James Munro - The Money That Money Can't Buy

Airlie wore a black silk dressing gown like a kimono, white silk pajamas, white slippers. The bandage round his head looked like a turban. Wetherly salaamed.

"Who the hell are you?" Airlie asked.

"We're friends," said Loomis. "By God we must be to go to all this trouble."

His hand groped in his pocket and came out bearing a crumpled letter.

"Have a look at that," he said. "Credentials."

Airlie read it and looked at them, his face wary.

"Don't tell me you're—agents," he said.

"Nothing so grand," said Loomis. "I'm a civil servant. My friend here's a doctor."

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

Wetherly went over him.

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

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

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

The earl touched the bandage Wetherly was re-fastening.

"I ended up with this," he said.

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

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

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

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

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

"But-but why should Simmons—"

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

"One of yours?" asked Airlie.

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

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

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

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

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

"I gave my word," said the earl.

Loomis turned to Wetherly.

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

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

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

"But why?" Airlie asked.

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

"But why on earth—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

in.

"How much are you worth?" he said.

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

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

"Blackmail me?"

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

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

Airlie swallowed hard, then began to talk.

16

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where is it?" he asked.

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

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

"Nothing surprises me in Tangier," said Craig.

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

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

"That's true." Esteban sighed.

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

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

"Who on earth was that?" asked Craig.

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

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