The Money That Money Can't Buy

"Everything," said Craig, "is fine."

"We heard a noise," reported Hornsey. "This chap and I were upstairs; then there was a sound rather like a building collapsing—"

"That would be Fat Arthur," said Craig.

"Then everybody left, except this chap and myself. You're all right?"

He and Millington walked toward Craig, and the man Craig held accepted Millington's handcuffs with relief.

"They were trying to frame me," Craig said. "There's a dead man in there."

Millington looked, and went at once to the telephone.

"They've cut your coat," said Hornsey. "What a terrible thing."

Craig looked down at the long, straight cut, then at the razor man, now kneeling on the floor. He pulled the razor man to his feet; the man yelled at what the agony of movement did to his throat, but no sound came.

"Get your voice back," said Craig. "I want you to tell me things." He turned to the man who had held the cosh. "I want you all to tell me things," he said, then added to Hornsey: "I liked this coat."

"It's awfully you," Hornsey said.

Millington put down the phone. "Murder squad's on its way." he said. "I'm sorry. I had to."

Craig nodded. "Our chaps will want a look, too," he said.

"That's fixed," said Millington.

"I'll be off then," said Craig. He looked at his split sleeve. "I'd better buy a raincoat I suppose."

He left then, and a face appeared above the counter. It was an old and evil face, with hair like moldy straw topped with a waitress's lacy cap. "I haven't seen one like him since they topped Big Harry Preston back in 1927," the waitress said. "I never thought I would. Gorgeous, isn't he, Mr. Millington?"

"You're a witness," Millington said.

"Of course I am. I want to be," said the waitress,

and she rose from behind the counter looking very

happy indeed. "You know what, Mr. Millington?"

she said, and the happiness became tinged with

awe. "That feller made Fat Arthur scream." * * *

"We're going to Paris," said Loomis, and shot straight over a red light. A taxi driver yelled, and Loomis accelerated so as to be in time for the next one.

"Why?" asked Craig, and wished for the thousandth time that Loomis would let him drive. Loomis's car was the most beaten-up Rolls Royce that Craig had ever seen, and no one else was ever allowed to drive it.

"The Russians want Calvet back," said Loomis. "They've invited us to Paris to talk it over."

He went round the Hammersmith roundabout in top gear, his brakes screaming like four Fat Arthurs.

"Are they going to get him?" asked Craig.

"Depends," said Loomis, and settled the Rolls in the outside lane of the highway, where it whispered along at an unvaried 69.5 mph. Behind it the Astin Martins, Mercedeses, Ferraris, and Jaguars lined up in frantic procession. Loomis ignored them all.

"You cut up a bit rough this afternoon," he said. "Belting a woman."

"You wouldn't have lasted three rounds with her," said Craig.

"Wouldn't want to," replied Loomis. "Then you had to go and start a massacre in a cafe."

"I was supposed to be massacred," Craig said. "They had coshes and razors and lumps of lead pipe."

"You broke Fat Arthur's arm. How big was he?"

"About your size," said Craig.

Loomis looked at him, carefully and long, and the Rolls went on all by itself.

"You're getting cheeky," he said. "Don't get cheeky."

"I like to know what's going on," said Craig.

But Loomis knew that Craig functioned best on an unrelieved diet of frustration.

"Tell me what you found out," Loomis said.

They had, of course, no knowledge of anything when Craig first questioned them in the interrogation room at Bow Street. The game had broken up at five that morning, Driver had been a big winner, and they'd all gone home. None of them had seen Driver again. Then somebody had tipped Fat Arthur off that Craig had murdered Driver and was with the body. The call, Arthur insisted, had been anonymous. He had collected the other two and he, the most improbable Sir Galahad of all, charged to the rescue. Or at any rate tried. Craig had then beaten him unconscious, and that had been all. His alibi—a small, loud, drunken shrew who had despised him enough to marry him—was unshakable. So were those of his allies. The crone who had gone downstairs minutes before Craig knew nothing except that there was one man left unhung.

Craig had persisted, and had learned many things. Brodski owned most of the cafe, and Arthur was afraid of him; Brodski had disliked Driver intensely but had not banned him from the game; there was no address at which Brodski could be reached when his club shut down. Craig had also been intrigued by the fact that Fat Arthur knew he had fought a woman and had attacked him before he had seen Driver's body. The urge to avenge a friend must have been overwhelming. Fat Arthur and his friends denied, over and over, that Brodski had made the phone call. Craig knew they lied. He left them while Millington was intoning the litany of assault with a deadly weapon, and went back to the strip club.

Brodski had gone, and nobody, least of all Jennifer, knew where to reach him. The telephone number he had left was that of an answering service, and the answering service regretted that they could never, never divulge that kind of thing on the phone. Craig telephoned Millington and told him to check on that angle, then bought more champagne for Karen, Tempest, and Maxine. When Harry served them his hands were shaking so badly that he couldn't get the cork out of the bottle. Craig did it for him.

"O-o-o you are nervous tonight, sweetie," said Tempest.

"You've heard, haven't you, luscious?" said Maxine, and Harry bolted back to the bar.

"Heard what?" asked Craig.

"The way you beat up Fat Arthur," said Max-ine. "It's all over the parish."

"What d'you do it for?" Tempest asked.

"He puts saccharin in his coffee," said Craig.

"They say you killed Tony Driver, too," said Karen. She didn't seem worried by this, merely interested.

"I found him dead," said Craig. "I was looking for a poker game."

Karen put an arm round his shoulders, and looked into his eyes. Her fingers massaged the back of Craig's neck, and her eyes were large and limpid. She had drunk a lot of champagne.

"You're not a copper, darling, are you?" she asked. "I couldn't bear it if you were a copper."

Craig said: "I'm a collector."

"What do you collect?" Tempest asked.

"Money," said Craig.

"Oh how super," said Maxine.

He had told them then that he had come to collect some from Brodski, and they loved him more than ever, because they were wary of Brodski, who, they were sure, was as normal as a man could be, and yet never, never failed to show them, with extreme courtesy, how little he needed them. Unfortunately, they knew nothing more about him except that he paid them well and made no demands. Driver had at least made an effort. He'd invited them to a party at his flat. But he'd been broke, so they hadn't gone. But Karen had written his address down somewhere—on her bra, she thought. She looked, and Harry yawned, and Craig sweated, and there it was. He'd had a hard time getting away.

All Driver had carried, apart from his wallet, was a key, and Craig took that to a little street in Belgravia. The key opened the door, and Craig went inside at once, cat-footed warily, but all the small, neat rooms held was emptiness and silence. The house was small and unobtrusive, built in single tiers like a layer cake, bedroom on dining room on kitchen, bath and loo on living room. And all anonymous and noncommittal, rented by the month from a retired major in the Blues, according to the rent book. The house showed little evidence of Driver's ever having been there, apart from his clothes. The clothes interested Craig: they were all bought at Simpson's in Piccadilly, and none of them looked old; in fact, they looked as if they had all been bought at the same time. Craig searched on. Two empty suitcases, an empty grip, an empty Pan Am flightbag. He looked beneath the bed, in the trap beneath the washbasin, the toilet tank, the bath tank. Nothing. Driver was no more than seven suits, five pairs of slacks, six pairs of shoes, and some expensive cashmere. And then he found it, beneath the bottom shelf of the wardrobe—a fiberglass briefcase with the most effective locks Craig had ever seen. He smashed them open at last with a wrought-iron lampstand. Inside the case were a Walther P38 with a three-inch barrel, a thousand pounds in one-pound notes, four twenty-dollar bills that matched the one Loomis had given him, and five decks of playing cards with the seals unbroken. Craig broke them. Every pack of cards was marked.

He emptied the briefcase, then attacked it again with the lampstand, bringing it down with all his strength on the case's lid and container. They cracked eventually, and Craig probed into the cracks with a carving knife, his hands careful and precise. The container yielded nothing except four clips of bullets for the Walther. Craig pocketed them, and the weapon: a Walther was always a reliable gun. The lid held an I.O.U. from Fat Arthur to Driver for one thousand pounds, a Swiss passport in the name of Dumont, and a German passport made out to Donner. Both the passport photographs were of Driver. Craig thought he

must like the letter D.

* * *

"Driver's suitcase was made in Germany," said Loomis, and for some reason he slowed down to run parallel with a hearse that was moving at twenty miles an hour. Anguished squeals of brakes behind him proclaimed that other drivers too were showing their last respects.

"So were his handkerchiefs," said Loomis, and removed his hat, a battered unconquerable bowler. "Know what?" He looked at Craig, and accelerated craftily. The Rolls reached a speed of 69.5 mph again, and the Ferrari behind almost stalled.

"The playing cards were made in Germany, too," Loomis said. "You could win at anything with those cards. Naughty." He drove on, then added: "We never found Brodski. He's done a bunk." More driving, while he scowled at the Ferrari, now visible again in his rear-view mirror.

"Think he killed Driver?" Loomis asked.

"Brodski? For a dud twenty-dollar bill?"

"It could be just for that," said Loomis.

"Brodski chased Driver for one bad debt— chased him and killed him?"

"Not quite," Loomis said. "The way I see it, Driver was chasing Brodski—only he got too close."

"You think Driver had something on Brodski? And the twenty-dollar bill was a way of letting him know?"

"Didn't you say he'd lost money just before he went to Brodski's club, and two days later he paid up?"

"That's right," said Craig. "So Driver double-crossed his bosses."

"Ah," said Loomis. "I wonder if his bosses were Krauts?"

"It's possible," said Craig.

"It is indeed," said Loomis dreamily. "It's even possible he belongs to the West German Defense of Constitution."

"Driver was an agent?"

"Not a very good one," said Loomis. "He died."

Craig had met operators from the Defense of Constitution before. They did counterintelligence work, and did it well. Hard, arrogant, efficient as Deutschmarks, all four hundred of them. Mostly they stayed in West Germany and hunted foreign spies, particularly Russians. Sometimes they went further afield. Driver had gone too far.

"Where do they come in?" asked Craig. "Those Defense of Constitution boys don't like to get too far from home. They play too rough."

"They got one sacred symbol, you see," Loomis said. "Like a cow to a Brahmin, like Mecca to an Arab, that's the Deutschmark to a West German."

"Money," said Craig. "This case is all money. Dollars and Deutschmarks."

"At least they've chosen the good stuff," said Loomis.

They parked in the VIP car area, and boarded their Comet with minutes to spare. Loomis had insisted on traveling first class, and finished the champagne lunch to the last crumb and the last drop. His passport declared him to be a business executive. He talked all the way of golf, electrical appliances, and the total absence of good tea in Paris. Craig, also a business executive, confined himself to agreement. He knew that he was junior to Loomis. They landed at Orly Airport to find a warm spring day and a pale-blue Citroen. The English driver came over to them, shook hands with them, and took them at once to the car. Inside it, on the back seat, were two parcels: one squat, square and heavy, the other flexible and shapeless. The driver immediately pulled away and got onto the highway to Paris, and Loomis fretted about how the rest of the world drives on the wrong side of the road. Craig put the two parcels into his raincoat pockets; soon they stopped at a cafe. Craig went at once to the toilet, locked the door of his stall, and removed his raincoat and jacket, then quickly untied his parcels. The flexible one was a holster of black leather, the hard one a Smith and Wesson Chiefs Special with a two-inch barrel—the right gun for the job, not all that accurate over too great a distance but a stopper. If you got hit with that you didn't get up. Craig put his jacket and coat back on, stuck the wrapping paper in the gun's box and then the box in his pocket, flushed the toilet, and went out, cutting short the clamors of the woman at the door with a half-franc borrowed from the driver. He drank the coffee Loomis ordered for him, and they drove on into springtime Paris, with the chestnut trees and the Eiffel Tower, and the Arc de Triomphe, the Invalides, and the biggest traffic jams in Europe. But at last they reached the Madeleine, walked around the corner to the Thomas Cook offices, and bought two tickets to Versailles.

They went there in a bus, a big Facel Vega with a sunshine roof and its full complement of tourists. Loomis chose a seat in the middle and put Craig next to the window, then peered past him dutifully as the guide called out the place names all had paid so much to see. At last, when even the television center had been passed and there was nothing more to look at, Loomis spoke softly to Craig.

"He asked for Versailles," Loomis said. "Bloody culture snob. Could have had a nice bit of lunch at the Tour d'Argent. God knows he can afford it."

"Who?" asked Craig.

"Chelichev," said Loomis.

Chelichev was head of the Executive Division of the KGB—the Committee for State Security. Before Beria's death he had headed the GRU, which is Army Intelligence, but after that colossal shakeup he had been transferred, and now he was the only military man in a nonmilitary organization. He held the rank of lieutenant-general. "He rarely leaves Russia." Craig said so.

"He goes when he has to," said Loomis. "Like me. We got something he wants, so he comes to France."

"Not England?"

"He doesn't want it that bad," said Loomis.

"Anyway, he's probably got a deal on with the Frenchies as well."

"What about?" Craig asked.

"Morocco," said Loomis. He would say no more.

They drove on to Versailles, and listened while the guide reeled off facts and figures, lagging behind as the group trudged through stateroom after stateroom; they wondered what it must have been like before the mob smashed its way in and took the gold away. By the time they reached the Hall of Mirrors, they were alone, and Chelichev was waiting for them.

He was a tall man with silvery hair and blue eyes, dressed in light, elegant tweeds like a Frenchman's idea of an officer in the guards. The briefcase he carried was like the extension of his hand. His face was leathery, handsome, and very masculine. To the inexpert, he might have been a male model who specialized in whisky ads; to Craig, he was an expert who specialized in death. With him he had one man, tall, thick-muscled, with cautious eyes and hands conspicuously displayed in front of him, as Craig's were. Craig knew all about that man as soon as he saw him. He was looking at himself.

The moves that followed were as formal as a ballet. The two pairs of men advanced from opposite ends of the great room, and after ten paces Craig and the thick-muscled man turned and walked to the windows in the embrasures that overlooked the canal, turned again and, each unseen by the other, watched their principals meet, fall in side by side and patrol the room, Loomis with his tall, square bowler rammed down hard on his head, Chelichev swinging his briefcase. Chelichev seemed to do most of the talking. From time to time Loomis spoke. Usually it was a monosyllable, and he seemed to be enjoying it. The Russian's face was impassive, but his arguments never stopped. At last Loomis seemed to agree, and Chelichev's arguments ceased. The two men walked back to the center of the room, then each crossed to the embrasure where his man was waiting. Loomis's face glistened with sweat, but he kept his hat on.

Their tour group came back, and they went out again, back to Paris, invulnerably embedded in humanity. The Citroen waited for them in the Place de la Madeleine, and drove them back to Orly Airport. At the last moment, Craig took out the Smith and Wesson, unstrapped the holster, and left them both in the box and wrapping they came in.

"Tidy," said Loomis.

Craig had no idea who bodyguarded them at the airport or on the plane. They were the best Loomis had and hence invisible. Once more they talked of golf, electrical appliances, and the total absence of good coffee in London, until they were through Customs, out of the Europa building, and inside Loomis's car.

Craig said: "That briefcase Chelichev carried. He's got you on tape."

"Ah," said Loomis, and carefully removed his hat, wiped his sweating forehead. Inside the hat's high dome was a tape recorder.

"Made it myself," said Loomis. "Bit of.a hobby."

One enormous finger stabbed into the hat with a forceful accuracy that was entirely Loomis, and Craig tried not to think of Freud, as a tiny motor whirred, and first Chelichev's voice spoke; then Loomis'. Both men talked in German.

"His idea," Loomis said. "Seemed to think it was funny. Matter of fact it was."

His driving on the way back to Queen Anne's Gate was atrocious.

* * *

The two men studied transcripts of the taped conversation, and the text of Chelichev's speech was at first a raging anger. The typewritten words burned on the page. And yet, Craig remembered, Chelichev himself had given no sign of anger; had never looked other than reasonably, gently persuasive while he blasted Loomis with one threat after another, demanding Calvet back, and Loomis, equally gentle, had said no. Chelichev had shifted then, as their images had blurred from one mirror to another, Craig remembered. If they couldn't have Calvet back, they wanted him dead, and again Loomis said no. Loomis was being impossibly difficult, Chelichev had said, but never mind. He'd go further. Department K didn't have to do it. All Loomis need do was set Calvet up and Chelichev would arrange the death himself, and Loomis had asked why.

Chelichev had sworn then for thirty seconds, and in a foreign language, and Loomis had interrupted him. First he explained the old English custom of tit for tat—of Jean-Luc Calvet for James Soong. No one was allowed to come into his parish and knock people off. Not even a man he respected as much as General Chelichev. And to Craig's amazement the Russian had apologized. Chelichev said he realized how unprofessional it was, but he had no choice. And besides, even if Loomis didn't realize it, he, Chelichev, had been doing Loomis a favor.

"He enjoyed that bit," said Loomis. "That's all he bloody did enjoy."

Craig read on. Loomis now knew why Soong had been murdered, though the reasons for this had been omitted from Craig's transcript. The reasons had come from Calvet, that much was clear, and even clearer was Chelichev's unsatisfied desire to know what had made Calvet talk. There followed a lengthy interval of bargaining over an unspecified job Chelichev wanted done, and what Loomis was to get in return; then both men assured each other that nothing must be done to alarm the Germans or the French, and there Craig's transcript ended.

"You're being cryptic again," said Craig.

"Can't help it," said Loomis. "I've got orders, too."

"Do they allow you to tell me what all this bargaining's about?"

"The Chinese are building rockets," said Loomis. "The Russkies know where they're going to be sited. If we do them this little favor they'll tell us. Useful that."

"This little favor," said Craig. "You did say 'we'?"

"More 'you,' really," said Loomis. "I'm too fat —and too important."

"Mind telling me what it is?"

"Of course," said Loomis. "You're going to help them rob a bank." He would say no more.

Japanese judoka who had taught him in London, would only say that Craig was better than he was— and he was a third dan in karate. For Craig, each hand, each foot, was a deadly weapon. He could, quite literally, kill with one finger. What use was lead pipe against that? And he had broken Fat Arthur's arm, quickly and surely, as one snaps a dry stick, for no other reason than that he disliked him. Loomis contemplated the fact that, like Frankenstein, he had created a monster. In Japan there were a handful of men who could kill Craig. Someday, maybe soon, one of them might have to.

The Mark X sliced past the family saloons as speedometer and tachometer needles revolved. A sign that said "ROUNDABOUT. REDUCE SPEED NOW" went by in a blur. Loomis lay back in the front seat, squat as a frog, and at the last possible second Craig eased on the brake and the big car squealed its outraged protest, circling the roundabout, while a man in a saloon, with his wife beside him and three kids in the back, stood on his brakes, inches from the Jaguar, swore once, then turned green. Craig's foot swiveled back to the accelerator. He said nothing, and Loomis thought how useful his monster was, and wondered when the monstrosity would outweigh the usefulness.

"You're not supposed to kill me, son," said Loomis.

"I never do," said Craig, "or anybody else. Unless you tell me."

He left the A.l then, and idled through Hertfordshire, pastel bright in the spring sunshine, through winding, leafy lanes as sentimental as calendar pictures, until he reached the nursing home.

It had once been a country house of modest dimensions, and its conversion had been thorough and discreet. The lodge gate was a sheet of steel, the lodge itself of solid stone, with tiny windows. The men inside it were armed, and safe from anything smaller than a tank. The house walls were of smooth stone, without footholds and ten feet high. Electrified wire and barbed wire topped the walls: the angle irons that held them in position each contained the photoelectric cells of an alarm system. From a shed near the house came the hum of a generator: the nursing home had its own power supply. Among the elegant parterres of the flowerbeds were plastic mines. The place was what it was supposed to be—impregnable.

Loomis showed himself at the window, the gate swung open, and Craig drove in. As he did so, he knew he was held in a crossfire, knew too that a pack of dogs watched him, ready to attack if he got out of the car before he reached the portico of the house. By the time they'd reached the house, the doors were open. They could see no people in the hall, but they were there all right. And the dogs. The doors shut behind them.

"Wetherly's been looking after Calvet," said Loomis. "Done a lovely job. Matt Chinn's here too."

Wetherly was a psychiatrist who belonged, body and soul, to Department K. His security classification was as high as Loomis's. It had to be: from time to time he examined everyone in the department, from Loomis down. But Sir Matthew Chinn was different; he was a civilian psychiatric specialist of such eminence that the rich had to pay his weight in diamonds to obtain a visit.

"He's been having a look at Grierson," said Loomis. "After we've finished I want him to look at you."

He marched toward a door labeled "Group Psychotherapy." As he did so Craig's hand gripped his arm, and for all his weight Loomis had to turn to him.

"I'm not going crazy," said Craig. "I just like my

job." Then he hesitated, looked almost puzzled.

"Maybe that's crazy," he said.

* * *

Calvet was waiting with Wetherly. The brooding Slav look Craig remembered had gone, and now he was full of life, with a hypermanic's impatience when nothing was happening. As they watched, he arranged a table and four chairs, laid out scribbling pads and pencils, then turned to Wetherly with a contented sigh.

"We're all ready, I think," he said.

Wetherly, a bland, Pickwickian cherub, beamed at him, and Calvet sat down.

"You've met Craig before," said Wetherly. Calvet nodded, not looking at Craig.

"What's he on?" asked Craig.

Calvet scowled, and rapped on the table with his pencil.

"I'm not deaf," he said.

"Now, now," said Wetherly. "Craig can't help the way he is. None of us can."

"That's true," Calvet said. The pencil continued to tap.

"Jean-Luc's on pentathol from time to time," Wetherly said. "He likes it."

"It makes me tell the truth," said Calvet. "That's what I like."

"By the way, he's always Calvet now. Jean-Luc Calvet. Jean-Luc to his friends. There isn't any Dovzhenko."

"Dovzhenko's dead," said Calvet, and the pencil tapped on in the same broken rhythm.

"Morse code," said Wetherly. "Listen."

The pencil said "F-R-E-E" over and over.

"That's how I feel all the time," said Calvet, then his glance moved to Craig, and he snapped the pencil in two, stood up, and walked over to him. Craig moved slightly, his feet apart, weight evenly balanced, hands open by his sides. It was the beginning of the karate ritual. He should bow then, and utter the apologetic words that were also a warning: "I come to you with empty hands." He did neither.

"You killed Dovzhenko," Jean-Luc said.

Loomis growled: "Look, son," and Wetherly touched his arm. He was smiling.

"I'm very glad you did," said Calvet. "You set Calvet free." He slapped Craig on the shoulder and turned to the table.

"Come on," he said. "We've got work to do."

They sat round the table: four men who might be meditating the possibility of a little slam in spades.

"He knows about James Soong," said Loomis. It was like hauling the keystone out of a dam. Jean-Luc foamed words, and the others listened, as Craig took notes.

Soong had once belonged to Chinese Internal

Security, starting with the Tiger Beaters, the men and women who specialized in the detection of de-viationists and bourgeois. From there he had been transferred, because of his exceptional promise, to the group called Wrong Thoughts Corrected, a counterintelligence unit that specialized in the surveillance of Russia. He had been one of the last students there before the split, and had arranged the death of S. I. Lemkov, Russia's leading expert on Chinese affairs. From Russia he had gone to Tunisia, then to Morocco, where he had become aware of Russian efforts to find him. (The KGB's Executive Division had put Soong's death, preferably after interrogation, as a matter of top priority. It had been an agent of Calvet-Dovzhenko's who had found him in Tangier.) He disappeared from Morocco, and another KGB man, doing what amounted to a regulation checkup of Calder Hall, had spotted him in Keswick. The need for interrogation had passed by then; the Executive Division had therefore killed him.

"The Russians do not like their opposition to get away with murder," said Calvet. "Personally I find this unrealistic."

"What was Soong doing in Keswick?" Loomis asked.

"Waiting," said Calvet, then frowned. "I was coming to that. Just listen and I'll explain everything. There is no need to interrupt."

Loomis muttered and was still, like a volcano not ready to erupt, and Calvet talked on, oblivious.

Wrong Thoughts Corrected had recently made a deal with another anti-Russian group, this time working from Europe. Its headquarters was in

London, but they had thriving agencies in Paris, West Berlin, and Warsaw. This group was known as BC, which stood for Bourgeois-Capitalist. The KGB as yet had no knowledge of its chief members, but they did know three things: one, that it had access to a great deal of information that made Russia look foolish or hateful to the outside world; two, that it had interfered, by murder or sabotage, in projects that Russia valued highly as influencing foreign opinion; and three, that it banked in Tangier.

Craig said: "Two questions."

Calvet turned red at once, and began to yell about paying attention.

"I killed Dovzhenko for you," said Craig. "The least you can do is listen."

Calvet said: "Of course. I'm sorry," and smiled. When he smiled he looked innocent and young.

"What sort of projects did they sabotage?" asked Craig.

"Space shots," said Calvet. "Two Russian men have died in space. They think the BC had a hand in it."

Loomis sighed, a vast rumble of anger and dismay.

"Why bank in Morocco?" asked Craig. "It's hard to get the money out."

"Not for them," answered Calvet. "They have friends in Morocco. Powerful friends."

He went on talking. The bank was the Credit Labonne in Tangier. There was something about British newspapers, but he didn't know what. The trouble was that the KGB had only captured one BC operator, and he'd had a weak heart. He'd died before they could find out the names they needed. The Russians were always in too great a hurry, their methods lacked refinement.

"They don't understand," Calvet said. "To be really thorough, one must be gentle."

He smiled at Wetherly, the young, innocent smile, and Wetherly beamed back. Suddenly the smile faded, and Calvet began to talk in Russian. Then the words too faded, and he burst into tears. Wetherly bustled to him like a tubby ward sister, and Calvet clung to him and sobbed.

"Out," said Wetherly. "You've got the lot."

In the room labeled "Matron" Loomis and Craig sat and waited for Sir Matthew Chinn. Loomis looked at Craig, big, wary, and patient as ever, but oblivious to anything that didn't threaten him. When Calvet looked nasty, Craig was ready; when he wept, Craig ignored him.

"Credit Labonne. That's a bad one. I used to have an account there," said Craig.

"I know," said Loomis.

"Who's going to help me?"

"Later," said Loomis. "You've got to see Matt Chinn now, and I want to think about newspapers."

"Calvet said he didn't know—"

"Then I'll have to think. I hate thinking," said Loomis. "Makes me hungry."

Sir Matthew Chinn was a small Napoleonic man with a head that projected from his shoulders like an acquisitive bird's—a herring gull, say, or a jackdaw. He looked like a man who couldn't remember when he had last been wrong. Craig spent three hours with him, and at the end of it they went to the room where Grierson lay, eyes looking straight ahead, fingers busy with his piece of string. Chinn studied him intently, as if he were a fascinating but quite hopeless problem in chess, then Craig looked at him too, politely, because Chinn expected it. Grierson gave no sign that he knew they were there.

"He's quite helpless," Sir Matthew said. "Can't even control his bowels sometimes." Craig said nothing.

Sir Matthew permitted himself a small flash of temper.

"Sooner stink than remember, I suppose," he said.

Craig said: "I'd better be off."

"Just a minute," said Sir Matthew. "I want you to tell me what happened just before he got like that."

"You know."

"I want you to tell me."

"We had to kill a man," said Craig. "He had a bodyguard—we had to kill them as well. To get at him. It wasn't easy. I needed a gun that would scare them. I got a twenty-gauge riot gun. That's a shotgun with a sawed-off barrel. The Yanks use riot guns, but not twenty-gauge ones."

"Why not?"

"You have to get close," said Craig. "When you do—if I fired one at you now it would just about cut you in half." He looked at Grierson, still fumbling his string, and said: "I made a mistake in giving him that."

"You did?"

"He wasn't up to it," said Craig. "He killed two

blokes with it, and wounded another—he lost his arm. But then Grierson went funny. I should have used that riot gun myself."

8

"Killing's just a job to him," said Sir Matthew. "Like digging ditches."

Loomis lay back in his chintz-covered chair, watching an early bee bump among a vase of roses.

"Where d'you leave him?" he asked.

"He's waiting in the car."

"He nearly crashed today," said Loomis.

"I know. He told me. Your nervousness amused him. He likes risks."

"I don't," said Loomis, "but I have to take them."

"With him?"

"You tell me."

"For the moment he's a reasonable risk," Sir Matthew said. "He's not a psychopathic murderer in the usual sense."

"Cut out the codology," said Loomis.

"He won't kill unless there's risk to himself," said Sir Matthew.

"Even now?"

Sir Matthew nodded. "At one time he had a love-hate for that kind of killing—it disgusted him, but it exhilarated him, too."

"Like sex to a vicar," said Loomis.

"The established clergy have their own problems," Sir Matthew said. "Most of them are too poor to afford me. Craig is no longer aware of this love-hate when he kills."

"Why not?"

"He's killed too often," Sir Matthew said. "I made him." "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to. Look, I need Craig, d'you see?" "I do indeed." "Is it safe to use him?"

"For a while, yes, if you must," said Sir Matthew. "He's good at it, you know, and he's still got it under control."

"And one day he won't?"

"That's very possible. He's no longer aware of his love-hatred for killing, but it's stronger than ever. One day he won't wait for you to find his targets."

"How long?"

"He'd better see me in three months," said Sir Matthew, and stalked to the door, then he turned around. Loomis was surprised to see that his face expressed emotion. The emotion was malice.

"I should make a note of it, Loomis," said Sir Matthew. "One fact is overwhelmingly clear. Once Craig rejects your authority, his first target is obvious."

"Who?" Loomis asked.

"You," said Chinn.

* * *

Mrs. McNab brought in more newspapers, and Craig groaned aloud. The room held a couple of thousand already.

"These are the last," said Mrs. McNab. Craig grunted. "Any orders, sir?"

"Keep reading," said Craig.

If Mrs. McNab had not been a lady, she would have groaned too.

They were looking for news items on Russia: copy that knocked the country. Vanishing Sputniks, failure of five-year plans, plane crashes, the defeat of Moscow Dynamo, reputed sex changes in Russian women athletes. Anything that made Russia look bad. There was plenty of it. Craig and Mrs. McNab read of riots in Azerbaijan, attempted kidnapping of defecting diplomats in Sydney, denunciations of poets in Leningrad, towns that changed their names as one after the other of the giant idols—Trotsky, Kamenev, Stalin, Khrushchev—crashed. Carefully they noted the date and the edition of each paper that ran each story. Russian claims to have invented everything from the telephone to the airplane; political theorizing that ruined a wheat crop; drunks and the jet set and the man who made a fortune bootlegging the records of Louis Armstrong, until long before the end it seemed to Craig that only two kinds of people existed: the Russians, who did stupid things, and the rest of the world, who watched. Craig gathered up a pile of foolscap and went to the door.

"You needn't wait," he told Mrs. McNab. "It's almost teatime anyway."

"Very good, sir," said Mrs. McNab.

The time was 8:30. She hated him more than ever.

Loomis seemed to have devoured even more papers in even less time. The room was littered with them. He'd simply hurled them away when he'd finished with them, to make room for more. He sat now before an enormous plate on which was a roast chicken stuffed with truffles. The remains of a sole mornay had been pushed aside, a wedge of Stilton lay waiting. With it he drank a Chateau Lafite.

"I told you," he grunted. "Thinking makes me hungry. Want a drink?"

"Please," said Craig.

"Find a glass then," said Loomis.

Craig found a teacup, and Loomis shuddered.

"See a pattern?" he asked.

Craig sipped, and nodded, then looked at his sheaf of foolscap.

"Daily News, Glasgow Evening Messenger, Yorkshire Mercury, Woman's Ways, and In," he read.

"Woman's Ways? In?" asked Loomis.

"All the newspapers belong to Salvation Press," Craig said. "They do Woman's Ways, and In as well."

"In?"

"It's a groovy trend setter," Craig said ex-pressionlessly. "The mag that shows you tomorrow's world today. It doesn't like Russia either. Nor does Woman's Ways."

"You're not just a pretty face are you?" said Loomis. "That's the way I worked it out as well. Salvation Press is always first with the Russian stuff. Ahead of the Mail and Express even. And it prints stuff the others don't even bother with."

"That's right," said Craig, and drained his teacup.

"They got a tip-off," said Loomis. "They must have. There's too much coincidence, d'you see? I think that's what Calvet was on about."

"Yes," said Craig. "Nice wine, this."

Loomis grunted and pushed the bottle in-finitesimally toward Craig, who filled his cup.

"There's something else," he said. Loomis grunted again. "Salvation Press is run by a bloke called Simmons," said Craig. "C. G. Simmons. He owns Midland Television, too."

"That so?" said Loomis, and chuckled.

"He's got a daughter," Craig said. "Jane. She was with the walking party who saw Soong die."

"Bit o' luck, that," Loomis said. "Linton reckons she was sweet on you."

"You have plans for me?"

"You need a bit of a breather," said Loomis. "Country air. Wholesome food." He speared a mouthful of chicken and truffles. "Surrey. That's the place."

"Where Simmons lives?"

"Ahh," said Loomis. "Go down there and chat her up a bit. See if you can meet her pa."

"What's my cover?" Craig asked. "She knows I'm on to the Soong business."

"Foreign Office," said Loomis. "Far East Department. They had you up there in case Red China got irritated. I'll let you have the papers tomorrow." He chuckled. "Oh son," he said, "I've waited for years to see you in a bowler hat."

"I thought I was going to rob a bank," said Craig.

"That comes later," said Loomis. "When you get help."

yl'd rather pick my own," Craig said, but Loomis shook his head.

"That's out," he said. "Pity. But it'll keep anyway. This Simmons person—pretty, is she?"

"Very."

"Twenty," Loomis said. "And rich. Very rich. Only child, too. Her father dotes on her. And she's daft enough to dote on you. Use that."

"All right," said Craig.

"I give you a free hand," Loomis said. "Do what

you like, tell her what you like—only find out

where her father gets his Russian news from. And,

son, she's young, she'll be looking for glamour.

You'd better make yourself—" he sought, found,

triumphantly produced the word—"dishy." * * *

Simmons fiddled deftly with the toy theater, and the curtains parted. It was a lush and Edwardian theater, all red plush and heavy gilt. It reminded Brodski of the millionaires' whorehouse his uncle had described visiting in Moscow in 1911. Brodski's uncle had been a man who had enjoyed life to the very last. That had been in Cracow in 1946, as far as Brodski had been able to discover. An Uzbek infantryman had got him with a bayonet . . . Simmons began to arrange cutout figures on the stage: tiny nude models of women, with remarkable fidelity to detail.

Brodski asked: "Is this my new floor show?"

"Good God no," said Simmons. "It's far too good for Nuderama. This is for a party at my place."

He maneuvered the chorus line into place: eight girls in picture hats. They wore nothing except boots.

"Extraordinary how much more naked they look with their hats on," he said. Brodski sighed.

"I do not like your parties," he said.

"I do," said Simmons. "They're works of art. A chance for me to be creative. Besides, BC needs a party." Brodski still looked sullen. "Look," said Simmons, "we've done very well so far. You've had the contacts and I've had the money. The security's been just about perfect, because you've stayed here and run the club and the contacts have come to you. They come here and they get paid C.O.D.—every time. We're reliable. We pay big money for big jobs." He looked round Brodski's office. "And a strip club's been the perfect cover, so far. But we're moving on to something bigger still."

Brodski said: "I'm delighted to hear it."

"That's why Jane had to contact Soong," said Simmons. "We're going to mess up a moon shot, Brodski."

He arranged another figure in Edwardian costume in front of the chorus line.

"She should sing one of those inane music-hall songs while she strips," said Simmons.

Brodski said: "A moon shot? How?"

"Soong had a contact for us. I can get it from elsewhere. That part's all right. But it'll cost money. Big money." He pulled delicately on strings attached to the figure; her costume came off. "A million," he said. "I haven't got a million. That's why I need the party."

"You have no money?"

"None. I have newspapers and magazines and a television company. But I don't have money. Not now. BC got the lot."

"You have been very generous—"

"I've done what I have to do. Russia must be hurt. We know that. So far I've spent a million and a half on that very purpose. And you have risked your life many times. We've both given what we had. But for this job we need more." He stared at the tiny stage, and let the curtains fall. "We need Airlie," he said. "He has a million to spare, and he wants to marry Jane. He is also an idealist—he wants to fight the Russians. Good. He's also young and hot-blooded. He likes women. Even better. We can appeal to him on two levels, Brodski. Idealism and blackmail."

"I do not like to blackmail a gentleman," said Brodski.

"Nor I, but it must be done. There's no other way," said Simmons.

"There's Medani. He has money."

"No," said Simmons. "Medani's father has money. In Morocco/He can't get it out. Anyway, we need Medani in Morocco, to fight the Russians there. He's a good Mohammedan—and a nobleman. His father's a very powerful man. If the time comes he could start a holy war."

Brodski said: "We have money in Morocco, too."

Simmons stared at him for a moment, then began to laugh.

"So we have," he said. "But are we really justified in spending it?"

Brodski began to talk about ethics, and Simmons grew bored. He let his mind drift away back to the old days, in Yugoslavia, up in the mountains. Tito's men had been doctrinaire and tiresome, but he'd met a group that had worked with Mihajlovic'. Guerrillas who fought because fighting was what men were for, fighting and drinking and women. For three months his life had been a wide-screen epic. But in the end he'd been recalled and his men had been betrayed. Not to the Germans, to the Russians. The men, and the woman Simmons adored. When Simmons got back he learned that even heroes could die, and die horribly. The woman had died most horribly of all. Since that time sex had been something to be exploited in others, nothing more. Love was something else again—love was what a man had for his daughter. It was just as well, he thought, that his wife had fallen off that damn horse.

Brodski stopped talking and Simmons said quickly: "Aren't you forgetting what the Russians did to you? Tell me about your brother."

Slowly, reluctantly at first, Brodski told him,

then as the story went on the words came faster.

Torture, agony, betrayal, death—for Brodski's

brother, his wife, his father, his uncle. On and on

went the story, and always it was the Russians who

were responsible. The Russians. The Russians. The

Russians. Simmons began to relax. Brodski was

going to be all right. He had learned to hate almost

as well as Simmons himself. And anyway, it was

time to get him out of the country.

* * *

Craig pondered the need for dishiness; unquestionably it existed. Girls like Jane Simmons had everything. To achieve novelty with them was an impossibility. Next morning he asked Mrs. McNab about it, but Mrs. McNab was still angry. She would talk only of Grierson and how irresistible he was because he was a gentleman. Craig could never be a gentleman and knew it. But he could buy a dark suit, a Royal Navy tie, a black briefcase, an umbrella, and—from Scott's—a bowler hat. He had never owned an umbrella or bowler hat before. The thought amused him. He'd owned part of a tramp-shipping line, a V8 Bristol, a vast assortment of firearms, a house in Northumberland, a small Greek island, even a slave. But not a bowler. The one he bought delighted him: it had a low crown and a narrow brim, and made him, he thought, elegant but respectable. Mrs. McNab thought it made him look like a bookmaker. Loomis said it was exactly right.

"They take all kinds of fellas in the Foreign Office nowadays," he said. "Here're your papers." He handed Craig the special passport, the pass, the visitor's card, the necessary files that some genius had spent the night preparing. Craig worked through them slowly, carefully, and Loomis glowed approval and lit a vile cigar.

"You'll have to use your own name," he said. "Doesn't matter if Simmons rings up about you. We'll have the call rerouted here." He leaned back, looked at Craig, six feet four from the soles of his Lobb shoes to the crown of his bowler.

"You went into the Foreign Office from the navy," he said. "You weren't at public school. You're classless. A New Man."

"That's right," said Craig.

"But you're still in the F.O.," said Loomis. "Don't hit anybody." Craig grinned. "You figured out how you're going to be dishy?"

"I always am," said Craig.

Already he'd gone over in his mind his two previous meetings with Jane Simmons, and the answer was obvious. Jane Simmons was attracted to him because she was afraid of him. She'd sensed the power in him, and the danger, and they had frightened her. She'd never been frightened before. That was all the novelty he had, but it might be enough.

He drove his Mark X back to Regent's Park, locked it in the garage, then took his suitcase, briefcase, and umbrella and got on a bus, then took the tube. He got off the tube at Piccadilly, then darted back on again at the last possible moment. He was almost certain that no one was following him, but if they were, that trick nearly always worked, even if the man following had been trained by Department K. For Loomis sometimes had his own people followed; Loomis had at all times to be sure, and Craig, while he could see no harm in this, felt almost shy of Loomis's hearing about his latest possession. It lived in a little mews garage in Knightsbridge, a glistening, scarlet success symbol that had nothing at all to do with rolled umbrellas and bowler hats: a twelve-cylinder, 4.5-liter Lamborghini Miura, with a top speed of 180 miles an hour, ample room for two and no room at all for three. Five thousand pounds of his own money, and the only thing left for which he could feel any affection. The Lamborghini was as efficient as he was, its lines, like his own, dictated by the end for which it was created. But it was also a splendid thing to own. Expensive, illogical, flamboyant, and splendid. It made him happy. He got in, tossed the bowler hat behind him, and turned the key. The engine exploded into life, then modulated at once into the most superb of all mechanical sounds, the whisper of perfectly controlled power. Craig eased her out into the mews, locked the garage, then set off for Surrey. The best part. Where even the temperature of the rain is thermostatically controlled.

Simmons had quite a lot of space in Who's Who. Educated at Rugby and Magdalene College, Cambridge, only son of Reverend Percy and Mrs. Dora Simmons. Married Lady Jane Manners (deceased), oldest daughter of the Earl of Worthing. Clubs: White's, Athenaeum; hobbies listed as various. Age forty-five. Christian names Christopher Galahad. Who's Who didn't say that he owned a national daily, a national Sunday, seventeen provincial newspapers, three magazines, a television station, and a small but growing paperback publishing firm. But he did. It didn't say that during the war he had fought in the Balkans with various unorthodox units and won a D.S.O. But he had. It didn't say that he was worth seven million pounds. But he was. Craig opened out the Miura as he reached the Surrey road and wondered what a millionaire seven times over meant when he said his hobbies were various. Doubtless he would find out.

He'd heard already how he had made his money. That had started with his father. The Rev. Percy Simmons had been an unabashed hell-fire Baptist during the earlier part of his life. His visions of hell, described graphically and at length, had drawn enormous crowds three times every Sunday. That was in the 1880's, when hell still smelled of sulfur and northern congregations knew how to groan. A jobbing printer had approached the young, brazen-tongued reverend with the idea of printing his sermons, and a great career was born. The minister found he had another talent, another duty, besides that of preparing devout and quivering Yorkshiremen for the imminence of hell. He could publish—and prepare—the whole world, or at least that part of it which could read the English language. He started with The Bible Weekly, then a Christian daily, The Good News, then The Christian Woman's Companion, which was to evolve, gradually but remorselessly, into Woman's Way, weekly net average six million. There was a period when the Reverend Simmons founded three publications a year, and a lot of them crashed, but the ones that stuck did very good business indeed.

When World War I came, Simmons combined religion with patriotism, and his readers in the trenches found that his vision of hell was by no means exaggerated. After that war, the Christianity slowly but surely diminished but the patriotism stuck. Simmons gloried in his Englishness, and persuaded a lot of other people to glory in it too. It was what God had set him to do, and it paid a six per cent dividend. In 1921 at the age of sixty, he'd made a million and discovered he had no one to share it with, so he married a lady missionary who bore him Christopher Galahad (the latter name was her idea; she read a lot of Tennyson) and died when the child was three. Christopher had been sent to public school and Cambridge, though his old man had prayed at him for a solid hour every day of every vacation. He'd been destined to help his father when he was twenty-one, but the war stopped that. After five terms at Cambridge, at the age of nineteen, he became a cadet at Sandhurst. By 1942, on his twenty-first birthday, he was on a mission to Tito in Yugoslavia. When the war ended he was twenty-five, with the substantive rank of major. He never went back to the university, though they gave him an honorary doctorate after he built them a new college; instead, he went to help his father, then eighty-four, who was running the firm on an unrelieved diet of Union Jacks and brimstone. The old man dropped dead quite suddenly in the late summer of 1945—Loomis said it was because Labour won the election.

Christopher Galahad took over at once as chairman of the company, and within a year was managing director too. He had all of his father's canni-ness and drive, and a shrewdness for handling nicely calculated odds that slithering about the Balkans two jumps ahead of the Gestapo had honed to a very fine edge indeed. He was Britain's leading expert on the technique of making money out of the printed and spoken word. In 1946 he married the daughter of a sporting peer, and she promptly bore him a daughter, then died on the hunting field when the child was six months old. He never went near a place of worship.

9

Craig fumbled his way among the houses of the fairly rich—"two minutes from station, superior view"—to the stone-walled estates of the very rich indeed. Here the road spiraled gently around the curves of the downs, and copses and spinneys of firs were a black drama of lances against a blue pastel sky. Here the grass was short and plentiful, apt for the hooves of superior horses, and villages hid their lack of wealth discreetly, between folds of the smooth, expensive hills. The Lamborghini became more and more the right car to be driving; a Bentley would have been cowardly.

He found the place at last. About four miles of flintstone wall, pierced by lodge gates with a pretty eighteenth-century cottage at the side. He slowed as he turned into the gates, but the lodgekeeper took one look at the car and waved him on, through a mile of elm trees to a house designed during Queen Anne's reign by a pupil of Christopher Wren; a plain, neat rectangle of a house, flanked by identical wings, its brick faded to an enduring rose, its portico unpretentious, its chimney stacks slim and austere—a house entirely beautiful

because of the perfection of its proportions. He drove on to a graveled area, flanked by barbered lawn, and heard the whoosh of stones beneath his racing tires. Five other cars stood on the graveled area: two Rolls Royces, a Mercedes 800, a Ferrari, and a little Alfa-Romeo; there was plenty of room for the Lamborghini.

Craig retrieved his bowler, settled it at the right angle, then took up his briefcase and umbrella. It was time to pay his respects to Mammon. As he slammed the Lamborghini's door the whole scene seemed to freeze; himself with a ten-guinea bowler standing beside a five-thousand-pound automobile, with a quarter of a million pound's real estate as background. It looked like a whisky ad in a Sunday supplement. And then he remembered the night when he and his father had been out in the coble and the mackerel had run with the crazy death wish of which only mackerel are capable, so that the boat was heaped with the graceful shapes of fish, urgent even in death, that the moonlight had turned to a pale-winking silver, and his father's voice had said: "There's a fortune here, Jackie lad. A fortune." And he'd been able to do no more than nod, he was so bone-weary, but when they reached the little Tyneside port, every fish had had to be gutted and boxed and packed in ice. Then his father had had to carry him home on his shoulders, and he felt so marvelous—tired as he was—it was like riding between the stars. His father's share of the fortune had been four pounds thirteen and ninepence—and mackerel for a week.

The memory came sharp and clear, and Craig dismissed it, erasing it from his mind like a sponge erases the writing from a blackboard. That kind of thing took your mind from the job in hand; it made you vulnerable. He walked across the gravel toward the broad, shallow flight of steps that led to the house, and already a man was there, waiting for him. Craig felt a swift flash of disgust with himself; if he hadn't been standing daydreaming he'd have been ready for this man, instead of being watched by him.

He was a man to be ready for: taller than Craig's six feet, wide-shouldered, barrel-chested, but with an economy of movement that made Craig think of a mountaineer he had known in Crete. There was the same combination of tremendous strength and physical control. This man wore striped gray trousers, a short black coat, a black -and-silver tie. His face was round but without weakness, the cheekbones set rather high, the eyes very dark. A face rather Slav than Teuton, but without the usual free play of Slav emotion. It was the face of a man who would treat cruelty and kindness with equal indifference.

Craig said: "Miss Simmons, please."

The man said: "I will inquire, sir. What name shall I give?"

"John Craig."

He could have said: "Tell her we met in the Lake District. I inquired into the death of the Chinaman." Or even: "I've come to make further enquiries." But his name alone was better—if she remembered.

The butler opened the great half-door behind him and Craig walked into a hall floored in black and white marble, and furnished with the kind of

wealth going shabby that only utter certainty of riches can afford. The picture over the mantelpiece needed cleaning, but it was by Van Dyck; the breakfront table had a scar on it, but Sheraton had made it. And the whole place was littered with coats, a fencing mask, two shotguns in a case, and a pile of Woman's Way. The wealth here was to be used. Craig sat in an armchair and looked at the shotguns as the butler moved away with the long, tireless stride that can keep going all day. The guns were a matched pair, their barrels chased in silver, but they looked bloody accurate, the balance exactly right. Money could buy you that, and every variation of it, but it couldn't teach you to hit the target. Money bought you butlers too, even this butler, who looked about as much in place here as a leopard would have. He's in his early thirties, Craig thought. The absolute prime for a man like that, a man who'd seen a lot and done a lot more, till he knew there weren't many men he need be afraid of —and yet he moved cautiously just the same. Craig looked around; the butler was walking toward him across the marble, and a cat would have made no more noise.

"I'm afraid Miss Simmons is unobtainable, sir," said the butler. "She and Mr. Simmons are in the paddock—if you wouldn't mind going out to join them, sir."

"All right," said Craig, and rose.

"Would you like to leave your umbrella, sir?"

"No," said Craig. "Just the briefcase."

He'd grown very fond of his umbrella.

"Very good, sir. This way, sir," the butler said. His face was quite expressionless, but Craig had the uneasy feeling that deep inside, where no one could reach him, the butler was laughing.

He led Craig into another room, with French windows opening on to a lawn and beyond the lawn a rose garden. Beyond the rose garden, he learned, was the paddock. Craig stepped out on to the lawn, and heard the windows click shut behind him. His feet moved soundlessly on the grass, and then he was enfolded in a great tunnel of roses, hundreds, thousands of them wreathed and entwined seven feet in the air, small and heavily scented, while great bush roses sprang from the ground to meet them, their beauty powerful, even arrogant. It was a set for a film by some clever Frenchman, and Craig detested it. It was like the flowers themselves, too slick, too contrived.

At the end of the garden was a brick wall, pierced by a latched door. Craig opened it and stepped into the paddock, shutting the door behind him. The paddock was L-shaped, and Craig found himself in the shorter arm of the L, his view of what lay around the corner obscured by the garden wall. He walked across the foot-high grass, and realized at once that the umbrella had been a mistake. So, for that matter, had the bowler. They didn't belong. No wonder the butler had been laughing where no one could hear him. Then he heard it. A rhythmic, loping sound, horses on heavy grass held to a hand gallop and cutting across that the sharper, more staccato noise of another heavy beast running. Craig looked for cover and there was none, and behind him only an un-climbable wall. Already he knew what he was going to face, and he had no time to prepare. It shot round the corner of the paddock in a great swerve of concentrated power, cat-footed for all its size. A Hereford bull, half a ton on the hoof and fighting mad, its black hide shining as if it had been rubbed with oil, its horns ivory bright, questing for a target. Craig stood very still. The bull slowed to a walk and sniffed the breeze, the horns slowly turned to hold him in their splayed-vee shape. Then to Craig's astonishment a cowboy cantered around the corner, a cowboy that Remington might have painted, with plains shirt, ten-gallon hat, neckerchief, jeans tucked in Mexican boots, and a Colt .45 in a holster. He was riding a palomino and swinging a rope. As Craig watched the rope's loop spun out, seeking the bull's horns. It missed, and the rope smacked the bull's face. Without warning, with seemingly no instant between the cautious walk and incredible speed, the bull put its head down and went for Craig.

To run was to invite being maimed at least; to stand, unless one had taken lessons from El Cor-dobes, was to die. Craig compromised by scrambling quickly to one side, then lashed out with the weapon of ultimate respectability, the umbrella, as the Hereford thundered past, aiming for the eyes, but the brute hooked with its horns and Craig felt as if he had been holding an umbrella that had been struck by a train. His arm seemed to vibrate in its socket and the umbrella, now V-shaped, spun in the air like a boomerang, then stuck point down in the grass as the bull skidded, swerved neatly, and came in again, and again Craig swerved aside. This time as it charged he snatched the bowler from his head, and the man on the palomino, who had been laughing, suddenly gasped aloud, for at the next charge of the bull Craig ran to meet it, swerved again, and struck with the bowler hat's hard edge. It spun up into the air, then impaled itself in ruin on the bull's right horn. The Hereford bellowed in agony, and the man on the palomino kneed the horse into action, rode up, and threw his rope. He was joined from nowhere by other cowboys, gaudy as butterflies. This time the rope flew accurately, settled round the small wicked horns, and the Hereford, still bellowing, was still. He'd been through it all before.

Craig walked to the angle of the L-shaped paddock, and found himself in what looked to be a film set. Ranch house, hardware store, and smithy, raised boardwalk, hitching rail, the Last Chance Saloon, sheriffs office, livery stable, even a Wells Fargo stage, with four horses poled up and a man riding shotgun. He was in the middle of a TV series, three-dimensional, life-size. Craig began to realize what a multi-millionaire meant when he described his hobbies as various.

He leaned against a hitching rail, and the quar-terhorse tethered to it snorted, being in character. He discovered he was shaking. To a man on a horse, his encounter with the Hereford must have had a Keystone Cops quality; for him, on foot, it had held nothing but terror and, as always, terror had generated rage so that inevitably he had chosen to attack rather than submit, opting for astronomic odds rather than no odds at all, and again it had worked, because his speed and skill were as perfect as a human being's can be. But each time might be the last time, and his body shook with the knowledge of it. He began to breathe consciously, deliberately, in and out, timing his rhythm, so that when he heard the clop-clop of hooves on the dusty main street, he was relaxed, easy, and wary as a cat at Cruft's.

The group coming toward him might have been coming to rob the Dodge City bank. The man on the palomino came first, and near him was a slighter figure in a buffalo coat and white Stetson. Behind them more gaudy cowboys, among them a Mexican vaquero, his high-crowned hat slung back to his shoulders, his clothes and saddle glinting with jangling silver. The cowboy in the buffalo coat kneed the pony into a trot and swung up to him. The pony circled daintily, and Craig leaned back on the rail and looked up.

"Why howdy, Miss Jane," he said.

The girl looked down at him and marveled. All her life she had been told of the advantage of looking down on horseback at the peasantry. It was obvious that Craig had never shared her lessons. He looked as relaxed, as easy, as when he had given her dinner in Keswick. His mahogany-colored hair was unruffled; his shoes still shone; his pale eyes told her nothing at all. He filled her with a terror she still found quite delicious.

"I-I hope you're all right," she said.

"I'm fine," said Craig. "How's the bull?"

The man on the palomino came up in time to hear it, and laughed aloud.

"Daddy," said Jane, "this is Mr. Craig."

Simmons swung down from his horse and ground-tied it to the manner born. He strode over to Craig and held out his hand. Craig took it, and sensed the power in the man. Simmons was tall and lean and deadly, and Craig knew it at once.

"Welcome to the Lazy J," said Simmons. "The bull has a black eye but he'll live."

"That's nice," said Craig.

"I think so," Simmons said. "I paid five thousand pounds for him when he was a calf. Come and have a drink."

They walked down the boardwalk to the Last Chance, the batwing doors swung, and once again Craig found himself completely at home in surroundings that had been familiar since he'd first gone to the movies: the long bar, a barman with a Texan longhorn mustache, nude pictures behind the bar, and above them the mirror that reflected a roomful of rickety tables and chairs, a worn piano, and a tiny stage. At one of the tables a dude gambler dealt himself poker hands to keep in practice; at the piano the perfesser banged out a honky-tonk blues that suggested he had finished his musical education in a whorehouse—Mahogany Hall, New Orleans, say, about 1892.

The cowboys followed him; one of them was a lord known as Charlie, who was very much in love with Jane, the rest were rich and restless and young. Craig saw with no surprise at all that one of them was Arthur Hornsey. The vaquero was an Arab. His costume was the gaudiest of the lot, and he wore it with a lack of self-consciousness as complete as Simmons'.

"What'll it be, gents?" asked the barman.

"Whisky," said Craig, and the barman banged a bottle and two shot glasses in front of Simmons and himself. The others asked for beer, and the foaming glasses skidded down the bar to them. The vaquero and Jane drank sarsaparilla.

Simmons poured, and Craig and he touched glasses, then swallowed their drinks at a gulp. Craig noted with relief that it was Scotch, not redeye. Simmons poured again, and this time saloon etiquette allowed a man to sip.

"I really am sorry about the bull," said Simmons. "That fool of a butler must have misunderstood what I told him. Caesar always goes for men on foot. He should have known that. These foreigners—"

"Ah," said Craig, as if everything had been made clear. "Foreign, is he?"

"Yugoslav. I met his father during the war," said Simmons. "Still—as long as you're all right?"

"I'm fine," said Craig, and turned to Jane. "It was you I came to see."

"Oh?" said Simmons.

"I'm from the Foreign Office," Craig said. "It's about that Chinaman—"

"That'll keep," Simmons said. "I've been waiting for weeks to play cowboys."

"It's urgent," said Craig. "I should get back to London."

"On Friday?" said Simmons. "The F.O.'ll be empty now. You must stay till Monday, my dear chap. I insist. Anyway, it'll give you more time to talk to Jane."

"Please stay," said Jane. "It's the least we can do after—"

Craig looked at the gambler clicking cards as the blues chords pounded their sorrow. This was the dream world the orphanage had shown him at strictly rationed intervals, the world where the cowboy climbed his horse and rode off to where there were no more problems. The world, it was obvious, that Jane loved to live in, and so he had no choice. He must live in it, too.

"It's awfully good of you," said Craig, talking Foreign Office.

"Glad to have you," said Simmons. "I'll lend you some kit."

So Craig too faced the world in a blue gingham shirt and denims, cowboy boots, and a black plains hat with a silver band, Simmons found him a gunbelt, too, a wide strip of leather polished black, with a cutaway holster and a pigging string to tie it to his thigh. Then he found him a gun in the sheriffs office, which was an armory of racked shotguns, Winchesters, and one enormous and terrifying Sharps buffalo rifle. The gun he chose was a rimfire Colt .45, picked, it seemed, at random from a collection that swung by their trigger guards from nails driven into the wall. Craig broke it, spun the magazine, snapped it together, and sighted along its six-inch barrel.

"Are we going to fire these things?" he asked, and Simmons nodded.

"Then I'd rather have that one," said Craig.

He picked out a Smith and Wesson .38, slimmer, more compact than the huge Colt .45, but far more accurate, with all the stopping power that anyone could need; the great-grandfather of the weapon Craig still used, longer in the barrel, heavier in the butt, yet still familiar. Simmons watched him check it, try its sight and weight, then thrust it into the holster.

"My men'll think you're a sissy," he said. Craig pushed back his hat and stared at him gently.

"I hope not," he said, and his voice was so exactly the voice of the tall Texan who's a stranger in town that again Simmons laughed aloud.

"Come on," he said. "There's a lot to do before dark."

It never occurred to anyone to ask whether he could ride, but Craig took care to choose the oldest cow pony he could find in the remuda, and clung on grimly while the others galloped and swerved, threw and hog-tied bull calves, and roped a frantic longhorn that had cost Simmons a fortune in freightage. Then they rounded off the afternoon by holding up the Wells Fargo stage, killed the man riding shotgun with blank cartridges, then formed a posse (Simmons acting as sheriff) and arrested themselves. And throughout the whole crazy business, the Arab vaquero rode with a deadly skill that riveted Craig's attention: he was the most superb horseman he had ever seen, and Simmons was frantically trying to conceal his jealousy. To be good at what he undertook would never do for Simmons; he had to be superb. In his dealings with his daughter, for example, it wasn't enough that she should love him, she had to adore him. For the same reason he chased after Hamid Medani, time after time, and finished second. To Craig his good-natured laughter was as false as a whore's promise, but it wasn't his business, and he plugged on in the rear and left all the decisions to the horse, who was grateful for it.

At the end of the day, while the light still lasted,

they rode over to a walled area with a safety barrier that was a shooting range. The targets were the classic ones, tin cans, and by the time Craig arrived the others were blasting away, the .45's booming like cannon. Their kick was tremendous, and their impact, when they hit anything, reminded Craig of battering rams, but their lack of accuracy was appalling. Medani didn't hit a can once. Then it was Simmons's turn, and he was very good indeed, hitting the can four times out of five. (No one in his right mind leaves a shell in the chamber the hammer rests on.)

Simmons grinned, slapped Medani on the shoulder, and looked up at Craig.

"You and your sissy gun. Beat that, John," he said.

Craig went up to the barrier and wondered whether he should do as Simmons said. If he failed, Simmons would like him and that might be useful: if he beat him, Simmons might get angry, and an angry man can be very vulnerable indeed. Craig took the Smith and Wesson slowly, carefully from its holster, and the young men tittered, then stopped, ashamed. Rich, restless young men don't titter at those less fortunate then themselves. Craig ignored them, taking his time, settling his balance, the gun barrel pointed like a prosecutor's finger. The Smith and Wesson had a sharper bark than the Colt's smothered boom, and it cracked out five times in a steady rhythm of fire. The first shot cut low into the can, sending it spinning in the air; the other four kept it there, bouncing like a ball from shot to shot. When it fell, there were five holes clean through it. Behind Craig a young man whistled, and Medani touched his arm.

"I think you have done this before," he said. "Eh Christopher?"

"You surprised me," said Simmons. "The Foreign Office has hidden talents."

"I used to shoot for the navy," said Craig, and it was true in a way. He had shot for the navy—all sorts of people.

Simmons said: "Let's change now. It'll be chow time soon."

Craig, Medani, and the rest of the young men changed in the bunkhouse. Simmons and his daughter went to the ranch house. The bunkhouse had showers and electric razors, and the broadcloth pants, white shirts, and string ties that cowboys wear on their night off. Craig stripped and changed with the others, then sat apart and began to clean the Smith and Wesson. Hornsey came up to him, watched the deft fingers busy with oil and rags.

"Nice to see you again, Mr. Craig," he said.

"Yes, indeed," said Craig. "How's Lancaster University?"

"I'm on leave of absence," Hornsey said. "I'm doing research into abnormal behavior patterns and their impact on conventional morality."

"You picked a good spot for it," said Craig.

"Here?" The idea delighted Hornsey. "I couldn't do it here. Jane invited me." He paused. "You're an awfully good shot."

"Thank you."

"Better than Jane's father." The idea seemed to amaze Hornsey. "I cheated," said Craig. "I used a better gun."

His hands moved again, deft as a surgeon's, and the gun was assembled and back in its holster. The young lord known as Charlie came over.

"I'm Airlie," he said. "My friends call me Charlie." Craig nodded. "You were right to choose the Smith and Wesson. That Colt's a brute. You shoot a lot?"

"Not any more," said Craig. Not unless he had to.

"Pity," said Charlie. "You're bloody good at it." He looked round the bunkhouse. "Weird setup this place, isn't it?"

"It is," said Craig.

"I mean there's Hornsey, he's a don, and you're from the Foreign Office, and Ino there—he's a banker—and Richard's at the Bar, and Hamid— What the devil do you do, Hamid?"

"I'm a gentleman," Medani said. "I exist. Beautifully."

"Yes, well, and then there's me."

"And what do you do?" asked Craig.

"I'm a lieutenant in the Honourable Artillery Company," Charlie said.

"He's a lord, too," said Hornsey. "Seventh Earl of. Also he's a suitor." Craig looked puzzled. "For the hand of Jane," Hornsey explained. "He's 6 to 4 favorite. Comes of being an earl."

"It's not just that," said Charlie. "I'm rich, too, remember."

Hornsey threw a boot at him, and they wrestled together. Craig thought he was getting old. Medani came up to him, slim, graceful, very arrogant, and Craig thought of the Siamese cats rich women own, how pampered they are, and how pitiless.

"I wouldn't do that," Medani said, and smiled. "That is not existing beautifully."

"You do that best on a horse," said Craig, and Medani smiled like a lost angel. His skin was a very pale gold color, his eyes hazel, and his nose straight. In this he was Berber rather than Arab. Only the thick, glossy black hair suggested Arab blood—that and his pride. Craig decided to take a chance.

"What part of Morocco do you come from?" he asked in Arabic.

"Talouet," Medani said at once. Then he paused. "I see you are clever with people as well as guns, Mr. Craig. How did you know?"

Craig said: "The F.O. sent me on a mission to Morocco once, because I spoke Arabic." This was a lie. Craig's only mission to Morocco had been to work for himself, as a smuggler. He'd done well at it too, before Morocco became united, and respectable. "I met a lot of people who looked like you," he said. "Chiefs and the sons of chiefs."

That at least was true; only the ones he'd met had all been possessed by the same passion, for contemporary firearms in good working order. They'd trade anything for a Schmeisser machine gun or a Remington repeater: dates, olives, horses, girls, boys, even money, when they discovered that Craig would take nothing else. And the firearms were for use: against the French when things went right, against each other when the uneasy alliance between liberation movement and tribes broke down.

"My family used to own Talouet," Medani said. "We still do quite well there."

/ bet you do, Craig thought. In the old days, before liberation, Morocco was as feudal as thirteenth-century England, and when a man said he owned a town he meant precisely that. He owned it—buildings, animals, and people.

"You like playing cowboys?" Craig asked.

"Adore it," answered Medani. "It gives me an idea of what it must have been like at home. I was only ten when we were liberated"—he pronounced the word in French, and it pulled his face into a sneer. "But this isn't all that far from it, you know."

Horses and guns, Craig thought. That's all an Arab from the Rif or the Atlas can think of. When they get enough to make them happy they start a war, and then they're ecstatic. He remembered seeing a band of El Glaoui's men in Rabat, just before the final crash of independence: Turbanned, white-robed, magnificently mounted, they'd spun and swirled their horses as Medani had done, playing cowboys. In their hands they'd carried incredible muzzle-loading muskets five feet long, inlaid with brass, with silver, even with gold. But these were playthings, used only for ceremonials and showing off. When it came to business they had repeating carbines.

"I wish the old days were back," said Medani, and Craig believed him.

They went out to eat then, to the inevitable barbecue, and Simmons was masterfully efficient among the steaks and chops, but it was other, lesser cowboys who served the potato chips, the salad, and the chateau-bottled claret. One could strain after authenticity for just so long, Craig gathered.

There were limits. Then two more cowboys appeared, and their faces were pale and they had trouble with their Stetsons. One of them held a guitar, the other a fiddle, and the fire blazed up in a shower of sparks behind them. They played hoedown music very well indeed, and the real cowboys took it in turns to dance with Jane, who was now the purty schoolmarm in blue-checked gingham. Simmons danced with her best of all, and grinned when the others applauded. Craig thought it best not to compete, and so did Medani.

"I was educated in Paris," he said, "but I cannot get used to this. It is bad for a man to dance with a woman. Much better to make the woman dance for him."

He began to speak then of the belly dancers of Marrakesh, and this took time. Craig listened with the respect that is every expert's due as Medani talked on, in Arabic, and Craig realized that sex also can make you homesick.

Simmons heard the swift, guttural sounds and came across to them, Jane beside him, flushed and adoring for her wonderful daddy. Medani had remembered an Egyptian he had once seen who seemed able to revolve in three directions at once. Craig hoped Jane didn't speak Arabic.

Simmons said: "So you speak Arabic, too?" He didn't seem very surprised.

"That's how I got into the F.O.," said Craig. "I took a course in the navy." Well not a course, exactly, he thought. Her name had been Kamar; she had danced like Medani's Egyptian.

"I hope we weren't being rude," Medani said.

"It was a pleasure to me to speak my own language."

"Not at all," said Simmons. "What were you talking about?"

Medani stiffened, then his glance went from Simmons to Jane like two cuts of a sword.

"We spoke of women," he said, "and the way they ought to dance."

Even by firelight Craig could see Simmons fighting to control his temper. When he finally succeeded he was sweating with the effort of it. At last he said: "How amusing for you."

Craig thought Simmons must need Medani very much; otherwise he would have killed him.

The fire burned low, and Simmons turned to whisper to his daughter. The young men stiffened in excitement as Jane smiled good night, then came across to Craig.

"Daddy says it's bedtime, Mr. Craig," she said. "So it's bedtime."

She held out her hand. It was a strong little hand, very sure of itself, but it trembled in his before she turned away and the skirts of her dress whispered over the grass.

Simmons watched her go, then winked at the others.

"Well, boys," he said, "let's take a look at the town."

10

They should have saddled up, Craig thought, and ridden for miles over rolling grassland, whooping like maniacs. Instead they walked—the saloon was only a hundred yards away—but at least they did it properly; in line, thumbs hooked in their gun belts, before pushing the bat-wing doors aside.

The saloon glowed with the soft, warm light of oil lamps, and the perfesser was still playing the same solid blues. Almost at once two of the young men were playing cards with the gambler, and the rest of them were drinking steadily, except for Simmons. He seemed content to watch the others drink, and walked round with the bottle, topping up glasses. Medani still drank sarsaparilla, but Craig let Simmons serve him once, then resisted. Getting drunk was no part of his plans.

"Ah, come on, Craig," said Simmons. "I'm Ganymede."

"I thought it was Galahad," said Craig.

"Ganymede was cupbearer to the gods," said Simmons. "Don't you F.O. types know anything?"

"I know he was queer," said Craig, and Medani giggled.

Simmons said: "You're right. I'd better stick to Galahad."

"Righter of wrongs," said Craig, "defender of distressed maidens, bulwark of civilization."

"Exactly," said Simmons. He wasn't laughing. "That's what being in the newspaper business is for. Righting wrongs. Defending civilization." He smiled. "That and the money."

"You didn't mention defending distressed maidens," said Charlie.

"How could I?" Simmons asked. "I've distressed a few myself. That reminds me—"

He nodded to the barman, who pressed a buzzer behind the bar. "What good is a saloon without dancing girls?" Simmons asked.

The perfesser moved in three clean chords from "I Thought I Heard Buddy Boldon Shout" to Offenbach, the curtains parted, and Craig was back in Nuderama, with Karen, Tempest, Maxine, eight supporting lovelies and all. But this time they were doing a can-can, and doing it well. Simmons must have been paying them a lot of money, he thought, but at least he got value for it. He glanced quickly at Simmons, as Karen crashed down in a split. On his face was the look of a man who was getting value for money.

After the can-can the show reverted to Nuderama all over again, but there were two differences. The apathy of the Soho show had gone completely. These were women to whom undressing was a prelude to making love, and an invitation aimed straight for the men at the bar. Look at me, each rich, swaying body said. I'm desirable. Admit you want me. And perhaps—who knows—I can be had. The creamy rose-tipped flesh yearned out toward the male with a frankness that could mean only one thing, and the men at the bar knew it. They knew, too, that they were still out West in the old days, because the clothes the girls removed were Edwardian. Craig had never realized before the erotic quality of corsets, frilly panties that reached to the knees, picture hats two feet across. But Simmons—or his choreographer—had. There was a scene in which Tempest, in a yellow muslin gown with a bustle, a straw hat, and parasol, sang "You Are My Honeysuckle," and she and the per-fesser between them extricated all the sugared innocence the song contained. As she sang in a small, true, little-girl voice, Karen and Maxine appeared, dressed as French maids, all white starched caps and frilly skirts, and slowly stripped Tempest naked. As the smooth-rounded body appeared her innocence became an ecstasy of shame and as she struggled piteously against the encroaching hands that showed her to the eyes of men her voice still whispered the suggestive lyrics to the avid silence.

"You can't beat the old songs, eh Craig?" asked Simmons.

"Not the way they sing them," said Craig. "Ah—dear girls aren't they?" Simmons said. "Dear?"

Simmons laughed. "I like you," he said. "You've got a way of getting straight to the point without being obvious. No—when I said dear, I meant lovable."

"I see," said Craig. "Do you do this kind of thing often?"

"Not often, no," said Simmons. "This type of show's a hobby of mine, you see. I like to arrange one now and again, just to see how it works with my young men. It looks as if they're enjoying it."

It did indeed, Craig thought. Eleven girls offered, like bones to dogs, to half a dozen rich youngsters, one of whom was about to become engaged to his daughter. A man's hobbies couldn't be much more various than that.

"Women are usually stupid and invariably expensive," said Simmons, "but they're worth it, don't you think? Their effect on men is so amusing. Just look."

He nodded at Charlie, who was staring at Maxine. What Maxine was doing reminded Craig of Tangier all over again.

"It reminds me of my lost youth," said Simmons.

"I thought you spent that in the Balkans."

"Oh, I did," Simmons said. "Killing people for a good cause. That's always been an interest of mine. Just as well my mother had me christened Galahad."

Then the curtain came down and he went off with his bottle, pouring drinks. Craig set himself to memorize the names of the men to whom he'd been introduced. It would be as well to find out who they were, what they did. It might even explain why Simmons found it necessary to debauch them. And it would upset Loomis. Loomis was a prude.

The girls made their entrance into the saloon then, and Craig stayed well away from Hornsey. Each girl wore a tight-fitting low-cut gown, black stockings, and high-heeled shoes. They hadn't had time to wear much else. Simmons was busy again, with champagne this time, building an elaborate fountain of goblets, then pouring the wine so that it frothed down, spilling over from one glass to the next, while the girls giggled and the men cheered, and sweated for what they saw as Simmons took the three stars of the show and introduced them to one man after another. They came to Craig at last, and their eyes were bright with the knowledge of what they had done to men so much richer and more powerful than they could ever be.

"Hello," said Tempest.

"Do you know Mr. Craig?" Simmons asked.

"No," said Craig. "I'm sure I'd have remembered seeing you ladies before."

"Didn't you ever visit our club then?" Maxine

"No," Craig said. "I wish I had. Where is it?"

"Nuderama's closed down for a bit," said Karen. "We're on holiday. Pity you never saw us."

"Indeed it is," said Craig. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Charlie coming over, with Arthur Hornsey. Charlie was drunk.

"Well, anyway, you've seen us now, all of us," said Tempest, and took his arm.

"Pity you had to be so far away," said Craig, and Karen giggled. Maxine said he was naughty, and Tempest squeezed his arm muscle. Charlie stood in front of them, his hand on Hornsey's shoulder.

"That one's mine," he said to Craig. Simmons said: "Now, Charlie. Don't start anything." He didn't mean it.

Charlie said again: "That's the one I want." Craig felt the girl's hand tremble on his arm, but she continued to smile, to hold back her shoulders so that Charlie could see the teasing promise of her breasts.

"I want you," Charlie said.

"You're pretty drunk, Charlie," said Craig.

Charlie let go of Hornsey, and lurched toward him. His coordination was still good.

"I liked you when I was sober, didn't I?" he said, and Craig nodded. "It doesn't make any difference. Ask anybody. They'll tell you. Ask Chris here—" He gestured at Simmons.

"Ask him what?" said Craig.

"What I'm like when I'm drunk."

"He's nasty," said Simmons. "Very nasty. And very strong."

"That's right," Charlie said. "There's plenty of other girls, Craig. Take one."

"The trouble is I like this one, too." He looked at Tempest. "You're not twins, are you, love?"

She was doing her best, but fear crept slyly over her face and she couldn't control it. She was pretty, with a promise of sexual expertise that couldn't fail to excite, but he didn't want to fight for her. She'd known what she was doing when she took Simmons's money, after all. On the other hand, Charlie seemed fairly determined that Craig would have to fight for her, and Simmons was making no move to stop him. Nor was Hornsey. He just stood and waited, like a man waiting for yet another treat in a night full of treats. He'd even turned to pick up his glass when Charlie struck the first blow.

It was a hard, looping right aimed at Craig's jaw. Craig swayed from it, and pushed Tempest from him. She tripped over Maxine and fell, her gown floating back to reveal the round whiteness of her thigh above her stocking. None of the men even looked; they were absorbed in the fight as Charlie leaped in again, feinted with a right, and landed a left to Craig's middle. Craig gasped, and moved back. Someone had taught this boy how to hit. Charlie threw another left, and Craig grabbed the fist, pulled, and swerved into a carefully controlled throw. After all, he didn't want to hurt Charlie. He was drunk. But drunk or not Charlie landed with a beautifully timed break fall, rolled over once, and got to his feet, circling around Craig, then leaped high into the air, legs curled up, parallel with the ground, until one leg straightened viciously, slamming at where Craig's face should have been in a karate kick, and Craig, ducking, felt the impact of a boot heel on his shoulder that sent him slithering back into a couple of the eight supporting lovelies, while pain trickled like acid into his upper arm.

Charlie landed neatly and aimed another blow at Craig, again a karate strike, a punch this time, the arm rigid behind the impact of hard muscle. Craig swirled aside just in time, and thought: All right. All right, you noble bastard. So you're not drunk and you've learned a few tricks. All right. Charlie tried another kick and Craig read in his face that it was coming. His body arched, his hands swept up from beneath him, and smacked on the boot's leather, forcing the leg up and over so that Charlie fell, awkwardly this time, no break fall, the body slamming on to the wooden floor. But he came up again almost at once and rushed Craig, taking the fight to him again, except that this time Craig moved in to meet him and Charlie's arms were still trying to put a lock round him when the edge of Craig's hand struck below his chin. The blow traveled six inches, and was clearly audible. This time when Charlie fell he didn't get up.

Craig bent over him and pulled the .45 from its holster, then began punching the shells from the magazine. Simmons came over to him, carrying a glass. This time Craig took it.

"Exactly," said Simmons. "To the victor the spoils. I trust I make myself clear?"

"You do," said Craig.

"After all, there always has to be a fight in the saloon. You played your part very well."

"Thanks," said Craig.

"I didn't know that you practiced karate."

"That was Charlie," said Craig. "I used jujitsu."

"You're very good at it."

"It keeps my weight down. I never thought it would do anything else," said Craig.

"Forgive me," said Simmons, "but will poor Charlie be unconscious for long?"

"He will unless somebody helps him," said Craig, and Simmons waved for the barman.

"Those shells are blank, you know," said Simmons.

"Five of them are. The sixth one was under the hammer," Craig said, and threw it over to Simmons, who caught it neatly.

"When that one came out of your back it would leave a hole the size of a teacup."

"Yes indeed. How very nasty," Simmons said. "Charlie must have overlooked it when we left the firing range. He really is very careless."

"Doubtless he'll learn in time," said Craig.

He went back to the party, that was minding its own business of propositioning women. Tempest sat alone at a table, repairing her damaged makeup.

"I suppose it's thank-you time," she said.

"There's no need," said Craig. "He asked for it. By the end I enjoyed giving it to him." He leaned toward her and spoke softly. "Anyway I should be saying thank you for keeping quiet."

"We like you," she said. "You're not like the other—"

She started to speak again, and Craig shook his head, as Simmons and the barman went by, carrying Charlie.

"You fixed him and I'm glad you did," said Tempest. "He would have hurt me."

"I doubt it," said Craig. "It was me he wanted to hurt." He stood up.

"You're not going?" Tempest said.

"It's late. I want some sleep," said Craig.

"Well, honey, we all do. But you can't leave me. Not now I'm here for you."

"For me specifically? Those were your orders?"

"No. He just said there'd be a fight. I was to go with the winner."

"Go where?"

"The feedstore," said Tempest. "Do you know where it is?"

"Yes," said Craig. "Come on."

They walked out, and Craig heard Simmons murmur "Bless you, my children." When they walked away, the party in the saloon sounded very loud indeed. Tempest shivered.

"He offered us a lot of money," she said. "Rehearsed us himself. Didn't even make a pass. Then he told us we had to sleep with somebody tonight or the deal's off. He must be queer."

"No," said Craig. "Just odd."

"Put your arm around me," Tempest said. "I'm cold."

His arm came round her and they walked down Main Street, the cowboy and the dancehall girl. Beneath the thin stuff of her gown he could feel her body's firmness moving under his fingers. She stopped and turned to him, and her mouth opened and flowered to his, her tongue fluttered, and his arms tightened round her.

"You're a hell of a strong bloke," she gasped, and pushed closer to him. "What are you up to?"

"Who's asking?" said Craig.

"Just me, honey. I'm nosy."

"I'm working for the Foreign Office," said Craig. "A Chinese citizen was murdered a few weeks ago and Simmons's daughter saw it happen. The Chinese People's Republic wants to know why —and I've been sent to ask if she knows. When I got here I had a fight with a bull and Simmons asked me to the party."

"Poor bloody bull," said Tempest. "I bet he lost."

"He didn't win," said Craig.

She kissed him again. "Let's go to the feed store," she said.

"I'd like that," said Craig.

He opened the door, and they went inside. Craig lowered the curtains and flicked his lighter, then showed the woman how to light the oil lamp. As it glowed, warm and soft, she looked around the room. It was furnished with a brash Victorian opulence: all gold-painted wood and scarlet drapes, and Cupids and Venuses in marble, and a huge reproduction of Etty's "Youth at the Prow."

"He certainly likes them to take their clothes off," said Tempest. "Do you suppose he gets his kicks out of watching?"

"I don't suppose anything any more," said Craig. "Two fights in one day, and now you."

She chuckled. "I've given in already," she said, and began to peel off her stockings. Her legs were beautiful, and she looked at them in frank affection.

"Nice, aren't they?" she said, and Craig nodded. "Help me off with this thing."

The gown was held together with hooks and eyes, and Craig fumbled happily, watching it open across her back, which was soft and smooth and gleaming in the lamplight, letting it slide to the floor. She stepped out of it with professional elegance, then turned to face him.

"Still nice?" she asked.

"Marvelous," said Craig.

"Worth a fight, maybe?"

"Two fights," said Craig, "and one of them with a bull."

As he pulled off his boots, she raised one hand to her head, rounding one firm, tender-nippled breast, letting her thick yellow hair fall down to her shoulders.

"I've let my hair down," she said. "That shows how much I like you."

Her fingers moved to his waist, and she unbuckled his belt.

"It's nice to strip somebody else for a change," said Tempest.

She made love with a demanding passion that was strong and beautiful, and without pretense. Her sophistication was a fact he knew all about, and she used it for his pleasure and her own, neither flaunting it nor hiding it, but being to the very fullest extent herself, healthy and beautiful and friendly, even when making love.

At last she said: "You really are strong, aren't you? I can always tell." And she slept neatly curled up against him.

When she woke up it was an hour later, and he was out of bed, his fingers gently exploring the wall as they had explored her. Skillful, careful fingers. She had kissed them, and her mouth had told her how hard and dangerous they could be. The little one on his left hand was broken. His whole body was scarred. They were his scars, and she loved them.