by James Munro
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 sh
op 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.
