by James Munro
He had no doubt that Schiebel would be good. The Russians had trained him, and their only standard was perfection. Warily he circled, watching the knife point, waiting, waiting, and his mind took him back to Andraki, and it was Stavros that he faced. Schiebel laughed again, and there was madness in his laughter as well as cruelty, and Craig waited a little longer. Then Schiebel leaped in, the knife point swung in a great arc from knee to chest, and Craig had swerved outside it, his left hand slammed out, punching for Schiebel's knife arm. But Schiebel, slender, lightning fast, had spun with the knife blow, twisted like a dancer beyond Craig's arm, then checked and came in again. Craig's knife hand moved just in time, parrying the blow, and again Schiebel danced back, then aimed a karate kick at Craig's kneecap. Craig gasped. Even the thickness of the boot he wore couldn't protect him completely. He limped now as he waited, limped, and moved too slowly, for this time Schiebel's knife point ripped a gash down his cheek from ear to chin. Craig remembered the "give to take" technique that Stavros had taught him. The pain in his knee warned him that it was all he had left. But Stavros was no better than this man, and Craig was tired. Yet in the end, all his fights had been a gamble, as this one must be. If he had to lose, it might as well be now.
He faced Schiebel too squarely, limping as the blond man moved, offering too wide a target. This time he watched Schiebel's eyes, gambling that they would warn him when he would move. They were very blue, very Nordic eyes, wide and clear; the eyes of a boy who had looked on Hitler and adored him; the eyes of a man who had been taught never to love, to honor, to share, ever again. Eyes that looked only to destroy. Suddenly they narrowed, and Craig swerved at once, and Schiebel leaped, the knife blade ripped through the heavy cloth of the uniform, and Craig felt pain like a thread of fire across his chest and struck back under Schiebel's ribs, and Schiebel stared down at the fist clenched round the knife handle at his side. A look of intense astonishment came over his face; then he fell. Craig looked down at him, then limped over to the stairs, and sat down. An utter weariness came over him. He knew that he must go up, find Phihppa, see if she were wounded— or dead. See Grierson. Tell him the riot gun was all right. Their only chance. His body sagged sideways, his gashed face smeared the painted wall. In a minute he would go. Just one minute.
a a a
There was a long tunnel, and he was rushing down it. There'd be a bend in it soon, and he must open his eyes and face the hght at the end of the tunnel, and the people shouting. He felt someone pull him away from the wa 11, felt fingers touch his face, and the softness of gauze, then he opened his eyes and saw Linton bending over him. "Dead," he croaked. "Tell Loomis Schiebel's dead. And the woman too. Schiebel killed her."
"No," Linton said. "She's up on the roof. Won't come down. You're the only one she'll talk to, Craig."
He opened Craig's coat and taped more gauze across his chest, parallel with another, still angry scar, then offered him a flask.
"No," Craig said. "If I drink now I'll fall asleep."
He hauled himself up, and Linton put an arm round him, helped him to climb the stairs. Up and up they went, past Grierson, who moaned sofdy—Craig would have stopped there, but Linton forced him on—past the men Grierson had killed, and wounded, up past the room where the dead man lay, and the unconscious woman.
"There's another cook downstairs," Craig said. His voice was a hoarse, choking gasp.
"We got him out," Linton said. "We'll get the others out too. Those that are left. Just see to the girl."
They reached the stairs that led to the wireless room. Water slopped and soaked into everything. There was a table in the middle of the room, below the shattered skylight, and a chair on top of the table. One edge of the skylight was smooth and harmless, its shattered splinters thrown down to crunch underfoot on the floor.
Two men got out through here," Linton said. The* seemed quite happy about it. Come on, sport. Up you go."
Somehow he got Craig on to the table, then on to the chair. Somehow Craig reached up to the skylight, grasped the edge and hauled himself slowly upward, feeling every muscle in his arm ache with the effort of it, then he rolled forward on to the roof, staggered to his feet. The roofline cut patterns of elegant abstraction against the summer sky. He walked forward along the leads toward a woman who stood at the edge, looking down with mild interest at the street below. She was the goddess, golden-haired, polished, immaculate, the dream reserved for multimilhonaires. But now she was disheveled, barefoot, dirty. And she had sent for him.
"Hello," said Craig softly.
She spun round so fast because death was of no importance to her. Now or twenty minutes later, that movement said, it was all the same to her. She was three inches from the edge of the roof, a hundred and twenty feet above the ground, and she could jump at any time she chose.
"Don't come any nearer," she said. "I'm warning you. Ill jump if you do."
Wearily Craig sank down, legs in front of him, his back soothed by the warmth of a chimney.
"Don't let the disguise fool you," he said. "You're supposed to have sent for me. Name of Craig."
He raised his head then, looking into her eyes that were serene, untroubled, and quite mad.
"I came here to get you out," he said. "Fire engines, hoses, smoke grenades, policemen disguised as firemen, policemen disguised as policemen, Grierson doing his sheriff of Dodge City bit. We revived a bit of the war for you. Old-fashioned street fighting. I killed a couple myself." She winced at the bitterness in his voice. 'Then I killed Schiebel."
Carefully, her bare, beautiful foot feeling its way, she took one step toward him.
"I thought he'd killed you," Craig said.
"I ran away," the woman said. "I heard him fire, and my heel broke. I just lay there. Then I heard you fighting, took off my shoes and ran."
Craig touched the gauze on his face. He said: "He gave me this. He was very good. But he wanted to hurt too much. It made him a bit careless. And I knew one trick he didn't."
"You're sure he's dead?" Phihppa asked.
"I'm sure," said Craig. "I watched him die. That's the other reason I was sent here."
He sprawled back farther, his right hand searched for cigarettes, found a packet, offered it to the girl. She shook her head. Craig took one, then fumbled for matches. His hand shook, and they spilled on to the leads.
"You'll have to help me," he said. "Please, Fhp." He looked from her to his shaking hand. "You'll have to help me."
Her feet moved slowly, unwillingly toward him, then at last she crouched, picked up a match, struck it, and held it out to him. He drew in the smoke, and she backed slowly away. Craig reached out his hand, and deftly, neatiy, stowed matches into the box. Every movement was sure, steady, confident.
"I could have grabbed you then if I'd wanted to," he said.
"Why didn't you?"
"There are other roofs," Craig said, "and other ways. If you want to die, you'll die. I can't stop you. Nobody can."
Philippa said: "He hurt me, Craig. Christ, he hurt me. Only he was careful. He didn't want me looking too bad in case Harry came to see me. He said he'd put me back on heroin. He meant it, Craig."
Craig said: "He always meant what he said."
"He tried to make me write a letter to Harry. Beg him to do what Schiebel wanted. I almost did write it. I couldn't go back to heroin. I couldn't."
Craig said: "You don't have to."
She looked at him warily, but he made no attempt to move.
"Schiebel's dead. I told you that," Craig said. "We can go down any time. Harry will sign with us, Loomis will get a K.B.E., and 111 get some sleep." He lounged back, unutterably weary.
"There's something else, isn't there?" he said. "You'd better tell me what it is or jump. It's the only choice you've got."
"You'd let me do it?" Fhp asked.
"I couldn't stop you," Craig said. I'm too tired."
Philippa said, "You are without doubt the most arrogant, self-satisfied bastard I've ever met i
n my life—and that includes Hollywood."
"I'm lazy, too," said Craig. "Make up your mind."
She came up to him then, knelt beside him, took a cigarette from him, and lit it.
"All right," she said. "I'll tell you. But nobody else is to come up here."
"Nobody else is that daft," Craig said. "Get on with it."
"I used to go to Venice quite often with Harry," Philippa said. "He had a lot of business there. He had to leave me alone quite a bit. I was bored, I guess—and edgy, too. You get that way. You can't help it if you've been on heroin. Then I met Trottia—a real comic I thought. Very European, very civilized—straight out of Henry James—but a comic. He introduced me to his friend Swyven. Another comic. But they could be very attractive, you know. Even likable. No man knows what pleases a woman the way a fairy does.
"Then they introduced me to their friend Tavel. He was supposed to fall in love with me. I don't know. Maybe he did. Not that I fell for him or anything. I thought—you'll never believe how stupid I can be—I thought they were smugglers. They told me that that's what they were and I believed them. I could be that stupid. I could do even better than that. They told me you worked for Interpol. That you wanted to trap them—just because they smuggled a few cigarettes. Then Trottia had a good idea. He would set a spy on you. The spy was Schiebel and I asked Harry to give him a job on the boat. And when he came he said he would get me the stuff again. He said the steward, Nikki, would give it to me any time I wanted it. He told Swyven to warn Harry about you too. I suppose they planted stuff on you. Then Harry searched your room, found what was there. That was the night you beat up Tavel."
"I know," said Craig.
"But how could you?" the woman asked.
"He had a thread on his coat; it came off on his chair. Black thread I'd left over my door lock. You picked it up and threw it away. At one time I thought Tavel had dropped it. Then Harry made me fight Dyton-Blease and I knew it was Harry. And you were the obvious link between your husband and a dress designer."
"It was all my fault, you see," said Phihppa. "I got you into it and I guess in a way I got Harry into it too. That bomb. That bloody bomb. Schiebel told me about that. And I would have been the one who did it. That's why I came up here. I had to think."
She threw her cigarette away, and Craig shook out another. This time, when her fingers reached out for it, his free hand moved like a whiplash, caught her wrist, drew her irresistibly down to him.
"All right," he said. "You've told me, and I've listened. Now you listen. Swyven's dead, Schiebel's dead, and you're alive. Harry can vote the way he wants to—and the Haram's safe. Nobody got hurt who matters to you—or me"—except Grierson, he thought, and Serafin, and Lord and Lady Swyven. Once you started it was quite a list.
"You got hurt," Fhp said. "So did I."
"We'll mend," said Craig.
She looked down at the hand on her wrist. He hadn't hurt her and yet she was utterly helpless. Slowly, reluctantly, she grinned at him.
"My, but you're strong," she said, and her free arm came round his neck. She kissed him lightly on the mouth.
"Now let's go down," she said. "You can interrogate me in your office, Herr Commandant. I promise I won't scream too loud."
Craig struggled up and walked to the edge of the roof. The two waited, as the escape ladder probed upward toward them. The two of them stepped aboard, and the turntable lowered them down. Phihppa looked up at Craig.
"Cinderella shall go to the ball," she said.
There was an ambulance waiting, and the two of them got in, the door slammed. Phihppa put her arms round Craig once more.
"See what I mean?" she said.
* Chapter 24 *
The Hastings transport droned wearily across desert, rose to the air from a range of foothills, climbed higher as the mountains appeared at last. On either side of it were other transports like fat, ungainly birds. The jumpmaster waved up the men, watched as the paratroops hooked on the ripcords, settled their kit. One after one the troops moved off in a stick. The rear man asked: "What the hell is this place Haram, sarge?"
"If you don't go now," said the jumpmaster, "You'll miss it. Go on, son. Out."
Loomis beamed across at Craig, dumped a bottle of brandy, a dozen Du Barry roses, and a pineapple on the table, and beamed again. Craig looked fine. Three days in a Sussex nursing home, and there was nothing to show he'd ever done anything more violent than cut himself shaving. Even the strip of sticking plaster, an obscene pink against the hard brown of his skin, might have been the result of a car accident, and the other fellow's fault at that. He looked at the immaculate pajamas, the silk dressing gown.
"What are you supposed to be now?" he asked. "The lead in Private hives?"
Craig settled back smugly into his chair, adjusted the pillow at his back.
"Please," he said. "No excitement. The doctor says it isn't good for me."
He reached out an arm, picked up two medicine glasses, and poured some of Loomis's brandy. The two men drank.
"Naxos signed," said Loomis. "Jolly glad to. We put a battalion of Jocks into Zaarb and two companies of paratroops into the Haram. Sort of military mission. Everything's nice and quiet."
"What about AZ Enterprises?" asked Craig.
"We put the fire out," said Loomis. "The attempt to steal the payroll failed."
Craig choked on his brandy.
"Is that the story?"
"A gang of men broke into AZ Enterprises. They killed a lot of people but they couldn't find any money. Under cover of the fire they escaped."
"Do you honestly think the Zaarb lot will swallow that?"
"Swallow what?" asked Loomis. "They got no witnesses. Your leather boys were out of the way hefore the fight started, we blocked off the whole street, and AZ isn't an embassy. They can't claim diplomatic immunity. They'll have to swallow it or admit they kidnapped Mrs. Naxos. You sent her back to her husband, I hear?"
Craig nodded.
"She tell you much?"
"Nothing relevant," said Craig.
"And Schiebel's dead. We'll get some nice Chinese stuff from the Russians now." Loomis reached out for the brandy bottle on the strength of it, and poured two more.
"Help yourself," Craig said. "How's Grierson?"
"Not good," Loomis said. "I've put him on indefinite leave. He's in a nursing home too, as a matter of fact. Not like this one."
He looked out of the window at the close-shaven lawn, the expensive trees in whose branches the more melodious kind of bird was allowed, within reason, to sing. "His place is top security, d'you see. He's unbalanced—and he knows a hell of a lot."
"That bad?" Craig asked.
"I've got two psychiatrists on him. That Chinn feller's one. Working like a beaver. Doesn't think it'll do any good for a long, long time. Grierson did a lot of jobs you know. Some of them were messy. He got on with it. He's a professional, son. I suppose it had to catch up with him some time. And what he had to do in that house—it was just too much for him. And anyway, he was scared before he went in. That's why he chose the roof."
"Would it do any good if I went to see him?" asked Craig.
"No good at all," said Loomis. "You gave him the riot gun."
Craig sat silent. There was nothing left for him to say.
Loomis cleared his throat and heaved in his chair like a dolphin coming up to blow. Craig recognized the signs. Loomis was about to be tactful. "I don't think you'd better see that Philippa Naxos person again," he said. "We can't afford to upset her husband."
Craig said: "That's what she said."
"Thinks a lot of you—that young woman."
"Is she cured yet?"
"Matt Chirm thinks so. Reckons you helped her a lot while you were with her. God knows how. And don't tell me," Loomis said. "Well you've done your whack of good works. I reckon you're entitled to a spot of leave. Two months if you like."
I'm back on the strength then?" Craig asked.
"As of the fi
rst of last month. Official Secrets Act. All that. You may even get some pay, eventually. You got another visitor now." He heaved himself out of his chair, waddled to the door, and flung it open. Selina, in a cool green linen sheath by Dior, erupted into the room, poured presents into Craig's lap, and kissed him. Craig found that he owned a gold cigarette case, more brandy, more roses, and a stone of grapes.
The cigarette case is from my father," she said. "I talked to him today by radio. He is very happy. The Haram will stay as it is and the mountain also."
"You'd better be getting back there yourself," said Loomis.
Selina said: "Not by myself. I still have many enemies in Zaarb."
"Well fly you," Loomis said.
"My father wouldn't permit it," said Selina. "No. You must provide me with an escort. Him!" she pointed at Craig.
"No," said Loomis. "He's due for a rest."
Selina giggled, and Loomis looked at once furious and embarrassed.
Craig felt better every minute.
I'll tell my father you cheat us. You want our friendship and deny us your best men," said Selina.
Loomis's color dimmed back to normal, and only the embarrassment remained.
"All right, blast you, you can have him," he said.
Selina looked at Craig. "I wish to start at once," she said.
Craig spoke sharply to her in Arabic, harsh and searing words that brought her head up proudly, fiercely, like a falcon's, but as the words went on her eyes lowered, her hands came submissively together across her breast, then she bowed to him and left.
"You got me sweating again," said Loomis. "What was all that about?"
"I told her we'd go when I'm ready." Craig looked at him seriously. "She's an Arab, Loomis. A desert Arab— a hundred generations of warriors. They have very fixed ideas. I don't want her to think I'm getting soft."
Loomis's face darkened to magenta, to purple, to violet; he wheezed horribly, and found relief at last in a moaning bellow of laughter. At last he said: "I quite agree. That wouldn't do at all. You want to rest here a bit more?"
