James Munro - The Money That Money Can't Buy

"Is that all you know about me?" Craig asked. Simmons moved at last, and the gun followed him hungrily. He stayed very still. From where he stood Craig could see Boris in the doorway.

He said: "I don't have to tell anybody not to move." Their stillness was no longer comic; it was full of terror.

"Keep your hands where I can see them," said Craig, and they obeyed him.

Brodski said: "I don't understand why you should be with him. You—a Pole—"

Tania said: "I'm a Russian."

Brodski had lived all his life on instant decisions. As a fencing champion in Cracow, as a fighter pilot, as a club owner, learning when to fight and when to bribe, and as a spy, buying information in London; always it had been the moment of absolute certainty that counted. He made a decision now. This woman whom he adored had him marked for death. He would not die alone.

He dropped suddenly to one side, and his hand moved to his pocket. Craig and Boris fired together, and Brodski died, with a Smith and Wesson bullet in his right shoulder and a Makarov bullet in the heart. He fell very close to Tania. She did not look at him. Her eyes were on Simmons. When he saw Craig's gun swing to Brodski, Simmons had risen, but the barrel was pointing at him again, and he was still.

"Your daughter in bed?" asked Craig.

"Yes," said Simmons.

"Anybody else here?"

Simmons shook his head.

"Watch the door," Craig said to Boris. "Keep the girl out of here."

Boris looked at Tania, and she nodded. He left.

Medani said: "Are we all to die?"

"It's possible," said Craig.

"Because if so I should like time to pray," said Medani.

"Pray then," said Craig, and Medani did so, his lips moving. Tania looked at him in wonder, then began to go through a desk in the room, turning out papers.

"May one ask what you're looking for?" Simmons asked.

"Not your money," said Craig. "We've got that already. All of it. Out of Credit Labonne."

The news shook Simmons. He rocked back on his heels, then came in again.

"In exchange for your manhood?" he asked.

Craig chuckled, pushed his gun into the waistband of his trousers. "I wonder what you hope to get by making me mad. A quick death?"

There was the sound of Jane's voice outside the door, calling out to her father.

"You'd better answer her," said Craig.

Simmons took a step forward.

"Everything's all right," he shouted. "Go up to your room."

"But there's a man here with a gun. And I heard a shot."

"Thieves," said Simmons, moving closer to the door. "They ran away. Go to your room."

He was now very close to Craig. Medani stopped praying. Behind them Tania still searched through the bureau. Deliberately Craig half turned away from Medani. It was the chance they had been waiting for, the system that Zelko and Simmons had used when they—when they—Craig closed his mind to what had happened and concentrated on the practice session in the cellar. That was how it would be. Medani slumped forward in his chair, crouched like a runner, feet tensed for a spring. Craig looked again at Tania, and Simmons moved.

His fist curled up from his side, aimed at Craig's neck, but Craig was already leaping away from him, hands grabbing for Medani as he came out of the chair, clutching his arm, pulling him into the three-fingered strike that slammed into his stomach, spinning him round to spoil Simmons's attack, the young Arab clutching at Simmons for support before Craig's final blow cracked to the back of his neck and he fell. Simmons leaped over him, and Craig swung his head aside just in time from a punch aimed at the throat, then his own return blow was countered and Simmons threw him, then leaped after. Craig rolled away from a kick that would have killed him, then flicked a blow at Simmons's outstretched foot, making him stumble as Craig scrambled up again. They faced each other, and Craig could see no fear in Simmons's eyes, only the boiling hate that can take a man to a lightning victory, or betray him into disaster. Simmons's hand, held flat, swept at his shoulder, seeking the collarbone, and Craig swerved, wary for the second blow that would follow the feint. It was a fist strike, the one he wanted, and Craig grabbed the fist, his hands locking round it in a clean smack, using Simmons's own momentum, pulling him into the bar of his outstretched leg so that he dived at the wall. Even then the man's reflexes were fantastic, as he hit the wall spinning, his head tucked in, arms in front of him to take the blow, cushioning the shock so that he could leap straight back. But this time Craig too had moved, and it was his foot that shot out, leg rigid from thigh to ankle, slamming into Simmons's body even as he leaped. A terrible blow, its force carefully controlled, worked out in exact accord with the vengeance Craig had to have. It took Simmons in the groin, and the fight was over. Simmons lay on the floor and screamed until Craig went to him, hauled him up, and struck again. Then he was silent.

Tania said: "That is all, Craig. You will not touch him again."

Craig looked at her. The Makarov was back in her hand. From the doorway he could hear Boris's voice as he stood and looked down on Simmons.

"We have been kind to you," Boris said. "Be satisfied."

"Do you know what he did to me?" asked Craig.

Tania looked down at Simmons. Even unconscious, he was in agony.

"We don't know," she said. "We don't want to know. But whatever it was, you have paid him."

Craig turned to Medani, now struggling to his feet, his hands pressed to his stomach.

"What about him?" he said. "And the girl?"

"The girl's locked in her room," Boris said. "We don't need this one." He smiled and raised the

Makarov. "And he has said his prayers." Craig said: "We'll have him." "Alive?" asked Tania.

"His father is important," said Craig. "No doubt he'll do a lot to get his son back unharmed."

Tania's head came up and he added quickly: "You've got Simmons after all. That just leaves the girl."

"We don't need her," said Tania. "But we can't leave her here."

Craig said: "I'll take her, too."

"Such chivalry," Tania said. Craig shrugged.

"She might be useful," he said. "She's her father's heir." He turned to Medani. "We will speak in English," he said.

Medani groaned, and rubbed his stomach.

"I feel as if I had been stabbed," he said. "What did you hit me with?"

"This," said Craig, and held up his three fingers. "You're lucky. I used my foot on Simmons."

Medani looked down at the man on the floor. His face showed the fatalism of a race that knew defeat inevitably meant death at best; at worst torture, mutilation, not only for the loser but for everyone connected with him. It had always been so; it could be no different now.

"You won," he said. "We lost." He looked at Boris. "Why do you not let this man kill me?"

"You fool," Craig said. "You stupid bloody fool." The proud head came up to the whip of his voice, arrogant even in defeat.

"Don't you understand yet?" said Craig. "Why did you join Simmons?"

"He and Brodski were going to save us from the

Russians," Medani said. "We do not want communism here. Simmons would keep it out."

"By letting the Chinese in?"

The arrogance turned to a childish bewilderment.

"He would not—" Medani began. "A man called Chan was here yesterday," said Craig.

"He's staying with the governor. My father would not meet him," said Medani.

"Simmons did. I saw him. I heard him. He'll give Chan anything he wants—for help against Russia."

"You lie," said Medani.

Tania said: "No. It's all here. Among his papers. May he see?"

Craig nodded, and watched the birth of disillusion as the young man read. At last he raised his face, and there was no hope in it at all.