He turned to Craig. "You have a plan here?" he asked.
Loomis said: "Yes. It's waiting for you to take away after dinner. You have to overcome some time locks, load up the money, and drive away. The rest is straightforward stuff."
"Straightforward?"
"Overpowering guards. Killing them perhaps. But the time locks are difficult."
"That is why we brought Istvan," said Boris.
Istvan looked modest and terrified at the same time.
Loomis said: "I've brought specifications of the kind of locks the bank uses."
"You're very good," said Istvan.
"We also have a safe for him to practice on."
"You're excellent," said Istvan.
"A lot will depend on how you show in practice tomorrow," said Loomis.
Neither Boris nor Istvan looked worried.
"How do we escape?" Boris asked.
"The easy way is to Gibraltar," said Loomis.
Boris said "No." He said it as every Russian at the United Nations has said it. There could be no argument.
"D'you fancy Algeria?" Loomis asked.
Boris said: "I do not."
"Where then?"
"Egypt," said Boris. "By airplane. That I can arrange. We will have friends waiting."
This time Loomis said "No." Egypt was unthinkable. The two men argued, gently, courteously, and Craig studied Istvan's hands. They had marks on them that were not calluses, but the scars of sores that must have been viciously deep. Frostbite perhaps? Beside him Loomis sweated at not losing his temper, and he and Boris agreed at last on a pickup by sea and two ships waiting, one Russian, one British, the money to be divided evenly; the Russians to keep all the Deutschmarks and pay the British the equivalent of their half in sterling. He was getting information too, but money always came in handy.
Loomis stopped sweating, and poured more brandy, and Boris turned to Craig.
"You say very little," he said.
"I've been thinking," said Craig. "I don't believe Istvan is a Russian name—"
"You're right," said Boris.
"And I don't like going into a job with a man I'm not sure of."
"You can be sure of Istvan," Boris said. "I guarantee him."
"You personally?" Boris nodded. "I wonder why," said Craig.
"Because I have very strict orders about him, and Istvan knows what they are."
Istvan put down his glass, and the brandy in it planed from side to side.
Craig turned to him. "How do I know you're such an expert?" he asked. Boris tried to speak and Craig cut in. "Let him tell it," he said.
Istvan looked at Boris, who nodded graciously in permission.
"I promise you, gentlemen, I have a great deal of experience," he said. "I am a Hungarian—born in Budapest, but I trained in France and the United States. Up to this point in my life I must have stolen about two hundred thousand pounds. It would have been more—after all I am forty-five years old —only. . ." He broke off and looked again at Boris, who again nodded consent. "I was foolish enough to go back to Hungary after the uprising. They picked me up. I had carried a gun you see— in the uprising—"
"You used it," said Boris.
"I'm afraid I did. At first of course I wanted only to escape to Austria—there was a job waiting for me in Switzerland, and Swiss francs are such a comfort—but I don't really know what happened. There was so much enthusiasm and so little technique. The tragedy of our poor country. I began to shoot out of sheer impatience with my countrymen. Then I found I was holding classes in weapon-training. Then I had to burgle a police barracks to get weapons for my students. It was a—" he looked at Boris, "a very busy time."
"Where have you spent your time since?" asked Craig.
"Until 1961 I robbed banks, then I went back to Budapest. Since then I have been in Siberia," said Istvan. "I saw you looking at my hands. One works hard there you know, and the weather is chilly. But I have been to a skin specialist. My fingertips are as good as new."
"Have you any further questions to ask him?" Boris asked.
"One more. How do I know I can trust you in this?" said Craig.
"Because if I do anything wrong Boris will kill me. And I know that he can. On the other hand, if I do my job, I get money—and freedom."
"A completely bourgeois mentality," said Boris. "The Soviet Republic does not need him."
He got up, and Istvan rose at once.
"A delightful evening," he said. "Where can we work on the safe tomorrow?"
Loomis told him, and the two men went to the door. Boris turned.
"I notice you don't ask where we are staying," he said. "No doubt we will be followed."
"My dear chap, we must look after you," said Loomis.
"No need," said Boris. "I shall look after both of us. But you'll do it anyway." He smiled. "I should perhaps mention that we are traveling with American passports. All quite in order. If we are molested, I shall complain to the United States embassy."
Then they left, and Craig saw how neatly Boris moved, for all his bulk. Istvan looked tired. Perhaps, after all those years in Siberia, he would always look tired.
"What do you think?" said Loomis.
"They'll be good," said Craig. "For this job they'll have to be."
"Chelichev says Istvan's a minor genius," Loomis said. "And he's got a hell of an incentive, too."
"Money," said Craig. "I gather we're due for half of it."
"We could do with it," said Loomis. "Power boats, ships, hotel bills, safes. It all adds up, you know. Then there's your bill to Matt Chinn."
"No," said Craig. "I'm going to pay that myself."
It was at that moment that Loomis first began to worry.
14
Department K had bought a shop in Pimlico. It had been an ironmonger's, a hatter's, a petshop, and lately had been owned by a philatelist with a persecution mania who had had it fortified like a bank vault. When the van finally came (he was being gassed by Arabs at the time, and had sealed all the keyholes with stamps) the place had had to be breached by direct assault. And even then it had taken an hour. His wife had been happy to sell the place. Department K's agent had made the only offer. It was a dead shop in a dying street.
Craig drove a van there: "MERRIDEW SHOP-FITTERS. HACKNEY AND SLOUGH." Inside the van were Boris and Istvan; like Craig, they wore overalls. Istvan also had a tool bag and a box filled with equipment worth five times the cost of the van. That morning he seemed far more relaxed, as if the promise of testing his skill had driven his fear of Boris far back into his mind. He chatted happily, and Boris smiled at him—an indulgent father enjoying his son's anticipation of a treat. The van pulled up and Craig got out. A wooden fence had already been erected in front of the shopwindow,
and from the houses opposite curtains twitched in vain. When Istvan went to work, nobody would learn his secrets. Craig unlocked a door set in the fence, then went back to help Boris carry in the wooden box. Istvan followed, carrying the tool bag. When they were inside the fence Craig locked its door, and Istvan began studying the shop-window and doorway.
"It is better if you can see the whole frontage at once," he said. "Here we are too close. Even so I see the wisdom of the fence," he told Craig. "I do not like people to watch me when I work." He began to examine the window. At last he said "Ah!" in a voice of deep satisfaction.
"The glass is very thick," he went on. "Two centimeters perhaps. See at the corners where it joins the frame. And in it there is set fine, strong wire. If you smash the glass, the wire will hold. You must therefore cut the wire. But if you look at the shelf below the window you will see a junction box with cable going to the window. That means the wire is electrified. If you were to touch it with cutters you would find it very painful. Deadly even. I do not like electric shocks, Mr. Craig."
"Nor me," said Craig. His voice expressed polite agreement, no more.