James Munro - The Money That Money Can't Buy

The voice at the other end said in English: "I'm terribly sorry. I seem to have the wrong number."

Craig spoke in Arabic again, and the voice at the other end apologized and hung up, then Craig replaced his own receiver.

He went back to the mezzanine. Istvan was inside the safe now, working on the lock of the trapdoor that led to the time-lock safe below. He was working with a furious but carefully controlled speed that Craig found admirable. He had understood the significance of the phone call without waiting to be told.

Boris said: "What happened?"

"The guard's chair fell over," said Craig, "then some fool dialed the wrong number." But it hadn't been a fool, Craig was sure. It had been Hornsey.

When the trapdoor opened, Istvan swung down, as sure as a cat. Craig followed; Boris stayed on guard on the floor above. They were now inside the time-lock safe. Istvan switched on the lamp he had brought with them, and they looked about them. The safe was a vast cupboard, lined with shelves, and each shelf was divided up into enormous pigeonholes, each with its own safe door.

"Number three on the right," said Craig.

Istvan nodded, but went first to the main door of the safe. He carefully cracked the glass panel that covered its four clocks, took it out, then unscrewed the metal panel that covered the mechanism. They could hear the clock ticking quite clearly. Delicately then he detached the springs from the balance wheels and the ticking stopped. He went over to each of the four large steel bars that secured the door in turn, and swung them into a vertical position, then turned the wheel by the door, making it swing open. Carefully he measured the gap. When it got to a foot he stopped.

"Another electronic eye," he said, then grinned. "It's lucky they have a wheel on both sides of this door. I'd hate to try to push it open."

Craig said: "All right. We've got an escape route. Get on with it."

He watched once more as Istvan tackled the lock. Before he had thought of a fisherman playing a salmon, but that was wrong. Istvan would never do anything so energetic. The analogy, he thought, should be different. Hungarians were often musicians, and that was what Istvan made him think of. The capable fingers working with such loving skill; it was like watching a pianist resolve a difficult cadenza. He looked at his watch. 12:30. Tania would be late at the Villa Florida. Then, for the last time, Istvan sighed, and the small safe door swung open.

He hadn't known what to expect. Bundle after bundle of notes probably; hard, useful currencies in sets of a hundred. Instead there were suitcases, six of them, a matched set in black leather with hand-forged brass locks and the initials BC in gold. Istvan hefted one from the shelf, then swore as it slipped in his fingers.

"I'd forgotten how much good paper weighs," he said.

"Get them all out," said Craig. "I'll go for Boris."

Craig scrambled into the safe above, then heard the soft click of a picklock on metal. He grinned and counted to a hundred before he fetched Boris. That was all the start Istvan could have.

The guards were still unconscious as Craig and

Boris scrambled down into the safe. Istvan had the cases drawn up in a neat row, but Craig made Istvan open one. They seemed almost too heavy to contain paper, but they did. A hundred and ten bundles of one-thousand-Deutschmark bills, a hundred bills to the bundle. Eleven million Deutschmarks, crisp and clean from the printer.

"It is almost too beautiful," said Istvan. "Really, people should take better care of their property."

17

She was waiting by the hole in the wall. As Craig came through the Makarov disappeared into her pocket and she helped drag out the suitcases, then went up to bring the Mercedes nearer. The men carried them up into the hall, waiting. They heard the sound of a key searching for a lock, and moved into the shadow as a fat and very drunken man staggered in and went toward the stairs. Boris's hand moved toward his coat, and Craig shook his head. The fat man lunged at the banister, caught it at last and began ponderously to climb. They waited until he turned the corner of the stairs, then heard a thud, followed by a woman's voice spraying Spanish like bursts from a machine gun. "Let's go," said Craig.

Outside the Merc waited, and they loaded it with the cases, and Istvan's tools.

"What now?" Boris asked.

Tania said: "Simmons. I have worked out a plan. It should be possible, I think."

She began to talk as she drove, and Craig agreed with her. It should be possible. Only Istvan was excluded, and that made him very happy. To wait

in the car was the height of his ambition.

They drove to where Craig had left the rented car, then Craig took its wheel and Tania sat in the back. Behind them Boris and Istvan followed in the Merc. She said nothing until they reached the street where the villa was, and when she did speak at last, her voice was worried.

"Remember, Craig, I must have Simmons alive."

"I remember," said Craig. She looked back out of the window. The Merc was still following.

"You're really leaving Istvan behind?" Craig asked.

"He can't steal that car," Tania said. "Nobody can—not without tools. And his are in the boot, with the money. Istvan won't go without money."

Then he pulled up outside the villa, and honked the horn. A watchman came up out of the darkness as Tania fumbled in a purse, handing Craig money.

Craig said in Arabic: "This lady is expected."

The watchman stared at her, then began to open the gate. As he did so, Craig began to explain in English why he could not wait for her. The gate opened, and Tania walked in, the Craig called: "You've forgotten this," and moved forward. The watchman turned too late, half lifting his iron club. Craig's blow was already on the way. He fell at once and Craig caught him, dragged him into the shadows, then put his hands behind his back and took piano wire from his pocket. From further down the street he could hear Boris's hurrying footsteps. He finished tying up the watchman as Boris joined him in the shadows. Tania walked down the path, and the two men moved alongside her, in cover, then sped to the steps that led to the villa's door, and stood waiting, one on each side. Tania looked quickly from one to the other, then pressed the bell. A burly Arab in a djibbah opened the door and said at once: "Good evening, madame."

Tania said: "There has been an accident, I think. Your watchman—" "Yes, madame?"

"He seems to have been attacked." She turned and pointed. "Just over there."

The burly Arab called out, then he and another Arab came out through the door. The sound of flesh meeting flesh was very small in the darkness, and both Craig and Boris caught their victims before they could fall, tied them with piano wire, took away the pistol each man carried as Tania walked into the hallway. They followed, their shoes noiseless on the floor's inevitable marble, then moved to the door behind which was the sound of voices to stand again one on each side, guns in their hands. Craig noticed the swell of Tania's splendid breast as she breathed in—she gave no other sign of fear. Then she opened the door and walked in, leaving the door open behind her. There was a split second for her to choose the words that would tell them how to act. "Forgive me," meant go ahead; "Excuse me" meant get out quick.

"Forgive me," said Tania. "I know it's late—"

Craigwent in fast, pushing Tania clear as he leaped to one side. There were three men in the room: Simmons, Brodski, and Medani. Their look of surprise at the sight of Craig was perfectly genuine. For a moment it seemed almost a scene of

farce, so intense it was.

"Tania," said Brodski. "What on earth—" He looked at Craig. "The man who fought with Jennifer," he said.