Munro James

Die Rich Die Happy

James Munro - Die Rich, Die Happy

* Chapter l *

Philip Grierson drove to Queen Anne's Gate, and all the way ham Chelsea his mind was doing sums about petrol. The Lagonda did fifteen to the gallon, and at her age that wasn't too bad. Even so, it meant five and sixpence just to go to the ofBce and back. Garage, three pounds a week. Insurance, two pounds a week. Maintenance another thirty bob. Odds and ends another pound. Altogether his transport cost him at least six-fifty a year, and he couldn't fiddle half of it back on expenses. He would have to ask for a rise.

He parked in the mews behind the house then went in by the front door, past the row of brass plates: Dr. H. B.

rington-Low, Lady Brett, Major Fuller, the Right Rever-end Hugh Bean. None of the bells below the nameplates worked. Grierson pressed the bell marked "Caretaker," and the door opened at once. The man who opened it wore over-ill;. ar.d a caretaker's air of grudging y)oJiteness. He was short, muscular, and fast-moving, an ex-Commando sergeant who, to Grierson's certain knowledge, had killed three men. Beneath the overalls he carried a Smith and Wesson and a Commando knife. From time to time, Grierson was obliged to practice unarmed combat with him. He found the sessions invigorating but painful.

"Morning, guv," said the caretaker.

Grierson, still absorbed in mental arithmetic, scowled.

"That's right," said the caretaker. "His Nibs came in early this morning. He wasn't happy either."

Grierson went up the stair to his office, the flat marked Lady Brett. His secretary was already waiting for him, a mass of correspondence and memoranda before her. Grierson thought of the day when he had first been asked to join Department K, and had learned to his astonishment

that M.I.6 had been watching him ever since he left the Royal Marines. The dry little civil servant who had approached him had warned him that Department K was the most ruthless branch of the service, the branch that tackled the jobs that were too dangerous—or too dirty—for anyone else to handle, and Grierson had almost wept with joy. Well, he'd had his share of danger, and of dirt, for that matter. But always in between there was paperwork, mountains of it. He frowned again, and his secretary, a grim widow, remorselessly efficient, reflected for the millionth time how beautiful he was, and crushed the thought down ruthlessly.

"Conference at eleven," she said. "Just one item—the Middle East situation. I've got all the documents here." Grierson sighed. "Mr. Loomis said I had to tell you—" She hesitated.

"Let's have it verbatim," said Grierson. "I'm used

to it."

The secretary said, her voice expressionless: 'Tell the lazy bastard to get his bloody facts straight, just for once." She paused. "Mr. Loomis was not in a good mood," she added. "I should do as he says."

Grierson toiled at his homework until five minutes to eleven, then went to stand outside Loomis's office and to remember, as he always did, the other identical times when he had waited outside the door of his headmaster's study. As the sweep second hand of his watch passed the hour, he raised his hand and knocked discreetly, then went in at once to Loomis's growl.

Loomis was vast: a gross monster of a man with a face the color of an angry sunset, pale manic eyes, red hair dusted with white like snow on a wheat field, and an arrogant nose. Grierson had known him in two moods only, insultingly surly or savagely rude. Today it was to be the second. He wondered why he worked for this bitter-tongued mastodon, and decided there was only one possible reason. Loomis did his job superbly.

"You're on time then," Loomis snarled. "You must want something.''

Grierson abandoned all hope of a rise.

"No, sir," he said.

"So long as it isn't money," Loomis went on. "I had a memo from the Treasury. No more money. You'd think it was the P.M.'s blood." He opened a drawer with a fat man's deliberate economy of movement, and took out a map.

"I wish it were," he said, and swept the map open, weighted its corners with ashtrays, a desk lighter, an ebony ruler, then pointed at it with a meaty forefinger.

"This," he said, "is the Middle East."

"Yes, sir," said Grierson.

"And that's the last fact I'll tell you that you know already, so don't try any more of your polished irony on me," said Loomis, then the forefinger stabbed again.

"Aden, Kuwait, Muscat, Oman. On our side. Good chaps. Yemen. Against us. Bad chaps. But they have their own troubles. They don't bother us. Here's what bothers us." The finger stabbed again, at a small almost square area south of the Yemen, biting into the Aden Protectorate. Zaarb. 'The autonomous Republic of Zaarb. Tell me about it, Grierson."

"Zaarb's going to go Red," said Grierson. "The Communist Party is the only one with any power, and the place is stacked with Chinese technical advisers. When it does go, it'll be Chinese Red, not Russian. The same as Albania. Even Nasser doesn't like it."

"And we'll be up the creek," said Loomis. "Why?"

Grierson hated Loomis in his Socratic mood.

"Zaarb's right next door to Aden; and God knows we've got enough trouble there. Besides, it's one vast oil well," he said. "We—Great Britain, I mean—own 47 /2 percent of it. So does Zaarb. The other 5 percent belongs to a Greek millionaire. Chap called Naxos. He always votes with us, which is why we've been able to protect the oil fields with troops."

"Nearly right," Loomis said, "but not quite right enough. Naxos has always voted with us so far. He might be persuaded to change his mind."

"But why on earth should he?" Grierson asked. "If he votes with Zaarb they'll nationalize him."

"He could be made to," said Loomis.

"But is that so tragic? We're getting far more oil from Kuwait anyway," Grierson said.

"My God, you're bright this morning," said Loomis. "It's important for prestige reasons, sport. We got ourselves kicked out of Egypt—we can't afford to be kicked out of anywhere else. We got a treaty with Zaarb that still has forty years to run. That treaty says we can take oil out, and put troops in for our protection. And that's what we'll do. Zaarb can nationalize itself puce for all I care. The troops will stay. And there's another thing." His forefinger descended again, blotting out a long strip of territory that buffered Zaarb from the Yemen. "There's this back of beyond here. Calls itself the Haram. What d'you know about that?"

"There's nothing there, sir. Mostly scrubland, mountains, and very hostile tribesmen. They want to be left alone and they shoot very straight, so why bother?"

"It's been thought," said Loomis portentously, "I won't say by whom, but it's been thought these bloody-minded straight shooters might be a help if ever we had a to-do in Zaarb. Create a diversion, d'you see? So I sent a man out there, a very good chap. Fluent Arabic, used to the desert, sound knowledge of local customs, all that. The tribesmen caught him in two days. Sent his body to our embassy in Zaarb. Upset the Ambassador so much he nearly forgot his cliches.

"Our chap got one message out. Shortwave radio. Trouble was there was an electrical storm at the time. Screwed up the reception. All we got was five words— 'pottery,' mountain,' 'executive level,' and what we think was 'Englishman,' then finish. I hope they killed him quick, poor bastard. You know what it means?"

Grierson shook his head. The only words with a context were "executive level." They meant that there was danger in the Haram, a threat of violent menace that could be countered only by the specialist talents of Department K.

"No more do I," said Loomis. "But our feller thought it was our cup of tea—this thing he'd found. Then there's Naxos. The millionaire. His agreement with us comes up for renewal next month, and there's rumors somebody may try to kill him, d'you see, and we feel he'd be much better off living. And so would we, so he's our cup of tea too. And then there's Craig."

"Craig, sir?" Grierson looked bewildered. "But Craig's disappeared."

"I've had him reappeared," Loomis snarled. "Took me a hell of a time to find him, too. He's on a Greek island, boozing. It's time he came back."

"You're going to put him on to this?"

Loomis nodded, then glanced quickly at Grierson.

"Not jealous, are you?"

Grierson said: "No, sir." He meant it.

"Just as well," Loomis grunted. "He'll need help on this one. But he's the only fellow who can sort this mess out." He sighed. "You get on with your homework, sport. I'm going to Greece to reform a boozer. It's ridiculous. A man in my position. I'll end up in the bloody Temperance League."

* Chapter 2 *

-Schiebel finished off his dinner with a couple of fines, and thought as he drank the second that the Swiss were Germans with a talent for French cooking. He looked from the restaurant's windows to Lake Leman, and observed how punctually the steamers ran, how meticulously the pleasure craft obeyed the rules, and then, remembering his dinner, considered his judgment correct. Switzerland was too small to conquer the world, he thought, but it had a right to be smug, even more smug than it was. He called for his bill, and when it came, he over-tipped, because tonight, he was sure, was a night to celebrate. As he left the restaurant, he passed the cocktail bar. Above it was a mirror. He hesitated, then looked at his watch. He still had twenty minutes to kill. Schiebel ordered another fine, then sat down at the bar to drink it, and look at his face in the mirror.

What he saw was an English aristocrat, the head long and narrow, the nose copious yet elegant, the thin-lipped mouth wryly, fastidiously comic, the skin, tanned brown by ultraviolet lamps, stretched tight across the cheekbones. Looking at his new self gave Schiebel infinite amusement. He savored the last brandy with conscientious pleasure, winked at the mirror face that winked back at him, then set off to keep his appointment. After a bottle of Clos de Vougeot and three brandies, he still walked straight. Perhaps he swaggered a little, but the swagger was excusable. It isn't every day a man finds a new substance for blowing up the world.

He passed the discreet baroque of the Temple Neuf, and the flower stalls and caf6s of the Place du Molard. Schiebel hated the cafes that were filled with intellectuals arguing about Camus and Genet and Henry Miller, and waving their copies of Encounter and les temps Modernes and Bot-teghe Oscuri in angry triumph; talking always, never listening. They reminded him of Swyven, but Swyven had at least achieved a sense of purpose, and worked now to fulfill his role in history: the order and discipline of a truly Communist world, as Marx, Stalin, and Chairman Mao had foreseen it. One day those others, those talkers, would have to discipline themselves too, and work for the one, inevitable, classless society. If they refused, they would be punished severely, as an example to other reluctant intellectuals. Schiebel thought how much he would enjoy superintending such punishment.

The thought took him up the long, weary climb to the H6tel de Ville. He walked steadily by its unemphatic facade, and turned a corner into a poor, dimly fit quarter, dismissed in the guidebooks as of no interest to tourists. No one famous or notorious had died there, or even lived there. Schiebel walked on, then deliberately broke the rhythm of his stride. There was someone following him. Schiebel tensed, then moved a little farther from the shelter of the houses toward the edge of the pavement. His follower increased his pace as he neared an empty building, but Schiebel continued to saunter. This was a rough area by Geneva's standards, and if he ran he might be shot at and nobody in this part of the town would be rash enough to interfere. Schiebel slowed a little more, waiting for the sound of running footsteps behind him, and when it came he managed very nicely, very nicely indeed. He felt quite pleased with himself.

The man moved fast, but Schiebel waited until he'd almost reached him, then whirled round, crouching low, swinging one hard-muscled leg like a solid bar at his attacker's shins, chopping down with his hand as the other man fell past him; seeing the iron bar in his hand, kicking at once for the ulna bone, grinning in satisfaction as he heard the man scream. A tricky shot, that one, but he'd broken the wrist. Bloody good show, old boy. He grinned again, and hauled the other man to his feet, rammed him against the wall.

"Who are you?" he asked. "What do you want?"

The other man hesitated and Schiebel hit him, once. The attacker gasped and said, "Bloch, Ludwig Bloch. I—I was going to rob you."

"You were unlucky," said Schiebel. He looked at his attacker, staying himself in the shadows. A cheap crook. Cheap suit, cheap shoes. Cheap cigarettes in his pocket and twenty Swiss francs, and nothing else. A small man with small ideas, and an iron bar. Then the moon came out and shone full on Schiebel's face.

"You really are unlucky," said Schiebel, and his right hand moved in a blur of speed to bis pocket, a knife blade flicked out, a pale gleam in the moonlight, and Bloch, too late, tried to scream as Schiebel spun him round, struck under the rib cage and up, and Bloch was dead, still pressed against the wall, till his knees started to sag and he slid down, very slowly, as Schiebel pulled the knife free, wiped it on Bloch's jacket (a dead man isn't fussy) and examined his own clothes for bloodstains. There were none. There rarely are, if you strike from behind correctly.

Schiebel walked on, to an old, battered house with "T. K. Soong—Souvenirs and Curios," painted on its window. Schiebel decided he would say nothing to Soong about the man he had killed. Soong would consider such conduct incorrect, even though it had been successful, and a bottle of wine and three brandies would not excuse it.

He rang the bell, and a short, heavily built Chinese opened the door. Schiebel tried a phrase in carefully learned Mandarin, and the Chinese sneered, then stood aside and motioned him in. Schiebel walked along a corridor, the Chinese behind him. The Chinese, he was sure, was holding a gun.

He reached an open door and went inside. Soong was there, waiting for him, a tall, elegant North Chinese in a dark, Italian-made suit with a rosebud in the buttonhole. He stood up at once, hesitated, then went to meet SchiebeL

"My dear fellow, how splendid you look," he said, and dragged him into the light. "An out and out imperialist. I really do congratulate you." He took the photograph Schiebel had sent him, looked at the portrait, then at the man himself, and shook his head in amazed delight. "Utterly fantastic," he said. "You look so British. Spot of whiskey, old man?"

Schiebel said: "No. Brandy," and his voice was cold.

"Sorry, old man," Soong said. "But if you will go around looking like a Kipling hero—" He broke off then, and spoke to the squat Chinese in Mandarin. The bodyguard went out, came back with a bottle and glasses, then left them alone. Soong poured two big ones, and motioned Schiebel to a chair. The two men sipped, then Schiebel sat, waiting.

"That little thing you sent us," Soong said. "We've had a couple of our chaps look at it—flew them over specially from Peking actually." He broke off and looked at Schiebel, who continued to sit, and sip his cognac. Of the two men, he was by far the more inscrutable. "They loved it," said Soong. "It's exactly what we need."

"Really?" Schiebel said.

"You've no idea," Soong said, "the way they went on. Quite shatters one's image of the scientist. Not that I can really blame them." He stood up and rummaged in a cupboard, lifted a heavy lead canister on to the table, then rummaged again, and produced an instrument like a clumsy torch.

"Geiger counter," he said.

He opened the box then, and held the Geiger counter a couple of feet from its contents. At once it chattered like an infuriated monkey, and the chattering increased as he brought the instrument nearer, and the sound it made was almost unbroken; a pulsing, metallic click without pause, until Soong pulled it away.

"Cobalt shot with uranium," Soong said. "What a clever chap you are. May one ask where you found it?"

"On a mountain in the Haram," said Schiebel. "One of my men was there for a while. He's moved to the Greek islands now. Nice and close to Naxos. He'll have the emir of Haram's daughter with him soon to negotiate the deal. The emir wants to sell the stuff."

"That's absolutely perfect," said Soong. "I suppose you've no idea how soon we can get our hands on a piece of it?"

This time it was Schiebel who said nothing, and the young Chinese made an abrupt, nervous gesture, and the Geiger counter chattered again, until he dropped the box lid into place.

"It's very, very important," Soong said. "The uranium is of a special order of richness, superior to uranium 235. That means a bigger charge for a smaller bomb. It is also an excellent trigger for a new device our people are working on now. For that we need the cobalt. With it we could make a fallout so great that we could kill every living thing in any area we chose. We would not, of course, use it— except once perhaps, to show that we are in earnest. Simply to possess it—that is all we need. America would listen to us; very carefully, very humbly. Russia would be persuaded to act as a Communist country once more. All deviations would be corrected."

He looked almost pleadingly at Schiebel.

"Marshal Chen Yi sent me himself when he heard what this stuff might be. The two scientists will report direct to Comrade Chou. Can we get at it?"

Schiebel smiled then; smiled with the certain arrogant charm of a very superior person.

"Of course," he said. "I'm arranging to have it delivered to you."

"Albania?" Soong asked. "You could get it to Albania?"

"No," said Schiebel. "That's too clumsy. I like things to be"—his hand made a graceful gesture—"elegant. It will take a little time of course, and the British won't like it—" Soong sniggered. The noise was an ugly contrast to his smooth-fitting clothes. There was rage in it, as well as disgust.

"They still have hopes of the Haram," Schiebel said. "There may be oil there, and they still have hopes of Middle East oil. I shall have to take steps to find out their interest."

"What steps?" Soong asked.

"I might join them," Schiebel said. "With my face, what else could I be but a Queen's Messenger?" "And then?"

"Then I shall have your cobalt shipped to you direct," said Schiebel. "I'll get it to Shanghai. Then it's up to you to use it."

"Just get it to us. It will be used; I promise you," said

Soong.

» · *

Swyven felt at peace with the world. He adored sunshine, and offbeat places, and Beirut was still offbeat enough for him; a marvelous jumble of Mercedes taxis and tiny bazaar shops and plush casinos and coffee in brass pots. It was all a bit chichi of course, but chichi in an amusing sort of way, and it was pleasant to sit in a seaside cafe and drink one's campari and soda, and look at the bodies—brown, bronze, and gold—soaking in the sun. There was no anger in Lebanon either, and that was the most pleasing thing of all.

A shadow spread coolness across his face, and he looked up. A man was standing over him, a man whose photograph was in his pocket so that he knew who it must be, and yet it was so incredible that he gasped aloud.

"Hello, Mark," said Schiebel. "I hope I'm not late?"

"No, no. Not at all," Swyven said. "Please sit down."

Schiebel sat. He wore a beach robe and bathing trunks. His body was tanned to the color of milk chocolate. It was a tall, lean body, long-muscled, durable as whipcord. Between his right collarbone and breast was a patch of skin still white, like a bandage. Once there had been a series of burn scars there. The bums had been made by cigarettes. Swyven looked at it—and knew this was the man, then looked again at the face. It really was incredible.

The face was English. A long, thin nose with fine nostrils, the skin stretched tight over the cheekbones, the mouth wide, with a wry twist to it, the chin small, but firm, out-thrusting.

"I can't believe it," Swyven said.

Schiebel laughed. The laugh, like the voice, had not changed.

"They have very good plastic surgeons in Switzerland," he said. "Mine was the best I could find. Do you approve of me, Mark?"

"But of course I do," Swyven said.

"Where does this face belong?" Schiebel asked.

Swyven said at once. "In the Army. Or the Foreign Office. Or perhaps at the Bar. It's just a shade too naughty for the House of Commons, I think—"

"But it is Establishment?"

"Quite definitely," Swyven said.

"Good. My photograph please—if you are quite satisfied about who I really am?"

Swyven handed over the photograph, and watched as Schiebel rolled it up, lit it, dropped it flaming into an ashtray and waited until it smouldered to crinkled foil, then broke it into pieces.

Schiebel was as thorough as he was dangerous, and Swyven was terrified of him.

"Dyton-Blease brought the girl?" Schiebel said. It wasn't a question. Schiebel knew.

"Yes," Swyven said. "He's gone on to his island. It was quite a journey apparently. She's resting in her room."

"No one knows she's here?"

"No. I was terribly careful."

"I'm sure you were," said Schiebel.

"Her father, the emir, is quite prepared to sell—if the price is right," Swyven said. "Naturally he has no idea what the stuff is for, but he wants the money to buy machine guns."

Schiebel laughed aloud, a clear, happy sound, and Swyven stopped. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"I'm sorry," said Schiebel. "He wants machine guns, and he's sitting on a mountain of cobalt. He's got enough explosive to blow his country to the moon—and he wants to shoot bullets."

"It's that strong?" Swyven asked.

"It's fantastic," Schiebel said. "One little bomb could blow up"—he paused and grinned at Swyven—"the entire British Navy. Now you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"I hope it happens," said Swyven.

"It isn't very likely, but it's possible," Schiebel said. "Say a thousand-to-one shot. If you like outsiders."

Swyven looked across to his hotel. A girl was walking down its steps, a brown, black-haired girl in a backless pink sundress, who walked with an effortless arrogance that turned every male head in range.

"There she is," said Swyven.

Schiebel rose at once.

'The desert princess," he said. "I'd like to make a journey with her myself. Look me up before you leave. I'm in Room 108."

"Of course," Swyven said.

"I'm making arrangements to have her sent to Menos. We must be discreet for a little while. I shall have her smuggled in. Cloak and dagger stuff. Which reminds me— I've got a little surprise for you," said Schiebel. "I'm going to join the British Secret Service. Is that Establishment enough for you?"

Then he was gone and Swyven sat, open-mouthed, till the brown girl came up to him, and sank into a chair with a serene and effortless grace that brought waiters speeding like whippets. Swyven ordered her lemonade.

"How are you?" he asked.

"Rotten," she said. "You'll have to show me again how to manage that bloody girdle. I can't get the hang of it at

* Chapter 3 *

Loomis sweated until his face was shining and his shirt was a damp rag in the small of his back, oozing wetness. The hut was small and stifling with strong and recent memories of garlic, fish, and resinated wine. Outside, the heat was like a blow, the white sand glistened until the eyes ached to look at it. In the hut it was a little, a very littie cooler, but the smells had a life of their own, an assertive, extrovert life that clamored for attention.

Loomis said: "It's too dark in here," and the lean, elegant policeman beside him jerked the shutter from the window.

A bar of sunlight pierced the dimness of the room, showing him the old fisherman and his wife who owned the hut, and who were happy to hear English spoken, because the noises Loomis made assured them that he was a friend, though they didn't understand a word. Their faces were old, seamed, weather-worn, and proudly, fiercely Greek. Despite their age, there was strength in them, and endurance. They had learned well how to endure, and experts had taught them. Saracens, Turks, Venetians. Greeks like the old peasant and his wife had outlasted them all. They had even outlasted the Germans.

The white bar probed like a searchlight beam into the

comer of the hut. A man lay there on a heap of nets, face down. Loomis walked over to him. The man was tall, heavily built, dirty. He had a four-day growth of beard and his mahogany-colored hair was bleached with sun and salt spray. He wore old tattered jeans and a dirty T-shirt. Beside him was a bottle of ouzo. Loomis put his foot under the man's stomach and heaved him over. The effort of it made him sweat again, so that his vast, meat-red face looked as if it had been rubbed in oil. He looked down at the man he had turned over, at the high forehead, the thin sensual mouth, the strong, capable hands. The little finger of the left hand was crooked. It had been broken once, and reset very badly. There were other marks on him too, marks he could never remove. He was weeping.

"Yes," said Loomis. "This is the man."

The elegant policeman began to talk in Greek, and the two old people listened patiently, warily, then the old man replied, speaking to Loomis, not the policeman.

"He says he is glad that a friend of his has come. Craig is their friend also—all that they have is his—but they are worried about him. He needs his own people to help him." The old man said something else, and the policeman hesitated.

"Go on," said Loomis. "What does he say?"

"He says he needs a special kind of doctor, and they have no money, but anyone as fat as you must be very rich."

Loomis glared. His arrogant nose quivered, his eyes were pale with rage. The old man stared back, without fear or insolence, and Loomis laughed, and began to sweat once more. "You've been kind," he said, and added, in halting Greek, how grateful he was for their help. The old man nodded.

"How are we going to get him round?" Loomis asked. "He looks as if he's been drunk for days."

"Two weeks," the old man said. "He thinks he is dying of sadness."

"He's not dying of anything," said Loomis, "not just now. He's got work to do. For me." The old man and his wife left the room.

Loomis bent down over the unconscious man, hauled him upright and stuffed him into a chair, then he and the policeman went to work. By the time they had finished, the policeman didn't look nearly so elegant. They shook him, slapped him, poured water over him and coffee into him, and very gradually his eyes opened, focused, looked, and at last began to comprehend. Loomis's great streaming face became known and he began, unwillingly, to remember.

"Oh," said Craig, "I know you, don't IF'

Loomis looked at the policeman, who saluted, sardonic, weary, and left.

"Nice of you to look me up," said Craig, and looked around the hut as if even looking were a superhuman effort. "There's a bottle of ouzo here somewhere."

"You can't have it," said Loomis. "I didn't know you were a boozer."

Before his eves the man on the chair changed into someone harder, more menacing, an enormous strength of will fighting the rotgut spirits he had taken.

"It's mv drink," said Craig, "you can have some if you

like— "

"No," said Loomis.

"—but don't push your luck."

His eyes, pouched and bloodshot looked into Loomis's; the comprehension in them quickened.

"You're Loomis," he said "I did a job for you. I killed Colonel de St. Briac."

"That's right," said Loomis.

"There were others too. A man called La Valere and two Corsicans. They killed Tessa." "I know," said Loomis.

Craig spoke on, not hearing him; his eyes looking into a world Loomis could never hope to see.

"Tessa was my girl," he said. "We were going to live here—after I'd killed him. I loved Tessa. I'd never loved anybody before, but I loved her. I didn't know until it was too late—two days before she died. That's not long enough to love someone, Loomis."

"You had a job in a war," Loomis said. "Tessa Harling was a casualty. You can't choose casualties in a war."

"True enough," said Craig, "I'd have been dead years ago."

He braced himself and stood up.

"I want a drink," he said, "and I'm going to get one."

"Don't bother," said Loomis, "I know where it is."

He fetched the bottle, and a couple of thick, cheap

glasses.

Craig poured two drinks and pushed one across to Loomis. It burned viciously, but the fat man drank it with a prim lack of reaction that made Craig laugh.

"All right," he said, "you didn't come here to chat about old times. Who do you want me to kill now?"

"Nobody," said Loomis, "I want you to keep somebody

alive."

"Anybody I know?"

"A man called Naxos. Aristides Naxos. Known to his friends as Harry. Oil and Shipping. Fifty-one years old, worth a hundred million quid."

"Cigars," said Craig. "He liked cigars—Romeo y Ju-lietas. I used to get them for him, buy them cheap in Tangier and sell them rich on Naxos's yacht. That was when I was a smuggler. You knew I'd met him?"

"Of course," said Loomis, "that's why I want you."

"There was always a blonde about," said Craig. "He was daft about blondes."

"He married one," said Loomis. "He thinks the sun shines out of her, and she may be the one to die."

"Like Tessa," said Craig, and held out his hand, watched his fingers tremble.

"You're too late, Loomis. I'm past it."

He poured out two more drinks and pushed one across to Loomis.

"You should have found me a few years ago—nowadays I can't be bothered. And anyway—" he hesitated.

"Go on," Loomis said.

"I'm drunk all the time."

He took another drink, and Loomis saw how quickly it worked, how easily it softened the hard edge of his will.

"I had a bit of difficulty finding you," he said, "you were always good at disappearing. None of your Greek friends knew where you were."

"They're good friends," Craig said.

"They'd be a help in this job."

"No job," said Craig.

His hand reached out for his drink, finished it, then explored the table for the bottle, cautious not to spill it. Loomis spoke quickly.

"This girl Naxos married—she's a lot like Tessa was." The restless searching hand was still, Craig's eyes burned into Loomis's. "She's an American, and used to be

what they call a starlet. So far as I can gather, that means she had three lines in four pictures and a lot of men went to hed with her. Some women too. Very strange place, Hollywood. She also had her photograph taken from time to time—not with a lot of clothes on. After a bit somebody got her on drugs."

"Like Tessa?" said Craig. "Don't be stupid."

His hand sought the bottle once more.

"She's a very pretty girl, not very bright, very kind, very likable. Just as Tessa was. She was in a mess too, wasn't she? And she needed a man to get her out of it."

"I got her out of it all right. Right under a tube train."

"It wasn't your fault. You gave her something she needed. That's what Naxos has given this girl."

'That and a hundred million."

'That too. All right. All that money made it easier. But getting her off drugs—that wasn't easy. Trying to keep her from killing herself wasn't easy either."

"You're breaking my heart," Craig said. "Where's your violin?"

Loomis's face flushed a savage red.

"You really are past it, aren't you?" he said. "Sitting there soaking because one girl died. This girl is more important than Tessa could ever hope to be. I can't have her hurt."

"Why not?"

"Because if she is, Naxos will go to pieces, and if that happens he won't be any use to us." "Us?"

'The country," said Craig. "He own 5 percent of Arbit Oil. The British Government owns 47K percent; 475s and 5 is 52M. So long as he votes with us things go our way." He sighed. "It was a lot easier for us when Naxos was a bachelor."

'That's more like it," Craig said. "You don't really care about the girl at all, do you?"

"She's a bloody nuisance," said Loomis, "but she mustn't be hurt." He finished his drink and stood up. "There's nearly a bottle left," he said. "It should last you for a couple of hours."

He walked to the door, then turned.

"It'll have to be Grierson, I suppose," he said. "Pity."

"Why?" said Craig. "Why is it a pity?"

"Because he isn't up to it. But he's the best I've got left now that you've run away. He'll probably be killed," Loomis said.

"You bastard," Craig said equably. "Sit down and tell me more." He picked up the bottle and rammed the cork into it

"I suppose I should have thrown it at the wall, but Serafin could use it." "Serafin?"

"My host," Craig said. "He owns this luxuriously appointed dwelling."

"It stinks," said Loomis. "So does he."

"He's seventy-three years old," Craig said. "He could still put a knife in you from twenty feet away." He looked at Loomis's enormous sagging body. "He could hardly miss, could he? You're a hell of a size, Loomis. It's disgusting."

Loomis chuckled indulgently. He'd got Craig back. An insult now and again wasn't a very high price for that.

"I'll tell you about her," he said, "when you've dried yourself out. I'll give you ten days, then I'll meet you again in Athens. And you'd better be fit by then, Craig. If you're not I don't want you. Go out fishing or smuggling, or whatever your host does!" He went out then, not forgetting to slam the door, and Craig sat, thinking about Tessa, knowing that this was what she would have wanted him to do. Someone needed help; Tessa wouldn't have hesitated. It was because she had tried to help him that she had died.

Serafin came in, looked at the corked bottle and smiled. 'The fat one has gone. And the policeman." He nodded at the bottle. "This is finished for you?"

"Yes," said Craig.

"The fat one is good. A strong man under all that."

His hands gestured, curving the balloons of Loomis's belly and buttocks, as Craig dragged off his shirt and jeans,

"I'm going for a swim," he said. "Are you going fishing tonight?"

Serafin nodded.

"We'll take the caique. Under sail."

"Like old times," Serafin said. "Very like old times, if you wish it. I have goods to collect, if you will help me."

"Do what you like you old villain," said Craig. "I'm only the crew."

He walked out into the sunlight, staggering down the burning, glittering sand to the sea, that was only fifty yards

away, then fell into its warm, sustaining embrace, struck out into its incredible blue. From the hut door, Serafin watched him. Craig had finished with the ouzo and that was good. Soon his body would be hard and strong once more, and Craig would be happy. Craig was as much to Serafin as his son Stavros, and Stavros was a doctor now, with a practice in Athens, the glory and wonder of Andraki. But in 1944, Craig had saved Stravros's life. All that Serafin had was his.

# * #

The stars were big and tender, without the hard, diamond brightness of the northern cold, and Serafin and Craig took the big old caique out, the elderly diesel two-stroke clanking, coughing on a faulty cylinder. The hollow popping sound it made seemed unnaturally loud on the silent sea. The caique, like all caiques, was an unwieldy, primitive craft, broad in the beam, high in prow and stern. Serafin loved it.

They sailed out into the Aegean, until Andraki was no more than a smudge of darkness on the purple sea, and Craig killed the engine, hoisted the creaking sail, sweating with his need for a drink and cigarette.

"When do we fish?" he asked.

"Later," said Serafin. "Make for the northeast, my

son."

Craig obeyed, and the caique heeled over, eager for the breeze, the water chuckling, cackling past.

"The first fish will be in tins," said Serafin. "Hold her so! I shall sleep for a while. I am an old man. My strength has gone."

"That isn't what the girls say," said Craig, and Serafin chuckled, then almost at once began to snore, storing up sleep against the time when action would come.

Craig held the course, soaking in the darkness, the smell of the sea, and the feel of it pushing at the rudder. Here, on a boat, the chance of danger before him, he was at home. The ouzo, the raki, and the brandy he had taken had weakened him as he had no right to be weakened. Tessa should not be remembered like that. Her way was to help, as he would be helping: an old man he loved, a girl he did not know. But for that he needed his strength back, the steadiness of his hand, the speed of his reflexes. . . . He held the caique on course, and tried not to think how much he needed a drink. Except for Serafin's snores he was alone in the warm dark of the sea, fighting the misery of his memories that were too accurate, too intense for ease. And then he heard it, the whine of twin engines, high-powered and steady, and his hands grew moist as he sensed, for the thousandth time, the threat of danger. The old man stirred on the deck, and said, "Look for a light, my son. Red above green."

Craig looked out in the luminous dark, but it was the old man who spotted it, two points to port, and told him to steer towards her. As they moved closer, Serafin lit two lanterns, placed them in line on the deck, then told Craig to go into the cabin. It was not the time for him to be seen. Craig hesitated, then obeyed. Serafin knew his business.

The roar of engines quickened, and the boat came closer, a fast, sleek cruiser, beautifully handled, the engines throttled back at exactly the right moment, the fenders ready as it bumped alongside the high bows of the caique, then a rope was thrown into the old man's gnarled, deft hand. Craig heard voices talking softly in Greek, halting, unsure, then the old man's in cheerful greeting. The caique heeled as men climbed aboard, then he heard the hatch lifted off, the grunt of a man hauling, the thud of a carton on the deck. Cigarettes most likely. And Scotch. Watches from Switzerland. Copper wire. It made no difference. Smuggling was a habit with Serafin. He couldn't break it. And it paid better than fishing. In the war it had been men, men like Craig, quiet dangerous men who killed Germans. That for Serafin had been the highest payment of all.

Craig heard the hatch replaced, then the boat heeled again, as another one came up. Once more the soft voices spoke, and Serafin answered, angry, protesting. At last there was silence and Craig felt the sweat bathe his body, his hands and arms shake by his sides. Footsteps toward the cabin then, and he rolled under the bunk curtain, heard the door open, saw the gleam of a torch, before a man's voice called in German, 'There's nobody here. He's telling the truth." The cabin door slammed, then, not quite shut, bumped gently as the caique lifted and dipped. The boat heeled again, and Craig rolled from under the bunk, looked round for a weapon. There was nothing but a bottle of wine. He took it by the neck and moved to the cabin door,

heard the rope cast off, the roar of the cruiser's engines. Now there were three men aboard besides Serafin and himself.

He moved out of the cabin as the cruiser shot away, the caique bobbing in its wake. Noiseless on bare feet, he crawled to a pile of nets, easing round it to where he could see Serafin in the deck lamp's light. Two men faced him, and a third stood forward, watching the milky wake of the cruiser. One of the men had a gun.

He said: "Do as you're told, old man. This one goes to Menos. You have your orders. You will be paid."

Serafin said: "I never agreed to this. I won't—"

The other man's hand moved, fast and accurate, and struck Serafin across the face. Serafin tensed, and Craig sweated again, until he moved to the wheel.

"One of you start the engine," he said.

The man without the gun uncovered the hatch combing, and as he did so Craig moved out from the nets and hit the gunman on the back of the neck with the bottle. He dropped like a log, and the other man spun round, hurled the hatch cover at Craig. It crashed inches from his bare toes as Craig leaped back, vulnerable now to the third one for'ard, his hands shaking with weakness. The man who had so nearly crippled him moved in slowly, and Craig saw that he too was armed, with a knife, a lonj*, slightly curved blade. Craig moved warily, cursing his body s clumsiness, then the man sprang in and lunged with the knife as though it were an epee. Craig's hand grabbed for the wrist as his body swerved, but he was too slow, the blade scored and burned across his ribs, his fingers missed. The other man swerved and struck again, and again. Craig only just escaped. They circled slowly, and Craig felt the weakness mount inside him, knew he was good for one more pass, and no more than one.

Again it was the other who attacked, and Craig forced his body out of the way of the gleaming steel, struck at the man's throat with the edge of his hand. This time he was a little nearer, jarring the other's shoulder so that he gasped with pain as Craig swung the bottle. But he was quick enough to parry, and the glass shivered on the steel blade, the stump fell from Craig's hands as the other man lunged in a great, disemboweling sweep. Craig leaped inside it, his hands locked on the knife arm, and this time it was his body's weight that did the work as he pivoted from his hip, and held on. The man screamed as the pressure on his arm increased, threatening to break bone, and the knife dropped, then Craig's foot flicked out, found his throat, and he went limp. Craig grabbed the knife and swung round, facing the third one for'ard. Behind Craig's back, Serafin chuckled. He held the gun and his old hand did not tremble.

'This one will not hurt you," he said.

The gun moved toward the shadowy figure for'ard.

"Come here," he said.

There was no movement, then the gun lifted, pointed, and the figure moved into the light of the lamps. Black woollen sweater, black jeans, the dangerous grace of a cat. Serafin picked up a deck light and lifted it high.

Almond-shaped eyes, so brown as to look black; heavy hair, gleaming, glowing, oiled; a proud little beak of a nose, and a full, passionate mouth. The sweater and jeans were skintight and her figure was magnificent. Her skin was a glowing gold, her face a smooth, impassive mask that betrayed no emotion at all, as she looked into the gun's black barrel.

"What is your name?" Serafin asked.

No answer.

'Tour name," said Craig in Arabic. "Speak you."

"Selina bin Hussein," the girl said.

Craig said: "Go into the cabin. Fetch me the tin box which is on the shelf by the door." The girl made no move. "Go you," said Craig. "I will not speak three times." The girl looked into his eyes; cold, gray northern eyes, bloodshot and yet unblinking. She looked down at his hand, which was pressed tight to his side. Blood oozed slowly from his fingers, black in the lamplight. Without a word, she went down into the cabin.

"A Turk?" Serafin asked.

"An Arab," said Craig. "What's happening, you old robber?"

"These people are my suppliers," said Serafin, and nodded at the two men on the deck. "It's time you stopped drinking. You were very clumsy. I can remember—"

"So can I," said Craig. "But not now. These men will come round soon."

Serafin sighed, took a length of twine from his pocket, and stooped to tie them up. As he worked, the girl came up carrying the box. Craig told her to open it, and she did so, then took out a roll of adhesive bandage at his orders. The two men had clean, white handkerchiefs in their breast pockets, and Serafin passed them to him. Craig asked the old man for ouzo.

"Are you (irinking again?" Serafin asked.

"I wish I were," said Craig. "Oh, how I wish I were."

Serafin grinned and sat back on bis heels to watch as Craig rolled up his jersey and poured the spirit on to the wound. It ate into the raw cut like liquid fire, and Craig gasped aloud, then sprinkled more ouzo on to the handkerchiefs, pressed them over the wound, and gasped once more. Then Serafin heard him speak again in Arabic, saw the girl unwind the bandage, press it over the wound. He noticed how beautiful and sure her hands were, how deft her fingers. He noticed too, how Craig took it all without a word. Craig was his son, and he was proud of him. Methodically, with an old man's painstaking slowness, he tied his two suppliers together, then took the wheel again and thought about the girl. Beautiful, proud, lots of courage. The proper girl for his son, and she wasn't a Turk. He was glad about that. Serafin hated Turks.

The girl finished the bandaging, and Craig sat down, slowly, carefully, bis back propped up against the diesel housing.

"Selina bin Hussein," Craig said. She moved closer to him. She wore thick-soled yachting slippers, and she walked like a queen. "Sit," said Craig.

She knelt before him, within the circle of lamplight, then settled back on her neat, round haunches, her hands easy and motionless in her lap. There was no suggestion of fear in her eyes, and yet Craig had no doubt that she was terrified.

"Tell me who you are," said Craig, "and don't waste my time with lies."

'The Tuareg do not lie," said the girl.

Craig willed himself to sit impassive. The Tuareg live in the Hoggar district of the Sahara. They are a warrior nation with their own customs and their own language, and their women go unveiled. Some of them still carry the straight, cross-hilted swords their ancestors captured from

Crusaders nearly nine centuries ago. They are cruel, chivalrous, and brave, and abhor lying, even as a means of defense.

"Where are you from?" asked Craig.

"From the Haram in Zaarb," said the girl. "My Father is emir there."

"Zaarb?"

"Beyond Yemen," said the girl. 'The Haram is my father's country. He owns it all: the Arabs and the Negroes, the oasis and the desert—all except the rest of us, his kinsmen."

"The Tuareg live in the Sahara," said Craig. "Their town is Janet, their territory is beyond the Hoggar Mountains."

"My family went to help an Arab sheikh fight the Yemenis three hundred years ago," said the girl. "It was a good place. They beat the Yemenis and kept it for themselves. We have lived there ever since."

"But you left this good place?"

"I have business for my father," she said.

"With smugglers?"

"I have to go into Europe," the girl said. For Europe she used the old Arabic word—Frangistan—the country of the Franks.

"Which part of Frangistan?"

And incredibly, the place she named was England.

"You speak English?" asked Craig, and she nodded, gravely, slowly, with the pride of one who admits that, if forced, she could play the second violin part in Schubert's 'Trout" quintet.

"Speak it then," said Craig in English.

'You speak it too?" she asked, astonished.

"I am English," said Craig, and the dark, intense eyes looked for an instant hard into his, but the emotion they showed was hidden too quickly for him to read it.

"But how perfecdy extraordinary," she said at last.

Somehow Craig sat unmoved and at last she began to talk, her English fluent and easy with debutante overtones.

Her father had something to sell, something which, so he understood, all the Franks would wish to buy. He had also, in his country, an English adviser who had seen this thing and told her father how valuable it was. And yet, Craig thought, whatever the thing was, she hated and feared it. She had been chosen to negotiate the sale, because her brothers could not be spared, and in any case buying and selling were not a man's business.

"What is this thing?" asked Craig.

She said at once: "I'm awfully sorry. I promised my father I wouldn't tell anybody—anybody except the purchasers, I mean."

"And why are you coming into Europe like a thief?"

She flushed then, and her skin darkened to copper.

"My father lives in the old way," she said. "It isn't as if he had a country. The Haram is his—his private estate. I mean we don't have passports or Customs or anything like that. It would be jolly difficult for me trying to travel without a passport. Anyway that's what Bernard says."

"Bernard?"

"The Englishman."

"Bernard who?"

"I'm awfully sorry. I'm afraid I can't tell you." "You promised your father?" "No. It was Bernard actually." "Go on," said Craig.

Bernard had arranged everything. She had traveled by horseback, jeep, and helicopter, a winding secret journey across Asia Minor, ending at last in the Lebanon, and her first sight of the sea. She had gone aboard a big ship then— so big that she could find no way of conveying any idea of its size—and from there she had transferred to the cabin cruiser. It was the first time in her life that she had traveled in, or even seen, a jeep, a car or a helicopter, and the second that she had worn Western clothes.

'The men on the ship—what nationality were they?" asked Craig.

"They were Franks of course."

"But what land—English?"

"Oh no. I didn't know their language. They spoke to me in Arabic."

"And who paid them?"

"Bernard took care of everything. Of course my father paid."

"Of course. And where were you going next?"

"Menos," the girl said. The old bastard was supposed to take us there."

Craig noted that sometimes Bernard's English slipped. "And you'd be met?"

She nodded.

"Who by?" She shrugged. Her silence was grave and beautiful.

"You would have to pay, of course." "Bernard arranged that," said the girl. "And anyway—"

"You have money with you," said Craig. She sat very still.

"I won't take it," Craig said, and spoke rapidly in Greek to Serafin, who accepted it all as a matter of course. His son Craig always made things happen.

"Do we go to Menos?" he asked.

Craig shrugged. "Maybe."

He lowered a bucket over the side and threw water on the man with the gun. As he choked and gulped, Craig said to the girl: 'You will be silent." He spoke in Arabic, and his voice was harsh.

"But these men are my servants," said the girl. "I cannot permit you to harm them."

"They harmed me," said Craig, "and you have no choice."

The gunman tried to sit up, struggling with the ropes that bound him, not knowing what they were.

Slowly, in Greek, Craig said: "Your name?"

The man was silent, and Craig picked up the knife and let it move slowly, slowly to the man's throat, let it rest on the skin, a touch feather-soft, the merest hint of what a movement of his wrist could do.

"Gruber," said the gunman. "Heinrich Gruber."

"German?" asked Craig, and the gunman whispered,

"Yes."

Behind him, Craig heard Serafin sigh softly. He spoke quickly in German.

"The old man hates Germans. Your friend hit him. He's a very proud old man. He remembers what the Germans did in Andraki during the war—"

"I wasn't in the Wehrmacht," the gunman said. "I was thirteen when the war ended."

'Tell Serafin that," said Craig. "He won't listen."

He bent and hauled him up so that Gruber faced the old man. Serafin's face was iron-hard, pitiless; the old hands on the wheel like claws.

"Where were you taking the girl?"

"Menos," said the German. "We were to take her to the harbor—" "Go on."

"We'd be met there." "Who by?"

The gunman was silent, and Craig let the weight of the knife rest on his throat.

"I will count three," he said, "then I'll give you to the old man."

"An Englishman," said the German. "Mr. Dyton-Blease. A big man, a very big man. He owns the island. He will come up to us in the Cafe Aphrodite and ask us to drink wine. We say we prefer cognac and he brings out a bottle from his pocket. Courvoisier."

"And the girl?"

"I don't know anything about her. All we had to do was to hand her over."

'Two of you? He's expecting two?"

Gruber shrugged. "One of us watches the other. In our business—"

"Wine and then brandy," said Craig. "And he offers—"

"Courvoisier. His own bottle."

"Dummkopf!"

The word was like a scream, and Craig turned to look at the knifeman.

"Another German?" he asked. There was a silence.

"I owe you something," said Craig, and touched his

side.

Serafin said: "Take the wheel my son."

Craig said: "He wants me to take the wheel. If I do the old man will hurt you. Hurting Germans is something he knows all about."

"Bauer," said the man. "Franz Bauer—from Germany. Yes. All right. A messenger, that's all. We deliver parcels."

"You know a man called Bernard?"

"No."

"A man called Dvton-Blease?" "No."

Each "nein" came out as if Bauer already felt pain. "We don't want to know. All we do is deliver—and we're paid. You'll be paid too. I promise." "How much?"

"Five hundred pounds, British currency." "You have it with you?"

"In my pocket," said Bauer, and it was true. Five hundred pounds, a packet of Chesterfields and a lighter. Nothing else. No tabs on the clothes, no other currency, no letters, no papers. Just five hundred pounds.

Craig put it in the tin box and went aft to Serafin.

"Let's have a look at the chart," he said. "We'll make for Menos."

"What about the two Germans?"

Craig said, "We'll find some of your people on the way. They can take them to Andraki."

Serafin said, "It's a pity you let the German cut you. If you sleep with the girl you'll start to bleed again. She looks good to sleep with." Craig grunted and opened out the chart to the dim chart lamp, working out the course.

"Two points to starboard," he said, "and steer small."

"Very good, I should think," said Serafin, and took the new course.

"Much better than ouzo."

"You talk too much," said Craig and started the engine as he began to think of what he would do.

He had a girl with a secret, and money, and a most improbable ancestry. There was the possibility that she was lying of course, but no one sane would use such a story for a cover. It would be simplest to go to Menos and find out for himself. He lay down on the deck, and wondered what to do with the girl. Hand her over to Loomis, he supposed. Loomis would be interested, all right. There might be a trade agreement in it. Craig lay flat on his back, looking up at the big tender stars, hearing the soft creak of timbers and halyards, the even slap of water. He fell asleep.

* Chapter 4

When he woke the girl was "I wish to know what

standing over him once more, is happening," she said.

"We are going to Menos," he said. "And my servants?"

"They won't be harmed—unless they do something stupid," said Craig.

"And they're not your servants."

'They work for me," Selina said. "It is my business to protect them."

Craig looked up; she was perfectly serious.

"You haven't done all that well so far," he said.

She looked down at him, her eyes blazing with anger.

"Bernard told me that the English were always polite," she said. "Why don't you stand up when I speak to you?"

"One of your servants stuck a knife into me," said Craig. "I'm tired."

"I don't think you are behaving very well," said the girl. "I am a princess after all."

"Oh, princess, live for ever," said Craig.

The girl looked down at him, puzzled. The effect was delicious.

"You are making a joke of me!" she said.

Craig nodded. "It's an English custom."

"To laugh at women? In my country women are taken seriously."

'Tell me about it," said Craig.

She began to talk then, eagerly, of a country ringed by mountains and desert, a country high and clean and fertile, with fast-running streams and great valleys of lush grass where herds of free-running horses roamed at will. She talked of the Naked Place too, the one menace in her Paradise, then turned quickly to the castles on the hills above the valleys, little square towers that Crusaders might have built, where blue-robed men practiced, with infinite care, the arts of riding and swordsmanship. The girl talked on and on, until at last her voice began to quiver a little.

"I shouldn't speak like this," she said.

"You're homesick," said Craig, and had to explain what that meant.

At once the proud head came up, the eyes were cold and distant as a falcon's.

'You must not mock me," she said.

Gravely, Craig apologized.

"I'm a little upset," he said. "Serafin and I—we're only fishermen—"

"And smugglers," said the girl.

"—and smugglers. We're not used to entertaining princesses. We came out tonight to do some business and ended up in a fight. It left us a bit bewildered."

"You were wounded too," said the girl. "You took it

well."

"You've seen wounded men before?"

"Of course," said Selina. "Although nowadays it's rather dull, really. So little happens. Not like my grandfather's time. The Arabs came in then, looking for slaves."

"What happened?" asked Craig.

"My grandfather killed them. The people belonged to him.'* Selina looked at him very seriously. "One must always fight to defend one's property."

Craig thought that if only he had this girl to talk to he would never need ouzo again.

"That is what I did tonight," he said, and Selina nodded.

"You were absolutely right," she said. "After all, you know nothing about me."

Slowly, with great care, Craig stood up, then salaamed before her.

"Now you laugh at me again," she said. "You do not believe I'm a princess, do you?"

She stormed over to a suitcase and flung it open, burrowing like a mole into it, hurling out stockings, dresses, panties, girdles, bras, shoes, until at last she drew out a whole series of robes, silk, linen, wool; blues and reds and greens, exquisitely, painfully embroidered, heavy with gold bullion and precious stones. Craig looked at diamonds, opals, topaz, pearls; a series of gold coins; American double eagles, napoleons, louis d'or, sovereigns from George Ill's time to George Vs.

"You have a fortune here," he said. "You don't think I'll steal it?"

"I know you won't," said the girl.

"You're very kind," said Craig. "How old are you, Selina?"

"Nineteen," she said. "I'm not a girl—any more than you are English."

"Aren't I?"

"Of course not," she said. "Bernard told me what swine they all were. You're much too nice, but you shouldn't tell lies."

Craig said: "But surely Bernard is English?"

The girl said: "I'm sorry. I can't talk about him," then asked at once: "What is your name?"

"Petros," said Craig. "Serafin is my father."

The girl nodded. "That is better," she said. "You must not tell lies, Petros."

Before dawn, they found the Andraki fishing fleet, and Serafin made for two of its boats. One of them, skippered by his cousin, carried Gruber and Bauer, the other, skippered by his wife's brother, had Selina aboard, then took station with Serafin's boat as they set course again for Menos. Craig slept on as the sun came up, and picked out one by one, a spatter of islands. Serafin, tireless with age, held the course for Menos, made for its tiny harbor, then waved to his wife's brother, who sheered off to a friendly headland and settled down to wait. Serafin called softly to Craig, who groaned awake, then lurched to his feet to help Serafin bring the caique to port.

He took the wheel as Serafin's hands went to the sheets, the heavy sails tumbled and Serafin reached forward to lash and stow. Craig coaxed the caique toward the harbor, watching the white town rising in terraces from the beach's glittering sand. It was a pretty little town, merging into its framework of pine trees, vines, and olives, the white walls offset by roofs of blue and scarlet tiles. The engine sputtered on, and the boat nudged its way carefully into the bay before the town. Craig put the engine into neutral and wished for the thousandth time that a caique diesel was equipped with reverse. Already a gaggle of its kind was tied up by the quay. There was no room to throw a rope ashore. The old man said: "I'll go. You'll only start to bleed again."

He lowered the dinghy and rowed the mooring rope ashore. As he did so, wind and drift caught the caique, and drew her broadside on to the quay. Craig engaged the engine and gently gave it power, turning it to head out to sea as Serafin reached the shore, and a couple of longshoremen passed the mooring rope round a bollard and warped in the caique by sheer brute strength.

Craig killed the engine, tied up alongside another caique, and went ashore to where Serafin and the two longshoremen negotiated like managing directors the precise sum so delicate an operation involved. They reached an agreement at last, and Craig and Serafin moved down through narrow, shadowed streets to a taverna, where they breakfasted on fresh coarse bread and coffee with goat's milk, sitting at ease, not talking, until it was time to walk through the town to the Caf6 Aphrodite, sit inside in its shade, and drink resinated wine.

The thick walls, the low ceiling, were whitewashed and cool, and the two men looked out in content through the open door at the blinding whiteness of the street outside. The wine was good, and they enjoyed it in silence. They loved each other and they were content. They had faced danger together too often to be afraid, and so they waited. Serafin noticed that Craig drank only one cup of wine in an hour, and smoked not at all. His son was himself once more, fighting to regain the mastery of his body, to be again the strong and dangerous man that Serafin so happily remembered. Serafin's head lolled forward on to his chest, and he slept. Craig looked at him, and grinned. The old man was as tough as he had ever been, and likely, so it seemed, to live for ever. Cautiously, Craig moved in his seat. His wound still burned, and perhaps he should see a doctor, but that could wait until he met Dyton-Blease. He poured another cup of wine, sipped, and waited. Waiting had always been Craig's strength. He could wait for hours, for days, and still be as alert, as deadly, when action came, as if he had run straight to it. Loomis had told him to get himself fit. This way was as good as any.

The gleaming whiteness of the door went suddenly dark, and Craig's hand reached out, shook Serafin awake. The man who came into the caf6 was enormous, six-foot-eight at least, and seventeen stone; a man who walked with a lightness amazing in one of his size, a handsome man with a long, straight nose, and dark contemptuous eyes. He wore fawn slacks and an olive-green shirt, and his skin was tanned to a golden brown. Serafin woke up, and stared, then spoke. There was horror in his voice, and awe.

"Like a god come back to earth," he said. "A god without pity."

Craig poured out wine.

"You've been dreaming," he said. "This is only a

man."

"But so big—" said Serafin.

"So vulnerable," said Craig. "He's an easy target."

The big man looked around the cafe, and moved at once to Craig's table, his body looming above them, big, menacing, relaxed.

"May I join you?" he asked.

His Greek was accurate, with little trace of accent.

Craig pushed back a chair with his foot, and the big man sat, cautiously, taking it for granted that under his weight chairs often broke.

"Let me buy more wine," he said.

"We prefer cognac," said Serafin.

The big man produced a bottle of Courvoisier from one enormous pocket.

"Perhaps you know my name," he said.

"Mr. Dyton-Blease," said Craig.

He said it slowly and badly, as if the combination of sounds were new to him, and difficult.

The big man nodded.

"You have something for me," he said.

"Someone," said Craig. "I want a name, please."

"Selina bin Hussein," Dyton-Blease said. "From the Haram."

Craig nodded.

"Where is she?" Dyton-Blease asked.

"On our boat," said Craig. "When do you want her?"

"Soon," the big man said.

"Here?"

"No. I have a house on the island. You can sail your boat round to it. Look, I'll show you." He produced a notebook and pencil, and drew a map. He drew with great clarity, and his writing was tiny and precise.

Craig looked at the sketch and nodded.

"What time?" he asked.

"I'll tell you when," the big man said. "My people will be waiting for you. There'll be no trouble—from us."

"Nor from us," said Craig. 'You promised us money for this. We want it."

The big man produced from his pocket a great wad of American bills, and put a thousand dollars on the table.

"For now," he said. "The rest when you produce the

girl."

"That is a lot of money for one man to carry," Serafin

said.

"No one would dare try to rob me," said Dyton-Blease. "Believe that."

Serafin's hand reached out for the money and Dyton-Blease moved with a swift blur of speed, appalling for a man of his bulk. His own hand, shapely for all its size, slammed down to cover Serafin's, holding it still.

"I hope you have the girl," he said.

"Of course," said Craig. "Look."

His hand scooped into his pocket, and he produced a louis d'or.

"From a dress of hers," he said. "It's covered in them." Dyton-Blease reached for it, and Craig's hand became a fist.

"Let the old man go," said Craig. "We are businessmen, not gangsters."

Dyton-Blease did so, and Craig could see that Serafin's hand was limp and bloodless. He waited until Serafin had scrambled the bills together, then handed over the coin.

"What is she like?" Dyton-Blease asked.

"Like the coin," said Craig, "rounded, shining, golden," and the big man laughed.

"I like you," he said. "If you try to trick me, I will hurt you. Remember that."

He looked at Serafin. "It is easy for me to hurt people."

Craig nodded. In his state Dyton-Blease could hurt him without even having to sweat.

"No need for threats," he said. "This is purely a matter of business."

He uncorked the brandy bottle, and poured a drink for Serafin, and for himself, then looked round for a glass for the big man.

"Don't bother," said Dyton-Blease. "I don't drink."

Craig lifted his glass to his lips.

"You can finish that one," Dyton-Blease said. "Then fetch my merchandise for me." Craig shrugged, then swallowed the brandy, feeling its delicate fire touch life into his tired body. Serafin raised his glass.

"Don't hurry," Dyton-Blease said. "You're staying with me. Your friend can have you back when he brings me the girl."

He looked at Craig's face; read the wariness in it, and the rage he could not control, then he laughed so that the glasses rattled and sang on the table.

"You didn't think I would just take your word for it, did you?" he asked.

"Why shouldn't I just leave him?" asked Craig. "Aren't you afraid I might do that?"

"Not in the least," Dyton-Blease said. "You're much too fond of him for that. And you made no effort to hide it."

He looked at Serafin.

"Why are you so fond of him? Is he your father?" Craig nodded.

"That's good," said Dyton-Blease. 'That's very good. You'll have to have him back then, won't you? Whether you like him or not. Bring her to me and you'll get him." Craig didn't move. "Go now," Dyton-Blease continued. "Bring her to the bay I showed you—in two hours. Exactly two hours, mind. I hate unpunctuality."

Craig got up slowly, gauging the big man's strength and the weakening effect of the knife wound. There was no help for it. He would have to do as Dyton-Blease said.

"That's right," said the big man gaily. "No good starting anything here. I own the place and the people."

Craig looked round him. The half dozen men in the caf6 were watching Dyton-Blease, ready to move in at his signal. Craig forced himself to smile humbly at the big man, and went from the cafe. He could not look at Serafin.

Outside the cafe was a white Mercedes convertible, a 220 SE with the driving seat pushed so far back that it almost touched the rear seat. The big man's car; it had to be. No one else in the island could own anything so powerful, so elegant, and so expensive.

Craig walked down to the harbor and worked the boat out to the headland, where Serafin's wife's brother was waiting with the girl he had to give to Dyton-Blease. There was no doubt in his mind about that. When he had to choose between her and the old man, there was no choice at all.

The caique grumbled its way towards the bay, a great arc of sand that glittered like silver. Above it were pine trees, then olives and vines that looked dark and cooL in a series of plateaus cut into the hillside like gigantic steps, and capping it all a fortress, squatting on the top of the hill, massive as the hill itself: Moorish, Venetian, Turkish, or perhaps all three; its stonework glittering white as the sand in the bay.

"Don't you think it's heavenly?" Selina asked.

Craig said: "Oh yes. Beautiful."

He watched two powerboats put out from a little cove at the south side of the bay. They were heading straight for him.

"You're not very cheerful," said the girl. "I thought you'd have been pleased. Your work's almost done now, isn't it?"

"Almost," said Craig. I'm sorry about all this."

"Why on earth should you be?" she asked. "You've done exactly what I wanted."

"The people here are dangerous," Craig said.

"Naturally," said the girl. "But I can look after myself. Honestly. My father and my brothers have taught me exactly what to do. I'll be all right."

Craig watched the powerboats alter course, so that they moved one on each side of the caique, and reminded himself yet again, that he had no choice. On each boat were two men with submachine guns; one for'ard, one aft. At the moment all four guns were trained on the caique. He cut the engine, then he and Selina stood up, showing themselves to be unarmed. He couldn't see Dyton-Blease or Serafin. Perhaps Serafin was dead. Perhaps it was his turn to die.

One of the powerboats ran alongside, fenders out to protect its gleaming paintwork, two seamen fore and aft with boathooks, and two men came aboard, two men who moved neatly, swiftly, without fuss; who carried their Steyr .32 automatics with neither shyness nor bravado, treating them simply as tools of their trade. Craig watched them carefully. These were very good men indeed. One of them spoke to Selina in English. His voice was high-pitched and slightly effeminate, the accent a blend of Los Angeles and Greece.

"We're going now," he said. "You got any luggage?" Selina nodded at the pile of cases on the deck, and the other gunman lowered them into the powerboat.

"Okay," said the gunman. "Let's go."

"What about my father?" Craig asked in Greek.

The gunman said: "You'll get him. Just stay quiet." Then to Selina: "Lady, we got to go."

Selina turned to face Craig and spoke in Arabic.

"You will not forget what I told you," she said. 'You are a man and a warrior. You have no need of lies. Goodbye."

The Arabic words were grave, dignified, and not in the least out of place. She turned and went down into the powerboat.

"What did she say?" the gunman asked.

Craig tried to look bewildered.

"I don't know," he said. "Good-bye, I suppose."

"I hope you didn't get out of line," said the gunman.

"She's pretty," said Craig. "Money's prettier."

The gunman laughed.

"Listen very carefully," he said. "You and I are going to leave here now—and you're never coming back. Start your motor."

Craig obeyed, and the caique, escorted by the powerboats, sailed out into the Aegean until behind them Menos dwindled and faded into nothing.

"You never come back," the gunman said, and walked up close to Craig, shook a cigarette from a pack, and held it out to him. Craig took it, and fumbled for a match. "I mean never," said the gunman, "or you'll get what your father got. And I wouldn't call him pretty."

Craig looked up, and the barrel of the Steyr swung and glittered in the sunlight. Pain exploded on the side of his head, and then the sun went out; he dived into welcoming darkness.

· « «

The first thing he noticed was the noise; a choking, popping sound that was familiar, but wrong. His mind struggled to find an answer, but the effort was too much. Gratefully, he felt the blackness engulf him once more. The second time, all he knew was the pain, a searing agony in the pit of his stomach, a rhythmic throbbing on the left side of his head, that gradually synchronized with the popping noise he had heard before. The engine. There was something wrong with the engine. Craig groaned, and opened his eyes. He was lying on his stomach on the deck. Slowly, every inch an agony, he rolled over and sat up. He observed that there was blood from the knife wound seeping through his shirt. The fact neither frightened nor impressed him. It was simply a fact. Somehow Craig got to his feet and lurched toward the engine hold by the tiny bridge.

Serafin lay on the deck. Craig looked at him, stiffened, then looked down again to where the blood still flowed. He was weak and getting weaker. He could do nothing until the bleeding stopped. Somehow he fumbled his way into the cabin, pressed the lips of the cut together and re-bandaged it, cleaned up the mess on the side of his face, then allowed himself one drink and went up topside to work once more at Serafin.

The old man was a mess. His face and body were covered in enormous bruises, and his right arm was broken. Craig felt the old man's pulse, which was fluttering and fast. Groaning with weakness, Craig set the old man's arm, taped his ribs, put a pillow under his head and wrapped him in blankets, then switched off the engine. Getting down into the engine hold was an agony, searching for the faults in the diesel a chess match with a grand master. At last he heated the engine with a blow lamp, the only sparking plug a caique diesel possesses, swung the handle, his whole body one great pain, then staggered over to the wheel. Someone had lashed it so that the caique sailed in a great circle, half a mile in diameter. Craig set a course that would take him to Serafin's wife's brother. When he found him he sent him at once to Athens for Serafin's son, then held course for Andraki, staying up now by willpower alone, his body drained far beyond the point of collapse, and only the savage drive of his will to keep him going.

When he reached the island he fired the Verey pistol, and at once a boat put out for him, and men picked them up, carried them into the boat, and at last to the hut on the beach, where Serafin's wife stood waiting.

Craig said: "I'm sorry, mother. I—"

"No," said the old woman. "Your turn will come."

"Yes," Craig said. "I promise you that."

Then he fainted.

38

B ME RICH

» Chapter 5 «=*

Dr. Stavros Kouprassi was small, chubby, voluble. That his father and mother should be Serafin and Maria was a minor miracle to Craig. It seemed to him that Stavros must have lived at least three lives in Athens to achieve so high a degree of sophistication, so conscientiously urbane an attitude to everything that happened to him and to the world. He had been fifteen when Craig first met him, in 1943, working on his father's boat, as Craig had once worked with Ms father. Even then he had been a sophisticate, fussy about his shirt, his fingernails, his one pair of shoes. In all of Andraki there was no one who looked and acted so like an Athenian as Stavros; plump, sleek, and hard as a seal. Except for one thing. Even at fifteen, Stavros was an artist with a knife. There was no one on the island to touch him. That was why he had been chosen to kill the sentry outside the prison.

The prison held one man, a schoolteacher called Andreou, and it was guarded like the vaults of a bank. Andreou, in 1943, was intelligence officer for the Andraki Resistance movement, and the Germans knew this. It was vital that Andreou should be freed before the Gestapo arrived from Athens to learn his secrets, so vital that a message had been sent to the Special Boat Service, and a caique manned by experts had been sent to help. Among them had been Craig, and a small, dark, dangerous man called Rutter. Craig had been young then, not all that much older than Stavros, and yet he had frightened Stavros from the very beginning. He moved so swiftly, and yet so carefully; his decisions were so accurate, his weapons so apt. He handled them as a painter might handle his brushes, familiarly yet with care, almost with love. In Andraki Stavros had seen death many times; he had never seen anyone who used it as Craig used it, and he feared him.

When they went to rescue Andreou, they were betrayed. The sentry was there all right—an expendable Pole —and Stavros reached him and killed him, clinically, neatly, but then the world went mad and panzer grenadiers seemed to grow out of the ground, coming in for the kill. One had grabbed him, twisted his knife wrist, rammed his arm behind his back, and Stavros, in his nightmares, remembered to perfection how he had straddled the Pole when it had happened, how the nightingales stopped singing as a cloud covered the new moon, how Craig had appeared behind the panzer grenadier, pulled back his steel helmet, gripped its rim in his hands, spun it like a steering wheel and broken his neck, then let him drop, still twitching, and gone to help the little dark man kill Germans. They had done it like terriers killing rats, then blasted their way into the prison as alarm bells gonged and a rocket climbed, burst, in the rich dark bloom of the sky. They had found Andreou too, and carried him out—his left leg was broken—while Serafin and the others kept up the fight, and lorry loads of grenadiers came into action.

Stravos adored Andreou. The schoolteacher had taught him so much, encouraged him to believe that for him to be a doctor was not only possible, but essential, until Stavros, too, believed it, and learned all that the schoolteacher could teach him. Without Andreou he was nothing. And that night he watched the man he adored carried out by strangers. They carried him carefully, but without feeling, Stavros remembered, as if he were an object whose value might diminish at any minute. The German reinforcements arrived, and Stavros's father and the rest of the Andraki men were pushed inevitably back. Stavros stood where he was, and stared at Andreou, and the noise of battle grew louder. Stavros didn't hear it. All he heard was Andreou saying, "Can you get me out?"

Craig spoke to the little dark man, and he moved, wary as a fox, to the sound of gunfire, then signaled back to Craig. Craig looked at Andreou then, and shook his head. Andreou sighed. Stavros would never again in his life hear anything so heartbreaking as that sigh. "You had better kill me then," he said.

Craig had looked back to Rutter, and the little man had signaled again, more urgently.

"Christ, you're a man," said Craig, and while Stavros

screamed aloud, he shot Andreou between the eyes. He had gone over to Stavros then, and pushed him out on the way back to his father, stopping from time to time to help the little man kill more Germans. Stavros never knew whether he hated Craig, or adored him. . . .

Craig looked up at the small, sleek man. He was in a low, cool room and there were dull pains in his stomach and head. The man in the room beside him became first a doctor, then Stavros. Suddenly Craig remembered; he had sent for Stavros. He remembered why.

"How's Serafin?" he asked.

"He'll live," Stavros said. "He won't be much use again—but he'll five." "That bad?"

"Broken arm, broken ribs, pneumonia, multiple bruises," Stavros said. "Ten years ago he'd simply have got over it. Now he's too old."

"I shouldn't have left him," said Craig.

Stavros took his pulse, listened to his heartbeat. "Not today," he said. 'Tomorrow you can tell me."

When Craig told him he listened, unflinching, heard it out to the end. And then:

"You did far more than I have a right to ask," he said. "Without you my father would be dead. No!"—when Craig tried to interrupt: "He was an obstinate old man. Without you he would still have gone and he would be dead. As it is, he's an imbecile, but that's not your fault, Craig. You did evenihing I—or he—could expect."

He went out then to speak to Maria, and the old woman came in, lay across Craig's bed, and wept on his chest.

"Sh, mother," said Craig, "I don't deserve it."

"He would have died," Maria sobbed. "You brought h^z hick iz me."

Ar.f Sti '.Tcs wiped his hands on a very white handkerchief, ar.d v:\ved that Craig must be made well again, superblv welL no matter how long he was kept away from Athens. He new knew whether he adored Craig or hated him.

When Craig began to heal Stavros superintended his convalescence, waited for the day when he could see Serafin, and took him in, showed him an old, old man who looked like Serafin, but whose muscles were soft and slack, whose eyes were stupid and faded, who spent all day playing Xeri, a simple and undemanding game of cards, or else whittled at a piece of wood jammed into a chair, slowly, painfully, conscientiously cutting it to pieces with a small and very beautiful knife. Craig had a knife too, as elegant as Serafin's. He had taken it from the German, Bauer. He looked at the old man, and spoke to him softly and gently. Serafin began at once to ask for things; a few drachmas, a handkerchief, an orange, sweets, demanding like a child the tangible evidences of love. Craig gave him money and peeled an orange for him, then watched as the old man ate it, messily, noisily, babbling his thanks, the old voice cackling its pleasure even as he cringed. Craig went outside and Stavros followed him. "Who did it?" Craig asked.

"The big man," said Stavros. "He must be enormous." "He is," said Craig.

"It took no more than a few seconds," Stavros said, "to turn him from what he was to—that." He nodded at Serafin's room.

"Why?" Craig asked. "Why did he do it?"

"Your accent is not like my father's, nor your coloring," Stavros said. "He did not believe that you were his son. He questioned my father about it. My father insisted that you were—even while the big man did that to him."

"But why? Why didn't he tell the truth?"

Stavros paused, and looked at him.

"At first I think it was because you had said so. You wanted to be taken for his son, so he said you were. He told them you had worked in Cyprus for a while, picked up a different accent. That was at first, before the big man lost his temper."

"And afterward?"

"He believes it," said Stavros. "From now until he dies you are his son. He has owed you a debt for twenty years—he has owed you for my life. Would you say he has repaid you now?"

"All right," said Craig. "All right. I'll see that big man again."

"And what will you do? Kill him?"

"Maybe," said Craig.

"You have killed for our family before," said Stavros. "I hope we were sufficiently grateful."

"Your father was," said Craig, and Stavros flushed.

"What can I do then?" Stavros asked. "Teach you to kill more efficiently?"

"It's possible," said Craig. "You could show me how to use a knife."

"For what?" Stavros asked. "You kill well enough

now."

"A German did this to me," Craig said, and touched his wound. "I don't want it to happen again."

Stavros said: "I haven't used the knife in years."

"You were the best I've ever seen," said Craig.

"Very well, then," Stavros said. "I'll teach you."

Craig looked into his eyes, sensed the raging anger behind them that Stavros struggled to conceal for his father's sake. Stavros was ready to hate him, but that hatred might be put to use. Stavros had a skill that might be useful if he was to go back and seek the big Englishman. They practiced together every day, longer and longer sessions as Craig's strength returned, and in the end, he was satisfied. He became an artist, with a quick and deadly grace, a duelist's speed and judgment, and even Stavros found it hard to hold him. He could hold a knife like a sword, cut and thrust with appalling speed, and as he fought his left hand worked for him too, a hard edge of bone that could strike like a hammer, bruise flesh, snap bone, kill, if his aim were accurate, as quickly as the knife.

One day they fought in the open, out by the beach, using the little wooden knives Stavros had made for their practice, watched by a crowd of Andraki men, alive to each smoothly timed movement of foot and ami. At last Stavros leaped, Craig swerved too late, and he felt the wooden knife at his heart, but even then his body had twisted with the swerve, his own knife plunged beneath Stavros's ribs. The doctor laughed.

"You can't help it, can you?" he asked. "Even when you're dying, you go on killing."

There was no joy in his laughter.

"I can't teach you any more," Stavros said. "You're as good as I am. If you want to be better, you must go on by yourself."

He threw the wooden knife into the sand, and a child ran to pick it up, to slash in the air against imaginary enemies.

"It's too easy to be like you," said Stavros, then broke off as a man came up to him, waving the flimsy paper of a telegram. He glanced at it, and passed it to Craig.

"Dyton-Blease may be leaving," he said.

"You were going to visit him?" asked Craig. "Without

me?"

"I wanted to see him," said Stavros. "I wanted to know why."

"You wanted to ldll him."

"Perhaps," said Stavros. "I won't know until I meet him. But you haven't any doubts at all."

"I have met him," said Craig. "Are you going back to Athens now?"

"I'll send for a hydroplane tomorrow."

"I'd like to share it if I may," said Craig. "There's someone I have to see there." He moved nearer to Stavros. "I haven't thanked you properly for all you've done," he said.

"You're my brother," said Stavros. "Who needs a brother's thanks?"

Craig laughed, and swung Stavros up in his arms, a parody of a brother's embrace. Stavros felt the power beneath it, and thought yet again how absurd, even wicked, it was to love a man whose one talent was destruction.

* Chapter 6 *

That night Craig went to call on Serafin's cousin Elias, who was short, round, and hard, with a look of his nephew Stavros. He listened to what Craig wanted to do and agreed at once.

"Stavros will want to come, too," he said. "It's his blood feud as much as yours."

"Of course," said Craig. "That is why we musn't tell him. Stavros is a doctor. We can't ask him to risk this."

Elias looked at him, hesitating, agreeing at last.

"Very well," he said. "You're the eldest after all."

Craig smiled his thanks, marveling at the other's tact and kindliness that could live quite happily with explosive violence. He told Elias what he wanted to do, and Elias objected fiercely; there wasn't enough in it for him. And yet in the end he agreed; Andraki men never argued with Craig when it came to discussing a fight.

Elias and his son took Craig over to Menos under sail. He sat in the darkness, listening to the unending chuckle of water against the bows, and wishing only that the big man, Dyton-Blease, was still there. When the caique hove to near the headland, he stared into the darkness, searching out the denser dark of cliff and castle, then he stripped, piled his clothes into an inflated rubber raft, and lowered it into the water. He murmured good-bye to the Greeks, then slipped quietly into the calm, warm sea, and, pushing the raft ahead of him, swam out toward the island, taking his time, cautious not to tire himself, until at last he reached shingle, stood up, and dragged the raft on to a beach.

Craig took a towel from the raft, dried himself and dressed, then took Bauer's knife from it too, deflated the raft, and felt his way to the base of a cliff. Cautiously he drew out a shaded torch and hid the raft at the foot of a rock, then looked along the cliff face, searching patiently until he found the alarm wire he knew must be there. He climbed over it, and moved slowly, cautiously up the rock face, pausing near the top to search for, and find, another alarm wire.

Before him the castle stood, black and solid in the night's soft darkness. Craig looked out for dogs or sentries. There were none. He moved across the rock-hard ground to the castle wall, and made for the gate and a thin wedge of light. The small postern stood slightly ajar, and a man with a rifle leaned back against the wall, asleep. Slowly, with infinite care, Craig moved inside, then hit the sentry hard on the neck with his fist. The snoring stopped, and Craig caught the sentry as he fell and propped him against the postern, leaving his rifle with him. He looked more drunk than asleep, but the results would be the same if anyone spotted him. Craig felt in the man's pockets and found a bottle of ouzo. He poured some over the sentry's clothes and left the bottle beside him, then moved into the castle, across the courtyard to the keep. Again the inner gate was unlocked and he moved in like a cat, quiet and menacing.

The keep had been divided into three floors, and each floor had been subdivided into a series of rooms. Craig started at the top. The top floor was Dyton-Blease's. It contained an enormous bedroom, with a vast peachwood bed, a dressing room crammed with suits, shirts, shoes, all handmade—at least & 2,000 worth—and an office with a desk that contained nothing at all in its drawers and cupboards except a comprehensive collection of large-scale maps of the Middle East and some handsome writing paper headed Menos, Greece. There was also a huge gymnasium equipped with weights, medicine balls, expanders, for a man of superhuman strength. And there was a dojo—a judo practice mat. Craig paused by it, then moved down to the floor below. Every room was elegant, feminine, and beautiful. And yet somehow, every room was wrong. Craig looked at two vases, one with a beautiful flower arrangement, the other with an unsuccessful copy of the first. He saw a dining-room set for dinner for eight, at which only two people had eaten, a card table with the wreckage of a bridge game, one hand viciously torn across, and a tailor's dummy in the dressing room that was the most dressed dummy he had ever seen. Her expression of stupid aloofness didn't slip a centimeter when Craig lifted her skirts to discover she wore panties, girdle, and bra beneath her Balenciaga gown. Craig decided that Dyton-Blease had been teaching Selina how rich European women live and dress and occupy their day. He remembered the torn cards and grinned. Bridge bored him, too.

On the ground floor two men slept, the two men who had boarded the caique and taken Selina away. The silent one's room was a huge collage of pinups, the walls, the ceiling, even the floor. He lay on his back and snored, blowing bubbles of saliva as he exhaled. Craig hit him as he had hit the sentry. Once again the snoring stopped. When he searched the room he found only a Steyr automatic, ammunition, a knife, a cosh, and a series of photographs that used two or more human bodies to show how the letters of the alphabet could be portrayed in even the most absorbing circumstances. The photographs had been

E rinted in Cairo. Craig looked again at Q, grinned, and took is collection of weapons into the talkative one's bedroom. This room was austere, yet had richness. The furni-

ture was dark and old; the whitewashed walls showed only one picture: an ikon. The room smelled, very faintly, of chypre. Craig moved over to the sleeping man, searched the room, found more weapons, put the weapons down, and considered how best to wake him. A man hauled suddenly from a deep and secure sleep is vulnerable and afraid, and apt to tell what he knows. Craig pulled the sheet from him. He was naked, and the more vulnerable. Craig slapped him hard across the mouth. The man shot up in bed, and Craig hit him again, a backhanded blow that slammed him back on to the bedstead. The man lay still for a moment, then squirmed to one side and leaped at Craig, his hands grabbing for Craig's neck. Craig grabbed the other's hair, fell backward and threw him, still holding his hair. The man screamed and screamed again as Craig hauled him to his feet by the hair, and hit him on the nose, twice. The man wanted to fall, but the hand in his hair kept him up, stretched him on to his toes. His hands fell, his body went limp, and Craig let him fall.

Craig asked: "What's your name?" He spoke in Greek. The man on the floor shuddered, and said nothing. Craig stopped, and hauled him up by the hair.

At once the man screamed out. "Spiro. Georgios Spiro." Craig pushed him back against the wall, and looked at him.

"You're going to tell me things," he said. "Sooner or later, you're going to tell. The choice is yours."

Spiro leaped at him again, and again Craig threw him, dragged him to his feet, and hit him on the nose. This time Spiro fell and lay still. Craig found a water jug, slopped water over him, then, as he came round, dragged him over to a mirror.

"Look at yourself," he said. "You won't be pretty much longer. Next time I hit your nose I'll break it, and nobody's going to love you then."

Spiro looked in silence, and turned away. Craig's hand dug under his chin, forcing him to look into the hard eyes, to watch the fist clench, draw back.

"I can't tell you anything," said Spiro.

"That's a start, anyway," said Craig. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking after the place for Mr. Dyton-Blease."

"With a .32?"

"Mr. Dyton-Blease has a lot of enemies." "Me for one," said Craig. "What is it he does?" "He does nothing," said Spiro. "He's just a very rich man."

Craig moved in, and his fist unclenched, he tapped Spiro's nose with one finger. It was a very red, puffy nose.

"Tell me about the girl," he said.

Spiro had strong views on women. He expressed them then. She had obsessed Dyton-Blease; he spent all day and every day with her, teaching her how to walk, how to sit, how to eat: the little savage wasn't happy unless she could eat with her hands, and Dyton-Blease had been so patient, so gentle. He'd even made Spiro try to teach her how to arrange flowers—as if an animal like that could do anything artistic, God knows he'd done his best—

"Why?" Craig asked.

"She has to be a lady," Spiro said.

"Why?" Craig asked again.

"Because Mr. Dyton-Blease said so."

Always Spiro used the English "mister," not the Greek.

"Do you want me to break your nose?" Craig asked.

"I swear to God, that's all I know," Spiro said. "Ji he knew I'd told you that much, he'd kill me."

"He almost killed my father," said Craig. "He turned him into an idiot."

Spiro stayed very still.

"You think a lot of Mr. Dyton-Blease?"

"He pays well," Spiro said. "I'm afraid of him too."

"Why?"

"I told you. He'll Mil me." "You could run away."

"Not from him. Nobody can. You should remember that. He'll kill you too, when he finds out—"

"If he does," said Craig, and again Spiro was still.

Craig began more questioning, and at last Spiro opened up the floodgates, the words spilling out as if they would never stop; a pentup release of what had been held back too long. Craig discovered that Dyton-Blease had lived there for three months, and that Spiro and his partner had been sent to him from Los Angeles, on loan from their Greek-American boss, a narcotics peddler who was as afraid of Dyton-Blease as Spiro himself. He learned that in three months with the big man the two Greeks had done nothing

except guard the castle, terrorize the island population—who were already in mortal terror—and beat up Craig. For this they were paid $500 a week. They hated it.

They hated the tiny island, the islanders, and the castle; they lived in an agony of homesickness for Los Angeles, and they hadn't the nerve to ask for their release. When Dyton-Blease was there, they walked in terror, and they didn't know why. They had dealt before with big men, tough men; they were used to waiting in ignorance of what was to happen. The setup they were in was familiar—and yet there was always this fear. Even before Craig's father. As soon as he spoke of it, Spiro stopped, the stream dammed, one fear blocking another.

'Tell me," said Craig. "You didn't do it."

"It was done in the dungeons," Spiro said. "Your old man was tough all right. He stuck it out until Mr. Dyton-Blease lost his temper. And then it was too late."

"How long did it take?" Craig asked.

"About five seconds," Spiro said. "Then he was cool again, like ice. Five seconds—·

"Let's see the dungeons," said Craig.

"There's nothing there."

"I want to see them." He took out Bauer's knife. "All right," said Spiro. "I'll put some clothes on." "No," said Craig. A naked man is cautious and ashamed. Spiro hesitated, then looked into Craig's eyes. "All right," he said.

They went down stairs cut into the rock, opened a great door of olive wood studded with wrought-iron nails, and entered what had once been storerooms as well as dungeons. The whole place was lit with stark, unshielded bulbs. A great, vaulted room carved out of the rock, and on one side of it, hutchlike caves shut in with iron bars. It was like a museum, except that it was still in use. No guides, no pamphlets, no souvenirs. The robber baron who lived here was still in business. Craig pushed Spiro before him, and looked around. Empty packing cases, one with the name of a Paris couturier. Selina's gowns? Empty wine barrels, empty oil jars, and every cell empty. There had to be something.

"I told you," said Spiro.

Craig shoved him away, and looked around once more.

The rock walls were smooth and gray, but in one corner a square patch gleamed, smoother, paler than the rest. It was the door of a safe. Craig pushed Spiro over to it, and examined it carefully. No combination lock, just a key.

"Open it," said Craig.

"It isn't locked," Spiro said. "Ill show you."

He hauled at the door, exerting all his strength, and it swung open slowly. Then suddenly, his body flowing like quicksilver, Spiro reached into the safe. Inside it was a knife. He grabbed it, and leaped at Craig. Craig swerved so that the upper knife arm brushed his shoulder, then struck out, slamming Spiro's naked body into the rock wall. Spiro whimpered, and hesitated, then Craig met the rush as Stavros had taught him, swerving to narrow the target he presented, swaying to make him miss, his left hand striking at Spiro's wrist. Spiro screamed and his knife clattered on the stone floor. Then, still screaming, he swung round to Craig and the knife Craig held, point up, as he crouched, waiting. Craig's arm shook at the impact of Spiro's body, the fist clenched round the knife hilt that now touched the Greek's chest. He let the hilt go, and Spiro fell, his eyes already glazing.

"He'll kill you too," said Spiro, and died.

Craig pulled the knife free, wiped it on some rubbish, put it away, then went to look at the safe. Its steel door had an additional covering of lead; the rock cavity behind was lead-lined. Craig realized why Spiro had pulled so hard. There was nothing else inside but an old-fashioned metal hatbox. Craig reached out a hand for it, and found it wouldn't move. He braced himself, and lowered it two-handed to the floor. It, too, was lead-lined. Inside was nothing but a tiny fragment of pottery, old stuff, with what looked like geometric decoration. Craig put the lid back on and humped the hatbox out of the dungeon. Getting it down the cliff was a wearisome, nerve-racking business, even with the aid of a rope. When he reached the beach he looked at his watch. Only half an hour before he rejoined Elias. He still had a lot to do.

Forty minutes later he was back on board the caique, its diesel popping madly as it scuttled for safety. Craig and Elias watched in the darkness, waiting. Suddenly, there

was a great throb of red in the blackness, followed by the woomph of exploding petrol and a rattling noise like firecrackers.

"Ammunition," said Craig, and waited. Another great red exclamation mark stained the blackness.

"Both boats?" Elias asked. Craig nodded. "It's beautiful," remarked Elias.

"The way revenge should be."

"What revenge?" asked Craig. "I was too late. Dyton-Blease had gone, and Spiro killed himself. I mean that. He tried to kill me, and when he failed, he was too scared to live. He threw himself on my knife."

"So you got nothing," said Elias. "Except a lead

box."

"That's all," said Craig.

Elias asked no more; Craig was very British about secrets. Ten miles farther on, they began to fish.

When they came in next morning, Stavros was waiting by the harbor. Another Andraki boat had seen the explosion, and Stavros wanted an answer. "How should I know?" Craig asked. "Probably somebody got drunk because Dyton-Blease was away. They might have gone aboard one of the power-boats and started smoking too near the fuel tank."

"And died?" asked Stavros.

"It's likely," Craig said. "You say yourself it was a big bang. Mind you, I'm only guessing. Elias and I were fishing all night."

"Red mullet," said Elias. 'The best catch this season. Craig brings his luck with him, eh, Stavros?"

On the hydroplane that took them back to Piraeus, Stavros said veiy little. A part of him despised his cousin, and his brother Craig, for what they had done, but another part held a fierce delight that the Kouprassi family had hit back. And behind the delight was resentment, because he had not been asked to go along too. Stavros examined his emotions, and was silent. The only way out of his dilemma was a blazing row, and he couldn't fight with Craig. So he said nothing.

His car met them at Athens, and he drove Craig to the hotel on the Piraeus where his clothes were stored. Craig turned to him then, and spoke softly in English so that the chauffeur wouldn't understand. "I'm sorry I couldn't ask you along," he said. "I mean that, Stavros."

"I believe you," Stavros said, and smiled. "Sometimes I think you're more Greek than I am."

Graig left him then, for a bath and a shave, and clean, expensive clothes. The kind you ought to wear when you go to meet your boss.

* Chapter 7 *

I told you to get yourself fit, not start a private war," Loomis said.

"It looked as if it might be your sort of show," said Craig. "I thought I'd better look around."

"Look around," Loomis snarled. "You knifed a man." "He knifed himself."

"Don't rationalize at me," said Loomis. "I'm not your analyst." He began to dismember a broiled lobster, a revolting performance.

'There's Dyton-Blease and the bit of pottery," said

Craig.

"Giants went out with the brothers Grimm. He's just a biggish feller who thinks he's found Achilles' thunder jar," said Loomis.

"In a lead canister?"

"Chap's a loony," said Loomis. "They get very nervy sometimes, loonies. I'll let the technical lads have a look —but you're wasting their time."

*· Craig went back to his own lobster, and for a while there was no sound except Loomis's grunts and the crackle of the lobster's shell as it tried to defy him, without success.

"Mind you, the girl sounded interesting," said Loomis. "Pity you lost her. We could do with some chums in the Haram."

"I could find her," said Craig.

"Not now. I want you watching Naxos." "What about the big man?"

Loomis said: "His turn will come." His voice was utterly certain.

Craig said: "That bit of pottery had a pattern on it. Selina's dresses had the same kind of design."

"So?" asked Loomis.

"She told me a lot about the Haram," Craig answered. "She loved every inch of it—you could tell that—all except the mountain. She was afraid of that. The Naked Place, she called it."

"Hussy," said Loomis.

"Nothing grows there," Craig said. "It's just a mass of sandstone, with some outcrops of blue stuff. Soft. Easily worked. Looks very pretty. At one time her people used to use it for making water jars, that sort of thing. Not any more."

"They turn the tap on like everybody else," Loomis snarled.

"It's lethal. You handle it for too long—and you die. Like leprosy, she said, only worse."

"You been at the horror comics again," said Loomis.

Yet Craig knew the fat man was taking in every word. All right. Let somebody else sweat after it. He'd go for a cruise on a yacht.

"You want me to leave it then?" he asked.

"Leave what? You haven't started anything," Loomis said. "I want you to go and keep Naxos alive."

Craig looked round the restaurant. There was nobody behind them, and the nearest customer on either side was ten feet away. Before them was nothing but the Aegean, gleaming blue as if another sun lay on its bed. Loomis didn't have to lower his voice, but he might at least wipe his mouth.

'Tell me about Mrs. Naxos," he said.

"Her name's Philippa—known as Flip. A blonde. Good legs. Fat just enough and thin just enough. What they call a dish." Loomis produced the word with sly triumph, like an inept conjurer who really has got a rabbit this time.

"Used to be a drug addict. Naxos got her cured. Then he married her. He'd stick his hand in the fire for her. If you don't do your stuff he may have to."

"Who am I watching for?"

"Ah!" said Loomis. "A bit tricky, that. Zaarb's got a new security chief—a feller called Schiebel. Used to work for the Russians. They thought his work was a bit too crude, so they got rid of him."

"Any description?" Craig asked.

T got this," said Loomis.

He handed Craig a photograph. A thin man with blond, close-cropped hair and pale, narrow eyes. He wore choice, urbane casual clothes and he looked as hard as nails.

"Got a series of burn scars on his right shoulder," said Loomis.

"Speaks perfect English. He worked in London for a bit. Trained in their Executive Division—you know what that means."

"He's a Idller," said Craig.

"That's right. It also means he's good, bloody good. All the same, you should be able to handle him." He smiled expansively. "We got his fingerprints too."

"My God you've been working," said Craig, and Loomis beamed.

"Where did you get them?"

"From the comrades."

"The Russians gave you his dossier?"

"All pals now," said Loomis. "Live and let live. All that. Zaarb's a Stalinist sort of place, d'you see. They've gone off Russia. They brought the Chinese in. Schiebel asked for asylum there. Oh yes, the Russians gave us his dossier. Matter of fact if you knock him off they'll give us a few other bits and pieces as well. Chinese stuff. We could use some Chinese stuff."

"He must know a hell of a lot," said Craig.

"He does. Mind you he was blown last year. Grierson got on to his girl friend before he went to Zaarb. She told us the lot. Only the Russians don't know that."

"What happened to her?"

"He killed her," said Loomis. 'Took his time about it. He's nasty, Craig." Craig looked at the photograph again.

"He looks German," Craig said.

"He is," said Loomis. "Hitler Youth leader. The Russians picked him up in Leipzig in '45. He killed three of 'em first. He was sixteen years old then."

"They took him alive?"

"He was good. They did a conversion fob on him— made him a Stalinist. Trouble is he's stuck there. Couldn't adjust to Khrushchev."

"Neither could the Russians," said Craig, and went back to the photograph.

"Well he's yours now," said Loomis, and flipped an imperious flipper for Turkish Delight. When it came he ate in silence, savoring the rose-petal sweetness of it to the end, then demanded brandy. He watched Craig drink it, delighted. The brandy was an Armagnac, and very special. He'd chosen it himself, and he knew it was good, but Craig drank it out of pleasure, not for need. Loomis looked positively benign.

"You can keep the photograph," he said, "and I'll let you have a copy of his dossier. There's just one snag. He may have gone to Zurich recently. For a facelift. Probably got the burn scars fixed too. They do you a very good plastic surgery job in Zurich."

"You bastard," said Craig, then threw back his head and laughed aloud. "No wonder you wanted me for this job, Loomis. I'm the only one daft enough to take it."

Loomis looked coy, and summoned more brandy.

» » »

Naxos's yacht, the Philippa, put into Piraeus two days later. It was a converted destroyer, built on the Tyne and transformed on the Clyde into the kind of floating pleasure dome that perhaps twelve men in the world can afford to own, and three of them are Greek. It was painted the obligatory, dazzling white, its brasswork glittered like sunbeams, its ropework was pipe-clayed to the snowy virginity of a detergent ad. It carried a helicopter, a swimming pool, three powerboats, a five-piece band, a cordon bleu chef, three Canalettos, nine Picassos, a Memling, a third-century B.C. statue of Aphrodite, a doctor, and a scaled-down version of a Cunarder's catering staff. Its officers were Englishmen and a Scot, who had left the service of a famous passenger line because Naxos offered them more money. All the rest of the crew were relatives of the bosun, a gigantic Hydriote Islander who preserved a discipline that would have terrified Captain Bligh. It cost Naxos a fortune, and he loved it. It belonged to his wife.

Craig sat outside a waterfront cafe watching the

Philippa come into harbor, her whiteness so pure in the sunlight that the eye ached to see it. The Philippa was beautiful, the swift elegance of her fighting ship's fines miraculously preserved, though she was now no more than the most expensive toy ever built. Good for thirty knots at least, and strong enough to face a North Atlantic gale in February. As she came to rest at last and the anchor cable roared through the hawseholes, Craig remembered that the Philippa had been built five miles from where he was born, and the thought gave him pleasure.

The waiter stood beside him and looked at the ship.

'The Naxos boat," he said. "Beautiful, eh?"

"Beautiful," said Craig.

"A palace," said the waiter. "A king could live there and not feel ashamed. And for Naxos it's only a setting for one jewel."

"Yes?" said Craig.

"His wife. A solitaire diamond for Naxos, the only one in the world. So he builds a boat for her—white on white. And I'll tell you something—it works."

"You've seen her?" said Craig.

"She passed by here once," said the waiter. "That's when I started talking like a poet."

A flotilla of small boats put out for the yacht.

"Beautiful," said the waiter. "When Naxos comes to town, everyone goes to him. Look! Health Authority, Customs, newspapers, government, they all want to visit the palace, to see the queen."

"And the money," said Craig.

"Without money, how can there be queens?" said the waiter severely.

At dusk a motorboat put off from the yacht and raced for the harbor, its cox'n using the twin screws with great skill to bring her to rest by the cafe. A white-clad sailor leaped ashore, and Craig stood up.

"Mr. Craig?" said the sailor.

Craig nodded, and the sailor exploded into a salute, then raced to pick up Craig's luggage.

"You know her?" asked the waiter. "No. Him. Naxos," said Craig.

"Hephaistos and Aphrodite," said the waiter. "Remember Hephaistos had a net. We should all be netted like that—just once in our lives.

Craig went aboard the boat and it roared into life. Behind him Piraeus faded into purple shadow, and one by one the lights came on, looping the bay in soft blobs of gold. The Philippa was dressed overall, and her whiteness gleamed like silver now under her deck lights. The powerboat slowed, stopped by the companion way, twin screws chopping the water into flashes like gems. The Aegean was dark now, and tranquil as sleep. Craig went up on deck, to where the band was playing a cha-cha, and mess stewards served long drinks, ice cubes clinking a counterrhythm to the bongos and maracas. Suddenly a voice split the music like an ax.

"John," it roared. "Where the hell ya been this last ten years? Welcome aboard."

Craig turned to face his host, his problem.

Aristides Naxos was a squat barrel of a man with an immense breadth of shoulder that even so seemed only just wide enough to sustain the weight of his head. The head was vast, yet not unsightly, with a great weight of white hair, a nose like a ship's prow, a rich, sensitive mouth and wide gray eyes that had never told anybody anything. The whole effect was of a crude but tremendous power that was beginning to tire. Naxos had had the force, the will, and the strength to achieve almost anything he wanted, and he'd done so. Now he looked ready for rest.

Before the war he'd been a sailor. His grandmother had died and left him a caique. Inside a year he owned three. In five years he had a couple of tramp steamers. When the war came he sailed them into convoy, picked up another convoy in Britain, and reached America. He mortgaged them there and bought more ships. He went to South America and got into oil. He bought real estate in Florida. And more ships. Always more ships. If the Germans sunk them he got compensation; if they survived the cargo rates were enormous. By the end of the war he'd been a millionaire many times over, and he'd come back to Europe to ransack the Middle East. Arbrit Oil had swallowed almost the whole of his fortune at first, but in the end it had paid off, leaving him with 5 percent of whatever Zaarb, the ramshackle, sun-dried little sheikhdom off the Red Sea coast produced. And what came out was oil, a thick, black river that swept Naxos's personal fortune to that of a small nation. And trouble. When it went Red Naxos was the most hated man in Zaarb, but as long as he had his 5 percent he could vote for British troops to stay there. Naxos hired a private army of bodyguards, and voted for the status quo.

It didn't seem to worry him too much. Despite his weariness he looked fit enough to go five rounds with a heavyweight champion, his skin was bronzed and firm, and his handshake hard, yet Craig knew he was fifty at least. In a white sharkskin dinner jacket, black trousers, cherry-colored cummerbund, he looked grotesque, but he looked grotesque in any clothes. After a while the sheer strength of his personality made you forget how he looked. The only thing that would do him justice would be a suit of armor, thought Craig. Then he'd look like a king.

"Where the hell ya been?" Naxos said again.

"Back in England," said Craig. "Making money."

"Selling cigars?"

"That was a personal service—just for you," said Craig. "I got fed up with smuggling and went into nuts and bolts for a while, then I retired."

"You made enough, huh?"

"I had a good offer," said Craig. "And I like traveling. It was nice of you to ask me here."

"As soon as I knew you were in Greece," Naxos bawled. "Philippa's crazy to meet you. She'll be along soon. Come and meet the others."

He took Craig's arm and dragged him over to the people on deck, men and women who were there simply because they belonged to a group that was always available, always around, in Cannes and Corfu and Sun Valley and Ig-gls. People who could ski a bit and swim a bit and drink a great deal. Naxos bought them as he bought pictures, to plug the holes in his background. Craig said hello to a French count and an Italian starlet and an English Honorable, and nodded to a dozen more. Naxos went away and came back with a glass of Scotch on the rocks, put it in Craig's hand. The other guests reacted to the personal service as a spider reacts to a tremor in the web. Craig was in. It would be necessary to be nice to him.

"You remembered my drink," he said.

"I don't forget essentials," said Naxos, and looked anxiously at the companionway. "Women take a hell of a time to dress."

"The suspense is part of the treat," said Craig.

"I talk like a married man," Naxos said. T can't help it. I am married."

The starlet sighed very softly.

"Where are we going?" asked Craig.

The starlet tried a laugh this time, a low-pitched, husky trill.

"Don't you know?" she asked.

Somehow the three words conveyed to Craig that she thought him an eccentric, and therefore sexy.

"Craig just likes traveling," said Naxos.

"Destinations don't interest you?" said the Honorable.

"I've retired," said Craig.

"I never started," said the count.

The starlet gave a very Italianate shrug. It kept her torso in motion for three seconds.

"We're going to Venice," she said.

"That will be nice," said Craig.

"You know Venice?" asked the count.

"A bit."

"Very lush," said the Honorable, "but terribly overdone. All those vistas. Like a film set."

"It is a film set," said the starlet. "I've worked there myself."

And I, Craig remembered. I was nineteen. We went to stop some Germans blowing up that bridge by the Piazzale Roma. We succeeded—that time. Their lieutenant looked younger than me. He had an iron cross. Rutter took it for his scrapbook.

"I'd like to see that clock," said Craig. "The one where the two Moors come out and belt it with hammers."

'The best thing is the Carpaccios. And there are one or two Mantegnas of course," said the Honorable.

He began to talk about the Carpaccios and Mantegnas as the moon came up. Naxos watched out for his wife. The Honorable had got on to comparative color values when Naxos roared, "Honey. There you are." There was a woman at the top of the companionway, and Naxos seemed to reach her in one great push, but that one moment alone was the one Craig remembered.

She wore silver; a straight, clinging sheath of embroidered silk that glowed cold in the moonlight. Her hair was so blonde as to be almost white, and it too was silver when the moonlight touched it. Her body was sleek, graceful, her legs and ankles perfect. She walked like the sort of queen who is rescued from robber barons in a Hollywood TV series. She looked beautiful and innocent. Craig heard the Honorable whisper to the count, "How clever of her to wait until the moon came out." Then she and Naxos moved beneath the deck lights and the innocence had gone, and in its place was a wary alertness that reminded Craig of Tessa. Loomis had been right about that: this woman had been hurt.

Naxos came with her into the group: Craig thought of Bottom and Titania as he watched the man's face. The fact that he worshipped her was obvious: what Craig hadn't allowed for was that she felt the same way about him, and that this was equally apparent.

"Honey," said Naxos, "I want you to meet John Craig."

She held her hand out to him at once. The palm was cool, slightly moist, the bones delicate, but not fragile. There was a toughness about her for all her beauty. Anyone who can conquer heroin has to be tough, with a toughness of mind that will see the body destroyed before it will let go.

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Craig," she said.

Another shock. Her voice was soft, low-pitched, the accent almost English.

"My pleasure, Mrs. Naxos," said Craig.

Naxos bellowed with laughter, a bull with a sense of

humor.

"Mr. Craig, Mrs. Naxos," he said. "You're John and Philippa."

His massive arms came round them both, forcing them into friendship.

"I'd like that," said Philippa. "So would I," said Craig.

A waiter came up with drinks then, and again Naxos picked hers from the tray. They moved round their guests together, a duo who functioned only as a duo. Once they were separated they would be lost.

"Gorgeous, isn't she?" said the Honorable.

"I didn't believe it till I saw it," said the count.

The starlet tried another sigh, but the competition was too great.

"We were talking about Venice," said the count.

"Ah, yes, the Carpaccios. Do let me go on about the Carpaccios," said the Honorable.

"Anyone can see that Craig is an art lover," said the

count

"Well of course. It's written all over him. I noticed it at once; there's a man who wants to know about Carpaccios, I said to myself."

"Did you now?" said Craig. The Honorable looked up quickly. There was nothing wrong with the words, but the way he used them made him wary.

"My dear fellow, just our boyish fun," said the Honorable.

Craig said: "I'd sooner hear about Hephaistos and Aphrodite. Try your boyish fun on them."

"Aphrodite is the Greek name for Venus, the goddess of love," said the Honorable. "She was the wife of Hephaistos—he's Vulcan in Latin—a lame god, the smith who made weapons for heroes, and so on. Aphrodite was loved by Ares, god of war—called Mars by the Romans."

"Is there something about a net?"

"A net? Oh yes. Hephaistos found Aphrodite and Ares together in a rather too basic sort of way. He trapped them in a net. . . . May I ask why you're interested?"

"It was something a feller said to me once," said Craig. "I think he was trying to show off. Talking about things he knew I know nothing about."

He left the group, walked to the rail, and looked at the moon-washed whiteness of the harbor. Silk rustled beside him, and the starlet said: "I think you will like Venice now. It is not only pictures, Mr. Craig."

"John, Miss Busoni," said Craig.

"Pia Busoni," said the starlet, "call me Pia, please."

In England, Craig reminded himself, girls had been christened Faith, Hope, Charity, even Chastity. Why shouldn't an Italian call his daughter Pious? How was a father to know his daughter would grow into a body like hers?

"I know Venice very well," Pia said. "I'd be happy to show you around."

"No Carpaccios?"

"Only a very few. He painted an awful lot of pictures," said Pia.

Craig said: "It's a deal," and they went in to dinner.

The dining room was blue and silver, and the perfect setting for Philippa. It was only when they sat down that Craig noticed something that should have been obvious from the start: every other woman there was a brunette. Naxos worked hard to keep his wife unique.

The meal drifted by, a poem in five verses, accompanied by wine from the finest private cellar in Europe. Naxos drank German beer, and his wife had one glass of wine right through the meal. Craig drank a Latour '47, and wished to God Naxos had forgotten he liked whiskey. There were seventeen guests besides himself, and they looked, every one of them, what Naxos believed they were, and Naxos would know. Yet he suspected some of them, and there might be others he knew nothing about. It wasn't going to be easy to keep him alive if someone was really determined that he should die. And yet killing him wasn't the ideal solution; Zaarb would want him alive, and voting their way. That would mean attacking what he valued most, and that could only mean his wife.

The meal ended at last, and the brandy appeared, and Craig settled down to hear about the splendors and miseries of Cinecitta; and to speculate on how long it would take Pia, other things being equal, to shrug herself right out of her dress. She'd have to be standing up of course, and the zipper unloosed say the first inch and a half. . . . On his right, the count was telling the Honorable how Putzi had come a terrible purler on the beginners' slope at Cortina last year. It had something to do with champagne, and Putzi's conviction that he could ski backwards. Suddenly Naxos appeared, leered at Pia and said: "I'm taking him away for a bit, sweetie. Dreary old business."

"But you said he'd retired," Pia pouted.

"He's got money," said Naxos. "I want some. Come on, John. Bring your glass. I'll send him back to you, sweetie. Another brandy and he's yours." He winked and walked off, leading the way to a room that was part office, part study, wholly Naxos. Massive, durable furniture, charts and maps of his wealth on the bulkheads, the only decorations a tenth-scale model of his first caique and a portrait of Philippa by the man who does all the V.I.P.'s, and gets everything right but their humanity. Naxos poured more brandy for Craig, and a massive jolt of raki for himself.

"It really is nice to see you again," he said. "Philippa likes you too."

Craig thought: He's trying too hard. All this friend-

ship for a man who used to sell him cigars He must be worried. He stared back at Naxos, who looked at Craig, as a jockey might appraise a new racehorse, a promoter a new fighter.

"You look in good shape," he said. "I'm glad of that. I hear this may get rough." Craig nodded. "You know," Naxos continued, "there was a time I thought I could lick you. Not any more. You've got the edge on me, John."

"How?" asked Craig.

"I'm married to Philippa," Naxos said. "That means I worry about her—all the time. Now you, you don't worry about anybody."

"I worry about you," said Craig.

"I'lll I've signed the agreement," Naxos said. "After that I'm on my own. Right?"

"Would you want it any other way?" Craig asked.

"God no," said Naxos. "I've made a fortune out of Zaarb, and it's cost me ten years of my life in worry. Flip and I want to enjoy what's left. And that's where you come in."

"I know it," Craig said. "That's what I'm here for."

"Zaarb wants me dead," said Naxos, "but if I die it all goes to Philippa, and she'll vote against them. So Zaarb can't kill me. It makes them very unhappy."

"I bet," said Craig.

"All they can do is get at me through Flip," said

Naxos.

"Or offer you more money."

The words were out before he could stop them, but in any case they had to be said. Ever since he'd talked with Loomis, Craig had thought of that particular risk. Naxos was a businessman, who wanted the power that money brought. More money—more power.

"I'm satisfied," said Naxos. "I've got enough."

Craig knew that he was lying.

"A hundred million pounds. A one and eight zeros. Isn't that enough?"

"I wouldn't know," said Craig. "I've still got three zeros to go."

And Naxos laughed then, threw back his head and bellowed his brave bull's laughter.

'Tell me about your guests," Craig said. "Who doesn't

fit?"

T checked the list myself," Naxos said. "So did my security people. There's only one who's wrong—Pia Busoni." "How did you meet her?"

"I didn't. She got chummy with Flip. She's very like Flip, in a way. What I mean is, she wants to act, but she's no good. And she knows it. It makes her desperate—or that's what Flip says—and believe me she would know. That kid's at the stage where she'd dive off the Eiffel Tower into a wet sponge if somebody took pictures on the way down."

'That doesn't make her an agent," Craig said.

"I told you," said Naxos. "Flip's fond of her. They spend a lot of time together. If anyone could get at my wife, it's Pia Busoni. And she's broke, and not getting the parts, and been around too long. In my book she's a risk."

"She'll be watched," Craig said. "What about those two aristocrats in search of a peasant?"

'Tavel and Swyven? They're okay. Like you say, they're aristocrats. Tavel was in Indochina. A prisoner. The Viets gave him a rough time. All they do is fool around, Craig. Believe me they're clean."

"All right. When do we go to London?"

"We got ten days," said Naxos. "Let's have some fun

first."

"Where?"

"Flip wants to go to Venice. I got a place there." "It's a bad place to protect anybody in," said Craig. "I'm sorry," said Naxos. "Believe me I'm sorry. But if Flip wants to go, we'll just have to go."

Craig looked at him in amazement. Naxos meant it. "All right," he said. "I'll send for reinforcements." "Who?"

"He'll be good," Craig said. "If you're going to behave like that, we'll need the best."

Naxos said: "I'll help you all I can. Anything you want, just ask. And I mean anything."

"All right. Give me some stock-market tips," said

Craig.

"Huh?"

'This is a business conference, right? So tell me some business. Somebody will check on it anyway."

Naxos said, "You were always a hard man to buy cigars from."

He went to a desk table, unlocked a drawer.

"Buy Magna Electrics," he said. "All you can get. And Railton Plastics. Try a flyer in Marine Foods, too. It'll do you good to use your own money."

"Greedy," said Craig. "Let me talk to your wireless operator."

"Why on earth—"

'To instruct my broker. We want it known we're in business, don't we?"

Naxos pressed a button and murmured into an intercom. "He'll be along in a minute," he said. "I'll just introduce you and leave you to it. I have to get back to Flip."

Craig said; "I wish you would reconsider about Venice."

Naxos said: "You think I want to go? Look, you know my wife was on drugs?" Craig nodded. "Well, I got her off them. It nearly killed us both. But she still wants them, Craig, and anything that takes her mind off them she can have. Including Venice."

"Suppose she was kidnapped?"

"That's up to you," said Naxos. "I know what's going to happen if we don't go. I've seen it before—and it's worse than dying."

Craig was about to speak when there was a discreet tap at the door, and the wireless operator came in, browned and handsome in whites.

"Andrews," said Naxos, "this is Mr. Craig. He has some stuff he wants you to send." He turned to Craig. "You'll do your best with that other business?"

"Of course," said Craig. "But don't ask for guarantees."

"I don't need to, do I?" said Naxos, and left.

Andrews said: "What can I do for you, sir?"

Craig looked at the photograph that Loomis had given him, compared it with Andrews's face. This looked like the man. He took out a packet of cigarettes and offered it to him.

"No, thank you, sir. Not at the moment," said Andrews.

"Don't you like this brand?" asked Craig. "Occasionally," Andrews said. "But not often." Craig took out his lighter, set fire to the photograph, used it to light a cigarette. This was the man.

Craig tore a leaf from a scratch pad, rested it on the hard top of the desk, where pencil marks wouldn't show, and scribbled "Is this room bugged?" and then handed it to Andrews.

"I'll get on to it right away," said Andrews.

Methodically the two men went through the cabin. Andrews worked on the intercom and radiotelephone as the most obvious places, and Craig concentrated on the furniture. He found it at last behind Philippa's portrait, the tiny microphone let into the molding of the frame, a flat, gilded disk that exactly matched the rest of the frame, but projected a little too far. Behind the portrait was a tiny transister recorder, with wires instead of tape, working from flat batteries linked in a series and stuck to the back of the frame.

Craig snapped his fingers, and Andrews came over, turned it off and ran the wire back on to its spool, that was scarcely an inch in diameter. "Neat," he said. "Looks Japanese —except I hear the Chinese are doing a copy now. Did you see how slowly it turned? You could get a hell of a lot from one spool."

"A bit hit or miss though, surely?" said Craig.

"No," said Andrews. "The trigger mechanism's so delicate it switches on and off when somebody speaks."

"That's fantastic," said Craig.

"It's true," said Andrews. "Come along to my cabin and 111 play it back for you."

"Later," said Craig. "You know he's going to Venice?" Andrews nodded. "He says it's vital—for his wife's health. Has he contacted her doctor?"

"He's got one aboard," said Andrews. "He's also tried to get hold of a specialist in London. Sir Matthew Chinn. The rest's all been business. Stuff to his New York office, all routine, same kind of stuff to Zaarb, an order to Paris—diamonds for the madam—and one to Venice to a chap called Trottia, a dress designer."

"Got the address?"

"In my cabin," said Andrews. "But he's clean. It's all about evening dresses and twin sets and playsuits."

"Mrs. Naxos buys clothes in Paris," said Craig. "Tweeds in London. Odds and ends in Rome. Venice is for peasants."

"Okay," said Andrews. "Whatever you say."

"I've been introduced to the Count de Tavel, the

Honorable Mark Swyven, and Pia Busoni," said Craig. "She's the one Naxos doesn't fancy. I don't like the two men. What do you think?"

"I sent the guest list to London. They said they were all clean," Andrews said.

"Ask them to check those three again."

"Will do."

"Let's go to your cabin and listen," said Craig. "This place gives me delusions of grandeur."

Andrews's quarters were about cabin class on a Cunarder, and Craig wondered why on earth Andrews should bother risking his neck when he could live in such luxury and be a coward. He wondered why he should risk his own neck, and refused to face the answer. Danger was a craving he hadn't learned to stifle since he was seventeen years old. He waited, immobile, as Andrews took a transistor recorder from beneath the bottom of his battered suitcase, and delicately, painstakingly, connected up the tiny spool.

"We're not bugging him then?" asked Craig.

"I was told it was too risky. We can get most of what we need from the wireless room anyway," said Andrews.

Craig nodded, and waited, immobile, patient. Cautiously Andrews threaded the end of the wire into an empty spool and wound on.

"It's ready," he said, and switched on.

Craig listened to Naxos imperious, Naxos mercantile, Naxos amorous—this last when Philippa came into the room. He heard him speak to his wife, his steward, his three secretaries, his bosun, his captain, and his valet. He heard radiotelephone conversations with shipping offices in New York and a new oil-rig in Zaarb. He heard him speak in English, Arabic, and Greek. When he talked to Trottia he spoke in Italian, and it was all about dresses and twin sets. When Trottia said "Good-bye," he said "Addio," but Naxos said: "You should say 'Dosvidanye' until you learn Chinese, my friend," and roared with laughter.

"Stop," said Craig, and Andrews switched off.

"Get rid of Dosvidanye, and what follows," said Craig. "Just wipe it off."

Andrews nodded.

"It'll take time," he said. 'You want to hear the rest

of it?"

"Yes," said Craig, and Andrews switched on again. The rest of it was Craig and Naxos. The sound of drinks poured, and Naxos saying: "It really is nice to see you again. Philippa likes you too. You look in good shape." Every sentence hard on top of the one before, the first syllable blurred as the sound of the voice switched on the mechanism. Craig heard it through.

"Keep the first bit—up to Tfou look in good shape'— then muck it up for a bit. Leave the stock-market tips in, that is, 'Buy Magna Electrics'—up to 'Railton Plastics. Blur the bit about 'Marine Foods.' Clean off the rest. Can you do that?"

"Cleaning ofFs easy. But blurring—I'd have to put something in the mechanism, a bit of paper or something, to explain why it happened. Otherwise whoever set this thing up would just be more suspicious."

"Not paper," said Craig. He watched a big, clumsy moth bump its way round Andrews's table lamp. Suddenly his hand was a blur of movement, the remains of the moth a powdery stain on his palm.

"How about that?" he said. "Insects get in everywhere."

"That'll do fine," said Andrews. Carefully Craig scraped it off onto a sheet of paper.

"Can you put it back?" asked Craig.

"I think so," Andrews said. "I made myself a key."

"I like that," Craig said. "I like it very much. You and I will get along fine."

This one's good, he thought. For a new boy he's bloody marvelous. He left Andrews then, and went to his cabin. The thread he had left over the lock was intact, his room untouched. Craig took a bottle of brandy from his drinks tray, poured out a large tot, and flushed it down the toilet. He ground out the stub of the cigarette he had lit in Andrews's room into the ashtray, and scribbled figures in a note pad, then wrote the words "Magna Electrics" and underlined them. From the bottom of his wardrobe he took out a suitcase, an elegant piece of pigskin that had been made by the same expert who had created Andrews's battered wreck. He removed the false bottom, and looked at the snub-nosed Smith and Wesson .38 airweight with the two-inch barrel, snug in its molded hollow, the spare rounds of ammunition and the soft leather holster. Carefully, soundlessly, he checked and cleaned the gun, then put it back. Bauer's knife was there too, in a leather sheath Loomis had had made in three hours. He left it where it was, for the time, and searched his own room for a microphone. He found none, poured a small brandy as the reward or vigilance, and went back to the party.

* Chapter 8 *

They were still on deck, drinking, dancing, and Naxos came over at once to Craig, dragging Philippa with him.

"You took a long time to send a wire," he said.

"I had to work out how much to risk," said Craig. "I don't like taking chances, Harry."

"You don't deserve to have money," Naxos bawled. "Go and dance with Philippa. You don't deserve that either."

He pushed them together once more, then stuck out an empty hand. A steward sprang out of the thin air and stuck a glass of raki into it.

She was firm and supple in his arms, touching him just enough, her hand pressing into the hard-packed muscle of his shoulder, her head uptilted, the wide blue eyes searching his face with an intensity that didn't match at all with the commonplaces she spoke.

"I hope you're being well looked after, John," she

said.

"Oh yes," said Craig. "It's fine."

"Anything you want—just ask. Harry wants you to have a good time."

"There's nothing, believe me," said Craig.

They passed Swyven, who was dancing with Pia, and telling her about the ruins of Mytilene.

"It's all too scrumptious," Craig said.

Philippa giggled softly.

"He is awful, isn't he?" she said.

"Terrible. What on earth does he do besides telling me all about Carpaccio?"

"He's a dress designer. Quite a good one really." "Paris?"

"Not that good," said Philippa. "He works with a man called Trottia in Venice."

"Do you buy his stuff?"

"God no," said Philippa, genuinely shocked. "I always go to Paris. I love dressing up. Pia goes to him. He did that thing she's wearing. Honestly, it's not too bad, is it?"

"Very nice," said Craig.

"I'm glad you think so," said Philippa. "I think Pia's taken rather a fancy to you. Would you mind awfully?"

"Not terribly. No," said Craig.

"You shouldn't laugh at me," said Phihppa.

"You shouldn't talk like that."

"It's the only way I can talk—except like a Hollywood whore. That's what I used to be. When I married Harry I wanted to start again, right from the beginning. So he hired somebody to teach me to talk like this."

"The Archbishop of Canterbury?"

"Well almost," said Phihppa. "A genuine British ladyship. She's the eighteenth countess or something, and she hasn't a bean."

Another dancer lurched towards them, and Craig swung her round, lifting her casually from under his feet.

"You're very strong," said Philippa.

"I used to work," said Craig, and she giggled again. It was a very satisfying thing, triggering off that low, rich laughter, that still held a touch of vulgar zest in it, despite all the eighteenth countess had done.

When the dance ended, Philippa took Craig's hand and led him over to Pia.

"Now be nice to her," she whispered. "It's about time someone was." Then "Darling," she said, "you must dance with John. He's so good."

"I'd love to," said Pia, and when the band started again, came to him, lifting her arms gently, submissively, moving surely to his touch.

"Philippa's right," said Pia. "You are good. I'm looking forward to Venice."

"It should be interesting," said Craig.

The Italian laughed, a clear, ringing sound that contrasted with Philippa's soft giggle. In a corner opposite, Swyven and Tavel talked together. The Frenchman heard the laughter, and scowled.

"I can never understand the English," she said. "Come here. I want to show you something."

She broke away, and walked towards the stem of the ship, down a companion ladder to what had once been the after gun turret.

The helicopter rested there.

"It's a helicopter," said Craig.

"Yes, of course. But come here," said Pia. She drew him into a pool of shadow behind it.

"Now nobody can see us," she said. "Shall we dance here instead?"

Her arms came round him again, and her mouth found his, and she kissed him with a demanding skill that brought his body to flame. Her hands loosed the button of his coat and slipped inside it, roamed delicately over his ribs, across his back. Craig wondered if he was being searched, in the most tactful way possible, to see if he carried a gun. At last he said: "You dance pretty well yourself."

"I'm very fond of dancing," she said. "See?"

Her arms reached up for him again, but he took hold of her wrists, holding her gently, but with a strength she couldn't resist.

"Not here," he said.

"But I like it here."

She tried to move her arms, and discovered that she could not.

"I've got to talk with Harry again," Craig said. "Business."

"Darling, please stay," she said. "No," said Craig.

"Ji you don't stay, 111 scream," she said, and again struggled to free her hands.

"This lot are past getting their kicks out of screaming," said Craig. She opened her mouth then, and he added: "You scream, and I'll belt you." Her mouth shut and he left her. As he went he heard a gasping sound, weeping or laughter? It was impossible to tell.

He raced for the companionway that led to his cabin.

The corridor was deserted. He stopped by his cabin door. The thread across the lock was gone. Craig flattened himself by the bulkhead near the door, and listened in concentration. There was a faint sound from inside the cabin. He waited, tense and ready, then heard the clatter of footsteps ascending the stairs from the afterdeck. Pia had got over her laughter, or her tears. For a moment he toyed with the idea of going in, facing the man inside, then he rejected it. His cover was good, the chances of anyone finding the gun in the suitcase unlikely. He sped down the corridor into the saloon. Phihppa was there alone, looking through a picture-frame window at the lights of the harbor. She spun round at once, and looked at Craig.

"Oh," she said, "it's you. I thought you were giving Pia dancing lessons."

"It turned out she was teaching me," said Craig. He listened, straining for a sound from outside. Philippa came up to him, her arm reached out and she shut the door.

T can't stand open doors," she said. "I have too many secrets."

She turned then, looked hard at Craig. "Pia couldn't teach you anything," she said. "Have a drink."

"No thanks," said Craig.

"Make me one then. Scotch. Lots of Scotch. Lots of ice."

Craig made her drink, and she swallowed it almost fiercely, gagging it down as if that were the only way she could take it.

"I don't do that often," she said.

T can see that," said Craig.

"And Harry doesn't know."

"But I doF'

"Why not?" she said. "You're supposed to be looking after me, aren't you?"

"I poured your Scotch, didn't I?" said Craig. "Why do you want to fight me, Mrs. Naxos?"

Her head jerked up then, and she gulped down the rest of the Scotch.

"Again," she said.

Craig made her another one.

"What were you on?" he asked. "Heroin?"

She slammed the glass down, Scotch slopping on to the table, and her blue eyes were dark with hate. Craig looked back at her, his gaze steady. She began to shake.

"I had to find out about you," he said. "I had to learn where you can be hurt."

"And that's where," Philippa said. "I still miss it. Scotch isn't any good. I still miss it."

"How long have you been off it?"

"A year," she said. "A lifetime. I could wish you didn't have to keep me alive, John."

The door opened then, and Naxos came in. For once he looked old, tired.

He slumped heavily into a chair.

"Make me a drink, honey," he said.

I'll get it," said Craig.

"But Philippa had already opened a cupboard and was pouring raid.

"Make one for John, too," said Naxos.

"I've got one," said Craig, and picked up Philippa's glass. Naxos took the drink his wife gave him, swallowed once, then again, and held it out for more.

"I've told him we're going to Venice," he said.

Philippa shrugged.

"I can't stop you," Craig said. "But I don't think you realize what these people are capable of."

As he spoke the door opened again, and Pia came in, with the count, who seemed drunk, and Swyven, who seemed anxious.

"They've been in business for a long time," Craig continued. They usually manage to get the things they want—and at their own price."

They won't this time," said Naxos.

The count slumped into the chair Naxos had used. Craig was conscious of a feeling of outrage, as if a scullion had dared to occupy a throne.

"I should like a drink, if it is permitted," said the

count.

"Help yourself," said Naxos. "We're through talking business."

Swyven began to mix three drinks, and his hands shook so that the decanter clattered on the glasses.

"Business," said the count. "That is all the English are interested in—eh, Pia?"

"Oh, be quiet," said Pia. "Why can't you mind your own affairs?"

"They look like men, they even try to act like men, but there is no manhood in a cash register," said the count.

"Tavel, for heaven's sake," said Swyven.

"My dear Mark, I do not include you," said the count. "You are a gentleman."

Craig sipped again at his Scotch, then turned to put down the glass, and in doing so faced both Swyven and the count.

"Craig is not a gentleman," said Tavel.

"That's right," said Craig. "I'm a businessman. You said so yourself."

"You tried to seduce Pia—" said the count.

"For God's sake," said Pia.

"—then in the middle of it you got bored and you went off to talk business."

"Did she tell you this?" Naxos asked.

"I was watching. I saw it all," said the count.

Philippa tried to speak then, but Naxos shook his head, the suspicion of a grin on his face.

"You saw it?" Craig asked.

"I did," said the Count de Tavel.

T wonder what that makes you?" said Craig. "Don't the French have a word for it?"

Tavel leaped from his chair, his whole body aimed at Craig's throat, his hands squeezing hard. Craig grabbed his wrists, pulled up, then hard down, and the hands came away. Tavel continued the movement and his hands were free. He brought his knee up, missed the blow at the crotch, and hit Craig's stomach. Craig gasped, sagged back, and Tavel came in with his fists. Craig took one blow on the shoulder, another on the cheekbone, and staggered back to the bulkhead. Tavel leaped in to finish the fight, slamming a hard right for Craig's jaw but Craig was already sagging at the knees, his head rolling on his chest. Tavel's fist brushed his hair and slammed into the bulkhead. The count screamed, and then the scream was chopped off short as Craig's fist came down like a mallet on the side of his neck. He fell hard, twitched once, and was still.

"What the hell is going on?" said Craig.

"Really it's too bad of him," said Swyven, and his hand groped out for a drink.

"You'd better wait till you stop shaking," Craig said. "And anyway it's my drink."

"I'm most awfully sorry," said Swyven.

"That's all right,' said Craig. He turned to Naxos, who was wheezing horribly, then the wheezing turned to a roaring laughter that sounded like a mob yelling for blood.

"What the hell—" Craig said again.

"You hit hard," said Swyven.

"Bloody hard," said Pia. "Bim, Bam. Ker-pow."

"He hit me," said Craig.

"He often does. Hit people I mean," said Swyven. "He was in the French army—Algeria, Vietnam, and all that. Nowadays he picks fights with people and hits them. It's a sort of emotional release."

"Don't they hit back?" Craig asked.

"Not usually. He's very good at fighting."

"So's Craig," Naxos wheezed. "He was in the Special Boat Service. They taught him pretty good."

'That was a long time ago," said Craig. "It's funny the things you remember."

"Like riding a bike," said Naxos. 'That's a hell of a Sunday punch, John. Dirty too."

"If I fight clean I always lose," said Craig.

Tavel groaned, and Naxos's smile disappeared; his features rearranged themselves into a frown.

"I told him last time—no more fights with my friends. Guests yes, friends no." Then the frown disappeared. "Ah, what the hell. He lost, didn't he?"

Craig rubbed his aching stomach, glad of the hard ridge of muscle that had taken the blow.

"Maybe he couldn't tell the difference," said Craig.

I wonder if I made it convincing, he thought. No judo, no karate, just the rough stuff they teach you on a Commando course. The count knew it all too. But he drinks too much. He's brittle. And what was the object of the exercise anyway? To see if I would fight? To see how much I knew? To put me out of action?

Naxos picked up the telephone and called the doctor, then turned to Craig.

"I really am sorry about it, John," he said. "I honestly thought he was cured."

Philippa sat in the chair, her hand running along the coarse silk of the cushion, picked at a loose piece of thread. "He hit you too," said Philippa. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," said Craig. He looked down at Swyven who had knelt beside Tavel, and was bathing his forehead with a napkin dipped in an ice bucket.

"I'm fine. So long as people don't get the idea it was my fault for not letting him beat me unconscious."

Swyven said: "He's a friend of mine. I worry about

him."

"You do right," said Craig, and turned to Pia. "Did you put him up to this?"

"Of course not," said Pia. "He isn't a friend of mine." Swyven winced.

"He's just a dirty Peeping Tim."

"Tom," said Craig. "Peeping Tomf

"Tim, Tom, I'm glad you hit him," said Pia. Then the doctor came in, and glanced quickly at Philippa before he bent over the prostrate Tavel.

« Chapter 9 *

When Craig got to his cabin he went at once to the suitcase. Someone had found the false bottom, all right. He took out the gun, and examined it cautiously, inch by inch. The screw that held the firing pin had been removed. He looked at the magazines. They were empty. Only the knife was intact. Tavel would have done better if he'd held the shells in his hand. Tavel had a broken knuckle and a bruise on his neck and a vicious headache, and he'd earned them all, but as an operator he didn't begin to make sense. Nor did Swyven. He was a physical coward. And Swyven had been afraid before the fight. He'd known it was coming. And somebody had worked out the excuse for setting up the fight: Tavel's known eagerness and talent for fisticuffs. Somebody also had a reason for setting it up, and that was obvious. Craig had to be out of the way before the yacht reached Venice. He wondered who the man was behind these clowns. His technique was brilliant—offer Tavel and Swyven on a plate—and Pia too perhaps? Make them keep Craig busy, while he, the unknown, got on with the dirty work. His only fault was that he'd overdone it slightly. He was too thorough.

He thought about the thread Philippa had picked from the cushion—black cotton thread from a red silk cushion. The chair Tavel had sat in. Naxos's chair. The thread Craig had put over the lock on his door. It looked as if he was better at searching rooms than beating ex-sailors unconscious. And Naxos had just stood by and laughed. Naxos had thought it was funny. And maybe it was. Craig would have liked to laugh too, but laughter hurt his stomach.

He woke next morning, and found he was famous. The people Naxos had asked along didn't dislike Tavel. They didn't like Craig either, but Craig had won, and that made him interesting. He discovered something else, too. The ship was moving south through the Cyclades, before swinging a great arc past the Peloponnesus, and northwest to the Adriatic at a steady fifteen knots. Two hundred miles at an unwavering fifteen knots. They would be in Venice in three days.

After breakfast Craig went to the swimming pool on the foredeck. Naxos, he learned, was cloistered with his secretaries; Philippa was still asleep. There was time for a swim. At the other end of the pool Pia lay on a mattress, her body dark, even in the sunlight, and glistening with oil. She waved to Craig, and he went into the water in a flat, smashing dive, then swam toward her, using an ugly, powerful crawl, whose only virtue was utility. It was fast. He'd learned to swim like that in the cold North Sea. He heaved himself up from the water beside Pia, and a steward came up and handed him a towel.

'VVould you like a drink, sir?" asked the steward.

"He'll have some of mine," said Pia. "Bring a glass."

The steward brought a tumbler, and Pia reached for a jug, poured out two glasses of a shining, golden fluid.

"Orange juice?" asked Craig.

"In a way," Pia said.

"What does that mean?"

"It is diluted with champagne," said Pia.

"Don't you ever give up?" Craig asked.

"Kicks," she said. "I've got to live for kicks. After all I am a starlet."

She sipped her golden firewater and Craig lay down beside her. As he did so his foot slipped on the wet tiles by the pool, kicking his glass into it.

"Sorry," he said, "111 get another one."

"Don't bother," Pia said at once. "We'll share mine."

She wasn't that good an actress. All that had gone into the pool was orange juice and champagne. She sipped again, and held the glass to Craig's hps.

"Nice?" she asked.

I'll learn to live with it," said Craig.

She was sitting up beside him, her weight supported on her arms, that were thrust out behind her. The pose brought her torso into superb relief, emphasizing its rich curves, the firm, heavy roundness of flesh that the scarlet bikini did an irreducible minimum to conceal. Her eyes held his, then she breathed in, hard.

"I like your dress," said Craig.

She breathed out in a burst of laughter, then leaned over him, the weight of her breasts just touching his chest, her lips soft on his mouth. Craig's arms came round her, held her for a moment, then let her go.

"Who will I have to fight this time?" he asked.

T am sorry about last night. Honestly," said Pia. "Next time, I promise you, he won't be anywhere near." The waiter came back.

"Suntan oil, sir?" he asked, and handed a bottle to

Craig.

"Thanks," said Craig, and lay down again. "I will rub your back," said Pia.

He felt the cool smoothness of the oil on his back, then rolled over to feel it on his shoulders, his chest, Pia's fingers moved slowly, dehghtfully across his body, then paused at the rawness of the scar he'd received from Bauer.

"Were you in an accident?" she asked.

"Skin diving," Craig said. "I cut myself on a clam

shell."

Tt must have been very sharp." "Like a knife," said Craig. 'Tell me about your pictures."

They had been religious epics mostly, and Pia the

Aad virgm from the right just before the hons came on. 5red had two tests for English companies, one for Hollywood. They'd come to nothing.

"That is how it goes," she said. "But it will change. There is time. I'm just twenty-six. With luck I've got ten years."

"And then?"

"I'll sleep," she said. "Sleep and sleep. Without pills and all by myself." She paused. "Perhaps you—sometimes if I wake up—" her nails nipped the muscles of his thigh; he stared into the richness of her breasts. She was stupid, sweet, and probably dangerous, but she held tremendous sexual promise. Craig all but groaned aloud when Philippa came up and lay down beside them.

"John," she said, "you do smell pretty."

She wore a white beach robe. Below it her legs were long, rounded, golden.

"That's the suntan oil you keep," said Craig.

"No," said Pia. "I cheated. I used mine. You smell just like me." She offered a brown shoulder to Craig, who sniffed delicately at the little mole in the center.

"If I went back to London now, I'd be arrested," he

said.

Pia was looking beyond him into Flip's blue eyes. She saw the signal there, rose, and stretched.

T think I'll just look over my things for tonight," she said. "Bye, John."

Craig watched the slow ticktock of her hips as she

left.

"She's working hard on you," said Flip. "Are you tMnking of being a producer?"

'Too dangerous," said Craig.

She unloosed the cord of her robe, let it slip from her shoulders. Below it she wore a one-piece swimsuit of white nylon, high in the front, low in the back. Against it her skin was pale gold, her hair almost white. Craig reached out for the suntan oil.

"Shall I rub your back?"

"No," she said. T might like it. Let's swim instead."

For a while they swam, fooling, splashing, competing half-seriously, each testing the other. She was a magnificent swimmer, and she dived neatly, elegantly, without fear. Craig worked hard to keep up with her. Then more guests arrived, and Craig climbed out of the pool and dried himself. The carafe of orange juice gleamed in the sunlight as if there were a light inside it. Beside it something else lay glittering. The botde of suntan oil the waiter had brought. Craig picked it up and went to his cabin.

The oil was delicately scented, heavy, silvery-clear, as the maker's label claimed it would be. Craig poured a little on to the white-painted wood of his bed, and watched. Nothing happened. He grinned, shook his head, and sat down to think about Venice. About this Trottia character. They all had to be watched. It was just as well he'd made Andrews send word for Grierson to join them. There were Pia, Swyven, and Tavel to be watched too. Or maybe he should leave that to Grierson. Grierson investigating Pia— a labor of love. He decided on a drink before lunch, showered, and started to put on his clothes. From the corner of his eye he could see that there was a bug of some kind on his bed. The brown showed up against the white paint. He went over to it and looked more closely. The bug was just the woodwork, showing up where the paint had been eaten away by the suntan oil. He took a piece of paper from his writing table, and held it to the wood. It was thick paper, heavy, expensive. The acid on the woodwork melted it like polythene in a flame. He looked at his watch. It took twenty minutes to act, but then it worked like hghtning. He thought of his back, and Pia's hands.

* Chapter 10 «?

There were too many languages. The man Dyton-Blease spoke English, always, and English she could manage very well, but in the palazzo the servants spoke Italian to each other, and Trottia sulked sometimes because she could speak no French. Trottia and the servants presented other problems, too. Trottia was the first man she had ever met who liked to pretend that he was a woman, and who disliked women at that. This meant that he disliked her, and therefore had to be watched. Her father had warned her to beware of Frangistani enemies; they had no honor, they were worse than Arabs. The servants presented another problem. They were not, Dyton-Blease assured her, slaves. On the contrary. Sometimes they seemed more like masters, so that when one of them, a seamstress, had stuck a pin in her at a fitting and she had slapped her, a swinging, open-handed smack, she had had to apologize and Trottia had had to give the woman more money. Slaves were a lot easier.

Then there was so much water in Venice. Everywhere there was water. The streets were full of it. You had to make a boat journey to ride a horse, on that ridiculous island they called Lido. On Lido, too, you had to wear a swimsuit, to he about on the sand near naked while men you did not know and would not wish to love looked at your body. This disgusted her, but Dyton-Blease insisted on it.

Selina walked to the shuttered window, looked out on the moving, aqueous light of Venice, green, shimmering, brilliant. Below her was the Grand Canal; across it a majestic parade of palaces. From the window to her left she could see the piazzo, the piazzetta, Saint Mark's, the Doge's palace. Moored to the steps of the palazzo a motorboat waited to take her to Florian's, Harry's Bar, and a dozen churches crammed with masterpieces. Selina didn't care. She wanted desert, scrubland, the sight and sound of horses. She was—what was the word that man had used— homesick. A real man, that one, slow because of his sickness but ready to fight, if necessary to kill. Without fear. Power and courage in the gray northern eyes. To he on the beach in front of that one—she dismissed the idea. He was a liar. He had said he was English.

With a sigh she let fall her dressing gown, prepared to struggle once more with the clothes European women, Dyton-Blease told her, managed so easily. Brassiere and suspender belt and panties and stockings clipped on to the belt, then slip and dress and your hair all over the place. She looked at herself in the mirror, and for the first time since she was three years old, contemplated the possibility of crying. Then Dyton-Blease knocked on the door. Everyone knocked since Trottia had walked in to find her in her slip and she had beaten him unconscious with a silver-backed hairbrush. On its back was a rehef of Actaeon surprising

Diana bathing. Dyton-Blease had laughed, but not Trottia. Diana's quiver had torn his scalp. Dyton-Blease said: "The man we need will be here tonight." Selina sighed in relief. Soon she could go home.

"He is giving a ball," said Dyton-Blease. "You and I will go. We will be able to talk; it will be quite safe. I will see that no one interrupts."

Selina looked, appraising, at Bernard's enormous size. Huge but not lumpy. Smooth-muscled. Speed to match his strength. She wondered how the man who lied would cope with a strength and speed like this. And yet she had no wish to be loved by Bernard. Since he first came to Haram she was sure he loved no one but himself.

"When you meet this man Naxos, he will agree to buy. All your father will sell him. Then you will go home."

"But why?" she said. "Why should he want such terrible stuff?"

"To sell to someone else at a profit. He's a businessman after all," Dyton-Blease said, and sneered. "That's all I can tell you."

"And if he won't buy?"

"He will. He must," Dyton-Blease said.

Another knock at her door. Trottia's knock.

"Trottia," Dyton-Blease said. "See him, please. He has your costume ready."

"Costume?"

"Tonight will be a costume ball," Dyton-Blease said. "You are going as an odalisque." He flushed for a moment as she looked puzzled, then started to explain. Selina understood the flush at once. An odalisque meant sex, and sex terrified Dyton-Blease. She smiled and his flush deepened.

"You don't mind?" he asked.

"I don't know," said Selina. "Let me see my costume."

Trottia brought it in, as plump and sacerdotal as a priest displaying a relic. Slave bangles for ankles and wrists, filmy pantaloons, a velvet jacket, gold lame breast coverings, gold necklace, a velvet cap, gold-trimmed, and a muslin veil to hide her face, but not her body. Selina looked at Trottia who stepped back two paces. His scalp wound had only just healed.

"Someone will pinch me," said Selina.

Trottia's face paled, and his carefully preserved Titian-red hair flamed scarlet against its whiteness. He re-

membered the appalling moment on the Accademia bridge when somebody had pinched the little fiend's bottom, and she had swung at the nearest male and only just missed. The nearest male had been a Dominican friar.

"No one will pinch you," said Dyton-Blease. "These people are different."

"I hope so," said Selina. "But if these are what I am to wear—why all this?" And she swept her hand in a fury down her dress.

"It may be necessary to stay with Naxos for a while, on his yacht," Dyton-Blease said. "It depends—" "On what?"

"An Englishman," said Dyton-Blease. "I expect that he will be ill by now. If not, it will be necessary to kill him."

"What does he look like?" Selina asked.

"You've met before," Dyton-Blease said. "But then I didn't know who he was. I wish to God I had." He took a photograph from his pocket, and handed it to her. She found herself looking at Craig, and realized that he had not lied.

* * »

The ship turned westward, seeking the opening in the long, low shoreline. The ringing blue of the Adriatic became shallow, opaque. Along the eastern reef there were a straggle of fishing villages; violently painted fishing boats, each one decorated on the bows with an eye or a star to ward off evil; a maze of nets, drying in the evening sun; and other boats, restless, searching for the comfort of the city. Motor-boats, dinghies, barges, wary of the shallows. The Philippa eased to half speed, as opulence took over from poverty; white hotels; caf6s, gardens with umbrellas like mad, striped toadstools, twin rows of barbered, symmetrical trees. Then the last promontory disappeared, and before them was Venice, towers, domes, campaniles, palazzos, a shimmering haze of white and pink and blue. The Philippa sailed on to the basin of Saint Mark's, and dropped anchor off Saint George's Island.

Craig stood between Flip and Naxos, and looked at the city, its waters alive with gondolas, barges, sandolos, vaporettos, and crowded on to the land, pushing in hard for room like the home crowd at a cup tie, the palaces and churches, gorgeous, arrogant, triumphal as the men who made them.

"Aren't you glad we had to come here?" Flip asked.

"It's magnificent," Craig said, "but it's dangerous."

"That's part of its charm," Phihppa said.

Naxos said: T own one of those," and nodded at the line of palazzos on the Grand Canal. "That one." He pointed, and handed Craig a pair of binoculars. Craig took the glasses and saw a slim, elegant building, with magnificent balconies and a vast shaded portico. Two gondolas tied up at the painted poles by its steps stained its honey-yellow marble. The gondolas too, were Harry's, but not the rabble of other craft that jostled to tie up alongside, row-boats, motorboats, barges, loaded with food, drink, carpets, glassware, crockery, chairs, even musical instruments.

"What on earth—"

"There'll be more round the back," said Naxos, and turned to Craig.

"I'm sorry, John. We're having a party tonight."

"How many guests?"

"About three hundred," said Naxos.

"And reporters and photographers and TV cameras?"

"Well of course. It's a big party." He paused. "Trot-tia's designing it for me."

'Trottia?"

"Yes," said Naxos. "It's very important for me, John." "Okay," he said. "You'd better show me a plan of the

house."

He worked over it carefully, in infinite detail, with Naxos. There was one way in, and one way out. That was a gain. The house looked out in front on to the Grand Canal, and was a hollow square, enclosing a courtyard that was bounded on one side by a narrow waterway, on the two others by even narrower streets. It would be staffed by the stewards of the yacht, policed by its sailors. The band was to be flown in from Rome, the guests from half Europe. Naxos deemed it a necessary exercise in public relations, and nothing Craig could say would shift him. It was too late to cancel, and Trottia had organized it anyway. "AH right," Craig said at last. "But you both get there and stay there—in a crowd. I want everybody to See you—and recognize you."

"Of course," said Naxos. "There's just one more thing. This is a costume ball, John—I have a costume for you—and everyone will go masked."

"That's all I needed," said Craig.

"We begin at midnight and unmask at dawn. Trottia says it's the way the Venetians lived in the old days. The great ones, I mean. The merchant princes."

And he's conned you into being the last of them, Craig thought.

He said at last: "You won't leave the ship until midnight. Promise?"

"Sure," said Naxos.

"Who will?"

"The stewards will leave in an hour. They have to set the house in order. The crew—the ones who will be policing the place—they'll go over at eleven."

"Your guests?"

"They'll stay here if I ask them. We're eating at ten." "Ask them," said Craig. "I will."

"I'd like to go ashore now. Can I take the bosun with

me?"

"Take what you like," said Naxos.

"Just the bosun. Have you said anything about me?"

Naxos shook his head.

"Tell him I'm your new security chief. Tell him he's to do as I say. And, Harry—" Naxos turned to him. "You know what you're doing, don't you?"

"Only what I have to," said Naxos.

5"Chapter 11 *

The small launch roared across to Lido and put Craig ashore. Craig told the Hydriote to wait and hurried to a cafe in the piazza, and a telephone. No time to go to the Danieli, near as it was. He phoned Grierson and told his friend to meet him and to bring an extra gun. He then raced for the maze of shops near the Largo San Marco, found a chemist's, and walked inside. Afterwards he returned to the Hy-driote.

"I've tried to telephone the palazzo," he said. "There's no answer. Go and see what's wrong. Ill wait here."

The Greek nodded and set off in the motorboat. Craig looked out from the piazzetta. In the middle of the crowd an Englishman walked, tall, dapper, aloof. Dark slacks, dark-blue sport shirt, handmade Florentine shoes, a hat of coffee-colored straw. He carried a map, and looked puzzled. Craig stood up and sauntered easily into the most earnest crowd in the world, as it gaped at one of its finest views. The tall Englishman bumped into him, then looked up, apologetic.

"I'm awfully sorry," he said.

'That's all right."

"Oh, you're English? Jolly good," said the tall one, then added: "I say. You don't happen to know a place where they sell a decent beer, do you?"

'There's a cafe round the corner," said Craig. "Come and 111 show you."

They turned down to the piazzetta, sheltered from the crowd in a doorway. Craig made explanatory gestures and said: "Nice to see you. Did you bring a gun?"

"Just let me show you the map," said Grierson.

He opened it wide, and Craig, holding one side, felt a weight in the pocket of his jacket.

"Thanks," he said. "You're going to a masked ball tonight."

"Oh, goody," said Grierson.

"Get yourself a costume and meet me here at eleven o'clock."

"Will do. Anything else?"

Maize pellets rattled on the stone in front of them, a flock of overfed pigeons swooped, and a flurry of German tourists aimed Leicas. Grierson lifted the map again.

"Go and get your beer," said Craig. "Have one for

me.

Grierson left him, and Craig waited for the Hydriote to return. He admired the skill with which the bosun ran the boat alongside the molo, then tied up and left it, going at once to Craig. Greeks never expected to be robbed, Craig thought, but maybe Theseus was right anyway. Who would dare rob Naxos?

"Phone's okay," he said.

"I must have got the number wrong," Craig said. Theseus said nothing.

"We've got time for a drink," said Craig.

The idea pleased the Hydriote so much he was moved to speech.

"Good," he said.

Craig led the way to the maze of alleys by St. Mark's and found the Cafe he was looking for. It was ten years since he had been there, but everything was just as it had always been. Even the cats looked the same. Everything in Venice is there for ever.

They sat outside together, their backs against a wall two feet thick, their nearest neighbors a group of market-men sitting over coffee and talking endlessly, effortlessly, about the price of tomatoes. Theseus asked for wine, and Craig ordered Orvieto, then looked at the Hydriote's enormous body.

"Bring the bottle," he said, and when it came, watched Theseus drink and ordered another.

"Busy night," said Theseus. Craig nodded. "Money. Too much money. There'll be thieves." He drank again.

"They won't have invitation cards," said Craig.

"They'll make their own," said Theseus. "They've done it before."

He drank gloomily.

"We'll have men watching," said Craig. "Sneak thieves I don't mind, but I want you to watch out for the hard boys. Have some of your sailors handy. If you see me signal, come running."

"You think there may be a fight?"

"It's possible."

"I'd like that," said the Hydriote. He poured more wine, and the empty bottle swung in his hand like a belaying pin. Suddenly his fingers clamped round the bottleneck, and he began to squeeze hard, harder, until the sweat rolled down his face, and his arms were wet with it. At last the bottle neck cracked, and opened, and he turned to the waiter who had brought the second bottle.

"Could you do that?" he asked.

"All right," said Craig. "You're strong. Just be there when I want you."

Theseus drank, poured another glass, then looked into Craig's mquiring eyes.

"No more till after the party," he said.

Craig nodded. "Me too."

"There'll be trouble tonight," said Theseus.

"What kind of trouble?"

"The women. Clothes trouble."

'Try speaking in sentences," Craig said.

"Mrs. Naxos has a costume, and Pia Busoni has the same costume."

"You're sure?"

Theseus's massive head, the head of a Hercules sunk in gloom, nodded once.

"Certain." He sighed. 'Trouble," he said. "For you. Pity. I like you."

He finished the bottle and took Craig back to the yacht. The guests were already dressed for the party, and Craig fought his way through a mob of harlequins, columbines, abbots, Napoleons, painters, poets, pirates, peasants, doges, courtesans, Othellos, Desdemonas, Crusaders, Byzantines, queens of Cyprus, and emperors of the Holy Roman Empire, who were milling around the buffet, drinking Scotch and smoking king-sized tipped cigarettes. In the big hotels on Lido, in rented palazzos, in Venice itself, several hundred more would be changing too: all in costumes that had a link with Venice as she once had been. The Serenissima, queen of the sea, the one point in the earth where East met West, lord of a quarter and a half quarter of the Roman Empire; a city of fantastic wealth, beauty, power, and cruelty. Craig squeezed past Titian's Young Man with a Glove, nodded at Swyven, a half-convincing Lord Byron, and went to his cabin.

He was a corsair—baggy trousers, soft leather boots, white shirt, black velvet waistcoat, and a scarlet handkerchief for his head. There was a red sash too, stuck with plastic imitations of daggers, cutlasses, yataghans, and pistols. Craig added his new Smith and Wesson and the German's knife to the collection. They looked at home there. Someone knocked on the door, and he pushed the pistol down into the sash. The door opened, and Andrews came in and handed Craig a radiogram.

"From your broker," he said.

Magna Electrics and Marine Foods had jumped, but Railton Plastics was sluggish. So far Craig had made £ 2,000. Beneath the stock-market quotations Andrews had written: Tavel—negative. Busoni—negative. Swyven believed to be business partner of Trottia. Important nothing happens to Naxos. Stay sober. Loomis.

"That's all?" said Craig.

Andrews said: "I dare say you'll get more news later." He turned to the door, then added: "Oh, by the way, sir, I'm going to this shindig tonight too."

Craig said carefully: "I shan't try to reach my broker tonight anyway."

"Cigarette, sir?" Andrews asked.

"No," said Craig. "You try one of these." He eased the Smith and Wesson up from the sash.

Andrews left, and Craig went to see Naxos.

He was dressed as a Turkish pasha, and he looked like a toad in a turban, a toad with the thrust of a jet. Beside him was the queen of the harem, an olive-skinned, black-haired beauty in filmy pantaloons, slave bangles on wrists and ankles, a velvet jacket, gold lam6 breast coverings, gold necklace, and a velvet cap, gold-trimmed. A muslin veil hid her face but not her body. Craig looked round for Philippa, and the olive-skinned houri laughed.

I'm still here," said Philippa, and took off her veil. "When one's husband feels like a Turk, the best thing to do is feel like a harem." She snapped her fingers, and lifted her arms above her head; her body began to writhe.

"Flip, for God's sake," said Harry. His voice was a blast from a foghorn.

Philippa let her arms drop, loosed her muslin veil.

I'm sorry, John," she said. "I feel lousy tonight."

"Give the party a miss then," Craig said.

"I can't. It's all arranged, you see. I've got to go."

"It'll do you good, honey," Naxos said. "What can we do for you, John?"

Craig looked at the woman, her hands pulling restlessly at her veil, a nerve in her cheek twitching so that her face was never still. She needed a fix. Desperately.

"I haven't got an invitation card," said Craig.

"Help yourself," said Naxos, and gestured to a pile of huge, stiff cards.

"Thanks," said Craig, and turned to Philippa. 'Tour necklace is coming loose," he said. "Shall I fix it for you?"

"I'll do it," said Naxos, and his great body came round his wife's like a wall.

Craig took two invitation cards.

I'll be off then," he said. "See you at the ball."

Grierson was waiting at the piazzetta. He was dressed in red velvet with a velvet mask, a quattrocento Venetian dandy with a rapier by his side. The two men walked along the molo to a point opposite the palazzo, watching the yacht's big tender running a ferry service of stewards and sailors from the ship to the house.

"I like your costume," said Craig.

"It's terribly me," said Grierson.

Craig handed him his invitation card. A small crowd' watched respectfully, a gaggle of gondoliers swooped to them like swallows.

'It cost the earth," Grierson said. "Every shop in Venice was besieged. Lucky I'm on an expense account."

He gestured, regally, and the selected gondolier darted forward. His day was made. Craig and Grierson sat, and the boat moved off to the Palazzo Molin, its polished marble and granite brilliant under arc lamps. "I suppose we should have arrived in the palace gondola," Grierson said, and adjusted his cloak that was black, slashed with crimson. "But I don't like ostentation."

They reached the palazzo landing stage, and sailors in white held the gondola with boathooks as Craig and Grierson stepped ashore. There was a soft "Aaah!" from the crowd on the molo. The first of the extras had arrived, the curtain would go up soon. Theseus appeared, took their invitation cards, and saluted. The crowd sighed again.

"One can't help feeling ostentatious," said Grierson.

They went inside, preceded by a sailor Theseus summoned to show them the way. The great hall on the ground floor was a blaze of chandeliers, a hot brilhant light that warmed the cool elegance of the blue walls, the blue and white stuccoed ceiling. At intervals on the walls Craig could see pictures, and Grierson stopped in front of one.

"That's the best copy of a Titian I've ever seen," he said. "I wonder who did it?"

"Titian," said Craig.

'Titian, Veronese, Tiepolo, Longhi, Carpaccio—there's about a quarter of a million quid's worth here," said Grierson. "It's fantastic." But it was more than money, it was power. And vulnerability, too. At one end of the room the band from Rome was tuning up, at the other, stewards were polishing glasses at a bar backed with flowers. Behind the bar a fountain played. It was champagne. Grierson called for a glass, sipped, and shuddered.

"It's Italian," he said.

"The French champagne's in the other fountain, sir," said the barman. "It won't be switched on until Mr. Naxos arrives."

They went up the great central staircase, massive, magnificent, galleon-like, and on to the second floor, a maze of rooms opening into each other, those looking out on to the Grand Canal shuttered, and all of them glowing like pearls in the light of candles that softened and made tremulous the richness of green brocade, the pink and yellow splendor of marble. They saw a room set up for a main, and fighting cocks clucking in basket cages, a room set for cards, where all the cards were of ivory, rooms for dancing, dueling, making love, and one long, narrow room, where the candles were islands of light on a black canal, and the wooden floor was sanded. Craig turned to Grierson. "A room for dueling?" Grierson asked.

"What else?" asked a voice.

Craig turned to the door. A fat man stood just inside its frame, a fat man with Titian hair and the face of a cupid by Tiepolo. He was dressed as a cardinal, and held a matching purple mask attached to an ivory shaft.

"You must be Trottia," said Craig, and walked toward

him.

"Designer in chief, regisseur, director, comptroller of the household," said the fat man. "Trottia." He bowed.

Craig continued toward him, his booted feet almost soundless on the sanded floor, the cutlass trailing behind him. Like a cat, Trottia thought. A deadly grace, an elegant cruelty. Precise and feline and terrible. When he kills he will move like a dancer. Yet the one he strikes will still be dead.

I'm Craig—in charge of security. This is Grierson. He's helping me."

"Splendid," said Trottia. "I'd better explain the entertainment."

As he talked, his self-confidence returned. Venice would see nothing like it, ever again. In the great hall the dancing, where ex-kings, film stars, noblemen, matadors, racing motorists, opera singers, detergent manufacturers, boxers, thousand-dollar call girls, ski champions, brewers, the members of seven governments, five armies, and nine oil companies would twist, shout, cha-cha, locomotive, and glide. And above, the happenings, the animated paintings with actors taking the part of Titian's figures, the scenes from Venetian life, the Galluppi toccatas with a concert harpsichord player improvising to order, the gambling, the flirtations, the duel.

"The what?" asked Grierson.

"The duel," said Trottia. 'Two Olympic swordsmen —it's all on the program. You have a program?"

"No," said Craig. "Naxos forgot to give me one." T find that strange," said Trottia. "So do I," said Craig. "So do I."

Grierson said: "People can wander about both floors?" "And the roof," said Trottia. "The roofr

"It's laid out as a garden. One can take supper there and hear the gondola serenade. It will be splendid."

The two men left him, and he thought again how splendid it would be, after Craig died. A hard man to kill. Trottia shivered, and went to wait for the actors.

The roof, too, was a maze—of trees in enormous tubs, of fairy lights, of chairs and tables, bars and buffets, and banks of flowers. Craig looked at it in despair. Below him the Grand Canal glowed like oil, the molo glittered with lights.

"We might as well get drunk," said Grierson. "If anybody wants to get your friend, we haven't a chance."

"We have," said Craig. "Just one. The steward."

He led the way down to the ballroom again, to the kitchens where stewards, chefs, and sous chefs worked like demons preparing a reception for the Hilton Hotel in hell. Theseus had told them who they were, and nobody bothered. They were too busy. They went back into the ballroom again and waited until the steward came in. Craig waited until he'd put down his load of glassware and spoke softly in Greek. "Walk to the end of the hall," he said, "or I'll kill you." The steward spun round, and Craig pulled the mask down from his face, a face devoid of any emotion, not cruel, not vengeful; pitiless. The steward went. From upstairs in the duehng room came the clash of steel and Trottia's squeals of pleasure. The actors had arrived. Craig led the way to a room off the hall, the room he'd been given as an office, then grabbed the steward and shoved him. The steward slammed into the wall, moaned but said nothing.

"Yell," said Craig. "That's what respectable people do. Yell for the police."

"You would kill me," the steward whispered.

"I might," said Craig.

The steward turned to Grierson, trying to reach beyond the mask for a sign of mercy, of pity.

"Please, sir," he gabbled. "I've done nothing, I know nothing—if the gentleman thinks I've wronged—"

The words faded in a babble of terror. Craig*s hand was thrust before his face. It held a bottle of suntan lotion. The band crashed into one last rehearsal of samba.

'You've got a touch of the sun," said Craig. "You're all red. Use some of this. Go on. Use it."

"I don't need it," said the steward.

"Use it anyway," said Craig. "Go on."

"But why should I?"

"It costs two thousand lire a bottle. I'll give you ten thousand if you'll use it. Twenty thousand. I'm kinky for blokes who use suntan oil."

The steward moaned and covered his face with his

hands.

Craig grabbed his hair and pulled his head up. "Watch," he said.

He unscrewed the cap with extreme care, and turned to Grierson.

"Hold him," he said. Grierson's arms came round him, and the steward was helpless.

"What's your name?" Craig asked. "Nikki."

"Don't you like suntan oil, Nikki?" "I have an allergy," the steward said. "To this kind? Everybody does," said Craig. "Who gave it to you?"

The steward was silent.

"1 saw what it did to a piece of wood," Craig said. "Went right through it. Who gave it to you?"

Nikki moaned aloud: "Suit yourself," said Craig, and tilted the bottle.

"No," Nikki screamed. "No. It was Mrs. Naxos."

The band finished, on three hard chords like right hooks to the body.

"You're lying," said Craig, and his hand moved closer.

Nikki opened his mouth to scream, and Craig's free hand flicked him like a cobra striking. The scream became a gasp.

"We haven't much time," said Grierson.

"Nikki's got no time at all," said Craig. "Look, I'll ask you once more. Who gave it to you?"

"Mrs. Naxos," said Nikki, his voice a wheezing gasp. "I swear it. She said it was a joke. It would make you turn blue, she said."

"Then why are you so scared?" Craig asked.

"I tried it on a piece of paper."

"Who got you your job, Nikki?" Craig asked. "Who do you work for?"

The hand holding the bottle was over his head now. The bottle was tilting, tilting.

"I don't know his name," Nikki said. "I swear I don't. An Englishman. Big. Bigger than Theseus."

"And what did he tell you to do?"

"I have to take my orders from Mrs. Naxos—do whatever she says. Mr. Naxos isn't to know."

"What orders?"

"I can get her the white stuff," said Nikki. "Heroin." "How many times?"

"Not yet," said Nikki. "But she knows I've got it if she wants it."

As he spoke the band blared again, and Craig's hand tilted, spilling suntan oil on Nikki's face. The steward screamed and fainted.

Grierson cursed.

"It's on my hand," he said.

Craig shrugged.

"It's only suntan oil."

He looked at the unconscious steward.

"Let's have his jacket and pants," he said. "They may come in useful."

'Tie him up?"

Craig looked at the steward; tall, soft-muscled, running to fat.

"No," he said. "He's harmless."

Behind the mask, Grierson winced. Craig always reduced things to fundamentals. It was how he had survived. But it left no room for dignity in anybody else.

"Besides," Craig added, "Once he sees he isn't marked he won't want to run away—not without his pants."

At midnight, Craig and Grierson watched Naxos arrive. From somewhere or other Trottia had found him a carnival barge, six oars a side, two cox'ns with crossed boathooks in the prow, the flag of Greece and Venice's lion fluttering at the stern, and beneath a silken canopy supported on four brass rods, Aristides I, the pasha of petroleum, his wife beside him, indolent, beautiful, while launches, gondolas, san-dolos swarmed around them, darting like gnats, the gondolas beaked prows cruel in the lamplight.

"He's mad," said Grierson.

"No," Craig said. "Just big. Bloody big. That means big risks too. And big enemies." "Nikki's friends?"

Craig nodded. "I don't think hell be along himself— he's too conspicuous. But he'll send some pals. Look out for anybody Swyven talks to. Or Trottia. And if you have to handle anybody—keep it quiet." He chuckled. "If you can," he added. 'This place'll be a nine-ring circus."

He looked again at the flotilla. The barge's crew were dressed as eighteenth-century sailors. Andrews, at the helm, wore the tricorn hat, blue coat, bullion epaulettes of a naval lieutenant of the time of George III.

"H you need help, ask Andrews if I'm not there."

"Will do," said Grierson. There was silence as he lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply. The flotilla moved up to the steps of the palace, the coxns sprang ashore, hooked on, held the barge steady as the crowd cheered.

"It's extremely vulgar," Grierson said. "But very beautiful." They went back into the ballroom. Both champagne fountains were playing now. Stewards and barmen were poised like greyhounds.

'There's someone else we'll have to watch for,"

Grierson said. The band blared Mozart's Turkish March, and Grierson winced as Naxos came in, Flip holding his hand.

"Her," said Grierson. "Divine Zenocrate over there. She doesn't seem to like you, Craig."

Craig thought of the acid.

I'll watch her," he said. "You watch him.'*

He nodded to where Lord Byron-Swyven limped over in character and bowed to his host and hostess.

"You have all the fun," said Grierson.

Craig went over, talked to Naxos and Flip, and asked about Pia.

"Oh, she'll be along," said Flip. "You know shell be dressed as my twin sister—The poor darling! When she saw me she wanted to wear something else—but I said no. Houris never come in ones, do they, darling?"

"Anything you say, honey," said Naxos. "Some party, eh, John?"

"Fantastic," said Craig. 'Tou forgot to give me a program for the fun and games upstairs."

'The happenings," Fhp said. "We must go up there.

Now."

"No," said Craig. "You go up with me—both together."

"We can't go yet anyway," Naxos said. "We've got to get this lot under way." He nodded at an advancing crowd of guests. "We'll do as you say, John. Meet us here—two o'clock."

Craig nodded and went up the stairs to the balcony. There were fifty people in the room already, and the soft sheen of Flip's half-naked body was vulnerable to them aU. Among them he could see a courtier in crimson velvet, talking to a heutenant in the Navy of His Britannic Majesty, George III. He walked through the rooms filled with actors and dancers, half-heartedly flirting, dancing gavottes, exchanging snuff, tapping each other with their fans while Trottia twittered and fluttered in the midst. The two swordsmen were arranging their fight like a ballet, and talking about football. Only the harpsichord player seemed to be absorbed. He was playing a Bach fugue. "No, no," Trottia screamed. "It should be Scarlatti." The harpsichord player ignored him, and the great structure of sound flowed from his fingers.

Craig went back to the balcony, and evaded a columbine, two gypsies, and three Desdemonas, one of them in

her nightgown. Now there were two hundred people at least, but he spotted Naxos easily enough. This time he had two houris with him, identical in dress. Pia had arrived then. He looked down at the bar and froze. Dominating it was an enormous headsman covered in black. Black shirt, black tights, black boots, black gloves. A black skullcap on his head, and his face was covered from hair to throat in a black mask, but nothing could hide his size. With him were three bravos, chic-looking hoodlums in purple and black, with rapiers and daggers by their sides. The three were drinking champagne, but the black headsman's hands were empty and still. He was watching Naxos. Grierson climbed the stairs, paused by Craig, and lit a cigarette.

"I see we've got company," he said.

Craig nodded, and stood up.

"Go and watch Trottia," he said. "This one's mine."

* Chapter 12 *

Grierson left, and another crowd of dancers swarmed in, masking Naxos and his girls. When the crowd cleared, one houri stood alone, the other was dancing with Naxos. Craig went down the stairs and through the crowd like an arrow. The woman stood motionless, and the dancers stayed carefully back from her as if Naxos had built an invisible wall around her. Her whole body was posed, carefully, to bring out the smooth curving flow of breast and belly and thigh. From the sleek blackness of her hair to her scarlet-painted toes, she was the great Hollywood sex dream incarnate; Ah Baba's girl friend with the magic carpet all revved up and waiting. And yet, Craig thought, the whole act was quite unconscious. She stood like that because she'd been taught to stand like that. If sue sat down she'd cross her legs exactly to their best advantage, breathe in to lift her breasts from their golden cups, because that was what you did; that was what the people paid to see.

"Come and dance, Flip," said Craig. "Okay."

She came into his arms, sensed the hard power in his hands as he touched her, dry and cool on her naked golden back.

"I'm not very good company tonight," said Flip. "Just take it as it comes," said Craig. "You'll be all

right."

"No," she shook her head. "I feel terrible." They danced in silence, and her body relaxed, very slightly, against his.

"How did you know it was me, anyway?" she asked. She paused, then added, "I might have been Pia." "I just knew," said Craig.

"Oh great. If you work at it hard enough you might pay me a compliment."

Her body eased to his, supple, yielding. 'Thanks for trying anyway."

They danced past the bar, where the big headsman stood. Craig felt her shiver. He said nothing.

"I like having you look after me," said Flip. "It makes a girl feel so secure." Her fingers dug into his back. "My God, you're tough."

"I do a lot of dancing," said Craig.

"Go on. Make jokes. You don't know what it's like to need the stuff the way I do," said Flip. "You know what I want to do right now? Scream and scream until even these jerks know there's something the matter. But you're so strong —you wouldn't care about that would you?" He said nothing. "You know something? I think I was wrong about you. I think maybe you're a jerk, too. A good-looking jerk, but still a jerk."

"Put your accent back on," said Craig. "Harry had you disguised as a lady."

She tried to draw free then, to strike at him, but he held her easily, forced her body to dance. At last she said: "Darling I am sorry. I can't think what came over me," and Craig let her go.

When the dance ended, they stood next to Naxos and the other golden dream girl. Naxos said at once, "Good for you, John. Flip's too much on her own."

Craig said: "My pleasure. Hello, Pia."

The houri nodded, her eyes lit in a smile. She seemed

shyer than Craig would have imagined, more conscious of her body. Craig moved towards her but Naxos's arms came round her smooth, unblemished shoulders, turned her away from him and drew her back into the dance. They danced awkwardly together, but Naxos was awkward as a charging rhino is awkward, and this was the effect of his dancing.

"She must have gone off you," Flip said. "I haven't. I may need you yet."

"How did you get your skin so brown?" Craig asked. "Suntan oil?"

The eyes behind the mask went wary.

"Body makeup," she said. "The sort strippers use. I used to be a stripper once. Did you know that?"

"Yes," said Craig.

"And a whore, and a drug addict." "And an actress," Craig said.

T made two pictures and seven cowboy films for TV. The cowboy always got the horse."

'That's a new twist," Craig said. "But I heard you were kind to your friends."

"It got to be a habit."

"I mean sincere, generous," Craig said. "Compassionate. So why hand out suntan lotion?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Fhp said. "Let's go look at the happenings."

He shrugged and walked -towards the golden staircase. At once, Naxos steered the other houri towards them, butting his way through the dancers. By the time they reached the crowd at the foot of the stairs, Naxos and his girl were only a couple of yards behind them. The crowd opened to them, then suddenly held. The three masked bravos stood in front of them. Craig let Flip's arm go, and continued to walk, slow, unhurried. At the last possible moment, the middle bravo yielded. Craig stopped, looked first left then right, and the three fell back farther. Craig moved on as Fhp took his arm again. At the top of the stairs he waited until Naxos joined them. Pia had left him. The three pretty killers played round her like piranha fish, urging her to where the massive headman waited. A gallant in crimson velvet and a lieutenant in the uniform of the Navy of George III moved after her. Craig went to look at the happenings.

When Naxos approached, things happened all right.

The clavichord moved straight from Bach's Goldberg Variations into a Galuppi gavotte, the actors and dancers who had lounged around before, smoking, talking contracts, became graceful, dedicated beings intent only on the mindless elegance of their dance. A harlequin, pierrot, and columbine threaded their movements in a perfectly timed chase, and in the long room beyond the duel began. As they walked toward it figures in framed portraits got out and changed frames, altering the grouping of Veronese and Titian, turning elegance to obscenity, passion to eccentricity.

"After midnight they're all going to be Titian's Venus with a Dog," said Flip.

"Even Trottia?'

"Of course. It was his idea."

Craig moved on toward the duel, past the pool where a chimpanzee poled a miniature gondola and a dog on its hind legs was dressed as a doge. Near by were a female Shylock and a male Portia, squabbling over the flesh of a Bassanio who seemed neither.

After that, the swordsmen were a relief. They fought as they should have done, in their stockinged feet, the florid elegance of their knee breeches and frilled shirts a baroque frame for the cold beauty of the weapons they held—and they fought with a neat and deadly precision at first, until Naxos rumbled: "I paid these boys for fencing, not to work out chess problems."

At once they began to ham it up, and the duel became an EitoIFlynn movie, with much leaping backward onto chairs, tables overturned, whistling sword blades severing candles.

'That's more like it," said Naxos, and moved in closer, taking Philippa with him.

The duelist in the blue breeches parried a thrust in tierce, and his blade shot out in riposte. His opponent parried, the sword blades sang, blue breeches' point swerved toward Flip. Craig pushed her away, a flat-handed shove that moved her into Naxos's arms, and cursed as a needle point scored icy pain across his forearm, splitting the sleeve of his shirt to show a fine trickle of blood.

"You clumsy bloody fool," said Naxos, and moved in on blue breeches, but Flip held on to him and yelled: "No, Harry. No!" and somehow Craig was between them and blue breeches' sword was in his hand and he looked at the naked, deadly point, the needle-fine score of blood on his arm.

"I thought you had buttons on these things," said Craig, and blue breeches turned pale as his shirt, stammered, scrabbled on the floor, and came up with a flat metal disk, then swore it should never have happened.

"But it did," said Craig. "Don't fight any more. I haven't got another shirt."

Flip said: "I'd better fix the arm," and Naxos nodded, massively weary now, and sat heavily down to watch Trottia play a flute while four dwarfs in court dress danced.

'Thanks, John," he said. "I'm grateful." His eyes searched for a sign behind Craig's mask. "Some party, huh?"

"The greatest," said Craig, and Naxos leaned back, but his eyes were on Trottia and he was not happy.

Flip led Craig down the corridor, and as they passed the pictures, she said in her brightest duchess voice: "Gracious, it's after midnight. Aren't they scrumptious?" And Craig, grateful for his mask, saw Venus after rosy Venus, pink-tipped white, every one, except for the Negress in the middle, and each one waved to him as she passed. Flip swayed in front of him, hips and breasts showing a rhythmic compulsion, and the graceful dancers stepped aside as his blood dripped on the rosy marble floor.

He trudged on down the fine, hating Flip and Naxos, Trottia, the naked women, even himself, then acknowledged his embarrassment, turned at the end of the room, and stared, cold-gray eyes demanding a response, until the dancers looked away and the Venuses lay still. He thought then that he was fighting the whole party, all the wealth and power of Europe. But that meant he was fighting Naxos too. The idea was stupid. He followed Flip to her room, and waited while she bathed his arm, cleaned off the blood, and peeled a Band-Aid on to the fine red scar.

"It might have been me," said Flip. Craig nodded. "I wish it had been."

"Your old man's playing king tonight," Craig said. 'That makes you a queen. Queens can't die just to please themselves."

She pressed the Band-Aid down.

"It was an accident, wasn't it?" she asked.

"Don't you know?" Craig asked. "You were there."

She began to shake.

"Craig, look at me, please," she said. "1 need a fix. I've , got to have one," and she held out a fine-boned, shapely hand, and as he watched it trembled to an ugly desperate claw.

"The steward—Nikki—where is he?" Craig shook his

head.

"Craig, please. Oh darling, please."

She was in his arms all ice and fire, her tongue a darting torment to his mouth, her body restless and yielding at once, her hands an eager stimulus until he pushed her away, held her by the elbows, and shook her till her head flopped.

"Are you crazy?" he said at last, and let her go. She fell on to a long, black sofa, a shoulder strap slipping to reveal a round and tender breast, and she was the most beautiful, most desirable woman in the world.

"Cover yourself up," he said harshly. "Suppose the monkey came in?" Her hand went mechanically to the golden strap, and her breast was gold again.

"Crazy?" said Fhp. "Did you say crazy? Of course I'm crazy. No heroin and no strong man to cling to."

"Naxos," said Craig. "Isn't he strong enough?"

She looked at him, tried to speak, and could not. She began to shake again. "Get out," she said at last. "Just get out."

He went at once. Naxos sat where he had left him, looking down the gallery, seeing nothing. Above him was a great golden dome, but a section of it was now dark, night dark, and studded with stars. Craig cursed, and ran for the stairs that led to the roof.

The roof garden was dark and empty. Bar, tables, dance floor, aU deserted, and that segment of dome gleamed white from the lamps beneath. Craig moved warily toward it, stooped to feel the runners on which it had been pulled back, then froze, sensing movement to his right. He looked round, and the other houri stood facing him, cloudy as a dream in the darkness.

"Pia," said Craig. "What the hell—?"

Then the houri's eyes narrowed, her mouth opened to yell, and Craig turned, far too late, as the night sky fell on him and he dived deep into its blackness where there were no stars.

* Chapter 13 «

Grierson was worried about Craig. He'd been away too long, and so had Andrews, whom he'd sent to follow the giant headsman. He thought perhaps he'd better go upstairs, but on the way the three bravos jostled him, blocking his path, and two pretty girls grabbed his hands, whirling him into a long dancing chain of maskers as balloons drifted from the c«iling like the atoms of a rainbow and people grabbed and pushed to burst their prettiness. Grierson couldn't get to the stairs and found himself by the room Craig said they could use. He thought he'd better check on Nikki.

He went in, and it was very quiet, and Nikki would never again know anything but quiet. He lay on his back, in cheap and grubby underwear, an elaborate dagger, the kind called a poniard, deep in his chest. The dagger looked familiar. Its shaft was of silver, inlaid with red Venetian glass. The poniard belonged on his right thigh, in a soft leather sheath, but the sheath was empty. Grierson moved closer to Nikki, and the door opened behind him, the two pretty girls looked at the body and began to scream.

He should have moved then, but there was no point. The only way out led to the ballroom, and that was already blocked by people pushing in to enjoy the screaming. Grierson simply stood there, and said: "No comprende," and was cursed, bullied, sometimes struck, by a succession of waiters, sailors, guests, and policemen. At last Naxos came down, identified Nikki, and looked inquiringly at Grierson.

"Who is this man?" he asked.

"My name's Grierson," Grierson said. "Craig must have told you I was coming here." "Craig?"

"Yes, Craig. The man who was looking after your security."

Naxos turned to the policemen.

"He's lying," Naxos said. "I don't know anyone called Craig. My bos'n looks after my guests."

"But listen"—Grierson looked round desperately. "I didn't do this. I came here to look after people. You can ask—"

"Yes?" said Naxos.

But Grierson couldn't name Andrews. Craig might need him.

"Nobody," Grierson said. "But I didn't kill him."

"No?" said a policeman. "Then why is he wearing your dagger?"

He turned to Naxos. "I'm sorry, sir, I shall want a list of your other guests. No one had better leave."

"They can't," said Naxos. "No gondolas until four. What about him?" He nodded at Grierson.

"We'll take him to the station," said the policeman, and produced handcuffs, snapped one band round Grierson's wrist, the other round his own. They had all the room they needed as they walked across the ballroom, Grierson and the senior policeman in the lead, Naxos a half dozen steps behind, the other pohceman promising action immediately and with the minimum of fuss.

As they passed through the door, Grierson saw a powerboat ready to go, and a young man dressed as Meph-istopheles waiting with massive patience as two sailors scurried to cast off. Grierson hesitated, but there was no choice at all. He had handled that dagger; his prints would be all over it, and the bravos wore gloves. This time all he had left was violence, crude, vulgar, and one hoped, efficient. He stumbled dehberately on the steps, pulling the pohceman off balance, then cooked him off with a judo chop just as Mephistopheles, bless him, revved up his engines and blotted out the yells from behind him. He let his handcuffed wrist go slack, and slammed the steel against the pillar as he had been taught. When his manacles snapped open he leaped down the steps in three frantic bounds, gathering momentum as he went, and the fourth bound sent him soaring over the canal, to land with a crash on the bottom boards of the boat. He felt a blow like a fist low on his chest, and only then remembered that he carried a gun. The police had been too overawed to search him properly and he'd been unaware that he had anything to hide. The powerboat rocked, and its owner looked down on him.

"I agree," he said. "A truly awful party."

He accelerated, and his wash set a row of gondolas bobbing like frantic swans. He was monumentally drunk. "Awful on an epic scale," he continued. "A significant achievement in awfulness: a Ninth Symphony say, or a War and Peace. Big, painstaking, costly—and awful. I only went because everybody else did. I'm always doing that and regretting it. Where can I drop you?'

"Anywhere at all," said Grierson. "I just felt like some

air."

"Good," said the devil, and hiccoughed. The powerboat slithered past San Marco, and Grierson crawled wearily to his feet and took the wheel.

'Thanks," said the devil. "I really am rather drunk."

"Yes," said Grierson.

"You are British, I take it? It's funny, isn't it, I assumed at once that you were. I'm Italian, you know. My name's di Traverse—Count Mario di Traverse as a matter of fact. I'm usually called Nono."

"I'm Philip Grierson," Grierson said.

Nono bowed, uncomprehending.

"I speak English like this because I went to one of your schools," Nono said.

"As a matter of fact so did I," said Grierson.

"My dear chap, I realize that," said Nono. "One can tell by the noises you make. Exactly the same as mine. A sort of clipped quacking." He tilted back his head. "Quack, quack," he bawled, in a very gentlemanly voice. "Quack, quack." He slumped back into his seat. "I don't make noises like that in Italian," he said.

Grierson took the boat into the darkness of the lagoon, and risked a quick glance over his shoulder. A police launch, lights blazing, sirens screaming, bulldozed its way through the boats around it. Grierson stepped up the revs.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"I've got an island near Murano, about a mile east of it as a matter of fact," Nono said. Grierson altered course.

"I've got a girl there. That was one habit I didn't acquire at school. Not being fond of girls I mean. As a matter of fact that's how I came to be sacked. My mother was awfully upset. I had to change schools. That's why I left this party so early."

"I don't think I follow," said Grierson. He looked back again. The police boat was well behind.

"Seeing old Swyven," said Nono. "I hated old Swyven. He was my house tutor you know. At my new school. Fearfully down on women.'

"What was he fond of?"

"Boys," said Nono.

"Nothing else?"

"No," said Nono. "He was the sort of chap who was always against things."

"What, for example?"

"Oh, capitalism, the British Empire, women, the H-bomb, me. He was rather a menace actually."

"Really? I should have thought you could handle him."

"Oh yes. I could handle him. It was his cousin." Nono yawned softly.

"A chap called Dyton-Blease. He was enormous." He chuckled reminiscently.

"He didn't like girls either. Or boys. Just his muscles. Bit of a narci—narcissi—fond of himself, you know. And the Middle East. Funny that." He chuckled. "Claimed Europe grows decadent every few hundred years or so, and it needs a cleansing desert wind to make it pure. Last thing he ever said to me was that he was going to Arabia and fetch back the wind from the desert. Told me I wouldn't last five minutes, as a matter of fact. Suppose he was joking."

"No," said Grierson. "He means it."

Nono's head lolled on his chest; he snored. Quack, quack. Grierson circled Murano and looked out for Nono's island. There was a tiny one near by, a sliver of beach, a house, another powerboat, and a tangle of garden, nothing more. Grierson edged the boat up to a half-rotted jetty, stopped the engine, and hauled Nono upright. He was still out cold.

The house door was open, and he walked straight in. It should be easy—hand Nono over to the girl, borrow some clothes, borrow the boat. If she were all that fond of Nono, and she must be, to come out here, she'd be too busy pouring coffee down him to argue. There were lights just off the hall, and he pushed open another door. Two women were waiting for Nono, two tall, cool blondes in slacks and blouses of heavy silk. They sat facing each other in icy silence,

Mice a sister act after a quarrel, and whatever they had expected to see come through the door, it had not been a masked gentleman in crimson with a rapier over his hip, carrying the devil. They rocketed out of their seats like cool, blond pheasants, and Grierson laid Nono tenderly on a divan and turned to the two women, who had begun to scream. Grierson took a very deep breath.

"Shut up," he roared, and the noise of it blotted out the screams for a moment, but the screams went on. Grierson took another breath, and the screaming stopped. The women watched him, wary as cats at a dog show, but terrified that he might roar again.

"Look," Grierson said. "Nono wasn't feeling well—"

"Drunk," said one blonde.

"Again," said the other.

"He asked me to drive him home. Under the circumstances I thought I'd better."

"Who are you?" the blondes said together.

"My name's Philip Grierson," he said. "Nono and I were at school together. Who are you?"

"I'm Angelina Visconti," said one blonde.

"And I," said the other, "am the Countess di Traverse. Now that we're introduced, don't you think you should take off your mask?"

"Yes, of course," said Grierson, and did so.

"And your sword," said Angelina. He obeyed once

more.

"It was a costume ball, you see," said Grierson. "I know," said Angelina. "He promised to take me." "And me," said the countess.

"I think he went alone," said Grierson, and hoped, for Nono's sake, that this was so.

"Would you mind taking him into the bedroom?" Angelina said. "I don't terribly want to look at him."

"We have to talk," said the countess.

"Nono won't be able to talk for days," Angelina said. "You shouldn't let him drink."

"I shouldn't—"

"After all you are his wife." She turned to glance at Grierson, who felt suddenly chilly. "Well!" she said.

I'll put him to bed with pleasure," Grierson said, and the countess giggled, then scowled. This was serious business, after all.

"Then do so," said the countess.

"The only thing is—how do I get back to the mainland?"

"In the boat of course," the countess said. "Nono stole it. It's mine."

"It goes very nicely," Grierson said.

"Who bought it for you, darling?" asked Angelina.

Grierson picked up Nono again, and hauled him into the bedroom.

Nono lay where Grierson dropped him, but incredibly his eyes opened.

"Old chap," he whispered. Grierson bent over him. "Was my wife there too?" Grierson nodded. "Oh dear God," said Nono.

"I said you'd passed out," Grierson whispered. "You'd better do that until I take your wife away."

"That's awfully decent of you," said Nono. "Anything I can do—"

T would rather like a change of clothes," said Grierson.

"Help yourself," said Nono, and gestured to a wardrobe.

The clothes in it fitted Grierson admirably and the coat he chose was just loose enough to hide the bulge of his Smith and Wesson. There were cigarettes too, in the bedroom, and Scotch. Grierson helped himself and went back to Nono. He looked down at the death-pale face, cunning with pretended sleep.

"What you told me about Swyven and Dyton-Blease, is it true?" he asked.

"Gospel old chap, every word," said Nono. "For God's sake keep your voice down."

"But they kept it all secret, didn't they?" Grierson whispered.

Nono, very weakly, nodded. "Then why did they tell

you?"

'They wanted me to join them. I was supposed to be going into the Diplomatic Service, but all I was any good at was women. I can't drink."

"Just as a matter of interest, whom did you go to the ball with?"

"A Swede, old chap. Name of Helga. Trouble was her husband turned up." Nono's hand reached for Grierson's glass, sipped at his Scotch. "She's nearly as tall as I am. So fair her hair looks white."

"You seem to like tall blondes," said Grierson.

Nono drained the glass. "Who doesn't?" he said loudly, and passed out cold. Grierson poured himself another drink and went back to the blondes.

"I heard Nono speak," said Angelina.

"He came to just for a moment. Said I might borrow these clothes," said Grierson.

"No doubt," Angelina said. "They are my husband's." She hesitated. "I suppose you really did me a favor—bringing Nono back to me. You keep them."

"Thanks," said Grierson.

"He brought Nono back to us," said the countess.

"Poor Nono," said Angelina. "I'll bring him over to visit you when he is stronger, darling."

"Oh, very well," said the countess. "I suppose we have to be seen together sometimes." She rose. "We really must go now, Philip dear."

Grierson, who had risen too, moved to the door, watched the two women kiss, and went outside, then pulled the plug from Nono's powerboat. It was a crime, he thought, a lovely job like that, but he couldn't afford to be followed, and maybe Nono had it insured. He got into the other one, revved it up, and waited until the countess came.

"I'm awfully sorry," he said. "Yours is out of petrol."

The countess grinned. "Never mind," she said. 'This one is much better. Can you get to Lido di Jesolo?"

"I think so," said Grierson, and helped her aboard, then let in the power. The thrust of the engines was tremendous.

The countess fussed with charts, and Grierson looked at the stars, found northeast and kept going.

"Angelina's husband bought this boat," said the countess. "He bought mine too." The powerboat swerved, and went back on course. "I like you, Grierson," the countess said. "I find you simpatico." She switched to Italian then, and Grierson told her how beautiful she was, because what else can you say in Italian?

Then the countess went below, and Grierson still steered by the stars. Half an hour later, her head appeared and she said: "You'd better come down. There's an anchor thing around somewhere." Grierson hove to, and went below.

Next morning, looking at once sick, seedy, and Italian, Grierson anchored in Lido di Jesolo and left the countess asleep. He put a call through to Rome from a cafe on the waterfront, and the man who answered it was not happy at all. Even so, he said he'd try. Seven hours later, Grierson was in London.

* Chapter 14

When Craig came round, his neck and right shoulder were a mass of pain, intense, throbbing, apparently unending. He was aware of it as completely as if it were the act of love; so long as it existed there was room in his mind for nothing else. He lay face downward, and perhaps a minute passed before he heard the groans, and another minute at least before he realized that they were his own. When he knew that, he began to fight, first to stop the noises he was making, and then, at the cost of appalling effort, to find out where he was, what was happening.

He began with his fingers. He lay face down, and his eyes refused to focus. Best to find out what his fingers could tell him. They touched something soft and smooth and yielding. When he pressed down, what his fingers touched gave way. He pressed harder, and groaned again as his shoulder muscles worked. Deliberately he shut oS the noise, went on pressing until he could sit up. He was lying on a bed. It was familiar to him. Wearily his brain told him it was the bed in his cabin on Naxos's yacht. He looked round, slowly, carefully, wary of the great ache in his neck that throbbed and shuddered like a gong. Pia Busoni sat in the chair by the dressing table. She still wore the costume of the night before, and fear crawled slyly, obscenely across her face.

Craig said; "I'd better have a drink. Is there a drink?" She made no move. "Scotch," Craig said. "You'll have to fetch it. I can't . . ." His hands slipped, and he almost fell, then pushed himself up again. The girl moved cautiously across the room, poured him a drink, put it in his hand. Craig sipped once, then again. The whiskey burned into his consciousness.

"Naxos's party," he said. "I was on the roof. And you were going to scream."

Pia shook her head.

"Yes you were," said Craig. "I remember. I saw you. Did they kill him?" She made no answer. "Pia, for God's sake. It's important."

"No," said Pia. "He's alive. They brought you back

here."

"Hey," said Craig. "I'm having some luck for once."

His body somehow managed to stand, and he lurched over to the door. As he reached for the handle, he said, "Who hit me? How did Naxos get me away?"

"He didn't," said Pia. The door was locked. "You're a prisoner, Craig."

"You too?" She nodded.

"Why?" the fear came back again. "Because you yelled?"

"I didn't," said Pia. "I wasn't there." "But I saw you—"

"No," she said. "Not me. Another girl. I never left the

ship."

"No mole," said Craig. "I remember. She didn't have a mole on her shoulder."

'This girl went as me—she was somebody who had to meet Naxos—talk business with him. She and Naxos met, and agreed to whatever it is. Then she came back to the ship—and brought a man with her. A big man dressed like an executioner."

"Was he the one who hit me?"

"I think so," said Pia. "Craig, what's going to happen to me? What will they do?"

Craig went back to the bed, and sat down.

"We'll find out in time—both of us," he said, and gestured to her to come to his side. She hesitated, and he signed to her again, his hps shaped the word "please." She came to him and he whispered in her ear: "This room will be wired. They'll be listening to us. They want to know we're scared."

The girl gasped, and then began to cry, softly, almost timidly.

Craig"s arms came round her, comforting her with the warmth and strength of his body, and gradually her tears flowed more easily, her body leaned into his, as if the mere touch of him were enough to make her safe. Her mouth found his at last, and she kissed him with a frantic and despairing passion. Craig gasped as pain seared again across his neck, and his hands tightened on the ohve softness of her flesh, but at last he pushed her away.

"They'll come for us soon," he said. "Do you want them to find us like this?"

She shrugged.

"Does it matter?" she asked. "We're going to die anyway."

"Maybe," said Craig. "But it won't be easy. I won't die easy." He thought of Grierson and Andrews. If they were still free he had a chance.

There was a sound by the door, and Craig moved away from the girl, on his feet, ready. The door swung open, and Theseus stood in its frame, a Biretta like a toy in his massive fist. He looked from Pia to Craig, and he seemed far from happy.

"Women," he said. "I told you there'd be trouble. Come on. The boss wants to see you." Craig moved forward. "But no trouble, huh?"

"No trouble," said Craig, and looked at Pia.

"She'll be all right," Theseus said. "Just don't start anything."

They moved in procession, Pia first, then Craig, to Naxos's stateroom. There was another sailor on guard outside, and he opened the door at once; the three went inside.

The inside of the room was like a court, with a great table for the judges—Naxos in the center, Dyton-Blease on his left, and a woman on his right. The woman was dark, superb, with a proud beak of a nose, and a red and splendid mouth. She wore the robes of a Tuareg princess. Naxos and Dyton-Blease looked rested and refreshed in cool clean suits. Pia and Craig, as they stood facing the table, were aware of the crumpled squalor of their costumes, the dirt, the lack of dignity that all prisoners possess, because they are prisoners. Naxos said: "We're on to you, Craig."

Craig said nothing. "We know all about what you are going to do." Craig stood there, looking at him, the face a cold mask, asking nothing, giving nothing. "Well?" Naxos said.

Craig continued to look at him, a look beyond hatred, beyond rage. These people were going to hurt him soon, and his body and mind tightened to cope with this, only this. There was no room even for pity for the girl who stood beside him.

"I'll talk to him," said Dyton-Blease, and still Craig didn't look. This was what he wanted—the big man coming at him, and perhaps making one mistake. If he did, Craig would kill him. There was little possibility of it, but it might happen, and if it did, it might give him a chance for a while.

"Okay," said Naxos. "Make him talk."

The big man rose then, slow, precise, smooth, and menacing. The woman in the blue and red robes said: "No. Sit down." Dyton-Blease hesitated, not understanding that a woman should give orders, and the woman said again: "Sit down. We talk first. Later you can amuse yourself, after Naxos and I have signed."

Dyton-Blease sat, his eyes not leaving Craig's and Craig laughed at him, a jeering bellow of barroom laughter that whipped the big man's face scarlet.

Craig said in Arabic. "You, tamer of men, do you want me to crawl for you so that I shall not be beaten?"

Dyton-Blease flushed darker. "Theseus," he yelled.

The bos'n moved in on Craig then, and Craig turned, fast. One arm extended, the edge of the hand flat and deadly as an ax, the other clenched into a fist, an object of muscle and will that could smash through a wooden door. Theseus hesitated, stopped out of range, his gun on Craig.

Naxos said: "Take him, why don't you?" Theseus hesitated. "Go on," Naxos said, "you can eat him."

Theseus shook his head. "I can try," he said. "He'd kill me."

Dyton-Blease said: "It's really a very amusing situation. We unmask the villain, bring him to justice, point guns at him, and are frightened to death."

"Mister, you should be," Theseus said.

"Look," said Naxos. "Let's cut out the crap. We know why you're here, Craig—to kill me. You had it all set up right,

didn't you? If Dyton-Blease here hadn't stopped you, you'd have shot me. You had that cupola opened, right? And you had a swell excuse for getting away with it—trying to keep me alive.

"Well, it won't work. I know you want me dead so that you can set up a new oil agreement through Flip. You think I don't know you hired that steward to feed her heroin? But I do know it. I even found the stuff in your suitcase, when I searched your room. I know why you had him murdered too, because we were on to him. You were afraid he would squeal."

Craig stood there like a stone man, arms at his sides, concentrating on Theseus to the left of him. If he moved in again, he might get the gun.

"Give up, why don't you?" Naxos said. "Dyton-Blease here told me the lot. He worked for your government out in Zaarb, didn't he? He set up a deal with the Tuareg, didn't he? And when it came to the crunch the British were going to go in and take over the whole country—just like they tried in Egypt. Just long enough to get the cobalt out. You think we didn't know about that either? For Chrissake man, why don't you answer?"

Craig shrugged. "You've made up your mind already," he said. "You've talked to a traitor and the girl he's fooled, and you prefer their word to mine. You don't say anything about proof, Naxos."

Naxos said: "Oh, we've got proof all right. Jesus, have we got proof. And I don't just mean the heroin." He pressed a bell and sat back, squirming in impatience until Andrews came in, looked at Craig, looked away again.

'Tell him," said Naxos.

Andrews said: "It's no good, Craig. I'm not going through with it. I won't torture Mrs. Naxos like that. You had no right—"

"What about the killing?" asked Naxos.

'That only came in the last instructions—when Grierson got to Venice. I signed on for this job to save life, not to take it," Andrews said.

"And the take-over in Zaarb?"

"Politics aren't my business," said Andrews, and Naxos scowled. "But I know it's true. Loomis told me himself." "Who is Loomis?" Dyton-Blease asked. "Ask Craig."

I'm asking you," said Dyton-Blease.

"He's the head of Department K," Andrews said. "The man who hired me."

Craig said: "He's lying. I don't know who's paying him, but he's lying."

Andrews said: "I don't work for money. I work for what is right."

Incredibly, Craig thought that in this at least he was speaking the truth.

"So you've had it, Craig," said Naxos. "You're out. I'd be justified in shooting you like a mad dog. You know that."

"You've had too much money for too long, Harry," said Craig. "You're going nuts." For a moment he thought Naxos was going to leap over the table to attack him, but he recovered at last. "Anyway, I'd like to hear from the other judges," said Craig.

The girl said at once. "You are a liar, a murderer, and a cheat. I think you should die very slowly, because you do not seem to be any of these things, and you mislead the people who trust you. You pervert honor, Craig. You deserve death."

Dyton-Blease said: "I don't know. The chap's got courage anyhow. I admire that, Naxos. I really do. I tell you what I suggest: we let him use his courage. Make him fight for his life—and if he's good enough—well let him five. But you're in the way of the world, Craig. It's time you died."

"Who?" the girl asked. "Who will he fight?"

"Well there's only me, really," said Dyton-Blease. "I'm the obvious one, surely, now we know old Theseus isn't keen."

"I agree to that," said the girl. "When will it be?"

"When we get to my island," Dyton-Blease said.

"Yes," said Naxos. "I'll agree to that too. That should be worth watching."

Craig said: "What about Pia? Are you going to give her a chance and let her fight you too?"

Naxos said, "Miss Busoni had her chance. She let it slide." "I'm very much afraid that her fate is yours, Craig," said Dyton-Blease. "If you win, I promise you she'll live."

"I guess that wraps it up," Naxos said. "You can go and rest now until tomorrow."

"How's Flip?" Craig asked. Ts she in on this too?"

Naxos's fist slammed on to the table.

"Don't push your luck," he said. "You know you slipped her some heroin last night. It took me three hours to make her give it up. That's what you're really paying for, Craig. And this." His hand dipped into one pocket, and he hurled a sheaf of glossy photoprints at Craig: Fhp with one breast exposed, Fhp in his arms, submissive, pleading. Craig glanced at them, let them dribble through his hands.

"You poor, stupid bastard," he said.

Theseus said: "That's enough. Let's go," and again the three lined up, and Craig and Pia were locked in his cabin once again. He went round the walls of it slowly, carefully, and found no microphone, no leads. That proved nothing. There were ways of scooping sound out of a room from outside now, and he had no doubt Dyton-Blease would know all about them, and so would Andrews. Not that it mattered. He sprawled on the bed, and Pia lay down beside him, her hand very gently rubbing the bruised muscles of his neck.

"So you had your chance, Miss Busoni," said Craig. "Just what were you supposed to do?"

"Let you seduce me," Pia said. 'Then have you arrested for rape."

"Why didn't you?"

"I like you too much," said Pia. "You make me laugh."

Craig said: "It was a pleasure. I mean that."

"I know," she said, "but look where it's got me. Craig, I'm frightened."

So what could he say? Me too? Because tomorrow I may be dead, and if I die, you die?

"There's still a chance," said Craig.

She pulled him over to face her, looked hard at him, imploring, and he smiled, because a smile to her meant confidence, and the day after tomorrow, and smiling was so easy.

"You mean that? You really mean it?"

"Well, of course," said Craig, and thought of Grierson. With Grierson loose there had to be a chance.

"Please," said Pia. "Love me. I promise I won't scream."

« o o

"You mucked it up," said Loomis.

"Yes, sir," said Grierson, and tried to suppress a yawn. The countess's coolness had been more apparent than real. "For all we know, Craig could be dead." "Yes, sir," said Grierson.

"And you're not doing him any good sitting around London, are you?"

"No, sir," said Grierson.

"Yes, sir; no, sir; three bags full, sir!" Loomis said savagely. "You're a child, Grierson. A mixed infant."

He sniffed at a tiny cup of black coffee, then emptied it in one smacking gulp. Grierson sipped more cautiously at his. It was boiling hot.

"Craig could be dead. You realize that? You go frigging around with countesses, and Craig could be dead. But he found out about the cobalt. A ruddy mountain of the stuff. Brought us back a sample. It's bloody lethal—rich, the experts call it. I was lucky he was on that Greek island. I knew that old Greek was a smuggler. I hoped for a crumb, and he gave me the whole cake."

Grierson said: 'There's still Andrews, sir."

"Andrews is a technician—tweeters and screwdrivers— that's Andrews. He's no good with giants."

"You think Dyton-Blease has got him then?"

Loomis's enormous body squirmed in its overstuffed chair, and he glowered at his ceiling's elegant stucco.

"It's in the papers," he snarled. "Naxos's wife is feeling poorly. He's taken her off to recuperate in the Greek islands. That's his way of telling us the deal's off."

"So we've had it?" said Grierson.

"Not completely. Mrs. Naxos is a junky. You know that. And Naxos thinks there's only one man who can cure her. And he's British, d'you see. British to the core. He won't go gadding off to Greek islands—and even if he would, I won't let him. So Mrs. Naxos'll have to come to him. You better go off to the Aegean and see if Craig's still alive. If he is I want him back." Grierson climbed wearily to his feet. Perhaps he could get some sleep on the plane. "We've had a lot of bumf from the Eyeries about you," Loomis said. "You've been lucky, old sport. You said you were helping Craig, and Naxos denied he'd ever heard of Craig, so it would have been easy for me to say I'd never heard of either of you. You better watch it; you won't be lucky twice."

"Yes, sir," said Grierson. Sometimes he wondered whv he hadn't strangled Loomis years ago. As he left Loomis pressed a communicator button and bellowed: "Send what's his name in."

"Very good, sir," said the communicator, in a voice at once metallic, female, and sexy.

Loomis snarled: "And keep your hands off him. He's a Fellow of the Royal College or Physicians." He switched off, and thought about Craig. He mustn't be dead, and yet, if Dyton-Blease knew his job as he should, he had to be. The big man would have no choice, even if he wanted one.

There was a soft tap at his door, and a redhead came in, tall, full-blown, with mat creamy skin, green eyes, and a mole at the corner of her mouth. Behind her walked a small man who had decided long ago that intellectual dynamism was a more than adequate substitute for lack of inches. His eyes and walk were Napoleonic, his head projected from his shoulders like a questing bird's—a bird with a shrewdness, greed, and determination nicely blended—a herring gull, say, or a jackdaw. He seemed perfectly happy to be following the redhead.

"Sir Matthew Chinn," said the redhead.

'That will be all, Miss Figgis," said Loomis.

The redhead frowned deliciously. One of Loomis's least amiable characteristics, in a personality noted for its lack of amiability, was the invention of inappropriate names for her. She left, and Sir Matthew sighed, sadly, reminis-cently.

"Gorgeous, isn't she?" said Loomis. "You should see her when she's been off her diet for a couple of weeks."

'The name puzzled me rather," Sir Matthew said. "Figgis seems wildly inappropriate."

"That's cover stuff," said Loomis. "Her real name's Tania Tumblova. She defected from the Bolshoi with the secret of next year's tutus."

"I suspect," said Sir Matthew, "that your use of puerile humor is supposed to make me angry. We'd get on much quicker, Loomis, if we kept our conversation as unemotional as possible."

Loomis shrugged. "You're going to hate me in three minutes. And anyway, everybody rejects me eventually," he said. "Psychologically I'm a mess."

"My secretary will give you my clinic times," Sir Matthew said. "At the moment I have rather a full book. If it's urgent of course—"

"Mrs. Naxos," said Loomis. "She's supposed to fill your

book?"

"That kind of information I prefer to keep private."

"Oh yes," said Loomis. "To be sure. Quite so—the hypocratic oath and all that."

Sir Matthew sat, with neatness and precision, in an overstuffed chair facing Loomis. His immediate immobility and air of world-weary omniscience gave it the status of a throne.

"She's not your patient yet," said Loomis at last. "If she ever is, I want you to promise that you'll only treat her here."

"I have already been asked to go out to her," Sir Matthew said. "The fee is—quite substantial." "How much?"

Sir Matthew told him and Loomis whistled.

I'm sorry," he said. I'm afraid you can't do it."

"Why ever not?"

"You're making me use big words," said Loomis. "They embarrass me."

"I am perfectly adjusted to them."

Tatriotism," said Loomis. "National security. Your obligations as a citizen."

"And if I discount these?"

"Then I'm ordered to stop you. By any means I think fit. The Figgis person for example. If I used her properly I could have you disbarred."

"Struck off," said Sir Matthew. "The reference is to the register of the British Medical Association." He stared hard at Loomis, "Much of my work is with pathological liars," he said. "Some of them are extremely skillful. Over the years I have developed a nose for the truth, and I believe that you are being honest with me."

"I am," said Loomis.

Sir Matthew looked at his watch, did a little mental arithmetic, and rose.

"Very well," he said. "I shan't go out to her." "She'll come to you," said Loomis. The decision is hers." "She'll come. She's desperate."

"You seem to know far more about her than I do."

"Well, of course," said Loomis, and Sir Matthew permitted himself a small, thin smile.

"Got another bit of news for you," said Loomis. "You're due to hire a chauffeur."

"I see," said Sir Matthew. "You're having me watched."

"We can't afford to lose you," said Loomis. "Not till you've treated Mrs. Naxos."

"You can't afford to lose me at all then," Sir Matthew said. "Drug addiction takes a lifetime to cure." He walked to the door in a long, loping stride, curious in so tiny a man, then turned once more to look at Loomis.

"I could cure you," he said. "At the moment of course, you're raving, as I suppose you realize. The trouble is if I were to straighten you out, you'd be unemployable. Without those doses of adrenalin you discharge so freely, you are nothing, Loomis."

He left then, shutting the door quietly, but firmly. Behind him he left a gurgling sound, wheezing but powerful, that suggested unsuccessful plumbing. Loomis was laughing.

* Chapter 15 *

The fight was to be in Dyton-Blease's gymnasium. The judo mat had been removed, and two chairs were in position, on a raised platform, for Naxos and Selina. A third empty chair waited for the master when the fight was over. Theseus brought Craig and Pia in, and Craig looked round the room, seeking a weapon, an advantage, from somewhere. There was nothing. The door opened, and Naxos and Selina came in, followed by Dyton-Blease. The big man looked clean and scrubbed in white shirt and flannels. He was barefoot. Craig kicked off his own shoes, and tested the smooth, polished wood beneath his feet. He felt dirty and unshaven, angry, ready for a fight. The big man might be too much for

him, he was five stones heavier, five years younger, and at least as fast, but he'd hurt him first. If he was lucky he'd hurt him enough.

Dyton-Blease said: "We'll fight here. Anywhere in the room. Any style. Any methods. Got thatF' Craig nodded. "You know something about Japanese technique I beheve— showing off and so on?"

He went to the platform, leaped up easily and smoothly, and picked up a steel rod. It was two feet long and half an inch in diameter. He stood straddle-legged, and held it at each end, letting the strength flow into his wrists. Suddenly, incredibly, the bar bent into a perfect U shape, then he straightened it over his knee.

"Just want you to know what you're taking on," he said. "Your turn, Craig."

Craig said: "Let the girl sit down." Selina moved slightly as Pia went to crouch at her feet.

"I don't do any parlor tricks," said Craig. "I'd just like to ask you a question. Last time I came here there were three men and two powerboats. Where are they now?"

Dyton-Blease leaped for him at once, a great flailing dive that took him from the platform, straight at Craig. Craig swerved, and the big man sailed past him, landing like a cat on fingers and toes, ranning forward to take himself out of the way of Craig's first chopping blow, spinning round as he crouched to explode upward in front of Craig, aiming a fist karate-clenched into Craig's face. Craig's hand chopped down on his wrist, brushing the blow aside, then he rushed forward to grab the other arm as the hand came down in a judo chop. He hauled back, tilted his body, levered and pulled, holding on to the big man's arm, ready to pull him up and throw again, but Dyton-Blease just lay there, laughing at him, using his weight and strength to stay where he was. Craig spotted the kick he aimed at him just in time, leaped away from it, dived, grabbed the foot, and again the big man exerted his strength. Despite the enormous leverage, Craig couldn't move him. Suddenly, his other foot flicked, catching Craig in the thigh, an apparently glancing blow that spun him round like a top and sent him crashing into the corner of the room. He swerved round too late, the big man was crowding him, before he could turn, so that all he could see was Pia's mouth, opening to scream, and it was all happening again, the pain boiled in his neck, and he refused to accept it—he refused to accept it. No. But it wouldn't

go away. The blackness came.

* · *

Elias said: "I can take you out there under sail. It will be dark enough."

Grierson said: "How soon?"

Elias shrugged. "Ten o'clock, probably."

"Not before?"

"He has new boats, new guards. If they spot us, we're finished." Elias hesitated. "You're sure Craig is there?"

"No," said Grierson. "I can't be sure, but if he is I have to try."

"Of course," said Elias. "We also. But if we take too many risks we have no chance at all."

He looked from the ca£6 to his caique, his only pride, riding gently by the quayside. Grierson saw where he looked, and understood.

"Look," he said. "You believe I am a friend of Craig's?"

"Of course," Elias said. "The priest tells me your words are true." He looked across at the fat, white-bearded papa, who had read Grierson's letter of introduction from Loomis and who now drank coffee two tables away. No one sat any nearer. Andraki knew that the Englishman's business was secret.

"You may lose your boat," said Grierson. "If you do, I promise you you'll get the money to buy a new one."

"That is not important," said Elias, and only his eyes denied it.

"But it is," said Grierson. "I swear you will be paid."

"Well then," said Elias, "there is only my life to worry about, and no one can give money for that."

"Oh yes we can," said Grierson. "You'll have insurance too."

Elias grinned. "You work for people with a lot of money."

"And many secrets," said Grierson.

"Surely. Craig too had many secrets. It wasn't important. He can have what he likes, Mr. Grierson. Craig is one of us."

Pia sat very still, her back against the iron grille of the cell. The electric lights were strong, but she did not feel them. Beside her Craig lay unmoving, his body unaware of the

rough stones of the floor. Pia hoped that if she made no sound, caused no trouble, proved how harmless she was, perhaps at last they would let her go. It was obvious now that Craig could not save her, or even himself. He could fight like a man and he would die like a man, but no one could defeat a giant. She knew that she should be sorry for him. In a time that allowed for such luxuries she supposed that she had loved him, but now her mind could cope with nothing but her need to survive, to exist, to be anything rather than flesh in the big man's battering hands. There was a sound behind her, but she made no move. Theseus's voice said gently. "Come on now. Out. No trouble," and the grille swung open. She crawled out and waited obediently while Theseus picked up the unconscious Craig, soaked a pad in water, bathed his forehead.

"Please," said Pia. "Please, I should like a drink."

He signaled to the bucket he had brought, and she cupped her hands and drank, not touching the dipper in it—that might cause difficulties—content only to quench her thirst, to be able to exist until hunger should force her to speak again. But until then, she would be no trouble. Craig groaned, and came to, and Theseus helped him to sit up, held the dipper to his hps. Craig swallowed, cupped water in his hands, bathed his dirty, unshaven face. At last he croaked: "I thought he intended to kill me. Didn't he say he would kill me?"

"Here," said Theseus. "Drink."

He pulled a bottle of cognac from his pocket, uncorked it, held it to Craig's hps. Craig coughed and swallowed, just like the last time.

"What's he doing?" said Craig. "What's it for?"

"You're a man," Theseus said. "Be a man now. He means to fight you many times, Craig. He will hit you in the same place each time." Craig looked at him. "It amuses him to do this," Theseus said.

"One more blow there and I've had it. He'll turn me into an idiot if he goes on long enough."

"I know," Theseus said. "That is what he intends to

do."

Craig looked at him. Theseus was absolutely in earnest.

"Aristides has been rich for too long," Theseus said. "Soon he will think he is God."

"It's about time he cast out the devil then," said

Craig.

"Yes. I think so." Theseus was still in earnest. "This is your last chance, Craig."

"No chance at all," Craig said. "I'm too old. He's slowed me up too much."

Theseus's massive fist opened under his nose. On it were three white tablets.

"Benzedrine," he said. "To make you quick—and young."

Craig took them, grimacing as he swallowed. "Thanks, anyway," he said.

"Not enough?" said Theseus. "There is one more thing. The big man is afraid of blood—his own blood. If you can make him bleed, you will win." He took a ring from his finger, offered it to Craig. It was a thick gold band, the bevel a square of gold with four raised points of steel like the tips of needles. Craig scooped dirt from the floor, took off the ring and rubbed it over the brightness of the gold, then put the ring on his finger, bevel inside.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked.

"Aristides is my friend," said Theseus, "and so is his wife. I know you would not hurt them. The big man will. Also I was afraid of you and you did not mock me for it."

'Thanks," Craig said. "I won't forget this."

"We go now," said Theseus. "It is time."

Craig went over to Pia. She hadn't looked at them, hadn't moved. In any case, she spoke no Greek.

"We've got to go, love," he said.

She looked up at him, and there was utter defeat in her eyes.

"Dyton-Blease told me what he's going to do to you," she said. "I can't stand it, John. I just can't stand it."

"Don't watch," said Craig. "I don't want you to watch." She sobbed, and clung to him. "We go now," said Theseus.

Somehow the last of her strength came to her, and she walked out proudly, head up, like a queen, the way Cinecitta had taught her.

· » ·

The caique had switched to sail an hour before, and Grierson could see the tiny pinpoint of light that marked the island.

"Okay," he said. "That's near enough."

Elias whispered to his son, and the anchor splashed softly, sending up an explosion of phosphorescent water that quickly faded. Grierson stripped as the two Greeks listened for the beat of motor engines. There was nothing. Grierson strapped on the waterproof bag he had had prepared, and turned to them.

"Give me until nearly dawn," he said. "If I'm not back before it's light you go without me. I won't be coming."

"Kali tychi," said Elias and his son, then Grierson said it too. It was the only Greek phrase he knew. It means "Good luck." Then he disappeared into the warm, dark sea, and father and son took out handlines and began to fish. » » «

In the room, the others were already waiting, and a fourth one this time, Philippa, her face bone-white under its golden brown, so that the suntan looked like a crude cosmetic. She lolled in her chair, exhausted, yet her eyes were restless. They looked unseeing at Craig, then moved away again, searching, searching for the dream powder.

"I want you to see this," Naxos said. "I want you to see what you've done to her. She's got all the sedation the doctor will allow and she still can't rest. Maybe she won't ever again. You're to blame for that, Craig."

Philippa whimpered, and Naxos turned to her at once. "Now then, honey," he said, and whispered softiy. Dyton-Blease tried to intervene, and Naxos snarled at him. "Get on with the fight, why don't you?"

The big man stepped down, not bothering to dive this time, walking forward slowly, taking his time, as Pia shrank past him to sit at Selina's feet. Craig could feel the benzedrine take hold, forcing strength back into his body. This one would have to be quick; the drug wouldn't last for long. He clenched his hands, and felt the first premonitory nip of the four points of the ring. He moved slowly, wearily, like a man already resigned to defeat.

Dyton-Blease laughed aloud, and lunged for him, and Craig only just got out of the way in time. Even with the benzedrine, he was barely fast enough. Again the big man struck, and again Craig only just avoided him. He was being crowded into a corner again, but he couldn't help it. His hands came together briefly, and he twisted the ring into position. Next time a blow came he would have to take it

and hit back. A third time the enormous fist reached out for him, and this time he turned a fraction too slowly, felt a blow like a hammer crash into his side. He gasped, scrambling to stay upright on legs that seemed made of paper. For a fraction of a second the big man was off balance, and vulnerable.

Craig's fist lashed out in a tearing, searing blow across the big man's forehead, ripping four parallel lines into the skin. Dyton-Blease moaned, hesitated, and Craig struck with his other hand, under the heart. It was like hitting a lump of oak. Dyton-Blease put his hand to his head, and looked at the blood there.

"You cheated me," he screamed. 'You cut me."

Craig worked the ring from his finger, slipped it into his pocket, then waited till the big man crouched down again, the blood dripping slowly from his face. Craig feinted at the face again, and Dyton-Blease immediately raised his arm to protect it. Craig leaped in, grabbed the wrist, and threw the big man, held on to the wrist and pushed it up into a hammerlock. The big man was still pawing at his forehead with his free hand. Craig, very deliberately, struck at the big man's shoulder joint, and Dyton-Blease groaned aloud. Craig held on to the wrist, and pulled. Dyton-Blease spun like a top, crashed into the wall, and bounced back into Craig's fist, his whole body aimed like an arrow into the hard stomach. Dyton-Blease gasped, and deliberately fell on Craig.

Craig lurched back under the enormous weight, and he could feel Dyton-Blease's arms reaching for a hug that might still squeeze the life out of him. He let himself slide down, yielding to the weight, shpping through the clutching arms, grabbing the hands, pulling the big man forward, kicking upwards, feeling the impact of the big man's stomach on his foot before he straightened his leg and watched him soar over.

Dyton-Blease fell with a crash that shook the room, but even then his enormous strength brought him back to his feet again. Craig caught him round the waist, swung him round, pushed him toward the platform. Naxos yelled at Theseus "Shoot him," and Craig leaped in again. His shoulder caught Dyton-Blease in the chest, and spun him round. Craig's fingers interlaced and he struck at the big man's neck, the killer blow that Hakagawa had taught him, and that he had promised never to use unless the enemy were so evil and so strong that nothing else would do. This time, when the big man went down, he didn't try to get up, and Craig knew he wouldn't. He leaped up on to the balcony, and the hard edge of his hand disappeared into the softness of Naxos's belly, his arms came round Fhp. Her eyes still did not see him, but she responded at once to the touch of his fingers.

"Hi, honey," she said.

Craig lifted her to her feet, held her in front of him as Pia swerved away from Selina, took shelter behind him. "It's your move," said Craig.

* Chapter 16 *

Grierson had swum two miles, dressed, climbed a cliff, forced his way into a castle and climbed three flights of stairs. He was tired, frightened, on edge, and there was a door in front of him, a massive, olivewood door with a thin strip of light showing below it. To open it was perhaps his greatest act of courage, yet when the door swung, the first thing he saw was Craig, and Craig was in complete control.

Craig was still in his ball costume, and so was the dark girl who crouched behind him. Another dark girl, also in what appeared to be fancy dress, sat in a chair, watching him. She was smiling at him. In his arms Craig held a blonde who outsoared even Nono's imaginings. Once again Grierson bowed to the master, even as he watched Naxos groaning on the floor, even as he went up behind Theseus, who still held a gun, and tapped him behind the ear with the barrel of his own, and watched him fall.

T wish you hadn't done that," Craig said. "He's by way of being a friend of mine."

"I came to rescue you," said Grierson. "You're supposed to be grateful."

"Okay. Rescue me," Craig said.

The blonde whimpered in his arms, and Craig spoke to her softly, soothingly, hushing her as if she were a child. When she was calm, he looked at Naxos, now on his feet again, swaying as he clung to the table.

"You were going to watch me die, Harry," he said. "You were going to enjoy it. You brought your wife along to enjoy it too."

"All right," said Naxos. "I was wrong. I lost. We all have to lose sometime. But Flip knew nothing, Craig. I swear she knew nothing. Let her go. Please."

"You think I should go down there with you this

time?"

"I don't care what you do," Naxos said. "Just leave Philippa out of it."

"You're the only one who can do that," said Craig.

He let her go, and she went at once to a chair, sat down, and looked around her once again, her eyes still searching, searching.

Craig sank wearily into Dyton-Blease's chair.

"You think I'm going to hurt her?" he asked.

"You've got to get rid of us both," Naxos said. 'Those are your orders, aren't they? Look, Craig, why do it? I'm a rich man. I can buy you anything you want. Anything."

"I want a yacht," said Craig. 'Tour yacht. I want to go to England in it."

"Sure," said Naxos.

"You're coming too!" said Craig. Naxos froze.

"For God's sake," said Craig. "If I were going to kill you, wouldn't I do it now, when there aren't any witnesses? All I want you to do is talk to a couple of people."

He got up from the chair and went down to the big man, felt for his heart. Incredibly, it was still beating. Grierson came up to him.

"What happened?" he asked.

"We had a fight—two fights," said Craig. "He was too good for me. God he was good. I only beat him because I cheated." He took the ring from his pocket. "With this. I hit him with this and he bled. He didn't mind blood if it was someone else's. He couldn't stand his own. So I cheated and won. But fair and square he would have killed me."

"What happens if I say I won't go?" said Naxos.

Then you don't go," said Craig. "What the hell, it's your yacht."

Naxos hesitated.

There's a man in London who can help your wife, remember," Grierson said. "But you'll have to go to him. He won't come here."

Naxos looked at them, trying desperately to decide.

"All right," he said. "I haven't any choice anyway."

"You still don't trust me, do you?" said Craig. "I wouldn't bother trying, Harry. It doesn't suit you."

He went over to Selina, spoke softly in Arabic.

"I cheated," he said.

"He also," said Selina. "To fight so soon after he had hit you from behind—that was cheating. He deserved to die."

"He didn't die," said Craig.

"You will finish him then?" Craig shook his head. "You are a very strange man."

"I he no more than other men, and I keep my bargains."

"Yes," she said. "I believe that now."

"There are many Englishmen who do the same," said

Craig.

That I believe also."

"Come to England with us then," said Craig. The girl hesitated, then slowly, reluctantly, shook her head. "First I must speak with my father," she said. "But how can you do that?"

"In an airplane. You must put me on an airplane to Aden. After that it will be easy."

"Aden has British troops."

"I do not fear them," she said.

Craig turned to Naxos. "We'd better go," he said. "Athens first. Put Selina on an Aden flight. Then London."

"What about him?" said Naxos, and gestured at Dyton-Blease.

"See if there's a doctor on the island," said Craig. "He'll need a doctor—for a long, long time." He pushed himself forward, moving slowly now, for he was near exhaustion, and the ache had come back to his neck. Pia went to him at once, holding his hand tight in hers. Craig grinned at her.

"I told you," he said. "There's always a chance."

They would go back to the ship now, and he would talk to Andrews.

««4

But Andrews had gone. One of Dyton-Blease's boats was missing too, and a great deal of Naxos's money. Grierson found that out when he talked to the captain. Then he went to Craig's cabin to report. Craig had just bathed, and was now in front of a mirror, slowly, luxuriously shaving, the bruise on his neck an exotic purple against the hard brown of his skin. On the bed, Pia lay watching him, a sheet pulled casually across her body, settling lightly on its rich and rounded contours. Grierson tried not to look too closely, and failed.

"Come in," said Craig. "Have a drink." Pia pouted. Craig saw her expression in the mirror. "He's a friend of mine," he said. "He saves my life from time to time."

Pia smiled enchantingly, and reached a smooth-rounded arm out toward an ice bucket. The sheet started to slip, and Grierson willed himself not to look.

"This is business," he said.

"Andrews?"

"He's scarpered," said Grierson. "Vanished. There's money gone too."

Craig rubbed aftershave lotion on his face, then turned to take the glass that Pia held out to him. There was a glass for Grierson too, with not nearly so much champagne in it. Craig grinned, and handed it to Grierson.

T wonder who hired Andrews?" he mused.

Pia's fingers dug into his thigh, and he sat beside her, rubbed her scented shoulder. Grierson gulped down his champagne, and put down the glass.

"Well, I really must trot along," he said.

"Must you?" Craig was looking at the girl's mouth. She was shaping words in Italian that made him forget Andrews, Loomis, even the ache in his neck.

"I'm afraid I must," said Grierson.

"Cheerioh then," said Craig. "Please don't bang the—"

Grierson banged the door.

· « ·

In Athens, Craig took a subdued Selina to the airport in Naxos's Mercedes, but he noticed that she wore European clothes with a chic elegance that was quite new. On the drive from Piraeus she spoke for the first time about the fight with Dyton-Blease, and how she had come to realize that the big man had lied to her when it was too late, and how she had used the fight to think and scheme her way out, back to her father. And then Craig had won, and it had not been necessary to find a way of killing the big man.

"You think you could have killed him?" Craig asked.

"Oh yes," she said. "My brothers taught me the way." She was perfectly serious.

"Selina," Craig said. "Who was the man in your country who told you about the British?"

I'm sorry," she said. "I promised my father I wouldn't

tell."

"What's Dyton-Blease's first name? Is it Bernard?"

Tf you know," said Selina, looking straight ahead. "Why do you ask?"

The car reached the airport, and, because it was Naxos's car, drove straight out to the waiting plane. Craig and Selina got out, and she shook hands with him, very seriously.

Take care, Craig," she said. "I want very much to see you again."

But the air hostess looked nervous, the engines began their first whining scream, and she turned to run up the steps. Craig would have liked to have gone after her, to wish her luck, but it was too late. He turned back to the car. A slim, dapper man in a tourist seat, a man with the face of an English aristocrat, lowered the "Instructions to Passengers" pamphlet he had held in front of his face. The airplane taxied to the runway.

a a b

Loomis said: "You haven't done badly so far."

Craig and Grierson waited. There was bound to be more to it than that.

"You missed Andrews, of course, but you got rid of Dyton-Blease very nicely, and you persuaded Naxos to come here. All on the credit side. On the other hand you"—he stared at Grierson—"very nearly got arrested for murder, and you"—the stare intensified on Craig—"left Dyton-Blease alive. That's one loose end too many."

Craig said: "When I hit him, I thought he had to die.

I thought it was inevitable. He must be built out of rock."

Tt runs in the family," said Loomis. "I used to be that way myself."

"He's a relative of yours?"

"Not really," Loomis said. "A seventh cousin nine times removed, or something. But it's in his blood the same as it was in mine. Strength and viciousness and the need to fight. He tried to join Intelligence once—not that he knew I was in it. I turned him down. Knew too much about him, d'you see? It would have been better if you'd finished him, Craig."

"I couldn't," Craig said. "Not when the fight was over." Loomis left it at once.

"That leaves Swyven and this Count de Tavel feller. The little yellow brothers did a conversion job on him in Indochina. And this Trottia."

"They'll be in Venice," Grierson said.

'Then I'll have to get 'em out," said Loomis. "One of 'em anyway. Find out what they're up to. You better leave that bit to me." He glowered at Craig. "There's this Busoni person too," he said. "You reckon she's clean?"

Craig said: "Yes." The word was a hard, flat barrier to further discussion. Loomis bashed straight through it.

"Because if she isn't, she's a damn sight too close to you," he said. 'The way you go on, Craig, it's a wonder you can stand up."

"She's clean," said Craig. "She was too scared to be anything else."

"Scared of what?"

"Being killed," said Craig. "And me being killed. Lay off her."

Loomis shrugged. "You know the score," he said. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

"You could have warned me about Andrews too," Craig said. "Just to make a job of it. Who got him for us, anyway?"

"M.I.5 chap in Aden found him. Distressed British Subject and all that. He passed on some very juicy stuff— small, but promising."

"Where from?" Grierson asked.

"Russia," Loomis said. "He picked up a ship in Odessa in 1962. Took it over to China for demolition. He kept his eyes and ears open. The stuff was good. M.I.5 thought they might use him. They signed him up and sent him on to us when I was away in Greece. I've had a word with them about that. All they can say is I keep on telling them I'm shorthanded. Nobody's that shorthanded, not even us. They should have known he was too good to be a new boy."

"Did he get any Chinese stuff?" Craig asked.

"No," said Loomis. "He said their security was too

good."

"How did he get to Aden?" Grierson asked.

"Jumped ship. He was mixed up in dope smuggling. M.I.5 checked. It was true enough. They thought that meant they had him on ice." Loomis laughed, a short, crazy bark like that of an impassioned sea lion's.

"Dope from China?" Craig asked, and Loomis nodded. 'The Zaarb lot are being backed by China."

"Go on," said Loomis.

"I think it's possible Andrews could be Schiebel." 'That's crazy," Grierson said.

Loomis said: "I don't think it is. There's too much that fits, and it's all too bloody neat."

'There's another thing you'd better know," Craig said. 'The man who went out to the Haram and told Selina's father what lying bastards the British were—that was Dyton-Blease."

"You're sure?" asked Loomis. Craig nodded.

"Selina told me herself. At least I tricked it out of her."

"What made you think of him?" Loomis asked.

"He fitted. Big man, big warrior. And she had a way of looking at fiim. When we had that first fight and he beat the hell out of me, she knew it was going to happen. She knew exactiy how he worked."

Loomis beamed indulgently at him and slapped him on the back.

"You know, Craig, you're not just a pretty face after all," he said.

a a a

Selina never reached her father. Schiebel picked her up before she had passed through Zaarb. It was easy enough for him. He could call up all the talent he needed, and the police were trained not to look, even if there was any noise. They even provided Schiebel with killers. Selina picked up her two servants in Aden, and rode across the frontier without trouble. Schiebel followed, and found his private army wait-

ing for him in Zaarb's capital, Port Sufi. Selina had ordered a suite of rooms in Port Sufi's one decent hotel, which was packed with oilmen, and Albanian attaches with the shoulders and manners of underprivileged wrestlers, and Chinese technical advisers who always traveled in pairs and carried handguns that were a Chinese imitation of a Czechoslovak .32.

Schiebel's men attacked Selina's suite at 12:30, while the Albanians and Chinese snored in stolid obedience. By 12:33 both Selina's servants and one of Schiebel's men were dead, another dying from the knife Selina had used—until Schiebel took it from her, and struck her hard across the mouth, left and right. Her eyes never left him, never ceased to hate.

I'm sorry about that, princess," Schiebel said, "but these oafs were really fond of the man. I can't think why."

The Arab who held Selina passed his hands over her body, and spoke to his friends. They nodded, and a stubby finger hooked into the neck of her gown, pulled and ripped to reveal her olive-gold body. The hand moved again to enjoy the firm young flesh, and Schiebel shook his head. The hand at once was still.

"These men are boors," said Schiebel. "They propose to—how shall I put it?—enjoy you beside the bodies of their friends, and yours. They seem to find it appropriate in some way."

"I can't stop them," said Selina.

"No. Only I can do that. The experience might be good for you—in my terms, that is. It might teach you submission. On the other hand, it might make you even more determined to kill me."

T doubt that," Selina said.

"In any case," said Schiebel, "I think I might save that pleasure for myself." He pushed the gown aside, let it fall back. "When we have more time of course."

"It would be better if you killed me now. It's the only chance you've got."

"No," said Schiebel. T have many chances. What do you suppose your father would do if he knew you were in this embarrassing predicament? I greatly fear he would come here to kill me, don't you?—which is exactly what these good people want." He nodded at the Arabs. "I want your help, princess. It will be better if you give it willingly, and keep your father out of this."

He said in Arabic: "Let her go," and she was freed at once. She took up a patterned robe, and let it hang from her shoulders to cover her body.

"What am I to do?" she asked.

"I want you to come to England with me," said Schiebel, "so that I can keep an eye on you. You'll be returned to your father if you both behave."

"Why England?"

"I want Naxos back with us where he belongs," said Schiebel. "We need his vote, princess." And I need you for bait, he thought. Who else could draw Craig away?

» Chapter 17 *

Craig rested, and spent time with Pia in his flat in Regent's Park. Naxos stayed in a nursing home that Loomis provided for Sir Matthew Chinn. Naxos worried about his wife, and Loomis brooded about luring Swyven back out of Venice. Grierson devoted his life to finding out about Swyven, and always it came back to the same thing: at prep school, public school, and university, in his six weeks in the army and six months in the Foreign Office, his travels in Arabia and tantrums in dress shops, to one principle he held true. Swyven loved his mommy, and nobody else. Loomis frowned, and rang up Sir Matthew, and frowned again, and sent Grierson away, and brooded again, and told Miss Figgis what to do about Craig.

Craig was teaching Pia how to speak Greek and drink tea. She found both processes very funny, and laughed a great deal, and so did Craig. He looked alert and fit, and ten years younger than on his return from Greece. He also looked very slightly restless, and Pia had seen this already, and was worried by it. When the phone rang, she scooped it up at once, said "Just a moment, please," and handed it to Craig.

"There is a woman called Figgis to speak to you," she said, and frowned. "She does not sound like a Figgis."

"Who?" said Craig, and took the phone. "Craig here." he listened to the sultry purr and said: "Yes. Of course. Where is it? Now? Okay." He put the phone down. "I've got to see Fhp Naxos," he said.

"Blondes," said Pia. She said it the way Rommel might have said "Montgomery."

"She's ill," said Craig. "In a nursing home."

"Okay," said Pia. "I'll come with you."

"No," said Craig. "You can't, love. This is business." He thought hard. "Look," he said, "why don't you give Grierson a ring? He knows a lot of theater people. Tell him I said he should show you around."

"Are you getting rid of me?" she asked.

T have a job to do," he said, and kissed her. T don't want you just to sit around and get bored."

He kissed her again, put on his jacket, and was gone. Pia stared at the door, and didn't doubt for a moment that her time with Craig was at an end, yet she remained dry-eyed. To weep would have been an impossible self-indulgence. She dialed Grierson's number instead.

» « »

Sir Matthew said: "She's talked about you rather a lot. She thinks she owes you an apology, and she wants to make it now."

"It isn't necessary," Craig said.

"I've no doubt," said Sir Matthew, "but she thinks it is, and I'm prepared to indulge that. The withdrawal symptoms from heroin can be quite appalling. From time to time she thinks she is going to die—not in any melodramatic sense, you understand. She genuinely beheves it."

"Is she like that now?" said Craig.

"No," Sir Matthew said. "At the moment I have her sedated. But I can't do that all the time. Her only real hope is psychotherapy, but she has to rest from that from time to time. She's led a very odd life. You know about that?" Craig nodded. "The oddest thing is she still wants it."

Craig said: "Are you going to cure her?"

I'm going to have to," Sir Matthew said. 'Tour friend Loomis insists on it. Come on."

Craig had expected a bed, and a white-faced, writhing figure in a hospital gown. Instead he saw Philippa in a cherry-pink dress, in a flounced and chintzy room that belonged to a thirties drawing-room comedy. She sat on a sofa, her feet tucked up beneath her, and sipped tea from a Spode cup. Her color was delicate and beautiful, and her impossibly golden hair gleamed. Only her eyes looked dark and shadowed. "John, my dear," she said. "Come in. Have some tea or a drink or something."

Craig went to a drinks trolley like a cinema organ, and mixed Scotch and ginger ale.

"Come and sit beside me," said Fhp, and Craig moved toward her.

Sir Matthew sat, neatly, precisely, in a chair nearby, and produced a notebook.

"Just talk quite naturally," he said. "Forget I'm here."

Fhp scowled at him, and turned her back; the procedure seemed a familiar one to both of them.

"He's terrible really," said Fhp, "but I have to be nice to him. He means well."

I'm sure he does," said Craig.

"I had to see you, John," she said. "I've had so much on my mind and I've been ill—and I'm so mixed-up I don't know where to start."

Craig sipped his Scotch.

"You're deliberately prevaricating," Sir Matthew said. "You asked Mr. Craig here so that you could apologize. Why not do so?"

"Oh you," said Fhp, and turned to Craig, touched his hand.

"It's true though," she said. "I do want to apologize. I've done such dreadful things." "Surely not?" said Craig.

"But you know I did. I had the steward give you that dreadful suntan oil—" She giggled. "It was so funny."

Craig felt the hair on the back of his neck rise.

'Trottia got it for me. He said it would turn you bright blue, like one of your Ancient Britons or something. But you didn't use it, did you?"

Craig shook his head. "Why did you want to do

that?"

"I didn't. Not really. But Nikki, the steward, said he couldn't get me any white stuff—heroin, you know—unless we got you out of the way first. He said you'd stop him. And I did need it so."

"But your husband said he thought Nikki worked for me."

"Harry can be pretty stupid sometimes," said Flip. "I guess he never looked at you properly. You never peddled dope in your life."

"That's nothing to apologize for," Craig said. "It never happened."

"There's something else as well," said Flip. "I knew that Harry was going to fool you at Venice. I should have told you about that. I know I should. I keep having these nightmares."

'Tell us about them," Sir Matthew said.

"I keep dreaming I'm in a room—like a big gym or something. You're there in your fancy dress costume, and so is Pia Busoni. And there are other people too. Harry, and an Arab girl who looks like a queen or something. And there's another man there, a big man. You had to fight him. He was a friend of Harry's, but Harry didn't like me to see him. He kept me out of the way. Except this one time."

"And what happened? In the dream I mean."

"I don't know. I couldn't look," said Flip.

"I know," Craig said. "I won. I'm here, aren't I?"

"Hey," said Flip. "Hey that's right. Oh, I feel awful." Tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes.

"Here now," Craig said. "You had a dream, remember?"

"It was a dream, wasn't it?" said Flip. "Harry wouldn't—"

"I know the big man you mean," said Craig. "Can you see me beating him outside a dream?"

"You are still prevaricating," said Sir Matthew.

"I told Harry you gave me some heroin," she said.

"Why did you do that?"

"I wanted you to go away. No. I mean you had to go away. You were getting to be dangerous." 'To Harry?"

"To both of us. It was better to get rid of you,

John."

"Why be sorry about it? You did what you had to do. No hard feelings," said Craig. Behind her he could see Sir Matthew's hand move very slightly toward the door. He finished his drink.

"I'll have to go now," he said. "I'd like to come and see you again soon, if you'll let me."

Flip said: "Casting directors, bit players, agents, any jerk who can say, 'Kid . . . with a shape like yours I'll get you a part tomorrow.' That's the kind I draw. Them and Harry. Not you, John."

"That's enough amusement," said Sir Matthew. "You're beginning to enjoy yourself again. But Mr. Craig has to go and we have work to do."

"Yes, of course," Philippa said. "One never has a minute, does one?" She offered her cheek for him to kiss, and he left.

In the corridor outside, Naxos was waiting. Craig nodded to him, and kept on walking.

"Hey," Naxos said. "I want to talk to you." Craig turned. "What did she say to you?"

"She said hello," reported Craig. "Then she said some other things. Then she said good-bye."

"Look, Craig," Naxos said. "Don't make jokes with

me."

"I don't think you're funny," Craig said. "Cheap, cowardly, treacherous, nasty, lying—yes, but not funny, Harry. You never made me laugh. Not even in Dyton-Blease's gym."

"It was for Flip," Naxos said. "I had to protect Flip." 'The record's old," said Craig. "It's starting to scratch."

"Believe me," said Naxos. "I had to. She's all I got. And when I thought you were giving her that stuff, I wanted to shoot you myself. Only that was too easy. So I gave you to Dyton-Blease. I couldn't help myself. It was my wife you were doing this to. My wife."

"Didn't they offer you more money?"

"All right," he said. "All right. But I wasn't going to take it—not until they faked that stuff about heroin."

Craig looked at him. Naxos's eyes were just for seeing. They told him nothing.

"What happens now?" he asked.

"1 got it all straightened out. I'll sign with your government."

"And Selina's father?"

"Him too," said Naxos. "If he goes independent I'll finance him—and trade with Britain anyway. I'm all straightened out now. So what did Flip say about me?"

"She had a nightmare about a big man who tried to kill me, only I got away. I told her not to worry. Everybody has nightmares."

"I'm grateful to you, John, believe that," Naxos said.

"Don't be," said Craig. "For you I did nothing."

He turned and walked away. When he got back to the flat in Regent's Park, he found a note from Pia. Grierson had taken her to a first night.

# * »

Lady Swyven had gone there too. She was very fond of the theater, which she regarded as a convenient center for the display of her jewelry and furs. The plays themselves she usually despised, but enjoyed. It was always hugely amusing to see poor people being jealous of rich people in a messy, unconstructive sort of way, and that was what the current school of dramatists seemed to insist on writing about. Lord Swyven, who was deaf but good-natured, accompanied her on these forays into social realism, and made his deafness the excuse for staying in the bar. Lady Swyven didn't mind; he was available for arrival and departure and perhaps for supper later. To have him out of the way was a positive gain really. Lord Swyven was a fidget on the heroic scale.

That night the piece she had chosen was set in a flat in Notting Hill. Lady Swyven looked expectant, and opened her box of chocolates in high hopes. In front of her a dramatically handsome man was talking in Italian to a really gorgeous, but rather too full-blown young woman, who wore quite the most shattering chinchilla coat Lady Swyven had ever seen, as well as a diamond necklace and earrings that positively shrieked Cartier. Lady Swyven wished she had worn something more exciting than her pearls and that ridiculously demode sable. Then the curtain rose on a quite delicious squalor, and Lady Swyven forgot all about them.

During each act interval she followed the two gorgeous ones to the bar, and drank gin and tonic with her husband, and half heard their lazy flow of chatter about Rico and Sofia and Booboo and Nono, and wondered if a wealthy Italian had ever actually done anything—though the man looked more English than anything. Then her husband began to look as if the Italian words were reaching him (why do all foreigners have such loud voices?) and if he did it wouldn't be long before he began to think of their son Mark. Lady Swyven, who had been married for thirty-seven years and loved her husband deeply, couldn't bear it when he talked about Mark. She touched his arm, and he looked at once at her mouth. Shaping her words very carefully, she said: "Jack, dear, couldn't we move back from the crowd a little?"

As she spoke, the full-blown beauty bumped into her, muttered "Scusi" without looking round, and went on talking. Jack at once cleared a path for his wife, but once again she was bumped into by a chubby, twinkling sort of man, who pushed into her really rather rudely, knocked her bag from her arm, then bent at once to pick it up, hand it back, say "Awfully sorry," and disappear into the crowd.

"Bloody rugger scrum," Jack said. "Can't understand what you see in it."

But it really was rather fun, particularly at the end, when everybody clapped very loud, as if to apologize for not enjoying it, and all the rapists and tarts and perverts lined up, smiling their fresh and wholesome smiles, and one could try to remember which of them one had seen on the television commercials. And then, alas, it was time to go, and one waited one's turn of course, not like the awful Italians who charged out pushing and shoving (could Mark really be happy in Venice?). One followed at one's leisure, because dear Jack, always reliable, would be certain to have the car ready, and one was aware of the Italians kicking up a most tremendous fuss. And then it happened. A simply impossible thing. Quite impossible. But it happened.

She reached the end of the seats, and was about to turn left towards the bar, when a man somehow appeared beside her, and in some way she could never explain, eased her out of the crowd, and into an alcove.

"I should like a word with you, madam," he said.

Lady Swyven had been a beauty in her day, and was used to elderly gallants who remembered her from the past, and bored her in the present, but she knew at once that this man wasn't one of them. He was thirty years too young, and his words were all wrong.

"My name is Linton, Detective Chief Inspector Linton," the man said. "Here is my warrant card." He showed her a card covered in Perspex, but her heart was jumping so the words refused to focus. "I think we'd better just step into the manager's office," said Linton, and again she found herself somehow persuaded away, this time into a room that was mostly a safe and photographs, and a desk and chair, and the two Italians gabbling more rapidly than ever, and a fat, sweaty sort of man in a dinner jacket pouring whiskey for the Italians and trying to say "Honestly, I can't tell you how sorry I am that such a thing should happen in my theater" only the Italians were talking so much they wouldn't listen.

Lady Swyven fought for, and finally gained, her self

control.

"What on earth," she asked, "is happening?"

Linton said: "The lady here, Signorina Busoni, has lost a diamond brooch. It seems very likely that you have it, madam."

Lady Swyven said, "How dare you!" and at once pondered the fact that in real life too, there is a use for theatrical cliche.

"You think you haven't?"

"I know I haven't," Lady Swyven said. "The whole business is quite ridiculous." She paused, then added: "I should like my husband to be here. He's waiting for me outside."

Linton shrugged, then went to the door and spoke to a brisk, alert, young detective sergeant, the kind who gets ulcers because he still isn't a superintendent and here he is turned thirty already. He was back in minutes, and all the time the two Italians talked; the manager poured Scotch and tried and failed to get into the duologue.

Swyven came in slowly, unhurried, because hurrying impeded his thinking and there was obviously something wrong.

The sergeant said loudly: "This is Lord Swyven, sir. I'm afraid he's rather hard of hearing."

Swyven's words cut across the sergeant's. "I'm bloody deaf," he said, "but it's no good shouting like this idiot. Just let me see you speak."

Linton said: "It's your wife, sir. We have reason to believe she's stolen a diamond brooch."

"You're either mad or drunk," Swyven said. "Or

both."

"It's in her handbag, sir."

Swyven looked at his wife and grinned.

"Better let them look, Jane," he said. "Then we can go and get a bite at the Caprice or something. You like the place and I can't hear them anyway."

Lady Swyven opened her handbag, took out a handkerchief and cigarettes, lipstick, powder compact, lighter and a rose diamond brooch made by Carrier in Paris, approximate value three thousand pounds.

"Great God Almighty!" said Lord Swyven.

"Ecco," Miss Busoni shouted in triumph. "E—ceo."

The very handsome man with her said, "That's Pia's brooch, all right. I'd recognize it anywhere."

Linton said: "I'm afraid I must ask you to come with us to the Station, madam," and Lady Swyven burst into tears.

» Chapter 18 *

Well," said Loomis. "We're doing very nicely. Chubby Chal-lon planted the brooch on her when he bumped into her, you're on hand to identify it, and the Busoni person gets a lot of free publicity."

'There's just one point, sir," Grierson said. "She's Italian."

"Nothing could be more obvious," said Loomis. "And I am wanted for murder in Italy." "Didn't I tell you? Naxos explained all that," Loomis said. "You're in the clear now. But don't do it again." "No, sir," said Grierson. "Thank you, sir."

"Yes. Well. We also planted some more stuff in Swyven's place. Stuff Chubby knocked off for us. She could get seven years for this. Now all we got to do is leak it to the press."

"You think it'll draw Swyven out?"

"It must," Loomis said. "You don't think I want to send an old woman to prison, do you?"

"As soon as he sees Pia's name he'll know it's a plant," said Grierson.

"You are an old misery this morning," Loomis said. "Of course he'll know it's a plant and hell come all the quicker. He'll assume we're the same as he is, d'you see? And that means jail for his old ma. What you got for the press?"

Grierson handed over a typewritten release. It read: "Last night a daring attempt was made to steal a priceless diamond brooch belonging to glamorous Italian film star Pia Busoni when she attended a first night at the Duke's Theater."

"We've got a sexy picture to go with it," said Grierson.

"I'll bet you have," said Loomis.

"The attempt was frustrated by Detective Chief Inspector Linton, C.I.D. It is understood that Lady Swyven, wife of Rear Admiral Lord Swyven, is assisting the police in their inquiries. It is reported that Detective Chief Inspector Linton believes that the robbery may be linked with other recent society thefts."

"That'll do nicely," said Loomis. "I never knew you could be so vulgar, Grierson. Now all we have to do is wait."

"Suppose Lady Swyven just calls me a liar?"

"How can she?" said Loomis. "You're an ex-captain of the Royal Marines, you hunt with the Quorn, you've an uncle who's an Archdeacon. How can you possibly be a liar?"

« » «

Swyven flew in next morning at dawn, in an El-Al Trident. He had a car waiting for him, a big Russian Zim from the Zaarbist Embassy. He cleared Customs slowly, but when he reached the car it moved away at once. Swyven took comfort from its CD plates, and as it neared London began to breathe more easily. Beside him Zaarb's eleventh cultural attache, an expert on the manufacture, maintenance, and use of small arms, explained how Zaarb would never let down their good friend Swyven, who had done so much for the latest and best of people's republics. He did not explain that Swyven had only been allowed to come because it was feared that he might have done so on his own if he'd been refused help; nor that it was too early for him to die—there was still work for him to do; nor that even so the cultural attache's orders were to kill him if there were any chance of his being captured.

The Zim moved up to seventy, and Swyven felt happier still. The Skyways Hotel was behind them now, the dual carriageway was almost empty, the petrol stations clicked by in fast blobs of color. Swyven permitted himself a cigarette, then the big car slowed. There was a "Road Up" sign ahead, and a diesel road roller clanking slowly down. The Zim braked down harder as the road narrowed even more. The car moved level with the road roller, which was moving flat out at twelve miles an hour, then, incredibly, the road roller swerved into them.

The front of the bonnet disappeared before the car hit the middle of the carriageway. The chauffeur stamped on his foot brake, the back-wheel brakes engaged and slued the car round faster, slamming him into the steering wheel. The cultural attach^ received Swyven's head in his chest as his hand groped for his gun, and fell sideways, to slam his head into the rear door. Swyven pulled him clear, and reached for the door handle, but the door opened before he could touch it, and a man in overalls stood framed inside it. The man looked familiar to Swyven, but he was too terrified to think where he had seen him before. The workman had his hands on the cultural attach^ who was struggling feebly, then he struck, and the cultural attache was unconscious, and the workman was taking a gun from inside the cultural attache's coat. There was another man busy in the front of the car, a man in ambulance uniform, and he was dragging out the unconscious chauffeur.

Swyven whimpered as the cultural attache was hauled out, and handed over to other ambulance attendants. At last he made a dive through the open door, and the workman turned and tripped him, almost contemptuously, then hauled him to his feet and ran him up to a waiting ambulance, pitched him inside, leaped in after him and slammed the doors. The ambulance moved off at once, its bell clanging.

"Hello, Swyven old man," said the workman. "How are all the Carpaccios?"

After an hour they arrived at a nursing home, a quiet, discreet building, with oak trees, ivy parterres and the best alarm system in the United Kingdom. Electronic eyes winked, a gate swung open, and the ambulance went inside, behind the shelter of the trees, and pulled up by the main doors. Craig opened the doors and jumped down._

"Out," he said. "Time to see the doctor."

The cultural attache and the chauffeur stepped down, and automatically put their hands on the back of their necks. Swyven came out last, his face hidden by a handkerchief. He was weeping.

They went inside, and one of the ambulance attendants came with them. Swyven recognized Grierson, but it made no difference. Craig alone was more than he could cope with. They reached a door labeled "Group Psychotherapy." Grierson knocked, and went inside. Behind a desk heaped with carnations, Loomis beamed like a fat uncle at Christmas. His gaze moved over to Craig.

"Goodness," he said. "You do look authentic."

Craig rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, then wiped the hand on his trouser seat.

"Don't overact," said Loomis. "Any trouble?"

"No," said Craig. "The cultural attache here—and his friend—"

"A sort of cultural attache's mate," said Grierson.

"They started yelling about diplomatic immunity at first," said Craig. "Now they're more keen on political asylum."

"What about Swyven?"

"He wants his mommy," said Craig.

"And if he's a good boy—a very good boy—he shall have her," said Loomis. "Just take these two away and tidy them up, will you, Grierson?" He glowered at them. 'Tell the truth and we'll give you money. More truth, more money. If you tell enough truth, we won't let anybody shoot you. If you don't, we will."

Grierson took them out, and Loomis came out from behind the desk, placed a massive hand on Swyven's shoulder, and rammed him into a chair.

"You've got a choice, you know," Loomis said. "You can tell me, or I can let Craig get it out of you. I don't like you, Swyven, but Craig hates the sight of you. You were too pally with a feller he didn't like." He turned to Craig. "Got a flash this morning. Doctor's report on Dyton-Blease. You paralyzed him, son. For life. He can't even speak." He turned back to Swyven. "That's the way Craig is, cock," he said. "I wouldn't cross him if I were you. Then there's your mother to consider."

"You've no right to do this to me," Swyven yelled. "No right at all. And what's going to happen when the Zaarbist Embassy finds out about this?"

"Finds out about what?" said Loomis. "Your two orangutans don't want to go back to their cage. They'll use the accident as an excuse to stay out. The accident's been reported to their embassy, and you're here for treatment. The road roller man will be charged with dangerous driving, and he'll plead guilty. What on earth can Zaarb do about it? You'd better concentrate on your mommy— and Craig here."

"What about my mother?"

"She stole a lot of stuff," said Loomis. "Over ten thousand quid's worth. She'll go to prison, unless we find fresh evidence."

"That's not very likely, is it?" said Swyven.

"Up to you," said Loomis. 'Take another look at Craig, cock, then make up your mind. I won't ask you again." Swyven looked round. A dirty man in dirty overalls. A hard man, harder even than poor, dear Dyton-Blease.

"All right," he said.

"You just he back and make yourself comfy," said Loomis.

"My mother—" Swyven said.

"I'll ring Scotland Yard as soon as we're finished," Loomis said. "Don't worry about a thing." He looked quickly at Craig, his head jerked, and Craig turned to the door.

"Now just tell your old uncle," said Loomis. Craig closed the door very sofdy, and went to wash, to change, to think about Fhp.

Loomis had it made, he thought. Naxos would sign anything now, so long as Flip was being cured. And Sir Matthew seemed to think she was. But yesterday when he had seen her, she had seemed relaxed, at ease, and completely crazy, dreams and reality blending at will, Hollywood True Confessions and worry and affection flowing together like sewerage in a reservoir. Sir Matthew must know his stuff. But whatever happened to Flip, Loomis would win, because he always did. Loomis could get the defense plans of Heaven out of the Archangel Michael. He went into a room marked "Matron," stretched out on the couch, and went to sleep. Counterespionage was mostly waiting anyway.

Three hours later, the door clicked open and Loomis came in, moving with incredible softness for a man of his size. He stood over Craig, and reached out a hand.

"No," Craig said, eyes still closed. "I'm ticklish."

Loomis grunted, and sat down opposite Craig.

"I'm just about ready for the laughing academy," Loomis said. 'That lad in there's got me tied in knots."

Craig sat up, and faced him.

"It's bad then?" he asked.

"Oh no," said Loomis. "From our point of view it's perfect. Swyven and Dyton-Blease have been comrades for years, d'you see. Know their Marxist-Leninist dialectic, all that stuff. All for the suffering masses—unless they happen to be British, American, or West European. So they went out to Zaarb in the fifties and spread the gospel. While they were there they met Schiebel or Andrews, or whatever his bloody name is, and Schiebel welcomed them in. Of course. He was working loose from Russia at the time, and he needed a few chums. So Dyton-Blease and Swyven helped him in a fund-raising drive, flogging dope Schiebel brought in from China. That's how Dyton-Blease managed to borrow a couple of heavies from that Greek dope peddler. He was his main supplier. Then Schiebel sent Dyton-Blease into the Haram, that's Selina's father's place. His name's Sayed by the way. He was out looking for recruits to comradeism, but he couldn't see that happening in the Haram. They're all happy as pigs in muck there—it's like a Viking Valhalla—all fighting and feasting and screwing. So naturally, Dyton-Blease wants to change all that, but in the meantime he gets to be great chums with Sayed, and told him what swine the British were, and of course after Suez, Sayed believed every word, but unfortunately, he wasn't too keen on Dyton-Blease's other idea, which was that Zaarb was the new Jerusalem. Old Sayed had been knocking hell out of Zaarb for years, and he knew what they were like. So Dyton-Blease concentrated on just

being nice and friendly and anti-British, and waiting until Zaarb had a modern army to take over the Haram."

"Why bother?" said Craig. "There's not such a lot

of it."

"Three reasons," said Loomis. "It's strategically useful, it's about 50 percent oil, and they've got a mountain there with enough cobalt to posion the entire earth."

"Cobalt makes H-bombs look like cigarette lighters," he continued. "We won't touch the stuff, no more will the Yanks, and even the Russians have gone off it since Stalin— but the Chinese have exploded their second A-bomb, and they're looking ahead. Schiebel was anxious to provide them with the raw material. He's a nut for explosions, Swyven said. He's also just crazy enough not to care whether the little yellow brothers start popping the things off or not.

"Of course he needed transport to get the stuff to China in bulk, and that's where Naxos came in. If Naxos could be persuaded to vote the U.K. out of Zaarb Oil, then Zaarb would take over the Haram and start paying off Chinese aid with cobalt. Only that would be a bit dicey—I mean if we or the Yanks or even the Russians found out what they were doing—we'd have to stop them. Go to war. And Schiebel knew it. So he decided to use Naxos's ships for the job. After all, it's logical, it fits. They'd put the cobalt in Naxos's tankers and say it was oil to pay for Chinese equipment, and nobody would be surprised if Naxos got the job. He'd earned it by voting for Zaarb against us. And in a few years' time, the Chinese would be saying do as we say or there'll be a hell of a bang."

Loomis sat back, grunted, and produced a vicious-looking cheroot from another pocket, then glowered at Craig, fumbled again with a fat man's intensity, produced another and tossed it to Craig. Craig lit it, and inhaled cautiously. It tasted like concentrated beetroot.

"I don't see what makes you ripe for the nut house," Craig said.

"It's the motivation," said Loomis. "Dyton-Blease is easy. He just hates everybody—always has. The only fun he ever had was in destroying things and people—like old Serafin. Like you, if you hadn't cheated. Communism's built on two ideas: tear down, and rebuild. All Dyton-Blease believed in was the tearing down bit. Every time he hit somebody it was another blow for the masses. Schiebel's easy too. The Nazis built him, and the Russians improved the model, and he got away from them before they could change their minds and destroy him. He's a Communist for the same reason Dyton-Blease was—because it justifies destruction, and he was precision-made to destroy.

"But Swyven. You know why he's a Red? Because he loves his mommy and he hates his daddy. And you know why that is? Because he once saw them having a bit of nooky, and wet the pants of his sailor suit as a result, and got spanked on his bare behind by his nurse as a result of that. Put him right off women. Only mommy will do for Swyven. And the odd sailor. Very odd sailor. He hasn't liked people from that day, d'you see? Only causes. Abstractions. Dialectical Materialism. Greatest Good of the Greatest Number. Inevitability of History. He felt safe among words like that. Like an armadillo in a desert." He puffed hard on the cheroot, and the room stank of beetroot. "Now he wants to see his mommy. I said he could talk to her on the phone. I want another couple of days with him before he sees anybody else." He wheezed reminiscently. "You frightened the hell out of him in your dungarees. Damned if I know why. You just looked dirty to me."

»*9

When the S.S. Hegira reached London, Schiebel and Selina were in a packing case with diplomatic seals. A van with CD plates met them and took them to an embassy in Belgravia. They rested there overnight, and the next morning moved on to a building in Knightsbridge, just off Brompton Road. It was tall, narrow, Georgian. The notice on its door said AZ Enterprises, Ltd. Its contents included a shortwave radio station, an armory, and a prison cell. Every one of its windows had steel shutters. It was the London headquarters of an espionage organization that served Zaarb, Albania, and China. Here Schiebel began to study a pile of newspapers, coded telegrams, and reports. He worked through them steadily, and at last put through a shortwave scrambled call to Zaarb. The information he received made him angry, so that his hand shook as it held the pen. They had no right to let Swyven go. He would be safer dead. His value to Zaarb as a spy in Europe was limited, and the Security Minister should have known it. Now the British had got him, and he'd talk in five minutes. Swyven shouldn't

go near anywhere risky. He put the pen down, covered his face with his hands, and breathed deeply. In ten minutes he was calm again. He began to plan.

Now he had two jobs to do. First, Swyven must die. It was too late to prevent him talking, but he had to preserve justice. Swyven couldn't help himself, but neither could Schiebel. His course was perfectly clear. Second, there was the question of Naxos. His vote was still necessary to take oil away from an imperialist power. More important, if he could move quickly enough the Zaarbist army might be able to make a dash for the Haram and get the cobalt out before any other power could stop them; but to do that British troops would have to be withdrawn from Zaarb, and that couldn't happen until Naxos voted them out. He'd have to deal with Naxos, and for that he'd need a free hand. He had no doubt at all that Craig and the others would expect his arrival; his only chance was to send them looking for him in the wrong direction, and for that he would need Selina. He sent for the only two good men in the embassy, one of whom had been trained in China, the other in Russia. They were both in awe of him, and each hated and mistrusted the other. Schiebel found that very useful.

Between them they evolved a plan which delighted Schiebel. It was fast and violent, yet it had an elegance about it that pleased him. It was at once witty and ideologically correct. It exposed the vices of capitalist society, which would be of value to the propaganda people, it destroyed traitors, and it improved the strength of the People's Republic of Zaarb, and therefore of the People's Republic of China. With any luck, it might get rid of Craig as well.

* Chapter 19 *

Selina also thought about Craig. She had wronged him, and he had behaved perfectly, the way her brothers tried to behave, with an effortless chivalry that was instinctive, and therefore the more to be respected. She must repay him for that, and the only way to do it was to return to her father, warn him of the danger of men like Dyton-Blease, and the horror of the cobalt which Schiebel had explained to her with such loving care. At first she had refused to believe that any substance would cause such bestial damage, but he had shown her books and photographs, and now she believed, and was afraid.

She must warn her father, get away from Schiebel, from England, but that would take very careful planning. Schiebel had imprisoned her in a suite of rooms that was almost a gigantic safe, with a steel door and a steel grille over its windows. The door had a Chubb lock, and the man who brought her food was always armed. She knew nothing of the rest of the house, not even where it was, but that didn't bother her. All her life she had been trained to action, and the idea that most problems diminished in size from the moment you did something about them. What worried her was Schiebel. She had to wait until he was out of the way. She was not, she told herself, afraid of him, but his skill and efficiency had been too much for her in Zaarb. It must not happen again. She spent long hours by the window grille, watching the courtyard at the back of the house. When her chance came it was just before dinner. Schiebel came out and crossed the yard, opened the door of a car, then turned to look up at her window. She shrank back, and Schiebel got in and drove away.

Selina began to move quickly. She changed into a black sweater, black jeans, and rubber-soled shoes. For what she had to do skirts would be in the way. She remembered that these were the clothes she had worn when she first met Craig, remembered the harshness of his voice speaking Arabic, and grinned to herself. He would see that she was a proper woman—one who could take care of herself. She opened her jewelry box, took out the great necklace of gold coins, and unscrewed the catch. Dollars, sovereigns, guineas, louis d'or spilled into her hands and she crammed them into her pockets, then examined the chain they had hung on. It was of very fine links of steel, and at one end of it three gold coins were riveted into place. Selina wrapped a handkerchief round her hand, then twisted an

end of chain over the handkerchief and swung the chain in the air. The weight of the gold coins made it sing viciously as it spun. Selina sat in an armchair facing the table where she would eat, and waited, staring at a picture of a carousel on the wall—splendid horses, fat and laughing children.

When she heard the key in the lock she sat back listlessly, the hand holding the chain hidden in the depths of a cushion. A stocky, Negroid Arab came in, a pistol in his fist.

"You eat now," he said, and put the pistol in his

pocket.

I'm not hungry," said Selina.

"You'll eat. It's time," the Arab said, and went to the door to pull a trolley in, then shut and lock the door before he took the trolley to the table, lifted a covered dish. Selina waited until he set the dish down. There must be no noise.

His back still turned toward her, the stocky Arab began to straighten up. The last sounds he heard were the whirr of the chain before it curled round his neck, and the slap of the gold coins into the palm of her free hand. Selina's foot slammed into his back, she hauled hard on the chain, and the stocky Arab's yell was muted to a gasp. The girl's leg straightened slowly, there was a sharp crack of sound, and the Arab was dead.

Selina unwound the chain, slipped it into her pocket, then put on a hip-length coat, took the stocky Arab's pistol from the trolley, then turned him over. She grimaced once when she saw his face, then she thought of her father, her brothers, and her face set like stone as she searched him, took away his keys, his money, the knife he carried in his trouser pocket. It was a knife of a kind she had never seen before, an enormous clasp knife with a single blade. She touched a button at its base, and the blade flicked out, leaf-pointed, one edge ground razor sharp. She looked at the weapon in her hand, tested its balance. The guard was poor, but the blade was excellent. She looked at the words etched into the blade, "Made in Germany." That made her think of Schiebel, but this time she smiled. The knife was a good omen.

She opened the door and looked out on to a deserted corridor that led to a wide, curving staircase. A tall, welldressed Arab was walking up it slowly. He was Schiebel's expert on nuclear physics, and he had helped Schiebel to explain to her what the cobalt could do. Even the thought of it seemed to horrify him, for he was a mild and gentle man, but now Selina had no pity for his gentleness; it might be useful to her. She crouched behind the banisters and waited as the Arab moved along the corridor to the door of the room she had just left, then rapped softly on the steel panel. Slowly, carefully, she moved toward him. As he raised his fist to knock again her hand went to her pocket.

"Here," she said.

The Arab spun round and she threw the keys at him. Automatically his hands reached out for them, and as they did so he found himself looking into the barrel of a .380 Browning Standard automatic, a weapon with a 3.5-inch barrel and a weight of twenty ounces, a weapon far too big and heavy for a woman, but this woman didn't seem to be aware of the fact. The tall Arab looked at her, and had no doubt that she knew how to use it. No doubt at all.

"Open the door," said Selina. "Go inside."

The tall Arab obeyed at once. Selina followed him, and the Arab noticed that she never came within reach of his hands. Then he saw the stocky Arab, and winced.

"You will do as I say," said Selina.

"Assuredly, princess," said the tall Arab. T am yours to command."

"You will get me out of here," said Selina.

The tall Arab said. "If I do, they will kill me."

Selina said nothing, but the gun barrel lifted from his heart to a point between his eyes. The tall Arab stared down it, then slowly, careful not to alarm her, he nodded. The telephone rang. "Answer it," said Selina. "Hold it so that I can hear what's said."

He picked up the phone as she had told him, and an agitated voice from the kitchen asked questions. The tall Arab said smoothly: "This is Sherif. David has an errand to do for me. He will come back to you when he has finished, in about half an hour. And hsten. I have business with the girl"—he looked at the gun barrel then away— "important business. I don't want to be disturbed again." He hung up then, and Selina smiled at him. Even then, as he loathed and feared her, Sherif thought how enchanting her smile was.

"Now I will have to help you," he said bitterly. "Do you think your father will protect me?"

Selina said: "The Tuareg always protect their own." Sherif winced again.

"It will have to be the roof," he said at last. "The doors are guarded all the time. The men on guard never let anyone in or out without a pass. The roof is the only way." He began to explain, and at last, reluctantly, Selina agreed. Sherif leading, they went out again to the corridor, to the stairs, up and up to a row of attic rooms. Sherif hesitated before one of them and the girl whispered: "My father cannot protect you if you are dead." Sherif shuddered, took a key from his pocket, and went in.

The attic was a wireless room, lit by a skylight. Sherif clambered on a table, and opened the skylight, then hauled himself through. As he got halfway, the girl said: "Stay there." Sherif sat in sulky silence as Selina put a chair on top of the table. "Now crawl away," she said. "Don't walk. Crawl. And count aloud as you go." Sherif thought of the gun barrel and obeyed. When he got to five he heard a low clatter behind him, and turned. The girl was coming through. He rose then, but she was as fast as a cat and was up before him, the gun rock steady in her hand.

"What now?" she asked.

They were in a deep gutter that ran between the twin roofs of the house. Sherif walked cautiously down it, Selina close behind him. Sherif crouched down and took out a cigarette, lit it with a hand that shook. "In a little while it will be dark," he said. "Then you can escape."

"Then we can escape," said Selina.

Sherif groaned.

When darkness came he led the way to where, at the edge of the tower, he pointed to a fire escape. Selina moved closer to him, and he felt the gun barrel burn into his back. They stepped on the escape together, and the girl stifled a cry as it swung down, counterweighted between the building and the one next to it. When it reached the floor beneath, Sherif reached out an arm, and held on to the rails of a balcony projecting from the house opposite, then stepped across. Selina stayed on the fire escape.

"Now you must let me help you, princess," said

Sherif.

Selina shook her head, walked back up two steps of the escape, then jumped, clearing the railings, and was beside him once again. Sherif stopped hating her then.

He tried the balcony windows, and found them locked, and spoke to the girl. The gun barrel flashed once, then again, and a pattern of cracks showed on the glass as Sherif flicked his lighter. She jabbed then at a square of cracks near the window latch, and glass made a brittle splash of sound as it fell. Sherif reached in and opened the window. They entered the offices of Stanley East and Partners, Solicitors. For a long time afterward Mr. East was to wonder why nothing was stolen, and why so many policemen came to investigate.

Selina and Sherif went from the solicitors' office to the lift, and Sherif wasted two frantic minutes explaining what a lift was, then they went down to the ground floor, and Sherif opened the main door, reset the catch, and locked up again as they went through.

London boiled in front of her, a long, wide street that seemed an endless river of cars, with here and there a bus, a floating island, moving always past her, cutting off any chance of escape. She squeezed hard on the butt of the Browning, now in her pocket, but it gave her no comfort. Sherif touched her arm gently.

"We must go, princess," he said.

"We can't," said the girl. "We'll be killed. All these cars—" Sherif's hand came round her elbow. Wide-eyed with fear, she faced the impossible task of going over a zebra crossing to enter a tube station, to be carried in a machine that went through a hole in the ground.

e e o

It had been terrible. You went into a great hall like a desert, a hall that contained nothing but machines and people, and the people pushed and scurried, the machines made their noises and vomited tickets and coins. Selina clenched her fists so tightly that the nails broke the skin, and willed herself to go down, down with Sherif, on the staircase that moved, to the empty platform, to stand near the shining serpents of track until the red monster roared up, halted, the doors slid open, and she must go inside. Her legs went rigid then; she could not move, until Sherif had said: "It is God's will, princess. If you do not do this thing, we shall both die." She had moved then, endured the alternation of blackness and hght; how beautiful the platforms were—open, spacious, gleaming; how terrible the tunnel, with its blackness so close to her, and the carriage a tube inside a tube. For half an hour she endured it, and then Sherif took her arm once more, the doors opened, and she was free to step outside, to get out of the blackness, up to street level and more cars, which seemed so harmless now, after the enveloping dark.

Sherif had hailed a taxi then, and after that ride they had walked, through streets that were mean and grubby, where the grit crunched under her feet and she could smell the river nearby. They had gone to a boarding-house, and the owner, a Chinese with a permanent smile as meaningless as the register Sherif signed, showed them a room. Sherif took it at once, and paid in advance. The room contained a bed, a chair, a table with a basin and jug of water, a towel hke tissue paper, and a cupboard. The cupboard was locked. The room cost five pounds a day.

"You will be safe here," said Sherif. "The Chinaman never betrays his guests. That is why he is so expensive." He looked in his wallet. "I paid for three days," he said. T have only five pounds left. Have you money, princess?"

Selina dug into the pocket of her pants, poured a shining golden stream on to the rickety table.

Sherif said: "My father used to tell me about the old days. The way the great ones hved. Gold in one hand, death in the other. And they offered both as princes should. You belong in those times, princess."

"You have served me well," said Selina. "Why?"

"First because I feared you," Sherif said, "then because I admired you. Also I think that Schiebel will kill me.

"Go on," Sehna said.

"I believe in everything he has done for Zaarb," said Sherif. "But I think the cobalt scheme is wrong—wicked. I do not think he should give the cobalt to China or to

anyone else. I would stop him if I could, and I believe he knows this. What am I to do, princess?"

"Let my father protect you," said Selina.

"I hate everything about your father," said Sherif. "I hate everything about you—except your courage."

"Go away, then," said Selina. "Start again elsewhere. Here." She picked up a handful of coins, held them out to him. He took them, and mumbled his gratitude.

"It is only money," said Selina. "The way you escaped —that was good. It deserves a reward."

"Schiebel taught me that way," said Sherif.

She looked at him more closely: a weak man, but gifted, intelligent, and with a sense of duty that tormented his weakness.

"You should kill Schiebel," she said.

"I can't," said Sherif.

"It would be better for you, and for what you believe, if Schiebel died." Sherif nodded. Selina said: "I want you to help me find a man called Craig."

« · «

Loomis stuck his thumb on the bell-push and held on. After ten seconds he began to jab at it as if it were a face he disliked. After twenty-five seconds Craig's voice said: "Yes?" and Loomis said: "It's me, dammit." The door opened slightly then, and Loomis saw no one. He pushed the door open, and went inside, and found Craig was behind him, the Smith and Wesson a weight in his hand.

"You take a hell of a time to open a door," Loomis snarled, then he noticed that Craig wore no coat or tie, one shirt button was undone. In the secrecy of his mind, he scored a point to Craig. When the doorbell rang, Craig dressed, because clothes were armor; he put on shoes, because shoes were weapons, and he waited by the door with a gun. Craig was the best he had, because his thoroughness was absolute. If only he weren't so bloody sentimental. He looked at the bedroom door and frowned.

"Company?" he said.

"Board meeting," said Craig. "You'd better take the

chair."

"The Busoni person?"

Craig nodded, went inside the bedroom door, whispered for a while, then came out and locked the door from the outside.

"I don't think she'd better see you," said Craig. "She's sensitive."

He glowered at Loomis, then grinned, reluctantly. "You bastard," he said.

Loomis chose the biggest chair and sat, cautiously. The chair groaned, but held.

"You found out we planted her, did you? I had to be sure about this one, son. It's important, d'you see? I couldn't leave it to a boozer." He leaned back in the chair and clasped his great hands over his paunch.

"Big excitement at AZ Enterprises," he said. "Looks as if the Sehna person may have escaped."

"She went back to the Haram," said Craig. T put her on the plane."

"No," Loomis said. "She got as far as Aden, we know that. Then she reached Zaarb. There was a bit of a disturbance at her hotel, I gather. People killed, that sort of thing. There was a very British sort of chap involved in it too, so I hear."

"Schiebel?"

Loomis nodded.

"I think he's here, too, Craig. He has to be. He can't just let Naxos go."

"But how did he get in?" Craig asked. "Couldn't you have had a watch out for him?"

Loomis cocked his head on one side, and grinned round his beak of a nose. He looked like a monstrous, world-weary parrakeet.

T did, son," he said. T knew it wouldn't do any good but I did it anyway. Just in case he changed his technique. But he hasn't. The Zaarb Embassy had a packing case dehvered last week. Bloody big one. Hundred-and-forty-four-piece dinner service. Sent from East Germany via Zaarb. That's the third this year. They must eat the bloody plates. I think they were both inside it. After that they'd send her to the AZ place."

"And now she's escaped?"

"We think so, son. We've had the place watched, d'you see? Chap coming off duty spotted a couple of Arabs in the tube station. Tall, thin man called Sherif—we know

him. Had an Arab-looking girl with him. Beautiful. Wore slacks and a sweater. Scared stiff of the tube." "Did he foUow them?"

"Of course not," said Loomis. "He'd had no instructions and he'd finished his shift." He scowled. "Policemen," he said. "But, anyway, he heard where they were going— Wapping. I got a search out now, Craig. We got to find her."

"Why the hell didn't you tell me this before?" said

Craig.

The answer was as fast as a reflex.

"Because it's none of your bloody business. You work for the department; you know what I want you to know and that's all, son. Besides"—he raised his voice effortlessly as Craig tried to speak again—"you're a sentimentalist. I have to watch that. It slows you up." He looked at the door Craig had locked.

"Why tell me now?" Craig asked, and thought how smug Loomis could appear. That was his size of course. Whatever expression Loomis chose it was inevitably bigger than anyone else's.

"I want her back, son," said Loomis, "and so do you. Got any ideas?"

"I thought she'd have tried to contact me anyway."

"Maybe she can't," Loomis said. "She's got Sherif with her. And even if she's free, where does she start looking? You're not in the telephone book—and even if she went to the police—they wouldn't help her. They can't. Only Special Branch knows we exist, and they aren't allowed to tell where we are. If she did get that far they'd hold on to her of course, but it's dicey, son. And anyway, the only coppers she knows are the ones in Zaarb. And they arrested her. She just might not fancy the police."

"East End?" said Craig. "That where the tube went?"

Loomis nodded. "Down by the docks. Know anybody

there?"

"It's possible," Craig said. "If he's still in business. Chap I met years ago, as a matter of fact. Versatile sort of fellow but a little bit shy. Not at all keen on policemen. They'd like to arrest him, you see. He's a criminal."

"I don't care if he writes rude words in ladies' toilets," said Loomis. "All I want him to do is find Selina."

Craig unlocked the bedroom door, and went in.

When he came out he wore a coat and tie, and the gun was no longer visible. Loomis came out of his chair like a rhino leaving a mudbath, and they went down to his car.

The sign outside the door said: "Arthur Candlish, Boats." It was an elegant handmade sign of teak, with neat, precise lettering. It looked considerably more valuable than the building it adorned. Loomis stared at the sagging door, the low, grimy wall of unpainted brick.

"You sure this feller's any good?" he asked.

"I'm sure," said Craig, and pulled on a rusty bell chain. It screamed its lack of oil, extended a foot and a half, then contracted back to normal in a series of convulsive jerks as its bell clattered. Loomis liked it. A man in a white apron opened the door. In his hand was a chisel. He looked at Craig, and the chisel's cutting edge no longer faced them.

"John," he said. "Nice to see you. Arthur will be pleased—he's in the office."

He led the way along an alley of worn brick, moving down to a workshed filled with boats of every kind: punts, canoes, outriggers, skiffs, prams, and sailboats, too, including the most beautiful cutter Loomis had ever seen. The men who worked on them were slow yet sure in their movements, and Loomis could sense at once the pleasure their work gave them.

At the bottom of the shed a tiny slipway led to a dock, and beyond that was the river. Near the slipway was a glass cage of an office, and here Craig led the way.

The man inside wore a blue-serge suit and a bowler hat of antique cut that Loomis found endearing. He was a lean, big-boned man of fifty, who remained unimpressed by Loomis, who was piqued, and addressed Craig in a dialect Loomis found unintelligible.

"Arthur's a Geordie," Craig explained, then began making similar noises himself. Candlish produced rum from an unlabeled bottle, and poured three generous tots.

"You want a girl?" he said to Loomis, and Craig snorted. "Got a picture?"

"You'll get one tonight," said Loomis.

"Arab. Not many Arabs round here. Not like back home." He winked at Craig. "Still, we'll do what we can. I'll ask around. Put the lads on to it. We do a lot of work round the river."

T believe you," said Loomis, and looked at the unlabeled bottle.

"I'm a Free Trader," said Candlish. "Always have been. Voted Liberal all me life."

Craig wrote a telephone number on a piece of paper.

"Ring me here if you get anything," he said.

Candlish mouthed the letters and numbers slowly, then burnt the piece of paper.

"You got a good lad here," he said to Loomis. "I used to go fishing with his da. You ever want anything, just come and ask. I'm not cheap, but I'm reliable."

"I'm obliged to you," said Loomis, and finished his rum. It was a hundred proof.

"You're welcome," said Candlish, and finished his.

Craig said: "We'd better be off then."

Loomis didn't move.

"This is confidential," he said.

"John and I have done business before now. It's always been confidential," said Candlish. Loomis stood up then.

* Chapter 20 *

They needed money. Sherif had looked for Craig in the phone book. There were many Craigs, including seven Johns and twelve J's. Sherif had rung them all, and by midnight all had answered. He had addressed each one in Arabic, but none had understood, none was the Craig she sought. Then they had talked of the police, but Selina remembered Zaarb, and was wary. Sherif was afraid that Schiebel might hear of him. He thought at last of an advertisement in a newspaper, and she agreed to that. It was why they needed money. They took turns to sleep and watch, and next morning, Sherif went out to change some of the coins.

In a sense, Sherif died of bad luck. Schiebel had gone through Selina's luggage, and found that the necklace was missing. He had asked questions at the tube station too, and the clerk had remembered Selina, and the tickets to Wapping. Schiebel sent men there to watch jewelers' and pawnbrokers', and to ask questions. One of them saw Sherif as he came out of a pawnbroker's, and Sherif saw him. To Sherif, there was only one chance of escape. The watcher must be overpowered, knocked out until Sherif could disappear. He attacked at once, and a small crowd of connoisseurs watched, and hoped there wouldn't be any coppers along to spoil it. They hadn't seen two Arabs fight before.

Sherif fought hard, making up in determination what he lacked in skill, and the watcher, surprised, struck out as he had been taught, feeling his knuckle jar as his hand clenched round a solid plug of lead. Sherif fell toward him, and the watcher lashed out again, two appalling blows, one to the head, the other to the heart; then Sherif fell, and the watcher turned and ran, and the way he ran was as dangerous as his fighting. No one tried to stop him. Sherif had been murdered—that was obvious to the crowd. A broken rib had pierced his heart and he was dead, fifty pounds spilling from his pocket.

* « *

Craig spent a lot of time talking about Selina, describing her, commenting on each feature while Grierson listened and sometimes contradicted, and the artist Loomis conjured up, sketched and threw away, sketched and threw away again. At last he put down his charcoal and said firmly to Craig: "I'm not Graham Sutherland doing the Maugham portrait, you know. Not at the rates your department pays me. All we want is a recognizable likeness."

Craig started again, and this time he tried to forget how much he had liked Selina, her courage, her beauty, her bewildering honesty. The artist, who was bearded and fat and skillful, drew on and on, and first her nose came right, then her chin, her mouth, her eyes, and the charcoal lovingly confined them in a perfect oval, blocked in the darkness of her hair. It was his eighty-seventh sketch, and it was Selina.

"He's better than an Identikit," Loomis had said. "He puts some life into his stuff." Loomis was right.

He came in and looked at what the artist had done, and leered at Craig.

"Being sentimental has its compensations," he said. "Try and find her before Schiebel does."

"What about you, sir?" Grierson asked.

I'm going back to the nursing home," said Loomis. "Got to keep an eye on Mrs. Naxos. You stay here and help poor Craig. Too many girl friends—that's his trouble."

He leered again and left them, and Grierson said: "Where do we start?"

"There's only one way," Craig said. "We get our pictures and we go out and ask questions."

Grierson sighed. "I'm afraid you're right," he said. "We'll probably have to walk about a great deal."

Loomis came back in again.

"You'll be on your own for a bit," he said. T want Craig to take Swyven to see his mommy."

* « ·

A Daimler ambulance pulled into the nursing home, and went through the elaborate charade of carrying out a blonde-haired dummy on a stretcher. Two men got inside with the dummy, another rode with the driver. All four were armed. The ambulance drove off, blue light flashing, and Craig waited. Half an hour later the driver's mate rang in to say that he was in the traffic on the London road, and there was nothing to report. Craig took out a Colt Woodsman and a soft leather harness, strapped it on, put on his coat. At the tradesmen's entrance a van waited: "Phee, Groceries and Provisions. The Best Things in Life Are Phee's." Inside the van was Swyven.

He wore a pink suit, a white blouse, pink high-heeled shoes and nylons. A white scarf was tied over his blond wig. In his lap was a handbag with the initials P.N. picked out in diamonds. Craig sat on a carton of evaporated milk, and said nothing. There was nothing he could say. Whoever had made Swyven up had done a wonderful job; soft long-lashed eyes, a luscious, troubled mouth; even his fingers had been manicured, the nails painted. The van started.

"That's right, look at me," Swyven snapped. "I suppose this is that ghastly fat man's idea of a joke? And I thought he was going to be reasonable with me." Craig said nothing. He could think of nothing that could be said.

"I told him everything," said Swyven, "and he promised I could see mommy. And now he's sending me to her— like this."

And the voice went on in shrill, feminine complaint, and Craig said nothing, because to talk would mean involving Philippa, and Swyven was infinitely more expendable.

The van pulled up, and Craig waited until the driver rapped on the cab's back panel, then got out at once. They were in a deserted country lane, and behind the van was a Mark 10 Jaguar. Craig helped Swyven down— in spite of his protestations, he couldn't cope with high heels—and into the car. He produced the keys, switched on, and the engine roared at once. He drove past the van on to a secondary road, and kept on going. He reached the roundabout for the London road, cut in front of a lorry so that Swyven gasped and shut up for once, then into the overtaking lane with his foot hard down. The car had the new 4.2-liter engine and it had been tuned by a master. The needle moved up and over, and still Craig kept his foot down, then flicked in the overdrive and the car seemed to leap, the traffic behind receded. Craig kept on going for five more miles, then eased back to ninety, eighty, seventy-five. Swyven squirmed in his seat.

"More punishment I suppose," he said. "What could it possibly matter if someone saw you?"

Craig eased down a little further.

"Stop picking on me," he said. "Remember you're a lady."

Swyven spoke no more for seven miles.

Craig stopped at an ancient garage for petrol, and spoke to the man in charge, who promptly put up a "Closed" sign and disappeared. Craig waited a moment then motioned Swyven out, took him into the decrepit living quarters and found a bathroom. In it were a shirt, a suit, socks, tie, and shoes, all belonging to Swyven.

"Go ahead and change," said Craig. "AH the stuff should be here. You've got five minutes."

He settled down with a back number of Autocar. It

had been a very good year for Lagondas, he learned. He must buy some.

Swyven came out in four minutes, reeking of nail-polish remover and aftershave. Craig got up at once, and looked in the bathroom. The woman's clothes were all over the place; the blouse viciously torn. Swyven, it seemed, was not happy. He sulked all the way to Kensington, said nothing at all while Craig parked, got out and locked the car. It was only when Craig walked along beside him to his mother's house that he spoke.

"You're coming in with me?" he asked. Craig nodded.

"But you can't—you mustn't," said Swyven.

"I have no choice," said Craig. "Neither have you. Come on."

Swyven looked at him, despairingly, then rang the

bell.

Amparo, the Spanish housekeeper, opened it at once, and they went through the hall and into the little drawing room that his mother made so gay and attractive, and Amparo said nothing at all. No doubt because the other beast was there. She usually found enough to nag him about. And then he realized. Of course, they would be expecting him. That awful fat man would have rung up and said things. Then they were at the drawing-room door, and Amparo knocked, then stood aside as they went in, and the first thing he saw was his father, and my God his father looked old, so old, and then there was his mother, coming to him, her arms out, saying: "Mark, darling," and Swyven was happy in her embrace.

Craig said to the old man, letting him see his mouth as Loomis had told him: "I think we'd better talk in private, sir," and Swyven said: "Yes, of course," and led the way into a study crammed with the treasured junk of a lifetime. Charts and sextants, commemorative silver ashtrays, samurai swords, Chinese idols, Indian brasswork, photographs of Fiji, Sydney Harbor, Capetown, New York, Bombay, and of the Aegean. Temples, churches, bays, and M.T.B.'s and caiques at anchor, and a convoy under attack, and suddenly Craig remembered Lord Swyven, and wished that of all the rotten jobs he'd been handed, he might have been spared this one.

"Hope you'll excuse the clutter," Swyven said. "I used to be in the Navy. Started bringing things back for

Jane—my wife, you know. It all seemed to end up in here." He floundered in an agony of embarrassment. "Like a drink?"

"Yes, sir," said Craig and hoped the old man would have one too, and relax just a little. Swyven poured two whiskeys and pushed over the soda siphon. The two men nodded at each other and drank. Swyven made an enormous effort at self-control and said at last: "Now then, what's my son been up to this time?"

Craig said: "It's bad."

"I didn't think you'd make my wife a thief just to arrest my son for a misdemeanor."

'The charges have been withdrawn, sir."

"So I should bloody well hope. But my wife hasn't. She still has to go out and let people see her."

"We had to have him, sir. There wasn't any other

way."

"What has he done?"

"He's working for Zaarb," said Craig, "and Zaarb's working for Red China. He's going to send cobalt to Peking."

"You're sure?"

"Quite sure, sir. We found some of the stuff on a Greek island—Dyton-Blease's place." The old man nodded. "It's like no other cobalt in the world, sir. Tremendously— rich, the physicists call it. That means high-yield explosions in very small warheads. And you won't need a very sophisticated atomic pile to get it. In fact the Chinese have already exploded one."

"But why on earth—?"

"He hopes we may be involved in Zaarb in a couple of years. And if we are, the Chinese might lend the Zaarbists the odd bomb. If we did have to go in, it would be a naval strike action. Like Suez. One bomb could finish a whole fleet. He doesn't like us, sir, and he hates the Navy. He thinks one bomb like that is the lesson the imperialists need."

"He's right, of course. It would drive the American Fifth Fleet straight out of the Med." He paused. "You really think they'd use it?"

They'd have to, sir—if Zaarb gets Chinese backing, and if we're forced into attacking first."

"Have you—stopped him, then?"

"We think so, sir."

"Will he stand trial?"

"No," said Craig. "He's done nothing that we can prove—in law."

"What about his cousin? Dyton-Blease?"

Craig said carefully: "He met with an accident. I understand he's a very sick man."

"An accident," said Swyven. "Of course. It would be." He drank.

"So," he said, "your troubles are over." Craig shrugged. "What happens to my son?"

"He can go back to Venice," said Craig, "li he does anything stupid, we know how to reach him."

"Yes," said the old man. "You're in a very dirty business." Craig drank his whiskey. "You trump up charges that wreck an old woman's life so that you can blackmail her stupid, clever, homosexual son into coming into your clutches. The one thing with guts in it poor Mark ever did. And for what?"

"To prevent a massacre," said Craig.

Swyven sighed. "Never argue with Intelligence. They always have the last word," he said. "Look ah—er—No good asking your name, I suppose?"

"I'd only he to you."

"Yes. Well. Can he have a few days with us—with his mother?"

"Yes," said Craig. "He can do that. He mustn't leave the house."

"I'll guarantee that," said Swyven.

"Yes, sir," Craig said. "He'll be watched anyway. There's nothing I can do about that."

"I beheve you," Swyven said. "You want a word with his mother?"

Craig said at once, "No, sir. Just pass the message

on."

"I will," Swyven said, then, with an old man's delight in his memory outweighing everything else: "I remember you."

"I don't think so," said Craig.

"You went on a raid to Andraki. Had to shoot the schoolmaster—he was a Resistance leader until the Gestapo got him. You killed a lot of Germans that night. I doubt if you were nineteen years old."

"I think you're mistaken, sir," said Craig. The old man hesitated.

"Of course I'm mistaken," he said. "Nothing's what it seems to be anymore. I'll show you out."

He took Craig past the drawing room and Craig had a sudden glimpse of a man kneeling by a chair, weeping, while an old woman stroked his hair. He kept on going. Outside there were a couple of Special Branch men, Detective Chief Inspector Linton's squad. He got into the Jaguar and drove off to Regent's Park.

· · *

When he got there, Pia was giving a party. The room swarmed with actors and agents of the kind to be found in the Pickwick, or Gerry's, or the Buckstone, sleek people, successful people, witty people, the people who had made it, or who were on the way there, or who were simply seen around, and in the middle of them Pia in gold lame pants just that essential bit too tight and a frilled and frothy blouse in explosive red, looking as Italian as minestrone soup.

"John," she screamed. "Angel," and dashed across to him, embraced him, dragged liim into his own flat as if he were an unwilling guest. "John," she said, "this is Howard and Margot and Eddy and Alan and Rachel and—oh, you'll soon know everyone. Somebody give John a drink please.

"Here," said Eddy, a plump, durable producer. 'Try some of this."

Craig looked at the glass of champagne.

"Nasty spumante," said Eddy.

"We must be celebrating," said Craig.

"Indeed we are. Pia's just signed with us for a thirteen-part TV series. The Woman in the Case. She's going to be great."

"I'll say she is," said Rachel, "and believe me I should know. I'm her agent. Who are you with, darling?" "I don't act," said Craig.

"Don't you, darling? I thought you might be a stunt-man. You look like a stuntman." I'm in nuts and bolts."

"What hell for you, darling. So uncomfortable."

Craig drank his Italian champagne, and went to look for more. There was plenty of it, and no shortage of clever, witty people who knew all sorts of clever, witty things to

IDS HAPPY B

169

about nuts and bolts, and Craig was glad when the first b kle toward dinner began, round about eight o'clock. About nine, Rachel took him by the arm, and led him into a corner, lx>ked at him with the shrewd, appraising eye that agents and producers share with butchers and judges of catde shows.

T want a word with you," said Rachel. "About Pia." A lady television director made her famous, swooping exit, cannoned into Rachel and sent her sprawling into Craig's arms. He righted her neatly, easily, like a deft postman handling a messy parcel.

"Christ, you're a hard bastard," Rachel said.

"Are you working round to thumping me?" Craig

asked.

"In a way, sweety. In a way. I want you to give Pia up." Craig made a silence. "You're not helping her, you know. She wants to run after you the whole time. That won't help her career."

Craig said: "Are you telling me she's got a career?"

"Believe me, darling," said Rachel, "our Pia can act. I saw her tests, and she's good. That's why I'm her ■gent. I only take the good ones. She's going to go a mile high."

"She was never any good before," Craig said.

"And now she's bloody marvelous. Something must have happened to her. Have you any idea what it is?"

Craig thought of the two of them cooped up in the cell like battery hens, of the frantic terrible fights with D\-ton-Blease, the agony of loving in his cabin in Naxos's yacht.

"Not the slightest," he said.

"That girl is going to go so high," said Rachel, "unless you're going to be nasty. You know, I think you ought to leave her alone for a bit. Let her work. I don't want to threaten you, darling, but—"

"No, don't do that," Craig said. T might burst into

tears."

"Well then," said Rachel.

"Quite so," said Craig, and Rachel frowned.

"Don't laugh at me, darling," she said. "I'm serious."

"If only," said Craig, "you had a whip."

At 9:30 only Eddy and Rachel were left, and Eddy cleared his throat and turned to Craig. Rachel said: "I've had a word with him," and Eddy looked happy and took Rachel out to dinner.

"What scrumptious friends you have," Craig said.

"You're not angry with me, darling?" said Pia.

"Should I be?"

"Of course," she said. "Look at the mess I made in your flat."

"You let me stay for the party. What's for supper?"

"I found an Italian restaurant three doors away; they make the most marvelous spaghetti Bolognese. I'll get some."

She ordered, and the food sent up was splendid. Craig began to relax.

"You've had more work," said Pia. "Does it show?"

"Not to others. I know you very well. Something has happened?"

"The past caught up with me," said Craig. "Italy?"

"Greece," he said. "I was eighteen and a half years old. You would have been four I suppose—making big eyes at G.I.'s for chocolate."

She climbed into his lap.

"Tell me," she said.

"No," said Craig. "It's over. Finished. Let's talk about you. I hear you quit the espionage business."

She stiffened then, tried to get up, but Craig's arm came round her so tightly that she gasped, forcing her back to him.

"Don't be silly," he said. "Loomis hired you to keep an eye on me, didn't he? He was worried because I was a lush. Isn't that right?"

Her face burrowed into his coat. "That morning you had the orange juice and champagne already mixed—you remember—wasn't that a test for poor old Craig? And you tried to stop Tavel beating me up. Right?"

"I didn't know you then," she whispered, "but how did you find out?"

"You did a job with Grierson," Craig said. "It made me think about all sorts of things."

"I thought there was nothing else for me," Pia said. "I really thought I had no talent for acting. And if that was true, I had nothing. Then Grierson came to Rome and talked to me. What's wrong?"

Craig laughed aloud.

"Nothing," he said. "I always forget how professional Grierson is. No wonder he was embarrassed that day on Naxos's yacht." His hands grew tender. "You saved me from that suntan oil. Ill never forget that."

"And now I can act, after all that happened," Pia said. Her voice was tentative.

"Loomis won't stop you—if we get Schiebel. You'll be cleared straight through."

"What about you?" said Pia.

"Honey, all I did was hand you the key to the madhouse," said Craig.

"You're safe and sound outside now."

Her hps closed on his then. Her eyes were shut, and the tears flowed warm down her cheeks and on to his. Craig knew it was good-bye. Soon he would have to look for Selina.

* Chapter 21 *

Extract from an autobiographical fragment written by Edward Billings, known as "O Level Edward." It was composed as therapy initiated by the psychiatrist of the Borstal Institution where Billings was then confined (larceny of motor vehicle, actual bodily harm, obstruction of a police officer in the performance of his duty). The psychiatrist concluded from the fragment's contents that Billings was "utterly and uncurably mendacious," but nevertheless resorted to Freudian analysis. Inevitably he failed. Billings had written the truth.

o o o

Harry is talking to this Arab geezer in a coffee bar, and this doesn't surprise us. Harry doesn't worry about all that color-bar crap; spades or wogs or the Forty Thieves—it's all the same to Harry. And after a bit he starts getting like angry, and leaves the Arab, and Jigger says: "Looks like trouble," but Lonesome—we call him Lonesome on account of his B.O.—he says: "Nah! Harry's putting it on," and he's right, because one thing about Lonesome, he's got all his marbles even if he is a stinker.

So Harry comes over and he says: "That geezer wants us to find a bird for him."

"Let him find his own birds," I say.

"No," says Harry. "This is a wog bird. He claims he's lost her. This bird."

And he shows us a picture of this bird, and I go off Claudia Cardinale for ever, because this is a real crazy bird, believe me.

"Nobody ever lost that," I say. "Nobody's that careless."

"Where d'you get it?" asks Lonesome.

"Mr. Candlish. He says to look out for her too," Harry says. 'That's why I tell the wog I don't know. All he offers is money." What Mr. Candlish offers is anything from a fortune to a belting, depending on success or failure, and we know this. We always act respectful with Mr. Candlish.

"I seen her," says Lonesome. "I seen her yesterday when I was on the bike."

Lonesome has a 1,000-cc. Norton about the size of a cart horse, and he covers quite a lot of country in our corner of Prolyville.

"You're sure?" asks Harry.

"Look at the picture," says Lonesome. "There's only one bird round here looks like that. I see her. With a tall wog."

The Arab gives us a dirty look and we survive it and he leaves.

'There's a tall wog dead in the papers," says Jigger, and pulls out an Evening News, and we read how evil has been done in our fair city and the tall wog has been belted by another of the same, and is fatally dead.

"I'm sorry I miss that," says Harry, and then he looks at Lonesome, and Lonesome's eyes are sticking out like chapel hat pegs, so then we look where he is looking, and we see the bird. And I know that I am right about Claudia Cardinale.

She sits at a table near us and orders meat pie and

egg and chips and when it comes she attacks it like it is her first for many weeks, and I am displeased at this behavior because she is beautiful, and one thing I am not adjusted to is birds with big appetites. She sees us staring, and she looks back at us, and when I see her eyes I know something else; this bird is not only beautiful, she's dangerous. Because we have the gear on, and it is black leather, the best; and Lonesome with the gear on would frighten a Martian—but the bird just looks at him as if she could cool him off without trying. She knows this without having to worry; it's just a fact. Then she goes back to her meat pie.

Then Harry remembers he's the leader and promotes some action. He gets up and we follow, and old Charlie behind the counter says: "Now, boys. Don't let's have trouble," and is silent. Harry gets between the bird and the door, so no one can see her. This is good thinking, and we do likewise.

"Evening," says Harry.

"Good evening," says the bird, and goes on eating chips like there's a famine starts in ten minutes.

"There's a feller wants to see you," Harry says, and she stops eating.

"Name of Candlish." She starts on the egg.

"You're mistaken," she says. "I don't know anybody of that name."

And when I hear the voice I know there is trouble, because I know this kind of voice. Last year there is this other bird comes among us from up West, and she claims she is a reporter from the Whores' Gazette, but what she really is is a seeker after kicks of a carnal nature, and this bird commits unpleasantness with Harry and Jigger and even Lonesome, but not with me because I never joined the three musketeers, and the bird resents this, and she is the one who begins to call me "O Level Edward," on account of my education, and I am unhappy till Harry kicks her out on account of she is ancient. Twenty-six if she's a day. But what she had, besides old age, is the voice: B.B.C. voice, Declare This Bazaar Open voice, I Name This Ship voice, and I am nervous all over again. This bird is debsville. What's she want with the peasants? And I see that Lonesome is thinking the same thing, because like I say, Lonesome is no dummy, only lacking in fragrance.

"He wants to see you," says Harry. "No," says the bird.

"You better," says Harry, "or 111 bust you one."

What bird could resist such winsome charm? This one puts down her knife and fork, and her hands go into her pockets. I think she is looking for a fag—that's how dim I am.

"Sit down," she says to Harry, and lacks a chair out for him, and Harry does so, and I am aware that Lonesome has withdrawn from behind me as the air is much clearer, and I am surprised because Lonesome doesn't usually chicken. Then I dig. The phone is near by, and the jukebox is going loud, and the bird is preoccupied, so Lonesome moves.

"What's in my pocket?" says the bird, and Harry looks down at the shape of her coat, and he can't believe what he sees.

"You're kidding," he says.

"Am I?" says the bird. "Touch the barrel then—but be careful."

Harry's hand goes out, and he touches her coat, like reverently, and he says, "It's a shooter all right," and the bird says, "I told you," sort of impatient, as if she's tired of explaining the obvious. 'You others sit down too," says the bird, then looks up quick, but Lonesome is behind me again and we are okay.

"Why does this Candlish want me?" she asks, and we say we don't know and explain how it's best just to do what Mr. Candlish says and she laughs in our faces and we take it, because this is a bird who does what she wants, and nobody else. Then I say she better go with us on account of the wog who's looking for her, and the wog worries her, but she can handle it, and she asks us do we know a man called Craig and we don't and she is unhappy. But she sees we're okay and lets go of the shooter and goes back to the calories, and even while I realize this is the way out night of my life I think how terrible it will be if she gets fat.

She tells us how she stays with the Chinaman, and about Sherif, and how the Chinaman comes into her when she is like worried and tells her how it's in the paper that Sherif is dead, and she must go because he never takes murderers, and gives her back their money less two quid use

of the room, and she agrees to go at once because the Chinaman has a gun and two assistants. Then she looks at us, one after the other, and she sighs.

"Very well," she says. "I really haven't any choice, have I? Let's go and meet your terrifying Mr. Candlish."

And we go out of the caff, and it is dark outside, and like deserted, and we go to where we park our bikes, and this girl is as wary as a leopard in the Hons' playpen. There is a light by the bikes and we stand under it, reaching for our keys, then suddenly a wog geezer steps out of the darkness, and what he is holding is a gun. And he says: "Stop there." The girl starts to turn. "You too, princess," he says, and two more blokes appear out of nowhere, and the bird is still. "You have a Browning automatic in your pocket," he says. "Take it out and put it on the ground." She does just that.

"Now you boys can go," says the wog, and maybe Harry is a bit slow in starting. I don't know, but one of the other wogs taps him on the cheekbone with a cosh and he yells, and turns, and like lurches away and we follow, feeling like children, and the wogs move in on the bird. And then it happens—like Harry's yell was a signal.

A big black Jag comes roaring up, and suddenly its headlights go on full and its horns blare and we are blinded, and so are the wogs, and it is still moving when this man gets out, and believe me, Rodney, he moves. And he hits these wogs like a bomb. For a moment they can't even see him, and he is into the first one and I see what happens. His fist comes curling up from his hipbone and he hits this wog in the ribs, and while he is doing so, not wishing to be idle, his other hand comes out flat and the edge of it connects with the wog's ear and he drops him and the second wog lunges at him with his gun, and the new man swings his arm and blocks the blow, and his other hand moves forwards as if it had a knife in it, only there isn't a knife—just his fingers, and they stab into the wog's gut, so then the third wog comes behind him and grabs him around the shoulders and gives the second wog time to straighten up and try again with the gun. And as he comes in the new guy sticks one arm out straight, crooks it and brings the elbow back into number three's belly, and there's a noise like wet cement and number three is falling and as he goes the new guy twists and throws him into number two's way, and number two hesitates, and this is fatal because the new guy doesn't punch this time, he leaps in the air like he's Nureyev's brother and as he goes his right leg straightens and connects with number two's neck, then he's down again ready for more of the same but the wogs aren't ready to go on, being unconscious, and the bird is in his arms, yabbering in wog, and all this time I still haven't moved, and my mouth is open, and I feel about six years old.

Then the new guy puts the girl to one side and turns to face us, and he has one fist clenched and the other straight, like the blade of an ax, and I see this is a very hard man indeed. His clothes are sharp but he doesn't overdo it on account of he is old, and his body moves inside them like a V8 engine. He has very dark-brown hair and eyes gray as the Thames that tell you nothing except he'll kill you if he has to, and I want more than anything to be like this man, and I am afraid. Then I hear gravel crunch behind us, and I look round and there is another man behind us all the time, in the shadow of the Jaguar, but now he comes toward us and he is a deb's delight, curly bowler and all but instead of an umbrella he carries an automatic pistol, and there is what can only be a silencer screwed on to the barrel. And this one's eyes are blue, and screwed up at the corners like he's tired, but the pistol isn't.

He comes over and looks at the wogs lying nice and peaceful, and "Ah good," he says. "You chaps did a splendid job."

Then he kneels beside the wogs and searches them, and takes away the coshes and the shooter, and in each of their free hands he finds a lead plug, and he looks displeased and shows them to the other man.

"Nasty," he says. "These boys were really quite heroic."

"We didn't do anything," says Harry.

The man with the empty hands says, "You laid out these three. You found them trying to steal your bikes and you laid them out. Now call the police."

"The coppers won't believe it," says Jigger.

The sleepy one says: "They will, I promise you," and I believe him. Then he takes out a wallet the size of a briefcase and distributes five-pound notes—two each, except Lonesome. The All-England halitosis champ gets four.

Then the two men and the bird get into the Jag and go, and I realize how dull the rest of my life is going to be.

* * *

They telephoned Loomis from a call box, and he told them to go back to the nursing home. He wanted Selina where she would be safe. It was Schiebel's one piece of luck. Another search party in a Mercedes spotted them, and followed them, then radioed to Schiebel, who used two more cars, an old Peugeot with an astonishing engine, driven by a very fair Albanian, and a Mini-Cooper S which he drove himself. They took it in turn to follow the Jaguar, and never stayed behind it for long. Once the Peugeot cut out and passed it, and shadowed it for a while from in front, until Schiebel called the driver on the radio to leave the hunt, and it was the Cooper's turn to hang on and to leave when the Jaguar left the main road, and Schiebel followed until they turned off again, then switched off his lights and felt his way through the darkness, his eyes straining for the ruby tail lights ahead, until at last the Jaguar stopped at a lodge gate. There was a pause, then the car went through, the lodge gate swung back, and Schiebel waited in the darkness, then slipped out, wary, silent, to look at the defenses of the house.

The lodge gate was a sheet of steel, the windows of the lodge itself were tiny, and the men inside it would be armed. The lodge was built of solid stone, and would withstand direct assault from anything less than a tank. The walls were of smooth stone, ten feet high, and, he discovered when he climbed on to his car roof, wired for alarm bells. Above the powerline was barbed wire, held in position by steel angle irons, and in each of the angle irons was a photoelectric cell. From inside the house he could hear the hum of a generator. It would do no good to try to cut off their power supply; they made their own, and guarded it. The place was impregnable.

Schiebel let the Cooper coast down the road past the house, then switched on the ignition and drove back to London, flogging the car as if it had been a horse, yelling obscenities in his mind in German, Russian, Arabic, repeating them solemnly, as if it were a ritual, dragging out each phrase in an ecstasy of fury, then ceasing at last, braking, easing his speed as the houses began, driving decorously, cautious of policemen, while his mind grappled with the problem that the princess of the Haram had sent him.

He had underestimated her. She had warned him when he had hunted her down that night in Zaarb, and he had believed in her courage, but not her competence. That had been a mistake. She would have been so useful too, for acquiring the cobalt. Her father would surely have— Schiebel closed his mind to that thought. He had made a mistake. If it proved to be too great, he would answer for it, not to Zaarb but to Peking. That must not happen; the mistake must be rectified. He thought again of the two women. Selina would have been useful, but Mrs. Naxos was vital, if he were to get the British out of Zaarb. Somehow he must get Phihppa Naxos. Somehow, and soon. She was in a fortress, but her husband had left it—gone back to his yacht ready for the treaty negotiations that opened next day. Mrs. Naxos's place, he decided, was with her husband.

He went back to the embassy, up to the radio room where Selina and Sherif had escaped, and had a long, snarling conversation with Zaarb's president and commanding general. Their displeasure didn't worry him, so long as they would move when the time came. The army had some tanks now, old Russian stuff, and Chinese crews for them. They had field guns too, and a squadron of MIG-15's. The Haram had nothing bigger than a machine gun, in a country made for modem war. If the British didn't interfere, the whole operation would take a couple of days at most —and if he could get at Naxos the British wouldn't interfere. He extracted his promises at last, and gave his in return, then switched off on the cursing president. He began to imitate Loomis's voice using the carefully remembered words and phrases he had heard when the big man had interviewed him as Andrews. At last the speeches came together, and sounded right.

"Look, cock," he began, "we can't afford to offend Naxos now d'you see."

It wasn't quite Loomis, but it was near enough, particularly as the telephone he would use would have a bad fine. Tomorrow he would make two calls, and perhaps have Phihppa Naxos as a result. Now it was time to deal with a traitor.

He dressed himself in black sweater and pants, stuck a Russian automatic in his pocket, and drove to a street near the mews behind Swyven's house. His shoes were rubber-soled, and made no noise. Schiebel moved like a shadow to the mews itself, and waited for the tiny sound he needed. He was lucky. The man on duty struck a match, and Schiebel heard his sigh as he inhaled smoke, then began to walk slowly up and down. Twenty paces. Turn. Back. Twenty paces. Schiebel grinned. This one had been too long in the army. Schiebel waited until he moved down again, then sped to the doorway the watcher had used. He made no sound at all. When he came back—seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty—Schiebel waited till he turned, then struck with the barrel of his pistol along the side of the man's head, jumped from the shadows to catch him as he fell, and dragged him into the doorway. Then he broke into the house next door to Swyven's.

The whole operation took seven minutes. Break in, go up to the attic—past the master bedroom, the nursery, the empty guest room, the maid's room where the au pair girl dreamed of warmth and sunshine and lemon trees in unattainable Sicily, up to the deserted attics, a litter of toys, books, discarded furniture, the squeak of a rusty window hinge, and Schiebel was on the roof, moving velvet-pawed across the leaded guttering to the attic window in Swyven's house. He used a diamond with four neat strokes, waited for the glass to fall—a tiny brittle whisper of noise— then put his hand into the hole he had made, opened the window and lowered himself into the house. In the comfortable darkness he checked his pistol by touch, screwed on the silencer, then moved into the house, past the attics full of unacceptable souvenirs, the maid's room where Ara-paro dreamed of warmth and sunshine and lemon trees in unattainable Burgos. The stairs were carpeted and the noise he made was less than a sigh; he went down to the drawing room and the sound of voices. Swyven's voice, then an older female voice, and then another older voice, a man's. Schiebel heard words in his mind he thought he had forgotten. "Visiting the sins of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generations of them that hate me," said the voice in his mind, "but showing mercy unto thousands of them that love me and keep my commandments." The voice spoke in German.

Schiebel grinned in the darkness. The voice had got it wrong. He was going to visit the sins of the child on the father—and mother. Two parents had chosen to spend an evening with their son, and there was nothing wrong with that, except that it meant their death. He couldn't wait for another chance, and there must be no survivors to send for the police until his work was accomplished. Schiebel listened, concentrating on the clipped, half-swallowed noises that English bourgeois made. They were quarreling. If you had Mark Swyven for a son, Schiebel thought, what eke could you do but quarrel?

Mark Swyven was saying: "But you say yourself I haven't done anything illegal—and that chap Craig admits it. If I choose not to go back to Venice, they couldn't make me."

"Don't be a fool," said his father.

Lady Swyven said: "Mark's right, you know, dear. He hasn't committed a crime."

"He's a traitor," said Lord Swyven. "There aren't many worse crimes, surely? He's betrayed bis own country."

"I don't believe in countries," said Swyven. T believe in mankind."

"And you've done your best to put fifty millions of them in a damned difficult position."

"Fifty million "haves.' I wanted to do something for the "have-nots.' It's about time somebody did. And anyway it's not your business. It's mine."

"And theirs."

"The point is there's nothing Britain can do about it."

"Mark," said his father. "Use your brains. Just this once. You've got them. Use them. They want you out, and you must go out. If you insist on staying here—good God, man, can't you see? Look what they did just to fetch you back here—damn near sent your mother to prison. If they did that to her, do you suppose they won't do it to youF'

Schiebel went into the room then. It was interesting stuff, and Swyven's concern with the masses was correct enough, even touching, but he hadn't got all night. Lady Swyven and Mark were facing him. Their reactions were obvious at once. Lady Swyven, bewildered yet indignant, Mark abject with terror. The father, because he was deaf and had his back to the door, took a little longer to understand. When at last he did turn, and saw the gun, he was neither bewildered nor terrified. He saw danger, and at

once began to look for a means to resolve it. This was a man Schiebel could understand.

"Your father's right, Mark," he said. 'They won't let you stay."

Swyven stared, petrified by the pistol and its bulging, extended barrel. Swyven's father moved deliberately in front of a small drinks table and said: "You have no business here. Our discussion is quite private. If you have come here to rob, get on with it, but don't pry into family affairs."

Schiebel shot him between the eyes, and the force of the bullet slammed him backward, scattering gin, sherry, glasses, siphons, jugs. It was as he had expected. As he fell, Swyven's father gripped a bottle of whiskey in his fist. Facing danger, he at once looked for a weapon.

Young Swyven's reaction was very odd to SchiebeL who knew every detail of his life. He ran at Schiebel.

"You swine," he screamed. "That's my father."

Schiebel shot him in the chest, and the running stopped at once, then Swyven very slowly crumpled to the floor. Lady Swyven made no move at all. She sat bolt upright in her chair, and looked into the barrel of the pistol, and said nothing, did nothing, because her world was over. Mark, she thought. Oh, my darling Mark. And then, almost too late: Poor Jack. Then Schiebel killed her. He went over to each in turn, felt his pulse, then unscrewed the silencer, put it in his pocket. He went out by the back door. On the way he passed the watcher, breathing now in great snoring gasps. The watcher was well out of things. Schiebel walked to his car. As always, when he had done something right and proper, he felt marvelous.

* Chapter 21 %

When Grierson and Craig got back, Loomis was away, and Flip was with Sir Matthew. They ate a meal, and Selina ate with them: the fight had made her hungry again. As they ate, she told them what had happened to her: the kidnapping, the trip to England, the escape, and then the fight.

"That was splendid," she said. "The hand, the fist, the elbow, and then you jump. My brothers will want to learn this—"

"Karate," said Craig. 'It's a Japanese technique."

"You learn from your enemies?"

Tf they have anything worth learning. The way you escaped, for instance—by using the house next door."

Sehna grinned.

Grierson said: "I don't understand why he brought you to England. Wouldn't you have been safer in Zaarb?"

The girl put down her fork, and looked at him.

"Schiebel hates me," she said. "He hated the other girl too—the one you persuaded to betray him. You know what he did to her?"

Grierson nodded. "He was going to do it to me. I was being kept for his pleasure—when it is all over." She turned to Craig. "One of us must kill him," she said. "He means what he says about the cobalt, Craig. Hurting, destruction: they're all he knows. He'll use them until he's killed."

Craig said nothing, and Grierson thought: Schiebel will die, all right. And Craig will kill him. Loomis had it set out that way from the beginning—victim and executioner; and I've known it all along, because Craig is useful in any sort of situation, to drive a car, guard a millionaire, steal a secret, seduce a girl. But his speciality is death, and that's what Loomis wanted him for. At death he's a genius.

Aloud he said: "Don't worry. Schiebel will be taken care of."

Craig grinned at him.

"You're talking like a politician," he said.

That night and the next day they waited for Loomis, taught Selina to play poker, and used her gold coins for chips. Sir Matthew called, and went at once to Fhp. The day dragged slowly on, and Sehna yawned and fought to stay awake. An angry fat man wanted to speak to her. She would not sleep until he came.

A vehicle purred to a halt outside the room at last, and Grierson raised the ante, two sovereigns, a napoleon, and an American double eagle.

"Our leader's back," he said.

Craig passed, and Grierson waited for Selina. He had dealt her four aces. It would be amusing to see how greedy-she was. The vehicle purred into life again, and Sehna looked hard at Grierson. His eyes were bland, innocent, boyish. Selina said something in Arabic, and Craig rocked with laughter. Then she passed too.

Grierson groaned, and scooped in the heavy shining metal. It wasn't much of a pot for a royal flush.

"She learns very quickly," Craig said, and took up the cards, his hands rapid and precise as he fitted them together and began to deal.

Sir Matthew came in, elegant in gray, a carnation in his buttonhole, in his hands a bowler hat and a pair of doeskin gloves, the kind you buy for driving, if the car you drive is a Bentley. He looked quickly from Craig to Grierson, then on to Selina. These men had a knack of acquiring pretty girls that might almost be a reflex, it functioned so inevitably. He wondered whether one day he might be allowed to chart their behavior patterns—and their girls'? So often one read of the superior sexual attraction of the French male and the Italian, and Spaniard. It was reassuring to sep two Britons holding their own. Sir Matthew permitted himself a small glow of patriotism.

Grierson said: "Sir Matthew, I'd like you to meet the Princess Selina."

Sir Matthew strode napoleonically across to her, and shook the strong, beautiful hand. When he turned, Craig had somehow moved from his chair. The door was closed, and he was leaning against it.

"Were you thinking of going out, Sir Matthew?" Grierson asked.

"I'm going home," Sir Matthew said. "No point in hanging about here now."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Grierson said.

"Surely it's obvious?" said Sir Matthew. "Now that Mrs. Naxos has gone—"

Grierson came out of his chair and towered over the little man in one frantic leap. For a moment Sir Matthew thought he was about to be assaulted, then Grierson made a tremendous effort, and resumed his habitual sleepiness. An extremely well-integrated personality, Sir Matthew noted gratefully.

"Tell me," he said. "And make it quick."

"We spent a very profitable evening," said Sir Matthew. "She's making excellent progress. Then just before lunch her husband telephoned her. They conversed for a while, and then he spoke to me. He wished his wife to go aboard their yacht, and Mrs. Naxos confirmed this. I saw no reason to prevent her leaving.

"In any case Loomis telephoned me at my consulting room today and said I could let her go, if her husband insisted on it. He passed on his instructions to you men here, too, I believe."

"When was this?" Grierson asked.

Sir Matthew looked at his watch.

'Two hours ago, just before I returned here," he said.

"Did he telephone from London?"

"Naturally."

"Loomis has been at Chequers since ten o'clock this morning," Grierson said.

"When did Mrs. Naxos go?" asked Grierson.

'Ten minutes ago. He sent an ambulance for her. His own crew members were driving it. He seemed obsessively anxious for her safety, I thought."

"What sort of ambulance?"

Sir Matthew shrugged. 'The kind one hires, I assume," he said.

"It didn't occur to you to tell us, I suppose?" Grierson

asked.

Sir Matthew shrugged again. "I had no idea you had returned. I merely instructed the guard at the gate." He stared back at Grierson. "I am a doctor," he said, "not a cloak-and-dagger man. My responsibility is to my patient. I felt that she would benefit from being with her husband, and agreed that she should do so. In fact I had no alternative. She insisted on going back to Naxos, and I had no legal right to stop her, and she had every legal right to go. After all, she'll be safe enough on the yacht."

"If she ever gets there," said Grierson.

Sir Matthew turned to look at Craig, but he had moved once again. He was no longer there.

"You'd better sit down," said Grierson.

"You're sure my presence isn't distasteful to you?" Sir Matthew asked.

"That's irrelevant," said Grierson. "There's a man

DIB HAPPY ffl

185

outside who may kill you—if he hasn't got Mrs. Naxos. Do you play poker?"

Sir Matthew sat down.

"Stud," he said. "One joker. No wild cards, if you please."

* » *

Craig found the ambulance. It was parked in a layby. The Greek at the wheel was unconscious, the one beside him dead. Craig put on a pair of thin leather gloves and went to the back of the ambulance, opened the broken door and went inside. He switched on the interior light and found another dead Greek on the stretcher. Beside him was Theseus, a knife in his side, sitting in his own blood, his torso propped up by the side of the ambulance. Across his knees lay an Arab, his neck broken. Theseus's massive right hand still clutched his hair. Craig crouched down beside him, and Theseus's eyes focused wearily.

"Brandy," he said. "Pocket." His great voice was muted to a rumbling moan.

Craig found the flask and held it to his hps, and Theseus choked it down. Craig looked at the knife in his side. If he drew it out, Theseus would die at once.

"Last time I did this for you," Theseus said. "Different now. I'm dying."

"You don't die so easy," said Craig. "Ill get you a doctor."

"I'm dying," Theseus said. "It hurts like hell." His breath ratded in his throat. 'Two cars together in front of us. We think it's a crash. We stop. Men come from side of road. Shoot—in front. Use lever. Break open door. Kill Dimitri. I put up hands. This one comes in. I kill. Then— knife. And Mrs. Naxos screaming. They take her—they take her—"

"Where?" Craig asked.

"The knife," Theseus whispered. "Craig it's like fire inside me."

"Where?" said Craig.

"Big cars," said Theseus. "Russian, I think. Little round plaque—CD, Craig—does that help?"

"Yes," said Craig. "I know where she'll be." "Harry—fool. I tell him. Trust you. He won't listen." Theseus gasped aloud as pain pierced him again. "It burns," Theseus said. "All the time I wait for you,

it bums. Now I've told you." He paused, then his voice pleaded: "pull the knife out, Craig. I waited. I told you. You owe me that." Again he gasped at the pain.

Craig looked at him. Already he was very close to

death.

"All right," he said. "You're a man, Theseus. A real

man."

"You also, Craig."

Then his voice yelled out—he could no longer control it—as Craig's hand curled to the knife haft and drew it free. Craig let the knife fall, and waited. Theseus's great body relaxed as his blood flowed again, then his head lolled on his shoulder, and he sighed in the joy of relief from pain.

"Thank you," he said.

Then he died.

· · · ·

Craig went back to the nursing home, and told Grierson what had happened, then waited as Grierson put in a 999 call to the police and told them where to find the ambulance. Sir Matthew and Selina were locked in the office labeled "Matron." Sir Matthew was teaching her how to play be-zique.

"Loomis was at Chequers," said Grierson. "He'd started back before all this happened. I reached him by radio. He's mad as hell."

"He would be," said Craig.

"He thinks Naxos will try to get away," said Grierson. "I've phoned London. They're watching the yacht now. It hasn't got steam up yet."

"He won't leave without his wife," said Craig.

"He will if Schiebel tells him to. We're to make plans to stop her. Have you got any ideas?"

Craig thought for a moment, then picked up the telephone and dialed a number. It rang twenty-three times before Candlish's voice answered, blasphemous and sleepy.

Craig said: "Never mind that. You know who this is?"

"Aye," Candlish said. "You're the only one who'd have the bloody nerve to get me out of bed this hour of the morning."

"Got a job for you," Craig said, and began to explain. At last Candlish said, "When?"

"Soon as I tell you."

"All right," said Candlish. "Cost you two thousand. Old one-pound notes. No receipt."

"Payment on completion," said Craig, and hung up, then turned back to Grierson. "She'll be in the AZ building," he said.

Grierson nodded.

"I suppose he wants us to get her out," Craig said. "He does," Grierson said.

Craig pushed his hand through his hair, and was suddenly very tired. There were all sorts of things he wanted to tell Grierson: it couldn't be done; Loomis was sending them to their deaths; Schiebel would kill her rather than let her go back to them; but Grierson knew all this as well as he did himself.

"I need some kip," he said. "Let me know when Fatty gets back."

Ninety minutes later he woke to find Loomis and Grierson standing beside him. He sat up on the settee and looked at Loomis, expecting an empurpled travesty of rage that he could jeer at, yield to, and ultimately come to terms with. Instead he found an old man, his pale face mottled with red, and somehow not nearly so fat as he'd remembered.

"It's bad, son," said Loomis. "Couldn't be worse. First off Schiebel's killed Swyven, and his parents. But that's the least of it. The Zaarb army's mobilized and moving west. That can only mean the Haram. Naxos isn't going to sign any treaties with us, and his wife's in the AZ building. You got the Selina person back and I'm grateful, believe me, but it doesn't make a scrap of difference now."

The red, scrambled telephone rang. Grierson picked it up and handed it to Loomis, who said "Loomis" almost politely, listened in patience to its metallic quacking, then put it down. "A bit more cheer," he said. "There's a rumor in New York that the Zaarb representative's going to speak in the UN tomorrow. He's going to demand the withdrawal of British troops and the setting up of a commission to determine Zaarb's western frontier, which he claims is beyond the Haram. Albania's going to second the motion. And while the debate continues Zaarb's going to send its army into the Haram—to suppress the bourgeois bandits who are interfering with the progress of a free people. This is an internal

matter and nobody else is to interfere—least of all us. We can't anyway. We've lost Naxos's vote." For a moment he regained his usual vitriolic disgust. "That bloody Chinn," he said. "I could pull the petals off his carnation." A manservant brought in a thermos jug of coffee and three cups. Despite his dark coat and deferential politeness, he looked like, and was, a Commando unarmed-combat instructor. He caught the tail end of Loomis's scowl, and vanished like a genie. Loomis poured coffee.

"I had it made," he said. "The P.M. was giving me a cigar every three and a half minutes. With Naxos sewn up, Zaarb would stay as it was, and when you two picked up the princess we could walk into the Haram any time we wanted. He poured me brandy with his own hands. Even offered to discuss next year's estimates. Now this." He sipped the coffee, hot, bitter, black as his mood. "The little yellow brothers have been busy," he said. "Buying equipment—nuclear stuff —and making a bit themselves. They've also recalled a lot of their best students from Iron Curtain universities. The post graduate lot. The ones who got firsts in nuclear physics. They're all ready for that cobalt, son. And there's only one way to stop them now. We'll have to go to war. Just what our reputation in the Middle East needs. Great Britain invades a developing nation. Look great in the People's Daily—and Pravda."

"Better than a cobalt bomb," said Craig.

"The P.M. wants a police action," said Loomis. "He thinks we should tell Russia and the U.S.A. what's happening —then all three countries would be involved. But that's messy, son. Who would be in charge? How many men would each country send? What would happen to the cobalt when the police action's finished? And how long would it take to set up a deal like that? Zaarb might get enough cobalt out before we were ready to move. We'd be in a worse state than China. A hell of a lot worse." He blew his nose with startling suddenness into a vast and dazzling handkerchief, then turned to stare at Craig.

"You'll have to go in and get her," he said. "I got no right to ask it, but I'm asking it anyway. You get her, Naxos votes, and we're okay. Any other way—we've had it, son."

Craig said: "I don't know." He stood up, hard and tall beside Loomis's unwieldy mass. "I'll go in if I have to— but I want some chance, Loomis. There's no point in going there and getting myself knocked off."

I'll come with you," Grierson said. "That goes without saying."

"No," said Craig. "That isn't the point. Look, supposing we both go—and get nothing—where the hell are we? Schiebel either has us killed or denounces us as assassins, and either way it's the department's loss and he's still got Fhp Naxos."

"You realize what he'll do to her?"

T realize it," said Craig. "If he does, I'll kill him."

Unnoticed by Craig, Grierson looked up at Loomis. The fat man gave an infinitesimal shake of the head.

"But I need an edge—the thing's got to have some chance of success," Craig said.

Gradually the color came back to Loomis's face, and somehow his paunch swelled out again to the proud curve of a three-decker's mainsail.

"I'll get you an edge, son," he said. "I promise you."

Then the red telephone shrilled again, and Loomis scooped it up, listened, barked once and slammed it down.

"Naxos's yacht's very active all of a sudden," he said.

"Did you do anything about stopping it?" Craig nodded.

"We better go there then," said Loomis and picked up the red phone again. As he talked, Craig looked at Grierson, trying for words that were hard to find.

"If I don't have some advantage, I just can't manage it any more," he said. "Dyton-Blease taught me that."

Grierson squirmed, because he was British, and found it impossible to cope with that kind of honesty.

"You had the guts to say it," he said. T didn't."

"You can do your penance later. We've got a helicopter coming," said Loomis. His great hands slammed together, the fingers interlaced, and one by one the knuckles cracked like gunshots. The other two men winced.

"You can always get service cooperation when it's too late to need it," said Loomis.

oo«

The helicopter chattered its way through the blackness of the night, until London lay below, a million spangles of light, the river curling among them, a dark, glistening

snake. The helicopter thrashed its way past Tower Bridge, dropping gently to explore the bulk of ships riding at anchor, derricks like robots at rigid attention in the metallic blue of lamplight. At last Craig spotted the Philippa, and pointed her out to Loomis. The helicopter drifted onwards, landing at last in a waste of sawn timber near Candlish's boatyard. Craig went to look for Candlish, leaving Loomis to cope with an outraged nightwatchman.

Candlish had everything prepared, and collected Loomis and Grierson in his elderly Daimler, leaving behind a bemused old man with a whistle in one hand and a truncheon in the other, trying to touch his cap. They drove to the river and transferred from the Daimler to a luxurious launch, and after a while Candlish left them to go aboard a barge. It was the leading one of three immense steel boxes taken in tow by an old and ailing tug. Grierson took the launch's controls, and followed the procession. As they went, Loomis outlined his plan for getting into the embassy, and Craig saw that there was a chance after all, as the dawn came up, pale and tender, and the river was suddenly, momentarily beautiful.

The Philippa had steam up when they reached her. her sleek white lines an aloof contrast to the lumpy drab-ness of the tug and barges, four peasants approaching a queen. Suddenly, the barge's towrope snapped as she swung in a wide arc past the yacht, and Craig watched the work of three master craftsmen. Candlish struggled with his tiller, but somehow, despite all his efforts, drifted straight under the Philippa's bows and crashed into the wooden dockside. Almost at once another barge scraped alongside the yacht, and slammed into her stern; the third slumped wearily on her rudder and propeller. Then all three barges began to sink.

Loomis snorted happily.

"What's in the barges?" he asked.

"Scrap iron and concrete," Craig said. "Naxos will be here for weeks."

"Well have a bite of breakfast, then well go and talk to him," Loomis said. "After that we'll see about organizing a riot."

When they did see him he was a wreck, dead beat for sleep, near crazy with the need for a drink, yet willing himself to stay sober in case anything should happen and Fhp should need him. He looked at them, half stubborn, half eager, and Loomis said at once: "We know it's Schiebel who's got her. Whatever he said about not seeing us it's too late now, and you can forget about trying to leave. I don't care what threats Schiebel made, you're not going, Naxos." "I won't sign," said Naxos.

"Not yet," said Loomis. "Wait until we get her back."

"He'll give her heroin," Naxos said. "You know what that means? If she goes back on it now she's hooked for life." He looked at Loomis, and there was defeat in his eyes.

"Please," he said. He had no hope at all.

"What on earth made you do it?" Loomis asked.

"He rang me on the radiotelephone. Told me what he'd done to Swyven, and his parents. Then he swore Philippa would get the same tomorrow. He sounded so certain—he was even enjoying it. That's why I believed him. That's why—"

"You decided to get her out tonight," said Grierson.

Naxos nodded heavily.

"You poor bloody fool," said Loomis. "Just stay here like a good lad and we'll get her back for you. I mean it. But don't waste our time trying to run away. We've got enough to do without fetching you back. And you're all in quarantine anyway. Nobody's allowed ashore." His head jerked at the door. "Come on," he said.

BOO

Mostly she dreamed of horses, great rearing, piebald beasts, with flaring red nostrils, leaping through tall golden trees. They went round her in a circle, and as long as she stayed still she was all right, but if she moved the horses would turn on her, and it might be a horse's head she would see on top of the high-arched neck, or it might be a man's. She tried very hard not to move, but the need for the drug made her restless.

Schiebel had been to see her once, had offered her the drug, and she had refused. Christ, it had been like tearing your heart out to see the stuff, white and clinically pure in his hand, and then say "No." And it was stupid too. Because he'd be back, and next time she couldn't say no—she loved Harry, he was all she had, but she couldn't refuse heroin twice. And the second time, Schiebel had warned her, there would be conditions before she got the drug. There always were. But this time it would be Harry who would be humiliated, degraded, as well as she herself. She wanted to die, but hadn't the strength to kill herself, and anyway, he would be there to stop her.

Schiebel said: "Mrs. Naxos," and she opened her eyes at once. He was bending over her and she was wide awake, but the horses were still there, rearing among the golden trees. She opened her mouth to scream and Schiebel struck her. The blow gave no pain, no meaning, but her head whirled, and when it cleared the horses became a picture of a carousel on the wall. "I've brought your medicine," Schiebel said. "Would you like it now?"

And there was the white, essential packet in his hands, and she tried to say "go away," but the words would not come. Instead, her head nodded feebly.

"I want an answer," said Schiebel.

"Yes," said Flip. 'Tlease. Yes."

"I see," Schiebel said. "Good. First you must sign a receipt."

"Don't torture me," she whispered.

Schiebel put the packet down, took a notebook and pen from his pocket.

"You are torturing yourself," he said. "All your sickness is in your mind, Mrs. Naxos. Master it and I can never hurt you again—in that way. Take these." He put pen and paper in her hands. "Now write."

"I can't," she said. "My hand is shaking too much."

"Master it," said Schiebel. "Control it. It is your hand. Make it obey you."

But her hand would not obey.

"Give me the stuff first. It'll help me."

"Afterward," said Schiebel. "You always get your medicine afterward. Don't you know that yet?"

And at last her hand began to obey, and she wrote what he dictated.

Harry, my darling,

I am with Schiebel, and everything is fine. Don't worry about me. Nothing will happen so long as you don't sign the agreement. If you do, you will destroy me.

I love you Harry. Please help me.

She wrote it all. Her handwriting was a mess, but she wrote it. Only she couldn't sign it. Whenever the pen touched the paper to write Fhp, her hand shook uncontrollably, and at last she could understand why. The knowledge was terrible to her, but she accepted it, crumpled the paper, threw it away.

Schiebel shrugged.

"Very well," he said. "Ill give you the medicine myself in a little while. You'll soon need more, once you've had the first dose."

Then he began to hurt her.

» Chapter 23 *

Further extract from "O Level Edward" 's autobiographical fragment.

Mr. Candlish sends word he wants to see us and we go—we always act respectful to Mr. Candlish—and anyway, all I miss is four hours' hard labor in the supermarket where I am gainfully employed at the time, unloading the bargains so the nits can get threepence off. And when I get there, Harry is present, and Jigger and Lonesome, and Mr. Candlish drinking rum out of a tin mug and looking pleased.

"I got two gentlemen coming to see you lot," he says. "They got a job for you and it pays good money—so no hp from you."

We agree, and if we had forelocks we would tug them, because this old bastard scares the hell out of us, and then the gentlemen come in and there will be no hp from me, because one of the gentlemen sorted out three wogs with his hands and feet the night before, and the other one held a gun on us while he did it, and almost fell asleep. The hard one says: "Those Arabs that attacked you last night—they had friends. Those friends have

been picking on you. Messing up your bikes, knocking you about. That's not right," he says. "You ought to do something about it."

"You want us to duff up some wogs?" asks Lonesome.

"Good God no," says the sleepy one. "We want you to organize a protest, present some petitions—that sort of thing."

"Where to?" I ask. "The Zaarb Embassy?"

"Something like that," the sleepy one says. "Their trading offices anyway. We've got four petitions all ready for you as a matter of fact," he says. "But there ought to be more of you. I always think the more the merrier with petitions, don't you? You'll need some people to watch the back entrance too. It would be too bad if the people you wanted to speak to got away."

"How many you want?" Harry asks.

"All you can get'" says the hard one. "Fifty at least. I want you to take your bikes and leave them in the way."

"Way of what?" Harry asks. He's a very careful leader, Harry.

"Anybody, anything that tries to leave," says the hard

one.

"All damage will be liberally paid for," says the sleepy one, and I can see old Candlish doesn't like that "liberally," but he says nothing, just sits there, and I realize again how bad these two must be.

Then the hard one gets down to details, and we believe everything he says, even when he tells us the police won't bother us, because this one knows what he's doing. And he draws a map for us, and tells us how to divide our forces, and where to congregate, then he says: "The Zaarb lot won't be too keen to let you in. Remember that. If you want to present those petitions, you'll have to get them inside the best way you can." This we understand, and are happy about in the extreme. Breaking doors and windows in a good cause appeals to simple, unspoiled natures like ours. Then the sleepy one pulls open his briefcase and hands Harry the petitions, which are typewritten, and have a lot of room for signatures. And he explains why we must handle them with care. Then he says: "Everyone who signs and turns up will be paid a fiver. You, of course, will receive much more." And this is music, too. Harry looks at the petitions, then looks at the sleepy one.

"Who are you, mister?" he asks.

"Didn't I tell you?" the sleepy one says. "We're your fairy godmothers."

0*0

They had brought Selina to the house in Queen Anne's Gate, where she told Craig and Grierson all she knew of AZ Enterprises, its staff, its layout, over and over, remembering every detail of the curve on the stairs, the position of the fortified room, the way out to the back of the house. When she had done, the two men went down to the armory in the basement, where each man sought out and tested a pair of Smith and Wesson .357 Magnums, firing them until each was as familiar to them as the hand that held them. Craig insisted, too, that they use metal-piercing ammunition. Grierson had protested at having to master a new gun, but Craig had insisted.

"What we're going to do is street fighting," he said. "That means stopping everything with the first shot. And that means a Magnum. A feller once killed a bear with one of these." They were satisfied at last, and Craig went to search among what is perhaps the most comprehensive collection of small arms in Great Britain. He came back with two weapons that made Grierson raise his eyebrows. One was an Armalite .22 long rifle, a semiautomatic with a fiber glass stock recessed to hold the barrel and magazine.

"Lease-lend," he said. "It won't knock any elephants over, but it'll stop anybody you hit in the right place." He looked at the other one. "This is lease-lend, too," he said. "Riot gun." He handed over what looked like a twenty-gauge pump-action shotgun with a sawn-off barrel. "Twenty gauge is illegal for a riot gun," he said. "Whoever made this doesn't seem to have heard the news." He looked at the magazine. "Seven-shot," he said. "If you get close enough you could knock over an elephant with this one."

"How close is close?" asked Grierson.

"Six feet," said Craig. Grierson winced.

"I'd better get in some practice," he said.

Craig left the armory and went back upstairs, remembering the last man he had seen with a gun like that.

He'd been an American Ranger, a tall, easy man from Montana, and they had made one raid together, on the company headquarters of an S.S. panzer group. Their orders had been to bring back a prisoner, and they had brought back one, and only one. The Ranger had hated Germans; his mother and father were Polish Jews. To the end of his life Craig was to remember the effect of that gun. He went back to where Sehna was waiting. If he failed, her country would take a terrible mauling. The People's Republic of Zaarb had a lot of old scores to settle with the Haram.

"You will go there today?" she said. Craig nodded. "Maybe I should go with you. I know the way."

"No," Craig said. "We can't risk you twice."

"You risk yourself many times."

"I'm expendable," said Craig. "Ask Loomis."

"The fat man gives you the hardest work because he honors you most," Selina said.

"He honors nobody and nothing," Craig said. "He uses me because I can do what he wants. No other reason."

Because I can kill, he thought. He sought me out, sobered me up, showed me a girl to worry about—and all because someone has to die, and I'm the one who can kill him.

Jaunty in fresh tweeds and bang on cue, Loomis waddled massively in. Under his arm was a great roll of blueprints. He looked at Selina, looked at the door, then raised his eyebrows inquiringly. She walked out slowly, head up, with a superb and arrogant sexuality.

"Don't you know any ugly girls?" Loomis asked.

"I haven't time," said Craig.

"Been doing me homework," Loomis said. "Found these plans. Fifty years old, but they should give us some idea. Fifty years ago the Zaarb Embassy was a gendeman's town house. Ah, well. That's progress for you." He opened out the blue linen paper, and it crackled dryly. As they pored over it, Grierson came in, the guns under his arm.

"Christ," said Loomis, "what you going to do—depopulate China?"

"We can get in easily enough," Craig said. "We'd like to get out as well."

"So long as you bring Mrs. Naxos with you, you can have a squadron of tanks," Loomis said.

"No," Craig said. "People might talk. All we need now is a fire engine."

« « «

The crowd outside the Zaarb Embassy had an average age of nineteen, a standard uniform of black leather and a high-rating skill in the handling of motorbikes. From the topmost window of the office building across the road, Grierson looked down on them, riding round and round the block in an unending stream, like Indians round a covered wagon. Up the main road round the corner, across the mews, back to the side street and along the main road again. It was impossible to get a vehicle in or out of any building in that block—and there wasn't a policeman in sight. Grierson thought of how they had got into the office. He'd worn a dapper pinstripe suit and carried a briefcase, and Craig had shuffled behind him, all dungarees and an enormous tool bag. Grierson had been very sorry, but a suspected gas leak was a very dangerous affair, and in their own interests he must insist that all the staff go home. A tall, bony, harassed sort of man had locked up the safe and been far more worried about what Mr. Benson would say when he got back from Birmingham than about the threat of coal-gas poisoning. And the typists had made an occasion of it, and gone out to tea before they caught their buses home. One of them had been pretty. Very pretty. They had giggled when the Thames Gas Board van had arrived with a tool chest, and two sweating workmen had humped it in. Grierson had nearly forgotten his role then, and lit a cigarette.

They'd waited until the typists had gone, the pnetty one, the very pretty one, last, and looking so hopefully at Grierson, then they'd opened the chest and tool bag, taken out the walkie-talkie, the firemen's helmets and uniforms, and the weapons they'd brought. Grierson assembled the Armalite, while opposite him Craig sat absorbed, patiently checking his Smith and Wessons, aware of nothing now but the task he had to do, and the tools he must use to do it.

There were two Craigs, Grierson thought. There was the genial extrovert, strong, secure in his own strength, witty, gentle with women, cautious not to hurt—that was Jekyll Craig. Then there was the killer. Hyde Craig. The massive physical power, the fury of nervous energy, all concentrated into a terrible patience, ready for the moment to destroy. Good with guns, good with a knife, terrifyingly good with hands and feet. Grierson remembered what Craig had said about karate. "You've got to believe it'll do what you want it to do. You have to know that everything is inevitable. It has to happen in your head first. When my hands were right I could break bricks with them—because I never doubted. If I had, even for a minute, I'd have ended up with a broken hand."

That was the way Craig felt now. Loomis had given them an edge, and Craig believed he must win, with the same terrifying certainty as when they'd gone to France and killed a renegade colonel. The killer Craig never doubted, and if he ever did, he'd lose. Grierson thought how clever Loomis was to harness all that lethal certainty, and use it so sparingly, and to such effect, then he took off the pinstripe suit, folded it carefully, and put on the fireman's uniform, rammed his feet into the boots, slid the riot gun down one of them. Craig put a Smith and Wesson into each of his side pockets, picked up a smoke mask, then grinned at Grierson.

"Make sure the safety catch is on. You might do yourself a mischief," he said.

He had an ax in a sling at his side, a knife in the top of one boot. On him, Grierson thought, a fireman's helmet looked like a gladiator's. He wished he wasn't so fond of Craig.

"Time for phase two," he said.

A group of policemen came up. None of them appeared to rank higher than sergeant, but they were Special Branch men, led by Detective Inspector Linton. Loomis had briefed them personally. They tried, without much enthusiasm, to regulate the stream of traffic. The rockers used them as an extra hazard, and zigzagged happily round them. Craig watched with the same terrible patience as the motorbikes stopped at last in a circle round the block of houses, and Lonesome, Jigger, and "O Level Edward" lined up behind Harry, and marched up to the door, each carrying a petition. Jigger leaned on the bell, Lonesome swung the door knocker like a hammer, and no one answered. Grierson murmured into the walkie-talkie, then slowly, reluctantly, a scuffle evolved as the police moved in closer.

"I'd better get down there," said Craig. Grierson

nodded. The two men looked at each other for a moment, then Craig was gone. Grierson watched Harry yell through the letterbox, then, as he pushed his petition through, Grierson opened the window, lowered the Venetian blind, and waited for action.

Inside the petition were incendiary leaves of a kind first used in World War II, but these had a triggering device Loomis's scientific staff had had fun with. Grierson hoped Harry had remembered to press on the sealing wax before he posted it. The police were moving in more closely now, and one of them had drawn a truncheon. He wore a constable's uniform, but it was Linton. He aimed a clumsy blow at Jigger, missed, and with the follow-through he smashed a window. Jigger dropped another petition through the hole he'd made, and almost at once a steel grille slammed down. Farther up the road, Lonesome threw a brick, and another window smashed, broken glass splashed out. But there the steel shutters were already in place. "O Level Edward" laid his petition on the window ledge. There was movement at the top of the house. Grierson picked up the Armalite and waited. He noticed, appalled, that his hands were shaking, and that he had to struggle to control them. A puff of smoke appeared from the letterbox, then from Jigger's window. Then Edward's window ledge glowed, crackled, roared into fire. Grierson turned to the walkie-talkie again.

"Now," he said.

Almost at once he heard the clatter of a fire-engine bell, and a fleet of apphances roared up, manned by Special Branch men. Two vast tenders blocked off both ends of the street, a fire escape swung into position near Grierson's office, another appliance swung round by the AZ offices, reversed, and crashed into the blazing window, smashing the grille, scattering flame, then pulled forward again as a masked fireman dashed from the office block to the shelter of the fire engine. Grierson saw a flutter of curtains from a window opposite, then picked up the Armalite, aimed, and waited. The fireman, now with a gun in his hand, darted for the gaping hole the engine had made, and the curtains parted. Grierson fired three quick shots, and the dark bulk at the window pitched forward and was still. Then he raised the Venetian blinds as the ladder extended slowly toward his window. His hands were shaking once more, but at least Craig was inside. The next part was up to him.

Craig went in in a smacking dive, feeling the heat sigh like wind as he moved, and even in the spht second of contact, singeing his eyebrows, pulling his skin tight. He was in a conference room with a long, heavy table and leather chairs. The carpet and one of the chairs were burning. Craig went to the door and opened it from the wrong side, hugging the shelter of the wall. At once someone fired a shot into the empty space he should have filled. Craig took a smoke bomb from one pocket and lobbed it into the corridor. It dissolved on impact into a greasy cloud of lung-choking, gaseous ooze. Craig counted three, swerved into the corridor, and dropped flat. From the shelter of the stairs, an Arab with a machine pistol tried to stop coughing and aim at him. Craig fired, hit him in the arm and the Arab pulled the trigger, squirting bullets in a flailing circle as the smoke made him cough and weep. Craig fired again and killed him.

He raced up the corridor then, but the other rooms facing the street were empty. He went past the staircase to the back of the house—empty storerooms, butler's pantry, stairs leading to the cellars. He hesitated, but there was another ground-floor room. He jammed a metal table against the cellar door, then approached the last ground-floor room, kicked its door open, and swung back against the wall. Cooking knives thrashed like hail through the air. The room was the main kitchen and in it were two very angry chefs. From the window behind them Craig had caught a glimpse of another fire engine, its vast, scarlet bulk sealing off the mews. He lobbed another smoke bomb into the kitchen, locked it, and raced back to the stairs. The cellar would have to wait. Fhp would almost certainly be in the cell-like room Sehna had described to him. As he reached the foot of the stairs he heard the sound of water under pressure smashing into the conference room. The fire would be well under control by now, but the bombs he had thrown created more smoke than ever.

The stairway was empty of hfe. Craig moved more slowly now, conscious of the taste of rubber from the mask, the wet taste of the air he breathed. He reached the dead Arab, and took the machine pistol from his hands. The magazine was empty. He let it fall, and moved on upwards.

At the top of the stairs a door swung open slowly, and Craig dropped. What felt like a blow from a sledgehammer smashed at the side of his helmet, and he fired the last four shots from the Smith and Wesson on reflex alone. There was one answering shot from inside, but Craig heard nothing, not even the crack of his own gun. His four shots had hit the door in a diamond shape, its lowest point the height of a man's chest, its highest that of his head, and all had gone through. Craig waited till the booming noise in his head modulated to a steady hum, then reloaded the Smith and Wesson and summoned up the energy to dart for the door, push it open. Something inside jammed it. Craig shoved the thing aside with his foot, let the door swing open again. The temptation to pass on was almost overwhelming, but he had to be sure.

He burst into the room and a blast of gunfire again made his head boom, and once more it was instinct that made him drop below the angle of the shot, swerve, drop his gun and grab. His hand held a wrist and twisted upwards as the next shot blasted like thunder in the confined space of the room, then Craig twisted further, the gun dropped, and he levered and threw, heard the slam of a body hitting the wall. He stooped, picked up the Magnum and aimed in one fluid movement, but the one he'd thrown lay still. It was a woman.

Craig picked up the little Bernadelli pistol she had used, and dropped it in his pocket, then went over to her. The room was a bedroom. He picked her up and laid her on the bed. She was young, slender, hght-boned, a bruise darkening her pale gold skin from forehead to cheekbone. He had thrown her with appalling force, but the part of his mind in control noted only that she'd be unconscious until the job was done. He went to the body by the door then. It had been a man, and two of the high-velocity bullets he had fired had pierced an inch-thick oak door then slammed straight through his head and chest. He was messy and horrible, and in times to come Craig would remember it, but now all he did was pick up the man's automatic and remove the magazine. He had been in the house for seven minutes. It was time to move on. The next floor was the crucial one. The prison room was there, and inside it, Philippa. And Schiebel. Craig took off the helmet and removed his mask for a moment. He was above the smoke, and the pure air was good. He looked at the helmet then. A line was incised into one side so deeply he could lay his little finger in it, and that side of his head was a throbbing, painful lump. Cautiously he put the mask and helmet back on, then moved again toward the door.

At once an automatic rifle rattled and chattered from above him. Craig leaped back into the room, grateful that Schiebel had at least one overanxious novice on his staff. He began to work at frantic speed, lifting the woman from the bed, dragging the mattress off, placing it to cushion the hail of bullets that must come through the door. He carried the unconscious woman with him and knelt in the corner opposite the door. The man he left where he was. He took out the last of his smoke bombs then, laid the spare revolver beside it, and waited. The next move was Schiebel's.

From the floor below him he heard the crack of a shot, and a great, jagged hole appeared in the floor a foot from where he crouched. Another shot, and then another, and another, tracing an exploring pattern towards the angle of cover. Craig thought the man below must be using a high-velocity rifle, a weapon with a stopping power far more terrible than his pistol. The shots pierced the ceiling of the floor below, then the joists and floorboards, and still came through with enough force to slam into the walls and ceiling. A bullet that weighed less than an ounce, a muzzle energy of 2% tons. Technology was a wonderful thing. And they'd filed the bullets too. He could tell by the holes they made. There was a pause. Craig wondered how long it took the man below to reload. He had no doubt at all that if a bullet reached him, it would kill him, or immobilize him enough to long for a quick death if he fell into Schiebel's hands. He felt for the front flap of his uniform jacket. Sewn into it was a tiny philter, filled with cyanide. Just bite hard on it, the doctor had said. You won't feel a thing. How many had the doctor swallowed?

Incredibly, the telephone rang. Craig saw it was an internal phone, with a row of numbered buttons and Arabic lettering beside them. The man by the door must be pretty important, he thought. The phone rang again and he pulled back his mask and wriggled on his stomach toward it, cautious not to place too much weight on the floor. It

was on a low table by the bed, and Craig lifted it off slowly, slowly, holding the receiver down on the cradle as he wriggled back to the corner and picked up the receiver. At once three shots crashed into the table and smashed it. Craig yelled, and threw the receiver on to the floor. Schiebel's voice said: "You had better come out, Craig." Craig lay still, and another shot slammed up past the table, ricocheted from the wall and whined across the room. Craig lay down on his stomach and waited. It was up to Grierson now.

Grierson watched the ladder extend toward him. There was another turntable near by, waiting his orders. When he gave the word into the walkie-talkie, it would move fast up to the AZ building, its steel-shod ladder aimed like a battering-ram at the shutters that guarded the window of the prison room. And when the shutters gave, the ladder waiting for Grierson would swing him over the road, and he would dive inside, as Craig had done. Grierson picked up the walkie-talkie. His hand was shaking again, but it was time to go. Then he looked again at the steel shutters, and knew that he couldn't do it. Knew it utterly and completely. Schiebel would be in there, waiting for him, and Schiebel would kill him as he had killed Swyven, and his mother and father. He could not face the thought of death.

He remembered Craig's doubts and hesitations, his flat demand for some advantage; remembered also how cheerful and confident he himself had been. It was different now. Craig had gained the concessions he had asked for, and gone at once. Now he was inside the building, waiting for him, depending on him. He had to do something. His hand still shaking, he picked up the walkie-talkie, and spoke into it quickly. "The shutters business is off," he said. "I'm going onto the roof instead."

That was the alternative plan, if anything hindered the attack on the shutters, and all the dregs of his courage would allow him to do.

He stepped on to the window ledge before he could change his mind, the ladder came up to meet him, and he found himself whirled in the air, twenty feet above the roof of the AZ offices. Below him he could see hoses playing on one window after another, shutting off the view in a curtain of water. There was no sign of the rockers. They had suddenly and completely disappeared. Their work was finished. ("We'll give you all the cover we can," Loomis had said, "but you'll have to go in and do the job on your own.") The ladder contracted, and he stepped on to the roof and moved, stiff-legged and clumsy because of the riot gun, toward the skylight. When he reached it, he signaled to the men below, then ducked behind a chimney as a concentrated jet of water searched and probed and found its target. Even behind shelter, Grierson was soaked. The skylight was a jagged, gaping hole. He signaled again, and the great arc of water, solid as a steel bar, disappeared. Grierson counted to three, then leaped for the center of the hole, landed in six inches of water beside two men who choked and sputtered and wept at the force of the water that had struck them. One of them bled from a flesh wound of flying glass. He didn't even notice. The brutal force of the water filled his mind. Grierson hit him with the Magnum's barrel as he landed, and turned to the other, who was groping for a pistol. Grierson struck again, and dropped him, then turned to put the wireless room out of action. There was no need. The water had done it for him. He opened the door, letting loose a miniature waterfall, then slammed it shut behind him and locked it from outside, leaving the key in the lock, then put on his smoke mask, and pulled out the riot gun from his boot. At the foot of the first flight of stairs he found a heavy wooden door. It was locked from the other side. Grierson went back to the wireless room, and searched the two unconscious men. Neither of them had a key. He locked them in again, and went back to the door. There was only one possible way in. He had no picklock, no lever, and no time, and his nerve was running out. He aimed the gun at the lock, and fired three shots in such rapid succession they sounded like one sustained crack of sound, then drew back his leg, slipping on the film of water that spread about him, and brought his foot against the lock. Wood splintered and the door swung open, the water cascaded joyfully down like a dog turned loose. Grierson followed it warily, and no one came to stop him. Then he discovered why. He heard first the rattle of automatic fire, then the heavy boom of a high-velocity rifle. Grierson moved down more quickly. He reached a landing window, and signaled from it to the fire engine below, then continued slowly downward. The rifle boomed again, three times, then there was silence,

then one more shot. When that too was still, Grierson heard the urgent clanging of the fire engine's bell, and hoped that Craig was alive to hear it too. It would tell him that at least Grierson had got into the house.

Craig heard it all right, and moved slowly closer to the door, ready to act when the time came. There was more than one man outside, he was sure of that, but the riot gun would give them all the edge he needed, if Grierson could only get close enough. It was too bad he hadn't got into Schiebel's room.

Grierson moved down a bend in the stairs. Below him four men were facing a doorway. Two of them held automatic carbines, one held a pistol, one a heavy rifle. The rifleman wore a chefs white overalls and hat. None of them was Schiebel. Behind them was a steel door; that was where Schiebel would be. Suddenly one of the men fired a stream of bullets at the door he faced. Grierson moved in closer, walking as if a fast tide were moving against him. Twelve feet, ten, eight. The man who had fired extracted an empty clip. Grierson pumped the action of the gun, and as the men spun round he took one more step, fired, pumped the action, and fired again. The effect was immediate and horrifying. The nearest man fell at once, the second was blasted back against the banister rails, the third looked in horror at the raw wound the buckshot had torn in his arm. Grierson pumped the action again and the fourth man looked at the gun's wide mouth, dropped the rifle and raised his hands. Craig appeared softly behind them and pushed up his mask.

"I told you that gun gave us an edge," he said.

Grierson tried not to think of the man who had taken the first appalling blast of shot. This was the most terrible thing he'd ever done. He gestured at the fourth man. Craig struck with the edge of his hand, and he fell. The third still gaped at his wound. Craig pushed him down on to the stairs, and passed him the fourth man's handkerchief and his own. The Arab was too dazed with shock to know what to do with them. Craig covered the wound, and left him, then his hand went into his pocket, and emerged holding a long, slotted key of hardened steel.

"There's an Arab in there had this on him," he said. "I think it opens the prison door. He and his woman nearly killed me." He looked at Grierson; his hands were clasped so tight round the riot gun that the knuckles showed white, and he hadn't moved. Craig touched his arm. "Come on," he said.

Slowly, with leaden heaviness, Grierson turned and followed him.

They went up to the door, and Craig slowly, silently, inserted the key, standing square in front of it. The bullet wasn't made that could penetrate that steel. The key turned easily, without a sound. Opposite the door was a mirror in a gilt frame. Craig tilted it slightly, then went to kneel by the door. Across its frame Grierson stood, holding the gun. Craig motioned him to get down, and he knelt slowly, like an old peasant at the confessional, then Craig reached out to push open the door. In house-to-house fighting it was always the same. Open the door and face the death behind it. That was how it had been today, until now, and here was another door that Grierson should have opened, but this one was different. Behind it was a man he must kill, and a woman who, whatever happened, must not die. And the door was of steel. He leaned his weight on it, and it swung in massive slowness as he crouched and looked into the mirror out of its angle of reflection.

He saw what he had expected to see. Schiebel had Phihppa in front of him, and a gun at her back.

"You're too cautious, Craig," he said. "The door wasn't locked."

Craig lifted the bomb in his hand, and Schiebel continued:

"li you do anything at all, I'll shoot her. She won't die quickly, I promise you. No more bombs, Craig."

Craig put the smoke bomb down, and looked across at Grierson, once again motionless, on his knees.

"I'm going out," Schiebel said, "and she goes with me. And so do you. You'll take me out of this house, and you'll drive us to where I want to go. Then you can have her. A fair exchange—my life for hers. All right?"

Craig said nothing.

"You have to trust me," said Schiebel. "And you've won anyway. I concede that. Once I give you the woman you can do what you like. But as far as she and I are concerned, this is stalemate. If I live, she lives. You try to kill me and she dies. Now put your gun down, like a sensible fellow."

"No," said Craig.

"Try to be rational," said Schiebel, and his voice was detached, cool. "I can't kill you today. I need you as much as you need the woman. But later I will kill you. I promise you. Now put down your gun. Stick it forward where I can see it. I mean it, Craig. If you won't I'll shoot her and take my chances."

Craig slid the Magnum across the floor.

"Now the other," said Schiebel.

"All right," said Craig, and inevitably, because of his trade, he cheated. The other Magnum slid across the floor, but there was still in his pocket the little .22 Bernadelli he had taken from the Arab woman. The magazine had six shots, and she had fired at him once. He could afford to wait.

"Good," said Schiebel, and pushed Philippa forward to the door. Craig stood up to meet them, and moved into the doorway, blocking their view of Grierson.

"Take us out," Schiebel said, "or she'll suffer. And you will suffer after her. That wouldn't be so good as getting away, but it would be good enough." Suddenly the voice lost its detachment. "I'd enjoy that—making you watch what happens to her, then doing the same to you."

Flip said: "He means it."

Her voice was a hoarse whisper of remembered pain. "I'll take you out," said Craig.

Grierson heard it all, and remembered Loomis's instructions: whatever happened Schiebel must die. His mind held on to that fact, and no other. As Craig walked to the door, he pumped the action of the shotgun again. Without hesitation Craig kicked out at the gun barrel, knocking it aside as Grierson squeezed the trigger. The mirror shattered, and Craig lashed out at Grierson's neck, the only point unprotected by the mask and helmet, in a knife-hand strike, the hard edge of gristle and bone hitting the nerve. Still kneeling, Grierson slumped face forward, then rolled over. Schiebel laughed aloud, and Phihppa's head jerked upright, her glazed eyes cleared, her body cringed. Craig realized that she understood that laughter. She looked down at Grierson and saw a man in uniform with the face of an animal—round, straining eyes, the gross snout of a hog. And the man who had attacked him, he was like that too—wide, sightless eyes, hog snout, but below it the mouth and chin of a man whose strength she had so desperately needed. She began to scream, over and over, then the scream muted to a whimper of pain as Schiebel drove the muzzle of his pistol into her back, and pain brought her to full consciousness, and the realization that the animal face in front of her was a smoke mask.

"Good work, old chap," said Schiebel. "Now let's go, shall we?"

He pushed Philippa forward, then hesitated as he saw the dead men on the stairs. The hesitation made him loosen his grip on her arm for a second, then pain scalded through her as he grabbed her again.

Schiebel said: "You did this?"

"Yes," said Craig.

"Alone?" Schiebel asked, and Craig nodded. "You he," Schiebel said: "The other man held the shotgun."

He made a half turn, still holding Philippa between himself and Craig, then fired a snap shot at Grierson. As he did so, Philippa stumbled and stepped back, and the long spike of her heel, a pressure of more than a ton to the square inch, came down on his foot. Schiebel yelled, and Philippa stamped down again, then hauled down her arm, breaking his grip, and ran. Schiebel hesitated too late between the woman escaping, and the menace of the man. He fired at last at the woman, and Craig saw her stagger and then he reached out for Schiebel in one long, flailing leap, and the two crashed down the stairs, rolling over and over each wide, shallow tread. All the time Schiebel rained blows on him with his free hand, as he held on to the wrist that held the pistol. He twisted the wrist as they rolled, then slammed a punch into Schiebel's armpit. The gun dropped, and they reached the bottom of the stairs. Schiebel drove a fist into Craig's stomach, and wriggled free as Craig grabbed his shoulders, fell back and threw him judo style. Craig landed on the parquet flooring, slamming down with his forearms to break the impact of his fall, and lay still instead of squirming away as Schiebel dived for him, drawing back his foot to smash into Schiebel's chest. Schiebel twisted like a fish in midair, rolling with the blow, his arms breaking the fall. He was up at once, moving backward. He pulled out a knife. Craig slipped off his helmet then, pulled off his mask. The smoke was finished now, leaving nothing but a taste of bitterness in the air. He moved in on Schiebel, his great boots clumsy on the elegant floor. There was a pistol in his pocket—a puny little gun—but deadly enough at six feet. Once Craig would have used it without hesitation, but he and the riot gun had immobilized Grierson, and anyway, he, Craig, was an amateur, Loomis said. A sentimentalist. He had seen what Schiebel had done to Phihppa. His hand went to the top of his boot and he too held a knife.

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 in 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 first 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?"

"No," said Craig. I'm all right. I just want to see somebody for a while."

"You know, Selina may be right," said Loomis.

Craig didn't answer. He was looking for his clothes.

The Jaguar purred to a halt like a sleepy kitten, and Craig went into his flat. He remembered another return when he'd sat alone and waited for a girl to come back to him, a girl who was dead. But this time the girl was very much alive, sprawled flat on her stomach on a leather sofa, frowning at a yellow-covered typescript. She heard his footsteps and looked up, still muttering a half-learned line. Then she saw him, and the fine was forgotten altogether.

"Oh," she said.

"Buona sera," said Craig.

"I meant to get out of here, honestly," said Pia. "But I've been so busy, and I didn't know where to find you to leave the key—" She rolled from the sofa, a movement at once erotic and touching, and completely female, and stood facing him.

I'll go and pack now," said Pia. But she made no move to go. "Are you still working?"

Craig touched the plaster on his face.

"No," he said. "It's finished. Except—Loomis tried to palm a girl off on to me. I prefer to find my own."

She looked at him again and he was smiling at her, a grin of anticipatory happiness.

"I don't have to go just yet, do I?" she asked, and she was smiling too.

'Tour agent said I'd be bad for you," said Craig.

And Pia told him, fluently and precisely, exactly what her agent could do.

Content

Munro James Die Rich Die Happy