James Munro - The Money That Money Can't Buy

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

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

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

"I bet there are," said Craig.

"These people will say that you lie."

"That seems inevitable."

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

"There's Chan," said Craig.

"There is also Simmons," said Boris.

"Simmons will die," said Craig.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

be the answer. It wouldn't be the answer at all. * * *

He slept until dinnertime, then rose, bathed, changed into a dark silk tussore suit and black crepe-soled shoes. Beneath his coat was the Smith and Wesson; in his leg was a sheathed knife, leaf-bladed, single-edged, needle-pointed. He spread his hands, then held them out. They were quite steady. He went into the living room.

Istvan and Boris were waiting. They too wore dark suits and, Craig had no doubt that Boris was armed. Neither of them was drinking. Food and drink would have to wait.

Boris said: "Istvan's being difficult."

"I'm not surprised," said Craig. "He knows you're going to kill him."

Boris began to deny it, fluently, passionately. It was obvious that Istvan was not impressed.

Craig said: "He knows it because it's logical. You're a nation of chess players, Boris. You always lose a pawn to take a king."

Istvan said: "Or even a king's ransom. You had better shoot me now."

Craig said: "Why not talk it over with Tania?"

"She's with Brodski," Boris said. "I can't reach her."

"Work him over then," said Craig. "We haven't much time."

Istvan said: "You do too good a job, Boris. If you hurt me, I couldn't work for you afterwards."

Craig said: "I'll do it then."

He moved in on Istvan, one fist clinched, the other hand out flat, like an ax.

"No," said Boris. "No karate."

Craig stood still.

"You're right," he said. "All he'd do is agree, then rat on us when we got to the bank. Right?"

Istvan managed to smile. It was a kind of courage.

"Absolutely," he said.

"It's a stand-off," said Craig. "Unless—" Boris looked at him. "Give him to me when it's over," Craig said. "He knows a few tricks that would interest my chief. So long as he's useful, he'll live. And I promise you he won't chat."

Boris said: "All right with me," and looked at Istvan.

"London," said Istvan. "Swinging London. Birds. Mini skirts. Le topless." He stuck out a hand to Craig. "Okay," he said.

Boris said: "We pick up Tania at eleven. Until then we should go over your plan."

They sat round the table, and Craig began to talk. The Russian and the Hungarian were very patient listeners.

* * *

At ten forty-five the three men left their room. In the lobby the night porter handed Craig a package that had'been left for him. They went out of the hotel to where a rented car waited, a Mercedes 300 SE. The chauffeur was Tania, in black slacks and sweater and a short black coat. They got in and Craig opened the package. It contained two keys.

Tania said: "Brodski stays at the villa. So does Simmons—and Jane. Chan is with the governor."

Craig said: "It'll have to be Simmons then. Can you get in?"

"You have decided not to kill him?" she asked.

"It looks as if I have to," Craig said. "Can you get in?"

"He thinks I'm dining with a girl friend," said Tania. "I said I'd try to get back for a drink about one o'clock. He told me he's working late tonight."

"He's going to get his orders from Simmons," said Craig.

A beggar came up to the car, and Craig wound down his window, handed over a dirham. They talked softly together in Arabic, then the beggar salaamed as the big car moved away.

"Listen carefully," said Craig. "I want you to know where the launch will be—just in case one of us doesn't make it."

He began to talk, and the others listened with the same furious patience. At last Craig said: "If anything goes wrong with the boat we make for Ceuta. I've got a friend there with a fishing boat. But if it comes to that, the only chance we've got is Gibraltar."

Tania said: "Very well," and drove into the town, waited patiently for a left turn into the Boulevard Pasteur, then turned into a side street. The street was dimly lit after the boulevard, and there were cars parked on both sides. As they turned in, a Fiat van pulled out, and Craig congratulated Tania on her efficiency as the Mercedes slid into the space the Fiat had left.

They got out then, and Craig looked down toward the lights of the boulevard. The Credit Labonne building was on the corner, dark and shuttered as a fortress. Beside it were houses with a narrow frontage and heavy doors, their tiny windows latticed. Craig waited as Boris opened the Merc's boot, then he and Istvan took out the two neat leather cases that contained Istvan's equipment— Brought in, no doubt, by diplomatic pouch, thought Craig. He walked down the street to the house next to the bank and went in. The others followed, lagging, giving him time to open the door. For this he needed the key with the string tied to it. The lock worked easily, and in he went. The others followed, and the door swung to. Craig led the way down the flight of steps that led to a basement room, and from there down older steps, carved into rock, that brought him to the cellar beneath the house. Once grain had been stored there, or oil. A ring set in the wall hinted that it might have been a private prison, a place where slaves were taken for discipline. Before the liberation, Craig remembered, it might have contained weapons, waiting for transport south to the Sahara, then over the border to Algeria. Now all it held was an old bicycle and the remains of a pram. An unshaded bulb gave off a grudging light, and Craig moved to the wall adjoining the bank. Patiently someone had chipped away the stone, just enough to admit a man of Boris's size, or Craig's. Behind the stone was a sheet of steel, and someone had cut a hole in that, too, just enough. The steel plate and broken rock were piled neatly by the hole. There was no sign of tools, or a blow torch.