The Innocent Bystanders

James Munro - THE INNOCENT BYSTANDERS

CHAPTER 1

It was time to go, and two by two the men embraced, looking in wonder into each other's faces, trying to read there what they felt: tension, fear, and an overwhelming joy. Zhelkov went first, in his hand the little packet of poison that Goldfarb and Kaplan had prepared. His task was dangerous, because when he fed the dogs a guard watched him, careful to see that he stole none of their food. But Zhelkov was dexterous, and the poison found its way into both food and water. He was very gentle with the dogs that night, fondling them, calling them by name, till the guard ordered him out and slouched off to his hut, and Zhelkov sat by himself and watched the dogs slump down and sleep. They always did, after their meal, but this time they did not finish their food.

Klein, Goldfarb, and Kaplan came next. They had the wire cutters Zimma had made, and the skill to use them. Over and over they had practiced on baling wire tougher than the obstacle in front of them. They sat by the wire and waited as the sky darkened. Then Moskowitz and Avramov brought out their mattresses and began to beat them. This was a common enough sight in the camp, where fleas and bedbugs abounded, but this time there was a special reason. The mattresses would protect them against the wire. Next it was Daniel, followed by Asimov and Gabrilovich. They were the rear guard, and in their pockets were the knives Zimma had made for them. Daniel had picked the other two because they were the fittest and hardest of the ten, and he had trained them well. They left the hut and moved, past the powerhouse and the guardroom toward their huts. The sky was dark now, and as they passed the stables the light came on, ponies stamped, and there was the chink of harness. In another five minutes the signal would sound for them to go inside their huts, and a guard would go to release the dogs. Daniel stepped out quicker. When the lights went each man had to be as near a guard as he could, without causing suspicion. Without the guards' carbines they would have no chance at all, and this work mustn't be wasted, he thought. Must not. And yet I feel it. Something is wrong. Where is Zimma?

Zimma had prayed once more, alone, and God had heard him and clearly answered. When Zimma had heard all that God had to say, he rose, picked up the ax that was in the tool shed, and limped toward the powerhouse. As he did so, Moskowitz and Avramov rolled up their mattresses and walked toward the wire, hanging on the outskirts of the crowd that was already moving toward the huts. Zimma kept on walking, a man who had been sent to chop wood and was returning his ax, and nobody noticed or cared. When he reached the guard, Zimma went straight up to him, mumbling a question. The guard motioned him forward impatiently, and Zimma advanced two more steps, then swung the ax, and the blade bit deep into his head, severing the back of the skull. Zimma picked up the guard's carbine and turned. After a moment of incredulous quiet, prisoners were running, yelling, to their huts, away from the powerhouse to which the guards were racing. Zimma shot the first two guards and stepped into the powerhouse, a prayer on his lips. He was very happy. Quickly he found what he wanted, and limped forward. Hear ye, Israel, he said aloud, and swung the ax for the last time.

The darkness when it came was total, but already the men with the wire cutters had moved into position, the men with the mattresses close behind. The pandemonium around them was so complete that men had eyes only for their own huts, thought only of the terrible revenge that would be taken for the powerhouse sentry. When Zimma fired, Daniel attacked his guard, who was trying to push his way through a crowd of prisoners to reach the source of the shots. Asimov and Gabrilovich followed his lead. Zimma had given them a wonderful opportunity, and they took it. Daniel's hands snapped the life from the guard as if it were thread. Gabrilovich and Asimov used their knives. All three men killed quickly, but without pity. The one Asimov killed had been his lover.

They took the carbines and ammunition pouches and grouped together. No one stopped them; every face they saw was filled with incredulous horror. Then the rights died and they raced to the wire, the mattresses went down and they were through, running, Daniel in the lead, feeling his way along the track that he had memorized, eyes closed, for the last three weeks. They fought the clearing in the forest and lay panting as Daniel called out their names. Asimov, Avramov, Daniel, Gabrilovich, Goldfarb, Klein, Moskowitz, Zhelkov. Of Kaplan there was no sign.

Goldfarb said at last, "I think he knew he had no chance. He did this to help us."

Daniel heaved up the great stone that covered their hoarded food.

"I hope so," he said, "but there is something wrong. I know it."

Quickly he gave each man his share of the food, then, put into each hand a nugget of gold.

"We split up now?" Moskowitz asked.

Daniel said, "In a moment. First let me have the weapons."

He distributed them carefully. The best shot in each team got a carbine, the rest had knives. Gabrilovich led a team, and so did Klein. Daniel's team of four was reduced to two: Zimma dead, Kaplan missing.

"Go now," said Daniel. "Asimov and I will be the rear guard."

They said no word, and it was dark still, but their silence was filled with meaning. Then Gabrilovich and Klein left, and the others followed.

"What do we do?" Asimov asked.

"We move north," said Daniel.

"North? But that's the wrong way."

Daniel said nothing for a moment, then: "We'll draw off the pursuit," he said and smiled.

"You're a good man," Asimov said.

Daniel remembered the jingle of harness in the stable.

The ponies had been saddled and ready even before the breakout. No point in going into all that with Asimov; not now. The boy admired him too much.

A squadron of guards, mounted on ponies, overtook Gabrilovich's team before dawn and killed them all at a loss of a man and two ponies. It took them longer to find Klein's team, because they had lost their route, and when they did, Klein's team fought hard. The guards wanted one prisoner at least, but in the end only Zhelkov was left alive, and he died of wounds on the way back. The guards lost two more men. Shortly afterwards the Uzbek commandant was shot by firing squad, and his second-in-command, who had led the pursuit, was promoted in his place. For six months Kaplan, Daniel, and Asimov were posted missing; after that they were presumed dead.

To die in Volochanka is not perhaps such a terrible thing; to survive is infinitely worse. Volochanka is special. It is designed, as Hell was, for the fallen angels, and like Hell's its final torture is despair. The achievement of the ten was that they faced despair and did not let it defeat them. Gabrilovich began it, with the kind of accident that only later they learned to recognize as the hand of God. Gabrilovich had been a mining engineer, and worked in the coal mine. It was part of his rehabilitation; learning how the miners themselves lived and worked and suffered, so that if society again found him acceptable, he, the intellectual, would know what workers must endure as a result of his decisions. His rehabilitation consisted of hauling a truck loaded with coal for fourteen hours a day from the face to the shaft. Zimma helped him. Zimma had been a doctor, specializing in survival techniques. For three years he had worked on the training of astronauts. They had hauled the trucks together for days, collapsed like exhausted animals in their rest periods, wolfed their appalling food at noonday, and talked hardly at all. Talk was dangerous, it led to nostalgia, and nostalgia only increased the just-bearable weight of suffering that each man bore. Then one night Gabrilovich had a dream: it re-created vividly the new suit his father had bought him for his bar mitzvah, and the smells of the food his mother had cooked, the delicate dry flavor of Crimean wine. Gabrilovich wanted very much to share the weight of that dream. It was too much to carry alone. He had looked at Zimma that noon, gulping his lukewarm soup, dividing up his bread—Zimma always saved some of his bread, and Gabrilovich hated him for it—then he had spoken the words.

"Zimma, forgive my asking, but are you Jewish?"

Zimma stared at him, incredulous. He was transported back immediately to an Embassy party in Stockholm. He had worn a suit he had bought that morning, he remembered, a dark rich blue that exactly matched the pattern on his tie. A silk tie made in Italy. There was a young Swede at the party who had been to Washington and told American stories in English. One of them had been about the millionaire who had lost all his money in the depression. His wife had left him, his children disowned him, his house and cars were taken away, and he had nothing. One day he stood in the bread line waiting for a handout. It was a bitter day in February and he had no overcoat, so to keep himself warm he, who had had millions, wrapped himself in old newspapers, picked up at random from trash cans, and one of them was the Jewish Chronicle. As he stood waiting, in line, a Cadillac drew up by the curb and its chauffeur opened the door to a Jewish lady, snug in chinchilla, secure in diamonds, who walked down the line and gave each man a quarter. When she got to the former millionaire she saw the Jewish Chronicle wrapped across his chest.

"Forgive me for asking," she said, "but are you Jewish?" "Jesus," the former millionaire said. "That's all I needed."

And Zimma had remembered, totally, completely, the party, his suit, his tie, the young Swede and his story, and he had laughed. It was the first time anybody had laughed in that coal mine, except a guard. It was a beginning.

At first it had been enough that there were two of them. They had begun by exchanging biographies, but from the start the nostalgia was carefully rationed. They had concentrated more on the fact of their Jewishness, and how much it had contributed to their being in the camp, even after the terrifying old madman had died in Moscow, convinced till the last that Jewish doctors were poisoning him. Then Avramov began to eat with them, and he too began to talk. Avramov had lectured on political science in Riga. It had been Zimma who brought in Moskowitz, and then Avramov reported that Daniel, who had lived in his hut, would like to join, but Daniel worked in the forest. He could not come and talk in the mine. Daniel was also the camp's millionaire. He had been a soldier and had risen to the rank of major. He was strong and ruthless and had somehow stored away a little hoard of gold. One day Avramov brought word that Daniel would donate some of his gold to hiring a meeting place. Moskowitz, a former lawyer, sought an interview with the commandant of his sector of the camp. The commandant had first beaten Moskowitz, who expected it. The commandant, an Uzbek, always beat prisoners who asked for interviews. But in the end he agreed. They could meet for an hour once a week. The place they were given was a tool shed, the entirely unofficial rent a hundred rubles a month. The limit of their membership was to be ten, a number Moskowitz accepted at once. It was the number of the minyan. But they said nothing of religion. Not then.

Daniel brought a young poet with him, and the poet, Asimov, suggested Kaplan, an agronomist. Zimma produced Goldfarb, another doctor, and then Klein the singer and Zhelkov the psychologist appeared. That closed the list. By then other Jews in the camp had heard about them, and begged to join, but they would accept no more. It was the other Jews who called them the minyan: the minimum number of Jewish men who must meet together before a service can be held. The ten.

At their first meetings they talked about communism. Avramov lectured, and the rest asked questions, dialecti-cally pure questions about the dangerous fallacy of Israel and the gratifying decline in Judaic religion; questions one could address to the hidden microphone that Gabrilovich found within minutes of entering the hut. After four weeks the microphone was withdrawn; the Uzbek had found the tapes both boring and pathetic. Obviously these men hoped to have their sentences reduced by proving how deserving of rehabilitation they were. But the Uzbek knew they would never be released.

So did they. When the microphone went they talked about the world as it should be, not as it was. Avramov told them how the world need never hunger, Zhelkov told them how the human mind could develop into an instrument beyond their comprehension, Kaplan how the desert in Israel could blossom, quite literally, like a rose. Asimov related stories, Klein sang. Without books or writing materials they created something new with their voices, part seminar, part magazine. Then Gabrilovich discussed survival, their own—how to hoard their food, their sleep, their strength, to give them the best possible chance to avoid the terror of the hospital and a slow but certain death. It was Daniel, always the bravest, who asked the questions: How many of us want to survive? To their surprise, their joy, they found they all did, so long as they could meet together, and that night Klein prayed. He alone was Orthodox, he alone knew the words, but that night when Klein prayed they all prayed with him and from him took lessons in their own religion.

Daniel let two more weeks go by before he talked of escape. He had never spoken before, and at first they did not want to hear him, but Daniel had two persuasive arguments: his gold rented their meeting place, now, inevitably, nicknamed the synagogue, and on escape he was the expert, and a rule of their society was always to listen to the expert. He disarmed them at once by saying that it was inevitable that most of them would fail, but even they would achieve the reward of a quick death. For the others, the successful ones, there would be a chance to get out of the country, and if they succeeded, they could tell of their suffering and contribute to the arrival of the world as it should be. That was a debt they would owe to God. Asimov agreed at once; he was by far the youngest, and the enormous odds frightened him least. With the others it took time, but in the end they all agreed, even Kaplan, who at fifty had no chance at all. Two things persuaded them: the fact that it was a moral—even a religious—duty, and the fact that if they failed, as most of them would, death was their only punishment, and death, so long as it came quickly, was the only release that would ease them once the minyan was disbanded.

Even so, the magnitude of their task, when they began to examine it, appalled them. The camp was at Volochanka, two hundred miles inside the Arctic Circle. In its bitter winter no human being could survive outside the camp, in summer the guards were doubled, dogs roamed the spaces between the huts all night, and searchlights played at random, without predictable patterns. There were, besides, two tangles of barbed wire and machine guns mounted at each corner of the camp's perimeter. The guards, armed with tommy guns and clubs, used skis in winter and Mongolian ponies in summer. And it was all waste, all display. Until the ten men began plotting together, none of the prisoners, even the crazy ones, had even thought of escaping. There was nowhere to escape to.

They began by nourishing and training their bodies. Daniel taught them how to exercise, Klein how to develop their breathing, Gabrilovich how to work their muscles to the utmost limit of their capacity. They pooled all their possessions except Daniel's gold—that would be needed after their escape—and used them to buy food. They were ruthless about this: when food could not be bought it was stolen, and to steal prisoners' food at Volochanka meant agonizing death at the hands of other prisoners, if they were caught. Here, too, the Mosaic law operated. A life for a life. To take a man's food was to take his life. But they succeeded, and grew strong. Goldfarb taught them hygiene, and they survived the wave of typhus that swept the camp in the spring. Chance alone had kept them alive as a group through the January influenza epidemic, and they thanked God for it. Asimov developed into a bold and cunning thief and stole worn-out tools, hinges, screws that Zimma patiently transformed into wire cutters and weapons. That winter a guard fell in love with Asimov, who submitted and brought his presents into the common pool to buy food. Kaplan found a suitable patch of ground and grew flowers in it and the camp thought he was crazy as the summer slowly waned, the nights grew shorter and almost disappeared.

The break was planned for July. There were only two hours of darkness in Siberia then, and Kaplan's flowers had reached the state they needed. Nightshade, most of it, but there were other ingredients. One day he picked them all, as the camp jeered, and let them wither, then he and Goldfarb set to work extracting the poison that would deal with the dogs. It was Zhelkov who fed the dogs. They loved him. Whatever he fed them, they would eat ... Zimma had his own plans to deal with the power cable. They might work, and they might not—insulation was impossible even to steal, but Zimma had agreed to tackle the job, and the risks were his own. God might yet let him live. They had their escape route planned, their rallying point in the forest that Daniel had mapped out for them already memorized, their hopes and prayers centered on a boat that might take them to Vadso, in Norway, eight hundred miles away. Then Zimma cut his leg in the mine, and he knew that he, who by his laughter had started the movement, would not see it through to the end. The cut was not serious, but it turned septic and there were no medicines. It grew worse and he found it harder to work, his strength faded. But every day until the escape he staggered to work. On the last three days he gave the others his food. And he was happy. God had been generous. Even if he had decided not to let Zimma live, at least he had simplified the problem of cutting the power supply.

On the night of the break nine of them assembled in the hut and waited for Kaplan, whose job it was to bring the poison for the dogs. This they needed desperately, but even more they needed his presence. Without him they were not ten; there could be no ritual prayer. It was strange how important prayer was to them. Zhelkov had lectured on it once, not stating a theory, but verbalizing the question that nagged in all their minds, except the Orthodox Klein's: Why do we need the prayers when we none of us believe in God? They had decided at last that the answer was in their Jewishness, which the ritual, the prayers, the Hebrew tongue all made manifest. But there was more than that, and they knew it, though what that "more" was they never could define. To the end the question nagged at some of them, though Zimma, Klein, and Daniel joined Kaplan in his faith. But now, all alike, believer and non-believer, waited for Kaplan and their prayers.

He came in at last and they moved toward him in a wave of impatience and relief. What had delayed him? Was anything wrong? Why did he have to be late on this night of all nights? It was Daniel who called them to order. Daniel was leader now. He took Kaplan to the window and examined him in its light. Beside Daniel's huge, slab-muscled body, Kaplan's wiry toughness looked frail. His face was gray and there was a bruise already darkening his cheekbone.

"Tell it," said Daniel.

"I was bringing the poison," Kaplan said, "and a guard stopped me."

"He found it?" Klein asked. Daniel motioned him to silence.

"He wanted me to fetch water. I was too slow for him. He hit me—and kicked me. Here." He pressed his hands to his stomach. "Daniel—I don't think I can do it."

"You must," said Daniel. "Each man has his place. You know that. Without you we cannot go."

"I can stay behind and help Zimma," Kaplan said.

"Then you will die."

"Of course," said Kaplan.

Daniel turned to Goldfarb. "Look at his stomach," he said.

Goldfarb's hands were deft and tender as he looked. The bruise was enormous and they had nothing for it. "It hurts," Kaplan whimpered.

"Does it hurt too much to pray?" Daniel asked, and Kaplan stood then, and Klein led them in prayer.

When they had done, Daniel sat down beside the older man, and his voice was gentle. "Kaplan," he said, "it must be tonight. We are ready now. Tomorrow and every day that follows, little by little our courage will go. Our food will be found, our tools will be discovered. It has to be tonight. And please do not stay behind with Zimma. It is brave, but it is also foolish. If you want to die, volunteer for the wire." Kaplan bent his head.

"Please do not hate me," he said.

"How can I hate you? How can any of us? We need you, Kaplan." *

Then Kaplan said, "Very well. I will come," and the others crowded round to thank, to praise, and Daniel gave him some vodka, the only painkiller they had, from his carefully hoarded store. Kaplan raised his glass, and drank to their endeavor. Six hours later he, Daniel, and Asimov were declared missing; the rest were dead.

CHAPTER 2

Craig accepted his third drink and watched as Thomson put in the ice, added whisky, and then ginger ale. His quantities were generous. At one time Craig would have hesitated when the third drink was offered, needing the assurance that it was safe to accept, that his mind and body would not be called upon to work for him with a speed and certainty that a third large Scotch could impair, perhaps with fatal results. But now Craig ran no risks, and so he accepted the third drink without hesitation. It was easier too. Thomson was an overforceful host. But then Thomson was an overforceful everything. He had the flat above Craig's in the elegant block in Regent's Park, and that, Craig thought, was the only possible reason why he'd been invited to the party. The best way to keep the neighbors happy was to invite them too. He didn't mind; parties were boring, but he was always bored anyway. At least at a party you had company.

Thomson produced films for television. He had noisy friends who did noisy things and a seemingly endless supply of young actresses who looked intense and called Craig "darling" and were nice because Craig might turn out to be in the business, and if they weren't nice he wouldn't offer them a job. Craig knew that in television terms this passed as logic, so he played fair most of the time and admitted he didn't do anything. Only with the very pretty ones did he linger for a while, make them wonder, before the shocking truth came out. He was nothing, not even an adman, and not even ashamed . . . He sipped his Scotch and looked from a very pretty one to the bracket clock on Thomson's not quite Regency table. It was seven thirty. Time to go out to dinner. After he had dined

Loomis wanted to see him, but he wouldn't care if Craig were late, not any more. Loomis saved his anger for the important ones, and Craig was no longer important. The thought was consoling. Craig had known another man whom Loomis had considered important, and that man was incurably insane. He shook the ice in his drink and put it down on a coaster, dead center. The girl he was talking to—Angela, was it? Virginia? Caroline?—noticed the power in the hand, the ridges of hard skin across the knuckles, along the edge of the hand from wrist to fingertip. And because she was a sensitive girl, she also noticed the boredom of the man and resented it. A man who stood six feet tall, a wide-shouldered lean-hipped man with mahogany-colored hair and gray eyes that made her think of Scandinavian seas, had no right to be bored. Not when she was talking to him. Suddenly he smiled at her, and the face, that had been only strong before, was suddenly handsome.

"You're very nice," he said. "Very nice indeed." The words distressed her, though they were kindly meant. "Look," he said, "why don't I introduce you to those people over there? Two of them are producers, and one's a casting director."

"You don't have to be so bloody polite," said the girl. "I'm not a hag yet."

She left him in a flurry of anger, her mini-skirt riding over impeccable thighs, and Craig went to say good-bye to his host.

Thomson was hurt. He said so noisily, and at great length. The whole idea of the party, he explained, was for Craig and a few kindred spirits to get together. Have fun, enjoy themselves, talk to a few girls.

"I've done all that," said Craig. "It's time I was off."

Thomson wouldn't hear of it. There was a second, and very exciting reason why a favored few had been asked along. He'd hoped to explain it later over a few sandwiches and a mouthful of champagne. As a matter of fact that girl he'd been talking to would be staying. Wouldn't Craig like that?

"Very much," said Craig. "But I really have to go. You know. Business."

The word was one which Thomson had never taken lightly, and he responded to it at once.

"Just give me five minutes, old man. That isn't too much to ask, is it?" And Craig agreed that it was not.

He found himself hustled into a room called a study, which was mostly Morocco leather, on books, on the writing desk and chair, even on the wastepaper basket. Thomson shut the door on him, disappeared, then reentered almost at once with a short, squat young man and a trayful of Scotch. The squat young man it seemed had written a play, and Thomson needed a backer . . . Craig discovered it was even later than he had thought. He said so, and turned to the door.

The squat young man said, "I'm an artist. I create things. Surely I have a right to a hearing?"

His voice was unbelievably harsh. Nothing it could say, not even "I love you," would sound like anything but a threat.

"Some other time," said Craig. "I have enjoyed meeting you."

The squat young man put a hand on his arm.

"Look," he said. "I used to be a wrestler. I've done time for assault. You're going to hear me now."

Craig looked at Thomson, who had the baffled look of a conjuror suddenly realizing that his best trick is about to misfire.

"Is he sober?" he asked.

"He's had a few," said Thomson.

Craig looked at the hand on his arm.

"A year or two ago if you'd done that I'd have broken your arm," he said.

The hand slid up the muscle of Craig's arm, and fell at once to his side.

"Some other time, when I'm not so busy," Craig said, and left.

Thomson downed a drink quickly, looked in scorn at the wrestler turned playwright.

"And you thought he was a fairy," he said.

Craig dined on salad, sole veronique, and a half-bottle of Chablis, and as he dined he thought of the squat young man. The violence of his own reaction surprised him.

Their tactics, after all, had been perfectly reasonable in terms of the world they lived in. He'd made no passes at girls, therefore he was queer, and because he was queer the squat young man had put his hand on him. There were better ways to handle that situation than to talk of breaking arms. And yet it had happened at once: the flat threat thrusting at them both, escaping his conscious control. He could have done it too, even now. Without disarranging his tie he could have broken both their arms; or their necks. Craig shivered. He didn't want that feeling, not any more. Nor did he want to see Loomis, but he went. The fat man was power: irresistible power to those who had worked for him, and Craig had served him for five violent years.

Queen Anne's Gate looked well by night. The street lights softened the clean lines of the buildings to a pretty romanticism that made the street remember its elegant past with nostalgia, but Craig's thoughts were with the present. He ignored the row of brass plates: Dr. H. B. Cunnington-Low, Lady Brett, Major Fuller, the Right Reverend Hugh Bean. They were precisely the sort of names that belonged in Queen Anne's Gate—but they didn't exist. Craig pressed the bell marked "Caretaker" and waited till the door was opened by a muscular man in overalls. Somewhere about him, Craig knew, he carried a Smith and Wesson .38 revolver and a commando knife. The caretaker held his job because he could use them.

"You're expected, Mr. Craig," he said. "You're to go straight up."

Craig climbed the stairs to the flat marked "Lady Brett" and went inside. The caretaker watched him go in. Lady Brett's flat was Craig's office, and Craig had no business there when Loomis had summoned him at once, but the caretaker made no move to interfere. Craig might be slowing up and drinking a bit too much, but he had a judo black belt and an expert's knowledge of karate, and the caretaker had to practice unarmed combat with him once a month. He never antagonized Mr. Craig if he could help it.

The office was neat and tidy, the way his secretary Mrs. McNab always left it. And, anyway, there wasn't much work sent to him now. The place wasn't all that hard to keep in order. He looked through his "In" tray, but nothing had been added since he left: there was no helpful memo from Mrs. McNab. Whatever Loomis had in store for him would come as a surprise. The fat man liked surprises, when he delivered them. Craig went along the corridor and tapped on the door that was of paneled mahogany, polished silken smooth. There was an indeterminate growl from behind it, and Craig went inside, into a perfect establishment setpiece with a superb stucco ceiling, sash windows, and overstuffed furniture covered in flowered chintz. Behind a Chippendale desk Loomis sat in a buttoned leather armchair that was the biggest piece of furniture Craig had ever seen, and yet it fitted the big man so exactly that a Savile Row tailor might have measured him for it. Loomis was vast, a figure of enormous power that had slopped over into fat, with pale, manic eyes, an arrogant nose, and white hair clipped close to his skull. When Craig first met Loomis the white hair had been dusted with red, but now the red had gone.

"Pour coffee," said Loomis, "and sit down." For Loomis the invitation was cordial.

Craig poured coffee from a vacuum flask—it was black, bitter, scalding hot—then sat on the arm of one of the chairs. It was bad enough facing Loomis, even if he were in a good mood, without being three feet below him.

"I've been thinking about you," said Loomis. "Thinking a lot. I'm beginning to wonder if you still fit in here, son." Craig waited; there was a lot more to come.

"You've done some nice jobs for us," Loomis said, "and I don't deny it. You kill people nice and tidy, and you got a few brains as well. But the last job spoiled you—or at least I think so. Do you still dream about it?"

"No," said Craig, and it was true. The best and most expensive psychiatrist in the country had labored for weeks to stop those dreams.

"Think about it?"

"No," Craig said again, and this time it was a lie. When you have been tortured by having electric shocks run through your penis there are times when you think about it, no matter how hard you try not to.

"I don't believe you," said Loomis, "but it doesn't matter. You finished that job and I'm grateful to you, but I don't think you're ready for another one."

"Nor do I," said Craig. He put his cup down quickly before his hand began to shake.

"You do nice paperwork, but I got too many fellers for that already." He paused. "Experts," he said, making the word an insult. "I'm beginning to wonder if I can use you at all."

"You can hardly just let me go," said Craig. "No," Loomis agreed. "I can hardly do that. Nobody ever leaves my department—once they sign on." Craig waited again.

"I been thinking of sending you to the school," Loomis said. "Training the young hopefuls. You're the kind of feller they'll be up against, once they get into the field—or you were. But I dunno. You're not exactly cut out to be a schoolmaster, are you? On the other hand, I got nothing else to offer. We better make it the school. I tell you what," he said. "I'll make you a sort of graduation exercise. Go down there tomorrow, have a look around, but don't let the students see you. Pascoe will pick out the ones who are ready, and you can set up test situations for them. See if they're any good. See if you're any good come to that. Like the idea?"

"No," said Craig.

"I didn't think you would. You can go down there tomorrow. I'll tell Pascoe to expect you."

The school was in Sussex, an isolated Elizabethan manor house in fifty acres of grounds enclosed by an eight-foot granite wall. There were always two men at the gates, and they were armed. Closed-circuit television warned them of every approaching car, and day and night Alsatians roamed the grounds. They were good dogs; Pascoe had trained them himself. The nearest village was seven miles away, and the villagers had kept well away from the manor house ever since the dogs had caught a poacher ten years ago. The villagers believed that the manor house was a nursing home for wealthy, dangerous maniacs, and

Pascoe did all he could to encourage that belief. Once he'd even faked an escape: a red-bearded schizoid armed with a crowbar, trapped in the snug of The Black Bull just before opening time; dogs and straitjackets and a tremendous smashing of glass. It had cost Pascoe fifty pounds in breakages, and the village had never forgotten.

His pupils were driven hard. They had to be: there was a great deal to learn. The school existed only for the benefit of Department K, and those who worked for Department K were specialists of the highest order. Their business was destruction—of plans, of aspirations, of life when the need arose. And those who wished to serve Department K had first to master many trades. In the school Pascoe had a language laboratory, a small-arms range, a unit dealing with arson and sabotage, a gymnasium, and a garage. There were daily sessions in unarmed combat, there were visiting lecturers who taught safe-breaking, the extraction of information, the use of the knife, the improvisation of weapons, the picking of pockets, on every conceivable subject from desert survival to everyday life in the Soviet Union. There was a course on how to resist methodically applied pain to the limits of physical and mental strength. At the end of each course— and courses were held only when there were a sufficient number of likely candidates—the school turned over to Loomis a handful of men and women who were afraid of nothing but their master's power. If they disobeyed, defected, or used their skills against anyone but the targets Loomis selected he could have them killed, and they knew it.

They had been deviously recruited, those who served Loomis: from the Intelligence Services some of them, or the Special Branch of CID; from the armed forces, the universities, the business desk, and the factory floor. Some, not many, from prison. One of Loomis's experts spent his whole working life reading photostated personnel files acquired via his cover as director for the Unit of Psychological and Statistical Research. Likely candidates were spotted, observed, tailed, unknowingly interviewed, and tested. Loomis's expert was good. Of the candidates he spotted, perhaps four per cent reached the school, and after that they belonged to Department K forever, whether they reached the standard of field operative or not. Loomis's security was absolute. No one who knew about the department ever left it alive.

Craig waited at the gate while one of the men on duty examined his pass. The other one wasn't in sight, but he'd be there, Craig knew, with a gun on him. The man he could see handed back the pass and said, "Straight on up to the house, please, sir. And don't get out of the car till Mr. Pascoe comes to fetch you. There's dogs about." He went back to the gatehouse, pressed a button, and the gates swung open. Craig drove the Lamborghini through and at once the gates were closed. As he drove slowly up the drive, the car whispering, Craig spotted the dogs. They used cover like leopards, and they followed him all the time. He reached the main doors of the house, switched off the engine, pulled up the hand brake, and waited. The six dogs settled in a great arc round the car, ears back, the hair on their necks bristling. If he left the car they would kill him, for all his slull, and Pascoe wasn't there to meet him; Pascoe was enjoying the fact that Craig was helpless in the face of something that he, Pascoe, had created.

He appeared at last, and whistled to the dogs. At once they moved off back into the grounds and their endless patrol. Craig got out of the Lamborghini and moved up the steps, not hurrying, to where Pascoe waited. Pascoe had been a colonel in military intelligence and a liaison officer with the maquis, and had survived three months in a Gestapo prison. He was tall, thin, whipcord hard, and proud of his school. The people he turned out were the best there were, except that Craig had been better than any of them. Craig was the only Department K operator who had never attended the school. Pascoe detested him.

"You do yourself well," he said, and looked at the Lamborghini, its insolent scarlet blaring at a bed of soft Mayflowers. Craig walked past him into a hall that held a Shiraz rug, a Jacobean chest, an oil by Srubbs.

"You don't do too badly yourself," he said. "For a schoolmaster."

Pascoe's hands clenched. Sooner or later they always did, when Craig appeared. He had never met the man who could beat him, until he met Craig. The thought was bitter to him. Then he remembered what Loomis had said to him over the scrambler phone. Craig was getting past it. The fists loosened, became hands again.

"Can I get you something?" he said. "A drink?"

Craig looked at his watch.

"I'm not quite that far gone," he said. "Eleven o'clock in the morning is a shade too early, even for old dipsos like me. Where are all the pupils?"

"At a lecture," Pascoe said. "They won't know you've been here."

"Can I see them?" Craig asked.

"Of course," said Pascoe. "They're watched all the time." He took a key from his pocket, inserted it into the back of a television set, and switched on. As its picture formed Craig saw five men and two women listening to a doctor. He was explaining how to set a broken arm. Craig thought he had never seen such an intensity of concentration.

"No one-way glass?" he asked.

"Certainly—if you'd prefer it," Pascoe said.

He took the key from the set, then led the way toward the lecture room. Set in one wall of it was a mirror, and behind it Craig stood. From his side the mirror became a window, and he looked at the seven faces, the set of their bodies, the way they used their hands. After the lecture they went to the target range, and again Craig watched, unseen. Then it was unarmed combat, and he watched them on the dojo mat. Lunch then, with Pascoe presiding, the meal conducted with the formal stiffness of an embassy reception, butler and footman wary for mistakes with glasses, forks, knives, as Craig spied on them. After lunch Pascoe held his class in situations. You have to get information out of a man, but you must make no noise. What do you do? . . . You pretend to speak no Russian, and the KGB have trapped you into showing a knowledge of Russian. What do you do? . . . You have a message that must be delivered; a live drop. The courier who turns up seems impeccable—and yet you are not quite sure. What do you do? . . . Craig eavesdropped, and ate sandwiches.

By the end of the class he had made his choice. He went to Pascoe's office, and Pascoe joined him.

"They're in the language lab for half an hour," he said. "After that I really should turn them loose for a bit or they'll start to wonder."

"The one you called David," said Craig. "David Branch. I'd like a copy of his file. And the fair lad—Andrew Royce." He paused, and Pascoe said:

"You were asked to pick three."

At last Craig said, "The rest of the men were pretty average."

"And the girls?"

Slowly, reluctantly, Craig said, "The tall one had possibilities."

"Joanna Benson? I quite agree," said Pascoe. "They're the three I'd have picked myself."

He went to a cabinet and took out three files. Craig signed for them.

"How do you propose to organize these tests?"

"You tell these three they've graduated. I'll take David first, then Joanna, then Andrew. Loomis will see them at the department—and give them their first briefing. For them it'll be the real thing. That way we'll know what they'd really be like—if and when."

They walked back to the hall, and then on to the sun-warmed steps. At once the dogs appeared, then waited as Pascoe walked with Craig and saw him to his car. Craig slammed the door and Pascoe whistled; the dogs clustered round him.

"I'll keep them here till the gates close," Pascoe said.

Craig switched on and the engine exploded with life, then muted at once to murmured power.

"I hope you won't hurt my students too much," Pascoe said.

"I hope they won't hurt me," said Craig.

CHAPTER 3

Loomis gave the American lunch at his club. Years ago Loomis had decided that that was what Americans liked: the secret places of the Establishment, the byways that led to the corridors of power, the shabby leather of libraries, the mahogany bar, and pink gins before lunch with a man who had once been an admiral on the China Station. Then a traditional lunch—smoked salmon, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, gooseberry fool, washed down with draught bitter. The American was a gourmet, and the food at Loomis's club was appalling, but Loomis had allowed for this. It made the American defensive. He had come to ask a favor after all. Loomis ordered the beef underdone, then asked for an extra portion of sprouts. Even the waiter was awed by this: the sprouts at Loomis's club were notorious.

Throughout the meal they talked of horses. Loomis had once served in a cavalry regiment and had hunted at Melton Mowbray; the American owned a ranch in Arizona and bred quarter horses. Their talk was detailed, impassioned, and very boring to others, as it was meant to be, and the American was grateful for it. It helped distract his mind from the appalling food. When they had finished the meal, Loomis said, "If I were you I wouldn't try the coffee here. It isn't all that good," and to the end of his days the American couldn't decide if he were serious.

"Tell you what," said Loomis. "Come into the little library. I got a picture of Jumbo there. Horse I rode with the Quorn in '33. Seventeen hands and jumped stone walls."

The American said carefully, "If you're sure it's all right?"

"It's perfect," said Loomis. "Nobody can disturb us there."

They got up, and the headwaiter bowed as they left.

"I hope you enjoyed your meal, sir," he said.

"Amazing," the American said. "Absolutely amazing."

"You don't get grub like that in the States," said Loomis. The American shuddered.

The little library was drab and oppressively hot. It was also safe. Loomis began talking at once.

"We got your request," he said, "and I've been looking around. You want some pretty talented lads."

"We do," the American said.

"I thought you had some," said Loomis. "The ones I met seemed to know what they were doing."

"We've had trouble in the Middle East," the American said. "Big trouble. There's a leak somewhere and we haven't plugged it yet. Anybody we sent could get blown."

"We've had trouble too," said Loomis. "We've fixed it for now, but we can't use anybody that's known there. It would have to be a new face."

"That's perfectly okay," the American said. "Provided it's somebody you have faith in."

"I have faith in them all," said Loomis. "I made them. But I made them my way. Trouble is they don't understand your system. As a matter of fact, neither do I."

The American hesitated. What he had to say now was painful to him, but it was an order. It had to be said.

"We would take it as a favor if your department would handle the whole operation," he said at last.

"Ah now, wait a minute. This is a biggish exercise," said Loomis, "and I'm a bit short-handed, d'you see."

They began to bargain and the American discovered that Loomis had the ethical standards of a horse trader.

At last he said, "Sir, I realize that we're asking you to mount a big operation, but what you're asking is far too much. After all, you can't give us any guarantee of success, now can you?"

"I think I can," said Loomis. "You can pay for the whole bag of tricks COD."

"Would you care to amplify that, sir?"

Loomis said genially, "Ah, I forgot. You used to be a lawyer, didn't you? Put it this way. If we fail, you give me nothing. If we succeed, you give me the lot. That do you?"

"You guarantee success?"

"I guarantee it," said Loomis. "You want to draw up a contract?"

"Your word is acceptable," the American said. "So's yours," said Loomis. "When d'you want us to start?"

"Just as soon as you can. This one's urgent."

"It'll take a week or two. I'm running some tests. I got to find the right operators."

"You think you'll need more than one?"

"Bound to," Loomis said. "I gave you a guarantee, didn't I? You got stuff I need, son. I got to have it. That means using a decoy."

"An expendable decoy?"

"We're all expendable in this business," Loomis said, surprised. "Surely you know that by now."

This time the American was sure Loomis was not joking. He got up, took a framed photograph from the wall, and passed it to the American. It was of an enormous and very handsome horse.

"That's Jumbo," he said.

"Don't you have one with you up?" the American asked.

Loomis grinned, a vast and evil grin. "Certainly not," he said. "Security burned 'em all. Want to stay for tea?"

"I'm sorry, I can't," the American said. "I have to be in Paris this evening."

"Paris," said Loomis. "I pop over there myself now and again. Nice place. But you can't trust the grub."

He saw the American out, went back to the main library, spread the Financial Times over his face, and sprawled out motionless. Around him the sleepers whinnied and snorted. They reminded him of Jumbo . . . The Americans would pay if they had to, but only if. The information he had asked in payment was too high a price to be paid willingly. That meant two sets of risks—the operation itself and the chance of the Americans snatching the prize at the last minute. The men who brought this off would have to be good. So would the decoy . . . And the decoy was expendable . . . Pity, that . . . Loomis slept, and his snore was thunder.

David Branch had not expected to like his first assignment. He had imagined himself being too much aware of the danger, too much afraid, if one were honest, to be able to enjoy applying the skills he had learned with so much labor; but it wasn't like that at all. He'd met Loomis and the task had been explained to him, and of course he'd chosen to be taken on as Craig's secretary. That was also pretty good. A nice room in an enormous flat, delicious meals, excellent wine, and not too much to do. Craig had made a disreputable fortune, and he got his money's worth in the way of comfort. He also had a secret. Something to do with Morocco, and some shady French maneuvers of ten years ago, when the sultan abdicated. Loomis wanted that secret: Branch had to get it.

At first, the job looked easy. Craig had nothing in safe deposits, nothing—except money—at his bank, and no safe in the flat. Moreover, Craig was a man who was easily bored, and hence always involved in small, trivial expeditions: to art galleries, to the movies, the theater, new bars, new restaurants. Branch should have had all the time he needed, but he never did. Too often Craig forgot things and telephoned him to fetch them, or asked his cook to come in early and prepare a special dish, or simply got bored with what he was doing and left the movies halfway through the film. He moved very quietly too, and he was big. The hell of a size. Branch found consolation in the thoroughness of his training, but as the days slipped by and the deadline drew near the feeling of enjoyment left him. He began to worry if he would ever find that damn piece of paper.

Then one day his luck was in. Craig took him out to dinner and proceeded to get quietly, unobtrusively drunk. It was hard for Branch to stay sober, but his terror of Loomis helped, and he managed at last to get Craig talking about Tangier in the old days. Craig talked at length.

"Used to be a smuggler," he said. "Used to do all kinds of jobs. Made a bit of money—went into shipping. Did I tell you I was in shipping?"

"Yes, sir," said Branch. "You did. But I never knew you were in Tangier."

"Ought to do a book about it," said Craig. "You could write it for me."

"I couldn't do it without the facts."

"Gotemallathome," said Craig. "Show you. Gemme taxi."

Branch got one, and Craig fell asleep in it. He woke him up and got him into the flat—he was hell to carry— and talked about Tangier and the book. Craig's hands flopped aimlessly towards his pockets. "Must find my keys," he said. "Drunk. Make me a cup of coffee, will you?"

Branch made it and came back carrying the cup, to find Craig on his feet, holding his keys.

"That's better," Craig said. "I must have had too much to drink. You shouldn't let me drink too much, David. It isn't good for me."

"I'm sorry, sir," said Branch. Craig lurched toward him, took the coffee and sipped, then scowled. "Lousy coffee," he said.

"I'm sorry, sir," Branch said again. "I made it just the way you like it."

"I don't like this," said Craig. "Here, you taste it." He held out the cup. "Go on."

He gestured again, and Branch took the cup and sipped warily. As he did so, Craig stumbled on the carpet and finished up behind him, then his right hand struck at the nerve in Branch's upper arm, paralyzing it, his left clamped on the cup, pushing the lip across Branch's mouth so that his head tilted back and he had to swallow. Had to. The pain was so much. And when the coffee was down it was too late to struggle, and anyway Craig held him in a hammer lock, and even breathing was agony.

"I'm sorry," said Craig. "You're just not up to it, son. Four times you left signs you searched the place. And the way you ask questions is far too clumsy. You were wrong about the coffee, too. You shouldn't have drugged me till you knew which key to use."

He could have said more, but Branch was asleep. Craig waited. Branch had a lot to tell him before he telephoned Loomis.

"I'm sorry to bother you like this," Joanna Benson said.

"That's perfectly all right," said Craig. He opened the door and stood aside. "Come in, won't you?"

Her entrance was pleasing. She wore a ranch mink and a Balmain dress, her diamonds were real, and she handled her height with confidence. Craig led her to the sitting room and she stood, uncertain. She looked beautiful in her uncertainty.

"Please sit down," he said.

"Oh no. I couldn't possibly. I mean it's very late, isn't it?"

"Nearly one o'clock," he said. She was doing much better than Branch.

"Oh dear," said Joanna.

"How can I help you, Miss-?"

"Benson. Joanna Benson. Oh gosh—you do know who I am, don't you?"

"You're my next-door neighbor but one."

"That's right. We've met in the lift, haven't we?"

"I'm flattered you should have remembered," said Craig.

"You're very nice," said Joanna. "The thing is I've lost my key. I'm locked out. And I wondered if you could help me?"

"Gladly," said Craig. "Are you sure you won't sit down?"

This time she did so, and loosened her coat, and her body was there, decked out and jeweled, the merest hint of a promise. Really, thought Craig, she's awfully good.

He went to the telephone.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Calling the hall porter. He has spare sets of keys." He put the phone down. "No. Wait a minute." He walked toward her, and her eyes were wary.

"Are you sure you didn't overlook it?"

"Certain," she said.

"It might be in your bag," he said. "Just as well to make sure."

She took the bag—it was a small thing of crocodile skin, with diamond clasps—and tipped it on to the table beside her. Lipstick, make-up, lighter, cigarettes, change purse, and wallet. No key. And no pockets in the mink. She was very thorough.

"I'll ring for the porter," he said, and did so.

"You've been awfully kind," said Joanna. "I'm sure I'm keeping you up. I did see your light on as I came in, and the people next door to me seem to be asleep."

Very nicely done. Very nice indeed.

"It's no trouble," he said.

"I don't want you to think I'm as stupid as this all the time," said Joanna. "But at least it means we've got to know each other."

"But we haven't. Not really. My name is-"

"John Craig," she said, and added hastily, "it's on your door."

Then the porter came up with the passkey, and she stood up to leave. She left the mink open and it swirled round her, making her very rich, very desirable. Craig walked with her to the door, shut it, came back, and poured himself a drink.

This one was ahead of Branch. Everything she'd done so far proved it. She'd handled the whole thing with just the right amount of reserve—and of promise. If he'd been a normal man he'd have lain awake all night working out ways of meeting Joanna Benson next day, but he wasn't normal. He'd never be normal again, after what they had done to him. Women were an irrelevance now, or worse. An inconvenience. He looked and acted so male, and they expected him to do something about it. Their instincts were stronger than the squat young man's. They knew he had no time for men. What they didn't understand was that he had no time for anybody, not any more. A woman had betrayed him, and a man had almost destroyed him in one of the most agonizing ways anyone had yet devised. After that, it was better to be on your own, except that on your own life was so lonely and so boring.

He made no attempt to find her, and she left him alone for two days, but on the third she came to call on him again. It was four o'clock in the afternoon and she was dressed in jodhpurs and hacking jacket, and she held her key in her hand. Not one woman in a thousand looks well in jodhpurs. Joanna Benson was the one. The gamine effect was there, as it should be, but she looked invincibly feminine. The best of both worlds.

"I'm not in trouble this time," she said. "I came to ask you to dinner. Tomorrow."

Damn Loomis, he thought, and his postgraduate exercises. And damn this girl who was so sure he would accept because her legs were long and her breasts were rounded. You were only safe on your own. Once you let them get near, hurt inevitably followed.

"I'm afraid I haven't been too well," said Craig, and hesitated. "But it's very sweet of you. I'd be delighted."

They dined with well-drilled friends: a rising young barrister and his wife, whom Joanna had been at school with. The wife, Rosemary, had obviously been carefully briefed by Joanna. They were there simply as window dressing, and behaved accordingly. Craig was the target, the victim. There could be no doubt that Rosemary approved. She did everything but wink at Joanna from the moment Craig entered the room. The husband, too, was impressed, and left it to Craig to pour the drinks, test the temperature of the wine. Joanne had no talent for cookery, and said so at once. The food had been ordered and was excellent. The wine she had attended to herself. It was superb, as was the brandy that followed. Joanna wore a short evening dress of black chiffon and looked very lovely, and, after the brandy, very slightly drunk. At midnight, the barrister remembered the baby sitter, and Craig, too, got up to leave. He felt no surprise when he did not succeed. This time Rosemary all but winked at him.

Joanna poured more brandy and Craig realized that she was nervous as well as drunk, but she moved well even so, the short skirt swirling round her long, beautiful legs . . . And how, Craig wondered, do we get back to my flat? Why don't we just stay here, or are we saving my place for next time? Joanna moved about, stacking dishes and glasses, and as she moved she talked, about how lovely London was at this time of year, and how Regent's Park was the loveliest thing in London.

"To see it by moonlight," Joanna said. "It really excites me.

"There's a moon tonight," said Craig.

"But we can't see the park from here."

"We can from my flat," said Craig.

"So we can," said Joanna. "Darling, would you mind?"

Craig didn't mind, and Joanna loaded glasses and cups on a tray, Craig carried the coffeepot and brandy bottle, and they moved with exaggerated stealth to his door, went quickly inside. The "darling" was a fact now, the business of carrying the coffee and brandy a small intimacy, a game for lovers. Craig switched off the lights and pulled the curtains wide. Below them the park was a vast silver-point, elegant yet shadowed. Joanna sighed.

"I know it's trite," she said, "but it makes me think of Hermia and Helena and that ridiculous mixup in the wood. Don't you think so, darling?"

"I think it's beautiful," said Craig. And dangerous. Those pools of shadow are always dangerous.

The girl made a slight, inevitable movement, and she was in his arms. Her lips on his, the touch of her lightly clad body, were meaningless to him, but he returned her kiss with a simulated passion that the strength of his arms underlined. She gasped as he held her.

"You're very strong," she said. Her body wriggled as she spoke. He sensed her fingers unhook, ungrip, and the black chiffon drifted downwards like a black cloud. She wore fashionably little beneath it. Mechanically his hands stroked the cool softness of her back, but his mouth could kiss no more.

"Don't you like me?" asked the girl.

Craig said, "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I don't feel very-"

He allowed himself to sway on his feet. She grabbed him. It took all her strength to get him to a chair, but at last she did so, and he collapsed into it, and she looked down at him. In the moonlight, it was hard to read her face.

"Pills," Craig whispered. "In my pocket."

He fell back, and at once she took his wrist, felt for his pulse, but the benzedrine he had taken took care of that. It was racing. For a long moment she looked at him, then drew the curtains together and switched on the lights; Craig made no move. She put on her dress and began systematically to search the flat.

Craig let her look for three minutes. She was quick, methodical, and sure, and wary always of him lying in the chair. She held her handbag with her, too, wherever she went ... In time, this one would be deadly. At last she found it necessary to get his keys. They were in his right-hand trouser pocket, and she had to move him. She came up to him, wary as a cat, but he lay quite motionless. Reluctantly she put down her handbag, grasped his shoulders, and heaved. He was too heavy for her. She swore, and heaved again, and this time he came up in a quick surge of power, and one splayed hand pushed under her chin, one held her right arm away from her bag. Joanna found that movement, any movement, brought instant agony. She stayed still.

"You did very well," said Craig. "Very well indeed. But you should have checked to see where my pills were first ... I haven't got any." The hand under her throat moved, brought her to her knees. He let her numbed arm go, reached for her bag, took out the little Biretta automatic. "And you should have kept hold of this," he said. "All the time. It was the only chance you had."

Andrew Royce made no attempt to reach him at all. No dinner invitations, no call to read the gas meter or chat in a bar. Instead, Royce studied the outside of Craig's flat, then worked in the gym every day, and with one of the experts who had visited the school. The expert's field was burglary, and he was a master. Loomis observed his plans and said nothing to Craig. Royce's choice of methods was his own.

He chose a night when Craig went to bed early. Patiently he waited for the lights in the flat to die, then climbed, steady, not hurrying, his body protected by shadow from the dying moon. He found the window of the spare bedroom and felt for burglar alarms. There were none. No wires, no photoelectric cells. The tools the expert had taught him to use worked admirably, and the window catch yielded to him in minutes. Cautiously then, he greased the side of the window, let it slide open, and was inside. Once in, he pulled a mask over his face and moved silently to the door of Craig's bedroom. Royce had considered the problem of the sleeper from the beginning. Loomis had impressed on him how important the document was. Inevitably, it would be hidden. That meant either a long search or forcing Craig into telling him where it was. In either case Craig would have to be put out of action first. Royce looked at the cold chisel he'd used on the window, then dropped it into his pocket. The chisel was dangerous: he might hit too hard. For a job like this it was better to use the hands.

An accident saved Craig. As Royce opened the bedroom door and eased, slowly, noiselessly round it, the phone rang. Craig woke up at once and Royce saw him stir. He leaped for Craig, and his hand, held like an ax blade, struck down with controlled force. (On no account must the man be killed, Loomis had said.) But Craig had flung the covers aside already and the blow was smothered in bedclothes. Royce followed it up with his fist, and the punch caught Craig on the side of the neck, the impact an immediate eruption of pain. Craig groaned, fell back, and Royce leaped for him, but Craig's fall became a spin that took him out of the bed and on to the floor. He scrambled to his feet and the pain stabbed at him, slowing him so that Royce too had time to roll free.

Royce was younger and faster than Craig, and he had not been hit. He was wide awake, and Craig had been asleep. He leaped in again, anxious to get it over, but Craig swayed away from the three-finger strike he aimed at him, and countered with a chop that smashed just below his ribs. Royce groaned and lashed out with a karate kick aimed at the groin. Again Craig swayed, and the shoe scored along the edge of his thigh, but his hand smacked under the heel even so. He levered and pulled, and Royce spun like a top in the air, then his arms smashed down, absorbing the impact of his fall, but Craig still held on to his foot, and any attempt at movement was agony. Craig looked at the masked face on the floor. This was Andrew, he had no doubt, and Andrew was fast and young and tricky—and mad because he'd been beaten. If he let him go, Andrew would immediately start again, and Craig had taken two blows already. Still holding the foot, he limped forward, then his own bare foot flicked, the hard edge seeking the nerve at the base of the neck, and Royce's body stiffened, then relaxed. The phone rang again. Craig picked it up.

"Is that the Mercury Mini Cab Service?" said a voice that would stand no nonsense. "I rang you a minute ago and nobody answered."

"You see it's a bit difficult," said Craig. "We're not on the phone." He hung up. He hadn't finished yet.

Craig rang the bell at the Queen Anne's Gate and the porter answered.

"You're expected," he said, then watched Craig climb the stairs. It was some satisfaction to know that he was limping. Loomis made no mention of it, but for once Craig was glad to sink into an overstuffed armchair and watched the red, eagle-beaked face glower down at him.

"Branch won't do?" he asked.

"Not at maximum risk," said Craig. "He gets excited. It makes him obvious."

"And the girl? This Benson person?"

"Good," said Craig. "Subtle. And she doesn't overdo it. She'd have made it with another man."

Loomis nodded. "And Royce?" he said.

"Excellent," said Craig. "Strong and fast. Tough-minded. A good brain too. He worked it all out."

"Worked what all out?"

"The exercise," said Craig. "He knew there was a good chance this was a test, so he came in from outside—when I was asleep ... I like that. And he knew he'd have to clobber me. Hurt me maybe. That didn't bother him. Even if I turned out to be on his side. He'll do well."

"Weaknesses?"

"He hates being beaten," Craig said. "It makes him angry . . . But it won't happen often. He'd have beaten me—if it hadn't been for that phone call."

"You think I could use those two then?"

"I know it," said Craig. Loomis sighed, and Craig thought of whales wallowing.

"Would they break easy?" he asked.

"Ask the psychiatrists," Craig said.

"Oh I will, son. Over and over I'll ask them. But just now I'm asking you. You've had what you might call first hand experience."

"They'll break eventually," said Craig. "Everybody does. But they'll last as long as most."

"Good," said Loomis. "They can be your assistants then. I got a job for you."

"A month ago you said I was finished," said Craig.

"I was wrong," said Loomis. "It's happened before. Twice. You showed I was wrong the way you handled those three. Royce in particular. And the Benson person. Women can't get at you, son. Not any more."

"Royce and I won't get on all that well," said Craig. "Not after what I did to him. And the girl—she's bright. Maybe she knows about me. I couldn't work with her if she knew."

"They won't work with you," said Loomis. "They'll assist you by being decoys. If they see you in the street they won't look at you twice."

"What's the job?" said Craig.

"You're going to Turkey to pick up a feller," Loomis said. "And when you've got him you're going to take him to Israel. But first you're going to New York. There's people in New York can tell you all about this feller. Name of Kaplan. The Russians want him too."

"That's why you're setting up decoys?"

"That's why," said Loomis. "They got him in one of their 'Most Urgent' files. You know what that means."

"It means he's going to die," said Craig.

"That's not our business—provided we get him to Israel first. And that's your job. I'll send you the file we got on him. Work on it in your office. It doesn't leave here . . . You fly to New York on Thursday. That's all on file too .. . You better get on with it, son."

Craig levered himself out of the chair and limped to the door. He felt old and battered and very tired. Three days in the gym would help, but not enough. The savage concentration of strength he had once summoned at will, was gone, perhaps forever.

"Why me, Loomis?" he asked.

"You're not what you were," said Loomis, "but you're still the best I've got for this sort of caper."

"The KGB are after him. 'Most Urgent.' That means they'll be after me too."

"Not if we use decoys," said Loomis.

"They're just out of school. What chance will they have?" said Craig.

"Very little," said Loomis. "But that isn't your business."

CHAPTER 4

The Kaplan file was thin. Aaron Israel Kaplan had been born in Riga in 1915, the son of a rabbi, and the family-had moved to Moscow just before the Revolution. By 1932 he was a Komsomol leader and a biology student at Moscow University and had broken with his family; by 1936 he was researching in agricultural method at the Lenin Institute, and had begun a crash course in water engineering. His overriding interest was the cultivation of crops in dry areas, and papers he had written on this had gone as far as the Central Committee when the war came. In 1938 his father had died, but Kaplan had not been present at the funeral. During the war Kaplan had fought with distinction as a political commissar attached to an infantry regiment that had finished up in East Germany. After it he had gone back to work at the Lenin Institute, at first with success. He had survived the Lysenko scandal, and once again the Central Committee had read his papers. There was talk of financing a scheme of his—a capital investment of seven million rubles. He had nine assistants, limitless opportunity for research, and access to the Institute's papers, no matter how highly classified. Then, quite suddenly, he had crashed. His scheme was dropped, his research team broken up. Then his membership at the Institute was revoked, his car and dacha taken from him. For three months he worked as a factory hand, then he was arrested, tried, and sentenced to Siberia. His sentence was "indeterminate," which meant he stayed there till he died. The camp he went to, Volochanka, was the hardest of them all. His sentence had never been revoked, and yet he had been reported in Turkey. He was one of three brothers. One had been killed at Stalingrad and the other had left Russia with an uncle in 1922 and was living in New York—Marcus Kaplan, 189 West 95th Street. The most recent photographs of Kaplan had been taken in 1939 and had all the fuzziness to be expected of a black and white print taken with a box camera, ineptly handled. It suggested that Kaplan was tall, scholarly, and thin, but his features were anonymous.

Craig turned the page. There followed a note in Loomis's small, neat writing: "For further information on Kaplan consult his brother and Laurie S. Fisher, the Graydon Arms, 145 East 56th Street." On the next page was a description of Volochanka. Craig wondered how any man could possibly escape from such a place. After that there came key information about Turkey, the sort of stuff he would need to get Kaplan out without the Russians knowing, but no information about where he was. Even Loomis didn't know that. That had to wait until he got to New York, and then Laurie S. Fisher would tell him, if he thought him good enough. The file didn't tell him why Kaplan was important, either, but that wasn't Craig's business. Craig's business was to get him to Israel. He telephoned Sanuki Hakagav/a at the house in Kensington and made an appointment for that evening, then went back to the file and read it through again and again. Gradually the information it contained began to stick. In two days he would never need it again.

The Hakagawas had the ground floor and basement of a house off Church Street, one of a series of Edwardian monsters of salmon-pink brick relieved with stone painted a glittering white. The exterior was fussy, ornate, blatantly opulent, the interior furnished with the same spare elegance of Japanese who still lived in the traditional style so far as London would let them. Sanuki opened the door to him, slim and ageless in a sweater and jeans.

"Please go down to the gymnasium," she said. "Shinju is waiting for you."

Craig went down the steps to the changing rooms. There was a judo costume waiting for him, and a black belt. He changed slowly, allowing his mind to achieve the state of wary relaxation essential before a fight with Shinju Hakagawa. When he went in the Japanese was already waiting for him, on the dojo mat. Craig joined him on the mat and the two men bowed in the ritual of greeting.

"What style shall we fight?" Hakagawa asked. "We'll just fight," said Craig.

It was like very fast chess, every move played out to the limits of strength, every throw a potential opening to the checkmate that could end your life if you didn't get up, or counter, in time. At the end of twenty minutes Hakagawa signaled a halt, and both men were steaming with sweat. Hakagawa produced towels, and they dabbed at their sweating bodies, then knelt, facing each other, on the mat.

"You have been drinking too much," said Hakagawa. "You are slow. This time I could have killed you." "I'm old, Hak," Craig said.

"Not as old as me. I am fifty-four years old." Craig looked at the squat, bullet-headed Japanese. His face was astonishingly beautiful and almost unlined.

"Show me your hands."

Craig held out his hands and Hakagawa very carefully examined the lines of hard skin along their edges, and across the knuckles.

"You have neglected them," said Hakagawa. "Suppose I asked you to punch the board."

"I couldn't do it," said Craig.

"It will take you two weeks to get your hands right. You will practice here every day."

"I can't," said Craig. "I go to New York in three days."

"I will give you the address of a master there," said Hakagawa. "You must become right again—or karate is finished for you."

"Become right?"

"You do not mean it any more," Hakagawa said. "It is in your hands, but not in your mind. You are becoming what boxers call a gym fighter." He paused, and looked at Craig in affection. "Until your mind changes you will never beat me again. When it changes, you will beat me every time. Shower now. You drink too much."

Each evening until he left, Craig fought with Haka-gawa. His hands began to harden and his speed and stamina increased as he sweated the alcohol out of his system, but his mind remained the same. He could not beat Haka-gawa. After the second defeat he went back to the department and booked a session on the firing range. He used the gun he'd always preferred, a Smith and Wesson .38, and that skill at least had not deserted him. Over and over he aimed and fired, and each time he scored a bull. The PSI who ran the place, an ex-gunman himself, looked on and was happy. Craig never gave him any problems. Craig began to relax, until the thought hit him: no matter what you do to a target, you cannot make it feel.

He went back to his flat and worked doggedly on his hands, punching and striking at the thin bags of hard sand. When he had had enough, he went to the phone and called Sir Matthew Chinn. Sir Matthew was the very eminent psychiatrist who had treated him after he had been tortured. Craig spoke to a housemaid, a butler, and a secretary. They were unanimous. Sir Matthew was unavailable for at least six weeks. Craig wondered if Sir Matthew's unavailability were Loomis's idea. Sir Matthew had not wanted Craig to work for the department ever again, but Loomis had insisted. He was insisting now. From time to time Craig hated Loomis, but there was no sense in it really, he thought. There was nowhere else for him to go.

New York began in the Boeing 707, and Craig was grateful for it. There was a hell of a lot of New York to get used to. The flight was all dry martinis and chicken a la king and the toasted cigarettes he could never learn to enjoy. There was a movie, too. Hollywood money, Spanish location. All about the war in Greece. It was bold, noisy, and totally inaccurate. Craig calculated that if the hero had behaved in reality as he did on the screen he would have been shot dead twenty-three times. He enjoyed the movie. It was right that he should. According to his cover, he was an advertising man sent over to study American techniques; not the ulcer-gnarled, thwarted genius advertising man, the extrovert, jolly kind, the kind that actually likes war movies that gross six million. After the movie he read a paperback about rape in Streatham, then abandoned that for The New York Times. The race riots were going to be late this year on account of the cool weather; the President needed another hundred million dollars for Vietnam; the longshoremen were going to strike after all, and baseball would never be the same without Mickey Mantle. Craig slept till Boston.

The run-in was slow and easy, the way Craig liked it, the wheels settled gingerly on the tarmac like a fat man in a hot bath. Craig remained seated and refrained from smoking as the signs and hostess told him to do, then queued, briefcase in hand, to be smiled at, wished a pleasant stay, and walk into the humid, infrequent sunshine of Kennedy Airport, the quick-fire politeness of immigration and the ultimate, grudging acceptance of the world's worst customs officers that he was not carrying heroin, marijuana, or fresh fruit. He joined another queue then, for the helicopter, and the lazy, clattering journey through the concrete canyons of Manhattan, to look down at the cars like beetles, the human beings like ants, except that these ants, these beetles, scurried only in the predestined straight lines that the avenues and streets laid down for them. The helicopter waltzed slowly down the sky and Craig marveled at the great ranks of skyscrapers, tall, thin giants that were sometimes elegant, sometimes ugly, sometimes—so quickly you grow blase in New York—just dull. Then the clattering died and he was on the roof of the Pan Am Building, and down or up New York was all around him as far as the Hudson River, and only the sky was closed to the scurrying ants below.

He took a cab to his hotel, an ant himself now, alive and scurrying inside a beetle. The taxi driver talked about the humidity, only fifty but still climbing, and what the figure would have to be before the race riots started. Seventy? Seventy-five? Eighty? Meterology and social science welded together to form an irrefragable law.

"What this city needs," said the taxi driver, "is one hundred percent air conditioning. Just one big unit all the way to Queens. Then we might have some peace in the summer."

Craig, sweating in the back seat, agreed with him. They had found him a hotel in the East Forties, and it was the kind he liked; old, with a lot of leather, and pictures on the walls that related to people who had actually lived, actually achieved something in the hotel. There was a man waiting for him too, a single-unit committee of welcome, A. J. Scott-Saunders of the British Embassy. A. J. Scott-Saunders was lean and exquisite, his tie was Old Harrovian and his manner distant, which impressed the desk clerk and overawed the bellboy who took Craig's bags to the elevator, opened the door of his suite, and demonstrated lights, taps, and air conditioning like a saint performing all his miracles at once. Craig handed over money, and A. J. Scott-Saunders sighed.

"I'd like some ice," said Craig, "soda water, and ginger ale." The bellboy went, and until he returned Craig kept up an uninterrupted flow of conversation about his trip, the food, the movie, and as he talked searched the suite for the kind of bugs unobtrusive enough to be smuggled into an exclusive hotel in the East Forties. There weren't any. When the bellboy returned he handed over more money and poured drinks from his duty-free bottle.

"You do yourself well," said Scott-Saunders.

"When you're in the advertising game you have to," said Craig.

Scott-Saunders looked disgusted and opened his briefcase.

"I have here fifty thousand dollars emergency money," he said. "The money is to be used at your discretion." The thought obviously caused him pain, and the pain intensified as Craig counted it.

"All there," said Craig, and waited. Scott-Saunders sipped Scotch and water.

"Have you got anything else for me?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"I didn't mean money," said Craig.

Scott-Saunders looked surprised, his best yet.

"What else could I bring you?" he asked.

"Equipment," said Craig. "You know. Machinery."

"I'm very much afraid I don't know," Scott-Saunders said. "Money was all I was told to bring. Money—and two requests: one, spend no more of those dollars than you have to; two, keep away from the British Embassy. I trust I make myself clear?"

"Transparent," said Craig, and Scott-Saunders flushed, finished his drink, and made for the door. Somehow Craig was in his way, which was strange. Scott-Saunders could swear that he had scarcely moved.

"I've done this sort of thing before," Craig said. "Have you?"

"Never," Scott-Saunders said.

"You have a regular man for this job?"

"We do," Scott-Saunders said. "He was busy today."

Craig let him go. The regular man was busy, so they'd sent him an idiot with the right accent who knew nothing about equipment or machinery. That meant no gun. Loomis had always been very anti-guns in the presence of allies, but this was carrying a prejudice too far. Admittedly a gun was no good unless you were prepared to use it, but then he, Craig, was prepared, and Loomis knew it. It would seem, Craig thought, that the fat man doesn't trust me any more.

He called Laurie S. Fisher and got no answer, then tried Victor Kaplan. A voice like that of a method actor playing Bertie Wooster told him that Mr. Kaplan never returned to his apartment before seven. Craig showered and changed, and there were still three hours to kill before Kaplan got home. He sealed the fifty thousand dollars in its manilla envelope, took it down to the desk, deposited it, asked how to get to Brooklyn, and discovered for himself the blood-and-iron realities of New York's subway system. Even the damp heat of Brooklyn was preferable to it, but nevertheless he walked slowly, cautious not to sweat too much, to the old brownstone house with the wide stoop, and grudged the effort needed to try to push his way past the throng of men sheltering on it.

They were all large men, large enough to make Craig's six feet and hundred and ninety pounds look skimpy. It took Craig some time to realize that, like him, they were waiting to get in. In England they would have formed a queue. At last one of them, who wore a single gold loop earring and hair dyed pink, put a hand on his chest.

"They're not hiring light heavies today," he said.

Craig looked around him. On all sides, giants towered. It was like being lost in a primeval forest.

"I came to see Thaddeus Cooke," he said. "I think he's expecting me."

At once the giants opened up and let him through, then resumed their restless milling. Craig wandered down a corridor lined with open doors. In each room that he passed, giants were wrestling—in pairs, in tag teams, in groups—and with each set of wrestlers was a smaller man screaming directions: part referee, part choreographer. Craig walked on till he came to a door on which the name "Thaddeus Cooke" was painted, and below, in the same neat lettering: "Keep Out. This Means You." He went inside.

The man behind the desk was sleeping peacefully, feet up, thumbs hooked into his belt. He was tall, slender, and apparently ageless: his hair, close-cropped and bristling, could have been pale gold, could have been white, the lines on his dark skin the result of weather or of age. He slept soundlessly, but woke almost at once as Craig walked into the room. Very blue eyes looked into Craig's, but the man didn't move; only there was a wariness, even in his relaxation, that told Craig at once: This one is good.

"Got a good business," the man said suddenly. "Wrestlers. I train 'em. Book 'em. Promote 'em. Branch out on the coast. Same deal. Only there we do stuntmen and fight arrangements too. Doin' well. TV helped. You know what I grossed last year?"

"No," said Craig.

"Hundred and fifty thousand dollars. It's not Standard Oil—but it's enough. For me anyway. I've got a hobby— now I can afford it. Know what it is?"

"No," said Craig.

"Sleepin'. That's why I put that notice on the door. Maybe you can't read?" Craig said, "I can read."

The man sighed and put his feet down, stood up. He wore a rumpled silk-tussore suit from Saks that must have cost three hundred dollars; his dirty unpolished shoes were hand sewn, English imported. The tie twisted almost to one ear was one Craig recognized as that restricted to former pupils of Eton College.

"I better throw you out," he said. "It'll hurt you, son, but we all have to learn sometime."

He moved forward slowly, easily, and for a moment Craig decided to let him do it—or try to. It would be the best practice he could buy. But it would also be noisy, and very noticeable. He backed off.

"Shinju Hakagawa sent me, Mr. Cooke," he said.

The easy movement stopped, and Cooke became once more a tired and happy tycoon.

"You're Craig?" he said. Craig nodded. Cooke's eyes moved over him warily. "John Craig. He says you're maybe going to beat him one of these days . .. You know, I always thought I was the one who'd do that. Come into the gym."

Craig moved back to the door, but the other man shook his head.

"No," said Cooke. "Not in public, son. One of us is going to find this embarrassing."

Cooke's gym was a small, square room, its one article of furniture a dojo mat. Craig and Cooke changed and faced each other across it, bowing in the ritual way as Craig noticed the strength in the other's slimness. He was pared down to undiluted power, and with it, a dancer's speed and precision. Craig moved warily forward, and as he did so, Cooke leaped at once into the air, aiming a snap kick that would have ended the fight then and there if it had landed. But Craig dived beneath it and whirled round, ready, as Cooke landed and aimed a fist strike at his belly. Craig grabbed his wrist and threw him, and Cooke landed in a perfect break-fall, rolling over to avoid the kick of Craig's followup, his grab for Craig's foot just missing as Craig pirouetted away. Time and again they attacked each other and ran into a countermove that just, and only just, prevented success. They fought, each of them, in silence and speed, and with all their skill, and they fought a draw. After twenty minutes Cooke signaled a halt.

"You're not ready for Shinju—not yet," he said. "But one day you're going to be—if you go on improving."

Craig said nothing; his exhaustion was total.

"Bet I know what you're thinking," said Cooke. Craig looked up. "If I'd gone on for another two minutes I'd have licked you. That what you were thinking?"

"Yes," said Craig, "I was."

"Know why I didn't? ... Because I couldn't, son. You're the best I ever saw. What kind of business you in?" "Advertising," said Craig.

Cooke stared at him. "Figured you were," he said. "Did you?" said Craig.

"Sure. You talk so damn much—what other business could you be in? Tell you something else." Craig waited. "If you ever decided you didn't like me—you'd kill me. D'you hate much?"

"Not often," said Craig.

"Come in when you like, son. Any time. I ain't saying I'll teach you much, but I ain't too proud to learn."

He walked with Craig back through the gym and paused near a mountainous Negro who appeared to be disemboweling a fat Greek with his bare hands. The Greek's yells were piteous to hear. Suddenly the Greek brought up his knee, and the Negro hit the canvas like a house collapsing.

"Constantine," said Cooke severely, "that wasn't nice. You want me to take Blossom's place?"

The Greek broke at once into a babble of broken English, all of it apologetic.

"You just watch it, that's all," said Cooke. "You too, Blossom."

The Negro twitched in response, and Cooke walked on. "Sometimes they mean it," said Cooke. "I can't let 'em fight if they mean it." "Why not?" asked Craig.

"Why," Cooke said. "They're valuable, son. Can't let 'em go damaging each other. They cost too much money."

At five thirty Craig reached the Graydon Arms. It was an apartment building, neat, unobtrusive, and wealthy, its air conditioning Arctic, or at least Siberian, Craig thought, at the sweat congealed on his body. Kaplan's Siberia had not been so elegant: maplewood desk with ivory telephones, a desk clerk out of a Frank Capra movie, dark-blue carpet, pale-blue walls. In front of Craig three matrons and what appeared to be two lifeguards with clothes on—so bronzed they were, so golden their glinting hair—talked of vodka martinis as they walked to the lift. Craig told himself he was disguised as a lifeguard, and followed, and the desk clerk looked on and sighed, but made no move to stop him. Perhaps, thought Craig, he wants a vodka martini too—or a matron.

The lift whispered its way to the ninth floor, and by the time they arrived Craig found that vodka martinis and matrons alike were at his disposal, but he stayed on, and went up to the penthouse, and Laurie S. Fisher.

The door to the penthouse was of mahogany and polished till it glowed. A splendid door, a door belonging to a Georgian house; craftsmanship and artistry nicely blended. It made Craig feel good, even patriotic—just to look at it. Except that it was very slightly ajar. Laurie S. Fisher of the Graydon Arms was a wealthy man. He had to be, if he owned the penthouse—and wealthy men in New York don't leave their doors ajar, not even slightly ajar. Craig examined the door and the gap between slowly, with extreme care. No wires, no bugs. Just a door that should not have been open. He pushed it gently, using his knuckles, and it swung wide. Craig took a deep breath and jumped inside, swinging in the air as he moved, hands clawing for whoever hid behind it. There was no one. He pushed the door shut and looked around the apartment. An empty hall, an empty drawing room, an empty dining room, all furnished with a deliberate, conscious good taste, a neat blend of modern and Georgian pieces that had cost Laurie S. Fisher a great deal of money. Craig moved on to an empty bedroom. Its occupant was a devotee of science fiction, stock-car racing, and bull fighting. About seventeen, Craig thought, with a preference for English clothes conceived in Carnaby Street. Away—to judge by the books lying about—at one of those schools Americans call private, and the English, with a subtler, sharper irony, public. He passed on to the master bedroom. Fitted cupboards, pictures of horses, wall-to-wall carpet, a TV set high in one wall so that a man could lie down, relax, and look at his leisure. Or a woman.

A young woman, about twenty-eight, well-nourished, a mole on her right hip, once operated on for appendicitis. Not visibly pregnant. Blonde. Blue eyes. Probably of Scandinavian origin. And beautiful. Very beautiful. And dead.

Craig looked at the naked body without ruttishness or embarrassment. There was a faint stirring of pity, no more. In a sense she had been lucky. One shattering blow to the nape of the neck and—nothing. Oblivion. Everything finished. No more worries about beauty parlors, Italian shoes, Lord & Taylor dresses. He touched one slender foot—it was still warm—then turned to the small heap of clothes on the bed. Her purse was there, and it was empty. He left her and went into the bathroom.

Laurie S. Fisher hadn't died nearly so quickly. He had been tortured by experts, and they'd been in a hurry, but even so it must have taken an hour, maybe more. Craig marveled that a man could hold out for an hour, even a man as strong as Fisher had undoubtedly been. And handsome too. They hadn't touched his face. He'd been gagged with a hand towel while they—while they—Craig turned away to the toilet basin and was violently sick, his body shuddering, then methodically cleaned and flushed the basin, ran the tap till the water was cold, washed his face, and drank from his cupped hands. In the end, Fisher had talked, then they'd killed him as they'd killed his girl. One sudden, longed-for blow. The boy in the private school would be a man very soon, he thought, and turned his mind to the problem of leaving. But no one stopped him, no one came back to make sure that Fisher and his woman were dead. Why should they? They were experts, technicians. The man who had killed knew that Fisher and the woman were dead the moment he unleashed his hand.

Craig stood in the hall, recalled each movement he had made. The door pushed with his knuckles, the toilet flushed, the tap turned with his handkerchief. Nothing else. He used the handkerchief on the door again, and left it as he had found it, very slightly ajar, then ran down three flights of stairs and took the elevator to the mezzanine floor, where there was a cocktail lounge and Scotch whisky.

He drank two, taking his time, making himself look relaxed, even bored, and grateful that the lounge was busy. Grateful also that it had a separate door to the street . . . He should have left after one, but his whole body screamed for the stuff. Things had been done to Fisher that had once been done to him, and Craig needed to drink for a long, long time if he were to forget what he had seen. But he couldn't forget.

After the second drink it was six thirty, and at seven Marcus Kaplan might be home, so the method actor had said. And at his home there might be experts, technicians, waiting to do to Kaplan what they had already done to Fisher and the girl.

Craig walked out, not hurrying, toward Fifth Avenue. It was hotter than ever, and there were no empty cabs. (That's a thing to remember about New York, Loomis had said. They don't have empty cabs. Only full ones.) But he needed to walk anyway. And there was time.

Kaplan's apartment house too was smart and well kept, but then Kaplan was in millinery, and men who do well in millinery tend to do very well indeed. Craig reached the building at five to seven. Nobody seemed interested in it except its Negro doorman. There were no waiting cars, no loiterers; but the windows across the street could conceal a sniper, if they wanted Kaplan dead, if Fisher had told them all they needed to know. The roofs too. There was good cover, and too much of it. Suddenly Craig shivered, in spite of the damp, unrelenting heat. His face was known. He also had been in a Most Urgent file. Maybe they'd made it active again. He looked in a shop-window next to the apartment house. It held a display of hunting clothes, with pump-action shotguns and rifles brutally arranged to underline the masculinity of those who bought such very expensive clothes. The rifles were the best of their kind: telescopic sights, light action, a trigger you squeezed so that it didn't jar your arm. Craig felt as if he had a target painted on his back. From across the street you couldn't miss—but at least he could use the window as a mirror and watch what was happening.

At seven five a Lincoln Continental drew up and the doorkeeper sprang into action. Craig turned and moved slowly forward. The car contained a Puerto Rican chauffeur and a fat passenger, already dismounting. The fat passenger was exactly like his brother, plus fifty pounds weight. Craig moved faster. As Kaplan left the Lincoln, he was completely masked from across the street, Craig on one side of him, the doorman on the other. "Mr. Kaplan?" Craig said.

"That's right," said Kaplan, and looked up at Craig. His eyes were bright, alert, and, Craig thought, wary.

"I've got a message for you," Craig said. "From Aaron."

The wariness in the eyes intensified.

"You better come in," he said without enthusiasm.

Another crowded elevator, fast, air-conditioned, careful not to let the stomach lag. Kaplan got out at the nineteenth floor. (No New Yorker lives lower than the seventeenth floor, Loomis had said. They only have sex when there's a power cut.) Kaplan stood by the elevator and looked down the carpeted corridor. There was no one else there.

"What's Aaron's full name?" he asked.

"Aaron Israel Kaplan. Last heard of in Volochanka."

"Okay," Kaplan said, less enthusiastically than ever. "We'll go to my apartment."

He led, Craig a half step behind him, and almost too late Craig remembered his trade.

"Mr. Kaplan," he said, "are any of these apartments to let?"

"No," Kaplan said at once. "There's a waiting list. Very desirable apartments." He frowned. "Maybe you're thinking of the Boldinis."

"Am I?" said Craig.

"Number 37," Kaplan said. "But they're in Maine. They go there every summer. Lucky-"

By this time they had reached Number 33, and Kaplan thought that Craig had gone mad, for the deferential but very strong Britisher promptly knocked him down, a deft, efficient trip, and leaped over his body, hit the door of Number 37 just as it had begun to open. There was a sound like that of a large, wet sack hit with a paddle, and Craig was through the door. Kaplan, bewildered but courageous, groaned himself upright and followed. Inside the Boldinis' apartment Craig was grappling with a man who held a gun. As Kaplan entered the gun went off, and Kaplan observed a vase he had detested for years shatter to fragments inches from his hand, but instead of the dull boom of the explosion there was a small, soft plop. Craig struck at the gunman and he groaned. Kaplan moved into the room, noting that Craig was gathering his strength to finish the fight. It was suddenly important that he observe just how this was done. He moved clumsily, and Craig saw him, his concentration weakened. The gunman wriggled from Craig's arms and through a window, then leaped crazily down the stairs of the fire escape. Kaplan still watched attentively as Craig scooped up the gun and ran to the window. From below came the fading sounds of shoe leather on metal.

"I'm sorry," Kaplan said.

Craig leaned in from the window and turned.

"It's all right," he said.

"I didn't think I would put you off—"

"You wouldn't have," said Craig, "except that there's another one behind you—and it's you they came for, after all."

Kaplan spun round. There was a man lying on the floor, and he had a gun in his hand. Right there in the Boldinis' apartment, a gunman lay flat on his back, automatic in hand, and he, Kaplan, stood amid the ruins of that damn ugly vase. That was as fantastic as the gunman. The Boldinis had worshipped that vase. Paid over a hundred dollars to have it shipped from Hong Kong, and now here was this Englishman crunching over it, bending down to look at this—gangster I guess you'd call him. Craig's face told him nothing at all—but when he turned the gunman over, suddenly Kaplan knew he was dead, even before he looked up and saw the set of teak shelves near the door, with their hard, sharp edges, one of them just the height of a standing man, and that one covered in what looked like jam. Kaplan turned away.

"Well, well," said Craig. "How very careless of him."

He went quickly through the man's pockets. Money, a packet of Marlboros, book matches, a dirty and much-used handkerchief. And on the floor a Browning Hi-

Power automatic with a silencer. Thirteen shot. His unlucky day.

"You killed him," said Kaplan. There was amazement rather than accusation in his voice.

"That's right," said Craig. He unscrewed the silencer from the gun he'd picked up, then stuffed the silencer into his pocket, the gun into his pants' waistband, and opened the door, using his fingernails only. The corridor was still empty.

"At least you haven't got nosy neighbors," said Craig. "Did you touch anything?"

Kaplan shook his head. Craig jerked his head at the door and Kaplan left, Craig followed, still a little behind, and to the right. The way the bodyguards walk on television, thought Kaplan. The only crazy thing was he still wasn't scared. He still couldn't believe it was happening.

Inside Kaplan's door the manservant waited to take Kaplan's hat and tell him that Madam was having a cocktail in the drawing room. Craig looked the man over. The voice was phoney, but a splendid phoney; rich and plummy as fruitcake. The man himself, lean and rangy in his white mess jacket, with cold, expressionless eyes that noticed the bulge at Craig's middle, and became more expressionless than ever.

"Cocktail?" said Kaplan. "Sounds like a good idea. We'll have one too."

He led the way and Craig found himself shaking hands with a plump and hennaed matron who took one look at her lord, and blamed it all, whatever it was, on Craig.

She thinks I've had him out drinking, thought Craig, and waited for the introductions.

"This is Mr. Craig, honey," said Kaplan. So he knew I was on my way here.

"How d'you do?" said Mrs. Kaplan, uncaring. "Hether-ton, mix the drinks will you?"

Craig looked over his shoulder. Hetherton had exchanged the mess jacket for a swallowtail coat that fitted badly on the left-hand side. Craig asked for Scotch on the rocks, and Hetherton mixed it and passed it to Craig with his left hand. When Craig took it with his right, Hetherton began to look happy. Kaplan accepted a modest vodka martini and at once said, "Business, Ida. I'll take Mr. Craig to the study." This was the merest routine, and yet, Craig thought, she still hates me. She knows there's something wrong.

"Will you be needing me, sir?" Hetherton said. His right hand, Craig noticed, was adjusting an already impeccable tie, six inches away from his gun butt.

"No, no," said Kaplan. "Mr. Craig and I are old friends. We'll look after ourselves."

Hetherton bowed and relaxed still further. Craig assumed he had the place bugged.

The study was small, untidy, and masculine, more den than study, full of small cups that Marcus and Ida Kaplan had won at bridge tournaments, and larger cups that Marcus Kaplan had won at skeet shooting. There were also two huge and highly functional lamps. Kaplan tossed off his martini and promptly refilled it from a bottle in the base of one of them.

"Scotch is in that one," said Kaplan, pointing. "Help yourself."

Craig twisted the base and pulled, as Kaplan had done. Inside the lamp was a bottle of Red Hackle. He freshened his drink.

"The trouble with Ida is she worries too much," he said, then began to shake as the fear hit him, and from his mouth came a travesty of laughter. "No, that's not right— is it Mr. Craig? The trouble with Ida is she doesn't worry half enough." The laughter resumed then, shrill and crazy. Craig leaned forward politely. "You can stop if you want to," he said, but the laughter went on. Craig reached out and his fingers touched, very lightly, Kaplan's forearm, found the place he needed, and pressed. Pain seared across Kaplan's arm, terrible pain that stopped at once as his laughter died.

"You see?" said Craig.

Kaplan said, "I see, all right." His body still shook, but his voice was steady. "You really got a message from Aaron?"

"Mr. Kaplan, you know I haven't," said Craig. "I've come for your information."

"Again?" said Kaplan. Somehow Craig's body stayed immobile.

"Again," he said.

"But I gave it to the other two."

"Which other two, Mr. Kaplan?"

"Mr. Royce," said Kaplan. "And that nice Miss Benson. They took me on a trip in a motor launch. Taped the whole thing."

"So they did," said Craig. "Now tell it all to me."

Kaplan told it and Craig listened, and remembered. When he had done, Craig said:

"Thank you. You've been very helpful."

Kaplan said. "Helpful. Yeah. Is it going to find my brother?"

"It's possible," said Craig.

"I'm fifty-nine," said Kaplan. "I haven't seen him since I was twelve years old—and he was seven. But he's my brother. I want him found."

Craig said, "So do a lot of people. Friends and enemies. If the friends find him first—you'll see him." Before Kaplan could speak, Craig said, "Do you know a man called Laurie S. Fisher?"

"Sure," said Kaplan. "He's the guy who got me into this thing—whatever it is. Flew me out to his ranch in Arizona. And that reminds me—what in hell are we going to do about the Bol-"

Craig's voice cut across his. "Mr. Kaplan, I met you on your doorstep, you invited me in, and we talked. I'm grateful for the time you spared me, but that's all that happened."

Kaplan looked down at the arm Craig had touched, where the memory of pain still throbbed.

"Jesus," he said. "You're a cold-blooded bastard."

"If I'm to find your brother I'll have to be." Craig put down his glass. "Thanks for the drink," he said. "I never drank from a table lamp before. It was delicious."

"Okay," said Kaplan. "I get it. Keep my mouth shut or you'll tell Ida."

"Is it really so important?" said Craig.

"It is to me," said Kaplan. "And to her too. Looking after me—all that. You don't care about all that crap. Right?"

Craig said, "You've had a shock, and I handled you roughly. I'm sorry."

"Where I was brought up we used to have a saying," said Kaplan. "With you for a friend, who needs enemies?"

"Not you, Mr. Kaplan," said Craig. "You already got them."

He left quietly. Sounds from another room told him that Thaddeus Cooke's corps de ballet were performing on television, and that Mrs. Kaplan approved. Craig kept on going and met Hetherton in the hall without surprise.

"How long have you been with him?" Craig asked.

"Three weeks, sir," said Hetherton. "May I ask-"

"Department K," said Craig. "M-16."

"Ah," said Hetherton.

"Ah, is right," said Craig. "Stay on a while, Hethers, old top. He needs you."

Hetherton said in quite a different voice, "There's been nothing out of line so far."

"Number 37," said Craig. "The Boldinis. They're away in Maine. Somebody broke in and smashed a vase. Then somebody else broke in and smashed somebody's head. And somebody had a gun. With a silencer. Like this." His hand dipped into his pocket, showed the silencer, replaced it. "It's a good silencer, and Kaplan's a hell of a target. If I were you, old top, I'd put him on a diet."

He went back to his hotel room, and wrote down what Kaplan had told him. He was hungry and tired, but that didn't matter. The hunger sharpened his memory and the tiredness could be ignored. It was all a matter of will. When he'd finished he read it through three times, then repeated it back to himself. Twice his memory failed him, so he read it three times more. When he'd got it right he lay down on the bed and slept at once, waking two hours later as he'd willed himself to do. Again he repeated Kaplan's message. It came back word-perfect. The only thing wrong with it was it didn't tell him enough. One picture postcard sent from Kutsk, in Turkey, and a message about a rabbi they'd both known as children. And Kaplan had lost the postcard. Craig screwed the paper into a twist, set fire to it, and dropped the pieces into a metal trash can. When they had burned out he flushed the pieces down the toilet and went out to eat.

By now it was close to midnight and New York was much too quiet. (If Cinderella had lost her glass slipper in New York, Loomis had said, her foot would have been in it at the time.) He found a place that sold him clams, steak, and beer, and a piece of apple pie that reminded him of Tyneside. When he asked for coffee with caffein in it, the waiter reacted as if he were a junkie. He walked back through the silent canyons, glittering with light, their only occupants in pools of shadows, men, always in groups, waiting, watching, men inhibited by his size and the way he walked, the suggestion of power to be used at once and to the limit if they tried to hurt him.

Craig went back to his hotel room and remembered that Loomis, detestable as he was, was invariably right. The thought reminded him of the equipment that hadn't been supplied, and Benson and Royce's visit to Kaplan. But he'd got equipment anyway, a Smith and Wesson and four rounds, and a Browning Hi -Power. And Benson and Royce were problems he could do nothing about . . . Craig slept.

CHAPTER 5

They came for him at four in the morning, the dead hour when reactions are slowest and sleep at its most profound. They were good men, there were enough of them, and they didn't get too close. Craig, worn out as he was, heard them just three seconds too late. By then they were in his bedroom and one of them had flicked on a torch, its brilliant bar of light hitting him full in the eyes. Craig flung up one arm, and in the dazzling silence heard the click of a safety catch. A voice said, "You know what I'm holding, Mr. Craig?" He nodded. "Just keep looking this way and maybe I won't use it."

He looked into the light. Behind him someone was moving very softly, someone poised for a blow. At the last possible second Craig swerved round. The hand shielding his face shot out in a fist strike. He felt muscle and flesh give under his hand, then a second man struck, a single blow behind the ear with a life preserver of plaited leather, and Craig collapsed at once. The lights went on then, and three men dressed as ambulance attendants set up a stretcher, loaded him on to it. A fourth man clung to the bedrail, his fingers solicitous where Craig's fist had smashed into his belly. He was a young, strong, fit man. Had one of those prerequisites been missing, Craig's blow would have crippled him or killed him. When Craig was on the stretcher, one of the men gave him an injection of paraldehyde. It was vital that he shouldn't move for twenty minutes. After that, two of them carried out Craig; the third supported the one he had struck. It would be an hour at least before he could walk by himself.

Craig woke up in a bed that was five feet from the floor, a hard bed on an iron frame that was the only thing in the room except for a chair. He wore a nightshirt of some kind of coarse linen, his wrists and feet were tied to the bed by canvas straps, and there was a bandage round his forearm. His head ached vilely, the drug made his stomach heave, and his wrists and ankles were already sore. He had no doubt that shortly he would regard his present position as one of luxury, and shut his eyes at once, trying to buy time, to prepare his body and mind to resist what was going to be done to him. That he would tell what he knew eventually was inevitable; any man can be broken, and if you've been broken once before it's that much easier the second time. But it was Craig's business to escape if he could, and hold out if escape were impossible. Desperately he tried to drive his mind and body away from what was coming, but the memory of Laurie S. Fisher was too strong. Beneath the bandage gauges recorded the sudden spurt of his pulse, the increase of perspiration, and in the next room a doctor saw these things recorded on instrument dials, and nodded to the man beside him. Craig was ready.

The man who came into Craig's room was tall and lean. His clothes were elegant, his face at once weatherbeaten and scholarly. He stood looking down at Craig for twenty seconds, and Craig remained immobile, though the dials in the next room leaped as he waited.

The tall man said at last, "I think we should have a talk, Mr. Craig."

Craig opened his eyes then and looked at him: perhaps the most difficult thing he had ever done.

The tall man said, "I think we can dispense with the formalities of outraged innocence, don't you? Your name is John Craig, you work for Loomis in Department K of M-16, and you're here to find out about a man called Kaplan."

Craig said, "My name is John Craig—yes, but I'm an account executive for Baldwin-Hicks. I'm here on advertising business. I never heard of Department K. Or Kaplan."

Believe your cover story all the way, they had taught him. Know it. Feel it. Belong to it. Even when they begin to hurt you. Especially then. Even if the other side knows you're lying, it'll help you to hold out.

"Yes of course," said the tall man. "And you didn't go to see Kaplan's brother today?"

"Of course not," said Craig. "I never heard of Kaplan."

The tall man pressed a buzzer and two other men came into the room. They wore the white smocks of hospital orderlies, but Craig knew them at once for what they were. In the next room, the dials on the instrument panel moved up further.

"You went to an apartment block on West 95th Street," said the tall man. "Kaplan lives there. Don't waste our time, Mr. Craig. We know"

"I went to see an advertising man," said Craig.

The two men in white moved closer to the bed.

"And did you go to the Graydon to see another advertising man?" the tall man asked.

Craig said, "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know what you're doing here."

One of the men in white took his arm, held it firmly, and the other moved up close. Something flashed in the room's hard light, and Craig whimpered at a brief stab of pain, before his mind told him they had injected him again. Pentathol, he thought. Truth serum. The only way was to blank out your mind, think of nothing that would make sense to your questioners. Methodically he began to recite the days of the week in Arabic, over and over again, saying them harder and harder as the tall man's questions came. It would be so easy to answer the questions, and such a pleasure to talk about the terrible thing he had seen. But his business was to recite the days of the week in Arabic. He went on doing so.

Suddenly the tall man had gone, and in his place was another, chubby and benign, with hexagonal rimless glasses that made him look like a cherubic gnome.

"Hi," he said. The seven words went on and on in Craig's mind. He said nothing.

"What you doing?" said the chubby man, and settled down in the chair. The dials had told him all he needed to know. This one was terrified. "Counting sheep? Reciting poetry? French irregular verbs? They try all kinds," the chubby man said, then rose suddenly and stood over Craig, the chubbiness gone, and in its place a squat power, as he noticed the tension in Craig's hands.

"You're not comfortable," he said. "Let me tuck you up properly."

His hands stripped away the sheets, and Craig gabbled his seven words as the other man lifted the smock and looked at the marks on his body, the sweat soaking from him so that the bed sheets were wet.

"My, my," said the man. "Somebody certainly didn't like you. Somebody certainly hurt you all right. You must be a very brave man. And strong too. I admire you, sport, I really do."

The voice continued, softly, gently, and Craig saw him grow chubby again, fat and well meaning and anxious to help as he told Craig how brave he was, and asked him how he managed to withstand such terrible pain. Slowly, inevitably Craig listened, and answered, the seven words falling like pierced armor from his memory. The chubby man knew all about pain—and cared. On and on Craig talked, and gradually the chubby man's questions moved from Craig's agony to Laurie S. Fisher's, and Craig wept as he remembered what had been done to him.

"And you really didn't see who did it, John?"

"No," said Craig. "I thought it was the KGB, but-"

"But what? Go on. You can tell me."

"You're the KGB, aren't you?"

"Just a research team, John. Asking questions about the problems of pain. Kaplan now. We heard there were two hoods in the Boldinis' apartment. Were they going to hurt Kaplan?"

"They were going to kill him," said Craig. "Only I killed one of them instead."

"And the other one got away, right? You should have killed him too, don't you think so?"

"Noise," said Craig. "People." Suddenly he felt very weary.

"Please, John," said the chubby man. "Don't go to sleep just yet."

Craig said, "They weren't—executives. Not like the ones who got Fisher. They were your best people. The two I met were just hired guns. Not worth killing." "Or hurting, John?"

Craig said, "I don't like hurting people. I don't like being hurt."

"John," said the chubby man, "I think you're in the wrong business."

"That too," said Craig, and slept.

The tall man came out of the shadows and looked at Craig as the two orderlies left. "Well, well," he said. "The best in the business."

"You take a blade, you sharpen it and sharpen it till it'll split a silk scarf drawn across it. Then one day you drop it on a stone floor. After that it'll still cut bread, but the silk scarves are safe. They stay in one piece."

"Damn your parables," said the tall man. "What about Fisher?"

"He didn't do that to Fisher. He couldn't. Anyway, he told us the truth. He found him." "And the girl too?"

"And the girl. She was a Scandinavian type, just like he said. Mai Olsen. Fisher met her-"

"I know all that," the tall man said, and turned back to Craig. "What do you think?"

"Of John? He can still fight, still kill if he has to—but he can't cut silk scarves."

The tall man turned away.

"Get rid of him," he said.

There were rats. He could hear them scuttering about the floor, running up the legs of the bed, ducking beneath the bedclothes every time he turned his head to see them. He'd never actually seen one, but they were there all right. He could feel them. From time to time they bit him in the arms. Not that it mattered. The bites didn't hurt; they were just reminders that the rats were there. And there was another one—probably a baby he thought—that hid behind the pillow and bit him behind the ear. A baby rat. Brown fur, naked tail, scrabbling paws. He could imagine it perfectly, but it didn't disgust him—only it was a nuisance. Biting like that. The trouble was he couldn't stop it, because his hands were tied. Better to sleep, if the rats would let him.

Suddenly a bell sounded, deferential but insistent. A telephone, he thought, an American telephone. Only there weren't any telephones, not in that room where they'd talked about the pain. The ringing went on, and Craig woke, the rats disappeared, their scrabbling the hum of air conditioning, their bites the ache in his arms and head. As he woke he noticed that his arms and legs were stretched out as if he were still strapped down. Cautiously he reached for the telephone at his bedside, and pain stabbed behind his ear.

"Noon, Mr. Craig," said the voice of the girl at the switchboard.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's noon," said the voice again, acidly patient. "Twelve o'clock. You left word for a call."

"Oh yes," said Craig. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," said the girl. The words meant, "Jesus. Another lush."

He rang room service for breakfast and a bowl of ice, and spent a long time bathing, showering, soaking the pain from his body. The mark of the thing they'd clipped to his arm was red and angry, but it would soon go. The one behind his ear was another matter: purple, exotic, and with a lot of life left. He'd have to tell absurd lies about backing into a shelf, or something. Then he remembered the gunman he'd slammed against the wall with the door. The he wasn't so absurd.

The waiter came and he tipped him, wrapped ice in a towel, and put it on the bruise, then ate his breakfast. He found it strange that he could be so hungry, when his life was finished. He was no danger at all, so far as they were concerned. So much so that they hadn't even bothered to kill him. To them, he wasn't even a joke. Doggedly he tried to remember the questions they had asked, but all he could remember was pain, and Laurie S. Fisher, and a fat little man looking at where he too had been hurt. He also remembered a tall man, but that was all. Craig finished his coffee and began to dress and pack. If he really was finished, Loomis would have to know. He booked a seat on a plane for the next night, the first flight he could get, and went back to bed. No rats, no dreams, no arms and legs in a Saint Andrew's cross. When he woke up he felt better, remembering the man he'd hit in the stomach, the way he'd saved Kaplan's life. He remembered, too, the information Kaplan had given him, word for word. There might after all be some point in staying on, in order to find out who had decided that Craig was finished. In tracking them down. After all, the night clerk at the hotel should be able to give him some sort of a lead.

But the night clerk, when he came on duty, knew nothing, except that Craig had come back very late with two friends, and he'd had a little—difficulty in getting up to bed. In fact the two friends had helped. That would be around six in the morning. Must have been some party, Mr. Craig. Sure he remembered the ambulance, but that had been for another guest, two floors below Craig. The way the clerk had heard it, he'd called a doctor, and the doctor had diagnosed a perforated appendix and called a hospital. He didn't know what hospital. No. But the ambulance looked classy. Craig thanked him and gave him ten dollars in hard currency, taxpayers' money, then went back to his problem. The Yellow Pages told him just how full of hospitals and nursing homes New York is. Moreover, there was Loomis to be considered. He'd got Kaplan's information, and Loomis would want to know about that, as well as the fact that he, Craig, was a failure. Craig ate dinner in the hotel and slept for twelve hours.

Next morning he felt better than ever, and had found a way to solve his problem. He would call on Thaddeus Cooke, and have another fight. If he won, he would stay on. If he lost, he would report back to Loomis.

Cooke beat him three times in seven minutes, and looked almost as horrified as Craig.

"Mr. Craig," he said, "you must have got problems since I saw you last. Why, man, I tell you, they've even got down into your feet. You got to solve them, Mr. Craig, or you ain't goin' to be no good at this game any more. I tell you honest, the way you're doing now, you couldn't even lick Blossom. At least"—he thought it over, and made one concession—"not if Blossom was set for you. You go on home—get those problems licked. Or take up golf."

Craig went. Not home, not immediately. There was plenty of time for the plane. But he had to see the Kaplans again. There was a good man looking after them, and there'd be others backing up and all that, but the Kaplans didn't know. It was true that Marcus Kaplan had seen a man killed in the Boldinis' apartment, but they didn't, either of them, know Fisher was dead, or what had been done to him before he died. It was up to Craig to tell them that these things happened; that people got hurt, or were even destroyed, and yet were allowed to go on living.

The doorman was off duty when Craig arrived, but the apartment building seemed quiet enough, not at all the kind of place where a man had been killed. No cops, no spectators, no crowds of sightseers. Perhaps that was just the heat. (If Lady Godiva rode down Fifth Avenue in July nobody would watch, said Loomis. The sight of that poor horse sweating would kill them.) He went up to the Kaplans' floor. The Boldinis' door was unguarded, but Craig moved on more quickly and rang the Kaplans' bell. Nothing happened, so he kept on ringing, over and over. Hetherton wasn't going to keep him out.

But it wasn't Hetherton who stood there. It was a girl. A small girl, long-legged, brown-eyed, swathed in the most enormous sable coat Craig had ever seen. Just to look at her made Craig melt in sweat, but she looked happy enough about it and hugged the coat to her body with her arms. What she was not happy about was Craig, whom she apparently cast as an intruder, maybe even a prowler.

"I called to see Mr. Kaplan," said Craig. "My name's Craig."

"I'm sorry," the girl said, "he's not at home right now."

She made to close the door, and Craig did not try to stop her, but said quickly: "When will he be back?" The girl hesitated.

"Three weeks—maybe a month," she said. "He and Aunt Ida are on a vacation trip." So that was all right. The CIA could move when they had to. They'd taken the Kaplans away.

"Thanks," said Craig, and turned to leave. He'd taken three steps down the corridor when the girl called out: "Just a minute." He went back to her.

"You've hurt yourself," the girl said. "Behind your ear."

"Miss-?"

"Loman," said the girl.

"Miss Loman—I know it."

"Sort of a crazy place to hurt yourself."

"It happens," said Craig. "I stumbled and banged my head on a shelf."

The brown eyes looked puzzled and faintly amused, nothing more.

"You'd better come in for a minute," she said. "You look awful."

She led the way to the Kaplans' living room and sat, still wearing the coat. The air conditioning wasn't on; Craig looked at her again, and began sweating seriously.

"You know why I asked you in?" she asked. "I figured you couldn't be a prowler. You have a British accent. So it's okay. Can I get you something?"

"No thanks," said Craig. "But I'd like to ask a question. Two questions."

"Go ahead," the girl said.

"Is Mrs. Kaplan your aunt?"

"No," said the girl. "Just an old friend of the family— so I call her Aunt Ida. What's the other one?"

"Why are you wearing a fur coat?"

Miss Loman blushed a fierce, unpleasing pink. As Craig watched, she got up, looked in the mirror and brushed at her face with one hand, still clutching her coat with the other.

"Oh, shoot," she said. "I hate doing that. You see, Mr. Craig—the Kaplans went away just this morning, and they asked me to close the apartment up for them. And Aunt Ida has the most fantastic furs, so when I found a new one-"

"You just had to try it on," said Craig. "But aren't you hot?"

"I'm dying," Miss Loman said. "If you'll excuse me, I'll hang it up."

She rose, still clutching the coat, tripped over a footstool, and flung up her hands to steady herself, and the coat swung open. Beneath it she was quite naked, and very pretty. She whirled round from Craig, and he remembered another girl in swirling fur, a very bright girl, and pretty too. As pretty as this one. When Miss Loman had finished swirling she held the coat in place, one-handed. The other one held the telephone. Craig hadn't moved from his chair.

"You're absolutely right," he said. "Much too hot to try on fur coats. How fortunate I'm not a prowler."

Miss Loman laughed and put the telephone back on its cradle.

"You British," she said. "How do you get to be so diplomatic?"

"Practice, I suppose," said Craig, and got to his feet unhurriedly. "When you write to the Kaplans, tell them I said they should take care of themselves."

"I will," she said, and followed him to the door. When he reached it, she called out:

"What's your first name?"

"John," he said.

"Mine's Miriam. Tell me, John—did you think I was pretty?"

"Delightful," said Craig. "Absolutely delightful."

When he left she was blushing again.

He went back to London on an Air India Boeing 707. Curry, and hostesses in saris, and breakfast served an hour before landing, and when the plane touched down it was lunchtime. He hadn't slept at aU and felt bone-weary. Passport control and customs were separate purgatories. His world was finished, and waiting for him now was Loomis, with a thousand questions, and after them one fact: Loomis could hardly just let him go. It was conceivable that Loomis would have him killed. But even so, he had to call him. Loomis would know he was back anyway. He took a taxi from the airport to a pub he knew. It was not a very nice pub, but it had one valuable asset: from it you could see Queen Anne's Gate. He bought a drink, and went to a phone booth. First he got Loomis's secretary, then the fat man came on.

"That was quick. Get what you wanted?"

"Most of it," said Craig. It was true enough.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Loomis said.

"I saw the Kaplans. And a young friend of theirs. A girl called Miriam Loman. Not Fisher. He was dead when I reached him."

"Ah," said Loomis. "You better come and see me. Tomorrow morning." "Can't it be today?"

"No. I got a lot on today. Tomorrow morning. Ten sharp."

Loomis hung up. At six o'clock Joanna Benson left Department K. Ten minutes later, Royce left too.

He went back to his flat, taking his time, but nobody was watching it. Craig, it seemed, was past all that. You just pointed him in whatever direction was necessary, wound him up, and off he went. When the job was over he just sat around waiting till the next time—or until he was thrown away. Craig discovered that he was very angry, and the anger surprised him. There was no fear in it; only rage. If Benson and Royce were so bloody marvelous, let them get on with it. He wasn't going to sit around while Loomis made up his mind whether he should live or not. And yet what else could he do? If he bolted, Loomis would be after him in earnest. For Loomis there was no such thing as an ex-agent, only a defector waiting for a new master. The new master might be offering money, or merely a cessation of pain, but sooner or later he would appear, Craig knew, if Loomis didn't act first. But Loomis always had acted first, in the five times it had happened, and Craig knew it well. He had executed one of them himself. The anger yielded to despair.

The only logical way out was suicide, A lot of whisky and a massive dose of chloral hydrate, painfully hoarded over weeks of sleeplessness. That would be easy, painless, almost desirable. His life was finished anyway: his ability as an agent gone, his zest in women gone, the booze he despised his only pleasure. It was right that it should help to kill him. Even if Loomis let him live it would kill him anyway. He looked at the whisky decanter, then went into the kitchen and found a fresh bottle. The chloral hydrate tablets were in the bathroom. They could wait. . .

When the phone rang the bottle was a quarter empty and Craig was in the bathroom, counting the tablets. Twenty-three, that was more than enough. He poured the tablets back into their bottle and noticed that his hand was still steady. The discovery didn't please him; he wanted to be really drunk before he swallowed the damn things, so drunk that he couldn't change his mind even if he wanted to. He put the tablets in his pocket and went back to the drawing room and the view of the park Benson had liked so much. The phone shrilled at him still. He picked up first his glass, then the phone.

"Craig," he said, and swallowed.

"Where you been?" said Loomis.

"The loo," said Craig. "I'm allowed to. You gave me the night off."

The words came out with the right insolence, but he was terrified. _t

"You drinking?" Loomis asked. "I've had a couple."