The Money That Money Can't Buy c-3

by James Munro

  He turned to Wetherly. "Go over him. Make it look official."

  Wetherly went over him.

  "It's a question of what the hell you think you're playing at, d'you see," said Loomis. "Mucking around with Simmons."

  "I'm engaged to his daughter," Airlie said.

  "You tried to beat up a feller," said Loomis.

  The earl touched the bandage Wetherly was re-fastening.

  "I ended up with this," he said.

  "The other feller ended up with a bit more," said Loomis.

  "I could do with a bit of good news. Tell me about it."

  Loomis told him about it, and Airlie turned as white as his bandage.

  "I don't believe it," he said at last.

  "I do," said Wetherly. "I treated him."

  "But-but why should Simmons—"

  "Two reasons," said Loomis. "He's a sadist, and the other feller had information." He refrained, carefully, from any mention of Jane.

  "One of yours?" asked Airlie.

  "One of mine. You'd better tell it, son."

  Airlie said: "Simmons called it a crusade. To stop communism. We pooled our resources—for me that was mostly brawn, I suppose, till your chap came along. But he had others—bankers, lawyers, those sorts of chaps. They had brains. Expert knowledge. The idea was to use that knowledge. Against Russia." "How?" asked Loomis.

  "Bits in his papers, on his TV station. The brains would work on information Simmons got from somewhere and use it to knock Russia. That was all."

  "This somewhere," said Loomis. "Was it a chap called Brodski?" Airlie looked stubborn.

  "Look," Loomis said. "I know you think the secrets of the Black Hand Gang are sacred, but they're not. It's too bloody serious for that."

  "I gave my word," said the earl.

  Loomis turned to Wetherly.

  "Well, good for him," he said savagely. "He gave his word. I suppose that means we better go." He scowled at Airlie. "Look, son, I'm doing you a favor. I could have sent the chap Simmons worked on to ask the questions. Or had you forgotten about him?"

  "I don't understand that," Airlie said. "According to Simmons, Zelko and I just had to knock him out and search him."

  "He wanted you in deep," said Loomis. "So deep you could never get out."

  "But why?" Airlie asked.

  "He wants a war," said Loomis. "Cold or hot, it's all the same, so long as it is war. The West on one side, Russia on the other. Tension and isolation—on and on for ever."

  "But why on earth—"

  "We think we know now," Wetherly said. "He was in Yugoslavia during the war. Had a girl there.

  The Russians captured her village and raped her until she died. The village was anti-Communist, you see. Simmons found her after they'd finished."

  "He wants revenge," said Loomis. "The whole of Russia for one girl. Just like Brodski wants revenge for Poland the way it used to be. Only they're not worried about who's innocent and who's guilty. They want the lot. They want arrests and trials and blockades and incidents. They want uprisings in Prague and Leipzig and Warsaw. They want us involved, and Western Europe and the United States. And at the end of it all they want war."

  "But good God," said the earl, "Simmons never even hinted—it sounded like a good idea, you know. Keeping Russia in bounds. Showing her up. And anyway," he said, "what possible use could I be in a scheme like that?"

  "How much money have you got?" asked Loomis.

  "On me?" asked Airlie. "Do you need some?" Loomis began to turn red, and Wetherly rushed

  in.

  "How much are you worth?" he said.

  "Oh," said the earl. "Oh, I see. Hard to say really. They reckon about four million." He frowned. "I wouldn't have let him have any, you know. Not for that."

  "He'd allowed for that," said Loomis. "If he hadn't got you hooked on the crusade he could always blackmail you."

  "Blackmail me?"

  "You're like a bloody echo," said Loomis. "Of course blackmail. When you went to bed with the bird he found you he took pictures." Airlie turned scarlet. "And he would have involved you in the torture too. You keen on his daughter?" Airlie nodded. "He'd use that as well." He paused a moment. The earl had leaned back in his chair and Wetherly took his pulse, then nodded.

  "I think you better tell us everything," said Loomis. "Make us all feel better."

  Airlie swallowed hard, then began to talk.

  16

  The yacht club was smart, white-painted, chic, with silent-footed servants, tall, cool drinks, and a yacht basin full of the world's most expensive toys. Craig had a visitor's membership already made out for him, and walked into the bar easy and relaxed. He had half finished his Scotch before the man who was tailing him appeared. Craig wondered if he'd had to make a phone call. He was a chunky, relaxed little man, with a lot of friends at the bar. Craig had no doubt he enjoyed his drink. It was a hot day . . .Then suddenly he had a friend at the bar, too. Esteban. In the old days he had been a Spanish smuggler. Now he was a citizen of Morocco, a respected businessman who hired boats on charter. They bought each other drinks, and talked about old times. He looked at the yachts in the basin, staring out through the picture-frame windows.

  "Lovely," he said. "Aren't they lovely? The stuff we could have run in them. Look at that one." He gestured to a beautiful twin-diesel painted white, with glittering brasswork. "Belongs to a man called Carter. He's in Meknes. Having it overhauled for a trip." Indeed he is, thought Craig. A trip with a mil-

  lion. And as he looked at Esteban it was as though fifteen years had never been, and he was a much younger Craig, marveling how Esteban was always first with information and never able to use it properly.

  "It looks like the fastest thing here," said Craig.

  "Just about," said Esteban. "There's another that's almost as good. Belongs to an Arab called Medani."

  Craig put down his glass. His hand was quite steady.

  "Where is it?" he asked.

  "Out I expect," Esteban said. "Medani's a poor sailor. Gets seasick. He lends it to a Pole called Brodski. Staying at the Villa Florida. He goes out with a woman—such a woman."

  Craig endured a lovingly accurate description of Tania, then Esteban said: "I came here looking for you." Craig said nothing. "You are not surprised?"

  "Nothing surprises me in Tangier," said Craig.

  "Fuad is chief of police now. You remember Fuad?" Craig did indeed. "He said he'd heard you were here." Craig didn't waste time asking how Fuad had heard. "He gave me a message for you. Said you were welcome. But you weren't to start anything."

  "I'm only here for a week," said Craig. "This is a holiday, Esteban. The old days are finished."

  "That's true." Esteban sighed.

  "Tell Fuad I said so," said Craig. "And now I have to go."

  He turned from the bar and as he did so the chunky, relaxed little man bumped into him, clutched his lapel for support, apologized, and left.

  "Who on earth was that?" asked Craig.

  "I have no idea," said Esteban, who had begun life as a pimp, matured as a thief, and made his fortune as a smuggler. "Nowadays they let anybody in here."

  Craig walked out of the bar. The relaxed little man was waiting, and fell in behind him at once. Craig walked along the short pier that led to the shore road, then took a taxi to the Casbah. The relaxed little man followed him there in a private car that contained two of his friends, and Craig lost all three of them in ten minutes. It is impossible to tail a man in the Casbah if he knows it and doesn't want to be tailed. Craig shouldered his way through a crowd that was watching a snake charmer who'd just been bitten by his star performer and was about to light straw with the venom; dodged a man with a rack holding perhaps a hundred sandals; old women selling eggs, tomatoes, live chickens; a man with a brass pot of lemonade. By then only the relaxed little man was left, and his relaxed air had left him. Craig lost him in a maze of side streets: tailors', silversmiths', potters'. He ducked back then, and came out of the Casbah nea
r the Spanish cathedral, then found a garage that rented cars. For fifty pounds he was given an elderly Chevrolet for three days, and the tiresome formality of passports was waived. A policeman directed him to the Villa Florida. It was on the Asilah road, in a brand-new estate gratifyingly near the king's most northern palace. Craig drove there quickly, and with a growing respect for the Chevrolet. Its appearance might be deplorable, but its engine had plenty of stamina left.

  The Villa Florida and its garden covered about a half a block of a wide, palm-shaded street. Craig drove past it, and parked under the shade of a palm. The villa had wrought-iron gates, and a ten-foot fence of iron stakes. There was a porter at the gate, armed with what looked like a walking stick; but often, Craig remembered, those sticks too were made of iron. He walked down the road, then round to the back of the gardens. The fence there was just as high, and behind it in the garden were dwarf palms, then flowering shrubs. Craig looked out for alarm wires. There were none, and he scaled the fence, moved past the palms, and into the shelter of the shrubs, moving as he had been taught, without a sound, until he came at last to a gap in the shrubs and looked down into the garden.

  It was of the Arab kind that delighted in shaded walks, islands of flowers, and tiny fountains, and in its center was the swimming pool, which is now obligatory for every rich man in a warm climate. Jane Simmons in a yellow bikini lay at the pool's edge and watched as her father dived from a springboard, swam to her in a fast crawl, and hauled himself out beside her.

  "Marvelous, darling," she said.

  Craig stared -at the man who had hurt him, studying every line, every muscle of his body, and there was greed in his stare, almost a kind of lust. He was about to leave when a man came out of the villa and walked over to Simmons. Craig saw the quick movement of Simmons's hand that sent Jane scurrying to shield her body from him in a yellow terrycloth robe. The new man was Chinese. His glance ignored Jane as she walked past him toward the villa. He was intent only on Simmons. Craig wondered what Sir Matthew Chinn would make of the fact that Jane wore yellow so often.

  "We should not talk here," said the Chinese.

  "I like the open air," said Simmons. "No one can hear us."

  "Someone could hide over there," said the Chinese, and pointed to where Craig lay hidden.

  "There's a guard there," said Simmons, and Craig froze. The Chinese looked satisfied and began to talk, and Craig, guard or no guard, listened. This was big stuff indeed, the biggest he had ever heard. After a moment he eased out, testing every touch of hand and foot before he risked his weight, until at last he could crouch, and look for the guard. He saw a foot at last, protruding from a dry ditch, and moved carefully to it, peering over the edge of the ditch, ready to dive before the man could yell. He was a big man, rather negroid, and he was fast asleep. Craig slithered down the ditch and looked at him. The man didn't move. There was an empty food dish beside him, and a water bottle. Craig spoke softly, then shook the man, but still he slept. Drugged. Craig shook the water bottle. There was still some in it. He poured it on to the ground and the thirsty earth received it avidly. Soon it would disappear completely. Craig looked back toward the bushes, and behind them the murmur of voices, and wished he had been able to carry a gun.

  * * *

  Boris and Istvan were by the hotel pool, in swimsuits. Craig changed and joined them. They sat beneath a beach umbrella, and talked with Tania, who looked luscious and terrifying at the same time in a green sundress exactly the color of her eyes. She turned to Istvan at once and said: "Go and swim."

  Istvan seemed to go from his chair into the pool in one movement; on his face was a look compounded of terror, bewilderment, and passion, like a rabbit in love with a stoat.

  "You went to the Villa Florida," she said. "After all I told you—"

  Craig said: "Cut it out. You knew I would go. You set it up for me. You knew it last night, when you told me Simmons was here. You kept Brodski out of the way this morning—and you slipped some knock-out drops to the guard in the back of the garden. Which was it—the food or the water?"

  "The water," Tania said. "If they have it analyzed—"

  "They won't," said Craig. "I poured it away." She looked pleased. "You also had one of your tails check to see if I had a gun. I hadn't. If I had I suppose you'd have stopped me."

  "He can't die yet," said Tania. "First the money."

  "I could have killed him anyway," said Craig. Boris looked at him then, a careful speculation in his eyes.

  "Why did you let me go there?" said Craig.

  "To learn the way in," she said. "You and Boris must go back tonight."

  Craig nodded. "You been there?"

  "With Brodski. To the villa only. Not to the garden."

  "Meet the Chinaman?"

  So far her manner had been easy, the movement of her hands pretty and flirtatious, a woman on holiday having a drink with two men. Now one hand came down on his forearm, pink nails nipped.

  "What Chinaman?" she said.

  Craig looked down at her hand, and she took it away at once.

  "Simmons called him Chan," said Craig. "Little man. About fifty. Limped on his left foot."

  "I know him," said Tania. "Go on."

  Craig looked again at his arm. There was a hairline of blood where her nail had struck. "He doesn't like you," said Craig. "Any of you. You betrayed the revolution, and Lenin and Stalin, and Marx, too, for that matter. Worst of all—you betrayed Chairman Mao."

  Boris said: "It isn't part of your agreement for you to mock my country."

  Tania spat out Russian and he shrugged, but he stayed angry.

  "Chan wishes you to look foolish," said Craig. "He knows a way."

  "Go on," said Tania. "Go on."

  "Next week Russia is sending a Sputnik to the moon," said Craig. "It will have men on it. It will land on the moon."

  Tania and Boris sat frozen.

  "You didn't know this?" asked Craig.

  "Of course not," said Tania. "Go on."

  "The thing is, it won't go to the moon at all. It'll land in New Mexico."

  "But that's impossible," said Boris.

  "Nothing's impossible if you pay a million pounds," said Craig.

  "But who will they bribe?" asked Tania.

  "It's been done," said Craig. "And they didn't say. It'll look like a breakdown, I suppose. The computer will be programmed wrongly. General ball-up. Crash landing. And the astronauts come out in the U.S.A. Won't that be funny? Your president ringing up their president and saying, 'Please, can we have our Sputnik back?' "

  "A Russian wouldn't do it," said Tania.

  "Maybe," said Craig. "But are they all Russians on that project? No East Germans, no Poles, no Czechs? Or Mongolians, say—blokes in touch with China?" He paused. Boris was sweating now. "There's another thing," he said. "Suppose it isn't funny? Suppose your blokes think the Americans set it up? Would you go to war for a Sputnik, Boris?"

  "Not just for that," said Boris. "But if there were other things—"

  "There will be," said Craig.

  "If there were, Simmons would die," said Tania.

  "He'd be in China," said Craig. "He'd have a chance."

  "But Brodski never told me—I mean, he didn't have this knowledge. Or I would have known."

  "Brodski doesn't know," said Craig.

  "I must tell my people at once," said Tania.

  "I agree," said Craig. "But will they believe you?"

  He got up then, and dived into the pool. Istvan swam up to him in a frenzied dog paddle.

  "Mr. Craig, forgive me, but I have very little time," he said.

  "Of course," said Craig.

  "I think—after the job—that Boris will kill me."

  "I think so too," said Craig.

  They swam across the pool and sat on its side. Beneath the umbrella, Tania and Boris talked with furious concentration.

  "In Siberia I didn't mind if I died," Istvan said. "But now I have seen women again—real women. Last night wa
s too much. I refuse to die now, Mr. Craig."

  "Good for you," Craig said. "How are you going to do it?"

  "Best I should kill Boris," said Istvan.

  "I'm afraid not," Craig said. "I'd have to stop you."

  "But I'm working for you," Istvan wailed.

  "You are, on Boris's strength," said Craig. "And Tania's of course. You'll have to take it up with them."

  He dived back into the water, and swam across. At the table the whispered Russian words went on. Craig permitted himself a cigarette.

  Tania said: "I must send this message." Craig nodded. "But it's so difficult. General Chelichev— there are people, important people, who do not like his idea that we should work with you."

  "I bet there are," said Craig.

  "These people will say that you lie."

  "That seems inevitable."

  "Craig, please. Is there any way at all to prove what you have said?"

  "There's Chan," said Craig.

  "There is also Simmons," said Boris.

  "Simmons will die," said Craig.

  "No," said Tania. "We must have Simmons alive."

  "Chan's all you need, surely," said Craig.

  "Chan is on a diplomatic mission here. He stays with the governor. He has immunity. It will be hard for us to get to him, just now at any rate. Simmons is much easier."

  Craig rose. "It's time for my nap," he said.

  "You will stay," said Boris. "You must."

  "I'm sorry," said Craig. "My psychiatrist says I have to have a nap every now and then. This is one of the times. Too bad I can't help you with Simmons—but there it is. He really has to die." He started to go, then turned. "I suppose you'll be having the Villa Florida watched. As a matter of fact, we are too, now that we know where it is."

  The ceiling was high, the room cool, and Craig lay on his back, hands by his sides, absorbed in the height, the coolness, letting his mind float above his problems in the tall, shuttered room. The great thing about Chan's scheme was that it didn't have to work. Even if the men to be bribed were blown the Russians would still be very angry indeed, and their anger would be directed against the United States. That was all China cared about. Simmons would want rather more for his millions; so if the thing was blown now—but that raised its own problems. Tania believed him when he said that Russian security would hardly be pleased about information from a British agent. Nothing could persuade the Russians that Department K—or any other department—didn't work for Washington, so the best that Craig could hope for was that the Russians would think he was a defector, in which case they would still suspect the United States. Chelichev had had a hard time establishing the existence of BC: there were plenty of men in the Kremlin who still denied its existence. The only safe thing was to take the money, and get rid of Simmons. Tania could try kidnapping Chan if she wanted to, but even in terms of expediency, it would be better if Simmons died. He stared again at the ceiling, but his mind refused to float any more. The checks Sir Matthew Chinn had built into his psyche took over. He knew he was lying. Tania needed Simmons. She had to have him. Brodski wouldn't do. He didn't know enough. Chan might be unobtainable. Simmons was the only one. Simmons alive. Craig began to sweat as he resisted what his reason told him. But there was no other answer. Simmons had to live. Once the fact was accepted, he began to think about Istvan, about the robbery, about Medani. His mind reviewed the coastline around Tangier, the place where the power launch would wait, the second line of retreat up the coast if anything went wrong. First the money, then Simmons. Brodski would be at the villa too, and Jane. It would be dangerous to take them all alive. And yet to kill them wouldn't