"You tell these three they've graduated. I'll take David first, then Joanna, then Andrew. Loomis will see them at the department—and give them their first briefing. For them it'll be the real thing. That way we'll know what they'd really be like—if and when."
They walked back to the hall, and then on to the sun-warmed steps. At once the dogs appeared, then waited as Pascoe walked with Craig and saw him to his car. Craig slammed the door and Pascoe whistled; the dogs clustered round him.
"I'll keep them here till the gates close," Pascoe said.
Craig switched on and the engine exploded with life, then muted at once to murmured power.
"I hope you won't hurt my students too much," Pascoe said.
"I hope they won't hurt me," said Craig.
CHAPTER 3
Loomis gave the American lunch at his club. Years ago Loomis had decided that that was what Americans liked: the secret places of the Establishment, the byways that led to the corridors of power, the shabby leather of libraries, the mahogany bar, and pink gins before lunch with a man who had once been an admiral on the China Station. Then a traditional lunch—smoked salmon, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, gooseberry fool, washed down with draught bitter. The American was a gourmet, and the food at Loomis's club was appalling, but Loomis had allowed for this. It made the American defensive. He had come to ask a favor after all. Loomis ordered the beef underdone, then asked for an extra portion of sprouts. Even the waiter was awed by this: the sprouts at Loomis's club were notorious.
Throughout the meal they talked of horses. Loomis had once served in a cavalry regiment and had hunted at Melton Mowbray; the American owned a ranch in Arizona and bred quarter horses. Their talk was detailed, impassioned, and very boring to others, as it was meant to be, and the American was grateful for it. It helped distract his mind from the appalling food. When they had finished the meal, Loomis said, "If I were you I wouldn't try the coffee here. It isn't all that good," and to the end of his days the American couldn't decide if he were serious.
"Tell you what," said Loomis. "Come into the little library. I got a picture of Jumbo there. Horse I rode with the Quorn in '33. Seventeen hands and jumped stone walls."
The American said carefully, "If you're sure it's all right?"
"It's perfect," said Loomis. "Nobody can disturb us there."
They got up, and the headwaiter bowed as they left.
"I hope you enjoyed your meal, sir," he said.
"Amazing," the American said. "Absolutely amazing."
"You don't get grub like that in the States," said Loomis. The American shuddered.
The little library was drab and oppressively hot. It was also safe. Loomis began talking at once.
"We got your request," he said, "and I've been looking around. You want some pretty talented lads."
"We do," the American said.
"I thought you had some," said Loomis. "The ones I met seemed to know what they were doing."
"We've had trouble in the Middle East," the American said. "Big trouble. There's a leak somewhere and we haven't plugged it yet. Anybody we sent could get blown."
"We've had trouble too," said Loomis. "We've fixed it for now, but we can't use anybody that's known there. It would have to be a new face."
"That's perfectly okay," the American said. "Provided it's somebody you have faith in."
"I have faith in them all," said Loomis. "I made them. But I made them my way. Trouble is they don't understand your system. As a matter of fact, neither do I."
The American hesitated. What he had to say now was painful to him, but it was an order. It had to be said.
"We would take it as a favor if your department would handle the whole operation," he said at last.
"Ah now, wait a minute. This is a biggish exercise," said Loomis, "and I'm a bit short-handed, d'you see."
They began to bargain and the American discovered that Loomis had the ethical standards of a horse trader.
At last he said, "Sir, I realize that we're asking you to mount a big operation, but what you're asking is far too much. After all, you can't give us any guarantee of success, now can you?"
"I think I can," said Loomis. "You can pay for the whole bag of tricks COD."
"Would you care to amplify that, sir?"
Loomis said genially, "Ah, I forgot. You used to be a lawyer, didn't you? Put it this way. If we fail, you give me nothing. If we succeed, you give me the lot. That do you?"
"You guarantee success?"
"I guarantee it," said Loomis. "You want to draw up a contract?"
"Your word is acceptable," the American said. "So's yours," said Loomis. "When d'you want us to start?"
"Just as soon as you can. This one's urgent."
"It'll take a week or two. I'm running some tests. I got to find the right operators."
"You think you'll need more than one?"
"Bound to," Loomis said. "I gave you a guarantee, didn't I? You got stuff I need, son. I got to have it. That means using a decoy."
"An expendable decoy?"
"We're all expendable in this business," Loomis said, surprised. "Surely you know that by now."
This time the American was sure Loomis was not joking. He got up, took a framed photograph from the wall, and passed it to the American. It was of an enormous and very handsome horse.
"That's Jumbo," he said.
"Don't you have one with you up?" the American asked.
Loomis grinned, a vast and evil grin. "Certainly not," he said. "Security burned 'em all. Want to stay for tea?"
"I'm sorry, I can't," the American said. "I have to be in Paris this evening."
"Paris," said Loomis. "I pop over there myself now and again. Nice place. But you can't trust the grub."
He saw the American out, went back to the main library, spread the Financial Times over his face, and sprawled out motionless. Around him the sleepers whinnied and snorted. They reminded him of Jumbo . . . The Americans would pay if they had to, but only if. The information he had asked in payment was too high a price to be paid willingly. That meant two sets of risks—the operation itself and the chance of the Americans snatching the prize at the last minute. The men who brought this off would have to be good. So would the decoy . . . And the decoy was expendable . . . Pity, that . . . Loomis slept, and his snore was thunder.
David Branch had not expected to like his first assignment. He had imagined himself being too much aware of the danger, too much afraid, if one were honest, to be able to enjoy applying the skills he had learned with so much labor; but it wasn't like that at all. He'd met Loomis and the task had been explained to him, and of course he'd chosen to be taken on as Craig's secretary. That was also pretty good. A nice room in an enormous flat, delicious meals, excellent wine, and not too much to do. Craig had made a disreputable fortune, and he got his money's worth in the way of comfort. He also had a secret. Something to do with Morocco, and some shady French maneuvers of ten years ago, when the sultan abdicated. Loomis wanted that secret: Branch had to get it.
At first, the job looked easy. Craig had nothing in safe deposits, nothing—except money—at his bank, and no safe in the flat. Moreover, Craig was a man who was easily bored, and hence always involved in small, trivial expeditions: to art galleries, to the movies, the theater, new bars, new restaurants. Branch should have had all the time he needed, but he never did. Too often Craig forgot things and telephoned him to fetch them, or asked his cook to come in early and prepare a special dish, or simply got bored with what he was doing and left the movies halfway through the film. He moved very quietly too, and he was big. The hell of a size. Branch found consolation in the thoroughness of his training, but as the days slipped by and the deadline drew near the feeling of enjoyment left him. He began to worry if he would ever find that damn piece of paper.