"We're not bugging him then?" asked Craig.
"I was told it was too risky. We can get most of what we need from the wireless room anyway," said Andrews.
Craig nodded, and waited, immobile, patient. Cautiously Andrews threaded the end of the wire into an empty spool and wound on.
"It's ready," he said, and switched on.
Craig listened to Naxos imperious, Naxos mercantile, Naxos amorous—this last when Philippa came into the room. He heard him speak to his wife, his steward, his three secretaries, his bosun, his captain, and his valet. He heard radiotelephone conversations with shipping offices in New York and a new oil-rig in Zaarb. He heard him speak in English, Arabic, and Greek. When he talked to Trottia he spoke in Italian, and it was all about dresses and twin sets. When Trottia said "Good-bye," he said "Addio," but Naxos said: "You should say 'Dosvidanye' until you learn Chinese, my friend," and roared with laughter.
"Stop," said Craig, and Andrews switched off.
"Get rid of Dosvidanye, and what follows," said Craig. "Just wipe it off."
Andrews nodded.
"It'll take time," he said. 'You want to hear the rest
of it?"
"Yes," said Craig, and Andrews switched on again. The rest of it was Craig and Naxos. The sound of drinks poured, and Naxos saying: "It really is nice to see you again. Philippa likes you too. You look in good shape." Every sentence hard on top of the one before, the first syllable blurred as the sound of the voice switched on the mechanism. Craig heard it through.
"Keep the first bit—up to Tfou look in good shape'— then muck it up for a bit. Leave the stock-market tips in, that is, 'Buy Magna Electrics'—up to 'Railton Plastics. Blur the bit about 'Marine Foods.' Clean off the rest. Can you do that?"
"Cleaning ofFs easy. But blurring—I'd have to put something in the mechanism, a bit of paper or something, to explain why it happened. Otherwise whoever set this thing up would just be more suspicious."
"Not paper," said Craig. He watched a big, clumsy moth bump its way round Andrews's table lamp. Suddenly his hand was a blur of movement, the remains of the moth a powdery stain on his palm.
"How about that?" he said. "Insects get in everywhere."
"That'll do fine," said Andrews. Carefully Craig scraped it off onto a sheet of paper.
"Can you put it back?" asked Craig.
"I think so," Andrews said. "I made myself a key."
"I like that," Craig said. "I like it very much. You and I will get along fine."
This one's good, he thought. For a new boy he's bloody marvelous. He left Andrews then, and went to his cabin. The thread he had left over the lock was intact, his room untouched. Craig took a bottle of brandy from his drinks tray, poured out a large tot, and flushed it down the toilet. He ground out the stub of the cigarette he had lit in Andrews's room into the ashtray, and scribbled figures in a note pad, then wrote the words "Magna Electrics" and underlined them. From the bottom of his wardrobe he took out a suitcase, an elegant piece of pigskin that had been made by the same expert who had created Andrews's battered wreck. He removed the false bottom, and looked at the snub-nosed Smith and Wesson .38 airweight with the two-inch barrel, snug in its molded hollow, the spare rounds of ammunition and the soft leather holster. Carefully, soundlessly, he checked and cleaned the gun, then put it back. Bauer's knife was there too, in a leather sheath Loomis had had made in three hours. He left it where it was, for the time, and searched his own room for a microphone. He found none, poured a small brandy as the reward or vigilance, and went back to the party.
* Chapter 8 *
They were still on deck, drinking, dancing, and Naxos came over at once to Craig, dragging Philippa with him.
"You took a long time to send a wire," he said.
"I had to work out how much to risk," said Craig. "I don't like taking chances, Harry."
"You don't deserve to have money," Naxos bawled. "Go and dance with Philippa. You don't deserve that either."
He pushed them together once more, then stuck out an empty hand. A steward sprang out of the thin air and stuck a glass of raki into it.
She was firm and supple in his arms, touching him just enough, her hand pressing into the hard-packed muscle of his shoulder, her head uptilted, the wide blue eyes searching his face with an intensity that didn't match at all with the commonplaces she spoke.
"I hope you're being well looked after, John," she
said.
"Oh yes," said Craig. "It's fine."
"Anything you want—just ask. Harry wants you to have a good time."
"There's nothing, believe me," said Craig.
They passed Swyven, who was dancing with Pia, and telling her about the ruins of Mytilene.
"It's all too scrumptious," Craig said.
Philippa giggled softly.
"He is awful, isn't he?" she said.
"Terrible. What on earth does he do besides telling me all about Carpaccio?"
"He's a dress designer. Quite a good one really." "Paris?"
"Not that good," said Philippa. "He works with a man called Trottia in Venice."
"Do you buy his stuff?"
"God no," said Philippa, genuinely shocked. "I always go to Paris. I love dressing up. Pia goes to him. He did that thing she's wearing. Honestly, it's not too bad, is it?"
"Very nice," said Craig.
"I'm glad you think so," said Philippa. "I think Pia's taken rather a fancy to you. Would you mind awfully?"
"Not terribly. No," said Craig.
"You shouldn't laugh at me," said Phihppa.
"You shouldn't talk like that."
"It's the only way I can talk—except like a Hollywood whore. That's what I used to be. When I married Harry I wanted to start again, right from the beginning. So he hired somebody to teach me to talk like this."
"The Archbishop of Canterbury?"
"Well almost," said Phihppa. "A genuine British ladyship. She's the eighteenth countess or something, and she hasn't a bean."
Another dancer lurched towards them, and Craig swung her round, lifting her casually from under his feet.
"You're very strong," said Philippa.
"I used to work," said Craig, and she giggled again. It was a very satisfying thing, triggering off that low, rich laughter, that still held a touch of vulgar zest in it, despite all the eighteenth countess had done.
When the dance ended, Philippa took Craig's hand and led him over to Pia.
"Now be nice to her," she whispered. "It's about time someone was." Then "Darling," she said, "you must dance with John. He's so good."
"I'd love to," said Pia, and when the band started again, came to him, lifting her arms gently, submissively, moving surely to his touch.
"Philippa's right," said Pia. "You are good. I'm looking forward to Venice."
"It should be interesting," said Craig.
The Italian laughed, a clear, ringing sound that contrasted with Philippa's soft giggle. In a corner opposite, Swyven and Tavel talked together. The Frenchman heard the laughter, and scowled.
"I can never understand the English," she said. "Come here. I want to show you something."
She broke away, and walked towards the stem of the ship, down a companion ladder to what had once been the after gun turret.
The helicopter rested there.
"It's a helicopter," said Craig.
"Yes, of course. But come here," said Pia. She drew him into a pool of shadow behind it.