"O-o- I hate bugs," said Tempest.
"You'll hate these, all right," said Craig.
They took some finding, but they were there. The wire recorder was two flat disks, let into the molding of plaster round the wall. Craig ran the wire back and played it through, and Tempest heard herself being loved. As the sounds came through she blushed an angry red and pulled the sheet up to her chin, and her shame was so deep she never noticed that Craig had possessed her in silence, and his words before their love-making were just words; polite and meaningless. Tempest hadn't time to think of this; her mind was pinned down on her shame. Then he found the video tape recorder. The camera lens was set in one of the splendid brass knobs of the bed, the tape ran down the brass pillar and curled on to the spool of the machine that had its own compartment in the enormous mattress. Sustained pressure on the bed set the camera going, and just in case one preferred love in the dark the machine had its own infrared bulb. Simmons thought of everything.
"Congratulations," said Craig. "Simmons just made you a filmstar."
She wanted to smash it there and then, but Craig wouldn't let her. Instead he took her nail file, and slowly, patiently made a tiny hole in the camera, then set the machine going again. That way Simmons couldn't be sure, and it would be as well to keep Simmons guessing.
"You going to say anything about this?" he asked.
She didn't answer. When he looked toward her he saw only a huddle of bedclothes. He cursed her inside his mind: this wasn't the time to have delicate feelings, but it seemed she had them anyway. What about the honeysuckle and the bee now? he thought. Or maybe that was just money. He went over to her, rubbed her shoulder.
"Hey," he said. "Hey look. This is me, remember? I was a filmstar, too."
His voice was gentle, soft, a friend's voice, and she looked up at last. She was crying.
"Put the light out," she said. "I look awful."
"No," s-id Craig. "You're beautiful, Tempest.
That's a bloody silly name."
His hand gripped the sheet and he began to pull it down. She clung to it.
"Who's side are you on?" Craig asked. "Yours or his?"
"My real name's Margaret," she said.
"That doesn't suit you either," said Craig.
His hand scooped beneath her neck and round her body, holding her. The woman struggled, and found it was no use. When she lay still at last, he pulled the sheet away and held her in his arms.
"That's better," said Craig, and she nodded. She was as helpless and obedient as a child.
Later she said: "I've been here twice before. He pays awfully well, and the blokes aren't bad. I suppose you think that's horrible?"
"You know what I think," said Craig, and she laughed.
"Only I never knew about the cameras and things," she said. "What's it for?"
"To give him a hold on people."
"Like you?" Craig nodded into her shoulder.
"But darling, why should he?"
The word "darling" almost made him wince. It wasn't a stage word; she meant it.
"People like me have information," he said. "That's useful when you run a newspaper. Tell me about the blokes you met here."
And she told him, not questioning his explanations. To her a rich man just took whatever he wanted, because he had money. That's what he had it for. Craig stroked her soft back, helping her to relax, and go on talking.
"You going to complain about this?" he asked.
"Brodski introduced us to him. He got us all together and made the proposition. Some of the girls said no at first. Then Jennifer came and talked to them alone."
"You know what happened?"
"No," said Tempest. "But they were scared of Jennifer. We all are. They said they'd go. Brodski didn't like it. He's a sweet man, really."
"Did Simmons have a hold on him?"
"He must have done," Tempest said. "You after Brodski too?"
"Yes," said Craig. "His passport's expired."
"I think he's in Morocco," said Tempest.
"Morocco?"
"I heard that Arab talking to Charlie, and he said the only other gentleman he knew was Polish and he lived in Morocco. Then Charlie said he'd do all right there because he'd kept a harem in London too. Then he looked at me. I'm sure he meant Brodski . . . Darling?" That bloody word again. "Is this helping you?"
"Very much," said Craig. "It'll all go in my report. No names. Just 'information received.' "
"You could use my name if you liked," said Tempest. "I don't mind. I'd do anything—"
You bitch. You stupid, stupid bitch. Why do you have to get involved with me?
11
The ranch-house door was open, and Craig knocked and went inside. Simmons and Jane sat at breakfast, he in city clothes, she in a yellow dress. He looked up and smiled as Craig entered. Craig wore the work outfit again, and twiddled his plains hat in front of him as a nervous cowboy should when he goes to meet the boss.
"Ah, Craig, you're up early," he said. "Sleep well?"
"The best sleep I've had in years," said Craig. "Thank you."
"I don't think we'll see the rest of the boys for hours yet," he said. "They got pretty drunk last night. You were wise to turn in early."
"I think so," said Craig.
She'd wept when he'd got up to leave her, made him take her address and telephone number, promise to come to the new show when it opened in a couple of weeks. The new show was interesting. She didn't even know who was financing it. It wouldn't hurt to find out. And so he'd been nice to her. . .
The butler served him eggs, bacon, and coffee.
Craig sat and watched the smooth assurance of his hands, the bland ease with which he stepped back, his job well done. Craig turned to him.
"What do you say we go and have a walk around the bull?" he asked. "Just you and me."
"I'm very sorry about that, sir," the butler said.
"You should be," said Craig. "I didn't know Yugoslavs were so forgetful."
Simmons's hand moved briefly, and the butler left. The breakfast was delicious; when he'd finished Simmons said: "I've had your briefcase brought over. Perhaps we can go over the business with my daughter now."
"I have just a few questions," Craig said. "No need to keep you really."
"All the same I'd rather stay," said Simmons. "Can't trust you F.O. types."
Jane said: "Oh daddy," like a dutiful daughter, but her eyes were on Craig.
They sat by the window and watched the horses running in the paddock, playing at combat in the rich summer grass. Once more Craig took her over her story and Simmons listened as the answers came, now sure, now hesitant. He blinked as Craig mimicked the noises that the Russian killer had made, the Cantonese sing-song that told Comrade Soong he was going to die, and Jane nodded her agreement.
"What on earth is all this?" he asked. "Why is the F.O. involved?"
"We have reason to believe Soong was a spy," said Craig. "So were the chaps who killed him."
"I suppose that's secret information?"
"Oh, absolutely," said Craig. "As a matter of fact you never heard it. Neither did I."
"You're telling me a spy can come here and literally get away with murder?"
"Anybody can," said Craig, "if they've had the right training." He paused. "Charlie could."
"Charlie?" said Jane.
"He and Craig here had a fight last night," said Simmons. "It was all just cowboys." "Who won?"
"Craig. It seems his hobby is jujitsu." Jane looked puzzled.
"That's judo with atimi-attacking blows," said Craig. "It's about the only defense against karate there is."
"Charlie used karate?"
"Oh yes. He seemed quite adept," Craig said. "It's just as well I kept up my jujitsu classes. The F.O. runs a very good club, you know."
"Do they teach you how to fight bulls, too?" asked Simmons.