by James Munro
thought Craig, / told him myself about the raid on the bank, after he rescued me. The thought saddened him. He didn't want to have to cope with Hornsey.
Boris went on talking, and Istvan filled in time by staring at the bank. It will not be easy, he thought. The door is lit by streetlamps, and there are too many people. But stealing a million is never easy. He switched the problem off his mind, like a radio changing stations. After all, finding a way in was Craig's problem. No doubt he had it in hand. It was better to concentrate one's mind on what to do when one had taken the million. Boris, for example, might prove an obstacle. So might his controller. Istvan's secret fear was that they would kill him when the deal was concluded. On the other hand, another Siberian winter would have killed him anyway.
Boris continued to lecture as they walked down the steps to the Casbah. The place was packed with conducted parties, independent parties, guides official and unofficial, pushing their way into tiny streets where the shops that lined them were the size of cupboards, and one could buy yataghans, camel saddles, brass-bound muskets or silver-filagree coffeepots, eat kebabs on skewers, drink mint tea, and watch the haggling. The haggling, Craig remembered, was half the fun, even when the stuff was good. They came to a tiny square, dominated by a pink-washed building that had once been an attractive cube. Now it was a mess of domes, turrets, and minarets, from one of which an endless tape broadcasted Arab music through a loudspeaker. A wooden board nailed between two turrets had painted on it: "OASIS NITE CLUB. FLOOR SHOW. FOOD. DRINK." Istvan looked at it.
"I should like to go there," he said.
Boris said: "What will they do there?"
"Dancing," said Craig. "And a bloke doing a balancing act. They always do."
"Is this dancing sexual?" Boris asked.
"That's perhaps a little crude," said Craig. "I think erotic would be a better word."
"Then I think we should go," said Boris. "We're tourists after all. It would seem strange if we showed no interest in sexuality."
Istvan risked looking pleased, and this time Boris didn't look angry.
The interior of the club was of the standard pattern that Craig remembered: a marble floor and walls of plaster and tile, fretted and carved into graceful abstractions that at first were very beautiful. It was only their sameness that cloyed at last. They sat on a padded banquette that was like a divan and an Arab in a djibbah placed drinks in front of them. All around European men and women chattered and drank, and danced to taped music—and Arabs in Western clothes sipped Scotch and told each other they didn't like it, but what could one do? When the dance ended, the crowd settled down, and one by one musicians in djibbah and fez squatted on the floor. Their instruments for the most part were European—violin, clarinet, and flute—but the Negro drummer carried hand drums like bongos, and the music they played was pure Arab. The crowd sighed its content; this was what they had paid for.
First it was just the music, then, as Craig had predicted, a man came on and balanced impossible quantities of glasses, jugs, vases of flowers on a tray on his head, finishing up with a series of candles in glass shades, making them spin in a circle of flame as the houselights dimmed. Then it was a singer in an exquisite caftan of blue and silver thread, eyes sparkling with belladonna, face and hands delicately rouged, little feet hung with silver bells. The song was of love, as always, and gazelles and roses and moonlight: the dance that followed, demure, almost shy, yet with the erotic overtones that Boris considered so essential as the hips swayed softly and silver disks tinkled in the slender olive fingers. At the end the singer sank to the floor to a rather bewildered round of applause, though the Arabs shouted their tributes to beauty.
"I enjoyed that," said Boris. "It is not precisely what I expected, but I enjoyed it. The girl was very sexual, but she had a certain modesty also." He looked at Craig, who was smiling. "Don't you agree?"
"I do indeed," said Craig. "Except that it wasn't a girl. It was a boy."
Istvan found it necessary to take a drink.
Thereafter it was girls all the way, one after the other, small, shapely girls, tenderly fleshed, their skins every shade from walnut brown to palest olive. They each had a circlet to hold back their hair, a jeweled bra, and below it were naked to the hips, where a skirt cut to reveal their legs was held in place by a rhinestoned belt. Each one of them did a belly dance that was very erotic indeed, hips writhing, breasts shaking in a frenzy of sexuality. Kamar had danced like that, he remembered, and she had been good to sleep with. As a teacher of Arabic she had been unsurpassed. An American he had worked with had described her beautifully. "Look at that kid go," he had said. "Forty thousand moving parts." But all that was over. Done with. Dead. He looked at Istvan's unwavering stare as the golden bodies swayed, then at Boris's brick-red blush: an even greater tribute to their beauty and promise. And for him it meant nothing. Boris had wanted to go in so they'd gone. He looked at the girl dancing now. She was the third, taller than the others, more rounded, with a pretty and mischievous face. It was all very boring. Then she advanced into the audience, still swaying to the music, but looking round her, searching. Oh God— he'd forgotten about this nonsense. The comedy-sex routine. She came up to their banquette, and stood there, and the drum beats marked the curving movement of her hips. She held out her hand to Boris, who shrank away, then to Istvan, who sweated hot and cold—lust and terror. At last she grabbed at Craig, and tried to draw him on to the floor, and all the time the drums beat, her belly writhed to their rhythm. Somewhere in Craig's mind a neat, angry man moved a pointer across a dial. He looked into the girl's face, and spoke to her, the guttural words snapping like whips. For the only time she missed a beat, then her head came up once more and she went to find another victim.
"I'm very grateful to you," said Boris. "That girl is embarrassing."
"You're very welcome," said Craig.
The girl had found an American, had taken off his coat and tie, and was now removing his shirt.
Then she tied the tie across his chest as a bra. The man was pelted like a monkey. She began to coax him into a belly dance, and the crowd was laughing to see what had been desirable made grotesque. Kamar had done that, too: it had given her great pleasure to degrade a man, any man. She had never liked Craig to praise her for it. ..
The American had been released, and was putting on his shirt while his wife told him how relieved she was that there was no one else there from Sandusky, Ohio. The girl accepted her applause almost casually; her body was already concentrating on the next part of her act. Slyly the music began again, and this time it was, Craig knew, the stuff the tourist doesn't see too often. He remembered a party in Fez, where he had been the guest of honor. He'd delivered a hundred Belgian rifles the day before, and this had been for him. It was the first time he had met Kamar . . . The girl's body moved as if tormented by the music, as if the wailing sounds were an aphrodisiac that drove her on and on, and the slow writhing of her body only intensified her need. One by one the instruments cut out, until the drum beats alone spoke to her and she responded exactly to their rhythm, kneeling in front of the drummer, answering each beat with a responsive and rhythmical shuddering, until at last her body arched backward, legs astride, her pretty belly rippled to the swift-flowing sounds. Then she shuddered, and the drums were still, the lights dimmed, then rose, and she was bowing as the audience roared.
"What an extraordinary thing," said Boris.
"Please, I should like to go home now," said
Istvan. "This is worse than Siberia."
They went back, and Craig marveled at Boris's docility. He had allowed Craig to take them all over Tangier, and be seen. That made him a fool. Craig didn't believe that Boris was a fool. This job was too important.
In the hotel a Negro porter in white robes handed over their keys and spoke to Craig in Arabic. His voice was low and rumbling, and he bowed as the three men went to the lift.
"What was all that about?" Boris asked.
"He
hopes we enjoy our stay here," said Craig.
"He wants a tip," said Istvan.
Boris said, far too late: "You shouldn't speak Arabic, Craig. Tourists never do."
The three of them shared a suite. There was a living room and verandah, and opening off it, on either side, a double-bedded room for Boris and Istvan, a single-bedded room for Craig. It was Craig who now unlocked the door to the living room, and stood aside for Boris to enter. He didn't, but Istvan in some way he never understood found himself impelled by the sheer force of Craig's will into stepping over the threshold, and so Boris followed. Then came Craig, last of all. They had left a light burning in the room, and he stood outside its soft, golden pool, tense and ready, the snub-nosed Smith and Wesson no longer in his shoulder holster, but transferred to the waistband of his trousers as he followed Boris. He stood in the half darkness, his hand on his hip. The butt of the gun was only inches away from his fingers.
Inside the lamplight a woman sat. Her hair was very fair, almost white, and her eyes were green as a cold sea. She wore a white dress, and a mink lay at her feet like a trophy. Craig noticed at once her quality of repose. She sat completely at ease, not moving; the position of her body and the chair she sat in were sufficient to make sure that she could watch the door, and the men who came through it. In the silence they could hear the whisper of the air-conditioning, then her hand moved swiftly down to the chair. Craig jumped sideways, and the gun was in his hand as he leaped. "No," he said.
The woman chuckled. It was a delightful sound, rich, deep, and lazy. The Smith and Wesson covered the small arc between her and Boris. Istvan began to think of Siberia almost with nostalgia, then the woman rose, and he gasped aloud. She was tall, full-bodied, and very graceful, with the grace of a hunting animal. From the corner of his eye Istvan saw the gun steady and point, its barrel a stubby, accusing finger, aimed an inch below her left breast. Istvan had no doubt that Craig would fire if he had to, nor had the woman.
"I think Boris had better introduce us," she said.
"This is my controller," said Boris. "She's known as Tania."
"I have a letter for you," Tania said. "In my handbag. Just a letter."
"Istvan," said Craig, "get it."
And Istvan obeyed at once. Boris might be responsible for his death, Tania might be responsible for Boris, but never had Istvan seen a man with a gun who looked as Craig did, He produced the letter and handed it over at arm's length.
"Put the lights on," Craig said, and again Istvan obeyed. "Now up against the wall, all three of you. Hands by your sides."
Again Istvan moved as if only his fear were real; the other two followed more slowly. Even lowering her arms in defeat, Tania's grace was deadly. Craig read the letter. "You'd better pour the drinks, Istvan," he said.
Istvan drank the first one himself, and didn't even know he'd done so. By the time the others had glasses in their hands, he was on his third.
"My chief says I'm to take instructions from you," said Craig. "I don't like it."
She spoke in Russian to Boris, and he and Istvan went at once to their bedroom. Istvan filled his glass before he left.
"Craig," she said, and looked at him. It was a long, comprehensive look, sexually arrogant, domineering. Its effect on men was usually remarkable. Craig waited with a stolid patience that was obviously reluctant.
"We have a file on you," she said. "A very thick file. You are a very successful agent. If you become dangerous to us, all we can do is kill you. It will be difficult, but it can be done, I promise you."
Craig yawned. "It's been a long day," he said.
She chuckled again, the same sound of purring pleasure. "Please," she said. "I am not presuming to frighten you. I just tell you a fact. Also, I am trying to avoid wasting time in anger—as you are so tired."
"Let's have it then," said Craig.
"Your orders were to stay somewhere discreet, quiet. I find you in a big hotel. You use the bar and the dining room. You go to cafes and nightclubs.
You are seen all over the town."
"I thought you'd have us followed," said Craig. "Didn't want Boris to have to keep making phone calls, I suppose. Embarrassing, pretending you have to go to the toilet all the time."
"Don't underestimate Boris. He did as he was told."
"I guessed he would," said Craig. "And if he didn't I'd have gone anyway."
"But why, Craig? You are known here. It could be awkward for you." Craig was silent. "You wish to be seen, don't you?" Again he didn't answer. "Loomis told you to cooperate," she said.
"We're taking a bank," said Craig. "All right. But our cover is we're tourists. And tourists tour."
"Brodski could have seen you," she said. "Or Simmons."
She made no mention of Hornsey, and Craig scarcely noticed.
"Simmons is here?" he asked.
"He and his daughter arrived tonight. They're staying at Brodski's villa. You have orders about Simmons."
"I'm to kill him," said Craig.
"After we have robbed the bank. You're in too much of a hurry." Again the long look, but angry this time. "I don't like that. It makes for carelessness." His impassiveness was absolute. "Why be so stupid, Craig?"
"You've got your orders, too. I bet they say he has to die."
She sighed. There was a fury in the man, an upsurge of personal rage that had nothing to do with the job. She sensed it at once, and was wary. Her only chance was to use it.
"We will take the money tomorrow," she said. "Your people have the escape route?" Craig nodded. "You will tell it to me, please."
He told her. There was a fast cruiser in the yacht club. Its owner was away, and to steal it at night was simple, particularly as the owner had orders that it should be stolen . . . She listened intently, and was pleased.
"That is your planning?" Craig nodded. "It is good. We wish this to look like a crime. And Istvan has a criminal record."
Craig grinned. "I didn't think Istvan was supposed to have a happy ending."
"He is a traitor," Tania said. "Traitors cannot expect to live—if they are caught." She hesitated. "Brodski also should die. The timing will be difficult. And it won't look like a robbery, either."
"We'll take them with us," said Craig. "Kill them at sea. That way it'll look as if they'd done a bunk with their own money."
She examined the idea, and found it flawless.
"Now you are thinking," she said. "That is really very good."
"You'll be coming with us?" Craig asked.
"I must," she said. "I am Brodski's fiancee." Craig started at that, and she laughed. "It was love at first sight. Very romantic—just what one would expect from a Pole. I was here when he arrived, you see. A Polish refugee, persecuted by the wicked Russians. How I escaped from them is a tremendous adventure. You would not like it very much, I think. You have no sensibility."
"None," said Craig.
"Also you do not like women."
"What makes you think so?"
"Because I am a woman." She hesitated. "No. That is the sort of stupidity I keep for Brodski. Because I have been trained to make men like me, and want me, and I cannot reach you though I have tried very hard."
"It's not important," said Craig. "I'll get you out and I'll kill Simmons for you."
"And Brodski?"
Craig shrugged.
"Maybe it is better if Boris killed Brodski—and Istvan," she said. "We cannot use Istvan as evidence if we use your idea, but he must still die."
"Just as you like," said Craig.
"There is one more thing," said Tania. "I wish you to stop speaking Arabic to servants. That is how they tell you what is happening, is it not?"
"That's how," said Craig. "The porter told me you had come in here."
"How unkind," said Tania. "After I had bribed him not to. He is one of yours then?"
"No," said Craig. "I just offered him more money." He paused. "I'll stop speaking Arabic if you'll stop having me followed."
"I
agree," she said. "And you'll stay here tomorrow?"
"Most of the time," Craig said. "I've got to lay on the powerboat."
She nodded. "I'll call Boris tomorrow and arrange about the bank. You will be ready as soon as it is dark."
"All right," he said. "But tell me one thing. Why have you people bothered to work with us at all?
Why not just do it yourselves?"
"We needed you to take us to Simmons," she said, and watched for a reaction to the name, but his face stayed closed. "We knew he existed, of course, but not who he was. Also, if things go wrong, we shall need you to get us out." He said nothing. "You can do that?"
"After I've fixed Simmons," he said.
She came up to him and kissed him on the
mouth, her lips and tongue a skillful torment. He
made no move.
"No," she said. "You do not like women at all." * * *
The nursing home was expensive. Its doctors were all consultants, its nurses not only qualified but pretty, its furniture of the kind that belongs to the newer luxury hotels. Loomis found it oppressive and said so. He didn't like mobiles, or Utrillo prints, or flowers arranged as if they were objects to be disliked, and he detested the receptionist in a mini skirt, no matter how flawless her legs. He began to indulge his anger, and three minutes later they were alone with Airlie, the nurse who had admitted them ruthlessly removed.
Airlie wore a black silk dressing gown like a kimono, white silk pajamas, white slippers. The bandage round his head looked like a turban. Wetherly salaamed.
"Who the hell are you?" Airlie asked.
"We're friends," said Loomis. "By God we must be to go to all this trouble."
His hand groped in his pocket and came out bearing a crumpled letter.
"Have a look at that," he said. "Credentials."
Airlie read it and looked at them, his face wary.
"Don't tell me you're—agents," he said.
"Nothing so grand," said Loomis. "I'm a civil servant. My friend here's a doctor."
