one, revved it up, and waited until the countess came.

"I'm awfully sorry," he said. "Yours is out of petrol."

The countess grinned. "Never mind," she said. 'This one is much better. Can you get to Lido di Jesolo?"

"I think so," said Grierson, and helped her aboard, then let in the power. The thrust of the engines was tremendous.

The countess fussed with charts, and Grierson looked at the stars, found northeast and kept going.

"Angelina's husband bought this boat," said the countess. "He bought mine too." The powerboat swerved, and went back on course. "I like you, Grierson," the countess said. "I find you simpatico." She switched to Italian then, and Grierson told her how beautiful she was, because what else can you say in Italian?

Then the countess went below, and Grierson still steered by the stars. Half an hour later, her head appeared and she said: "You'd better come down. There's an anchor thing around somewhere." Grierson hove to, and went below.

Next morning, looking at once sick, seedy, and Italian, Grierson anchored in Lido di Jesolo and left the countess asleep. He put a call through to Rome from a cafe on the waterfront, and the man who answered it was not happy at all. Even so, he said he'd try. Seven hours later, Grierson was in London.

* Chapter 14

When Craig came round, his neck and right shoulder were a mass of pain, intense, throbbing, apparently unending. He was aware of it as completely as if it were the act of love; so long as it existed there was room in his mind for nothing else. He lay face downward, and perhaps a minute passed before he heard the groans, and another minute at least before he realized that they were his own. When he knew that, he began to fight, first to stop the noises he was making, and then, at the cost of appalling effort, to find out where he was, what was happening.

He began with his fingers. He lay face down, and his eyes refused to focus. Best to find out what his fingers could tell him. They touched something soft and smooth and yielding. When he pressed down, what his fingers touched gave way. He pressed harder, and groaned again as his shoulder muscles worked. Deliberately he shut oS the noise, went on pressing until he could sit up. He was lying on a bed. It was familiar to him. Wearily his brain told him it was the bed in his cabin on Naxos's yacht. He looked round, slowly, carefully, wary of the great ache in his neck that throbbed and shuddered like a gong. Pia Busoni sat in the chair by the dressing table. She still wore the costume of the night before, and fear crawled slyly, obscenely across her face.

Craig said; "I'd better have a drink. Is there a drink?" She made no move. "Scotch," Craig said. "You'll have to fetch it. I can't . . ." His hands slipped, and he almost fell, then pushed himself up again. The girl moved cautiously across the room, poured him a drink, put it in his hand. Craig sipped once, then again. The whiskey burned into his consciousness.

"Naxos's party," he said. "I was on the roof. And you were going to scream."

Pia shook her head.

"Yes you were," said Craig. "I remember. I saw you. Did they kill him?" She made no answer. "Pia, for God's sake. It's important."

"No," said Pia. "He's alive. They brought you back

here."

"Hey," said Craig. "I'm having some luck for once."

His body somehow managed to stand, and he lurched over to the door. As he reached for the handle, he said, "Who hit me? How did Naxos get me away?"

"He didn't," said Pia. The door was locked. "You're a prisoner, Craig."

"You too?" She nodded.

"Why?" the fear came back again. "Because you yelled?"

"I didn't," said Pia. "I wasn't there." "But I saw you—"

"No," she said. "Not me. Another girl. I never left the

ship."

"No mole," said Craig. "I remember. She didn't have a mole on her shoulder."

'This girl went as me—she was somebody who had to meet Naxos—talk business with him. She and Naxos met, and agreed to whatever it is. Then she came back to the ship—and brought a man with her. A big man dressed like an executioner."

"Was he the one who hit me?"

"I think so," said Pia. "Craig, what's going to happen to me? What will they do?"

Craig went back to the bed, and sat down.

"We'll find out in time—both of us," he said, and gestured to her to come to his side. She hesitated, and he signed to her again, his hps shaped the word "please." She came to him and he whispered in her ear: "This room will be wired. They'll be listening to us. They want to know we're scared."

The girl gasped, and then began to cry, softly, almost timidly.

Craig"s arms came round her, comforting her with the warmth and strength of his body, and gradually her tears flowed more easily, her body leaned into his, as if the mere touch of him were enough to make her safe. Her mouth found his at last, and she kissed him with a frantic and despairing passion. Craig gasped as pain seared again across his neck, and his hands tightened on the ohve softness of her flesh, but at last he pushed her away.

"They'll come for us soon," he said. "Do you want them to find us like this?"

She shrugged.

"Does it matter?" she asked. "We're going to die anyway."

"Maybe," said Craig. "But it won't be easy. I won't die easy." He thought of Grierson and Andrews. If they were still free he had a chance.

There was a sound by the door, and Craig moved away from the girl, on his feet, ready. The door swung open, and Theseus stood in its frame, a Biretta like a toy in his massive fist. He looked from Pia to Craig, and he seemed far from happy.

"Women," he said. "I told you there'd be trouble. Come on. The boss wants to see you." Craig moved forward. "But no trouble, huh?"

"No trouble," said Craig, and looked at Pia.

"She'll be all right," Theseus said. "Just don't start anything."

They moved in procession, Pia first, then Craig, to Naxos's stateroom. There was another sailor on guard outside, and he opened the door at once; the three went inside.

The inside of the room was like a court, with a great table for the judges—Naxos in the center, Dyton-Blease on his left, and a woman on his right. The woman was dark, superb, with a proud beak of a nose, and a red and splendid mouth. She wore the robes of a Tuareg princess. Naxos and Dyton-Blease looked rested and refreshed in cool clean suits. Pia and Craig, as they stood facing the table, were aware of the crumpled squalor of their costumes, the dirt, the lack of dignity that all prisoners possess, because they are prisoners. Naxos said: "We're on to you, Craig."

Craig said nothing. "We know all about what you are going to do." Craig stood there, looking at him, the face a cold mask, asking nothing, giving nothing. "Well?" Naxos said.

Craig continued to look at him, a look beyond hatred, beyond rage. These people were going to hurt him soon, and his body and mind tightened to cope with this, only this. There was no room even for pity for the girl who stood beside him.

"I'll talk to him," said Dyton-Blease, and still Craig didn't look. This was what he wanted—the big man coming at him, and perhaps making one mistake. If he did, Craig would kill him. There was little possibility of it, but it might happen, and if it did, it might give him a chance for a while.

"Okay," said Naxos. "Make him talk."

The big man rose then, slow, precise, smooth, and menacing. The woman in the blue and red robes said: "No. Sit down." Dyton-Blease hesitated, not understanding that a woman should give orders, and the woman said again: "Sit down. We talk first. Later you can amuse yourself, after Naxos and I have signed."

Dyton-Blease sat, his eyes not leaving Craig's and Craig laughed at him, a jeering bellow of barroom laughter that whipped the big man's face scarlet.

Craig said in Arabic. "You, tamer of men, do you want me to crawl for you so that I shall not be beaten?"

Dyton-Blease flushed darker. "Theseus," he yelled.

The bos'n moved in on Craig then, and Craig turned, fast. One arm extended, the edge of the hand flat and deadly as an ax, the other clenched into a fist, an object of muscle and will that could smash through a wooden door. Theseus hesitated, stopped out of range, his gun on Craig.

Naxos said: "Take him, why don't you?" Theseus hesitated. "Go on," Naxos said, "you can eat him."

Theseus shook his head. "I can try," he said. "He'd kill me."

Dyton-Blease said: "It's really a very amusing situation. We unmask the villain, bring him to justice, point guns at him, and are frightened to death."

"Mister, you should be," Theseus said.

"Look," said Naxos. "Let's cut out the crap. We know why you're here, Craig—to kill me. You had it all set up right,

didn't you? If Dyton-Blease here hadn't stopped you, you'd have shot me. You had that cupola opened, right? And you had a swell excuse for getting away with it—trying to keep me alive.

"Well, it won't work. I know you want me dead so that you can set up a new oil agreement through Flip. You think I don't know you hired that steward to feed her heroin? But I do know it. I even found the stuff in your suitcase, when I searched your room. I know why you had him murdered too, because we were on to him. You were afraid he would squeal."

Craig stood there like a stone man, arms at his sides, concentrating on Theseus to the left of him. If he moved in again, he might get the gun.

"Give up, why don't you?" Naxos said. "Dyton-Blease here told me the lot. He worked for your government out in Zaarb, didn't he? He set up a deal with the Tuareg, didn't he? And when it came to the crunch the British were going to go in and take over the whole country—just like they tried in Egypt. Just long enough to get the cobalt out. You think we didn't know about that either? For Chrissake man, why don't you answer?"

Craig shrugged. "You've made up your mind already," he said. "You've talked to a traitor and the girl he's fooled, and you prefer their word to mine. You don't say anything about proof, Naxos."

Naxos said: "Oh, we've got proof all right. Jesus, have we got proof. And I don't just mean the heroin." He pressed a bell and sat back, squirming in impatience until Andrews came in, looked at Craig, looked away again.

'Tell him," said Naxos.

Andrews said: "It's no good, Craig. I'm not going through with it. I won't torture Mrs. Naxos like that. You had no right—"

"What about the killing?" asked Naxos.

'That only came in the last instructions—when Grierson got to Venice. I signed on for this job to save life, not to take it," Andrews said.

"And the take-over in Zaarb?"

"Politics aren't my business," said Andrews, and Naxos scowled. "But I know it's true. Loomis told me himself." "Who is Loomis?" Dyton-Blease asked. "Ask Craig."

I'm asking you," said Dyton-Blease.

"He's the head of Department K," Andrews said. "The man who hired me."

Craig said: "He's lying. I don't know who's paying him, but he's lying."

Andrews said: "I don't work for money. I work for what is right."

Incredibly, Craig thought that in this at least he was speaking the truth.

"So you've had it, Craig," said Naxos. "You're out. I'd be justified in shooting you like a mad dog. You know that."

"You've had too much money for too long, Harry," said Craig. "You're going nuts." For a moment he thought Naxos was going to leap over the table to attack him, but he recovered at last. "Anyway, I'd like to hear from the other judges," said Craig.

The girl said at once. "You are a liar, a murderer, and a cheat. I think you should die very slowly, because you do not seem to be any of these things, and you mislead the people who trust you. You pervert honor, Craig. You deserve death."

Dyton-Blease said: "I don't know. The chap's got courage anyhow. I admire that, Naxos. I really do. I tell you what I suggest: we let him use his courage. Make him fight for his life—and if he's good enough—well let him five. But you're in the way of the world, Craig. It's time you died."

"Who?" the girl asked. "Who will he fight?"

"Well there's only me, really," said Dyton-Blease. "I'm the obvious one, surely, now we know old Theseus isn't keen."

"I agree to that," said the girl. "When will it be?"

"When we get to my island," Dyton-Blease said.

"Yes," said Naxos. "I'll agree to that too. That should be worth watching."

Craig said: "What about Pia? Are you going to give her a chance and let her fight you too?"

Naxos said, "Miss Busoni had her chance. She let it slide." "I'm very much afraid that her fate is yours, Craig," said Dyton-Blease. "If you win, I promise you she'll live."

"I guess that wraps it up," Naxos said. "You can go and rest now until tomorrow."

"How's Flip?" Craig asked. Ts she in on this too?"

Naxos's fist slammed on to the table.

"Don't push your luck," he said. "You know you slipped her some heroin last night. It took me three hours to make her give it up. That's what you're really paying for, Craig. And this." His hand dipped into one pocket, and he hurled a sheaf of glossy photoprints at Craig: Fhp with one breast exposed, Fhp in his arms, submissive, pleading. Craig glanced at them, let them dribble through his hands.

"You poor, stupid bastard," he said.

Theseus said: "That's enough. Let's go," and again the three lined up, and Craig and Pia were locked in his cabin once again. He went round the walls of it slowly, carefully, and found no microphone, no leads. That proved nothing. There were ways of scooping sound out of a room from outside now, and he had no doubt Dyton-Blease would know all about them, and so would Andrews. Not that it mattered. He sprawled on the bed, and Pia lay down beside him, her hand very gently rubbing the bruised muscles of his neck.

"So you had your chance, Miss Busoni," said Craig. "Just what were you supposed to do?"

"Let you seduce me," Pia said. 'Then have you arrested for rape."

"Why didn't you?"

"I like you too much," said Pia. "You make me laugh."

Craig said: "It was a pleasure. I mean that."

"I know," she said, "but look where it's got me. Craig, I'm frightened."

So what could he say? Me too? Because tomorrow I may be dead, and if I die, you die?

"There's still a chance," said Craig.

She pulled him over to face her, looked hard at him, imploring, and he smiled, because a smile to her meant confidence, and the day after tomorrow, and smiling was so easy.

"You mean that? You really mean it?"

"Well, of course," said Craig, and thought of Grierson. With Grierson loose there had to be a chance.

"Please," said Pia. "Love me. I promise I won't scream."

« o o

"You mucked it up," said Loomis.

"Yes, sir," said Grierson, and tried to suppress a yawn. The countess's coolness had been more apparent than real. "For all we know, Craig could be dead." "Yes, sir," said Grierson.

"And you're not doing him any good sitting around London, are you?"

"No, sir," said Grierson.

"Yes, sir; no, sir; three bags full, sir!" Loomis said savagely. "You're a child, Grierson. A mixed infant."

He sniffed at a tiny cup of black coffee, then emptied it in one smacking gulp. Grierson sipped more cautiously at his. It was boiling hot.

"Craig could be dead. You realize that? You go frigging around with countesses, and Craig could be dead. But he found out about the cobalt. A ruddy mountain of the stuff. Brought us back a sample. It's bloody lethal—rich, the experts call it. I was lucky he was on that Greek island. I knew that old Greek was a smuggler. I hoped for a crumb, and he gave me the whole cake."

Grierson said: 'There's still Andrews, sir."

"Andrews is a technician—tweeters and screwdrivers— that's Andrews. He's no good with giants."

"You think Dyton-Blease has got him then?"

Loomis's enormous body squirmed in its overstuffed chair, and he glowered at his ceiling's elegant stucco.

"It's in the papers," he snarled. "Naxos's wife is feeling poorly. He's taken her off to recuperate in the Greek islands. That's his way of telling us the deal's off."

"So we've had it?" said Grierson.

"Not completely. Mrs. Naxos is a junky. You know that. And Naxos thinks there's only one man who can cure her. And he's British, d'you see. British to the core. He won't go gadding off to Greek islands—and even if he would, I won't let him. So Mrs. Naxos'll have to come to him. You better go off to the Aegean and see if Craig's still alive. If he is I want him back." Grierson climbed wearily to his feet. Perhaps he could get some sleep on the plane. "We've had a lot of bumf from the Eyeries about you," Loomis said. "You've been lucky, old sport. You said you were helping Craig, and Naxos denied he'd ever heard of Craig, so it would have been easy for me to say I'd never heard of either of you. You better watch it; you won't be lucky twice."

"Yes, sir," said Grierson. Sometimes he wondered whv he hadn't strangled Loomis years ago. As he left Loomis pressed a communicator button and bellowed: "Send what's his name in."

"Very good, sir," said the communicator, in a voice at once metallic, female, and sexy.

Loomis snarled: "And keep your hands off him. He's a Fellow of the Royal College or Physicians." He switched off, and thought about Craig. He mustn't be dead, and yet, if Dyton-Blease knew his job as he should, he had to be. The big man would have no choice, even if he wanted one.

There was a soft tap at his door, and a redhead came in, tall, full-blown, with mat creamy skin, green eyes, and a mole at the corner of her mouth. Behind her walked a small man who had decided long ago that intellectual dynamism was a more than adequate substitute for lack of inches. His eyes and walk were Napoleonic, his head projected from his shoulders like a questing bird's—a bird with a shrewdness, greed, and determination nicely blended—a herring gull, say, or a jackdaw. He seemed perfectly happy to be following the redhead.

"Sir Matthew Chinn," said the redhead.

'That will be all, Miss Figgis," said Loomis.

The redhead frowned deliciously. One of Loomis's least amiable characteristics, in a personality noted for its lack of amiability, was the invention of inappropriate names for her. She left, and Sir Matthew sighed, sadly, reminis-cently.

"Gorgeous, isn't she?" said Loomis. "You should see her when she's been off her diet for a couple of weeks."

'The name puzzled me rather," Sir Matthew said. "Figgis seems wildly inappropriate."

"That's cover stuff," said Loomis. "Her real name's Tania Tumblova. She defected from the Bolshoi with the secret of next year's tutus."

"I suspect," said Sir Matthew, "that your use of puerile humor is supposed to make me angry. We'd get on much quicker, Loomis, if we kept our conversation as unemotional as possible."

Loomis shrugged. "You're going to hate me in three minutes. And anyway, everybody rejects me eventually," he said. "Psychologically I'm a mess."

"My secretary will give you my clinic times," Sir Matthew said. "At the moment I have rather a full book. If it's urgent of course—"

"Mrs. Naxos," said Loomis. "She's supposed to fill your

book?"

"That kind of information I prefer to keep private."

"Oh yes," said Loomis. "To be sure. Quite so—the hypocratic oath and all that."

Sir Matthew sat, with neatness and precision, in an overstuffed chair facing Loomis. His immediate immobility and air of world-weary omniscience gave it the status of a throne.

"She's not your patient yet," said Loomis at last. "If she ever is, I want you to promise that you'll only treat her here."

"I have already been asked to go out to her," Sir Matthew said. "The fee is—quite substantial." "How much?"

Sir Matthew told him and Loomis whistled.

I'm sorry," he said. I'm afraid you can't do it."

"Why ever not?"

"You're making me use big words," said Loomis. "They embarrass me."

"I am perfectly adjusted to them."

Tatriotism," said Loomis. "National security. Your obligations as a citizen."

"And if I discount these?"

"Then I'm ordered to stop you. By any means I think fit. The Figgis person for example. If I used her properly I could have you disbarred."

"Struck off," said Sir Matthew. "The reference is to the register of the British Medical Association." He stared hard at Loomis, "Much of my work is with pathological liars," he said. "Some of them are extremely skillful. Over the years I have developed a nose for the truth, and I believe that you are being honest with me."

"I am," said Loomis.

Sir Matthew looked at his watch, did a little mental arithmetic, and rose.

"Very well," he said. "I shan't go out to her." "She'll come to you," said Loomis. The decision is hers." "She'll come. She's desperate."

"You seem to know far more about her than I do."

"Well, of course," said Loomis, and Sir Matthew permitted himself a small, thin smile.

"Got another bit of news for you," said Loomis. "You're due to hire a chauffeur."

"I see," said Sir Matthew. "You're having me watched."

"We can't afford to lose you," said Loomis. "Not till you've treated Mrs. Naxos."

"You can't afford to lose me at all then," Sir Matthew said. "Drug addiction takes a lifetime to cure." He walked to the door in a long, loping stride, curious in so tiny a man, then turned once more to look at Loomis.

"I could cure you," he said. "At the moment of course, you're raving, as I suppose you realize. The trouble is if I were to straighten you out, you'd be unemployable. Without those doses of adrenalin you discharge so freely, you are nothing, Loomis."

He left then, shutting the door quietly, but firmly. Behind him he left a gurgling sound, wheezing but powerful, that suggested unsuccessful plumbing. Loomis was laughing.

* Chapter 15 *

The fight was to be in Dyton-Blease's gymnasium. The judo mat had been removed, and two chairs were in position, on a raised platform, for Naxos and Selina. A third empty chair waited for the master when the fight was over. Theseus brought Craig and Pia in, and Craig looked round the room, seeking a weapon, an advantage, from somewhere. There was nothing. The door opened, and Naxos and Selina came in, followed by Dyton-Blease. The big man looked clean and scrubbed in white shirt and flannels. He was barefoot. Craig kicked off his own shoes, and tested the smooth, polished wood beneath his feet. He felt dirty and unshaven, angry, ready for a fight. The big man might be too much for

him, he was five stones heavier, five years younger, and at least as fast, but he'd hurt him first. If he was lucky he'd hurt him enough.

Dyton-Blease said: "We'll fight here. Anywhere in the room. Any style. Any methods. Got thatF' Craig nodded. "You know something about Japanese technique I beheve— showing off and so on?"

He went to the platform, leaped up easily and smoothly, and picked up a steel rod. It was two feet long and half an inch in diameter. He stood straddle-legged, and held it at each end, letting the strength flow into his wrists. Suddenly, incredibly, the bar bent into a perfect U shape, then he straightened it over his knee.

"Just want you to know what you're taking on," he said. "Your turn, Craig."

Craig said: "Let the girl sit down." Selina moved slightly as Pia went to crouch at her feet.

"I don't do any parlor tricks," said Craig. "I'd just like to ask you a question. Last time I came here there were three men and two powerboats. Where are they now?"

Dyton-Blease leaped for him at once, a great flailing dive that took him from the platform, straight at Craig. Craig swerved, and the big man sailed past him, landing like a cat on fingers and toes, ranning forward to take himself out of the way of Craig's first chopping blow, spinning round as he crouched to explode upward in front of Craig, aiming a fist karate-clenched into Craig's face. Craig's hand chopped down on his wrist, brushing the blow aside, then he rushed forward to grab the other arm as the hand came down in a judo chop. He hauled back, tilted his body, levered and pulled, holding on to the big man's arm, ready to pull him up and throw again, but Dyton-Blease just lay there, laughing at him, using his weight and strength to stay where he was. Craig spotted the kick he aimed at him just in time, leaped away from it, dived, grabbed the foot, and again the big man exerted his strength. Despite the enormous leverage, Craig couldn't move him. Suddenly, his other foot flicked, catching Craig in the thigh, an apparently glancing blow that spun him round like a top and sent him crashing into the corner of the room. He swerved round too late, the big man was crowding him, before he could turn, so that all he could see was Pia's mouth, opening to scream, and it was all happening again, the pain boiled in his neck, and he refused to accept it—he refused to accept it. No. But it wouldn't

go away. The blackness came.

* · *

Elias said: "I can take you out there under sail. It will be dark enough."

Grierson said: "How soon?"

Elias shrugged. "Ten o'clock, probably."

"Not before?"

"He has new boats, new guards. If they spot us, we're finished." Elias hesitated. "You're sure Craig is there?"

"No," said Grierson. "I can't be sure, but if he is I have to try."

"Of course," said Elias. "We also. But if we take too many risks we have no chance at all."

He looked from the ca£6 to his caique, his only pride, riding gently by the quayside. Grierson saw where he looked, and understood.

"Look," he said. "You believe I am a friend of Craig's?"

"Of course," Elias said. "The priest tells me your words are true." He looked across at the fat, white-bearded papa, who had read Grierson's letter of introduction from Loomis and who now drank coffee two tables away. No one sat any nearer. Andraki knew that the Englishman's business was secret.

"You may lose your boat," said Grierson. "If you do, I promise you you'll get the money to buy a new one."

"That is not important," said Elias, and only his eyes denied it.

"But it is," said Grierson. "I swear you will be paid."

"Well then," said Elias, "there is only my life to worry about, and no one can give money for that."

"Oh yes we can," said Grierson. "You'll have insurance too."

Elias grinned. "You work for people with a lot of money."

"And many secrets," said Grierson.

"Surely. Craig too had many secrets. It wasn't important. He can have what he likes, Mr. Grierson. Craig is one of us."

Pia sat very still, her back against the iron grille of the cell. The electric lights were strong, but she did not feel them. Beside her Craig lay unmoving, his body unaware of the

rough stones of the floor. Pia hoped that if she made no sound, caused no trouble, proved how harmless she was, perhaps at last they would let her go. It was obvious now that Craig could not save her, or even himself. He could fight like a man and he would die like a man, but no one could defeat a giant. She knew that she should be sorry for him. In a time that allowed for such luxuries she supposed that she had loved him, but now her mind could cope with nothing but her need to survive, to exist, to be anything rather than flesh in the big man's battering hands. There was a sound behind her, but she made no move. Theseus's voice said gently. "Come on now. Out. No trouble," and the grille swung open. She crawled out and waited obediently while Theseus picked up the unconscious Craig, soaked a pad in water, bathed his forehead.

"Please," said Pia. "Please, I should like a drink."

He signaled to the bucket he had brought, and she cupped her hands and drank, not touching the dipper in it—that might cause difficulties—content only to quench her thirst, to be able to exist until hunger should force her to speak again. But until then, she would be no trouble. Craig groaned, and came to, and Theseus helped him to sit up, held the dipper to his hps. Craig swallowed, cupped water in his hands, bathed his dirty, unshaven face. At last he croaked: "I thought he intended to kill me. Didn't he say he would kill me?"

"Here," said Theseus. "Drink."

He pulled a bottle of cognac from his pocket, uncorked it, held it to Craig's hps. Craig coughed and swallowed, just like the last time.

"What's he doing?" said Craig. "What's it for?"

"You're a man," Theseus said. "Be a man now. He means to fight you many times, Craig. He will hit you in the same place each time." Craig looked at him. "It amuses him to do this," Theseus said.

"One more blow there and I've had it. He'll turn me into an idiot if he goes on long enough."

"I know," Theseus said. "That is what he intends to

do."

Craig looked at him. Theseus was absolutely in earnest.

"Aristides has been rich for too long," Theseus said. "Soon he will think he is God."

"It's about time he cast out the devil then," said

Craig.

"Yes. I think so." Theseus was still in earnest. "This is your last chance, Craig."

"No chance at all," Craig said. "I'm too old. He's slowed me up too much."

Theseus's massive fist opened under his nose. On it were three white tablets.

"Benzedrine," he said. "To make you quick—and young."

Craig took them, grimacing as he swallowed. "Thanks, anyway," he said.

"Not enough?" said Theseus. "There is one more thing. The big man is afraid of blood—his own blood. If you can make him bleed, you will win." He took a ring from his finger, offered it to Craig. It was a thick gold band, the bevel a square of gold with four raised points of steel like the tips of needles. Craig scooped dirt from the floor, took off the ring and rubbed it over the brightness of the gold, then put the ring on his finger, bevel inside.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked.

"Aristides is my friend," said Theseus, "and so is his wife. I know you would not hurt them. The big man will. Also I was afraid of you and you did not mock me for it."

'Thanks," Craig said. "I won't forget this."

"We go now," said Theseus. "It is time."

Craig went over to Pia. She hadn't looked at them, hadn't moved. In any case, she spoke no Greek.

"We've got to go, love," he said.

She looked up at him, and there was utter defeat in her eyes.

"Dyton-Blease told me what he's going to do to you," she said. "I can't stand it, John. I just can't stand it."

"Don't watch," said Craig. "I don't want you to watch." She sobbed, and clung to him. "We go now," said Theseus.

Somehow the last of her strength came to her, and she walked out proudly, head up, like a queen, the way Cinecitta had taught her.

· » ·

The caique had switched to sail an hour before, and Grierson could see the tiny pinpoint of light that marked the island.

"Okay," he said. "That's near enough."

Elias whispered to his son, and the anchor splashed softly, sending up an explosion of phosphorescent water that quickly faded. Grierson stripped as the two Greeks listened for the beat of motor engines. There was nothing. Grierson strapped on the waterproof bag he had had prepared, and turned to them.

"Give me until nearly dawn," he said. "If I'm not back before it's light you go without me. I won't be coming."

"Kali tychi," said Elias and his son, then Grierson said it too. It was the only Greek phrase he knew. It means "Good luck." Then he disappeared into the warm, dark sea, and father and son took out handlines and began to fish. » » «

In the room, the others were already waiting, and a fourth one this time, Philippa, her face bone-white under its golden brown, so that the suntan looked like a crude cosmetic. She lolled in her chair, exhausted, yet her eyes were restless. They looked unseeing at Craig, then moved away again, searching, searching for the dream powder.

"I want you to see this," Naxos said. "I want you to see what you've done to her. She's got all the sedation the doctor will allow and she still can't rest. Maybe she won't ever again. You're to blame for that, Craig."

Philippa whimpered, and Naxos turned to her at once. "Now then, honey," he said, and whispered softiy. Dyton-Blease tried to intervene, and Naxos snarled at him. "Get on with the fight, why don't you?"

The big man stepped down, not bothering to dive this time, walking forward slowly, taking his time, as Pia shrank past him to sit at Selina's feet. Craig could feel the benzedrine take hold, forcing strength back into his body. This one would have to be quick; the drug wouldn't last for long. He clenched his hands, and felt the first premonitory nip of the four points of the ring. He moved slowly, wearily, like a man already resigned to defeat.

Dyton-Blease laughed aloud, and lunged for him, and Craig only just got out of the way in time. Even with the benzedrine, he was barely fast enough. Again the big man struck, and again Craig only just avoided him. He was being crowded into a corner again, but he couldn't help it. His hands came together briefly, and he twisted the ring into position. Next time a blow came he would have to take it

and hit back. A third time the enormous fist reached out for him, and this time he turned a fraction too slowly, felt a blow like a hammer crash into his side. He gasped, scrambling to stay upright on legs that seemed made of paper. For a fraction of a second the big man was off balance, and vulnerable.

Craig's fist lashed out in a tearing, searing blow across the big man's forehead, ripping four parallel lines into the skin. Dyton-Blease moaned, hesitated, and Craig struck with his other hand, under the heart. It was like hitting a lump of oak. Dyton-Blease put his hand to his head, and looked at the blood there.

"You cheated me," he screamed. 'You cut me."

Craig worked the ring from his finger, slipped it into his pocket, then waited till the big man crouched down again, the blood dripping slowly from his face. Craig feinted at the face again, and Dyton-Blease immediately raised his arm to protect it. Craig leaped in, grabbed the wrist, and threw the big man, held on to the wrist and pushed it up into a hammerlock. The big man was still pawing at his forehead with his free hand. Craig, very deliberately, struck at the big man's shoulder joint, and Dyton-Blease groaned aloud. Craig held on to the wrist, and pulled. Dyton-Blease spun like a top, crashed into the wall, and bounced back into Craig's fist, his whole body aimed like an arrow into the hard stomach. Dyton-Blease gasped, and deliberately fell on Craig.

Craig lurched back under the enormous weight, and he could feel Dyton-Blease's arms reaching for a hug that might still squeeze the life out of him. He let himself slide down, yielding to the weight, shpping through the clutching arms, grabbing the hands, pulling the big man forward, kicking upwards, feeling the impact of the big man's stomach on his foot before he straightened his leg and watched him soar over.

Dyton-Blease fell with a crash that shook the room, but even then his enormous strength brought him back to his feet again. Craig caught him round the waist, swung him round, pushed him toward the platform. Naxos yelled at Theseus "Shoot him," and Craig leaped in again. His shoulder caught Dyton-Blease in the chest, and spun him round. Craig's fingers interlaced and he struck at the big man's neck, the killer blow that Hakagawa had taught him, and that he had promised never to use unless the enemy were so evil and so strong that nothing else would do. This time, when the big man went down, he didn't try to get up, and Craig knew he wouldn't. He leaped up on to the balcony, and the hard edge of his hand disappeared into the softness of Naxos's belly, his arms came round Fhp. Her eyes still did not see him, but she responded at once to the touch of his fingers.

"Hi, honey," she said.

Craig lifted her to her feet, held her in front of him as Pia swerved away from Selina, took shelter behind him. "It's your move," said Craig.

* Chapter 16 *

Grierson had swum two miles, dressed, climbed a cliff, forced his way into a castle and climbed three flights of stairs. He was tired, frightened, on edge, and there was a door in front of him, a massive, olivewood door with a thin strip of light showing below it. To open it was perhaps his greatest act of courage, yet when the door swung, the first thing he saw was Craig, and Craig was in complete control.

Craig was still in his ball costume, and so was the dark girl who crouched behind him. Another dark girl, also in what appeared to be fancy dress, sat in a chair, watching him. She was smiling at him. In his arms Craig held a blonde who outsoared even Nono's imaginings. Once again Grierson bowed to the master, even as he watched Naxos groaning on the floor, even as he went up behind Theseus, who still held a gun, and tapped him behind the ear with the barrel of his own, and watched him fall.

T wish you hadn't done that," Craig said. "He's by way of being a friend of mine."

"I came to rescue you," said Grierson. "You're supposed to be grateful."

"Okay. Rescue me," Craig said.

The blonde whimpered in his arms, and Craig spoke to her softly, soothingly, hushing her as if she were a child. When she was calm, he looked at Naxos, now on his feet again, swaying as he clung to the table.

"You were going to watch me die, Harry," he said. "You were going to enjoy it. You brought your wife along to enjoy it too."

"All right," said Naxos. "I was wrong. I lost. We all have to lose sometime. But Flip knew nothing, Craig. I swear she knew nothing. Let her go. Please."

"You think I should go down there with you this

time?"

"I don't care what you do," Naxos said. "Just leave Philippa out of it."

"You're the only one who can do that," said Craig.

He let her go, and she went at once to a chair, sat down, and looked around her once again, her eyes still searching, searching.

Craig sank wearily into Dyton-Blease's chair.

"You think I'm going to hurt her?" he asked.

"You've got to get rid of us both," Naxos said. 'Those are your orders, aren't they? Look, Craig, why do it? I'm a rich man. I can buy you anything you want. Anything."

"I want a yacht," said Craig. 'Tour yacht. I want to go to England in it."

"Sure," said Naxos.

"You're coming too!" said Craig. Naxos froze.

"For God's sake," said Craig. "If I were going to kill you, wouldn't I do it now, when there aren't any witnesses? All I want you to do is talk to a couple of people."

He got up from the chair and went down to the big man, felt for his heart. Incredibly, it was still beating. Grierson came up to him.

"What happened?" he asked.

"We had a fight—two fights," said Craig. "He was too good for me. God he was good. I only beat him because I cheated." He took the ring from his pocket. "With this. I hit him with this and he bled. He didn't mind blood if it was someone else's. He couldn't stand his own. So I cheated and won. But fair and square he would have killed me."

"What happens if I say I won't go?" said Naxos.

Then you don't go," said Craig. "What the hell, it's your yacht."

Naxos hesitated.

There's a man in London who can help your wife, remember," Grierson said. "But you'll have to go to him. He won't come here."

Naxos looked at them, trying desperately to decide.

"All right," he said. "I haven't any choice anyway."

"You still don't trust me, do you?" said Craig. "I wouldn't bother trying, Harry. It doesn't suit you."

He went over to Selina, spoke softly in Arabic.

"I cheated," he said.

"He also," said Selina. "To fight so soon after he had hit you from behind—that was cheating. He deserved to die."

"He didn't die," said Craig.

"You will finish him then?" Craig shook his head. "You are a very strange man."

"I he no more than other men, and I keep my bargains."

"Yes," she said. "I believe that now."

"There are many Englishmen who do the same," said

Craig.

That I believe also."

"Come to England with us then," said Craig. The girl hesitated, then slowly, reluctantly, shook her head. "First I must speak with my father," she said. "But how can you do that?"

"In an airplane. You must put me on an airplane to Aden. After that it will be easy."

"Aden has British troops."

"I do not fear them," she said.

Craig turned to Naxos. "We'd better go," he said. "Athens first. Put Selina on an Aden flight. Then London."

"What about him?" said Naxos, and gestured at Dyton-Blease.

"See if there's a doctor on the island," said Craig. "He'll need a doctor—for a long, long time." He pushed himself forward, moving slowly now, for he was near exhaustion, and the ache had come back to his neck. Pia went to him at once, holding his hand tight in hers. Craig grinned at her.

"I told you," he said. "There's always a chance."

They would go back to the ship now, and he would talk to Andrews.

««4

But Andrews had gone. One of Dyton-Blease's boats was missing too, and a great deal of Naxos's money. Grierson found that out when he talked to the captain. Then he went to Craig's cabin to report. Craig had just bathed, and was now in front of a mirror, slowly, luxuriously shaving, the bruise on his neck an exotic purple against the hard brown of his skin. On the bed, Pia lay watching him, a sheet pulled casually across her body, settling lightly on its rich and rounded contours. Grierson tried not to look too closely, and failed.

"Come in," said Craig. "Have a drink." Pia pouted. Craig saw her expression in the mirror. "He's a friend of mine," he said. "He saves my life from time to time."

Pia smiled enchantingly, and reached a smooth-rounded arm out toward an ice bucket. The sheet started to slip, and Grierson willed himself not to look.

"This is business," he said.

"Andrews?"

"He's scarpered," said Grierson. "Vanished. There's money gone too."

Craig rubbed aftershave lotion on his face, then turned to take the glass that Pia held out to him. There was a glass for Grierson too, with not nearly so much champagne in it. Craig grinned, and handed it to Grierson.

T wonder who hired Andrews?" he mused.

Pia's fingers dug into his thigh, and he sat beside her, rubbed her scented shoulder. Grierson gulped down his champagne, and put down the glass.

"Well, I really must trot along," he said.

"Must you?" Craig was looking at the girl's mouth. She was shaping words in Italian that made him forget Andrews, Loomis, even the ache in his neck.

"I'm afraid I must," said Grierson.

"Cheerioh then," said Craig. "Please don't bang the—"

Grierson banged the door.

· « ·

In Athens, Craig took a subdued Selina to the airport in Naxos's Mercedes, but he noticed that she wore European clothes with a chic elegance that was quite new. On the drive from Piraeus she spoke for the first time about the fight with Dyton-Blease, and how she had come to realize that the big man had lied to her when it was too late, and how she had used the fight to think and scheme her way out, back to her father. And then Craig had won, and it had not been necessary to find a way of killing the big man.

"You think you could have killed him?" Craig asked.

"Oh yes," she said. "My brothers taught me the way." She was perfectly serious.

"Selina," Craig said. "Who was the man in your country who told you about the British?"

I'm sorry," she said. "I promised my father I wouldn't

tell."

"What's Dyton-Blease's first name? Is it Bernard?"

Tf you know," said Selina, looking straight ahead. "Why do you ask?"

The car reached the airport, and, because it was Naxos's car, drove straight out to the waiting plane. Craig and Selina got out, and she shook hands with him, very seriously.

Take care, Craig," she said. "I want very much to see you again."

But the air hostess looked nervous, the engines began their first whining scream, and she turned to run up the steps. Craig would have liked to have gone after her, to wish her luck, but it was too late. He turned back to the car. A slim, dapper man in a tourist seat, a man with the face of an English aristocrat, lowered the "Instructions to Passengers" pamphlet he had held in front of his face. The airplane taxied to the runway.

a a b

Loomis said: "You haven't done badly so far."

Craig and Grierson waited. There was bound to be more to it than that.

"You missed Andrews, of course, but you got rid of Dyton-Blease very nicely, and you persuaded Naxos to come here. All on the credit side. On the other hand you"—he stared at Grierson—"very nearly got arrested for murder, and you"—the stare intensified on Craig—"left Dyton-Blease alive. That's one loose end too many."

Craig said: "When I hit him, I thought he had to die.

I thought it was inevitable. He must be built out of rock."

Tt runs in the family," said Loomis. "I used to be that way myself."

"He's a relative of yours?"

"Not really," Loomis said. "A seventh cousin nine times removed, or something. But it's in his blood the same as it was in mine. Strength and viciousness and the need to fight. He tried to join Intelligence once—not that he knew I was in it. I turned him down. Knew too much about him, d'you see? It would have been better if you'd finished him, Craig."

"I couldn't," Craig said. "Not when the fight was over." Loomis left it at once.

"That leaves Swyven and this Count de Tavel feller. The little yellow brothers did a conversion job on him in Indochina. And this Trottia."

"They'll be in Venice," Grierson said.

'Then I'll have to get 'em out," said Loomis. "One of 'em anyway. Find out what they're up to. You better leave that bit to me." He glowered at Craig. "There's this Busoni person too," he said. "You reckon she's clean?"

Craig said: "Yes." The word was a hard, flat barrier to further discussion. Loomis bashed straight through it.

"Because if she isn't, she's a damn sight too close to you," he said. 'The way you go on, Craig, it's a wonder you can stand up."

"She's clean," said Craig. "She was too scared to be anything else."

"Scared of what?"

"Being killed," said Craig. "And me being killed. Lay off her."

Loomis shrugged. "You know the score," he said. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

"You could have warned me about Andrews too," Craig said. "Just to make a job of it. Who got him for us, anyway?"

"M.I.5 chap in Aden found him. Distressed British Subject and all that. He passed on some very juicy stuff— small, but promising."

"Where from?" Grierson asked.

"Russia," Loomis said. "He picked up a ship in Odessa in 1962. Took it over to China for demolition. He kept his eyes and ears open. The stuff was good. M.I.5 thought they might use him. They signed him up and sent him on to us when I was away in Greece. I've had a word with them about that. All they can say is I keep on telling them I'm shorthanded. Nobody's that shorthanded, not even us. They should have known he was too good to be a new boy."

"Did he get any Chinese stuff?" Craig asked.

"No," said Loomis. "He said their security was too

good."

"How did he get to Aden?" Grierson asked.

"Jumped ship. He was mixed up in dope smuggling. M.I.5 checked. It was true enough. They thought that meant they had him on ice." Loomis laughed, a short, crazy bark like that of an impassioned sea lion's.

"Dope from China?" Craig asked, and Loomis nodded. 'The Zaarb lot are being backed by China."

"Go on," said Loomis.

"I think it's possible Andrews could be Schiebel." 'That's crazy," Grierson said.

Loomis said: "I don't think it is. There's too much that fits, and it's all too bloody neat."

'There's another thing you'd better know," Craig said. 'The man who went out to the Haram and told Selina's father what lying bastards the British were—that was Dyton-Blease."

"You're sure?" asked Loomis. Craig nodded.

"Selina told me herself. At least I tricked it out of her."

"What made you think of him?" Loomis asked.

"He fitted. Big man, big warrior. And she had a way of looking at fiim. When we had that first fight and he beat the hell out of me, she knew it was going to happen. She knew exactiy how he worked."

Loomis beamed indulgently at him and slapped him on the back.

"You know, Craig, you're not just a pretty face after all," he said.

a a a

Selina never reached her father. Schiebel picked her up before she had passed through Zaarb. It was easy enough for him. He could call up all the talent he needed, and the police were trained not to look, even if there was any noise. They even provided Schiebel with killers. Selina picked up her two servants in Aden, and rode across the frontier without trouble. Schiebel followed, and found his private army wait-

ing for him in Zaarb's capital, Port Sufi. Selina had ordered a suite of rooms in Port Sufi's one decent hotel, which was packed with oilmen, and Albanian attaches with the shoulders and manners of underprivileged wrestlers, and Chinese technical advisers who always traveled in pairs and carried handguns that were a Chinese imitation of a Czechoslovak .32.

Schiebel's men attacked Selina's suite at 12:30, while the Albanians and Chinese snored in stolid obedience. By 12:33 both Selina's servants and one of Schiebel's men were dead, another dying from the knife Selina had used—until Schiebel took it from her, and struck her hard across the mouth, left and right. Her eyes never left him, never ceased to hate.

I'm sorry about that, princess," Schiebel said, "but these oafs were really fond of the man. I can't think why."

The Arab who held Selina passed his hands over her body, and spoke to his friends. They nodded, and a stubby finger hooked into the neck of her gown, pulled and ripped to reveal her olive-gold body. The hand moved again to enjoy the firm young flesh, and Schiebel shook his head. The hand at once was still.

"These men are boors," said Schiebel. "They propose to—how shall I put it?—enjoy you beside the bodies of their friends, and yours. They seem to find it appropriate in some way."

"I can't stop them," said Selina.

"No. Only I can do that. The experience might be good for you—in my terms, that is. It might teach you submission. On the other hand, it might make you even more determined to kill me."

T doubt that," Selina said.

"In any case," said Schiebel, "I think I might save that pleasure for myself." He pushed the gown aside, let it fall back. "When we have more time of course."

"It would be better if you killed me now. It's the only chance you've got."

"No," said Schiebel. T have many chances. What do you suppose your father would do if he knew you were in this embarrassing predicament? I greatly fear he would come here to kill me, don't you?—which is exactly what these good people want." He nodded at the Arabs. "I want your help, princess. It will be better if you give it willingly, and keep your father out of this."

He said in Arabic: "Let her go," and she was freed at once. She took up a patterned robe, and let it hang from her shoulders to cover her body.

"What am I to do?" she asked.

"I want you to come to England with me," said Schiebel, "so that I can keep an eye on you. You'll be returned to your father if you both behave."

"Why England?"

"I want Naxos back with us where he belongs," said Schiebel. "We need his vote, princess." And I need you for bait, he thought. Who else could draw Craig away?

» Chapter 17 *

Craig rested, and spent time with Pia in his flat in Regent's Park. Naxos stayed in a nursing home that Loomis provided for Sir Matthew Chinn. Naxos worried about his wife, and Loomis brooded about luring Swyven back out of Venice. Grierson devoted his life to finding out about Swyven, and always it came back to the same thing: at prep school, public school, and university, in his six weeks in the army and six months in the Foreign Office, his travels in Arabia and tantrums in dress shops, to one principle he held true. Swyven loved his mommy, and nobody else. Loomis frowned, and rang up Sir Matthew, and frowned again, and sent Grierson away, and brooded again, and told Miss Figgis what to do about Craig.

Craig was teaching Pia how to speak Greek and drink tea. She found both processes very funny, and laughed a great deal, and so did Craig. He looked alert and fit, and ten years younger than on his return from Greece. He also looked very slightly restless, and Pia had seen this already, and was worried by it. When the phone rang, she scooped it up at once, said "Just a moment, please," and handed it to Craig.

"There is a woman called Figgis to speak to you," she said, and frowned. "She does not sound like a Figgis."

"Who?" said Craig, and took the phone. "Craig here." he listened to the sultry purr and said: "Yes. Of course. Where is it? Now? Okay." He put the phone down. "I've got to see Fhp Naxos," he said.

"Blondes," said Pia. She said it the way Rommel might have said "Montgomery."

"She's ill," said Craig. "In a nursing home."

"Okay," said Pia. "I'll come with you."

"No," said Craig. "You can't, love. This is business." He thought hard. "Look," he said, "why don't you give Grierson a ring? He knows a lot of theater people. Tell him I said he should show you around."

"Are you getting rid of me?" she asked.

T have a job to do," he said, and kissed her. T don't want you just to sit around and get bored."

He kissed her again, put on his jacket, and was gone. Pia stared at the door, and didn't doubt for a moment that her time with Craig was at an end, yet she remained dry-eyed. To weep would have been an impossible self-indulgence. She dialed Grierson's number instead.

» « »

Sir Matthew said: "She's talked about you rather a lot. She thinks she owes you an apology, and she wants to make it now."

"It isn't necessary," Craig said.

"I've no doubt," said Sir Matthew, "but she thinks it is, and I'm prepared to indulge that. The withdrawal symptoms from heroin can be quite appalling. From time to time she thinks she is going to die—not in any melodramatic sense, you understand. She genuinely beheves it."

"Is she like that now?" said Craig.

"No," Sir Matthew said. "At the moment I have her sedated. But I can't do that all the time. Her only real hope is psychotherapy, but she has to rest from that from time to time. She's led a very odd life. You know about that?" Craig nodded. "The oddest thing is she still wants it."

Craig said: "Are you going to cure her?"

I'm going to have to," Sir Matthew said. 'Tour friend Loomis insists on it. Come on."

Craig had expected a bed, and a white-faced, writhing figure in a hospital gown. Instead he saw Philippa in a cherry-pink dress, in a flounced and chintzy room that belonged to a thirties drawing-room comedy. She sat on a sofa, her feet tucked up beneath her, and sipped tea from a Spode cup. Her color was delicate and beautiful, and her impossibly golden hair gleamed. Only her eyes looked dark and shadowed. "John, my dear," she said. "Come in. Have some tea or a drink or something."

Craig went to a drinks trolley like a cinema organ, and mixed Scotch and ginger ale.

"Come and sit beside me," said Fhp, and Craig moved toward her.

Sir Matthew sat, neatly, precisely, in a chair nearby, and produced a notebook.

"Just talk quite naturally," he said. "Forget I'm here."

Fhp scowled at him, and turned her back; the procedure seemed a familiar one to both of them.

"He's terrible really," said Fhp, "but I have to be nice to him. He means well."

I'm sure he does," said Craig.

"I had to see you, John," she said. "I've had so much on my mind and I've been ill—and I'm so mixed-up I don't know where to start."

Craig sipped his Scotch.

"You're deliberately prevaricating," Sir Matthew said. "You asked Mr. Craig here so that you could apologize. Why not do so?"

"Oh you," said Fhp, and turned to Craig, touched his hand.

"It's true though," she said. "I do want to apologize. I've done such dreadful things." "Surely not?" said Craig.

"But you know I did. I had the steward give you that dreadful suntan oil—" She giggled. "It was so funny."

Craig felt the hair on the back of his neck rise.

'Trottia got it for me. He said it would turn you bright blue, like one of your Ancient Britons or something. But you didn't use it, did you?"

Craig shook his head. "Why did you want to do

that?"

"I didn't. Not really. But Nikki, the steward, said he couldn't get me any white stuff—heroin, you know—unless we got you out of the way first. He said you'd stop him. And I did need it so."

"But your husband said he thought Nikki worked for me."

"Harry can be pretty stupid sometimes," said Flip. "I guess he never looked at you properly. You never peddled dope in your life."

"That's nothing to apologize for," Craig said. "It never happened."

"There's something else as well," said Flip. "I knew that Harry was going to fool you at Venice. I should have told you about that. I know I should. I keep having these nightmares."

'Tell us about them," Sir Matthew said.

"I keep dreaming I'm in a room—like a big gym or something. You're there in your fancy dress costume, and so is Pia Busoni. And there are other people too. Harry, and an Arab girl who looks like a queen or something. And there's another man there, a big man. You had to fight him. He was a friend of Harry's, but Harry didn't like me to see him. He kept me out of the way. Except this one time."

"And what happened? In the dream I mean."

"I don't know. I couldn't look," said Flip.

"I know," Craig said. "I won. I'm here, aren't I?"

"Hey," said Flip. "Hey that's right. Oh, I feel awful." Tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes.

"Here now," Craig said. "You had a dream, remember?"

"It was a dream, wasn't it?" said Flip. "Harry wouldn't—"

"I know the big man you mean," said Craig. "Can you see me beating him outside a dream?"

"You are still prevaricating," said Sir Matthew.

"I told Harry you gave me some heroin," she said.

"Why did you do that?"

"I wanted you to go away. No. I mean you had to go away. You were getting to be dangerous." 'To Harry?"

"To both of us. It was better to get rid of you,

John."

"Why be sorry about it? You did what you had to do. No hard feelings," said Craig. Behind her he could see Sir Matthew's hand move very slightly toward the door. He finished his drink.

"I'll have to go now," he said. "I'd like to come and see you again soon, if you'll let me."

Flip said: "Casting directors, bit players, agents, any jerk who can say, 'Kid . . . with a shape like yours I'll get you a part tomorrow.' That's the kind I draw. Them and Harry. Not you, John."

"That's enough amusement," said Sir Matthew. "You're beginning to enjoy yourself again. But Mr. Craig has to go and we have work to do."

"Yes, of course," Philippa said. "One never has a minute, does one?" She offered her cheek for him to kiss, and he left.

In the corridor outside, Naxos was waiting. Craig nodded to him, and kept on walking.

"Hey," Naxos said. "I want to talk to you." Craig turned. "What did she say to you?"

"She said hello," reported Craig. "Then she said some other things. Then she said good-bye."

"Look, Craig," Naxos said. "Don't make jokes with

me."

"I don't think you're funny," Craig said. "Cheap, cowardly, treacherous, nasty, lying—yes, but not funny, Harry. You never made me laugh. Not even in Dyton-Blease's gym."

"It was for Flip," Naxos said. "I had to protect Flip." 'The record's old," said Craig. "It's starting to scratch."

"Believe me," said Naxos. "I had to. She's all I got. And when I thought you were giving her that stuff, I wanted to shoot you myself. Only that was too easy. So I gave you to Dyton-Blease. I couldn't help myself. It was my wife you were doing this to. My wife."

"Didn't they offer you more money?"

"All right," he said. "All right. But I wasn't going to take it—not until they faked that stuff about heroin."

Craig looked at him. Naxos's eyes were just for seeing. They told him nothing.

"What happens now?" he asked.

"1 got it all straightened out. I'll sign with your government."

"And Selina's father?"

"Him too," said Naxos. "If he goes independent I'll finance him—and trade with Britain anyway. I'm all straightened out now. So what did Flip say about me?"

"She had a nightmare about a big man who tried to kill me, only I got away. I told her not to worry. Everybody has nightmares."

"I'm grateful to you, John, believe that," Naxos said.

"Don't be," said Craig. "For you I did nothing."

He turned and walked away. When he got back to the flat in Regent's Park, he found a note from Pia. Grierson had taken her to a first night.

# * »

Lady Swyven had gone there too. She was very fond of the theater, which she regarded as a convenient center for the display of her jewelry and furs. The plays themselves she usually despised, but enjoyed. It was always hugely amusing to see poor people being jealous of rich people in a messy, unconstructive sort of way, and that was what the current school of dramatists seemed to insist on writing about. Lord Swyven, who was deaf but good-natured, accompanied her on these forays into social realism, and made his deafness the excuse for staying in the bar. Lady Swyven didn't mind; he was available for arrival and departure and perhaps for supper later. To have him out of the way was a positive gain really. Lord Swyven was a fidget on the heroic scale.

That night the piece she had chosen was set in a flat in Notting Hill. Lady Swyven looked expectant, and opened her box of chocolates in high hopes. In front of her a dramatically handsome man was talking in Italian to a really gorgeous, but rather too full-blown young woman, who wore quite the most shattering chinchilla coat Lady Swyven had ever seen, as well as a diamond necklace and earrings that positively shrieked Cartier. Lady Swyven wished she had worn something more exciting than her pearls and that ridiculously demode sable. Then the curtain rose on a quite delicious squalor, and Lady Swyven forgot all about them.

During each act interval she followed the two gorgeous ones to the bar, and drank gin and tonic with her husband, and half heard their lazy flow of chatter about Rico and Sofia and Booboo and Nono, and wondered if a wealthy Italian had ever actually done anything—though the man looked more English than anything. Then her husband began to look as if the Italian words were reaching him (why do all foreigners have such loud voices?) and if he did it wouldn't be long before he began to think of their son Mark. Lady Swyven, who had been married for thirty-seven years and loved her husband deeply, couldn't bear it when he talked about Mark. She touched his arm, and he looked at once at her mouth. Shaping her words very carefully, she said: "Jack, dear, couldn't we move back from the crowd a little?"

As she spoke, the full-blown beauty bumped into her, muttered "Scusi" without looking round, and went on talking. Jack at once cleared a path for his wife, but once again she was bumped into by a chubby, twinkling sort of man, who pushed into her really rather rudely, knocked her bag from her arm, then bent at once to pick it up, hand it back, say "Awfully sorry," and disappear into the crowd.

"Bloody rugger scrum," Jack said. "Can't understand what you see in it."

But it really was rather fun, particularly at the end, when everybody clapped very loud, as if to apologize for not enjoying it, and all the rapists and tarts and perverts lined up, smiling their fresh and wholesome smiles, and one could try to remember which of them one had seen on the television commercials. And then, alas, it was time to go, and one waited one's turn of course, not like the awful Italians who charged out pushing and shoving (could Mark really be happy in Venice?). One followed at one's leisure, because dear Jack, always reliable, would be certain to have the car ready, and one was aware of the Italians kicking up a most tremendous fuss. And then it happened. A simply impossible thing. Quite impossible. But it happened.

She reached the end of the seats, and was about to turn left towards the bar, when a man somehow appeared beside her, and in some way she could never explain, eased her out of the crowd, and into an alcove.

"I should like a word with you, madam," he said.

Lady Swyven had been a beauty in her day, and was used to elderly gallants who remembered her from the past, and bored her in the present, but she knew at once that this man wasn't one of them. He was thirty years too young, and his words were all wrong.

"My name is Linton, Detective Chief Inspector Linton," the man said. "Here is my warrant card." He showed her a card covered in Perspex, but her heart was jumping so the words refused to focus. "I think we'd better just step into the manager's office," said Linton, and again she found herself somehow persuaded away, this time into a room that was mostly a safe and photographs, and a desk and chair, and the two Italians gabbling more rapidly than ever, and a fat, sweaty sort of man in a dinner jacket pouring whiskey for the Italians and trying to say "Honestly, I can't tell you how sorry I am that such a thing should happen in my theater" only the Italians were talking so much they wouldn't listen.

Lady Swyven fought for, and finally gained, her self

control.

"What on earth," she asked, "is happening?"

Linton said: "The lady here, Signorina Busoni, has lost a diamond brooch. It seems very likely that you have it, madam."

Lady Swyven said, "How dare you!" and at once pondered the fact that in real life too, there is a use for theatrical cliche.

"You think you haven't?"

"I know I haven't," Lady Swyven said. "The whole business is quite ridiculous." She paused, then added: "I should like my husband to be here. He's waiting for me outside."

Linton shrugged, then went to the door and spoke to a brisk, alert, young detective sergeant, the kind who gets ulcers because he still isn't a superintendent and here he is turned thirty already. He was back in minutes, and all the time the two Italians talked; the manager poured Scotch and tried and failed to get into the duologue.

Swyven came in slowly, unhurried, because hurrying impeded his thinking and there was obviously something wrong.

The sergeant said loudly: "This is Lord Swyven, sir. I'm afraid he's rather hard of hearing."

Swyven's words cut across the sergeant's. "I'm bloody deaf," he said, "but it's no good shouting like this idiot. Just let me see you speak."

Linton said: "It's your wife, sir. We have reason to believe she's stolen a diamond brooch."

"You're either mad or drunk," Swyven said. "Or

both."

"It's in her handbag, sir."

Swyven looked at his wife and grinned.

"Better let them look, Jane," he said. "Then we can go and get a bite at the Caprice or something. You like the place and I can't hear them anyway."

Lady Swyven opened her handbag, took out a handkerchief and cigarettes, lipstick, powder compact, lighter and a rose diamond brooch made by Carrier in Paris, approximate value three thousand pounds.

"Great God Almighty!" said Lord Swyven.

"Ecco," Miss Busoni shouted in triumph. "E—ceo."

The very handsome man with her said, "That's Pia's brooch, all right. I'd recognize it anywhere."

Linton said: "I'm afraid I must ask you to come with us to the Station, madam," and Lady Swyven burst into tears.

» Chapter 18 *

Well," said Loomis. "We're doing very nicely. Chubby Chal-lon planted the brooch on her when he bumped into her, you're on hand to identify it, and the Busoni person gets a lot of free publicity."

'There's just one point, sir," Grierson said. "She's Italian."

"Nothing could be more obvious," said Loomis. "And I am wanted for murder in Italy." "Didn't I tell you? Naxos explained all that," Loomis said. "You're in the clear now. But don't do it again." "No, sir," said Grierson. "Thank you, sir."

"Yes. Well. We also planted some more stuff in Swyven's place. Stuff Chubby knocked off for us. She could get seven years for this. Now all we got to do is leak it to the press."

"You think it'll draw Swyven out?"

"It must," Loomis said. "You don't think I want to send an old woman to prison, do you?"

"As soon as he sees Pia's name he'll know it's a plant," said Grierson.

"You are an old misery this morning," Loomis said. "Of course he'll know it's a plant and hell come all the quicker. He'll assume we're the same as he is, d'you see? And that means jail for his old ma. What you got for the press?"

Grierson handed over a typewritten release. It read: "Last night a daring attempt was made to steal a priceless diamond brooch belonging to glamorous Italian film star Pia Busoni when she attended a first night at the Duke's Theater."

"We've got a sexy picture to go with it," said Grierson.

"I'll bet you have," said Loomis.

"The attempt was frustrated by Detective Chief Inspector Linton, C.I.D. It is understood that Lady Swyven, wife of Rear Admiral Lord Swyven, is assisting the police in their inquiries. It is reported that Detective Chief Inspector Linton believes that the robbery may be linked with other recent society thefts."

"That'll do nicely," said Loomis. "I never knew you could be so vulgar, Grierson. Now all we have to do is wait."

"Suppose Lady Swyven just calls me a liar?"

"How can she?" said Loomis. "You're an ex-captain of the Royal Marines, you hunt with the Quorn, you've an uncle who's an Archdeacon. How can you possibly be a liar?"

« » «

Swyven flew in next morning at dawn, in an El-Al Trident. He had a car waiting for him, a big Russian Zim from the Zaarbist Embassy. He cleared Customs slowly, but when he reached the car it moved away at once. Swyven took comfort from its CD plates, and as it neared London began to breathe more easily. Beside him Zaarb's eleventh cultural attache, an expert on the manufacture, maintenance, and use of small arms, explained how Zaarb would never let down their good friend Swyven, who had done so much for the latest and best of people's republics. He did not explain that Swyven had only been allowed to come because it was feared that he might have done so on his own if he'd been refused help; nor that it was too early for him to die—there was still work for him to do; nor that even so the cultural attache's orders were to kill him if there were any chance of his being captured.

The Zim moved up to seventy, and Swyven felt happier still. The Skyways Hotel was behind them now, the dual carriageway was almost empty, the petrol stations clicked by in fast blobs of color. Swyven permitted himself a cigarette, then the big car slowed. There was a "Road Up" sign ahead, and a diesel road roller clanking slowly down. The Zim braked down harder as the road narrowed even more. The car moved level with the road roller, which was moving flat out at twelve miles an hour, then, incredibly, the road roller swerved into them.

The front of the bonnet disappeared before the car hit the middle of the carriageway. The chauffeur stamped on his foot brake, the back-wheel brakes engaged and slued the car round faster, slamming him into the steering wheel. The cultural attach^ received Swyven's head in his chest as his hand groped for his gun, and fell sideways, to slam his head into the rear door. Swyven pulled him clear, and reached for the door handle, but the door opened before he could touch it, and a man in overalls stood framed inside it. The man looked familiar to Swyven, but he was too terrified to think where he had seen him before. The workman had his hands on the cultural attach^ who was struggling feebly, then he struck, and the cultural attache was unconscious, and the workman was taking a gun from inside the cultural attache's coat. There was another man busy in the front of the car, a man in ambulance uniform, and he was dragging out the unconscious chauffeur.

Swyven whimpered as the cultural attache was hauled out, and handed over to other ambulance attendants. At last he made a dive through the open door, and the workman turned and tripped him, almost contemptuously, then hauled him to his feet and ran him up to a waiting ambulance, pitched him inside, leaped in after him and slammed the doors. The ambulance moved off at once, its bell clanging.

"Hello, Swyven old man," said the workman. "How are all the Carpaccios?"

After an hour they arrived at a nursing home, a quiet, discreet building, with oak trees, ivy parterres and the best alarm system in the United Kingdom. Electronic eyes winked, a gate swung open, and the ambulance went inside, behind the shelter of the trees, and pulled up by the main doors. Craig opened the doors and jumped down._

"Out," he said. "Time to see the doctor."

The cultural attache and the chauffeur stepped down, and automatically put their hands on the back of their necks. Swyven came out last, his face hidden by a handkerchief. He was weeping.

They went inside, and one of the ambulance attendants came with them. Swyven recognized Grierson, but it made no difference. Craig alone was more than he could cope with. They reached a door labeled "Group Psychotherapy." Grierson knocked, and went inside. Behind a desk heaped with carnations, Loomis beamed like a fat uncle at Christmas. His gaze moved over to Craig.

"Goodness," he said. "You do look authentic."

Craig rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, then wiped the hand on his trouser seat.

"Don't overact," said Loomis. "Any trouble?"

"No," said Craig. "The cultural attache here—and his friend—"

"A sort of cultural attache's mate," said Grierson.

"They started yelling about diplomatic immunity at first," said Craig. "Now they're more keen on political asylum."

"What about Swyven?"

"He wants his mommy," said Craig.

"And if he's a good boy—a very good boy—he shall have her," said Loomis. "Just take these two away and tidy them up, will you, Grierson?" He glowered at them. 'Tell the truth and we'll give you money. More truth, more money. If you tell enough truth, we won't let anybody shoot you. If you don't, we will."

Grierson took them out, and Loomis came out from behind the desk, placed a massive hand on Swyven's shoulder, and rammed him into a chair.

"You've got a choice, you know," Loomis said. "You can tell me, or I can let Craig get it out of you. I don't like you, Swyven, but Craig hates the sight of you. You were too pally with a feller he didn't like." He turned to Craig. "Got a flash this morning. Doctor's report on Dyton-Blease. You paralyzed him, son. For life. He can't even speak." He turned back to Swyven. "That's the way Craig is, cock," he said. "I wouldn't cross him if I were you. Then there's your mother to consider."

"You've no right to do this to me," Swyven yelled. "No right at all. And what's going to happen when the Zaarbist Embassy finds out about this?"

"Finds out about what?" said Loomis. "Your two orangutans don't want to go back to their cage. They'll use the accident as an excuse to stay out. The accident's been reported to their embassy, and you're here for treatment. The road roller man will be charged with dangerous driving, and he'll plead guilty. What on earth can Zaarb do about it? You'd better concentrate on your mommy— and Craig here."

"What about my mother?"

"She stole a lot of stuff," said Loomis. "Over ten thousand quid's worth. She'll go to prison, unless we find fresh evidence."

"That's not very likely, is it?" said Swyven.

"Up to you," said Loomis. 'Take another look at Craig, cock, then make up your mind. I won't ask you again." Swyven looked round. A dirty man in dirty overalls. A hard man, harder even than poor, dear Dyton-Blease.

"All right," he said.

"You just he back and make yourself comfy," said Loomis.

"My mother—" Swyven said.

"I'll ring Scotland Yard as soon as we're finished," Loomis said. "Don't worry about a thing." He looked quickly at Craig, his head jerked, and Craig turned to the door.

"Now just tell your old uncle," said Loomis. Craig closed the door very sofdy, and went to wash, to change, to think about Fhp.

Loomis had it made, he thought. Naxos would sign anything now, so long as Flip was being cured. And Sir Matthew seemed to think she was. But yesterday when he had seen her, she had seemed relaxed, at ease, and completely crazy, dreams and reality blending at will, Hollywood True Confessions and worry and affection flowing together like sewerage in a reservoir. Sir Matthew must know his stuff. But whatever happened to Flip, Loomis would win, because he always did. Loomis could get the defense plans of Heaven out of the Archangel Michael. He went into a room marked "Matron," stretched out on the couch, and went to sleep. Counterespionage was mostly waiting anyway.

Three hours later, the door clicked open and Loomis came in, moving with incredible softness for a man of his size. He stood over Craig, and reached out a hand.

"No," Craig said, eyes still closed. "I'm ticklish."

Loomis grunted, and sat down opposite Craig.

"I'm just about ready for the laughing academy," Loomis said. 'That lad in there's got me tied in knots."

Craig sat up, and faced him.

"It's bad then?" he asked.

"Oh no," said Loomis. "From our point of view it's perfect. Swyven and Dyton-Blease have been comrades for years, d'you see. Know their Marxist-Leninist dialectic, all that stuff. All for the suffering masses—unless they happen to be British, American, or West European. So they went out to Zaarb in the fifties and spread the gospel. While they were there they met Schiebel or Andrews, or whatever his bloody name is, and Schiebel welcomed them in. Of course. He was working loose from Russia at the time, and he needed a few chums. So Dyton-Blease and Swyven helped him in a fund-raising drive, flogging dope Schiebel brought in from China. That's how Dyton-Blease managed to borrow a couple of heavies from that Greek dope peddler. He was his main supplier. Then Schiebel sent Dyton-Blease into the Haram, that's Selina's father's place. His name's Sayed by the way. He was out looking for recruits to comradeism, but he couldn't see that happening in the Haram. They're all happy as pigs in muck there—it's like a Viking Valhalla—all fighting and feasting and screwing. So naturally, Dyton-Blease wants to change all that, but in the meantime he gets to be great chums with Sayed, and told him what swine the British were, and of course after Suez, Sayed believed every word, but unfortunately, he wasn't too keen on Dyton-Blease's other idea, which was that Zaarb was the new Jerusalem. Old Sayed had been knocking hell out of Zaarb for years, and he knew what they were like. So Dyton-Blease concentrated on just

being nice and friendly and anti-British, and waiting until Zaarb had a modern army to take over the Haram."

"Why bother?" said Craig. "There's not such a lot

of it."

"Three reasons," said Loomis. "It's strategically useful, it's about 50 percent oil, and they've got a mountain there with enough cobalt to posion the entire earth."

"Cobalt makes H-bombs look like cigarette lighters," he continued. "We won't touch the stuff, no more will the Yanks, and even the Russians have gone off it since Stalin— but the Chinese have exploded their second A-bomb, and they're looking ahead. Schiebel was anxious to provide them with the raw material. He's a nut for explosions, Swyven said. He's also just crazy enough not to care whether the little yellow brothers start popping the things off or not.

"Of course he needed transport to get the stuff to China in bulk, and that's where Naxos came in. If Naxos could be persuaded to vote the U.K. out of Zaarb Oil, then Zaarb would take over the Haram and start paying off Chinese aid with cobalt. Only that would be a bit dicey—I mean if we or the Yanks or even the Russians found out what they were doing—we'd have to stop them. Go to war. And Schiebel knew it. So he decided to use Naxos's ships for the job. After all, it's logical, it fits. They'd put the cobalt in Naxos's tankers and say it was oil to pay for Chinese equipment, and nobody would be surprised if Naxos got the job. He'd earned it by voting for Zaarb against us. And in a few years' time, the Chinese would be saying do as we say or there'll be a hell of a bang."

Loomis sat back, grunted, and produced a vicious-looking cheroot from another pocket, then glowered at Craig, fumbled again with a fat man's intensity, produced another and tossed it to Craig. Craig lit it, and inhaled cautiously. It tasted like concentrated beetroot.

"I don't see what makes you ripe for the nut house," Craig said.

"It's the motivation," said Loomis. "Dyton-Blease is easy. He just hates everybody—always has. The only fun he ever had was in destroying things and people—like old Serafin. Like you, if you hadn't cheated. Communism's built on two ideas: tear down, and rebuild. All Dyton-Blease believed in was the tearing down bit. Every time he hit somebody it was another blow for the masses. Schiebel's easy too. The Nazis built him, and the Russians improved the model, and he got away from them before they could change their minds and destroy him. He's a Communist for the same reason Dyton-Blease was—because it justifies destruction, and he was precision-made to destroy.

"But Swyven. You know why he's a Red? Because he loves his mommy and he hates his daddy. And you know why that is? Because he once saw them having a bit of nooky, and wet the pants of his sailor suit as a result, and got spanked on his bare behind by his nurse as a result of that. Put him right off women. Only mommy will do for Swyven. And the odd sailor. Very odd sailor. He hasn't liked people from that day, d'you see? Only causes. Abstractions. Dialectical Materialism. Greatest Good of the Greatest Number. Inevitability of History. He felt safe among words like that. Like an armadillo in a desert." He puffed hard on the cheroot, and the room stank of beetroot. "Now he wants to see his mommy. I said he could talk to her on the phone. I want another couple of days with him before he sees anybody else." He wheezed reminiscently. "You frightened the hell out of him in your dungarees. Damned if I know why. You just looked dirty to me."

»*9

When the S.S. Hegira reached London, Schiebel and Selina were in a packing case with diplomatic seals. A van with CD plates met them and took them to an embassy in Belgravia. They rested there overnight, and the next morning moved on to a building in Knightsbridge, just off Brompton Road. It was tall, narrow, Georgian. The notice on its door said AZ Enterprises, Ltd. Its contents included a shortwave radio station, an armory, and a prison cell. Every one of its windows had steel shutters. It was the London headquarters of an espionage organization that served Zaarb, Albania, and China. Here Schiebel began to study a pile of newspapers, coded telegrams, and reports. He worked through them steadily, and at last put through a shortwave scrambled call to Zaarb. The information he received made him angry, so that his hand shook as it held the pen. They had no right to let Swyven go. He would be safer dead. His value to Zaarb as a spy in Europe was limited, and the Security Minister should have known it. Now the British had got him, and he'd talk in five minutes. Swyven shouldn't

go near anywhere risky. He put the pen down, covered his face with his hands, and breathed deeply. In ten minutes he was calm again. He began to plan.

Now he had two jobs to do. First, Swyven must die. It was too late to prevent him talking, but he had to preserve justice. Swyven couldn't help himself, but neither could Schiebel. His course was perfectly clear. Second, there was the question of Naxos. His vote was still necessary to take oil away from an imperialist power. More important, if he could move quickly enough the Zaarbist army might be able to make a dash for the Haram and get the cobalt out before any other power could stop them; but to do that British troops would have to be withdrawn from Zaarb, and that couldn't happen until Naxos voted them out. He'd have to deal with Naxos, and for that he'd need a free hand. He had no doubt at all that Craig and the others would expect his arrival; his only chance was to send them looking for him in the wrong direction, and for that he would need Selina. He sent for the only two good men in the embassy, one of whom had been trained in China, the other in Russia. They were both in awe of him, and each hated and mistrusted the other. Schiebel found that very useful.

Between them they evolved a plan which delighted Schiebel. It was fast and violent, yet it had an elegance about it that pleased him. It was at once witty and ideologically correct. It exposed the vices of capitalist society, which would be of value to the propaganda people, it destroyed traitors, and it improved the strength of the People's Republic of Zaarb, and therefore of the People's Republic of China. With any luck, it might get rid of Craig as well.

* Chapter 19 *

Selina also thought about Craig. She had wronged him, and he had behaved perfectly, the way her brothers tried to behave, with an effortless chivalry that was instinctive, and therefore the more to be respected. She must repay him for that, and the only way to do it was to return to her father, warn him of the danger of men like Dyton-Blease, and the horror of the cobalt which Schiebel had explained to her with such loving care. At first she had refused to believe that any substance would cause such bestial damage, but he had shown her books and photographs, and now she believed, and was afraid.

She must warn her father, get away from Schiebel, from England, but that would take very careful planning. Schiebel had imprisoned her in a suite of rooms that was almost a gigantic safe, with a steel door and a steel grille over its windows. The door had a Chubb lock, and the man who brought her food was always armed. She knew nothing of the rest of the house, not even where it was, but that didn't bother her. All her life she had been trained to action, and the idea that most problems diminished in size from the moment you did something about them. What worried her was Schiebel. She had to wait until he was out of the way. She was not, she told herself, afraid of him, but his skill and efficiency had been too much for her in Zaarb. It must not happen again. She spent long hours by the window grille, watching the courtyard at the back of the house. When her chance came it was just before dinner. Schiebel came out and crossed the yard, opened the door of a car, then turned to look up at her window. She shrank back, and Schiebel got in and drove away.

Selina began to move quickly. She changed into a black sweater, black jeans, and rubber-soled shoes. For what she had to do skirts would be in the way. She remembered that these were the clothes she had worn when she first met Craig, remembered the harshness of his voice speaking Arabic, and grinned to herself. He would see that she was a proper woman—one who could take care of herself. She opened her jewelry box, took out the great necklace of gold coins, and unscrewed the catch. Dollars, sovereigns, guineas, louis d'or spilled into her hands and she crammed them into her pockets, then examined the chain they had hung on. It was of very fine links of steel, and at one end of it three gold coins were riveted into place. Selina wrapped a handkerchief round her hand, then twisted an

end of chain over the handkerchief and swung the chain in the air. The weight of the gold coins made it sing viciously as it spun. Selina sat in an armchair facing the table where she would eat, and waited, staring at a picture of a carousel on the wall—splendid horses, fat and laughing children.

When she heard the key in the lock she sat back listlessly, the hand holding the chain hidden in the depths of a cushion. A stocky, Negroid Arab came in, a pistol in his fist.

"You eat now," he said, and put the pistol in his

pocket.

I'm not hungry," said Selina.

"You'll eat. It's time," the Arab said, and went to the door to pull a trolley in, then shut and lock the door before he took the trolley to the table, lifted a covered dish. Selina waited until he set the dish down. There must be no noise.

His back still turned toward her, the stocky Arab began to straighten up. The last sounds he heard were the whirr of the chain before it curled round his neck, and the slap of the gold coins into the palm of her free hand. Selina's foot slammed into his back, she hauled hard on the chain, and the stocky Arab's yell was muted to a gasp. The girl's leg straightened slowly, there was a sharp crack of sound, and the Arab was dead.

Selina unwound the chain, slipped it into her pocket, then put on a hip-length coat, took the stocky Arab's pistol from the trolley, then turned him over. She grimaced once when she saw his face, then she thought of her father, her brothers, and her face set like stone as she searched him, took away his keys, his money, the knife he carried in his trouser pocket. It was a knife of a kind she had never seen before, an enormous clasp knife with a single blade. She touched a button at its base, and the blade flicked out, leaf-pointed, one edge ground razor sharp. She looked at the weapon in her hand, tested its balance. The guard was poor, but the blade was excellent. She looked at the words etched into the blade, "Made in Germany." That made her think of Schiebel, but this time she smiled. The knife was a good omen.

She opened the door and looked out on to a deserted corridor that led to a wide, curving staircase. A tall, welldressed Arab was walking up it slowly. He was Schiebel's expert on nuclear physics, and he had helped Schiebel to explain to her what the cobalt could do. Even the thought of it seemed to horrify him, for he was a mild and gentle man, but now Selina had no pity for his gentleness; it might be useful to her. She crouched behind the banisters and waited as the Arab moved along the corridor to the door of the room she had just left, then rapped softly on the steel panel. Slowly, carefully, she moved toward him. As he raised his fist to knock again her hand went to her pocket.

"Here," she said.

The Arab spun round and she threw the keys at him. Automatically his hands reached out for them, and as they did so he found himself looking into the barrel of a .380 Browning Standard automatic, a weapon with a 3.5-inch barrel and a weight of twenty ounces, a weapon far too big and heavy for a woman, but this woman didn't seem to be aware of the fact. The tall Arab looked at her, and had no doubt that she knew how to use it. No doubt at all.

"Open the door," said Selina. "Go inside."

The tall Arab obeyed at once. Selina followed him, and the Arab noticed that she never came within reach of his hands. Then he saw the stocky Arab, and winced.

"You will do as I say," said Selina.

"Assuredly, princess," said the tall Arab. T am yours to command."

"You will get me out of here," said Selina.

The tall Arab said. "If I do, they will kill me."

Selina said nothing, but the gun barrel lifted from his heart to a point between his eyes. The tall Arab stared down it, then slowly, careful not to alarm her, he nodded. The telephone rang. "Answer it," said Selina. "Hold it so that I can hear what's said."

He picked up the phone as she had told him, and an agitated voice from the kitchen asked questions. The tall Arab said smoothly: "This is Sherif. David has an errand to do for me. He will come back to you when he has finished, in about half an hour. And hsten. I have business with the girl"—he looked at the gun barrel then away— "important business. I don't want to be disturbed again." He hung up then, and Selina smiled at him. Even then, as he loathed and feared her, Sherif thought how enchanting her smile was.

"Now I will have to help you," he said bitterly. "Do you think your father will protect me?"

Selina said: "The Tuareg always protect their own." Sherif winced again.

"It will have to be the roof," he said at last. "The doors are guarded all the time. The men on guard never let anyone in or out without a pass. The roof is the only way." He began to explain, and at last, reluctantly, Selina agreed. Sherif leading, they went out again to the corridor, to the stairs, up and up to a row of attic rooms. Sherif hesitated before one of them and the girl whispered: "My father cannot protect you if you are dead." Sherif shuddered, took a key from his pocket, and went in.

The attic was a wireless room, lit by a skylight. Sherif clambered on a table, and opened the skylight, then hauled himself through. As he got halfway, the girl said: "Stay there." Sherif sat in sulky silence as Selina put a chair on top of the table. "Now crawl away," she said. "Don't walk. Crawl. And count aloud as you go." Sherif thought of the gun barrel and obeyed. When he got to five he heard a low clatter behind him, and turned. The girl was coming through. He rose then, but she was as fast as a cat and was up before him, the gun rock steady in her hand.

"What now?" she asked.

They were in a deep gutter that ran between the twin roofs of the house. Sherif walked cautiously down it, Selina close behind him. Sherif crouched down and took out a cigarette, lit it with a hand that shook. "In a little while it will be dark," he said. "Then you can escape."

"Then we can escape," said Selina.

Sherif groaned.

When darkness came he led the way to where, at the edge of the tower, he pointed to a fire escape. Selina moved closer to him, and he felt the gun barrel burn into his back. They stepped on the escape together, and the girl stifled a cry as it swung down, counterweighted between the building and the one next to it. When it reached the floor beneath, Sherif reached out an arm, and held on to the rails of a balcony projecting from the house opposite, then stepped across. Selina stayed on the fire escape.

"Now you must let me help you, princess," said

Sherif.

Selina shook her head, walked back up two steps of the escape, then jumped, clearing the railings, and was beside him once again. Sherif stopped hating her then.