"Would you want it any other way?" Craig asked.
"God no," said Naxos. "I've made a fortune out of Zaarb, and it's cost me ten years of my life in worry. Flip and I want to enjoy what's left. And that's where you come in."
"I know it," Craig said. "That's what I'm here for."
"Zaarb wants me dead," said Naxos, "but if I die it all goes to Philippa, and she'll vote against them. So Zaarb can't kill me. It makes them very unhappy."
"I bet," said Craig.
"All they can do is get at me through Flip," said
Naxos.
"Or offer you more money."
The words were out before he could stop them, but in any case they had to be said. Ever since he'd talked with Loomis, Craig had thought of that particular risk. Naxos was a businessman, who wanted the power that money brought. More money—more power.
"I'm satisfied," said Naxos. "I've got enough."
Craig knew that he was lying.
"A hundred million pounds. A one and eight zeros. Isn't that enough?"
"I wouldn't know," said Craig. "I've still got three zeros to go."
And Naxos laughed then, threw back his head and bellowed his brave bull's laughter.
'Tell me about your guests," Craig said. "Who doesn't
fit?"
T checked the list myself," Naxos said. "So did my security people. There's only one who's wrong—Pia Busoni." "How did you meet her?"
"I didn't. She got chummy with Flip. She's very like Flip, in a way. What I mean is, she wants to act, but she's no good. And she knows it. It makes her desperate—or that's what Flip says—and believe me she would know. That kid's at the stage where she'd dive off the Eiffel Tower into a wet sponge if somebody took pictures on the way down."
'That doesn't make her an agent," Craig said.
"I told you," said Naxos. "Flip's fond of her. They spend a lot of time together. If anyone could get at my wife, it's Pia Busoni. And she's broke, and not getting the parts, and been around too long. In my book she's a risk."
"She'll be watched," Craig said. "What about those two aristocrats in search of a peasant?"
'Tavel and Swyven? They're okay. Like you say, they're aristocrats. Tavel was in Indochina. A prisoner. The Viets gave him a rough time. All they do is fool around, Craig. Believe me they're clean."
"All right. When do we go to London?"
"We got ten days," said Naxos. "Let's have some fun
first."
"Where?"
"Flip wants to go to Venice. I got a place there." "It's a bad place to protect anybody in," said Craig. "I'm sorry," said Naxos. "Believe me I'm sorry. But if Flip wants to go, we'll just have to go."
Craig looked at him in amazement. Naxos meant it. "All right," he said. "I'll send for reinforcements." "Who?"
"He'll be good," Craig said. "If you're going to behave like that, we'll need the best."
Naxos said: "I'll help you all I can. Anything you want, just ask. And I mean anything."
"All right. Give me some stock-market tips," said
Craig.
"Huh?"
'This is a business conference, right? So tell me some business. Somebody will check on it anyway."
Naxos said, "You were always a hard man to buy cigars from."
He went to a desk table, unlocked a drawer.
"Buy Magna Electrics," he said. "All you can get. And Railton Plastics. Try a flyer in Marine Foods, too. It'll do you good to use your own money."
"Greedy," said Craig. "Let me talk to your wireless operator."
"Why on earth—"
'To instruct my broker. We want it known we're in business, don't we?"
Naxos pressed a button and murmured into an intercom. "He'll be along in a minute," he said. "I'll just introduce you and leave you to it. I have to get back to Flip."
Craig said; "I wish you would reconsider about Venice."
Naxos said: "You think I want to go? Look, you know my wife was on drugs?" Craig nodded. "Well, I got her off them. It nearly killed us both. But she still wants them, Craig, and anything that takes her mind off them she can have. Including Venice."
"Suppose she was kidnapped?"
"That's up to you," said Naxos. "I know what's going to happen if we don't go. I've seen it before—and it's worse than dying."
Craig was about to speak when there was a discreet tap at the door, and the wireless operator came in, browned and handsome in whites.
"Andrews," said Naxos, "this is Mr. Craig. He has some stuff he wants you to send." He turned to Craig. "You'll do your best with that other business?"
"Of course," said Craig. "But don't ask for guarantees."
"I don't need to, do I?" said Naxos, and left.
Andrews said: "What can I do for you, sir?"
Craig looked at the photograph that Loomis had given him, compared it with Andrews's face. This looked like the man. He took out a packet of cigarettes and offered it to him.
"No, thank you, sir. Not at the moment," said Andrews.
"Don't you like this brand?" asked Craig. "Occasionally," Andrews said. "But not often." Craig took out his lighter, set fire to the photograph, used it to light a cigarette. This was the man.
Craig tore a leaf from a scratch pad, rested it on the hard top of the desk, where pencil marks wouldn't show, and scribbled "Is this room bugged?" and then handed it to Andrews.
"I'll get on to it right away," said Andrews.
Methodically the two men went through the cabin. Andrews worked on the intercom and radiotelephone as the most obvious places, and Craig concentrated on the furniture. He found it at last behind Philippa's portrait, the tiny microphone let into the molding of the frame, a flat, gilded disk that exactly matched the rest of the frame, but projected a little too far. Behind the portrait was a tiny transister recorder, with wires instead of tape, working from flat batteries linked in a series and stuck to the back of the frame.
Craig snapped his fingers, and Andrews came over, turned it off and ran the wire back on to its spool, that was scarcely an inch in diameter. "Neat," he said. "Looks Japanese —except I hear the Chinese are doing a copy now. Did you see how slowly it turned? You could get a hell of a lot from one spool."
"A bit hit or miss though, surely?" said Craig.
"No," said Andrews. "The trigger mechanism's so delicate it switches on and off when somebody speaks."
"That's fantastic," said Craig.
"It's true," said Andrews. "Come along to my cabin and 111 play it back for you."
"Later," said Craig. "You know he's going to Venice?" Andrews nodded. "He says it's vital—for his wife's health. Has he contacted her doctor?"
"He's got one aboard," said Andrews. "He's also tried to get hold of a specialist in London. Sir Matthew Chinn. The rest's all been business. Stuff to his New York office, all routine, same kind of stuff to Zaarb, an order to Paris—diamonds for the madam—and one to Venice to a chap called Trottia, a dress designer."
"Got the address?"
"In my cabin," said Andrews. "But he's clean. It's all about evening dresses and twin sets and playsuits."
"Mrs. Naxos buys clothes in Paris," said Craig. "Tweeds in London. Odds and ends in Rome. Venice is for peasants."
"Okay," said Andrews. "Whatever you say."
"I've been introduced to the Count de Tavel, the
Honorable Mark Swyven, and Pia Busoni," said Craig. "She's the one Naxos doesn't fancy. I don't like the two men. What do you think?"
"I sent the guest list to London. They said they were all clean," Andrews said.
"Ask them to check those three again."
"Will do."
"Let's go to your cabin and listen," said Craig. "This place gives me delusions of grandeur."
Andrews's quarters were about cabin class on a Cunarder, and Craig wondered why on earth Andrews should bother risking his neck when he could live in such luxury and be a coward. He wondered why he should risk his own neck, and refused to face the answer. Danger was a craving he hadn't learned to stifle since he was seventeen years old. He waited, immobile, as Andrews took a transistor recorder from beneath the bottom of his battered suitcase, and delicately, painstakingly, connected up the tiny spool.