"Thank you," he said.
Then he died.
· · · ·
Craig went back to the nursing home, and told Grierson what had happened, then waited as Grierson put in a 999 call to the police and told them where to find the ambulance. Sir Matthew and Selina were locked in the office labeled "Matron." Sir Matthew was teaching her how to play be-zique.
"Loomis was at Chequers," said Grierson. "He'd started back before all this happened. I reached him by radio. He's mad as hell."
"He would be," said Craig.
"He thinks Naxos will try to get away," said Grierson. "I've phoned London. They're watching the yacht now. It hasn't got steam up yet."
"He won't leave without his wife," said Craig.
"He will if Schiebel tells him to. We're to make plans to stop her. Have you got any ideas?"
Craig thought for a moment, then picked up the telephone and dialed a number. It rang twenty-three times before Candlish's voice answered, blasphemous and sleepy.
Craig said: "Never mind that. You know who this is?"
"Aye," Candlish said. "You're the only one who'd have the bloody nerve to get me out of bed this hour of the morning."
"Got a job for you," Craig said, and began to explain. At last Candlish said, "When?"
"Soon as I tell you."
"All right," said Candlish. "Cost you two thousand. Old one-pound notes. No receipt."
"Payment on completion," said Craig, and hung up, then turned back to Grierson. "She'll be in the AZ building," he said.
Grierson nodded.
"I suppose he wants us to get her out," Craig said. "He does," Grierson said.
Craig pushed his hand through his hair, and was suddenly very tired. There were all sorts of things he wanted to tell Grierson: it couldn't be done; Loomis was sending them to their deaths; Schiebel would kill her rather than let her go back to them; but Grierson knew all this as well as he did himself.
"I need some kip," he said. "Let me know when Fatty gets back."
Ninety minutes later he woke to find Loomis and Grierson standing beside him. He sat up on the settee and looked at Loomis, expecting an empurpled travesty of rage that he could jeer at, yield to, and ultimately come to terms with. Instead he found an old man, his pale face mottled with red, and somehow not nearly so fat as he'd remembered.
"It's bad, son," said Loomis. "Couldn't be worse. First off Schiebel's killed Swyven, and his parents. But that's the least of it. The Zaarb army's mobilized and moving west. That can only mean the Haram. Naxos isn't going to sign any treaties with us, and his wife's in the AZ building. You got the Selina person back and I'm grateful, believe me, but it doesn't make a scrap of difference now."
The red, scrambled telephone rang. Grierson picked it up and handed it to Loomis, who said "Loomis" almost politely, listened in patience to its metallic quacking, then put it down. "A bit more cheer," he said. "There's a rumor in New York that the Zaarb representative's going to speak in the UN tomorrow. He's going to demand the withdrawal of British troops and the setting up of a commission to determine Zaarb's western frontier, which he claims is beyond the Haram. Albania's going to second the motion. And while the debate continues Zaarb's going to send its army into the Haram—to suppress the bourgeois bandits who are interfering with the progress of a free people. This is an internal
matter and nobody else is to interfere—least of all us. We can't anyway. We've lost Naxos's vote." For a moment he regained his usual vitriolic disgust. "That bloody Chinn," he said. "I could pull the petals off his carnation." A manservant brought in a thermos jug of coffee and three cups. Despite his dark coat and deferential politeness, he looked like, and was, a Commando unarmed-combat instructor. He caught the tail end of Loomis's scowl, and vanished like a genie. Loomis poured coffee.
"I had it made," he said. "The P.M. was giving me a cigar every three and a half minutes. With Naxos sewn up, Zaarb would stay as it was, and when you two picked up the princess we could walk into the Haram any time we wanted. He poured me brandy with his own hands. Even offered to discuss next year's estimates. Now this." He sipped the coffee, hot, bitter, black as his mood. "The little yellow brothers have been busy," he said. "Buying equipment—nuclear stuff —and making a bit themselves. They've also recalled a lot of their best students from Iron Curtain universities. The post graduate lot. The ones who got firsts in nuclear physics. They're all ready for that cobalt, son. And there's only one way to stop them now. We'll have to go to war. Just what our reputation in the Middle East needs. Great Britain invades a developing nation. Look great in the People's Daily—and Pravda."
"Better than a cobalt bomb," said Craig.
"The P.M. wants a police action," said Loomis. "He thinks we should tell Russia and the U.S.A. what's happening —then all three countries would be involved. But that's messy, son. Who would be in charge? How many men would each country send? What would happen to the cobalt when the police action's finished? And how long would it take to set up a deal like that? Zaarb might get enough cobalt out before we were ready to move. We'd be in a worse state than China. A hell of a lot worse." He blew his nose with startling suddenness into a vast and dazzling handkerchief, then turned to stare at Craig.
"You'll have to go in and get her," he said. "I got no right to ask it, but I'm asking it anyway. You get her, Naxos votes, and we're okay. Any other way—we've had it, son."
Craig said: "I don't know." He stood up, hard and tall beside Loomis's unwieldy mass. "I'll go in if I have to— but I want some chance, Loomis. There's no point in going there and getting myself knocked off."
I'll come with you," Grierson said. "That goes without saying."
"No," said Craig. "That isn't the point. Look, supposing we both go—and get nothing—where the hell are we? Schiebel either has us killed or denounces us as assassins, and either way it's the department's loss and he's still got Fhp Naxos."
"You realize what he'll do to her?"
T realize it," said Craig. "If he does, I'll kill him."
Unnoticed by Craig, Grierson looked up at Loomis. The fat man gave an infinitesimal shake of the head.
"But I need an edge—the thing's got to have some chance of success," Craig said.
Gradually the color came back to Loomis's face, and somehow his paunch swelled out again to the proud curve of a three-decker's mainsail.
"I'll get you an edge, son," he said. "I promise you."
Then the red telephone shrilled again, and Loomis scooped it up, listened, barked once and slammed it down.
"Naxos's yacht's very active all of a sudden," he said.
"Did you do anything about stopping it?" Craig nodded.
"We better go there then," said Loomis and picked up the red phone again. As he talked, Craig looked at Grierson, trying for words that were hard to find.
"If I don't have some advantage, I just can't manage it any more," he said. "Dyton-Blease taught me that."
Grierson squirmed, because he was British, and found it impossible to cope with that kind of honesty.
"You had the guts to say it," he said. T didn't."
"You can do your penance later. We've got a helicopter coming," said Loomis. His great hands slammed together, the fingers interlaced, and one by one the knuckles cracked like gunshots. The other two men winced.
"You can always get service cooperation when it's too late to need it," said Loomis.
oo«
The helicopter chattered its way through the blackness of the night, until London lay below, a million spangles of light, the river curling among them, a dark, glistening