be the answer. It wouldn't be the answer at all. * * *
He slept until dinnertime, then rose, bathed, changed into a dark silk tussore suit and black crepe-soled shoes. Beneath his coat was the Smith and Wesson; in his leg was a sheathed knife, leaf-bladed, single-edged, needle-pointed. He spread his hands, then held them out. They were quite steady. He went into the living room.
Istvan and Boris were waiting. They too wore dark suits and, Craig had no doubt that Boris was armed. Neither of them was drinking. Food and drink would have to wait.
Boris said: "Istvan's being difficult."
"I'm not surprised," said Craig. "He knows you're going to kill him."
Boris began to deny it, fluently, passionately. It was obvious that Istvan was not impressed.
Craig said: "He knows it because it's logical. You're a nation of chess players, Boris. You always lose a pawn to take a king."
Istvan said: "Or even a king's ransom. You had better shoot me now."
Craig said: "Why not talk it over with Tania?"
"She's with Brodski," Boris said. "I can't reach her."
"Work him over then," said Craig. "We haven't much time."
Istvan said: "You do too good a job, Boris. If you hurt me, I couldn't work for you afterwards."
Craig said: "I'll do it then."
He moved in on Istvan, one fist clinched, the other hand out flat, like an ax.
"No," said Boris. "No karate."
Craig stood still.
"You're right," he said. "All he'd do is agree, then rat on us when we got to the bank. Right?"
Istvan managed to smile. It was a kind of courage.
"Absolutely," he said.
"It's a stand-off," said Craig. "Unless—" Boris looked at him. "Give him to me when it's over," Craig said. "He knows a few tricks that would interest my chief. So long as he's useful, he'll live. And I promise you he won't chat."
Boris said: "All right with me," and looked at Istvan.
"London," said Istvan. "Swinging London. Birds. Mini skirts. Le topless." He stuck out a hand to Craig. "Okay," he said.
Boris said: "We pick up Tania at eleven. Until then we should go over your plan."
They sat round the table, and Craig began to talk. The Russian and the Hungarian were very patient listeners.
* * *
At ten forty-five the three men left their room. In the lobby the night porter handed Craig a package that had'been left for him. They went out of the hotel to where a rented car waited, a Mercedes 300 SE. The chauffeur was Tania, in black slacks and sweater and a short black coat. They got in and Craig opened the package. It contained two keys.
Tania said: "Brodski stays at the villa. So does Simmons—and Jane. Chan is with the governor."
Craig said: "It'll have to be Simmons then. Can you get in?"
"You have decided not to kill him?" she asked.
"It looks as if I have to," Craig said. "Can you get in?"
"He thinks I'm dining with a girl friend," said Tania. "I said I'd try to get back for a drink about one o'clock. He told me he's working late tonight."
"He's going to get his orders from Simmons," said Craig.
A beggar came up to the car, and Craig wound down his window, handed over a dirham. They talked softly together in Arabic, then the beggar salaamed as the big car moved away.
"Listen carefully," said Craig. "I want you to know where the launch will be—just in case one of us doesn't make it."
He began to talk, and the others listened with the same furious patience. At last Craig said: "If anything goes wrong with the boat we make for Ceuta. I've got a friend there with a fishing boat. But if it comes to that, the only chance we've got is Gibraltar."
Tania said: "Very well," and drove into the town, waited patiently for a left turn into the Boulevard Pasteur, then turned into a side street. The street was dimly lit after the boulevard, and there were cars parked on both sides. As they turned in, a Fiat van pulled out, and Craig congratulated Tania on her efficiency as the Mercedes slid into the space the Fiat had left.
They got out then, and Craig looked down toward the lights of the boulevard. The Credit Labonne building was on the corner, dark and shuttered as a fortress. Beside it were houses with a narrow frontage and heavy doors, their tiny windows latticed. Craig waited as Boris opened the Merc's boot, then he and Istvan took out the two neat leather cases that contained Istvan's equipment—Brought in, no doubt, by diplomatic pouch, thought Craig. He walked down the street to the house next to the bank and went in. The others followed, lagging, giving him time to open the door. For this he needed the key with the string tied to it. The lock worked easily, and in he went. The others followed, and the door swung to. Craig led the way down the flight of steps that led to a basement room, and from there down older steps, carved into rock, that brought him to the cellar beneath the house. Once grain had been stored there, or oil. A ring set in the wall hinted that it might have been a private prison, a place where slaves were taken for discipline. Before the liberation, Craig remembered, it might have contained weapons, waiting for transport south to the Sahara, then over the border to Algeria. Now all it held was an old bicycle and the remains of a pram. An unshaded bulb gave off a grudging light, and Craig moved to the wall adjoining the bank. Patiently someone had chipped away the stone, just enough to admit a man of Boris's size, or Craig's. Behind the stone was a sheet of steel, and someone had cut a hole in that, too, just enough. The steel plate and broken rock were piled neatly by the hole. There was no sign of tools, or a blow torch.
"Your people are thorough, too," said Tania.
"We rented the basement for a month," said Craig. "The rock was easy, but we had to wait until the bank closed tonight to cut through the steel." He turned to Istvan. "In you go," he said.
Istvan disappeared as naturally as a rabbit into a burrow, and Boris followed.