The Money That Money Can't Buy

"What the hell are you looking for?" she asked.

"Wires," he said. "This room's got to be bugged." ;

"O-o- I hate bugs," said Tempest.

"You'll hate these, all right," said Craig.

They took some finding, but they were there. The wire recorder was two flat disks, let into the molding of plaster round the wall. Craig ran the wire back and played it through, and Tempest heard herself being loved. As the sounds came through she blushed an angry red and pulled the sheet up to her chin, and her shame was so deep she never noticed that Craig had possessed her in silence, and his words before their love-making were just words; polite and meaningless. Tempest hadn't time to think of this; her mind was pinned down on her shame. Then he found the video tape recorder. The camera lens was set in one of the splendid brass knobs of the bed, the tape ran down the brass pillar and curled on to the spool of the machine that had its own compartment in the enormous mattress. Sustained pressure on the bed set the camera going, and just in case one preferred love in the dark the machine had its own infrared bulb. Simmons thought of everything.

"Congratulations," said Craig. "Simmons just made you a filmstar."

She wanted to smash it there and then, but Craig wouldn't let her. Instead he took her nail file, and slowly, patiently made a tiny hole in the camera, then set the machine going again. That way Simmons couldn't be sure, and it would be as well to keep Simmons guessing.

"You going to say anything about this?" he asked.

She didn't answer. When he looked toward her he saw only a huddle of bedclothes. He cursed her inside his mind: this wasn't the time to have delicate feelings, but it seemed she had them anyway. What about the honeysuckle and the bee now? he thought. Or maybe that was just money. He went over to her, rubbed her shoulder.

"Hey," he said. "Hey look. This is me, remember? I was a filmstar, too."

His voice was gentle, soft, a friend's voice, and she looked up at last. She was crying.

"Put the light out," she said. "I look awful."

"No," s-id Craig. "You're beautiful, Tempest.

That's a bloody silly name."

His hand gripped the sheet and he began to pull it down. She clung to it.

"Who's side are you on?" Craig asked. "Yours or his?"

"My real name's Margaret," she said.

"That doesn't suit you either," said Craig.

His hand scooped beneath her neck and round her body, holding her. The woman struggled, and found it was no use. When she lay still at last, he pulled the sheet away and held her in his arms.

"That's better," said Craig, and she nodded. She was as helpless and obedient as a child.

Later she said: "I've been here twice before. He pays awfully well, and the blokes aren't bad. I suppose you think that's horrible?"

"You know what I think," said Craig, and she laughed.

"Only I never knew about the cameras and things," she said. "What's it for?"

"To give him a hold on people."

"Like you?" Craig nodded into her shoulder.

"But darling, why should he?"

The word "darling" almost made him wince. It wasn't a stage word; she meant it.

"People like me have information," he said. "That's useful when you run a newspaper. Tell me about the blokes you met here."

And she told him, not questioning his explanations. To her a rich man just took whatever he wanted, because he had money. That's what he had it for. Craig stroked her soft back, helping her to relax, and go on talking.

"You going to complain about this?" he asked.

"Brodski introduced us to him. He got us all together and made the proposition. Some of the girls said no at first. Then Jennifer came and talked to them alone."

"You know what happened?"

"No," said Tempest. "But they were scared of Jennifer. We all are. They said they'd go. Brodski didn't like it. He's a sweet man, really."

"Did Simmons have a hold on him?"

"He must have done," Tempest said. "You after Brodski too?"

"Yes," said Craig. "His passport's expired."

"I think he's in Morocco," said Tempest.

"Morocco?"

"I heard that Arab talking to Charlie, and he said the only other gentleman he knew was Polish and he lived in Morocco. Then Charlie said he'd do all right there because he'd kept a harem in London too. Then he looked at me. I'm sure he meant Brodski . . . Darling?" That bloody word again. "Is this helping you?"

"Very much," said Craig. "It'll all go in my report. No names. Just 'information received.' "

"You could use my name if you liked," said Tempest. "I don't mind. I'd do anything—"

You bitch. You stupid, stupid bitch. Why do you have to get involved with me?

11

The ranch-house door was open, and Craig knocked and went inside. Simmons and Jane sat at breakfast, he in city clothes, she in a yellow dress. He looked up and smiled as Craig entered. Craig wore the work outfit again, and twiddled his plains hat in front of him as a nervous cowboy should when he goes to meet the boss.

"Ah, Craig, you're up early," he said. "Sleep well?"

"The best sleep I've had in years," said Craig. "Thank you."

"I don't think we'll see the rest of the boys for hours yet," he said. "They got pretty drunk last night. You were wise to turn in early."

"I think so," said Craig.

She'd wept when he'd got up to leave her, made him take her address and telephone number, promise to come to the new show when it opened in a couple of weeks. The new show was interesting. She didn't even know who was financing it. It wouldn't hurt to find out. And so he'd been nice to her. . .

The butler served him eggs, bacon, and coffee.

Craig sat and watched the smooth assurance of his hands, the bland ease with which he stepped back, his job well done. Craig turned to him.

"What do you say we go and have a walk around the bull?" he asked. "Just you and me."

"I'm very sorry about that, sir," the butler said.

"You should be," said Craig. "I didn't know Yugoslavs were so forgetful."

Simmons's hand moved briefly, and the butler left. The breakfast was delicious; when he'd finished Simmons said: "I've had your briefcase brought over. Perhaps we can go over the business with my daughter now."

"I have just a few questions," Craig said. "No need to keep you really."

"All the same I'd rather stay," said Simmons. "Can't trust you F.O. types."

Jane said: "Oh daddy," like a dutiful daughter, but her eyes were on Craig.

They sat by the window and watched the horses running in the paddock, playing at combat in the rich summer grass. Once more Craig took her over her story and Simmons listened as the answers came, now sure, now hesitant. He blinked as Craig mimicked the noises that the Russian killer had made, the Cantonese sing-song that told Comrade Soong he was going to die, and Jane nodded her agreement.

"What on earth is all this?" he asked. "Why is the F.O. involved?"

"We have reason to believe Soong was a spy," said Craig. "So were the chaps who killed him."

"I suppose that's secret information?"

"Oh, absolutely," said Craig. "As a matter of fact you never heard it. Neither did I."

"You're telling me a spy can come here and literally get away with murder?"

"Anybody can," said Craig, "if they've had the right training." He paused. "Charlie could."

"Charlie?" said Jane.

"He and Craig here had a fight last night," said Simmons. "It was all just cowboys." "Who won?"

"Craig. It seems his hobby is jujitsu." Jane looked puzzled.

"That's judo with atimi-attacking blows," said Craig. "It's about the only defense against karate there is."

"Charlie used karate?"

"Oh yes. He seemed quite adept," Craig said. "It's just as well I kept up my jujitsu classes. The F.O. runs a very good club, you know."

"Do they teach you how to fight bulls, too?" asked Simmons.

"No," said Craig. "You have to find that out for yourself." He stood up. "You've really been awfully helpful—"

"Not at all," said Simmons. "I hope you catch them."

"Me, too," said Jane. "But you're not going, are you?"

She glowered at Simmons, who suddenly realized that Craig couldn't possibly leave. He had to go to town for a couple of days to see an editor, and Craig must and should stay on to entertain his daughter. He kissed her, said goodbye to Craig, and left. They sat and watched the palomino stud move like mercury across the meadow. Behind him two mares trotted, submissive. The girl looked at Craig. She realized that she had more than her fear of him to combat. With it there came a paralyzing shyness, and this also was new.

"I hope you and Charlie haven't quarreled for good," she said. "I rather like Charlie."

"I should hope so," said Craig, and she blushed, a sullen, unattractive red. She felt about fifteen years old.

"Daddy's sure I'm going to marry him," she said. "I'm not as sure as he is. Did you hurt him?"

"Not much," said Craig. "How's the bull?"

She giggled then, and felt more girlish than ever.

"He's still got a black eye," she said, and tried desperately to be the hostess once more.

"What would you like to do?" she asked.

"What about the others?" asked Craig.

"They never want to do anything after one of Daddy's parties."

"I've got a bull as well," said Craig. "Come and have a look."

They walked through the rose garden and into the house. The butler appeared at once, like a djinn from an uncorked bottle.

"Thank you, Zelko," said Jane. "We won't need you."

He bowed, and left, and Craig turned to her. "Zelko?" he asked.

"That's his first name really," said Jane. "His second name's Gabrilovic or something. Far too complicated, Daddy says. So he's Zelko."

"Your father seems very fond of him."

"That boring old war," said Jane. "His father and Daddy saved each others' lives all the time in Yugoslavia. Let's look at your bull."

He showed her the Miura, and she was enchanted. "You'd better make yourself dishy," Loomis had said, and the car was all it needed. She adored everything about it, from the fighting bull emblem to the comfort of the two vast seats that nearly filled the car. Craig pressed the starter and thought: What quality did I value most when I was twenty? And the answer was rebellion, obviously. At twenty one could not, would not conform. The engine fired, roared once, then relapsed to its whisper of easy power. Craig decided to break some laws.

Jane had been in E-types, Maseratis, Ferraris, had driven and been driven at speed, but this time the car, like the man, was new to her, and powerful and frightening. She felt the threat of it as he drove her back toward London, and the speedometer flicked to seventy, and the engine purred, half-asleep. At seventy the car made no effort at all; it was waiting for the signal that would send it forward with a speed that makes the loping look like stillness. And so it happened. Craig found the road he was seeking, when two lanes swelled at last to four, and his right foot moved smoothly, inexorably down. What followed was something she had never known before—a ride in a high-performance car handled by a master. The road was quiet, and the outside lane for the most part empty, so that the car's speed soared from fifty to seventy to a hundred and twenty, and the engine still whispered its song, contemptuous that the road would allow no more as the little saloons flicked by on the inside lane. Once she heard the sound of a police car and looked back, but the car was a white blur in the distance that dwindled into a dot.

"Don't worry," said Craig. "They were too far away to get the number."

"I'm glad," Jane said. "I hate policemen."

They came to a roundabout and Craig felt his way to the byroads that would take him back to Simmons's house. He was delighted with the Lamborghini. The fastest way to a girl's heart...

"Don't let's go home for lunch," said Jane.

So he drove again into the winding lanes, and she rejoiced that she had worn a yellow dress that could at least survive against the Lamborghini's triumphant scarlet. He found a pub that would do, low-shingled, deep-walled, authentic, with polished horse-brasses in the bar and a primly chintzed dining room. He bought her a gin and tonic, and bitter for himself. The barman looked at his workshirt and jeans, and visibly doubted his ability to pay. His amused contempt brushed off Craig like a feather off armor plating, and he offered her a cigarette, then took one himself.

"I like to get away sometimes like this," she said. "You've no idea how dull it can be, just sitting around in a period gem."

"I bet," said Craig, and stared at the barman, who was far too near, until the barman flushed, moved away, and began to polish an already sparkling glass.

"What do you do all day?" asked Craig.

"Well—entertaining for Daddy mostly. When he's at home. Otherwise it's just Charlie or something."

"Don't you go to London?"

"Sometimes," she said. "Daddy isn't awfully keen on it."

"He let you go on that walking tour."

"It was his idea," she said. "He thought I needed the exercise." She paused. "He does let me off the hook sometimes, you know. I'm not a prisoner exactly."

"Go where?"

She thought: He's so hard he doesn't even recognize his own hardness. It's just a fact, like the way his eyes tell you nothing. Even now. And yet he must be interested, or he wouldn't ask.

"Oh Ischia and Paris and Cannes and Mykonos," she said. "You know. The places one goes to. Holidays and all that. And he takes me away on business sometimes. I've been to West Berlin and Rabat—and Yugoslavia. We're going to Morocco again next year. Then to the States, if I'm a good girl."

"What does that mean?"

"Being true to Charlie," said Jane.

"Is it worth it?"

"I've never tried it," she said, "so I don't know. And I don't want to start now."

He looked down at her, and for a moment she could see emotion in his eyes, and in the way his mouth relaxed, but it vanished too quickly for her to read it, which was as well. Craig had begun to pity her, but he stopped himself well in time.

"Would you like to eat?" he asked, and she nodded, and moved toward the dining room. Craig looked toward the glass in the barman's hand.

"You go on like that and you'll break it," said

Craig. "You're too rough."

The barman polished the glass more viciously than ever. Its stem snapped.

"I told you," said Craig.

At the dining-room door a headwaiter met them, looked back at his impeccably dressed clientele, then at the two in the doorway once more. The girl was fine, almost too good, he thought. But the man . . . Craig read the look. "It's all right," he said. "I'm an eccentric millionaire."

"Indeed, sir?" said the headwaiter.

"Indeed," said Craig. "That's my car outside."

The headwaiter's eyes flicked once to the win-dow,"and the Lamborghini it framed, and he led them to a table, a good one, secure from eavesdroppers and with a view of the garden. His hand flicked away a "Reserved" sign as if it were an abomination and menus appeared in front of them like a trick with giant cards.

"You'll have to order all the expensive things now," said Jane, then blushed.

Craig laughed. "It really is my car," he said.

She ordered vegetable soup, roast beef and apple tart, was nervous about claret and settled for Burgundy.

"They're really very good here," she said, "and Daddy only likes French food, except when he's playing cowboys."

"Do you like playing cowboys, too?" he asked.

"Oh yes," she said viciously. "I like everything that Daddy does."

"Do you really?"

"I have to," she said. "If I didn't, he might not leave me his money when he dies. He won't die for ages, either."

"He looks healthy enough," said Craig.

"You've no idea," said Jane, and another warning was stored in Craig's memory, as he began to talk to her about the places he had been to, and the wars he had seen. There was a violence to her that her father had given her, and she listened eagerly, scarcely noticing the food she had chosen so carefully.

When the coffee came she said: "You're very like Daddy." He was silent. "I meant that as a compliment, really."

"I thought you hated your father," said Craig.

"Just sometimes," she said. "He expects too much. That's where you're different. You never expect anything."

"So I'm never disappointed."

"Will you tell him—what I said?"

"No," said Craig.

"Why not? Because you like me?"

"Because I like you," he said.

"There," said Jane. "It didn't hurt to say it, did it? You know, maybe it's true. Maybe I do like everything Daddy does." Her knee rubbed firmly, insistently, demanded to be trapped between his.

"Those bloody dancing girls," said Jane. "Daddy thinks I don't know," she said. "That's stupid. He should have realized I'd find out."

"He didn't want to realize it," said Craig.

"I'm twenty," said Jane. "A woman. Daddy acts as if I'd been written by Hans Christian Andersen. His pal."

Craig stayed silent. Her knee was a restless stimulus reminding him how pretty she was, and how violent.

"You don't even care, do you?" said Jane, and smiled. "I want you to make love to me, you bastard. There. Does that satisfy your great big masculine ego?"

Craig wondered what Loomis would say. First Tempest, now Jane. And Loomis so prudish, and so avid for information.

"It's nice to be asked," said Craig, "but there's no need to be so rude about it. And stop saying 'bloody.' It spoils your image."

"I'm sorry," said Jane. "But you don't know what it's like, do you? Being mixed up in something you can't control, I mean. I bet that's never happened to you."

Craig said: "Why did you choose the cafe where Soong worked?" and Jane scowled, disliking the switch in conversation.

"We didn't," she said. "We just went there. It looked nice."

Craig said: "Don't lie. It wastes time," and she scowled again.

"All right, clever. You work it out," she said.

"Your father told you to go," said Craig. "He wanted you to call on Soong. You had a message for him."

The scowl vanished; amazement replaced it. "It's not true," she said. Craig said: "You're still wasting time." She looked at his face, desiring more than ever the deadly strength he masked so carefully.

"All right," she said. "He was going to be one of

Daddy's charities. All I had to do was tell him to ring Daddy at home. Someone had told him about Soong—he was very bright, you know—and Daddy thought he could use him." "How?"

She shrugged. A very pretty movement.

"Daddy helps all sorts of people. Usually it makes him more money. But—" She looked puzzled again. "How did you know? Daddy doesn't like people to know about his charities. I got that mob to the cafe so that it looked—you know—just chance. I didn't tell Charlie or Arthur or anybody."

"Information received," said Craig. "Arthur a friend of yours?"

"He has to be. Daddy wants to collect him." The frown came back. "Please can we go now?"

"Where?" asked Craig.

"I know a place," she said. "On the coast. It's mine. Mummy left it to me. We can be back before dinner."

The Lamborghini whispered, and they skimmed to a deserted headland, clambered down rocks to a remote and private beach. No other cars, no boats, no trippers: just one sea gull fishing, screaming his unsuccess, and a beach hut that held nothing but blankets and towels, a bottle of Scotch and two glasses. Craig watched as the girl spread blankets on the sand, poured and gulped down three fingers of Scotch. She was smiling as she undressed, and there was a madness in the smile that reminded him of Simmons. She lay down on the blankets.

"You scare me," she said. "You know that, don't you?"

And later: "If my father were to find out, he'd kill you." "Why me?" said Craig.

She wept then, and Craig put his arms about her, waiting. If you waited long enough, they always stopped crying.

"All right," she sobbed. "I've done it before. But not like this. This is different."

"How?" said Craig, and forced kindness into his voice.

"The others were younger than you—and not nearly so strong. You're stronger than Daddy." The thought amazed her even as it delighted. "I love you," she said.

What you mean is you hate Daddy, Craig thought, and you've dealt him the ultimate hurt. It would be as well to leave before Daddy got back.

The scars on his body fascinated her, even the broken finger. For Tempest they had been a source of suffering, since he had suffered, but for Jane they were a source of pride. He allowed her to touch them, caress them, willing his mind to forget the beatings, the knifing, the gunshot that had marked him where her hands explored. Instead he set himself to learn her secrets, and she talked freely, easily, her mind obsessed with the strength and power of the man who had possessed her, until he made love to her again: a box of chocolates for a good little girl. When they had done, he made her swim in the sea, and she gasped at its coldness that seemed to him only a word. He swam far out in an ugly, powerful crawl, letting the water chill away the effects of a love that had seemed neither clean nor dirty, merely necessary at the time. When he got back she was drying herself with a towel, her pretty body somehow pathetic even in its firm and shapely youth. He supposed that once he would have been moved to pity, to protect anyone as young as that. But that had been a long time ago.

They stayed out on the beach until evening, then Craig drove her back to the showpiece of a house and she went away from him at once, to play at flirtation with Charlie, even though her father was away. Craig went to lie down in the bunkhouse, to think what came next. Nuderama had gone, and the eight supporting lovelies; but he knew where to reach them. He had all the general information he needed on Charlie and his friends. And Hornsey. And maybe he knew where Brodski was too. It was time to get back to London, he thought. Sleep a while, shave, bathe, dine with Jane and Charlie— and perhaps learn a little more—then go to London and talk to Loomis. And maybe rob a bank in Morocco.

12

When he woke up he knew that something was wrong. He knew it immediately, as his eyes opened, so that he was already rolling away from the blow aimed at his head, and his hand lashed out above the blow; he felt bone give as Charlie fell. But there were two other men there, very good men indeed. He managed to throw Zelko, sprawl away from Simmons's kick so that it missed his stomach, caught him at the side of the knee. But he was limping after that, limping too much, and they attacked him from left and right together. He hit Zelko again, a sharp stab at the throat that brought the big man to a rigid halt, but he didn't fall, and the blow left him overexposed to Simmons, whose own blow came fast as a duelist's, the edge of the hand laid deftly against the line of his jaw. He fainted.

Zelko said: "A good man. Strong. Quick." His voice was a whisper.

Simmons said: "Almost too good." He bent to feel Craig's pulse, and smiled. "He'll live. For a while anyway."

Zelko rubbed his throat, then kicked Craig in the ribs.

"Not yet," said Simmons. "Look after poor Charlie."

Zelko bent over Charlie and picked him up, handling him as if he were a puppy. A bruise blossomed on Charlie's forehead like an orchid in rain.

"Poor Charlie," Simmons said. "He seems to have no luck at all with Craig, does he?"

Zelko said: "He has a lot to learn."

"He's learning," said Simmons. "Can you bring him around?"

Zelko said: "I think he needs a doctor."

"We'll see," said Simmons. "Put him out."

Zeiko carried Charlie to the feed store, then came back to Craig.

"This one won't need a doctor," he said.

He took piano wire from his pockets, put Craig's hands behind his back, twisted the wire round them. If it is done properly, there is no way in the world to get free from piano wire. Zelko did it properly. Then he began to slap Craig into consciousness.

Craig came round to a rhythmic repetition of pain. When his eyes opened, the slapping stopped, and he looked into Simmons's eyes, which were bright with expectation. Craig knew at once that he was going to be hurt.

"I didn't stay two days after all," he said. "You should have gone while you had the chance. What made you think I would?"

"Jane," said Craig.

"Jane knows so little about me," Simmons said. "Or about you, for that matter. She doesn't even know you're going to die when we've finished.

Your car will crash and burst into flames. No doubt the Foreign Office will miss you—even after I tell them you've had too much to drink. You do belong to the F.O., don't you?" "Yes," said Craig.

"That's what they told me, when I finally got through. They lied of course." He paused. "They've all gone home now except Charlie, and we think you've given him concussion." Craig stayed silent. "It might be a good idea to yell," Simmons said. "It'll help you to get the pitch of the roof. You'll be doing a lot of yelling soon . . . No? But shouldn't you be indignant, old man? F.O. type attacked and tied up? Surely you should ask what it's all about?"

"What's it all about?" asked Craig.

Simmons stepped back and nodded, and Zelko began the beating.

He was thorough, and carefully trained, and the pain from the very beginning was intense, but it was apparent to Craig, before pain engulfed him, that he neither liked nor loathed what he was doing. It was just a job. To Simmons, it was a pleasure he did nothing to hide. That, and a sweet revenge. Until he fainted for the first time there was no attempt to ask him questions, merely the methodical application of pain to a body that had been schooled to resist pain as well as a human body can. Craig gasped at the blows that attacked his kidneys, his guts, over and over, gasped, then moaned, then cried out, but there was a part of his mind that hung on, so that when the questions came, and the blows that interspersed the questions, he still told the same story. He was from the

Foreign Office, he knew nothing about the men who killed Soong, he knew only that the People's Republic of China had protested.

Then the questions were about Simmons's daughter and what she had said to him about Simmons, and Craig swore, over and over, that she adored Simmons, because if he had denied that fact even for a moment he knew that Simmons would kill him, and Craig wasn't yet ready to die. Then more blows, and questions about Tempest, and what they had done together. Something about a camera. Craig remembered there had been a camera, but the part of his mind still immune to them said No, and he denied it. Simmons asked him again about his daughter, and the things he had done to Tempest—Had he done them to Jane? And Craig said No, No, No, and his voice was a scream as Zelko worked on the finger that had been broken once before till he fainted again.

When he came round he believed that he had won. Zelko was bathing his face, and making no attempt to hit him. Simmons had gone. Then Craig came further back into reality and realized that he was wired at chest and thighs to a heavy wooden chair, and that he was naked. When Simmons came back he carried a black metal box of a kind that Craig had been told about, a box for which the only antidote was a potassium cyanide pill. He knew then that what he had survived was only a foretaste. Knew, with absolute certainty, that he would tell them everything they needed to know.

"You know about this?" said Simmons, and Craig nodded. "The Germans invented it. They used it on Resistance people—the ones who swore they'd die before they'd give anything away. This always broke them. It's going to break you."

The box had two terminals and wire from them that ended in heavy clips. Craig winced as they snapped onto his flesh, then Simmons moved a pointer across a dial and there was nothing in the world but pain. Nothing at all. The sounds that came from his mouth were great, inhuman bellows, his body arched and kicked until the wire cut his skin. Then the dial moved back, and the pain receded to an agony only just bearable.

"Tell me about my daughter," Simmons said. "Tell me what you did to her."

But the last sane part of his mind flickered once more, before it died, and Craig knew that if he told one thing he would tell it all.

"Went for a drive," he groaned. "Had lunch. She told me she adored you."

"That's not what she told me," said Simmons. "I want the truth." Craig was silent.

"If I go on," said Simmons, "I'll make you impotent. I mean to go on."

He moved the dial again, and again Craig screamed, on and on in the agony that was his whole world.

At last Zelko said: "You'll kill him," and Simmons moved the dial back.

"Who sent you?" he asked, but Craig could only babble his agony, and the words he made were meaningless. Zelko smacked him across the face, four smashing slaps, and Craig was silent.

"Was it a man called Loomis?" Simmons asked. "From Department K? What does Loomis know about me? What does he know?"

And Craig could only think: "I can't die. I can't die, so I'm bound to tell."

This time he screamed before the dial moved.

Hornsey looked in at the window, and vomited once. The noise from inside hid the sound of his retchings. It was necessary to go in, and Hornsey doubted that he had the nerve. He looked at the Luger in his hand. Hand and gun were shaking. He closed his mind to everything but the gun, the way he had been taught, and the shaking died. Hornsey ducked beneath the window, reached the door. He knew exactly where Simmons and Zelko stood. He thought that if he missed, they would do the same to him and the thought almost defeated him. It had to be now. He pushed the door open and Zelko's hand went at once to his coat. Hornsey shot him dead. Simmons looked at him, frozen, and Hornsey yelled across Craig's screams: "Turn it off. Turn that bloody thing off."

Simmons didn't move and Hornsey rushed him, the gun barrel flashed, and Simmons fell. Hornsey looked at the dial; the machine was off. But Craig still screamed for almost a minute. When the screams died at last, he wept.

Hornsey untwisted the wire from Craig's chest and tied up Simmons, then was sick again at what he had to handle as he took the clips away from Craig. He looked at the dead Zelko, then turned back to Craig, and spoke to him softly, gently, and Craig said "Hornsey" and began to weep.

Hornsey said, "I'm sorry, Craig. I couldn't get back sooner. I had to let Loomis know."

Craig said "Loomis?" and the relief in his voice was absolute, because now he could tell everything and still not betray.

* * *

The night bell buzzed on and on, demanding an answer, and the caretaker, tired or not, came awake completely, pulled on overalls on top of his pajamas, slid his feet into heavy-duty shoes. As he walked down the corridor he checked his Smith and Wesson; felt to make sure the knife was in place in the leg of his trousers. The spy-hole showed him an empty porch, but he opened the door warily, even so. There was nothing—the whole street was empty—nothing but an empty car at the curbside, a bright splash of scarlet that looked purple in the lamplight. The caretaker moved over to the car, and his steps were still wary. The passenger's seat was covered by a rug. The caretaker took the rug in his left hand, the Smith and Wesson rock-steady in his right. He pulled the rug away and jumped to one side, then looked down.

"Jesus," he said.

* * *

For once Wetherly forgot to smile. He sat facing Loomis across the great desk, Sir Matthew Chinn on his right, and his face was grave.

"The physical injuries are relatively minor," he said. "Two broken ribs, a dislocated fingerbone, considerable bruising, particularly in the area of the kidneys. That induced a slight incontinence, but we feel it can be cured." He glanced at Chinn, whose head came down in agreement like a pecking bird's. "He also had cuts across his chest and thighs. We think that these were made by the wire that was used to hold him down while they—" he paused.

"Get on with it," said Loomis.

"Exactly," Chinn said. "There is considerable burning of the testicles and penis, and minor burns on the right nipple. Craig was given a series of violent electric shocks."

"The agony must have been appalling," said Wetherly.

"It always is," said Loomis, and Chinn's head flicked toward him; Wetherly coughed as if in warning.

"Is he still a man?" Loomis asked.

"It's too early to say," Wetherly said. "He's a hell of a mess. These men were experts."

"Real experts?" Loomis asked.

"Experts' experts." Wetherly hesitated, then said: "He's not precisely sane yet, Loomis. He may never be sane again."

Loomis glowered at Chinn.

"I thought you told me he was going off anyway," he said.

"Not like this," said Chinn. "This may have altered the whole rhythm of the process. If you'd any idea what they did to him—"

"But I have," said Loomis, then added, "an idea. I want to know how it affects his mind."

"He'll be in pain for some days yet. We have him under strong sedation."

"Is that really necessary?"

"Essential," said Chinn. "We reduced the dosage this morning, and a nurse came to change his dressings. His left hand is bandaged. He almost killed her with his right. If Chinn and I had not been there—"

"He's extraordinarily strong," said Chinn, and shot his cuffs. One was crumpled.

"And fast," said Loomis. "And clever. Not fearless. Not even loonies are that crazy. But he thrives on fear. He needs it."

"He uses it," said Wetherly, "to drive himself. Or he did before this happened."

Loomis sat very still.

"Are you telling me he's finished?" he asked.

Wetherly shrugged. "I can't answer you yet. He's in shock. Deep shock. He's bound to be for several days. If we try to interfere with that he really will be finished."

"All right," Loomis growled.

"All we can go on so far is what comes out of his unconscious mind. He relives what Simmons did to him continuously. And of course he screams—"

"You're sure it's Simmons?"

"Sometimes he's a cowboy figure, a sort of Jesse James—sometimes he's a tycoon, but it's always Simmons. And a man called Zelko. And a girl. Jane. She's in the background somewhere. She betrayed him to Simmons."

"Simmons's daughter," said Loomis. "What a way to protect your daughter's honor—"

"There's a great deal of cowboy fantasy involved," said Wetherly. "Gun fights, stagecoach, saloon. All that. What happened to him may overlap a childhood fantasy."

"I doubt it," Chinn said. "The detail is too clear, and too consistent."

Loomis said impatiently: "You can sort that out when he's conscious."

"There's one thing we may not be able to sort out," Chinn said. "He weeps, Loomis. Weeps all the time. His pillow is constantly wet with his tears."

"He tried to kill the nurse," Loomis said.

Wetherly said: "He wept even when he was doing that."

Loomis sighed, his pendulous cheeks inflating like balloons.

"It's a bloody nuisance," he said. "I need him. Need him badly."

"No doubt you have a job for him tonight," said Chinn.

"I have a job for him every night," said Loomis. "But I can wait a week." Chinn looked at him as if he were a problem in

chess.

"I didn't think it was possible for me to hate anyone any more," he said. "The nature of my work insulates me from"—his hand gestured—"all that. But I find you singularly repellent, Loomis. That man has suffered unbelievable agonies on your behalf. There is more than a chance that he did not betray you—"

"We're covered if he has," Loomis said.

"—and all you can think of is to subject him to the same risks once more."

Loomis said: "I need him. I need him to destroy Simmons. Because Simmons and his pals are making trouble for us with the Russkies. So far it's just middle-sized trouble—the kind that ends in iron curtains. But it could be big trouble in time. The biggest. The kind that ends in twenty-megaton bombs and Chinese commissars in Wigan. So I want to stop it now. And Craig's the best weapon I've got for it."

"What about this man Hornsey?" asked Chinn.

"What about him?"

"He rescued Craig," said Chinn. "Brought him back here. Craig loves him for it."

"You mean he's a fairy now?"

"I mean he's formed a strong emotional attachment based on gratitude. Emotional involvement has always been difficult for Craig."

"I wish it had been impossible," Loomis said. "What were you going to say about Hornsey?"

"Couldn't he do Craig's job?"

"No," said Loomis.

"But surely—"

"He doesn't work for Department K," said Loomis. "And now you tell me Craig loves him."

After three days they relaxed the sedation; after five, he could control his bladder again. By that time the marks on his body were fading, the dislocated finger usable, the cracked ribs reduced to a caution against unwary movement. Even the burn marks had begun to heal, and the pain lived most vividly in his nightmares, though these were still frequent and intense. Carefully Wetherly and Chinn began to explore the damage that pain had done to his mind, moving into it with the caution of architects in a house suspected of dry rot.

It took them three days, but at last they were sure, and left Craig enshrouded in sleep, like a silkworm in silk. Then, and only then, would they permit Loomis to look at him. He waddled into the room set aside as a ward with the vast, clumsy menace of a gorilla, then looked down at Craig, peering into his face. For the only time since Loomis had known him, Craig made no reaction to his nearness. He lay perfectly still, his breathing almost silent, the harshness gone from his face so that it seemed as if he were his own younger brother, married and mortgaged and at peace.

"What's he on?" said Loomis, and they told him.

Loomis grunted. "We could march a brass band through here and he wouldn't even dream."

Wetherly nodded. "He needs all the rest we can give him," he said.

"Looks a bloody sight better than he did before Simmons got him," Loomis said, and added with the painstaking thoroughness of one to whom praise is meaningless: "You blokes must have had your work cut out."

Chinn said: "At least he's sane now," Loomis glowered at him. "Sometimes people who have undergone his particular form of maltreatment become hopelessly neurotic. Craig has not."

"Reflexes?" asked Loomis.

"The indications are that they are unimpaired. He's in no condition yet for extensive tests."

"What about his nerve?" Loomis asked.

Wetherly said "Ah!" Chinn studied the tips of his fingers.

Loomis looked at the sleeping man's mouth. Always before it had been a hard line parallel with his forehead; now its corners turned down, almost into gentleness.

"You'd better get on with it," he said.

Wetherly said: "Simmons attacked his maleness in the most literal sense. Craig's mind appears to have converted that fact into metaphor."

"Never mind the codology," said Loomis automatically. "I have to know."

Wetherly tried again. "Craig was the most utterly masculine man I have ever known," he said. "He was hard, aggressive, ruthless. A tremendous fighter—and when he fought—completely without pity. Killing the right sort of enemy was part of being a man, to Craig.

"He was also very successful sexually. Women feared him, but in a way that gave them pleasure. This made them want him, and when he slept with them they enjoyed it intensely, sometimes with a degree of gratification they had never known before. This again Craig accepted as being a natural part of manhood. He was a strong, aggressive, even brutal lover, but in an odd sort of way he was also very polite in bed, even gentlemanly."

He broke off for a moment, as he and Chinn observed with pleasure that Loomis was blushing.

"His most recent conquest was Simmons's daughter, Jane," Wetherly'said. "She is a healthy young woman, not a virgin almost certainly—" he looked at Chinn, who nodded. There was no appeal from that nod. "But she's young, to a certain degree innocent, and what Craig would call a lady. She appears to have gotten intense pleasure from Craig. Almost immediately afterwards she betrayed him to her father, who punished him by destroying his penis as a sexual organ, slowly and painfully."

"He's impotent?" asked Loomis.

"Not organically," Chinn said. "But impotence is in his mind."

"And with it the loss of his manhood," said Wetherly. "He couldn't possibly have withstood one more shock. And in his unconscious he knows this very clearly. He knows, too, that if he continues working for you he may suffer again. But he can only work for you while he is a man. That means a fighter and a lover. The two are absolutely intertwined for him. Take one away and the other must fail. You understand what I'm telling you?"

"Just tell it," said Loomis.

"His mind has decided that he can no longer make love. That way he won't have to fight either. Or risk the consequences of failure in a fight."

Loomis turned to Chinn.

"You agree with all this?"

Chinn nodded once more, and again there was no appeal.

Loomis said desperately: "He went for the nurse."

"He was afraid of her afterwards," said Chinn. "We had to send her away."

"You mean I've lost him?"

Chinn said: "He was almost played out anyway. I warned you at the nursing home—"

"You gave him three months—"

"Before he turned on you," said Chinn.

"I'd take care of that. But I need those three months."

"He would betray you at the first threat of pain," said Chinn.

Almost before their eyes the fat man crumbled as his aggressive optimism left him. He looked twenty pounds lighter, and twenty years older: a man with too much responsibility, too much power, and too little time. An old man.

"He had one more job to do," said Loomis. "He was made for it."

"To dispose of Simmons?" Chinn asked.

"And others," Loomis said. "Nut cases. Blokes who hate the Russians."

"He's the last man in the world to kill Simmons now," said Chinn.

"There's one way," Wetherly said suddenly. He turned to Chinn.

"I think not," said Chinn.

"But dammit man, it's got a good chance. For three months, anyway."

"How long would it take?" Loomis asked.

"Two weeks. Three at the most," said Wetherly, "and he needs that long to heal." He looked at the Napoleonic little man.

"A few days after that is all we need," he said.

Chinn said "No!" and for the first time he raised his voice.

"Can you do it?" Loomis asked, and Wetherly shook his head.

"It's Chinn's technique," he said. "There isn't anybody else."

Loomis swelled up in front of them like a combative bullfrog, growing lighter and more manic by the second, all his energies reaching out to Chinn, who speculated on how freely the adrenaline must be pumping into him.

"At least you can tell me about it," said Loomis, and his voice was soft and reasonable.

"You're being dishonest, Loomis," said Chinn, then surrendered. "Very well, I'll tell you about it. At least I'll tell you what I can do to Craig—then

I'll tell you why I won't do it."

"I'm listening," said Loomis.

"I can simplify him," said Chinn. "For a time, at any rate. I can seal off his fears about his sex life and canalize his energies into destruction. Turn him into a machine for killing people, or for hurting them."

"You're a very dangerous little feller," said Loomis.

"I've dealt with disordered personalities before," said Chinn. "Lots of them. Some of them have been the result of artificially induced stress—like Craig. It is possible to simplify such people up to a point—sometimes to the point where they can take their place in society at large. If I did what you want to Craig, that of course would not be possible."

"How d'you do it?"

"Drugs, hypnosis, certain Pavlovian techniques. Stimuli buried in the unconscious." He smiled a smile like midwinter. "That information is useless unless I were to be more specific. I shan't—any more than I shall do it to Craig."

"You said you would tell me why not," said Loomis.

Sir Matthew said at once: "Because it would contravene my conception of what one human being may morally do to another."

"All right," said Loomis. "And now I'll tell you why you will do it."

Chinn said: "Really, Loomis," but the fat man talked straight through it, his eyes bright with the certainty of what had to be done.

"Simmons is up to his ears with a group called

BC. They're a bunch of wealthy fanatics who hate Russia—and they'll do anything that hurts the Russians. Anything. Well we've had nuts before, and usually they're easy to cope with. But these particular nuts are good. They only do the big jobs —and they bring them off. And now they've ganged up with the Chinese."

"To attack the Russians?" said Chinn.

"The Chinese hate the Russians because they think they've betrayed communism," said Loomis. "The BC hates Russia just because it exists. But they both hate her, and they both want to hurt. They're pushing hard, trying to blame the West for the things they're doing. And the Russians don't push easy. They don't like it, d'you see? I met a feller in Paris recently—chap called Chelichev— head of the Executive Division of the KGB. He knows the things the BC's done. But his masters blame us. They'll go on blaming us until we can prove they're wrong—or get rid of who's doing it."

"And if we don't?" asked Wetherly, on cue.

"We'll lose all the gains we've made," said Loomis. "It'll be the cold war all over again. Or maybe the hot one."

"How could it possibly—" Chinn began.

"Suppose BC knocked off a few Russian politicians? The premier maybe, and a few members of the Presidium, and it looked like the Yanks had done it, or us? Because that's what they're after," Loomis said. "And that's what they'll do." He looked at the still figure in the coma. "Unless—"

"And there's really no one else you can use?" asked Chinn.

"How many like him have you ever treated?" asked Loomis, and Chinn sighed. "Look, cocu, I want rid of him. He's dangerous. But I can't do without him. For what I want he's the best I've ever seen—or even heard of. Now try your moral conceptions on that one."

"There's no need," said Chinn. "If you are telling me the truth."

"Every word," said Loomis, and looked into the bright, unwinking eyes.

"I believe you," said Chinn, "and I'll do what you ask."

"Wetherly can help you," said Loomis.

"No," said Chinn. "Wetherly's concept of morality differs from mine. He might use the technique again for reasons that I would not approve." He turned to the bland, smooth man. "I'm sorry, Wetherly," he said, "but if Craig comes to my nursing home, and you attempt to observe the techniques I use on him I shall give him up." His glance flicked to Loomis. "I assure you I mean that," he said.

13

Chelichev poured vodka neatly and precisely. The woman tossed hers back at once, like a man, and still looked strong and female and beautiful.

"I have been through the English newspaper reports," she said. "Among the people in the cafe was a girl called Jane Simmons. Her father owns newspapers. I have read some. He does not like Russia."

Chelichev smiled at her, very proudly, yet with compassion. She had done so well.

"He also has a friend called Brodski who is going to Tangier," he said. "Simmons and his daughter will go there too. They are agents of BC." He smiled again. "No one in our department told me," he said. "You are the first. I congratulate you."

"Who then?"

"Department K," he said. "I told you. They are very good. You will go to Tangier, too, and meet Brodski. He is a Pole. If you are Polish too he will love you even more. Find out all you can. I want names." She nodded. "Simmons runs the organization. Brodski is liaison officer with people in Po-

land, East Germany, and Hungary. The Chinese deal with Simmons direct. If necessary, you will bring me Simmons or Brodski alive. We must have the names of the people they hire in the next three weeks. Is that understood?"

"Yes, comrade-general."

"I will send an executive to you. He will execute the others."

"Yes, comrade-general."

"Craig will go with you also."

She looked surprised.

"Loomis insists on this. Anyway, the British are very strong in Tangier and you may need help."

"Very good, comrade-general."

"You of course will be controller. There is also the million pounds in Deutschmarks to be considered. You will steal it and destroy it."

"Destroy it?"

"It must not be used against us. By BC or anybody else."

"The British will want some."

"The British will get far more than money," Chelichev said.

"Very good, comrade-general. Will I have assistance to steal this money?"

"You will," Chelichev said. "I am also sending you a minor genius. He is emotionally unstable, as genius often is, and the executive will get rid of him after the mission. A pity in a way, his genius is unquestionable. His me'tier is theft."

* * *

It took nine days. At the end of that time Sir Matthew Chinn had lost seven pounds, and was as familiar with Craig's unconscious as with the contents of his own wardrobe. He had worried at first that Craig would resist the reintroduction of the urge to kill, but the resistance had been minimal. His craving was for orientation, a sense of purpose, and these Chinn gave him. The difficulty had been to erase the fixation that Craig developed for him almost from the beginning. But he had achieved it at last, as he had achieved an erasure of undue reliance on Hornsey. Under deep hypnosis, buried fathoms deep in the dark floor of his unconscious, Craig had acquired something else, too, something that Sir Matthew Chinn, to save his life, could not resist putting there, since to Sir Matthew the professional conscience was far more important than life. What Craig had acquired was the need to question Loomis's instructions, every time, but only to reveal that questioning when death was involved. Anybody's death, from Loomis's down.

On the tenth day Craig drove to the office and rang the bell. The porter looked at him, and even that phlegmatic man was awe-struck. From where he stood, Craig was completely unchanged. The porter remembered the soiled, naked mess under the blanket in the Lamborghini, looked at the man in the gray lightweight suit, silk shirt, Dior tie, and marveled. The Craig of that terrible night seemed never to have happened: the man was indestructible.

"Hallo, Mr. Craig," said the porter. "Feeling better?" "I'm fine," said Craig.

He walked into the hallway and heard the porter shut the door, then suddenly his body swirled like a big fish in water, his arms came up behind the other man's back, pinning him, while his thumbs pressed into the nerves on either side of his jaw. The porter tried to kick back, but the thumbs pressed in, lifting him higher, forcing aggression out of him.

"Got a new one for you," said Craig.

Loomis appeared at the head of the vast staircase.

"Oh you're back, are you?" he said, and added pettishly: "Put him down, Craig. Go and look at your correspondence, then come and see me. There's a lot to do."

Craig let the porter go, and turned the man around. The gray eyes had never given warning but now they were flat as disks. Rage, love, anger, hate: they were all gone. Burned out.

"I'll see you in the gym," said Craig. "You're getting slow." He left him then, and the caretaker thought of how carefully he'd lifted him from the Lamborghini, and regretted it. There was just no point in being nice to Craig.

Mrs. McNab thought so too. She treated Craig as she always did when he came back from a job: bade him good morning, found him coffee, waited while he read through his papers. Neither of them referred to what had happened; neither of them wanted to. Craig worked steadily, making neat notes as he went, then drank his coffee, which had cooled, and dictated rapidly and precisely for twenty minutes. Mrs. McNab's pencil flew and her mind marveled. Craig hadn't missed a trick.

When he had done Craig said: "Book me a session on the range this afternoon." Mrs. McNab made a note. "And tell the caretaker and the other chap to stand by. I'll see them in the gym at five." He stood up and stretched, and his hands were cruel.

"Tell them no beer or cigarettes until I see them."

"Very good, sir," said Mrs. McNab. There was a question in her voice.

Craig grinned. "I want them savage," he said, and made for the door. "I'm off to see Loomis— then lunch. I'll check that stuff I dictated before I go down to the range."

Then the door closed behind him, and Mrs. McNab wept softly, for perhaps five seconds, tears of frustration. One never knew how to react with Craig. He was a sort of Martian.

Loomis was as silent as Mrs. McNab about Craig's sufferings. All he said was, "Pour the coffee," then, as he sipped it, black and scalding, "Make your report."

Craig took out a tiny notebook, and began to talk, and Loomis heard of bulls and cowboys and girls—two girls in particular. Tempest and Jane made him blush; Craig talked of them as if they were theorems in geometry. He talked of his attack, and Hornsey's rescue, and there he finished. He said nothing about Sir Matthew Chinn, which was what Loomis had hoped for.

"These cowboys," he said. "Who were they?"

"Chap called Ivo Clements—a banker," said Craig. "Hamid Medani—rich young Moroccan. Son of a Rif sheikh, I would think. And the Earl of Airlie. He was the one I clobbered."

"You gave us most of that when you were delirious. We've been checking. Simmons collects men. He's had others," said Loomis. "Big men. All big. Barristers, BBC types, couple of Hungarian diplomats. A Rumanian. Greeks too." "No Yugoslavs?"

"No," said Loomis. "Tito doesn't care for him."

Craig said: "Have you been to see him?"

"We sent Linton up there. Sort of thing a policeman can get on to. Said there'd been a report of gunfire. Policemen are always nosy about gunfire."

"Well?"

"Simmons had gone away on business—his daughter wouldn't say where—and taken his valet with him. That's Zelko."

"He must have taken him in a trunk," said Craig. "Hornsey shot him dead."

"We'll get to Hornsey in a minute. Jane did the talking. Said they'd had guests for the weekend and they'd fooled about with some old TV sets—backgrounds I mean. Not receivers. They'd played at cowboys for a bit. Fired blanks. The sets had gone back to Simmons's TV company when Linton got there. She said you'd only stayed one night. She didn't know where you'd gone after that. She said you'd asked her a lot of questions and she didn't like you. . .

"Linton had a word with Ivo Clements. He didn't like you either. You're not a gentleman, d'you see. But he remembered when you left in the Lamborghini. He also remembered Hornsey asking you where you were going. You said London— and he followed you." He held up his hand as Craig tried to speak.

"We can't reach Hamid, and the Earl of Airlie's in a private ward with a concussion. Nobody can speak to him. That leaves Ivo and Jane against you."

"What about Tempest?"

"She left the same day you did—a bit earlier. Jane Simmons knows nothing about her. Ivo Clements thought you were pretty well matched. Look, son—the whole idea was to make you look a liar and imply that if anybody had roughed you up it was Hornsey. I might even have had doubts myself, if—" he broke off then, and wheezed joyfully.

"Linton saw the bull himself," said Loomis. "It had a black eye." Craig wasn't laughing.

"Hornsey didn't hurt me," he said. "He killed Zelko. Laid out Simmons."

"He tricked you though," said Loomis. "You thought he worked for me."

"You've done it before," Craig said. "Put someone on my tail without telling me. And he did turn up in Soho. But that's not the reason, is it? Simmons had just about broken me. I was past making any sense. I just believed what he said."

"What did you tell him?"

Craig said: "About the money and Fat Arthur— and the BC business."

"What about it?"

"How BC was trying to push Russia into war with us. And how China was helping. I think I told him that. Yes—I did, because he wanted to know about Soong."

"Did you talk about Jean-Luc Calvet?"

"I might have done," said Craig. "I can't remember." He paused, tried to think back, failed.

"He was good," he said. "Fast. Accurate. He killed Zelko and clobbered Simmons in about three seconds. Who's he with? The Russians? No. He couldn't be, could he?"

"Why not?" asked Loomis.

"He didn't kill Simmons—and he got me out."

"You're still thinking," said Loomis. The fact pleased him. "Whoever he is, you gave him our address. We've got to triple-check around the clock now. And we'll have to move—"

"I didn't give it to Simmons," said Craig. "He tried three times. If he'd tried four he would have got it."

"Some of you's human," said Loomis. "I've never denied it." His eyes flicked to Craig's, then away. "This Medani feller—he's Moroccan. From Talouet. He went back to Morocco the morning we found you. But he stayed in Tangier. Still there. Waiting for someone maybe."

"Simmons?"

"It's possible. Time BC did something big, d'you see. Something to make Russia look bad. In Morocco they got the money for it. In a bank called Credit Labonne. They got a million there. I think they're going to take it out and use it—if you don't get it first."

"That's what you're doing for Chelichev?"

"That's it," said Loomis. "He's giving us a bit of help, too. Couple of experts."

"I'd sooner find my own," Craig said again.

"So would I," said Loomis. "But that's not in the deal. We're due to meet them tonight. Dress informal. No medals."

Craig said: "You think Simmons will be in Tangier?"

Loomis nodded. "And Brodski. And Hamid." "They don't matter," Said Craig. "Simmons does." "You want to kill him?" "I have to," said Craig.

"That's all right," Loomis said. "But do the bank job first."

* * ♦

The firing range was in what had been the cellars, and here Craig practiced till his arm ached and the crack of the gun hurt his eardrums like a blow. The ex-PSI who ran the range watched, and did not compete. This was something that Craig was working out alone. Over and over the gun flicked out, pointed, and bellowed its accusation, and over and over, if the targets had been real, a man would have died. The ex-PSI had carried a gun himself, quite illegally, in Youngstown, Ohio. He had been paid large sums for his skill with it, had known others as good as himself, a handful who were better. None of them could have taken Craig. At the end of the session Craig cleaned the two guns—a Smith and Wesson .38 and a Colt Woodsman—and himself, then walked into the room next door to the range. It was a gymnasium, and in one corner of it a dojo —a judo practice mat. Craig lay down on a bench and relaxed, and thought of what Loomis had said and not said. The BC must lose its money and Simmons could then die. Russians would be watching while it happened. And Hornsey might be there. Hornsey, who had saved his life. Craig hoped he wouldn't have to hurt him. Maybe the Russians might want to—Hornsey wasn't working for them. Craig wondered who he did work for.

At five o'clock the chauffeur and the caretaker came in. The chauffeur was also a bodyguard, who occasionally drove cars on jobs that required fast getaways. He was bigger than the caretaker, slower of temper, but fast on his feet and a fair judoka. Like the caretaker, he enjoyed cigarettes and a beer at lunchtime. They disliked Craig even more for stopping their treat, but they stayed wary of him.

Craig said: "No need to change. We'll fight as we are."

The two men removed their pistols and knives, then moved to the mat. Craig went to it, facing them. On the wall behind the chauffeur someone had stuck a pin-up picture of a girl. A girl both lovely and sensual, eminently worth fighting for. Craig's glance brushed past her as if she had been a "NO SMOKING" sign in a language he didn't understand.

"I want you to attack me together," he said. "One from each side. Stay as far apart as you like. And come at me—don't wait for me."

The two men whispered together, and Craig waited. They were not as good as Simmons and Zelko had been, but they would do. Somewhere there was a counter to the simultaneous attack that Simmons and Zelko had used, and he would find it. He had to. It might happen again.

Suddenly the two men erupted at him, and Craig's hand stopped only just in time from a karate strike at the chauffeur's neck, but as he did so the caretaker's fingers touched the nerves behind the ears. They tried it again, and this time the caretaker was open to the blow but the chauffeur survived. They came in again—and again, and at the ninth try, when the two were grinning at their success, for which they had waited so long, he saw the answer, and used it. The trick was to make your move a split second in advance of their signal, and take the attack to one of them before the other could get to you. Get in fast, with just one blow, and swerve as you struck it, spinning round to take the other man from the side, using the force of the spin to add momentum to the second blow, the killer blow, if you wanted it that way. They did it again, and it worked again, and a third time. After that they were ready for him. But Craig was satisfied. He had a new trick for Simmons now: one that Simmons knew nothing about. He went to shower and change his clothes. Soon it would be time to dine with Loomis and the experts from Russia.

There were two of them. They wore Italian suits, white shirts, discreet ties. They knew how to handle knives and forks and spoke excellent English. The shorter one, Boris, had almost no accent at all. He was about five feet eight, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested; his hands were like stones. The other, Istvan, was tall, slim, elegant, and his manners and accent had a bravura that were not Russian. His eyes, dark and slightly slanted, were limpid with dishonesty, but his charm was real enough. It was he who led the conversation, made the jokes, complimented the headwaiter on a remarkable wine. But he was afraid of Boris. Terrified. And his hands bothered Craig. They were coarse, broadened with hard work, the marks of old calluses and wounds still on them. Whenever possible he kept them in his pockets.

Loomis had chosen a private room in a restaurant. There was only one way in, and when the meal was over he had one of his own men at the door, while Boris and Istvan tested for bugging devices. There were none. Loomis was genial, and offered brandy and cigars. Boris drank brandy primly, but in enormous quantities. Istvan was more cautious, and more drunk.

"There isn't much time," Boris said. "We need to start in forty-eight hours."

He turned to Craig. "You have a plan here?" he asked.

Loomis said: "Yes. It's waiting for you to take away after dinner. You have to overcome some time locks, load up the money, and drive away. The rest is straightforward stuff."

"Straightforward?"

"Overpowering guards. Killing them perhaps. But the time locks are difficult."

"That is why we brought Istvan," said Boris.

Istvan looked modest and terrified at the same time.

Loomis said: "I've brought specifications of the kind of locks the bank uses."

"You're very good," said Istvan.

"We also have a safe for him to practice on."

"You're excellent," said Istvan.

"A lot will depend on how you show in practice tomorrow," said Loomis.

Neither Boris nor Istvan looked worried.

"How do we escape?" Boris asked.

"The easy way is to Gibraltar," said Loomis.

Boris said "No." He said it as every Russian at the United Nations has said it. There could be no argument.

"D'you fancy Algeria?" Loomis asked.

Boris said: "I do not."

"Where then?"

"Egypt," said Boris. "By airplane. That I can arrange. We will have friends waiting."

This time Loomis said "No." Egypt was unthinkable. The two men argued, gently, courteously, and Craig studied Istvan's hands. They had marks on them that were not calluses, but the scars of sores that must have been viciously deep. Frostbite perhaps? Beside him Loomis sweated at not losing his temper, and he and Boris agreed at last on a pickup by sea and two ships waiting, one Russian, one British, the money to be divided evenly; the Russians to keep all the Deutschmarks and pay the British the equivalent of their half in sterling. He was getting information too, but money always came in handy.

Loomis stopped sweating, and poured more brandy, and Boris turned to Craig.

"You say very little," he said.

"I've been thinking," said Craig. "I don't believe Istvan is a Russian name—"

"You're right," said Boris.

"And I don't like going into a job with a man I'm not sure of."

"You can be sure of Istvan," Boris said. "I guarantee him."

"You personally?" Boris nodded. "I wonder why," said Craig.

"Because I have very strict orders about him, and Istvan knows what they are."

Istvan put down his glass, and the brandy in it planed from side to side.

Craig turned to him. "How do I know you're such an expert?" he asked. Boris tried to speak and Craig cut in. "Let him tell it," he said.

Istvan looked at Boris, who nodded graciously in permission.

"I promise you, gentlemen, I have a great deal of experience," he said. "I am a Hungarian—born in Budapest, but I trained in France and the United States. Up to this point in my life I must have stolen about two hundred thousand pounds. It would have been more—after all I am forty-five years old —only. . ." He broke off and looked again at Boris, who again nodded consent. "I was foolish enough to go back to Hungary after the uprising. They picked me up. I had carried a gun you see— in the uprising—"

"You used it," said Boris.

"I'm afraid I did. At first of course I wanted only to escape to Austria—there was a job waiting for me in Switzerland, and Swiss francs are such a comfort—but I don't really know what happened. There was so much enthusiasm and so little technique. The tragedy of our poor country. I began to shoot out of sheer impatience with my countrymen. Then I found I was holding classes in weapon-training. Then I had to burgle a police barracks to get weapons for my students. It was a—" he looked at Boris, "a very busy time."

"Where have you spent your time since?" asked Craig.

"Until 1961 I robbed banks, then I went back to Budapest. Since then I have been in Siberia," said Istvan. "I saw you looking at my hands. One works hard there you know, and the weather is chilly. But I have been to a skin specialist. My fingertips are as good as new."

"Have you any further questions to ask him?" Boris asked.

"One more. How do I know I can trust you in this?" said Craig.

"Because if I do anything wrong Boris will kill me. And I know that he can. On the other hand, if I do my job, I get money—and freedom."

"A completely bourgeois mentality," said Boris. "The Soviet Republic does not need him."

He got up, and Istvan rose at once.

"A delightful evening," he said. "Where can we work on the safe tomorrow?"

Loomis told him, and the two men went to the door. Boris turned.

"I notice you don't ask where we are staying," he said. "No doubt we will be followed."

"My dear chap, we must look after you," said Loomis.

"No need," said Boris. "I shall look after both of us. But you'll do it anyway." He smiled. "I should perhaps mention that we are traveling with American passports. All quite in order. If we are molested, I shall complain to the United States embassy."

Then they left, and Craig saw how neatly Boris moved, for all his bulk. Istvan looked tired. Perhaps, after all those years in Siberia, he would always look tired.

"What do you think?" said Loomis.

"They'll be good," said Craig. "For this job they'll have to be."

"Chelichev says Istvan's a minor genius," Loomis said. "And he's got a hell of an incentive, too."

"Money," said Craig. "I gather we're due for half of it."

"We could do with it," said Loomis. "Power boats, ships, hotel bills, safes. It all adds up, you know. Then there's your bill to Matt Chinn."

"No," said Craig. "I'm going to pay that myself."

It was at that moment that Loomis first began to worry.

14

Department K had bought a shop in Pimlico. It had been an ironmonger's, a hatter's, a petshop, and lately had been owned by a philatelist with a persecution mania who had had it fortified like a bank vault. When the van finally came (he was being gassed by Arabs at the time, and had sealed all the keyholes with stamps) the place had had to be breached by direct assault. And even then it had taken an hour. His wife had been happy to sell the place. Department K's agent had made the only offer. It was a dead shop in a dying street.

Craig drove a van there: "MERRIDEW SHOP-FITTERS. HACKNEY AND SLOUGH." Inside the van were Boris and Istvan; like Craig, they wore overalls. Istvan also had a tool bag and a box filled with equipment worth five times the cost of the van. That morning he seemed far more relaxed, as if the promise of testing his skill had driven his fear of Boris far back into his mind. He chatted happily, and Boris smiled at him—an indulgent father enjoying his son's anticipation of a treat. The van pulled up and Craig got out. A wooden fence had already been erected in front of the shopwindow,

and from the houses opposite curtains twitched in vain. When Istvan went to work, nobody would learn his secrets. Craig unlocked a door set in the fence, then went back to help Boris carry in the wooden box. Istvan followed, carrying the tool bag. When they were inside the fence Craig locked its door, and Istvan began studying the shop-window and doorway.

"It is better if you can see the whole frontage at once," he said. "Here we are too close. Even so I see the wisdom of the fence," he told Craig. "I do not like people to watch me when I work." He began to examine the window. At last he said "Ah!" in a voice of deep satisfaction.

"The glass is very thick," he went on. "Two centimeters perhaps. See at the corners where it joins the frame. And in it there is set fine, strong wire. If you smash the glass, the wire will hold. You must therefore cut the wire. But if you look at the shelf below the window you will see a junction box with cable going to the window. That means the wire is electrified. If you were to touch it with cutters you would find it very painful. Deadly even. I do not like electric shocks, Mr. Craig."

"Nor me," said Craig. His voice expressed polite agreement, no more.

"It would be necessary to cut off the electricity supplies from outside the shop," said Istvan. "That is a long and tedious business. We would have to dig up pavement—and even then we might encounter some surprises. Let us try the door." He walked to the door, and stared at it from perhaps a foot away from the frame. He then swore softly in Hungarian.

"Talk English," said Boris.

"I beg your pardon," Istvan said humbly. "This is a door of considerably ingenuity." Boris moved forward to it, and Istvan grabbed his arm, then gabbled as Boris looked down at the restraining hand: "You mustn't go inside the doorframe. See where it is guarded." His finger, carefully out of range, pointed to pairs of holes set in the sides of the doorframe, and at the top and bottom.

"Photoelectric cells," he said. "Each pair makes a circuit. Break the circuit and you set off an alarm. Perhaps you do more." He smiled. "This is very thorough. Sometimes with photoelectric cells it is possible to jump over them, or slide beneath them. Here there is no chance. The biggest gap is only ten centimeters square."

He brought his box carefully close to the door, stood on it, and peered at one of the cells, then another, then a third.

"How delightful," he said. "The wire is run into the woodwork. I have only a tiny piece to cut at." He got down to look at the cells that led into the door lintel. "And from beneath, no wire shows at all." He sighed. "It will take a long time, I'm afraid."

"We've got all day," Boris said.

Craig and Boris squatted, privileged pupils, and watched the master at work. With a long, thin chisel he cut into the wood near the wires to the photoelectric cells, and exposed them. One by one the rubber-sheathed pairs of copper strands came into view. Craig noticed that to each pair of wires that activated a cell another pair of wires was attached, running up vertically to a point above the door. Istvan saw them, too, and smiled.

"I was right," he said. From the tool kit he took a pair of pliers, and cut, first the vertical wires, then the horizontal ones. Then he attacked the lintel in the same way, exposing, cutting.

"It is as well to be certain," he said, and stood up. "We may now stand in the doorway," he said. "So useful if it should rain." He bent then to look at the lock, then more closely at the door itself. "Really, whoever did this was very thorough," he said. "Who did he fear? What did he have to protect?"

"He thought the United Arab Republic was after his penny blacks," said Craig. "There isn't an Arab in miles and he sold all his penny blacks to build this fort. He was mad."

"No doubt," said Istvan. "But so ingenious. Look at the lock."

Craig looked. It was a flat piece of dull, thick steel, with a tiny hole set in it.

"These are very difficult," said Istvan. "Make one false turn and the whole lock jams. And the key one tries must be exactly right."

"Why not cut round it?" said Craig. "Cut the lock out?"

"Excellent, excellent," Istvan said. "It is a way, of course, but a very difficult way. Look. I will show you."

He took the thin chisel again, and a mallet, and tapped into the wooden panels of the door. They gave easily for a quarter of an inch, then metal squeaked on metal.

"You see?" Istvan said. "The door is a sheet of steel. This wood is decoration only. To drill would take time."

"Couldn't you blow it in?" Boris asked.

"It would take a lot of explosive, and make a lot of noise," said Istvan. "The only way would be to attack the hinges, and they as you see are inside the door. I can't get at them. Besides—there is another risk. Best, I think, to try with the lock."

He took a piece of fine wire from his tool bag, and probed the keyhole, listening intently as he worked. After a while, he inserted a pair of calipers in the hole, measured carefully, and put a slight bend in the wire. This went on for an hour, while Craig sat, watched, and wished it were time for a cigarette. Beside him Boris did much the same as Istvan probed, bending the wire, straightening it, bending it again. At last he was satisfied, and took a thin piece of steel from his kit. At one end of it was the hollow circle of an old-fashioned key. Next he produced a hacksaw, fine files, emery paper, and began to make a key from the wire template. When it was finished, he polished the steel key with emery paper, and oiled it.

"Forgive my vanity," he said. "But there are not three other men in the world who can do what I have just done."

"If it works," said Boris.

"It works, believe me," Istvan said. "Would you like to try?" He handed him the key. "One turn to the right, three to the left, two more to the right."

Boris inserted the key, and tried to turn it. Nothing happened.

"Forgive me," said Istvan. "It is new and stiff. Try this."

He handed Boris a short cylinder of bar steel. Boris pushed it across the rink of the key, and turned, his massive body stiff with strain. Slowly, reluctantly it grated to the right, then, with each twist, more easily to the left—once, twice, thrice. When he moved it the two final turns to the right there was no resistance at all.

Istvan pushed open the door, and had to use considerable strength to do it, then stepped inside. Boris and Craig followed, and he closed it again, looking up as he did so. Then he smiled, and his smile was quite beautiful. Craig thought that he would have a big future conning women in Vegas or Formentor. Then he too looked up.

"You see?" Istvan said. "How ingenious your stamp collector was."

Above the door was a massive steel shutter, rolled up, ready to slam down.

"If I had just cut the wires of the photoelectric cells this would have come down at once," said Istvan. "It was wired to them, too. Remember?"

Craig remembered the wires leading vertically to a place above the door. Istvan was good, all right, but there were still the time locks to face.

They looked round. The shelves empty now, dust settling, gentle as a requiem benediction on the kind of handy place round the corner the supermarkets had made obsolete. Istvan examined shelves and cupboards.

In one corner, by the stairs, stood a safe, massively squat. A heavy steel grille barred their approach to it.

THE MONEY THAT MONEY CAN'T BUY 209 "Difficult," said Boris.

"Not really," he said. "But that is not the one we want. Let us try the cellar."

Craig deliberately headed for the stairs, but Istvan forestalled him.

"I'll go first please," he said. "There may be more surprises."

He found another photoelectric cell at the head of the stairs, and yet another at the foot. As he worked on them, Craig and Boris sat and waited. They had no need of conversation, and Craig was grateful for it. While he sat he could think about what Simmons had done to that poor man he had once been, and feel sorry for him. Not that it wasn't the man's own fault in a way, he conceded. It was stupid to rely on women as much as that. And who needed them anyway? The only man who really mattered was the one who knew how to fight. And there he had nothing to worry about. Sir Matthew Chinn had said it, and it was true. . .

Istvan called to them, and they went down. The timelock safe was immediately visible. It had been taken into the cellar a section at a time, and reconstructed. Now the cellar was almost filled by it. Istvan patted its slate-gray side and grinned.

"This was the one they considered burglar-proof," he said. "It is a very remarkable construction. High-tension steel all over—back, sides, door, top and bottom. There is no question of attacking it from its weakest side. It has no weakest side. Nor is it possible to blow it. Look at that door, gentlemen—hinged from inside." Istvan, carried away by enthusiasm for a masterpiece, talked like a television art expert confronted by a Caravaggio. "To insert a charge into that door would mean drilling for days, and even then the charge would have to be so great I doubt if we could survive the blast. And if we did, the door would merely drop a little and be jammed in grooves set in the base. If we used an even bigger charge to blow it free, we would of course destroy not only the safe but its contents; 99.9 per cent of all burglars would simply ignore a safe of this type. It is too much trouble."

"Safes like this have been robbed," said Boris.

"It is possible. One must break into the bank, and wait for the time lock. If the lock has been set so that the safe will not open for sixty hours, then one must wait for sixty hours. If bank employees arrive, one must kidnap them, keep them prisoner. There is no other way. A safe with a time lock has to wait for the time set."

"I doubt if we can do that," Craig said. "The Tangier bank is too crowded."

"We will not have to," said Istvan. "There is another way. You see," he said, and his manner became more than ever that of the expert lecturer to first-year students, "the trouble with time locks is that they're too good. They even have the clock inside the safe now, where people like me can't get at it. But suppose something goes wrong, then the bank has a problem. If the time lock developed a fault you couldn't get in, not without boring holes in the safe. And that could take days. So they put a secret way in—almost always. There's one in the bank in Tangier. There's one here."

"Where?" asked Boris.

"Through the safe upstairs," said Istvan. "First you have to get through a grille with a key lock— then there's the safe itself. That has a combination lock. Come up and I'll show you."

To open two sets of locks and work out two combinations took time, but there was no possibility of denying Istvan's certainty. They entered one safe at last. From there they could attack the other, now beneath them. This problem too he solved with massive certainty. As he prepared to open the trapdoor Boris said: "An hour to get in, an hour to open the safe. That's pretty good."

"It's brilliant," said Craig, and Istvan smiled. "And it'll take even less time to do the bank. The way-in's already been done. All we've got to do is the safe."

Boris lowered himself down into the time-lock safe, then a beam of light flicked at him, and he swore again in Hungarian.

Inside the safe sat Loomis, torch in hand, a flask of coffee by his side.

He beamed at Istvan.

"You're good, cock, d'you know that?" he said. "In fact you're better than good, you're bloody marvelous." He paused. "I knew you would be— or I wouldn't be here."

He beamed at Istvan once more. "You know a chap called Chelichev?"

"I do indeed," said Istvan, and Boris stiffened.

"I'll be writing to him soon. Tell him just how good you are."

15

They flew to Tangier in a Comet 4B, and Boris took advantage of the quaint local custom that allowed him to drink cheap liquor because he was on a plane. It didn't seem to affect him. Istvan tried it too, and it made him drunk, or at least talkative. Craig settled down to listen. So long as Istvan talked of the jobs he had done he was fascinating, and Craig, an expert himself, found no difficulty in tuning in to that part of his mind. The overwhelming need to solve the apparently insoluble was one he knew all about. It delighted him, and he was happy to hear it, and even as he grappled with the details of picklocks and tumblers found himself remembering his own pleasure at finding out how to defeat two men, two good men, who jump you simultaneously from opposite sides. But then Istvan began to talk of women, and Craig became first bored, then restless. It would be easy to shut him up, but Loomis had told him to be nice to him, so he went on listening. It was Boris who interrupted.

"You think too much of women," he said.

"But consider," said Istvan. "I am supposed to be an American."

Boris laughed. "That is a point, but even so, you mean it, Istvan."

"I was a very long time in Siberia," the Hungarian said.

"And were there no women there?"

"Not in the sense that I mean," Istvan said. "In that sense there were none at all."

Craig said: "Boris is right. Women get in the way —slow things up."

The Hungarian's eyes were both shrewd and pitying as they looked at him.

"That is the British way," he said. "It works, I suppose."

"It works very well," said Boris. It was his official voice; Istvan was silent.

"Our controller is a woman," he said. "She is quite young and very beautiful. It would be foolish of you to desire her, Istvan."

Istvan said at once: "Extremely foolish."

There was a pause: they both seemed to be waiting for Craig to speak.

At last he said: "I should have been told this earlier."

Boris said: "Don't worry. She is extremely good. Like a man is good. She thinks like a man, works like a man. Only the body belongs to a woman. That is very useful. And very dangerous."

"Will she meet us at the airport?" Craig asked.

"No, no," said Boris. "That will all be arranged in time." He pressed the bell above him. "I think we should all drink cheap brandy and stop talking about women. . ."

* * *

So much about Tangier had changed, Craig thought. There was a modern airport now, and the road linking it to the city was fast and new. Now, too, the taxis were numerous, and the driver didn't try to sell you a woman as soon as you opened the door. The town looked cleaner, and more cared for: the lights in the street came on first time. The brothels had gone, and the shops where you could buy anything, from a fountain pen to an automobile, below duty-free price, below cost price sometimes, so that you came out wondering if the ring or the watch or the radio you had bought was counterfeit, or merely stolen . . . But the sea was still there, the confluence of the Mediterranean and the Atlantic, and the incredible view of it from the headland: the water in solid bars of blue and green, and behind it, softened by distance, the rocky masses of Gibraltar and the mainland of Spain. Craig thought briefly of George Allen, and Dovzhenko, who preferred to be known as Jean-Luc Calvet. Spain was a country he liked, and he'd been there often enough in the old days, but here in Tangier he was at home. He had no house any more, and no doubt tourists now used the little bar that had once belonged to the smugglers, but he felt still as if he had roots here, the stability of language and customs perfectly learned and understood. Many of the people he had known would be gone by now—particularly the Spaniards. When Spain had abandoned Spanish Morocco a lot of them had slipped back home across the water, but a lot of them would be left. And Arabs and Jews, and the Christians who were often so enchantingly vague about their nationality. If they saw him they would recognize him, but it didn't matter. The police couldn't touch him, didn't want to. After all, the arms he'd sold had all gone to the Algerians or the Moroccans themselves. Never to the French. That made him more of a local hero than a criminal. Nobody would mind if he brought over a couple of respectable business friends to look at the sights, though a few people might be disappointed to find that he was now respectable too.

The three of them dined in their hotel, a new one just off the Boulevard Pasteur, with a swimming pool and air-conditioned rooms, and an open patio that looked straight up at stars that seemed almost gentle in the black and tender sky. They ate well, and without preoccupation, and Craig sensed that the woman—their controller—was not in the hotel. Then they walked back to the Boulevard Pasteur, and sat outside a cafe, to watch the aimless meandering of a Mediterranean crowd that knows how to enjoy the cool of the evening by doing nothing but relaxing and gossiping at cafe tables.

That night, as every night in summer, the crowd was mostly foreigners, tourists with money who would stray inevitably into souvenir shops, cafes, and cabarets. But now and then there passed a man in a djibbah, or a veiled woman, shrouded from the bridge of her nose to her toes, walking behind her lord. And sometimes, Craig remembered, those toes were covered by shoes imported from Paris, and the scent on their bodies came from Cardin . . . He watched a donkey go by. An old countryman rode on it. Behind him walked his wife, bent double under a load of firewood. Between them they halted a line of American cars, and the police-

man on duty let them. After all, they were citizens too.

Boris said: "There is a great deal of inefficiency here." Craig agreed. "And a smell, also. Have you noticed it?"

"Drains?" Craig asked.

"No," said Boris. "It is a strange smell—thin and bitter. A lot of the people here seem to carry it about on their clothes."

Istvan giggled.

"That's kef," said Craig. "A kind of marijuana. A lot of people use it here instead of alcohol. Alcohol's not approved of in a Muslim country."

"A lot of people seem to be drinking it," said Boris.

"They like it," said Craig. "So just for tonight they pretend they're Christians."

Boris said: "This is crazy. And we should not be here."

"Why not?" Craig asked. "Suppose this man Brodski were to see you— and us?"

"Brodski hasn't left his villa since he got here," said Craig. "He's waiting for Simmons."

"You seem very well informed," said Boris.

"I didn't know about your controller being a woman," said Craig.

Then Boris sulked. If it had been a peace conference he would have walked out. Craig had never worked with an ally before and never wanted to again. He sighed and bought Boris a brandy. It was like a sweet for a naughty child.

Boris had almost finished his drink when Hornsey appeared. He wore a white lightweight suit and a panama hat, and when he sat down at the table next to theirs was at once besieged by bootblacks. He tried to repulse them in painstaking French and had no success at all. It was Craig who drove them off, in a machine-gun burst of Arabic. When they had gone he looked across at Craig.

"That was awfully kind of you," he said.

"Not at all," said Craig.

"You must let me buy you a drink."

"Some other time," Craig said. "We have an appointment."

"Ah," said Hornsey. "Well, thanks anyway."

He ordered mint tea, and when they left, merely nodded.

The three men strolled on up the Boulevard Pasteur to where a little formal garden looked across at Europe. Below them the Casbah was teaching tourists that every experience must be paid for. Just across the road was the Credit Labonne.

"You were indiscreet," said Boris. "You made that man curious about you."

"He looked so helpless," said Craig.

Boris began to lecture, and Craig thought about Hornsey. It had been nice to help him, to spare him embarrassment, and nice to know that they need not recognize each other. It had seemed also as if Boris and Istvan did not know him. It was difficult to be sure about these things, but Craig was prepared to bet on it at reasonable odds. He didn't want Hornsey to know Boris, but if he didn't, how had he arrived in Tangier so opportunely? Perhaps Simmons had told him to be there, before he had messed up his chances by killing Zelko. Or perhaps,

thought Craig, / told him myself about the raid on the bank, after he rescued me. The thought saddened him. He didn't want to have to cope with Hornsey.

Boris went on talking, and Istvan filled in time by staring at the bank. It will not be easy, he thought. The door is lit by streetlamps, and there are too many people. But stealing a million is never easy. He switched the problem off his mind, like a radio changing stations. After all, finding a way in was Craig's problem. No doubt he had it in hand. It was better to concentrate one's mind on what to do when one had taken the million. Boris, for example, might prove an obstacle. So might his controller. Istvan's secret fear was that they would kill him when the deal was concluded. On the other hand, another Siberian winter would have killed him anyway.

Boris continued to lecture as they walked down the steps to the Casbah. The place was packed with conducted parties, independent parties, guides official and unofficial, pushing their way into tiny streets where the shops that lined them were the size of cupboards, and one could buy yataghans, camel saddles, brass-bound muskets or silver-filagree coffeepots, eat kebabs on skewers, drink mint tea, and watch the haggling. The haggling, Craig remembered, was half the fun, even when the stuff was good. They came to a tiny square, dominated by a pink-washed building that had once been an attractive cube. Now it was a mess of domes, turrets, and minarets, from one of which an endless tape broadcasted Arab music through a loudspeaker. A wooden board nailed between two turrets had painted on it: "OASIS NITE CLUB. FLOOR SHOW. FOOD. DRINK." Istvan looked at it.

"I should like to go there," he said.

Boris said: "What will they do there?"

"Dancing," said Craig. "And a bloke doing a balancing act. They always do."

"Is this dancing sexual?" Boris asked.

"That's perhaps a little crude," said Craig. "I think erotic would be a better word."

"Then I think we should go," said Boris. "We're tourists after all. It would seem strange if we showed no interest in sexuality."

Istvan risked looking pleased, and this time Boris didn't look angry.

The interior of the club was of the standard pattern that Craig remembered: a marble floor and walls of plaster and tile, fretted and carved into graceful abstractions that at first were very beautiful. It was only their sameness that cloyed at last. They sat on a padded banquette that was like a divan and an Arab in a djibbah placed drinks in front of them. All around European men and women chattered and drank, and danced to taped music—and Arabs in Western clothes sipped Scotch and told each other they didn't like it, but what could one do? When the dance ended, the crowd settled down, and one by one musicians in djibbah and fez squatted on the floor. Their instruments for the most part were European—violin, clarinet, and flute—but the Negro drummer carried hand drums like bongos, and the music they played was pure Arab. The crowd sighed its content; this was what they had paid for.

First it was just the music, then, as Craig had predicted, a man came on and balanced impossible quantities of glasses, jugs, vases of flowers on a tray on his head, finishing up with a series of candles in glass shades, making them spin in a circle of flame as the houselights dimmed. Then it was a singer in an exquisite caftan of blue and silver thread, eyes sparkling with belladonna, face and hands delicately rouged, little feet hung with silver bells. The song was of love, as always, and gazelles and roses and moonlight: the dance that followed, demure, almost shy, yet with the erotic overtones that Boris considered so essential as the hips swayed softly and silver disks tinkled in the slender olive fingers. At the end the singer sank to the floor to a rather bewildered round of applause, though the Arabs shouted their tributes to beauty.

"I enjoyed that," said Boris. "It is not precisely what I expected, but I enjoyed it. The girl was very sexual, but she had a certain modesty also." He looked at Craig, who was smiling. "Don't you agree?"

"I do indeed," said Craig. "Except that it wasn't a girl. It was a boy."

Istvan found it necessary to take a drink.

Thereafter it was girls all the way, one after the other, small, shapely girls, tenderly fleshed, their skins every shade from walnut brown to palest olive. They each had a circlet to hold back their hair, a jeweled bra, and below it were naked to the hips, where a skirt cut to reveal their legs was held in place by a rhinestoned belt. Each one of them did a belly dance that was very erotic indeed, hips writhing, breasts shaking in a frenzy of sexuality. Kamar had danced like that, he remembered, and she had been good to sleep with. As a teacher of Arabic she had been unsurpassed. An American he had worked with had described her beautifully. "Look at that kid go," he had said. "Forty thousand moving parts." But all that was over. Done with. Dead. He looked at Istvan's unwavering stare as the golden bodies swayed, then at Boris's brick-red blush: an even greater tribute to their beauty and promise. And for him it meant nothing. Boris had wanted to go in so they'd gone. He looked at the girl dancing now. She was the third, taller than the others, more rounded, with a pretty and mischievous face. It was all very boring. Then she advanced into the audience, still swaying to the music, but looking round her, searching. Oh God— he'd forgotten about this nonsense. The comedy-sex routine. She came up to their banquette, and stood there, and the drum beats marked the curving movement of her hips. She held out her hand to Boris, who shrank away, then to Istvan, who sweated hot and cold—lust and terror. At last she grabbed at Craig, and tried to draw him on to the floor, and all the time the drums beat, her belly writhed to their rhythm. Somewhere in Craig's mind a neat, angry man moved a pointer across a dial. He looked into the girl's face, and spoke to her, the guttural words snapping like whips. For the only time she missed a beat, then her head came up once more and she went to find another victim.

"I'm very grateful to you," said Boris. "That girl is embarrassing."

"You're very welcome," said Craig.

The girl had found an American, had taken off his coat and tie, and was now removing his shirt.

Then she tied the tie across his chest as a bra. The man was pelted like a monkey. She began to coax him into a belly dance, and the crowd was laughing to see what had been desirable made grotesque. Kamar had done that, too: it had given her great pleasure to degrade a man, any man. She had never liked Craig to praise her for it. ..

The American had been released, and was putting on his shirt while his wife told him how relieved she was that there was no one else there from Sandusky, Ohio. The girl accepted her applause almost casually; her body was already concentrating on the next part of her act. Slyly the music began again, and this time it was, Craig knew, the stuff the tourist doesn't see too often. He remembered a party in Fez, where he had been the guest of honor. He'd delivered a hundred Belgian rifles the day before, and this had been for him. It was the first time he had met Kamar . . . The girl's body moved as if tormented by the music, as if the wailing sounds were an aphrodisiac that drove her on and on, and the slow writhing of her body only intensified her need. One by one the instruments cut out, until the drum beats alone spoke to her and she responded exactly to their rhythm, kneeling in front of the drummer, answering each beat with a responsive and rhythmical shuddering, until at last her body arched backward, legs astride, her pretty belly rippled to the swift-flowing sounds. Then she shuddered, and the drums were still, the lights dimmed, then rose, and she was bowing as the audience roared.

"What an extraordinary thing," said Boris.

"Please, I should like to go home now," said

Istvan. "This is worse than Siberia."

They went back, and Craig marveled at Boris's docility. He had allowed Craig to take them all over Tangier, and be seen. That made him a fool. Craig didn't believe that Boris was a fool. This job was too important.

In the hotel a Negro porter in white robes handed over their keys and spoke to Craig in Arabic. His voice was low and rumbling, and he bowed as the three men went to the lift.

"What was all that about?" Boris asked.

"He hopes we enjoy our stay here," said Craig.

"He wants a tip," said Istvan.

Boris said, far too late: "You shouldn't speak Arabic, Craig. Tourists never do."

The three of them shared a suite. There was a living room and verandah, and opening off it, on either side, a double-bedded room for Boris and Istvan, a single-bedded room for Craig. It was Craig who now unlocked the door to the living room, and stood aside for Boris to enter. He didn't, but Istvan in some way he never understood found himself impelled by the sheer force of Craig's will into stepping over the threshold, and so Boris followed. Then came Craig, last of all. They had left a light burning in the room, and he stood outside its soft, golden pool, tense and ready, the snub-nosed Smith and Wesson no longer in his shoulder holster, but transferred to the waistband of his trousers as he followed Boris. He stood in the half darkness, his hand on his hip. The butt of the gun was only inches away from his fingers.

Inside the lamplight a woman sat. Her hair was very fair, almost white, and her eyes were green as a cold sea. She wore a white dress, and a mink lay at her feet like a trophy. Craig noticed at once her quality of repose. She sat completely at ease, not moving; the position of her body and the chair she sat in were sufficient to make sure that she could watch the door, and the men who came through it. In the silence they could hear the whisper of the air-conditioning, then her hand moved swiftly down to the chair. Craig jumped sideways, and the gun was in his hand as he leaped. "No," he said.

The woman chuckled. It was a delightful sound, rich, deep, and lazy. The Smith and Wesson covered the small arc between her and Boris. Istvan began to think of Siberia almost with nostalgia, then the woman rose, and he gasped aloud. She was tall, full-bodied, and very graceful, with the grace of a hunting animal. From the corner of his eye Istvan saw the gun steady and point, its barrel a stubby, accusing finger, aimed an inch below her left breast. Istvan had no doubt that Craig would fire if he had to, nor had the woman.

"I think Boris had better introduce us," she said.

"This is my controller," said Boris. "She's known as Tania."

"I have a letter for you," Tania said. "In my handbag. Just a letter."

"Istvan," said Craig, "get it."

And Istvan obeyed at once. Boris might be responsible for his death, Tania might be responsible for Boris, but never had Istvan seen a man with a gun who looked as Craig did, He produced the letter and handed it over at arm's length.

"Put the lights on," Craig said, and again Istvan obeyed. "Now up against the wall, all three of you. Hands by your sides."

Again Istvan moved as if only his fear were real; the other two followed more slowly. Even lowering her arms in defeat, Tania's grace was deadly. Craig read the letter. "You'd better pour the drinks, Istvan," he said.

Istvan drank the first one himself, and didn't even know he'd done so. By the time the others had glasses in their hands, he was on his third.

"My chief says I'm to take instructions from you," said Craig. "I don't like it."

She spoke in Russian to Boris, and he and Istvan went at once to their bedroom. Istvan filled his glass before he left.

"Craig," she said, and looked at him. It was a long, comprehensive look, sexually arrogant, domineering. Its effect on men was usually remarkable. Craig waited with a stolid patience that was obviously reluctant.

"We have a file on you," she said. "A very thick file. You are a very successful agent. If you become dangerous to us, all we can do is kill you. It will be difficult, but it can be done, I promise you."

Craig yawned. "It's been a long day," he said.

She chuckled again, the same sound of purring pleasure. "Please," she said. "I am not presuming to frighten you. I just tell you a fact. Also, I am trying to avoid wasting time in anger—as you are so tired."

"Let's have it then," said Craig.

"Your orders were to stay somewhere discreet, quiet. I find you in a big hotel. You use the bar and the dining room. You go to cafes and nightclubs.

You are seen all over the town."

"I thought you'd have us followed," said Craig. "Didn't want Boris to have to keep making phone calls, I suppose. Embarrassing, pretending you have to go to the toilet all the time."

"Don't underestimate Boris. He did as he was told."

"I guessed he would," said Craig. "And if he didn't I'd have gone anyway."

"But why, Craig? You are known here. It could be awkward for you." Craig was silent. "You wish to be seen, don't you?" Again he didn't answer. "Loomis told you to cooperate," she said.

"We're taking a bank," said Craig. "All right. But our cover is we're tourists. And tourists tour."

"Brodski could have seen you," she said. "Or Simmons."

She made no mention of Hornsey, and Craig scarcely noticed.

"Simmons is here?" he asked.

"He and his daughter arrived tonight. They're staying at Brodski's villa. You have orders about Simmons."

"I'm to kill him," said Craig.

"After we have robbed the bank. You're in too much of a hurry." Again the long look, but angry this time. "I don't like that. It makes for carelessness." His impassiveness was absolute. "Why be so stupid, Craig?"

"You've got your orders, too. I bet they say he has to die."

She sighed. There was a fury in the man, an upsurge of personal rage that had nothing to do with the job. She sensed it at once, and was wary. Her only chance was to use it.

"We will take the money tomorrow," she said. "Your people have the escape route?" Craig nodded. "You will tell it to me, please."

He told her. There was a fast cruiser in the yacht club. Its owner was away, and to steal it at night was simple, particularly as the owner had orders that it should be stolen . . . She listened intently, and was pleased.

"That is your planning?" Craig nodded. "It is good. We wish this to look like a crime. And Istvan has a criminal record."

Craig grinned. "I didn't think Istvan was supposed to have a happy ending."

"He is a traitor," Tania said. "Traitors cannot expect to live—if they are caught." She hesitated. "Brodski also should die. The timing will be difficult. And it won't look like a robbery, either."

"We'll take them with us," said Craig. "Kill them at sea. That way it'll look as if they'd done a bunk with their own money."

She examined the idea, and found it flawless.

"Now you are thinking," she said. "That is really very good."

"You'll be coming with us?" Craig asked.

"I must," she said. "I am Brodski's fiancee." Craig started at that, and she laughed. "It was love at first sight. Very romantic—just what one would expect from a Pole. I was here when he arrived, you see. A Polish refugee, persecuted by the wicked Russians. How I escaped from them is a tremendous adventure. You would not like it very much, I think. You have no sensibility."

"None," said Craig.

"Also you do not like women."

"What makes you think so?"

"Because I am a woman." She hesitated. "No. That is the sort of stupidity I keep for Brodski. Because I have been trained to make men like me, and want me, and I cannot reach you though I have tried very hard."

"It's not important," said Craig. "I'll get you out and I'll kill Simmons for you."

"And Brodski?"

Craig shrugged.

"Maybe it is better if Boris killed Brodski—and Istvan," she said. "We cannot use Istvan as evidence if we use your idea, but he must still die."

"Just as you like," said Craig.

"There is one more thing," said Tania. "I wish you to stop speaking Arabic to servants. That is how they tell you what is happening, is it not?"

"That's how," said Craig. "The porter told me you had come in here."

"How unkind," said Tania. "After I had bribed him not to. He is one of yours then?"

"No," said Craig. "I just offered him more money." He paused. "I'll stop speaking Arabic if you'll stop having me followed."

"I agree," she said. "And you'll stay here tomorrow?"

"Most of the time," Craig said. "I've got to lay on the powerboat."

She nodded. "I'll call Boris tomorrow and arrange about the bank. You will be ready as soon as it is dark."

"All right," he said. "But tell me one thing. Why have you people bothered to work with us at all?

Why not just do it yourselves?"

"We needed you to take us to Simmons," she said, and watched for a reaction to the name, but his face stayed closed. "We knew he existed, of course, but not who he was. Also, if things go wrong, we shall need you to get us out." He said nothing. "You can do that?"

"After I've fixed Simmons," he said.

She came up to him and kissed him on the

mouth, her lips and tongue a skillful torment. He

made no move.

"No," she said. "You do not like women at all." * * *

The nursing home was expensive. Its doctors were all consultants, its nurses not only qualified but pretty, its furniture of the kind that belongs to the newer luxury hotels. Loomis found it oppressive and said so. He didn't like mobiles, or Utrillo prints, or flowers arranged as if they were objects to be disliked, and he detested the receptionist in a mini skirt, no matter how flawless her legs. He began to indulge his anger, and three minutes later they were alone with Airlie, the nurse who had admitted them ruthlessly removed.

Airlie wore a black silk dressing gown like a kimono, white silk pajamas, white slippers. The bandage round his head looked like a turban. Wetherly salaamed.

"Who the hell are you?" Airlie asked.

"We're friends," said Loomis. "By God we must be to go to all this trouble."

His hand groped in his pocket and came out bearing a crumpled letter.

"Have a look at that," he said. "Credentials."

Airlie read it and looked at them, his face wary.

"Don't tell me you're—agents," he said.

"Nothing so grand," said Loomis. "I'm a civil servant. My friend here's a doctor."

He turned to Wetherly. "Go over him. Make it look official."

Wetherly went over him.

"It's a question of what the hell you think you're playing at, d'you see," said Loomis. "Mucking around with Simmons."

"I'm engaged to his daughter," Airlie said.

"You tried to beat up a feller," said Loomis.

The earl touched the bandage Wetherly was re-fastening.

"I ended up with this," he said.

"The other feller ended up with a bit more," said Loomis.

"I could do with a bit of good news. Tell me about it."

Loomis told him about it, and Airlie turned as white as his bandage.

"I don't believe it," he said at last.

"I do," said Wetherly. "I treated him."

"But-but why should Simmons—"

"Two reasons," said Loomis. "He's a sadist, and the other feller had information." He refrained, carefully, from any mention of Jane.

"One of yours?" asked Airlie.

"One of mine. You'd better tell it, son."

Airlie said: "Simmons called it a crusade. To stop communism. We pooled our resources—for me that was mostly brawn, I suppose, till your chap came along. But he had others—bankers, lawyers, those sorts of chaps. They had brains. Expert knowledge. The idea was to use that knowledge. Against Russia." "How?" asked Loomis.

"Bits in his papers, on his TV station. The brains would work on information Simmons got from somewhere and use it to knock Russia. That was all."

"This somewhere," said Loomis. "Was it a chap called Brodski?" Airlie looked stubborn.

"Look," Loomis said. "I know you think the secrets of the Black Hand Gang are sacred, but they're not. It's too bloody serious for that."

"I gave my word," said the earl.

Loomis turned to Wetherly.

"Well, good for him," he said savagely. "He gave his word. I suppose that means we better go." He scowled at Airlie. "Look, son, I'm doing you a favor. I could have sent the chap Simmons worked on to ask the questions. Or had you forgotten about him?"

"I don't understand that," Airlie said. "According to Simmons, Zelko and I just had to knock him out and search him."

"He wanted you in deep," said Loomis. "So deep you could never get out."

"But why?" Airlie asked.

"He wants a war," said Loomis. "Cold or hot, it's all the same, so long as it is war. The West on one side, Russia on the other. Tension and isolation—on and on for ever."

"But why on earth—"

"We think we know now," Wetherly said. "He was in Yugoslavia during the war. Had a girl there.

The Russians captured her village and raped her until she died. The village was anti-Communist, you see. Simmons found her after they'd finished."

"He wants revenge," said Loomis. "The whole of Russia for one girl. Just like Brodski wants revenge for Poland the way it used to be. Only they're not worried about who's innocent and who's guilty. They want the lot. They want arrests and trials and blockades and incidents. They want uprisings in Prague and Leipzig and Warsaw. They want us involved, and Western Europe and the United States. And at the end of it all they want war."

"But good God," said the earl, "Simmons never even hinted—it sounded like a good idea, you know. Keeping Russia in bounds. Showing her up. And anyway," he said, "what possible use could I be in a scheme like that?"

"How much money have you got?" asked Loomis.

"On me?" asked Airlie. "Do you need some?" Loomis began to turn red, and Wetherly rushed

in.

"How much are you worth?" he said.

"Oh," said the earl. "Oh, I see. Hard to say really. They reckon about four million." He frowned. "I wouldn't have let him have any, you know. Not for that."

"He'd allowed for that," said Loomis. "If he hadn't got you hooked on the crusade he could always blackmail you."

"Blackmail me?"

"You're like a bloody echo," said Loomis. "Of course blackmail. When you went to bed with the bird he found you he took pictures." Airlie turned scarlet. "And he would have involved you in the torture too. You keen on his daughter?" Airlie nodded. "He'd use that as well." He paused a moment. The earl had leaned back in his chair and Wetherly took his pulse, then nodded.

"I think you better tell us everything," said Loomis. "Make us all feel better."

Airlie swallowed hard, then began to talk.

16

The yacht club was smart, white-painted, chic, with silent-footed servants, tall, cool drinks, and a yacht basin full of the world's most expensive toys. Craig had a visitor's membership already made out for him, and walked into the bar easy and relaxed. He had half finished his Scotch before the man who was tailing him appeared. Craig wondered if he'd had to make a phone call. He was a chunky, relaxed little man, with a lot of friends at the bar. Craig had no doubt he enjoyed his drink. It was a hot day . . .Then suddenly he had a friend at the bar, too. Esteban. In the old days he had been a Spanish smuggler. Now he was a citizen of Morocco, a respected businessman who hired boats on charter. They bought each other drinks, and talked about old times. He looked at the yachts in the basin, staring out through the picture-frame windows.

"Lovely," he said. "Aren't they lovely? The stuff we could have run in them. Look at that one." He gestured to a beautiful twin-diesel painted white, with glittering brasswork. "Belongs to a man called Carter. He's in Meknes. Having it overhauled for a trip." Indeed he is, thought Craig. A trip with a mil-

lion. And as he looked at Esteban it was as though fifteen years had never been, and he was a much younger Craig, marveling how Esteban was always first with information and never able to use it properly.

"It looks like the fastest thing here," said Craig.

"Just about," said Esteban. "There's another that's almost as good. Belongs to an Arab called Medani."

Craig put down his glass. His hand was quite steady.

"Where is it?" he asked.

"Out I expect," Esteban said. "Medani's a poor sailor. Gets seasick. He lends it to a Pole called Brodski. Staying at the Villa Florida. He goes out with a woman—such a woman."

Craig endured a lovingly accurate description of Tania, then Esteban said: "I came here looking for you." Craig said nothing. "You are not surprised?"

"Nothing surprises me in Tangier," said Craig.

"Fuad is chief of police now. You remember Fuad?" Craig did indeed. "He said he'd heard you were here." Craig didn't waste time asking how Fuad had heard. "He gave me a message for you. Said you were welcome. But you weren't to start anything."

"I'm only here for a week," said Craig. "This is a holiday, Esteban. The old days are finished."

"That's true." Esteban sighed.

"Tell Fuad I said so," said Craig. "And now I have to go."

He turned from the bar and as he did so the chunky, relaxed little man bumped into him, clutched his lapel for support, apologized, and left.

"Who on earth was that?" asked Craig.

"I have no idea," said Esteban, who had begun life as a pimp, matured as a thief, and made his fortune as a smuggler. "Nowadays they let anybody in here."

Craig walked out of the bar. The relaxed little man was waiting, and fell in behind him at once. Craig walked along the short pier that led to the shore road, then took a taxi to the Casbah. The relaxed little man followed him there in a private car that contained two of his friends, and Craig lost all three of them in ten minutes. It is impossible to tail a man in the Casbah if he knows it and doesn't want to be tailed. Craig shouldered his way through a crowd that was watching a snake charmer who'd just been bitten by his star performer and was about to light straw with the venom; dodged a man with a rack holding perhaps a hundred sandals; old women selling eggs, tomatoes, live chickens; a man with a brass pot of lemonade. By then only the relaxed little man was left, and his relaxed air had left him. Craig lost him in a maze of side streets: tailors', silversmiths', potters'. He ducked back then, and came out of the Casbah near the Spanish cathedral, then found a garage that rented cars. For fifty pounds he was given an elderly Chevrolet for three days, and the tiresome formality of passports was waived. A policeman directed him to the Villa Florida. It was on the Asilah road, in a brand-new estate gratifyingly near the king's most northern palace. Craig drove there quickly, and with a growing respect for the Chevrolet. Its appearance might be deplorable, but its engine had plenty of stamina left.

The Villa Florida and its garden covered about a half a block of a wide, palm-shaded street. Craig drove past it, and parked under the shade of a palm. The villa had wrought-iron gates, and a ten-foot fence of iron stakes. There was a porter at the gate, armed with what looked like a walking stick; but often, Craig remembered, those sticks too were made of iron. He walked down the road, then round to the back of the gardens. The fence there was just as high, and behind it in the garden were dwarf palms, then flowering shrubs. Craig looked out for alarm wires. There were none, and he scaled the fence, moved past the palms, and into the shelter of the shrubs, moving as he had been taught, without a sound, until he came at last to a gap in the shrubs and looked down into the garden.

It was of the Arab kind that delighted in shaded walks, islands of flowers, and tiny fountains, and in its center was the swimming pool, which is now obligatory for every rich man in a warm climate. Jane Simmons in a yellow bikini lay at the pool's edge and watched as her father dived from a springboard, swam to her in a fast crawl, and hauled himself out beside her.

"Marvelous, darling," she said.

Craig stared -at the man who had hurt him, studying every line, every muscle of his body, and there was greed in his stare, almost a kind of lust. He was about to leave when a man came out of the villa and walked over to Simmons. Craig saw the quick movement of Simmons's hand that sent Jane scurrying to shield her body from him in a yellow terrycloth robe. The new man was Chinese. His glance ignored Jane as she walked past him toward the villa. He was intent only on Simmons. Craig wondered what Sir Matthew Chinn would make of the fact that Jane wore yellow so often.

"We should not talk here," said the Chinese.

"I like the open air," said Simmons. "No one can hear us."

"Someone could hide over there," said the Chinese, and pointed to where Craig lay hidden.

"There's a guard there," said Simmons, and Craig froze. The Chinese looked satisfied and began to talk, and Craig, guard or no guard, listened. This was big stuff indeed, the biggest he had ever heard. After a moment he eased out, testing every touch of hand and foot before he risked his weight, until at last he could crouch, and look for the guard. He saw a foot at last, protruding from a dry ditch, and moved carefully to it, peering over the edge of the ditch, ready to dive before the man could yell. He was a big man, rather negroid, and he was fast asleep. Craig slithered down the ditch and looked at him. The man didn't move. There was an empty food dish beside him, and a water bottle. Craig spoke softly, then shook the man, but still he slept. Drugged. Craig shook the water bottle. There was still some in it. He poured it on to the ground and the thirsty earth received it avidly. Soon it would disappear completely. Craig looked back toward the bushes, and behind them the murmur of voices, and wished he had been able to carry a gun.

* * *

Boris and Istvan were by the hotel pool, in swimsuits. Craig changed and joined them. They sat beneath a beach umbrella, and talked with Tania, who looked luscious and terrifying at the same time in a green sundress exactly the color of her eyes. She turned to Istvan at once and said: "Go and swim."

Istvan seemed to go from his chair into the pool in one movement; on his face was a look compounded of terror, bewilderment, and passion, like a rabbit in love with a stoat.

"You went to the Villa Florida," she said. "After all I told you—"

Craig said: "Cut it out. You knew I would go. You set it up for me. You knew it last night, when you told me Simmons was here. You kept Brodski out of the way this morning—and you slipped some knock-out drops to the guard in the back of the garden. Which was it—the food or the water?"

"The water," Tania said. "If they have it analyzed—"

"They won't," said Craig. "I poured it away." She looked pleased. "You also had one of your tails check to see if I had a gun. I hadn't. If I had I suppose you'd have stopped me."

"He can't die yet," said Tania. "First the money."

"I could have killed him anyway," said Craig. Boris looked at him then, a careful speculation in his eyes.

"Why did you let me go there?" said Craig.

"To learn the way in," she said. "You and Boris must go back tonight."

Craig nodded. "You been there?"

"With Brodski. To the villa only. Not to the garden."

"Meet the Chinaman?"

So far her manner had been easy, the movement of her hands pretty and flirtatious, a woman on holiday having a drink with two men. Now one hand came down on his forearm, pink nails nipped.

"What Chinaman?" she said.

Craig looked down at her hand, and she took it away at once.

"Simmons called him Chan," said Craig. "Little man. About fifty. Limped on his left foot."

"I know him," said Tania. "Go on."

Craig looked again at his arm. There was a hairline of blood where her nail had struck. "He doesn't like you," said Craig. "Any of you. You betrayed the revolution, and Lenin and Stalin, and Marx, too, for that matter. Worst of all—you betrayed Chairman Mao."

Boris said: "It isn't part of your agreement for you to mock my country."

Tania spat out Russian and he shrugged, but he stayed angry.

"Chan wishes you to look foolish," said Craig. "He knows a way."

"Go on," said Tania. "Go on."

"Next week Russia is sending a Sputnik to the moon," said Craig. "It will have men on it. It will land on the moon."

Tania and Boris sat frozen.

"You didn't know this?" asked Craig.

"Of course not," said Tania. "Go on."

"The thing is, it won't go to the moon at all. It'll land in New Mexico."

"But that's impossible," said Boris.

"Nothing's impossible if you pay a million pounds," said Craig.

"But who will they bribe?" asked Tania.

"It's been done," said Craig. "And they didn't say. It'll look like a breakdown, I suppose. The computer will be programmed wrongly. General ball-up. Crash landing. And the astronauts come out in the U.S.A. Won't that be funny? Your president ringing up their president and saying, 'Please, can we have our Sputnik back?' "

"A Russian wouldn't do it," said Tania.

"Maybe," said Craig. "But are they all Russians on that project? No East Germans, no Poles, no Czechs? Or Mongolians, say—blokes in touch with China?" He paused. Boris was sweating now. "There's another thing," he said. "Suppose it isn't funny? Suppose your blokes think the Americans set it up? Would you go to war for a Sputnik, Boris?"

"Not just for that," said Boris. "But if there were other things—"

"There will be," said Craig.

"If there were, Simmons would die," said Tania.

"He'd be in China," said Craig. "He'd have a chance."

"But Brodski never told me—I mean, he didn't have this knowledge. Or I would have known."

"Brodski doesn't know," said Craig.

"I must tell my people at once," said Tania.

"I agree," said Craig. "But will they believe you?"

He got up then, and dived into the pool. Istvan swam up to him in a frenzied dog paddle.

"Mr. Craig, forgive me, but I have very little time," he said.

"Of course," said Craig.

"I think—after the job—that Boris will kill me."

"I think so too," said Craig.

They swam across the pool and sat on its side. Beneath the umbrella, Tania and Boris talked with furious concentration.

"In Siberia I didn't mind if I died," Istvan said. "But now I have seen women again—real women. Last night was too much. I refuse to die now, Mr. Craig."

"Good for you," Craig said. "How are you going to do it?"

"Best I should kill Boris," said Istvan.

"I'm afraid not," Craig said. "I'd have to stop you."

"But I'm working for you," Istvan wailed.

"You are, on Boris's strength," said Craig. "And Tania's of course. You'll have to take it up with them."

He dived back into the water, and swam across. At the table the whispered Russian words went on. Craig permitted himself a cigarette.

Tania said: "I must send this message." Craig nodded. "But it's so difficult. General Chelichev— there are people, important people, who do not like his idea that we should work with you."

"I bet there are," said Craig.

"These people will say that you lie."

"That seems inevitable."

"Craig, please. Is there any way at all to prove what you have said?"

"There's Chan," said Craig.

"There is also Simmons," said Boris.

"Simmons will die," said Craig.

"No," said Tania. "We must have Simmons alive."

"Chan's all you need, surely," said Craig.

"Chan is on a diplomatic mission here. He stays with the governor. He has immunity. It will be hard for us to get to him, just now at any rate. Simmons is much easier."

Craig rose. "It's time for my nap," he said.

"You will stay," said Boris. "You must."

"I'm sorry," said Craig. "My psychiatrist says I have to have a nap every now and then. This is one of the times. Too bad I can't help you with Simmons—but there it is. He really has to die." He started to go, then turned. "I suppose you'll be having the Villa Florida watched. As a matter of fact, we are too, now that we know where it is."

The ceiling was high, the room cool, and Craig lay on his back, hands by his sides, absorbed in the height, the coolness, letting his mind float above his problems in the tall, shuttered room. The great thing about Chan's scheme was that it didn't have to work. Even if the men to be bribed were blown the Russians would still be very angry indeed, and their anger would be directed against the United States. That was all China cared about. Simmons would want rather more for his millions; so if the thing was blown now—but that raised its own problems. Tania believed him when he said that Russian security would hardly be pleased about information from a British agent. Nothing could persuade the Russians that Department K—or any other department—didn't work for Washington, so the best that Craig could hope for was that the Russians would think he was a defector, in which case they would still suspect the United States. Chelichev had had a hard time establishing the existence of BC: there were plenty of men in the Kremlin who still denied its existence. The only safe thing was to take the money, and get rid of Simmons. Tania could try kidnapping Chan if she wanted to, but even in terms of expediency, it would be better if Simmons died. He stared again at the ceiling, but his mind refused to float any more. The checks Sir Matthew Chinn had built into his psyche took over. He knew he was lying. Tania needed Simmons. She had to have him. Brodski wouldn't do. He didn't know enough. Chan might be unobtainable. Simmons was the only one. Simmons alive. Craig began to sweat as he resisted what his reason told him. But there was no other answer. Simmons had to live. Once the fact was accepted, he began to think about Istvan, about the robbery, about Medani. His mind reviewed the coastline around Tangier, the place where the power launch would wait, the second line of retreat up the coast if anything went wrong. First the money, then Simmons. Brodski would be at the villa too, and Jane. It would be dangerous to take them all alive. And yet to kill them wouldn't

be the answer. It wouldn't be the answer at all. * * *

He slept until dinnertime, then rose, bathed, changed into a dark silk tussore suit and black crepe-soled shoes. Beneath his coat was the Smith and Wesson; in his leg was a sheathed knife, leaf-bladed, single-edged, needle-pointed. He spread his hands, then held them out. They were quite steady. He went into the living room.

Istvan and Boris were waiting. They too wore dark suits and, Craig had no doubt that Boris was armed. Neither of them was drinking. Food and drink would have to wait.

Boris said: "Istvan's being difficult."

"I'm not surprised," said Craig. "He knows you're going to kill him."

Boris began to deny it, fluently, passionately. It was obvious that Istvan was not impressed.

Craig said: "He knows it because it's logical. You're a nation of chess players, Boris. You always lose a pawn to take a king."

Istvan said: "Or even a king's ransom. You had better shoot me now."

Craig said: "Why not talk it over with Tania?"

"She's with Brodski," Boris said. "I can't reach her."

"Work him over then," said Craig. "We haven't much time."

Istvan said: "You do too good a job, Boris. If you hurt me, I couldn't work for you afterwards."

Craig said: "I'll do it then."

He moved in on Istvan, one fist clinched, the other hand out flat, like an ax.

"No," said Boris. "No karate."

Craig stood still.

"You're right," he said. "All he'd do is agree, then rat on us when we got to the bank. Right?"

Istvan managed to smile. It was a kind of courage.

"Absolutely," he said.

"It's a stand-off," said Craig. "Unless—" Boris looked at him. "Give him to me when it's over," Craig said. "He knows a few tricks that would interest my chief. So long as he's useful, he'll live. And I promise you he won't chat."

Boris said: "All right with me," and looked at Istvan.

"London," said Istvan. "Swinging London. Birds. Mini skirts. Le topless." He stuck out a hand to Craig. "Okay," he said.

Boris said: "We pick up Tania at eleven. Until then we should go over your plan."

They sat round the table, and Craig began to talk. The Russian and the Hungarian were very patient listeners.

* * *

At ten forty-five the three men left their room. In the lobby the night porter handed Craig a package that had'been left for him. They went out of the hotel to where a rented car waited, a Mercedes 300 SE. The chauffeur was Tania, in black slacks and sweater and a short black coat. They got in and Craig opened the package. It contained two keys.

Tania said: "Brodski stays at the villa. So does Simmons—and Jane. Chan is with the governor."

Craig said: "It'll have to be Simmons then. Can you get in?"

"You have decided not to kill him?" she asked.

"It looks as if I have to," Craig said. "Can you get in?"

"He thinks I'm dining with a girl friend," said Tania. "I said I'd try to get back for a drink about one o'clock. He told me he's working late tonight."

"He's going to get his orders from Simmons," said Craig.

A beggar came up to the car, and Craig wound down his window, handed over a dirham. They talked softly together in Arabic, then the beggar salaamed as the big car moved away.

"Listen carefully," said Craig. "I want you to know where the launch will be—just in case one of us doesn't make it."

He began to talk, and the others listened with the same furious patience. At last Craig said: "If anything goes wrong with the boat we make for Ceuta. I've got a friend there with a fishing boat. But if it comes to that, the only chance we've got is Gibraltar."

Tania said: "Very well," and drove into the town, waited patiently for a left turn into the Boulevard Pasteur, then turned into a side street. The street was dimly lit after the boulevard, and there were cars parked on both sides. As they turned in, a Fiat van pulled out, and Craig congratulated Tania on her efficiency as the Mercedes slid into the space the Fiat had left.

They got out then, and Craig looked down toward the lights of the boulevard. The Credit Labonne building was on the corner, dark and shuttered as a fortress. Beside it were houses with a narrow frontage and heavy doors, their tiny windows latticed. Craig waited as Boris opened the Merc's boot, then he and Istvan took out the two neat leather cases that contained Istvan's equipment—Brought in, no doubt, by diplomatic pouch, thought Craig. He walked down the street to the house next to the bank and went in. The others followed, lagging, giving him time to open the door. For this he needed the key with the string tied to it. The lock worked easily, and in he went. The others followed, and the door swung to. Craig led the way down the flight of steps that led to a basement room, and from there down older steps, carved into rock, that brought him to the cellar beneath the house. Once grain had been stored there, or oil. A ring set in the wall hinted that it might have been a private prison, a place where slaves were taken for discipline. Before the liberation, Craig remembered, it might have contained weapons, waiting for transport south to the Sahara, then over the border to Algeria. Now all it held was an old bicycle and the remains of a pram. An unshaded bulb gave off a grudging light, and Craig moved to the wall adjoining the bank. Patiently someone had chipped away the stone, just enough to admit a man of Boris's size, or Craig's. Behind the stone was a sheet of steel, and someone had cut a hole in that, too, just enough. The steel plate and broken rock were piled neatly by the hole. There was no sign of tools, or a blow torch.

"Your people are thorough, too," said Tania.

"We rented the basement for a month," said Craig. "The rock was easy, but we had to wait until the bank closed tonight to cut through the steel." He turned to Istvan. "In you go," he said.

Istvan disappeared as naturally as a rabbit into a burrow, and Boris followed.

Craig turned to the woman.

"You'll keep watch?" She nodded. "If we're blown and there's time, come into the bank. We'll set up an escape straight through to the front door. If there's any excitement, there'll be a car waiting. A green Buick taxi."

"It's a pleasure to work with you," said Tania.

He went through the hole, and Tania sat, her back against the wall. It was cold in the cellar, and for that reason only she shivered, then took from her pocket a Makarov 9mm. semi-automatic pistol. It was made in the USSR and was very, very accurate.

One corner of the bank cellar was filled with the massive outline of the time-lock safe. Istvan examined it by the light of a pencil torch, then grinned with the affection reserved for an ancient enemy, as Craig led the way up the stairs to the door that led to the mezzanine. He moved aside for Istvan to join him, then held the torch as the Hungarian used his picklock with slow, careful skill. On the mezzanine floor an armed guard was posted, and above him on the ground floor was another. Until they were silenced they could risk no noise at all. As Craig watched, the picklock engaged, and Istvan's gloved hand reached out, the door handle turned. Slowly, a fraction at a time, he opened the door. Craig watched through the widening crack, then his hand touched Istvan's arm. The door stayed still. The room was lit, and Craig could see the guard sitting in a chair, his back to the door. He looked over to the windows. They were completely shuttered. He watched as Istvan took an oil can from his case and oiled the door hinges, then pulled the door open wider. Craig went through like a cat, moving up to the guard. The man sat still until Craig almost reached him, then suddenly became aware of the other's presence. He started to rise as Craig's hand struck out, moving into the blow, then fell back into the seat; that would have fallen too if Craig had not held it steady. No cry, no crash, no sound at all. Craig looked down at the guard as the other two came in. He was an Arab in a uniform that looked vaguely military, blue bat-tledress with the initials C.L.—Credit Labonne— on the shoulders. Behind his ear a bruise darkened to purple on the olive skin. Istvan took wire and tape from his bag and tied him to the chair, then gagged him. When he had done, Craig felt the guard's pulse. He had not thought the guard would move. That increased the force of the blow, and he hadn't meant the guard to die. The pulse was thin and ragged, but it was there. Only Sir Matthew Chinn knew why Craig was relieved.

Istvan oiled the hinges of the mezzanine door, then looked at the grille in the room, and the safe behind it. He pointed at his watch. Time was running short. He listened, then opened the door to a half flight of steps and a third door above them. Behind it was the second guard. Again Istvan worked with the picklock, oiled the door hinges, eased the door ajar. This time the guard was sitting half facing the door. Boris began an elaborate pantomime, and Craig nodded. Istvan closed the door and began to lock it. Boris shook his head, and Craig and Istvan moved back to the mezzanine. Boris took out a Makarov, then a ten-dirham coin about the size and weight of a shilling. He let the coin fall on the stone steps. From behind the door he heard in the room the creak of a chair, footsteps, the grating of a key in a lock. Then the door opened, and as it did so Boris pushed it from his side. It slammed into the man behind it and Boris swerved through and struck with the butt of the Makarov as the guard opened his mouth to yell. From the mezzanine they heard the thud of his body hitting the floor. Istvan looked down at Craig's right hand. It held the Smith and Wesson, and it was rock-steady. He began to feel better.

Boris called to them softly, and again Istvan wired and taped the guard, then threaded his way past the caisse to inspect the main door, unlocking it, leaving only one heavy bolt in place. Then they went back to the mezzanine, and the fiendishly complex lock that protected the combination of the grille. Craig held the torch as Istvan examined it.

"The same as before," he said. "Good. This will not take long."

Once again he probed and tested, then took out the key he had made for the safe Loomis had set up for him. He tried it, and it didn't work. Delicately, with extreme care, he filed two of the wards. Again it failed. Istvan swore, then filed a third ward, oiled the key and eased it into the lock. It clicked as it engaged, then he again put a bar of metal into the -ring end and twisted—one to the right, three to the left, two more to the right. The lock opened and Istvan pushed across the shutter that screened the combination. His hand reached out to turn it, then froze into stillness. Inside the combination panel were two tiny photoelectric cells. Boris shuffled with impatience as Istvan searched for their wires. To reach them he had to dig into the plaster walls. He cut them and went back to the combination.

"No nation thinks so highly of money as the French," he said. "They revere it as they do God. Even the West Germans don't treat the Deutsch-mark like that." His hand turned the dial, and the tumblers clicked.

"I would prefer you not to talk," said Boris.

"It soothes me," Istvan said, and turned the dial again. "To the West German, the Deutschmark is a symbol, no more."

"The swastika was a symbol," said Boris. But the tumblers clicked again, and Istvan was listening. He took a stethoscope from his bag and listened even more intently, and Craig wondered why the conversation should seem so important to him. They had come to steal money—but there was more to it than that. What Istvan had said was important. Loomis had said it too, weeks ago. The Deutschmark was a sacred symbol. They would do anything to protect it. The tumblers clicked, and Istvan sighed, and Craig put the problem from his mind.

"That's it," said Istvan.

He pressed a button on the wall and there was a whirring hum as the shutter folded upward. Behind it was the door of the safe, and two more cells.

Istvan said: "These electronic eyes are a nuisance. But I dare not switch off the electricity. The bank must show some light on to the street."

Again he found and cut the wires, then worked at the lock protecting the combination of the safe. When it gave at last there were more photoelectric-cell wires to cut before he could begin on that. The stethoscope swung from his neck. In his dark suit he looked like a doctor called from a dinner party to an urgent case, and he moved with a doctor's jaunty professionalism.

"Last lap," he said.

Craig looked at his watch. Eleven fifty. They had been in the bank for forty minutes. It seemed like forty hours.

The combination to the safe was more difficult than the grille's, and Istvan played it like an angler with a twenty-pound salmon. Again and again he spun the dials and listened, isolating the possible permutations of numbers until he gave the sigh that Craig had been waiting for. The dials spun for the last time, and Istvan's lips moved as he repeated the numbers, then the lock clicked loud in the stillness, and Istvan began to twist the wheel that opened the massive door. As he did so, there came a muffled thud from above them. Craig motioned them to be still, then went back upstairs. The guard there had slouched forward and his chair had fallen. He was still unconscious. Craig picked him up and jammed the chair with its back against the clerks' desk that ran the length of the bank. The man was breathing in great snoring gasps, probably concussion. Boris, he thought, was no sadist, but he had a damned heavy hand. He turned to go back down and the phone rang. Craig cursed. There wasn't time to ignore the phone. If they let it ring they would have to leave now, and there could be no second chance. No one had told him about phone calls, either. This might be a new spot-check, or a policeman might have spotted them going into the house next door ... It had to be answered. Even if his bluff failed, they still had time to run. He moved to the switchboard behind the tellers' desk, and picked up the operator's phone, then grunted: "Who's this?" in Arabic, trying to sound sleepy and irritable, and not at all like Craig.

The voice at the other end said in English: "I'm terribly sorry. I seem to have the wrong number."

Craig spoke in Arabic again, and the voice at the other end apologized and hung up, then Craig replaced his own receiver.

He went back to the mezzanine. Istvan was inside the safe now, working on the lock of the trapdoor that led to the time-lock safe below. He was working with a furious but carefully controlled speed that Craig found admirable. He had understood the significance of the phone call without waiting to be told.

Boris said: "What happened?"

"The guard's chair fell over," said Craig, "then some fool dialed the wrong number." But it hadn't been a fool, Craig was sure. It had been Hornsey.

When the trapdoor opened, Istvan swung down, as sure as a cat. Craig followed; Boris stayed on guard on the floor above. They were now inside the time-lock safe. Istvan switched on the lamp he had brought with them, and they looked about them. The safe was a vast cupboard, lined with shelves, and each shelf was divided up into enormous pigeonholes, each with its own safe door.

"Number three on the right," said Craig.

Istvan nodded, but went first to the main door of the safe. He carefully cracked the glass panel that covered its four clocks, took it out, then unscrewed the metal panel that covered the mechanism. They could hear the clock ticking quite clearly. Delicately then he detached the springs from the balance wheels and the ticking stopped. He went over to each of the four large steel bars that secured the door in turn, and swung them into a vertical position, then turned the wheel by the door, making it swing open. Carefully he measured the gap. When it got to a foot he stopped.

"Another electronic eye," he said, then grinned. "It's lucky they have a wheel on both sides of this door. I'd hate to try to push it open."

Craig said: "All right. We've got an escape route. Get on with it."

He watched once more as Istvan tackled the lock. Before he had thought of a fisherman playing a salmon, but that was wrong. Istvan would never do anything so energetic. The analogy, he thought, should be different. Hungarians were often musicians, and that was what Istvan made him think of. The capable fingers working with such loving skill; it was like watching a pianist resolve a difficult cadenza. He looked at his watch. 12:30. Tania would be late at the Villa Florida. Then, for the last time, Istvan sighed, and the small safe door swung open.

He hadn't known what to expect. Bundle after bundle of notes probably; hard, useful currencies in sets of a hundred. Instead there were suitcases, six of them, a matched set in black leather with hand-forged brass locks and the initials BC in gold. Istvan hefted one from the shelf, then swore as it slipped in his fingers.

"I'd forgotten how much good paper weighs," he said.

"Get them all out," said Craig. "I'll go for Boris."

Craig scrambled into the safe above, then heard the soft click of a picklock on metal. He grinned and counted to a hundred before he fetched Boris. That was all the start Istvan could have.

The guards were still unconscious as Craig and

Boris scrambled down into the safe. Istvan had the cases drawn up in a neat row, but Craig made Istvan open one. They seemed almost too heavy to contain paper, but they did. A hundred and ten bundles of one-thousand-Deutschmark bills, a hundred bills to the bundle. Eleven million Deutschmarks, crisp and clean from the printer.

"It is almost too beautiful," said Istvan. "Really, people should take better care of their property."

17

She was waiting by the hole in the wall. As Craig came through the Makarov disappeared into her pocket and she helped drag out the suitcases, then went up to bring the Mercedes nearer. The men carried them up into the hall, waiting. They heard the sound of a key searching for a lock, and moved into the shadow as a fat and very drunken man staggered in and went toward the stairs. Boris's hand moved toward his coat, and Craig shook his head. The fat man lunged at the banister, caught it at last and began ponderously to climb. They waited until he turned the corner of the stairs, then heard a thud, followed by a woman's voice spraying Spanish like bursts from a machine gun. "Let's go," said Craig.

Outside the Merc waited, and they loaded it with the cases, and Istvan's tools.

"What now?" Boris asked.

Tania said: "Simmons. I have worked out a plan. It should be possible, I think."

She began to talk as she drove, and Craig agreed with her. It should be possible. Only Istvan was excluded, and that made him very happy. To wait

in the car was the height of his ambition.

They drove to where Craig had left the rented car, then Craig took its wheel and Tania sat in the back. Behind them Boris and Istvan followed in the Merc. She said nothing until they reached the street where the villa was, and when she did speak at last, her voice was worried.

"Remember, Craig, I must have Simmons alive."

"I remember," said Craig. She looked back out of the window. The Merc was still following.

"You're really leaving Istvan behind?" Craig asked.

"He can't steal that car," Tania said. "Nobody can—not without tools. And his are in the boot, with the money. Istvan won't go without money."

Then he pulled up outside the villa, and honked the horn. A watchman came up out of the darkness as Tania fumbled in a purse, handing Craig money.

Craig said in Arabic: "This lady is expected."

The watchman stared at her, then began to open the gate. As he did so, Craig began to explain in English why he could not wait for her. The gate opened, and Tania walked in, the Craig called: "You've forgotten this," and moved forward. The watchman turned too late, half lifting his iron club. Craig's blow was already on the way. He fell at once and Craig caught him, dragged him into the shadows, then put his hands behind his back and took piano wire from his pocket. From further down the street he could hear Boris's hurrying footsteps. He finished tying up the watchman as Boris joined him in the shadows. Tania walked down the path, and the two men moved alongside her, in cover, then sped to the steps that led to the villa's door, and stood waiting, one on each side. Tania looked quickly from one to the other, then pressed the bell. A burly Arab in a djibbah opened the door and said at once: "Good evening, madame."

Tania said: "There has been an accident, I think. Your watchman—" "Yes, madame?"

"He seems to have been attacked." She turned and pointed. "Just over there."

The burly Arab called out, then he and another Arab came out through the door. The sound of flesh meeting flesh was very small in the darkness, and both Craig and Boris caught their victims before they could fall, tied them with piano wire, took away the pistol each man carried as Tania walked into the hallway. They followed, their shoes noiseless on the floor's inevitable marble, then moved to the door behind which was the sound of voices to stand again one on each side, guns in their hands. Craig noticed the swell of Tania's splendid breast as she breathed in—she gave no other sign of fear. Then she opened the door and walked in, leaving the door open behind her. There was a split second for her to choose the words that would tell them how to act. "Forgive me," meant go ahead; "Excuse me" meant get out quick.

"Forgive me," said Tania. "I know it's late—"

Craig went in fast, pushing Tania clear as he leaped to one side. There were three men in the room: Simmons, Brodski, and Medani. Their look of surprise at the sight of Craig was perfectly genuine. For a moment it seemed almost a scene of

farce, so intense it was.

"Tania," said Brodski. "What on earth—" He looked at Craig. "The man who fought with Jennifer," he said.

"Is that all you know about me?" Craig asked. Simmons moved at last, and the gun followed him hungrily. He stayed very still. From where he stood Craig could see Boris in the doorway.

He said: "I don't have to tell anybody not to move." Their stillness was no longer comic; it was full of terror.

"Keep your hands where I can see them," said Craig, and they obeyed him.

Brodski said: "I don't understand why you should be with him. You—a Pole—"

Tania said: "I'm a Russian."

Brodski had lived all his life on instant decisions. As a fencing champion in Cracow, as a fighter pilot, as a club owner, learning when to fight and when to bribe, and as a spy, buying information in London; always it had been the moment of absolute certainty that counted. He made a decision now. This woman whom he adored had him marked for death. He would not die alone.

He dropped suddenly to one side, and his hand moved to his pocket. Craig and Boris fired together, and Brodski died, with a Smith and Wesson bullet in his right shoulder and a Makarov bullet in the heart. He fell very close to Tania. She did not look at him. Her eyes were on Simmons. When he saw Craig's gun swing to Brodski, Simmons had risen, but the barrel was pointing at him again, and he was still.

"Your daughter in bed?" asked Craig.

"Yes," said Simmons.

"Anybody else here?"

Simmons shook his head.

"Watch the door," Craig said to Boris. "Keep the girl out of here."

Boris looked at Tania, and she nodded. He left.

Medani said: "Are we all to die?"

"It's possible," said Craig.

"Because if so I should like time to pray," said Medani.

"Pray then," said Craig, and Medani did so, his lips moving. Tania looked at him in wonder, then began to go through a desk in the room, turning out papers.

"May one ask what you're looking for?" Simmons asked.

"Not your money," said Craig. "We've got that already. All of it. Out of Credit Labonne."

The news shook Simmons. He rocked back on his heels, then came in again.

"In exchange for your manhood?" he asked.

Craig chuckled, pushed his gun into the waistband of his trousers. "I wonder what you hope to get by making me mad. A quick death?"

There was the sound of Jane's voice outside the door, calling out to her father.

"You'd better answer her," said Craig.

Simmons took a step forward.

"Everything's all right," he shouted. "Go up to your room."

"But there's a man here with a gun. And I heard a shot."

"Thieves," said Simmons, moving closer to the door. "They ran away. Go to your room."

He was now very close to Craig. Medani stopped praying. Behind them Tania still searched through the bureau. Deliberately Craig half turned away from Medani. It was the chance they had been waiting for, the system that Zelko and Simmons had used when they—when they—Craig closed his mind to what had happened and concentrated on the practice session in the cellar. That was how it would be. Medani slumped forward in his chair, crouched like a runner, feet tensed for a spring. Craig looked again at Tania, and Simmons moved.

His fist curled up from his side, aimed at Craig's neck, but Craig was already leaping away from him, hands grabbing for Medani as he came out of the chair, clutching his arm, pulling him into the three-fingered strike that slammed into his stomach, spinning him round to spoil Simmons's attack, the young Arab clutching at Simmons for support before Craig's final blow cracked to the back of his neck and he fell. Simmons leaped over him, and Craig swung his head aside just in time from a punch aimed at the throat, then his own return blow was countered and Simmons threw him, then leaped after. Craig rolled away from a kick that would have killed him, then flicked a blow at Simmons's outstretched foot, making him stumble as Craig scrambled up again. They faced each other, and Craig could see no fear in Simmons's eyes, only the boiling hate that can take a man to a lightning victory, or betray him into disaster. Simmons's hand, held flat, swept at his shoulder, seeking the collarbone, and Craig swerved, wary for the second blow that would follow the feint. It was a fist strike, the one he wanted, and Craig grabbed the fist, his hands locking round it in a clean smack, using Simmons's own momentum, pulling him into the bar of his outstretched leg so that he dived at the wall. Even then the man's reflexes were fantastic, as he hit the wall spinning, his head tucked in, arms in front of him to take the blow, cushioning the shock so that he could leap straight back. But this time Craig too had moved, and it was his foot that shot out, leg rigid from thigh to ankle, slamming into Simmons's body even as he leaped. A terrible blow, its force carefully controlled, worked out in exact accord with the vengeance Craig had to have. It took Simmons in the groin, and the fight was over. Simmons lay on the floor and screamed until Craig went to him, hauled him up, and struck again. Then he was silent.

Tania said: "That is all, Craig. You will not touch him again."

Craig looked at her. The Makarov was back in her hand. From the doorway he could hear Boris's voice as he stood and looked down on Simmons.

"We have been kind to you," Boris said. "Be satisfied."

"Do you know what he did to me?" asked Craig.

Tania looked down at Simmons. Even unconscious, he was in agony.

"We don't know," she said. "We don't want to know. But whatever it was, you have paid him."

Craig turned to Medani, now struggling to his feet, his hands pressed to his stomach.

"What about him?" he said. "And the girl?"

"The girl's locked in her room," Boris said. "We don't need this one." He smiled and raised the

Makarov. "And he has said his prayers." Craig said: "We'll have him." "Alive?" asked Tania.

"His father is important," said Craig. "No doubt he'll do a lot to get his son back unharmed."

Tania's head came up and he added quickly: "You've got Simmons after all. That just leaves the girl."

"We don't need her," said Tania. "But we can't leave her here."

Craig said: "I'll take her, too."

"Such chivalry," Tania said. Craig shrugged.

"She might be useful," he said. "She's her father's heir." He turned to Medani. "We will speak in English," he said.

Medani groaned, and rubbed his stomach.

"I feel as if I had been stabbed," he said. "What did you hit me with?"

"This," said Craig, and held up his three fingers. "You're lucky. I used my foot on Simmons."

Medani looked down at the man on the floor. His face showed the fatalism of a race that knew defeat inevitably meant death at best; at worst torture, mutilation, not only for the loser but for everyone connected with him. It had always been so; it could be no different now.

"You won," he said. "We lost." He looked at Boris. "Why do you not let this man kill me?"

"You fool," Craig said. "You stupid bloody fool." The proud head came up to the whip of his voice, arrogant even in defeat.

"Don't you understand yet?" said Craig. "Why did you join Simmons?"

"He and Brodski were going to save us from the

Russians," Medani said. "We do not want communism here. Simmons would keep it out."

"By letting the Chinese in?"

The arrogance turned to a childish bewilderment.

"He would not—" Medani began. "A man called Chan was here yesterday," said Craig.

"He's staying with the governor. My father would not meet him," said Medani.

"Simmons did. I saw him. I heard him. He'll give Chan anything he wants—for help against Russia."

"You lie," said Medani.

Tania said: "No. It's all here. Among his papers. May he see?"

Craig nodded, and watched the birth of disillusion as the young man read. At last he raised his face, and there was no hope in it at all.

"He told us it was to be a crusade," said Medani. "We were fighting for Islam, he said. Our way of life. Our history." He turned to the unconscious figure and spat. "We fought only for him."

"We'd better let your father know," said Craig, and turned to Tania. "I'll have to stay," he said. "This is important."

"You may be caught," she said.

Craig's hand weighed down on Medani's shoulder.

"I am this man's guest," he said.

* * *

He went up to the bedroom. She lay on the bed, seeing nothing, feeling nothing, the little bottle still clasped in her hands. Craig strode over to her, twitched it from her fingers. The bottle was almost full. He sighed his relief and hauled her upright, then his hand cracked against her cheeks, left and right, till she whimpered and her eyes opened.

"I couldn't," she said. "I wanted to, but I couldn't." Her fingers moved up to her cheeks as the pain came to her. "Did you kill Daddy?"

"No," said Craig. "He's going on a trip."

"A long one?"

"He's never coming,back."

She said: "I know what he did to you ... Will I see him?"

"No," said Craig.

She began to cry then, and he left her. It was time to talk to Istvan. He took the Merc's keys with him.

He was still in the car, and beside him sat an earnest young man in a crumpled lightweight suit. The two of them were talking furiously in German.

"Mr. Hornsey," said Craig. "How nice to see you."

"Nice to see you," said Hornsey. "At least I hope so. The trouble is—it's the money, you see. Simmons's money, I mean."

"Our money," said Craig.

"Well, our money really," said Hornsey. "At least not even ours. Not really. Oh, I better explain. My name's not Hornsey by the way. It's Heinze. I'm a German, Mr. Craig. At least my father was— my mother's British. I work for the Defense of the Constitution. I was controller for Driver. We hired him to work for us too."

"To find forged twenty-dollar bills?"

"No," said Hornsey, "to find forged Deutschmarks. The dollars were just bait. Unfortunately they made poor Driver greedy. You have the Deutschmarks, Mr. Craig. A million pounds' worth."

"Oh my God," said Craig, and began to laugh.

"It gets better," said Istvan bitterly. "Guess who made the plates."

"They made two actually," said Hornsey. "A twenty-dollar bill and a hundred-Deutschmark note."

"Who did?" said Craig.

"The Russians," said Hornsey, and Craig began to laugh once more.

"It was done during the cold war," Hornsey said. "They got the idea from a scheme of Hitler's during the war—forged five-pound notes to wreck the British economy, you remember?" Craig nodded. "The Russians were going to do the same —against us and the Americans. For some reason or other they didn't use it, but Brodski's agents found the man who had the plates. He defected, and they bought them from him, made the money and stored it here. The twenty-dollar bill was poor —Simmons only made a few and got rid of them."

"Calvet got hold of one," said Craig.

"So did we," said Hornsey. "Driver used it to reach Brodski. It was very foolish of him. But the Deutschmark was excellent. We cannot allow it to be used, Mr. Craig. It would make West Germany look foolish."

The sacred symbol, Craig thought. The god who must not be mocked.

"What do you want us to do?" he asked.

"Destroy them," said Craig.

"Destroy a million?" said Istvan. There was horror in his voice.

"I'll see," said Craig.

* * *

He told them what Hornsey had said, and at first they hadn't believed him, but when at last they did, Tania had laughed, Boris had drunk brandy, and Medani had continued to brood on the wickedness that Craig had only just prevented him from committing. Compared with that, a mere million was of no interest. Tania and Boris looked at the specimens he had bought, compared them with the genuine article Hornsey had given him. The differences were minute, but they existed. Tania rolled up a forged note, flicked a table lighter to it, lit a cigarette, and watched the note crumple into ash in her fingers, then dropped it into the ashtray.

"In a way I'm glad," she said. "After all, we're not criminals, Craig."

He looked at the dead Brodski, at Simmons writhing in a coma.

"No," said Craig. "What criminal would behave as we do?"

He sent Medani for Jane then, gave him the keys of the Chevrolet, and told him to take the girl to his father's house in Tangier. Then he went back to the Mercedes, drove it to the villa gates, and waited as Boris loaded Simmons into the car.

"We've given him a shot," Tania said. "He won't be any trouble." She smiled at Hornsey. "Nor will we, young man, not if you destroy that money. Our government might find it embarrassing."

"It will be destroyed, I promise," Hornsey said.

"Let's go then."

Craig drove them out of the town, and along the road that led to Ceuta. The launch was waiting offshore, and in the Atlantic, off Gibraltar, the inevitable Russian trawler waited for it. They would be home in a week, Tania promised, and Comrade-General Chelichev would be delighted to see them, and Simmons. With his evidence the next space shot would be a success.

"We are grateful to you," she said. "The comrade-general will tell your chief so."

"Thanks," said Craig.

"It will be easy for you to get out?" Tania asked.

"Medani will fix it," said Craig. "He'll alibi Istvan and me for the night. Then we'll go to visit his father. We'll be okay with him."

He pulled up on the roadside. The sea was a black line against a smudge of sand which in daylight was a blinding white. There was a dinghy with an outboard beached, and behind it, out to sea, port and starboard lights glowing like jewels, a power boat waited.

"We must go," said Tania, and left the car. Boris followed, carrying Simmons like a parcel.

"Good-bye, Craig," he said. "Do svidanye," and trudged off down the beach.

Tania kissed him on the mouth, demanding a response. There was none.

"Good-bye, Craig," she said. "I wish I had known you when you liked women."

Then she too went off to the dinghy.

They watched as the outboard sputtered, saw the faint silver wake cut its way to the power boat, then listened to the deep, muted roar of her engines as

her mast lights dwindled and died.

"This is a very deserted road," said Hornsey.

"You want to do it now?" Istvan asked, anguish in his voice.

Craig said: "The longer we put it off the harder it'll be."

"Wait," said Istvan, and turned to Hornsey. "I have people lean contact," he said. "Businessmen. They would pay perhaps ten thousand pounds for this money."

"No," said Hornsey.

"Twenty thousand," said Istvan.

"No."

"They would be very discreet. They would not distribute more than a hundred thousand pounds' worth in one year." Hornsey was silent. "Twenty-five thousand," said Istvan. "It's the top price to pay for hot money."

"You can't buy this money," Hornsey said. "You couldn't buy it for a million. It has to burn."

"At least let me keep the cases," Istvan said. They let him.

They dug a hole on the beach, filled it with crumpled notes, soaked them with petrol siphoned from the car, lit it with a wad of notes lit like a torch. One by one they dropped the sheafs of stiff, elegant paper into the flames, watched them writhe into glowing ash eager for the next consignment..

Istvan held his hands to the flames.

"I used to dream of being warm in Siberia," he said. "It was a lovely dream. This is a nightmare." He scowled as Hornsey went to the car for the last consignment.

"They promised me I would be rich," he said.

"They lied, for they were going to kill me, but they promised—and a Hungarian lives on promises. Now I have nothing."

"You're lying," said Craig. "You took some when I left you in the safe. I heard you."

"A trifle," said Istvan.

"You've still got your tools."

"How can I use them again? I stole a million. There are no more worlds for me to conquer.

Hornsey came back, and the last of the money soared up in golden heat.

"You'll drive me back to Tangier?" Hornsey asked.

"Of course," said Craig. "I'm very grateful to you." Istvan sniffed.

"That night—I should have killed Simmons," Hornsey said.

"He hadn't led you to this," said Craig, and pointed to the heap of glowing ash.

"No. You did that," said Hornsey.

"When I thought you were one of us? After he—" Hornsey nodded. "I had to do it, Craig. That money had to burn."

"That's why you phoned the bank? To make sure we were getting on with it?"

"That's why," Hornsey said. "You did my job for me. We've won, Craig." He paused. "I thought you'd have killed Simmons."

"I thought so too. But he had to live."

"And Brodski?"

"Boris killed him." He hesitated. "I could have liked Brodski."

His hand flashed to his chest, came out with the Smith and Wesson, spun it by the trigger guard,

then replaced it under his coat in a blur of speed.

"Killing's all I know," he said. "It's time I learned something else."

They went back to the car, and Craig backed and turned away from a million pounds of ash.

Istvan said: "This Medani's father we visit. Will he have women with him?"

"I suppose so," said Craig. "Chaps like him used to have two or three hundred in the old days."

"Belly dancers?" asked Istvan.

"I dare say he could find you one. After all, he'll be grateful to you."

"I find such gratitude very consoling," Istvan said. "Only a woman can give me rest now."

Craig thought of Kamar.

"I don't think you'll find Berber women restful," he said. "But by God they make you feel like a man."