by James Munro
Boris scrambled down into the safe. Istvan had the cases drawn up in a neat row, but Craig made Istvan open one. They seemed almost too heavy to contain paper, but they did. A hundred and ten bundles of one-thousand-Deutschmark bills, a hundred bills to the bundle. Eleven million Deutschmarks, crisp and clean from the printer.
"It is almost too beautiful," said Istvan. "Really, people should take better care of their property."
17
She was waiting by the hole in the wall. As Craig came through the Makarov disappeared into her pocket and she helped drag out the suitcases, then went up to bring the Mercedes nearer. The men carried them up into the hall, waiting. They heard the sound of a key searching for a lock, and moved into the shadow as a fat and very drunken man staggered in and went toward the stairs. Boris's hand moved toward his coat, and Craig shook his head. The fat man lunged at the banister, caught it at last and began ponderously to climb. They waited until he turned the corner of the stairs, then heard a thud, followed by a woman's voice spraying Spanish like bursts from a machine gun. "Let's go," said Craig.
Outside the Merc waited, and they loaded it with the cases, and Istvan's tools.
"What now?" Boris asked.
Tania said: "Simmons. I have worked out a plan. It should be possible, I think."
She began to talk as she drove, and Craig agreed with her. It should be possible. Only Istvan was excluded, and that made him very happy. To wait
in the car was the height of his ambition.
They drove to where Craig had left the rented car, then Craig took its wheel and Tania sat in the back. Behind them Boris and Istvan followed in the Merc. She said nothing until they reached the street where the villa was, and when she did speak at last, her voice was worried.
"Remember, Craig, I must have Simmons alive."
"I remember," said Craig. She looked back out of the window. The Merc was still following.
"You're really leaving Istvan behind?" Craig asked.
"He can't steal that car," Tania said. "Nobody can—not without tools. And his are in the boot, with the money. Istvan won't go without money."
Then he pulled up outside the villa, and honked the horn. A watchman came up out of the darkness as Tania fumbled in a purse, handing Craig money.
Craig said in Arabic: "This lady is expected."
The watchman stared at her, then began to open the gate. As he did so, Craig began to explain in English why he could not wait for her. The gate opened, and Tania walked in, the Craig called: "You've forgotten this," and moved forward. The watchman turned too late, half lifting his iron club. Craig's blow was already on the way. He fell at once and Craig caught him, dragged him into the shadows, then put his hands behind his back and took piano wire from his pocket. From further down the street he could hear Boris's hurrying footsteps. He finished tying up the watchman as Boris joined him in the shadows. Tania walked down the path, and the two men moved alongside her, in cover, then sped to the steps that led to the villa's door, and stood waiting, one on each side. Tania looked quickly from one to the other, then pressed the bell. A burly Arab in a djibbah opened the door and said at once: "Good evening, madame."
Tania said: "There has been an accident, I think. Your watchman—" "Yes, madame?"
"He seems to have been attacked." She turned and pointed. "Just over there."
The burly Arab called out, then he and another Arab came out through the door. The sound of flesh meeting flesh was very small in the darkness, and both Craig and Boris caught their victims before they could fall, tied them with piano wire, took away the pistol each man carried as Tania walked into the hallway. They followed, their shoes noiseless on the floor's inevitable marble, then moved to the door behind which was the sound of voices to stand again one on each side, guns in their hands. Craig noticed the swell of Tania's splendid breast as she breathed in—she gave no other sign of fear. Then she opened the door and walked in, leaving the door open behind her. There was a split second for her to choose the words that would tell them how to act. "Forgive me," meant go ahead; "Excuse me" meant get out quick.
"Forgive me," said Tania. "I know it's late—"
Craig went in fast, pushing Tania clear as he leaped to one side. There were three men in the room: Simmons, Brodski, and Medani. Their look of surprise at the sight of Craig was perfectly genuine. For a moment it seemed almost a scene of
farce, so intense it was.
"Tania," said Brodski. "What on earth—" He looked at Craig. "The man who fought with Jennifer," he said.
"Is that all you know about me?" Craig asked. Simmons moved at last, and the gun followed him hungrily. He stayed very still. From where he stood Craig could see Boris in the doorway.
He said: "I don't have to tell anybody not to move." Their stillness was no longer comic; it was full of terror.
"Keep your hands where I can see them," said Craig, and they obeyed him.
Brodski said: "I don't understand why you should be with him. You—a Pole—"
Tania said: "I'm a Russian."
Brodski had lived all his life on instant decisions. As a fencing champion in Cracow, as a fighter pilot, as a club owner, learning when to fight and when to bribe, and as a spy, buying information in London; always it had been the moment of absolute certainty that counted. He made a decision now. This woman whom he adored had him marked for death. He would not die alone.
He dropped suddenly to one side, and his hand moved to his pocket. Craig and Boris fired together, and Brodski died, with a Smith and Wesson bullet in his right shoulder and a Makarov bullet in the heart. He fell very close to Tania. She did not look at him. Her eyes were on Simmons. When he saw Craig's gun swing to Brodski, Simmons had risen, but the barrel was pointing at him again, and he was still.
"Your daughter in bed?" asked Craig.
"Yes," said Simmons.
"Anybody else here?"
Simmons shook his head.
"Watch the door," Craig said to Boris. "Keep the girl out of here."
Boris looked at Tania, and she nodded. He left.
Medani said: "Are we all to die?"
"It's possible," said Craig.
"Because if so I should like time to pray," said Medani.
"Pray then," said Craig, and Medani did so, his lips moving. Tania looked at him in wonder, then began to go through a desk in the room, turning out papers.
"May one ask what you're looking for?" Simmons asked.
"Not your money," said Craig. "We've got that already. All of it. Out of Credit Labonne."
The news shook Simmons. He rocked back on his heels, then came in again.
"In exchange for your manhood?" he asked.
Craig chuckled, pushed his gun into the waistband of his trousers. "I wonder what you hope to get by making me mad. A quick death?"
There was the sound of Jane's voice outside the door, calling out to her father.
"You'd better answer her," said Craig.
Simmons took a step forward.
"Everything's all right," he shouted. "Go up to your room."
"But there's a man here with a gun. And I heard a shot."
"Thieves," said Simmons, moving closer to the door. "They ran away. Go to your room."
He was now very close to Craig. Medani stopped praying. Behind them Tania still searched through the bureau. Deliberately Craig half turned away from Medani. It was the chance they had been waiting for, the system that Zelko and Simmons had used when they—when they—Craig closed his mind to what had happened and concentrated on the practice session in the cellar. That was how it would be. Medani slumped forward in his chair, crouched like a runner, feet tensed for a spring. Craig looked again at Tania, and Simmons moved.
His fist curled up from his side, aimed at Craig's neck, but Craig was already leaping away from him, hands grabbing for Medani as he came out of the chair, clutching his arm, pulling him into the three-fingered strike that slammed into his stomach, spinning him round to spoil Simmons's atta
ck, the young Arab clutching at Simmons for support before Craig's final blow cracked to the back of his neck and he fell. Simmons leaped over him, and Craig swung his head aside just in time from a punch aimed at the throat, then his own return blow was countered and Simmons threw him, then leaped after. Craig rolled away from a kick that would have killed him, then flicked a blow at Simmons's outstretched foot, making him stumble as Craig scrambled up again. They faced each other, and Craig could see no fear in Simmons's eyes, only the boiling hate that can take a man to a lightning victory, or betray him into disaster. Simmons's hand, held flat, swept at his shoulder, seeking the collarbone, and Craig swerved, wary for the second blow that would follow the feint. It was a fist strike, the one he wanted, and Craig grabbed the fist, his hands locking round it in a clean smack, using Simmons's own momentum, pulling him into the bar of his outstretched leg so that he dived at the wall. Even then the man's reflexes were fantastic, as he hit the wall spinning, his head tucked in, arms in front of him to take the blow, cushioning the shock so that he could leap straight back. But this time Craig too had moved, and it was his foot that shot out, leg rigid from thigh to ankle, slamming into Simmons's body even as he leaped. A terrible blow, its force carefully controlled, worked out in exact accord with the vengeance Craig had to have. It took Simmons in the groin, and the fight was over. Simmons lay on the floor and screamed until Craig went to him, hauled him up, and struck again. Then he was silent.
Tania said: "That is all, Craig. You will not touch him again."
Craig looked at her. The Makarov was back in her hand. From the doorway he could hear Boris's voice as he stood and looked down on Simmons.
"We have been kind to you," Boris said. "Be satisfied."
"Do you know what he did to me?" asked Craig.
Tania looked down at Simmons. Even unconscious, he was in agony.
"We don't know," she said. "We don't want to know. But whatever it was, you have paid him."
Craig turned to Medani, now struggling to his feet, his hands pressed to his stomach.
"What about him?" he said. "And the girl?"
"The girl's locked in her room," Boris said. "We don't need this one." He smiled and raised the
Makarov. "And he has said his prayers." Craig said: "We'll have him." "Alive?" asked Tania.
"His father is important," said Craig. "No doubt he'll do a lot to get his son back unharmed."
Tania's head came up and he added quickly: "You've got Simmons after all. That just leaves the girl."
"We don't need her," said Tania. "But we can't leave her here."
Craig said: "I'll take her, too."
"Such chivalry," Tania said. Craig shrugged.
"She might be useful," he said. "She's her father's heir." He turned to Medani. "We will speak in English," he said.
Medani groaned, and rubbed his stomach.
"I feel as if I had been stabbed," he said. "What did you hit me with?"
"This," said Craig, and held up his three fingers. "You're lucky. I used my foot on Simmons."
Medani looked down at the man on the floor. His face showed the fatalism of a race that knew defeat inevitably meant death at best; at worst torture, mutilation, not only for the loser but for everyone connected with him. It had always been so; it could be no different now.
"You won," he said. "We lost." He looked at Boris. "Why do you not let this man kill me?"
"You fool," Craig said. "You stupid bloody fool." The proud head came up to the whip of his voice, arrogant even in defeat.
"Don't you understand yet?" said Craig. "Why did you join Simmons?"
"He and Brodski were going to save us from the
Russians," Medani said. "We do not want communism here. Simmons would keep it out."
"By letting the Chinese in?"
The arrogance turned to a childish bewilderment.
"He would not—" Medani began. "A man called Chan was here yesterday," said Craig.
"He's staying with the governor. My father would not meet him," said Medani.
"Simmons did. I saw him. I heard him. He'll give Chan anything he wants—for help against Russia."
"You lie," said Medani.
Tania said: "No. It's all here. Among his papers. May he see?"
Craig nodded, and watched the birth of disillusion as the young man read. At last he raised his face, and there was no hope in it at all.
"He told us it was to be a crusade," said Medani. "We were fighting for Islam, he said. Our way of life. Our history." He turned to the unconscious figure and spat. "We fought only for him."
"We'd better let your father know," said Craig, and turned to Tania. "I'll have to stay," he said. "This is important."
"You may be caught," she said.
Craig's hand weighed down on Medani's shoulder.
"I am this man's guest," he said.
* * *
He went up to the bedroom. She lay on the bed, seeing nothing, feeling nothing, the little bottle still clasped in her hands. Craig strode over to her, twitched it from her fingers. The bottle was almost full. He sighed his relief and hauled her upright, then his hand cracked against her cheeks, left and right, till she whimpered and her eyes opened.
"I couldn't," she said. "I wanted to, but I couldn't." Her fingers moved up to her cheeks as the pain came to her. "Did you kill Daddy?"
"No," said Craig. "He's going on a trip."
"A long one?"
"He's never coming,back."
She said: "I know what he did to you ... Will I see him?"
"No," said Craig.
She began to cry then, and he left her. It was time to talk to Istvan. He took the Merc's keys with him.
He was still in the car, and beside him sat an earnest young man in a crumpled lightweight suit. The two of them were talking furiously in German.
"Mr. Hornsey," said Craig. "How nice to see you."
"Nice to see you," said Hornsey. "At least I hope so. The trouble is—it's the money, you see. Simmons's money, I mean."
"Our money," said Craig.
"Well, our money really," said Hornsey. "At least not even ours. Not really. Oh, I better explain. My name's not Hornsey by the way. It's Heinze. I'm a German, Mr. Craig. At least my father was— my mother's British. I work for the Defense of the Constitution. I was controller for Driver. We hired him to work for us too."
"To find forged twenty-dollar bills?"
"No," said Hornsey, "to find forged Deutschmarks. The dollars were just bait. Unfortunately they made poor Driver greedy. You have the Deutschmarks, Mr. Craig. A million pounds' worth."
"Oh my God," said Craig, and began to laugh.
"It gets better," said Istvan bitterly. "Guess who made the plates."
"They made two actually," said Hornsey. "A twenty-dollar bill and a hundred-Deutschmark note."
"Who did?" said Craig.
"The Russians," said Hornsey, and Craig began to laugh once more.
"It was done during the cold war," Hornsey said. "They got the idea from a scheme of Hitler's during the war—forged five-pound notes to wreck the British economy, you remember?" Craig nodded. "The Russians were going to do the same —against us and the Americans. For some reason or other they didn't use it, but Brodski's agents found the man who had the plates. He defected, and they bought them from him, made the money and stored it here. The twenty-dollar bill was poor —Simmons only made a few and got rid of them."
"Calvet got hold of one," said Craig.
"So did we," said Hornsey. "Driver used it to reach Brodski. It was very foolish of him. But the Deutschmark was excellent. We cannot allow it to be used, Mr. Craig. It would make West Germany look foolish."
The sacred symbol, Craig thought. The god who must not be mocked.
"What do you want us to do?" he asked.
"Destroy them," said Craig.
"Destroy a million?" said Istvan. There was horror in his voice.
"I'll see," said Craig.
* * *
&n
bsp; He told them what Hornsey had said, and at first they hadn't believed him, but when at last they did, Tania had laughed, Boris had drunk brandy, and Medani had continued to brood on the wickedness that Craig had only just prevented him from committing. Compared with that, a mere million was of no interest. Tania and Boris looked at the specimens he had bought, compared them with the genuine article Hornsey had given him. The differences were minute, but they existed. Tania rolled up a forged note, flicked a table lighter to it, lit a cigarette, and watched the note crumple into ash in her fingers, then dropped it into the ashtray.
"In a way I'm glad," she said. "After all, we're not criminals, Craig."
He looked at the dead Brodski, at Simmons writhing in a coma.
"No," said Craig. "What criminal would behave as we do?"
He sent Medani for Jane then, gave him the keys of the Chevrolet, and told him to take the girl to his father's house in Tangier. Then he went back to the Mercedes, drove it to the villa gates, and waited as Boris loaded Simmons into the car.
"We've given him a shot," Tania said. "He won't be any trouble." She smiled at Hornsey. "Nor will we, young man, not if you destroy that money. Our government might find it embarrassing."
"It will be destroyed, I promise," Hornsey said.
"Let's go then."
Craig drove them out of the town, and along the road that led to Ceuta. The launch was waiting offshore, and in the Atlantic, off Gibraltar, the inevitable Russian trawler waited for it. They would be home in a week, Tania promised, and Comrade-General Chelichev would be delighted to see them, and Simmons. With his evidence the next space shot would be a success.
"We are grateful to you," she said. "The comrade-general will tell your chief so."
"Thanks," said Craig.
"It will be easy for you to get out?" Tania asked.
"Medani will fix it," said Craig. "He'll alibi Istvan and me for the night. Then we'll go to visit his father. We'll be okay with him."
He pulled up on the roadside. The sea was a black line against a smudge of sand which in daylight was a blinding white. There was a dinghy with an outboard beached, and behind it, out to sea, port and starboard lights glowing like jewels, a power boat waited.
