"We can't reach Hamid, and the Earl of Airlie's in a private ward with a concussion. Nobody can speak to him. That leaves Ivo and Jane against you."
"What about Tempest?"
"She left the same day you did—a bit earlier. Jane Simmons knows nothing about her. Ivo Clements thought you were pretty well matched. Look, son—the whole idea was to make you look a liar and imply that if anybody had roughed you up it was Hornsey. I might even have had doubts myself, if—" he broke off then, and wheezed joyfully.
"Linton saw the bull himself," said Loomis. "It had a black eye." Craig wasn't laughing.
"Hornsey didn't hurt me," he said. "He killed Zelko. Laid out Simmons."
"He tricked you though," said Loomis. "You thought he worked for me."
"You've done it before," Craig said. "Put someone on my tail without telling me. And he did turn up in Soho. But that's not the reason, is it? Simmons had just about broken me. I was past making any sense. I just believed what he said."
"What did you tell him?"
Craig said: "About the money and Fat Arthur— and the BC business."
"What about it?"
"How BC was trying to push Russia into war with us. And how China was helping. I think I told him that. Yes—I did, because he wanted to know about Soong."
"Did you talk about Jean-Luc Calvet?"
"I might have done," said Craig. "I can't remember." He paused, tried to think back, failed.
"He was good," he said. "Fast. Accurate. He killed Zelko and clobbered Simmons in about three seconds. Who's he with? The Russians? No. He couldn't be, could he?"
"Why not?" asked Loomis.
"He didn't kill Simmons—and he got me out."
"You're still thinking," said Loomis. The fact pleased him. "Whoever he is, you gave him our address. We've got to triple-check around the clock now. And we'll have to move—"
"I didn't give it to Simmons," said Craig. "He tried three times. If he'd tried four he would have got it."
"Some of you's human," said Loomis. "I've never denied it." His eyes flicked to Craig's, then away. "This Medani feller—he's Moroccan. From Talouet. He went back to Morocco the morning we found you. But he stayed in Tangier. Still there. Waiting for someone maybe."
"Simmons?"
"It's possible. Time BC did something big, d'you see. Something to make Russia look bad. In Morocco they got the money for it. In a bank called Credit Labonne. They got a million there. I think they're going to take it out and use it—if you don't get it first."
"That's what you're doing for Chelichev?"
"That's it," said Loomis. "He's giving us a bit of help, too. Couple of experts."
"I'd sooner find my own," Craig said again.
"So would I," said Loomis. "But that's not in the deal. We're due to meet them tonight. Dress informal. No medals."
Craig said: "You think Simmons will be in Tangier?"
Loomis nodded. "And Brodski. And Hamid." "They don't matter," Said Craig. "Simmons does." "You want to kill him?" "I have to," said Craig.
"That's all right," Loomis said. "But do the bank job first."
* * ♦
The firing range was in what had been the cellars, and here Craig practiced till his arm ached and the crack of the gun hurt his eardrums like a blow. The ex-PSI who ran the range watched, and did not compete. This was something that Craig was working out alone. Over and over the gun flicked out, pointed, and bellowed its accusation, and over and over, if the targets had been real, a man would have died. The ex-PSI had carried a gun himself, quite illegally, in Youngstown, Ohio. He had been paid large sums for his skill with it, had known others as good as himself, a handful who were better. None of them could have taken Craig. At the end of the session Craig cleaned the two guns—a Smith and Wesson .38 and a Colt Woodsman—and himself, then walked into the room next door to the range. It was a gymnasium, and in one corner of it a dojo —a judo practice mat. Craig lay down on a bench and relaxed, and thought of what Loomis had said and not said. The BC must lose its money and Simmons could then die. Russians would be watching while it happened. And Hornsey might be there. Hornsey, who had saved his life. Craig hoped he wouldn't have to hurt him. Maybe the Russians might want to—Hornsey wasn't working for them. Craig wondered who he did work for.
At five o'clock the chauffeur and the caretaker came in. The chauffeur was also a bodyguard, who occasionally drove cars on jobs that required fast getaways. He was bigger than the caretaker, slower of temper, but fast on his feet and a fair judoka. Like the caretaker, he enjoyed cigarettes and a beer at lunchtime. They disliked Craig even more for stopping their treat, but they stayed wary of him.
Craig said: "No need to change. We'll fight as we are."
The two men removed their pistols and knives, then moved to the mat. Craig went to it, facing them. On the wall behind the chauffeur someone had stuck a pin-up picture of a girl. A girl both lovely and sensual, eminently worth fighting for. Craig's glance brushed past her as if she had been a "NO SMOKING" sign in a language he didn't understand.
"I want you to attack me together," he said. "One from each side. Stay as far apart as you like. And come at me—don't wait for me."
The two men whispered together, and Craig waited. They were not as good as Simmons and Zelko had been, but they would do. Somewhere there was a counter to the simultaneous attack that Simmons and Zelko had used, and he would find it. He had to. It might happen again.
Suddenly the two men erupted at him, and Craig's hand stopped only just in time from a karate strike at the chauffeur's neck, but as he did so the caretaker's fingers touched the nerves behind the ears. They tried it again, and this time the caretaker was open to the blow but the chauffeur survived. They came in again—and again, and at the ninth try, when the two were grinning at their success, for which they had waited so long, he saw the answer, and used it. The trick was to make your move a split second in advance of their signal, and take the attack to one of them before the other could get to you. Get in fast, with just one blow, and swerve as you struck it, spinning round to take the other man from the side, using the force of the spin to add momentum to the second blow, the killer blow, if you wanted it that way. They did it again, and it worked again, and a third time. After that they were ready for him. But Craig was satisfied. He had a new trick for Simmons now: one that Simmons knew nothing about. He went to shower and change his clothes. Soon it would be time to dine with Loomis and the experts from Russia.
There were two of them. They wore Italian suits, white shirts, discreet ties. They knew how to handle knives and forks and spoke excellent English. The shorter one, Boris, had almost no accent at all. He was about five feet eight, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested; his hands were like stones. The other, Istvan, was tall, slim, elegant, and his manners and accent had a bravura that were not Russian. His eyes, dark and slightly slanted, were limpid with dishonesty, but his charm was real enough. It was he who led the conversation, made the jokes, complimented the headwaiter on a remarkable wine. But he was afraid of Boris. Terrified. And his hands bothered Craig. They were coarse, broadened with hard work, the marks of old calluses and wounds still on them. Whenever possible he kept them in his pockets.
Loomis had chosen a private room in a restaurant. There was only one way in, and when the meal was over he had one of his own men at the door, while Boris and Istvan tested for bugging devices. There were none. Loomis was genial, and offered brandy and cigars. Boris drank brandy primly, but in enormous quantities. Istvan was more cautious, and more drunk.
"There isn't much time," Boris said. "We need to start in forty-eight hours."