James Munro - The Money That Money Can't Buy

"He told us it was to be a crusade," said Medani. "We were fighting for Islam, he said. Our way of life. Our history." He turned to the unconscious figure and spat. "We fought only for him."

"We'd better let your father know," said Craig, and turned to Tania. "I'll have to stay," he said. "This is important."

"You may be caught," she said.

Craig's hand weighed down on Medani's shoulder.

"I am this man's guest," he said.

* * *

He went up to the bedroom. She lay on the bed, seeing nothing, feeling nothing, the little bottle still clasped in her hands. Craig strode over to her, twitched it from her fingers. The bottle was almost full. He sighed his relief and hauled her upright, then his hand cracked against her cheeks, left and right, till she whimpered and her eyes opened.

"I couldn't," she said. "I wanted to, but I couldn't." Her fingers moved up to her cheeks as the pain came to her. "Did you kill Daddy?"

"No," said Craig. "He's going on a trip."

"A long one?"

"He's never coming,back."

She said: "I know what he did to you ... Will I see him?"

"No," said Craig.

She began to cry then, and he left her. It was time to talk to Istvan. He took the Merc's keys with him.

He was still in the car, and beside him sat an earnest young man in a crumpled lightweight suit. The two of them were talking furiously in German.

"Mr. Hornsey," said Craig. "How nice to see you."

"Nice to see you," said Hornsey. "At least I hope so. The trouble is—it's the money, you see. Simmons's money, I mean."

"Our money," said Craig.

"Well, our money really," said Hornsey. "At least not even ours. Not really. Oh, I better explain. My name's not Hornsey by the way. It's Heinze. I'm a German, Mr. Craig. At least my father was— my mother's British. I work for the Defense of the Constitution. I was controller for Driver. We hired him to work for us too."

"To find forged twenty-dollar bills?"

"No," said Hornsey, "to find forged Deutschmarks. The dollars were just bait. Unfortunately they made poor Driver greedy. You have the Deutschmarks, Mr. Craig. A million pounds' worth."

"Oh my God," said Craig, and began to laugh.

"It gets better," said Istvan bitterly. "Guess who made the plates."

"They made two actually," said Hornsey. "A twenty-dollar bill and a hundred-Deutschmark note."

"Who did?" said Craig.

"The Russians," said Hornsey, and Craig began to laugh once more.

"It was done during the cold war," Hornsey said. "They got the idea from a scheme of Hitler's during the war—forged five-pound notes to wreck the British economy, you remember?" Craig nodded. "The Russians were going to do the same —against us and the Americans. For some reason or other they didn't use it, but Brodski's agents found the man who had the plates. He defected, and they bought them from him, made the money and stored it here. The twenty-dollar bill was poor —Simmons only made a few and got rid of them."

"Calvet got hold of one," said Craig.

"So did we," said Hornsey. "Driver used it to reach Brodski. It was very foolish of him. But the Deutschmark was excellent. We cannot allow it to be used, Mr. Craig. It would make West Germany look foolish."

The sacred symbol, Craig thought. The god who must not be mocked.

"What do you want us to do?" he asked.

"Destroy them," said Craig.

"Destroy a million?" said Istvan. There was horror in his voice.

"I'll see," said Craig.

* * *

He told them what Hornsey had said, and at first they hadn't believed him, but when at last they did, Tania had laughed, Boris had drunk brandy, and Medani had continued to brood on the wickedness that Craig had only just prevented him from committing. Compared with that, a mere million was of no interest. Tania and Boris looked at the specimens he had bought, compared them with the genuine article Hornsey had given him. The differences were minute, but they existed. Tania rolled up a forged note, flicked a table lighter to it, lit a cigarette, and watched the note crumple into ash in her fingers, then dropped it into the ashtray.

"In a way I'm glad," she said. "After all, we're not criminals, Craig."

He looked at the dead Brodski, at Simmons writhing in a coma.

"No," said Craig. "What criminal would behave as we do?"

He sent Medani for Jane then, gave him the keys of the Chevrolet, and told him to take the girl to his father's house in Tangier. Then he went back to the Mercedes, drove it to the villa gates, and waited as Boris loaded Simmons into the car.

"We've given him a shot," Tania said. "He won't be any trouble." She smiled at Hornsey. "Nor will we, young man, not if you destroy that money. Our government might find it embarrassing."

"It will be destroyed, I promise," Hornsey said.

"Let's go then."

Craig drove them out of the town, and along the road that led to Ceuta. The launch was waiting offshore, and in the Atlantic, off Gibraltar, the inevitable Russian trawler waited for it. They would be home in a week, Tania promised, and Comrade-General Chelichev would be delighted to see them, and Simmons. With his evidence the next space shot would be a success.

"We are grateful to you," she said. "The comrade-general will tell your chief so."

"Thanks," said Craig.

"It will be easy for you to get out?" Tania asked.

"Medani will fix it," said Craig. "He'll alibi Istvan and me for the night. Then we'll go to visit his father. We'll be okay with him."

He pulled up on the roadside. The sea was a black line against a smudge of sand which in daylight was a blinding white. There was a dinghy with an outboard beached, and behind it, out to sea, port and starboard lights glowing like jewels, a power boat waited.

"We must go," said Tania, and left the car. Boris followed, carrying Simmons like a parcel.

"Good-bye, Craig," he said. "Do svidanye," and trudged off down the beach.

Tania kissed him on the mouth, demanding a response. There was none.

"Good-bye, Craig," she said. "I wish I had known you when you liked women."

Then she too went off to the dinghy.

They watched as the outboard sputtered, saw the faint silver wake cut its way to the power boat, then listened to the deep, muted roar of her engines as

her mast lights dwindled and died.

"This is a very deserted road," said Hornsey.

"You want to do it now?" Istvan asked, anguish in his voice.

Craig said: "The longer we put it off the harder it'll be."

"Wait," said Istvan, and turned to Hornsey. "I have people lean contact," he said. "Businessmen. They would pay perhaps ten thousand pounds for this money."

"No," said Hornsey.

"Twenty thousand," said Istvan.

"No."

"They would be very discreet. They would not distribute more than a hundred thousand pounds' worth in one year." Hornsey was silent. "Twenty-five thousand," said Istvan. "It's the top price to pay for hot money."

"You can't buy this money," Hornsey said. "You couldn't buy it for a million. It has to burn."

"At least let me keep the cases," Istvan said. They let him.

They dug a hole on the beach, filled it with crumpled notes, soaked them with petrol siphoned from the car, lit it with a wad of notes lit like a torch. One by one they dropped the sheafs of stiff, elegant paper into the flames, watched them writhe into glowing ash eager for the next consignment..

Istvan held his hands to the flames.

"I used to dream of being warm in Siberia," he said. "It was a lovely dream. This is a nightmare." He scowled as Hornsey went to the car for the last consignment.

"They promised me I would be rich," he said.

"They lied, for they were going to kill me, but they promised—and a Hungarian lives on promises. Now I have nothing."