by Peter Corris
'What happened to your brother and sisters?' Marsha said.
Craft's face fell into sombre lines. 'Horatio joined the U.S. marines. He was killed in Vietnam. Selim died not long after we left Switzerland. She had been injected with certain drugs to increase her musculature. She developed leukaemia.'
'And Fatah?' Marsha asked.
Craft smiled. 'She's a housewife in Hartford, Connecticut. She has three children and she plays the cello beautifully in a little string quartet.'
Craft went on to explain how he had taken degrees in Economics and Business at Columbia and Harvard and had been hired by the organisation which had supervised his education and well-being. He had risen through the ranks and was now the chairman. He had never married and had only two pursuits.
'They have been the furtherance of the interests of the organisation and the elucidation of my origins—the story of Basil and Richard Craft. The one design has been much easier to accomplish than the other.'
'You mean the money-making,' Bright said.
Craft set down his coffee cup. 'You insist on being blunt, Mr Bright. It is much more than that. My associates and I fund a variety of charities, support a number of worthy causes and make life better for, I would guess, some thousands of people. We also further our own interests. International economics are complex. Anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool.'
Marsha said, 'But you couldn't find out anything about the Crafts? With all those resources?'
Craft nodded. 'It is remarkable, is it not? But Basil Craft wove such a web of lies and deception through his life that the files of the organisation were almost worthless. His military and intelligence career is like a garden maze. He changed identities and he changed sides. He worked for the French and the Germans in World War II, as well as the British. In addition, steps were taken to conceal information about him. Very successfully, as I discovered when I became anxious to know more.'
'What about his book?' Bright said. 'That should have given you some clues.'
'It was suppressed, of course,' Craft said. 'For twenty years I searched for one. I believe the copy you found, Mr Bright, is the only one in existence.
'That's how this whole thing started. I have interests in all sorts of commercial enterprises—media groups, financial houses, investment firms and the like. All computerised these days, of course. I had a coded instruction inserted into every program handling any aspect of our business, however small. I was to be alerted if the name of Craft ever surfaced. It did when Mr McKinnon approached a certain Pakistani for funds.'
'So you've been tracking us ever since we started working on this idea?' Bright said. 'You were responsible for the break-ins, Randolph's deportation . . .'
Craft nodded. 'Interception of faxes, telexes and much more.'
'Jesus,' Bright said. 'What do you want?'
'The truth. I think I have it now. I think it is embodied in Richard Craft's journal.'
Bright considered. John Craft obviously knew a lot about what was contained in the journal. How?
Craft looked at Vic and Marsha with an expression that was almost affectionate and grateful. 'You're wondering how I know what's in the journal. You're forgetting about Joel. He's not the half-alcoholic fool you thought him.'
Bright's head jerked angrily. Of course. I read out long sections that night in camp before we'd headed for Alice Springs. He felt a sudden need to punish. 'How does if feel to be Basil Craft's son?' he said.
Craft bowed his head. 'I am making amends.'
Marsha said, 'Don't tell me Colin Hawke is one of your creatures too?'
Craft shook his head. 'I sense antagonism. Not at all. I steered certain people towards Mr McKinnon once I knew you were on the trail of something solid, Mr Bright. But no, Mr Hawke is uncompromised.'
Bright was confused by the rush of explanatory and enlightening information. He was mentally assembling his evidence and certainties when there was a soft knock on the door. The waiter who had brought the breakfast entered the room and began to collect cups and dishes. Vic and Marsha scarcely glanced at him. Their attention was focused on Craft, who suddenly seemed a little anxious. Then the smoothly blended Eurasian features relaxed. Bright glanced around and saw that the waiter was holding the bound notebook in his hands. 'What the hell d'you think you're doing?' Bright leaped to his feet. 'Put that down!'
The man smiled and held up his hand in gesture of apology that was also a threat. There was something forceful in the way the hand was flexed that made Bright pause.
'Don't be foolish, Mr Bright,' Craft said. 'Chong Hou works for me and he is a very dangerous man indeed. Also, there are other people available to me here. It would not be a problem to remove you and Miss Prentiss from this hotel.' Craft rattled off a few words in Chinese and Chong Hou stood with his back to the wall, still holding the journal and blocking any movement Bright or Marsha might make towards John Craft.
'You've got the Gibson Desert films, now you've got the journal,' Bright said bitterly. 'What the hell else do you want?'
'A great deal more than that and I already have it. I arranged for the building which houses the gymnasium you attend, Mr Bright, to be closed temporarily as a fire hazard. Consequently, the contents of your locker have come into my possession. Correct me if I am wrong, but I think I now hold all your materials.'
'We filmed in Morocco,' Marsha said.
Craft smiled. 'As I said, I have extensive interests in the media. Procuring those films from Topshot was not difficult.'
Bright's mind raced. All he could think of that remained of the carefully accumulated evidence was the Mongolian woman's book, lodged safely with Highland Productions' lawyers. Then he remembered Andy McKinnon.
John Craft appeared to read his mind. 'Mr McKinnon has cooperated. My aunt's writings have been made available to me.'
'Congratulations,' Bright said. 'What're you going to do next? Kill Andy and Randolph? Feed us to the crocs in your private pool?'
'Don't be ridiculous. I plan to give Randolph every assistance I can to help him build a career in the United States. In return for certain assurances of course.'
'Of course,' Marsha said. 'What about Andy?'
Craft pointed to the telephone. 'I will make a call and he will be back in his flat within the hour. Then you can call him if you wish.'
Vic sighed. 'You're holding all the cards. What about the bones in the desert?'
'Decently buried, all three of them.'
'Three?' Bright said.
'You Australians are racists in your bones, Mr Bright. Was not the Afghan also a human being? And a better one, I should think, than the other two.'
Bright nodded. 'Colin Hawke.'
'A philosopher from what I have heard of him. You will talk to him, Vic. Explain everything. I think he will take the long view. As you should. I've read your account of the activities of Merle Benoit, Miss Prentiss. A most remarkable woman. Rest assured, she will be cared for.'
Bright said, 'What's the name of this organisation of yours?'
'Not of mine,' Craft said. 'And it has no single name. It has a very complex structure, the details of which need not concern you at all.'
'What happened to Pamela Marchant?' Marsha said.
'She came to America with us. She worked for us in various capacities and is now comfortably retired. You can dismiss any thoughts of tracking these people down, Vic—Pamela Marchant, your Moroccan informant and so on. All these avenues are now closed to you. I must go soon. Do you have any other questions?'
'Yes,' Marsha said. 'Did your organisation use any of the places Basil Craft recohnoitered—Wadi Djoul, the Mongolian Valley?'
Craft smiled. 'I really couldn't say.'
Suddenly, Bright launched himself in a dive at Chong Hou, who was standing with his back to the wall with the journal in his hands. Chong Hou appeared to have minutes to spare and any number of options. He turned his body slightly and used a thrust and sweep of his left leg to block Vic's rush and throw him back o
nto the bed. He fell awkwardly on his bent left arm.
'A useful demonstration, I think,' John Craft said. 'Perhaps we should talk money. Mr McKinnon will be compensated for his losses, but you . . .'
'Forget it,' Bright said. 'No.'
'Perhaps you are thinking of persisting? I do not advise it. Reconcile yourselves, please. There will be other stories. But I will make an undertaking. If the time ever comes for me to make my doings and those of the organisation public, I will get in touch with you.'
Bright levered himself up into a more dignified position. 'How does it feel to have a father like Basil Craft?'
'You won't provoke me, Mr Bright. I would like to discuss such matters with you, but at another time and place, perhaps. I must go. Goodbye.'
John Craft signalled to Chong Hou, who glided down the passageway and opened the door. Craft gave a slight bow and left the room.
Marsha came across to the bed and joined Bright in rubbing his wrenched arm. 'Do you believe him? About giving us the story one day?'
'I won't hold my breath,' Bright said.
