by James Munro
"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 t
hat 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.
"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."
