by James Munro
The second piece of information came from a girl. Her name was Jane Simmons, aged twenty, Linton noted, educated at Priory Close School for Girls and L'Ecole des Jeunes Filles, Lausanne, Switzerland, a capital investment of at least five thousand pounds. At present she wore a shaggy sweater that surrounded her like a parcel, heavy wool trousers, socks, and nailed boots. No employment. She had tried to paint, but now Daddy gave her an allowance. Daddy was in newspapers and television. Linton trod with infinite caution.
She failed with the photographs— perhaps as well, thought Linton, that she has given up painting —and her only clear visual memory was of the shape the glass made when the Chinese had jumped through it. Linton prepared to let her go.
Craig asked: "Did either of the two men speak to the waiter?"
She looked at him. Currently she was in love with Frank Sinatra, a golden retriever called Jackson, and Rudolf Nureyev. She added Craig to the list. The little finger of his left hand was stiff, she noticed, as if it had been broken, then set badly. But both his hands were beautiful.
"You'll think this is awfully sill—" she said.
"Try me," said Craig, and her heart turned over. If only she'd thought to have her hair done. But who would have thought that necessary, just to meet two policemen?
"I thought one of them did speak to the waiter," she said at last. "Only it wasn't really speaking. More singing, really. I mean, I didn't hear much, and we were all making such a row—I mean we were absolutely starving. We'd walked miles—but I do remember thinking how silly it was. The singing, I mean. When we were all so hungry. And then —then he died."
Linton thought it was silly too, and wanted to leave it at that, but Craig kept on about it, oblivious to the girl's mistrust of herself, and to her father, who was in newspapers and television, and hence to be doubly avoided by chief inspectors of the Special Branch. Craig sang to her. He sang pop tunes and Rodgers and Hart, gems from Verdi and Russian folk songs, Beethoven and Bach and Bacharach, and to all of them, Jane Simmons said no, and Linton worried. At last he let her go, and Linton asked if he was crazy, but. already Craig had the telephone and talked to a fascinated Loomis, who found him an old man in retirement at Grasmere, and they drove there in a powder of snow, and the old man sang into a tape recorder and told them it was nonsense, but nevertheless gave them some astonishing cherry brandy.
That evening Craig sent for Miss Simmons again. This time she had had time to prepare, and wore a neat little number in silk jersey that still looked good even after four days in a rucksack, the pearls Daddy had given her for Christmas—Daddy was old-fashioned; he thought pearls were safe, whereas if one were dark and suntanned, they were in fact very sexy, in a Tahitian sort of way—and a dollop of Je Reviens. Jane knew she looked good, but the pale eyes told her nothing, and she was so disappointed that she even forgot to scowl when she found that Linton was joining them.
Craig bought her one martini at the bar, then they took her in to a dinner of game soup, salmon, roast duckling, and strawberries. With the dinner he allowed her one glass of hock and one of claret. No liqueur, though she absolutely adored Grand Marnier. He might have been her father, Jane thought, then realized that it could in fact be possible. She knew no way of finding out his age. But his sexiness—the passion of his mouth, the cold brutality of his eyes—of that there could be no doubt. She breathed in, and the silk jersey clung becomingly to her, and Craig continued to talk of islands in Greece, and the high cost of villas there, now that everyone knew about them. By the end of the meal she was a little angry, but clear-headed and very much alert, which was exactly what Craig had intended.
After dinner they went back to the private sitting room, and Craig made more coffee, which was heaps better than the stuff they'd had in the dining room. Then he produced the tape recorder and Jane wondered what on earth had got into him. How could he possibly start playing that sort of music with all the lights still on and that grisly Linton sitting there like a duenna or something? Craig ran the tape back to the beginning and switched it on to playback. An old man's voice came through, high and clear. It wasn't singing exactly, but it wasn't talking either; just the same phrase repeated over and over, as if the old man were a priest chanting in some service or something.
After she'd heard the old man's voice twice, Jane said: "I think so," then, after the tenth time, she said: "Yes, that's it all right."
Craig switched off the tape.
"But what does he mean?" said Jane. "What's he chanting about?"
"I'm afraid I can't tell you just yet," said Craig.
"I suppose it's sub judice, or whatever you call it."
"Something like that," said Craig.
Not even the daughter of a man in newspapers and television could be told what the tape had said. The voice was that of a retired inspector in the Hong Kong police. The message was neither singing nor chanting, but spoken Cantonese. And what the inspector had repeated, over and over, was: "Comrade Soong, we have come here to kill you."
"I hope I've been able to help you," said Jane.
"Oh yes," said Craig. "Enormously."
Three Russians, he was thinking. Sent here to kill an agent. The Chinese must be an agent. Loomis will run amok.
"I don't know what we'd have done without you," said Craig. "Have some more coffee."
"Actually I think I'd better get back to the youth hostel," said Jane. And she added carefully: "Is it still snowing?"
"I'll give you a lift," said Craig.
In the Mark X she gave him every opportunity she knew, but he just wouldn't see her. Later, at home in Surrey, she examined herself in the mirror one day: thick darkness of hair, eyes, wide and trusting and brown as a sweet sherry (far too spanielly of course, but at least you could see the love in them), and her body firmed by youth, and with the first hint of ripeness. And all of it offered on a plate. As if she'd been a roast beef sandwich or something. Only he wasn't hungry. All she got was "Thank you very much, Miss Simmons," and when she asked if he'd need to see her again, "Oh yes. It's very possible."
And then the tail lights of the Jag, glowing in the dark. It really wasn't enough.
Loomis was delighted. His delight lasted for at least ten minutes, and then he gave way to an ecstasy of rage. The Russians on his patch, knocking off a Chinky without even saying "God bless you," and a Chinky, moreover, about whom he, Loomis, knew nothing. A Chinky who could have served baked beans and chips forever, for all Loomis knew or cared. Except that now he cared passionately. And they had nothing to go on. Nothing at all. Everything James Soong possessed had been searched, dismembered, searched again, analyzed, fingerprinted, spectrographed. And it told them nothing. James Soong had lived only in the present. His past, like his future, did not exist.
"You can't stop the Russians from trying to kill people," said Loomis. "I know. I've been through it all before. But this is the first time they've done it and I haven't known why. We've got nothing on this Soong character at all. Neither have any of the other departments. I had to go and ask." He shuddered at the memory. "It won't do." He hesitated. "I wonder if he ever went to Morocco?"
Craig remembered the files on his desk the day Soong was reported killed. They had all been about Morocco.
"Anyway, I got somebody working on that,"
said Loomis. "I got another idea as well. I think it's
about time we started chucking our weight about.
And I know just where we can chuck it. How
would you like to kidnap a Russki for me, son? Be
a bit of an interest for you. You knock off a
Russki, and they'll have to come and ask for him
back. And then," Loomis lay back like a basking
whale, "and then we can talk."
* * *
The Comet 4B landed on time at Barajas airport. Everything about it had been predictable: its punctuality, its comfort, the size of its drinks, the dullness of its food, the uncertain glory of its hostesses. Craig walked down
the steps and hurried to the waiting bus—the wind from the Sierras was cold. The other passengers, like himself, huddled into their coats, as the bus jolted toward the administration building. There were only twenty of them.
It wasn't enough. Craig preferred the anonymity of a crowd, but this time there wasn't a chance. Loomis was in a hurry, and this was the fullest flight he could get.
That day the two Spanish officials had time to spare. They looked at his passport photograph three times and criticized the photographer, read slowly and earnestly through the details of his fiche, and at last let him in to Customs, where a thin, elegant Madrilefto ignored him completely as he scrawled on his two suitcases. One man had ignored him; two had looked at him, and his photograph, with care. Craig didn't like the odds. He took a taxi into Madrid, and stopped off at a car-hire place near the Puerto del Sol. They had a Fiat 1800 waiting for him, and once again he waited while Spaniards struggled with his passport—his name this time was Jameson, which they assumed began with a noise like a percussive "H"—then he signed the documents and drove out into the city and to the main highway to the south.
The car seemed good for 120 kilometers an hour, which for a hired car is excellent, and Craig enjoyed the almost empty road, the harshness of the high Sierras as he drove through New Castile. This was a country made for war, hard and pure and arid, its mountains gaunt and white-tipped still, their winter snow matte as a bandage on a wound, so that by comparison the Lake District seemed gentle as the mountains of a dream. He drove on to Toledo and stopped there and got out, as a tourist should, to buy paper knives of Toledo steel, and ate lunch, which was hot, aggressive, and yet eager to please, a very Spanish lunch. Then on again, through Ciudad Real to Valdepeflas, and there he spent the night. Valdepenas was quiet, restful, and almost devoid of tourist attractions. On the other hand, a vine grew there which produced an excellent wine. Craig drank it and in limping Spanish congratulated his waiter, who, being a Spaniard, took the matter as a personal compliment, and suggested another bottle, then apologized that the town should have nothing else to offer the foreigner. But the gentleman was going on to Granada? Ah, then tomorrow he really would see something worth seeing. The waiter was a Castilian, and despised Andalusia totally and comprehensively, but the customer had been nice about the wine. He thanked the Englishman again, and told him to the centimo how much his tip should be.
Craig woke next morning early, drove on to Granada, and hired a guide who gave him enthusiastic and quite often accurate information about the Generalife, the churches, the old town, Moorish architecture in general, and the Moorish contribution to the culture of Spain, then took him to a souvenir shop, and beamed with a schoolmaster's pride in a boy who had learned his lessons while Craig bought purses and marquetry boxes and mantillas and combs, and the shopkeeper and the guide said: "Tipico, ttpico," and when he had bought enough let him go. He lunched late and well, then set off again in the warmer air, driving on south, where orange and lemon groves were coming into blossom, through village after village where already the preparations for Easter were approaching the frantic, and petrol was scarce and not very good, and the mountains of the Sierra Nevada enfolded it all, an eternity of rock and snow. He bypassed Malaga, and turned west along the coast road, past the little seaside resorts where the foreigners—English, Germans, French, Americans, Swedes—were already arriving with their donations of pesetas to stabilize the Spanish economy, and asking in return only the sun, the opportunity to wear dark glasses, to dress in bright, weirdly cut clothes that they would never, never wear at home. He passed Torremolinos and Fuengirola, and arrived at last at Marbella. There was a bar he had to find, off the Calle Mayor, and he found it at last in a street of whitewashed houses, a bar bright with neon and a jukebox stuffed with the top twenty, and wrought-iron tables with marble tops, and portraits of the Queen and Union Jacks, and Watney's Red Barrel on the counter. Outside, in daylight, one could see an inn sign, with a picture. The bar was called "The Dog and Duck." It was full of Englishmen drinking beer, and Englishwomen drinking gin. Craig went inside, ignored two Spanish barmen, and waited for the attention of a squat, slow-moving, chunky man with pale, thin, nondescript hair and skin still pink from the sun, pale skin that would never darken to more than a fiery, ill-tempered red. When the man turned, Craig recited his formula.
"Forgive me, but you must be George Allen," he said.
The chunky man continued to wash glasses beneath the bar for a second, then said carefully: "I'm George Allen. Yes. Who might you be?"
Craig said: "Norman Jameson—Linda's brother."
Allen said, counting out each word: "Well, well, well." Then added: "How is Linda?"
"Fine," said Craig. "She sends you her love."
"What would you like?" asked Allen.
"Scotch," said Craig. "Teacher's for preference. No ice. Water on the side."
Allen nodded then and brought him his drink. Craig was accepted. Even so, he felt like a fool. Passwords to Craig could never ever sound like conversation, much less replace it. He knew that the men and women around him had heard and forgotten what he had said, but he remembered. He talked for a while about Linda, her husband Frank, and their children—Arthur had failed "O" level French again; Elaine still had a brace on her teeth—went out to dine on gazpacho, arroz a la Valenciana, and fruit, then returned to the bar. Allen was waiting for him, and came at once from behind the counter and took him into the living room behind it. The living room was furnished throughout by Liberty's, and on the walls were pictures of George Allen: Allen at school, Allen in the first fifteen, Allen as house prefect. Then more pictures: Allen in the RAF regiment in Aden, Singapore, Hong Kong; Allen as a tea planter, a PRO man, a car salesman; and finally Allen as publican, shaking hands with pop singers, bullfighters, film stars. Craig liked the setup less and less. Allen poured Spanish brandy and Craig asked for ginger ale. When it came, Allen said: "I heard you were on your way. What do you want?"
There was a tycoon's preoccupation in his voice: so much to be done, so little time to do it in. Craig watched as Allen's neat brandy disappeared, and another, larger shot replaced it. He said nothing.
"Look sport," said Allen. "I'm a busy man. I'm running a bar. The bar makes money. I don't live in Wogland because I like it—and this is my high season. Now what do you want? If I can help you I will."
"Your bar makes you thirty pounds a week from April to September," said Craig. "Your boat makes you another twenty—smuggling. That's fifteen hundred a year. We've paid you a couple of thousand for the last three years. You're not doing me any favors, Allen. You're paying off six thousand quid."
Allen picked up his glass and poured down the brandy. His face at once turned a fierce, banked-down red, and he opened his mouth to yell.
"If you start anything," said Craig, "I'll knock you unconscious. And you won't work for us again. Ever."
Allen sat at the table, his hands groping for the brandy bottle. Craig eased it away from the searching fingers, stood up, walked round the table, and hauled Allen to his feet. Allen's body resisted the thrust of the hand in his shirt collar, but he came up anyway.
"I want politeness," said Craig. "And cooperation. And I want them now. We've heard about, you, Allen. You're lazy. You want the money. You don't want the work. We don't see it like that. We want you to start earning, old son."
Allen said: "All right. All right. This shirt cost me a hundred and sixty pesetas."
Craig let him go; and Allen smoothed out his shirt collar.
"Just tell me what you want," he said. "If I can help you I will."
Craig's right hand reached for Allen's neck, the V formed by the splayed forefinger and thumb across the throat, the thumb depressing the carotid artery, the forefinger hard on the nerve behind the ear. Pain exploded in Allen's face, but he learned at once how foolish he would be to yell as the pressure of thumb and forefinger increased. Craig spoke to him, his voice unhurried and utterly certain. "You belong to us, Allen. We own
you. When we say jump, by Christ you jump. We know all about your smuggling, remember. You try it on and we give you to the Spaniards. On a plate, old boy." The pressure of thumb and forefinger increased, and the pain boiled in Allen's neck, then was suddenly, mercifully gone.
"I'm sorry," Allen began.
"Don't be," said Craig. "You hate me. But I can destroy you. Just accept that."
Reluctantly, hating himself, Allen agreed.
"We're going to pick up a man called Jean-Luc Calvet," said Craig. "You know him."
"Of course I do," said Allen. "He's a French painter. One of these beatnik types. Lives down the road in Estepona."
"You never told us about him," said Craig.
"Nothing to tell," Allen said. "He's just a painter. Sells little sketches of landscapes and fishing boats and that. Does very well too."
"He's a Russian," said Craig. "He also sells little
sketches of Gibraltar, and he's a paymaster for Spanish Communists."
"You're joking," said Allen, and added quickly: "I mean he's a very good painter."
"He's a very good spy, too," said Craig.
3
That night Calvet was giving a party. His little house was crammed with expatriate Swedes, Germans, and Englishmen, including a couple of officers from Gibraltar who were laying down Calvet oils as their ancestors had laid down port. The gin and whisky, smuggled from Gib, were excellent, and the kef, brought from Morocco that day, mixed deftly enough to ensure that it brought nothing but peace, and perhaps a little too much laughter. There were never any fights at Calvet's parties. Craig drove down there at two in the morning, and the party was loud indeed. He left the car in the square, and walked down to the quayside. A group of fishermen were unloading boxes of fish from a caique-like craft with an enormous and antiquated diesel engine; others were watching from a cafe, part house, part awning, and with them were a beat-poet, an anti-novelist, a musique concrete composer, and their disciples, who drank local brandy and deplored Calvet's party, to which they had not been invited. Craig drank coffee, and listened to their chatter. The party should be through by four.
