by James Munro
Craig kissed one more girl, fed Grierson one more gag line, and walked over to the sofa.
"A very nice party, Mr. McLaren," he said.
"Ceid mil a jaildhe," said McLaren, "and call me Archie. I dropped the McLaren ten years ago."
"We met before that," said Craig. "Sicily, May 1943."
"My God, were you there too?" said McLaren and turned to the chorus girl. "You see how old I am? Where were you in May 1943? Did you exist?"
The girl poured more whisky into his mouth.
"You and I were in a rest camp," Craig said. "You had a botde of whisky and we shared it. It was very good whisky."
"Lord yes," said McLaren. "I remember. The night the soldiers danced."
"That's right," said Craig. "They were sad. A lot of their friends had been killed."
"So they had," said McLaren, "but the survivors danced very nicely."
"They were beautiful," said Craig.
"Of course. Under the circumstances they had to be. You weren't a soldier, were you?"
"Special Boat Service," said Craig. "My name's Reynolds."
"A Scot?"
"A Geordie," Craig said.
"That's right. I remember the accent. What happened to the accent?"
"You told me to lose it and turn myself into a gentleman."
"And you did? I'm very glad." "Are you?"
"Indeed I am. It's no crime to be poor, but it might as well be. I think I stole that line from somewhere. You aren't poor?"
"No," said Craig.
"Then I gave you good advice."
"I'm rich, really," said Craig. "Of course I ran a lot of risks-"
"You like risks," McLaren said. "I remember you telling me, in that funny accent of yours. You really enjoyed danger. That's why I told you to make danger work for you. You're lucky. There aren't many who can do that."
"Can you?"
"I fought to survive," said McLaren, "and I did survive. Then I went back to university philosophy because it amused me. I practiced the folk culture of my country because that amused me too. Then I worked-teacher, journalist, travel courier, salesman, and that didn't amuse me at all. So I prostituted my country's genius and made money. And that amused me more than anything else. Does that shock you?"
"No," Craig said.
"Those young men smelling of death, dancing in the ruins of a Greek temple-that's nineteenth-century romanticism, and German romanticism at that. It won't work any more. It's finished-er-"
"Reynolds."
"Excuse me. Reynolds. Everything's finished, including you and me."
"I don't think so," Craig said. "Nothing's finished as long as you can fight for what you want." McLaren shook his head.
"That's romanticism too," he said. "You're too late. We've reached the last full stop, son."
He said that rather smugly, and settled back on the dancer's long-muscled thighs, stroked her hip with the tips of his fingers.
"I beg your pardon," he said to Craig. Then, with fine old Highland courtesy: "Would you like one of these?"
"No, thanks," said Craig. "I roll my own."
McLaren laughed, shrilly, wheezingly, and the surviving guests looked on amazed.
"You have come on," he said. "If ever I want any sick stuff, I'll come to you."
Craig nodded, and went back to Grierson, who was memorizing telephone numbers. They found their coats, and went back to McLaren, who was asleep. The dancer hadn't moved.
"It's time we left," Craig said. "Tell him we had a nice time."
The girl nodded, then, as he turned away, called out to them. "Was he really in the war?" Craig nodded. "And he saw those men who were killed?"
"Yes," Craig said.
"Was he-in danger too?"
"Oh yes. He was a Commando."
"Archie?" She sounded incredulous. "He told me he was a clerk in the Pay Corps."
"No," said Craig. "He was a Commando sergeant."
"You mean he killed people?" She looked down at McLaren in awe. "He's wonderful, isn't he?"
"I should think he is," said Craig. "Good night."
In the Lagonda Grierson asked, "Did you want her?"
"No," Craig said. "I could have had one just like her. Archie's compliments. They come in packets of twenty. I'll stick to Tessa."
He leaned back, half asleep, till Grierson drove him to Hakagawa's house, then turned to face him.
"I'm sorry I had to hit you," he said.
"So am I," said Grierson.
"No. Listen. You do that again and I'll hit you again. I can't help it. What I mean is, I'm sorry Loomis made you do it."
"Loomis is a bastard," said Grierson, "but he knows what he's doing." "He'd better." "You're corning in then?" "Yes."
Be a gentleman, McLaren had told him, and he'd done his best, and he'd failed. Clothes right, table manners right, accent and idiom at least passable-but that was all. It would take him a million years to learn to behave like Sir Geoffrey, and even then he'd always fight back, and fight to win, with fists and feet, with anything that was handy. As a gentleman he wouldn't do at all. He'd failed. And he wouldn't do as a lone wolf either. His wife, his dead child, Tessa, even Sir Geoffrey, they were all responsibilities. His responsibilities. Sometimes he'd recognized them, and sometimes he'd tried to ignore them, but always they had been there, waiting for him to do something about them. They were his people, and when they needed protection, it was his business to provide it, as his father had protected him in the fishing boat, years ago. To protect them, he had to kill St. Briac.
"I'll kill him," Craig said. "I haven't any choice."
Tessa was awake, waiting for him in the guest room. As he undressed, she told him how kind the Hakagawas were, how beautiful their manners, for never once had they passed judgment on her, never once been surprised by what had happened.
Craig said, "You'll be safe here, Tessa."
"I will?"
"I may have to go away for a bit. There's something I've got to see to."
"Will it take long?"
"Not long. Maybe a week."
"Is it because of that Grierson man?"
"No," Craig said. "Because of you. If I don't attend to this, we'll never have any peace. If I do-we'll have nothing to worry about."
Carefully, pushing the words out of her mouth, Tessa said, "You are coming back to me then?"
"Of course," said Craig. "You do ask stupid questions."
And after that, even though Tessa was embarrassed because the Hakagawas were next door, she simply had to love him.
Next morning she woke early, and ate and gossiped with Sanuki while Craig slept. The two women were moving quickly toward friendship as they worked together in the kitchen. Shenju came in, and breakfasted on fruit and milk while Tessa grilled bacon and fried eggs.
"The wrong diet for me," Shenju said, "but perfect for John. He burns up energy so quickly." He peeled an apple, the peel a fine spiral, tissue-paper thin. "He is the best judoka I ever taught, and that makes him a very dangerous man."
"I don't think so," said Tessa.
"Oh yes. He is a man to trust, but he is also dangerous.
More dangerous than ever since I taught him to-since I taught him. He was very unhappy for a long time. I do not think he is unhappy now." He bowed to Tessa. Tessa said, "He's going away."
Shenju glanced at her sharply, though the hand that held the knife was rock-steady. "For long?" he asked. "He said about a week." He nodded. "Did he say why?"
"Some business he had to finish. Then he says we'll have some peace."
"You deserve it, both of you," Shenju said. "You mustn't worry, Tessa. He is a very good man. He will be quite safe."
She took Craig's breakfast into him then, and sipped coffee as he sat up in bed and ate.
"Is it ail right?" she asked.
"Marvelous," he said. "You know it is."
He pushed his tray away at last, and fit a cigarette, drew her down beside him.
"I wish you wouldn't," he said
.
"What?"
"Wait on me like that. I can get up and eat."
"You were tired-and anyway I like doing it. I won't be able to, while you're away." She turned to him then, and he could see the fear in her face. "Shenju says I mustn't worry. You'll be safe."
"Of course I will."
"But he didn't mean it. You're going into danger, aren't you?"
"No," said Craig. "He's just kidding you-" "You're lying," she said. "Do you think I don't know when you're lying?" Craig shrugged.
"It's no good, love," he said. "I have to go." "Where?" He shook his head. "What are you going to do?"
"I've told you," he said. "Get us both some peace."
"Or get killed? Is that it?"
"I haven't any choice. Believe me-"
"Oh yes you have," said Tessa. "We could run away. Now. Today."
"Yesterday," he said. "But not now. We can't run any more."
"It's Grierson, isn't it?" she asked. "It's you and me. I told you last night." "Darling," she said. "Please. Tell me what you're going to do."
He shook his head. "I can't," he said.
She drew away from him then, and sat in silence as he bathed and dressed, took out the Luger, checked it, strapped its holster over his shoulder, and put the gun in it. He emptied his wallet, pouring the money into her lap.
"I have to go," he said. "This should keep you till I get back."
She was still silent.
"It may be dangerous," he said. "I hope not-but it may be. Don't worry, love. You'll be all right."
"Will I?" she asked. "Will I really?"
"Sure." He nodded, very serious. "If I get knocked off, you'll be a rich woman. I've made a new will. My wife keeps all the Rose Line money. You get the rest."
She gasped, as if he'd hit her.
"But I mean to come back-for you. Do you believe that?"
Slowly, reluctantly, she nodded. "You'll be here?" "Yes," she whispered. "What's wrong then?"
"I'll wait for you because I have to," she said. "Because I haven't any choice. The way I feel-But I don't like it. It makes me frightened."
"I'm sorry," said Craig. "I told you what it would be like."
"Couldn't we just go away?" she asked. "Couldn't we?"
"I'll see you in a week," he said, and bent to kiss her, but she turned her head away.
Craig shrugged, and put on his coat. No sense in arguing that one again. And anyway, it was time to go.
CHAPTER 12
Loomis's club was, inevitably, in St. James's, and there Craig went to lunch with him, on canned shrimps, cold beef and salad, apple pie, Cheddar cheese, and a pint of bitter. As food it was barely edible, but Loomis praised it for its modesty.
"You can get all the exotic fodder you want in Nice," he said. "This is the stuff to calm you down. Haute cuisine peps you up. This is grub."
"Do I need calming down?" Craig asked.
"Dunno. I do. I got a bit of news for you. Pucelli's on to the judo clubs. He's looking for Hakagawa."
"Go on," said Craig.
"We won't let him get far," Loomis said. "Don't worry. If he starts getting warm, we'll find something wrong with his passport and boot him off home. Unless-" he looked hard at Craig, "you'd like to attend to him yourself?"
"No," Craig said.
"Suit yourself." Loomis sawed savagely at his beef. "I take it you are going to do that other little job for us?"
"Yes," said Craig. "But just St. Briac. That's all."
"Grierson says you had quite a chat with McLaren last night. Has he been preaching at you?"
"He preaches at everybody," Craig said. "He has to. He doesn't believe his own gospel."
"Has he changed your mind?"
"No," said Craig. "He's a phony-like me. And he knows it. He couldn't have changed my mind, anyway. Now I've got Tessa into this, I have to do what you want. It's the only way she'll be safe."
"You could leave her," said Loomis.
"That's the one thing I couldn't do. Except go on like this. Once I've dealt with St. Briac, that's the lot."
"St. Briac is all I want," said Loomis. "But the others may want you. These boys are fanatics. They don't know where to stop. That's why I say they're mad, but when it comes to organization, they're as sane as you or me and as clever as monkeys.
"They work in cells, like the Communists. They're not proud, they'll steal ideas from anybody. Now St. Briac's is the murder cell. Five men. The 2-I-C is called La Valere. A bit of a nit, but good with a pistol. Duclos and Pucelli-I'll come to them in a minute-for the rough work. They used to have Cadella to help them, until you ran into him. Then there are two or three men acting as bodyguards for his nibs, and that's the lot. A self-sufficient unit. And they believe in vengeance, son. Pucelh's a Corsican, and so was Duclos's mother. Hurt one of them and they'll all be on your neck. Hurt their chief, and you may not find it all that easy to retire. They're what you might call devoted to him. Or so I've heard anyway."
"So I've heard too," said Craig. "I'll have to chance it."
Loomis took alternate bites at apple pie and cheese.
"You seem to hear a hell of lot," he said. "Where do you get it all from?"
"Arabs," Craig said. "They've got their own network. Pretty good too. And they had to keep me alive at the time. They needed the stuff I was bringing."
"Want to tell me about them?"
"No," Craig said.
"Suit yourself." Loomis pushed his plate away. Then, heedless of his own theories, he said loudly, "God, that was awful."
The elderly headwaiter, utterly deaf, said, "Thank you, sir," and Loomis led the way to the reading room, where three aged men slept noisily.
"They're deaf too," he said. "Still, we'd better not take any chances."
He rang for a waiter, and ordered coffee in the writing room.
This was huge, deserted, and crammed with Edwardian writing desks with great wads of club stationery on them, as if the committee had yet to learn that Edison had made enough of a breakthrough for the club to buy a telephone. The waiter poured out coffee, and Loomis groaned aloud.
"Terrible, terrible," he said.
"Why eat here?" asked Craig.
"I'm used to it and they're used to me," said Loomis. "When you get to my age, you get set. You aren't flexible any more. Not like you."
"When do you want me to go?" Craig asked.
"That's what I mean," Loomis grumbled. "You're always in a hurry. Now I like a bit of small talk. I can't stand bashing straight into things. But you won't adapt yourself to me. You're too selfish, son." He scowled. "You'll go as soon as I can fix it. Grierson will go with you."
"Don't you trust me?"
"How can I?" Loomis asked pettishly. "Anyway, he can be very useful, Grierson can. And he seems to like you, God knows why. That's Grierson's trouble, getting fond of people."
Craig lit a cigarette.
"You work hard at it-being nasty, I mean," he said. Loomis, unasked, helped himself from Craig's packet.
"I'll tell you something," he said. "I'm down on the books as a civil servant-assistant principal in the Ministry of Dither and Footle. Everybody thinks I've been shelved because I'm so bloody rude. There aren't thirty people in the world know as much about me as you do -and they're all like you. They can't give me away."
"They could be made to," said Craig.
"Sooner or later one of them will," Loomis said. "When he does I'll know, and I'll be ready for it. Till then it's all jolly fun. Only remember this, son. I'm anonymous because I'm good at my job."
"Having people killed?"
"Sometimes. Not often. Your bit of business happens to be one of the times, that's all. When there isn't any other way I use this one, if I think it's justified. That's what I'm for."
"Does it bother you?"
"No," said Loomis promptly. "Not unless I fail, and I don't fail all that often. I'm certainly not going to fail this time. If St. Briac doesn't die, a lot of other people will. And they'll b
e nicer people than he is. Now tell me about him again."
Craig repeated what Ben Bakr had told him, in the little restaurant near the Jardin du Pharo in Marseilles. It had been hot in the restaurant, he remembered, but the bouillabaisse had been good, and so had the Provencal wine. Mohammedan or not, Ben Bakr had drunk his litre. He needed something; twenty-four hours a day he was in danger. St. Briac hadn't yet found out who he was, but Ben Bakr had got on to Pucelli, and from him at last he had discovered the existence of St. Briac's cell and the character of its leader. St. Briac, inevitably, had been to St-Cyr, he had won the Croix de Guerre in Indochina for displaying exceptional courage where courage was a commonplace. He had been an Intelligence officer in the Atlas Department of Algeria, and had been removed for being too cruel, though in Algeria at that time cruelty was a commonplace too. And yet, Ben Bakr had insisted, he was not a sadist, like some of the men who worked for him. He was simply using cruelty because it was efficient. It produced the results he needed so urgently. St. Briac was determined, utterly determined, that Algeria should remain part of France, that the country and the army he adored should suffer no more defeats, no more humiliations. Measured against this tremendous aim, no human life, including his own, had any importance.
Slowly, patiently, at incredible risk, Ben Bakr had built up a dossier: modus operandi; personnel; financial aid; and some of this he had told to Craig. In the end St. Briac had caught him, but Ben Bakr had died too quickly, and for another year Craig was safe…
Loomis asked, "Did you see him after they finished with him?"
Craig shook his head. "I heard," he said. "He was a mess."
"You scared?"
"Of course," Craig said. "I wanted to get out as soon as I heard, but I couldn't. You were right about me. Partly right anyway. I don't enjoy killing people, whatever you may think, but I couldn't live without danger. I was an addict. I didn't enjoy it, you understand. I had to have it."
"Had to? You mean you don't need it any more?"
"I want the girl," Craig said. "So you don't have to worry, do you? If I don't do this job, we'll never find any peace."
"That's all right then," Loomis said. "I'll get you off in a couple of days. After that, you've got four days to do the job, and that's all. He could be off to Aden in a week. He's got plans for Aden. Big plans. Or so I'm told. Strikes, riots, massacres. We'll have to move in troops and kill a hell of a lot of Arabs, and even then the thing might spread, and if it does we'll have the Russians on our backs. He'd better not go to Aden. It's your business to see that he doesn't. If possible, I'd like you to get some more information about what he's up to. But that isn't important. The main thing is to see that he doesn't go. O.K.?"
