"Send us the bill," said Craig.
Allen prowled past him, examining the damage, working his way back to the bows. Craig sighed. He was pathetic. Allen picked up the Lee-Enfield.
"I think you should pay me now," he said. "You've got the money." Craig said nothing. "Or, better still, take me over to Tangier." Craig held his course, and above the engines' whine came the crisp smack of the bolt being worked. "I mean it," said Allen. The boat held course.
"Look," Allen said, "I'm desperate. Those Spanish bastards saw me. I can't go back to Marbella. I need money. You've got it. Damn it, man—all you really want is Calvet."
Craig held his course.
"I'll kill you," said Allen.
Craig said, "The gun isn't loaded." Allen laughed. "Try it." Allen squeezed the trigger.
"You see?" said Craig.
He risked a look at Allen then. He was sidling toward him, holding the Lee-Enfield by stock and barrel, a foolish, inefficient way to turn it into a club.
"You're stupid," said Craig, "but you're not that stupid. You start something now and I'll put you overboard." Allen halted. "That means you'll either drown or the Spanish navy will get you. Put that thing down."
Allen let it fall, and it banged on to the deck.
"Now take the wheel," said Craig, and again Allen obeyed.
Craig went down into the cabin. Calvet lay there, wriggling in a furious burst of energy to reach the ropes that tied his feet.
"It's too late," said Craig.
Calvet froze, and rolled over to look at him. His eyes were brown, melancholy, Slavic, and they were bright with hate.
"You lost," said Craig. "You were bound to lose eventually. Now lie still. I don't want to hurt you again." Calvet stayed rigid. "You want a cigarette?" Calvet gave no sign that he had heard. Craig left him and went back up top, then risked a look round. Once more Calvet was trying to bend his legs and arch his back, to reach the knots that tied his feet. The Russian, Craig thought, had qualities that made him infinitely preferable to Allen, but he didn't like his taste in girls.
Allen was very close to tears when Craig took the wheel from him again. He could see the great streak of concrete now that flowed out to sea, the runway that opened up Gibraltar to the Viscounts and Vikings and the tourists on their way to Tangier and the Costa del Sol. And behind was the boredom of Gibraltar, the correct little bars and gloomy hotels, which the magic words "duty-free" alone rendered habitable. And behind it all was the Rock, symbol of empire and insurance companies, and the wild yet formal gallantry of eighteenth-century sieges. Now all it held was the apes.
Craig eased back the throttle, and the revs diminished. A white naval patrol boat shot toward them, and a voice on the Tannoy yelled: "Mr. Jameson?" Craig nodded vigorously, and the patrol boat shot ahead of them, piloted them past the liner in the bay, the long line of tramp steamers, into the inner harbor of launches, tugs, and motor-boats, to a quay between two moles patrolled by marine sentries. The patrol boat swung in, and Craig responded to a leading seaman's signal, stopped the starboard engine, revved up the port, and eased broadside up to the quay, while the leading hand hooked on and another sailor flung ropes to Allen, and they were tied up at last. Craig stopped the engines, and waited. A commander, R.N., and a surgeon commander left the patrol boat and dropped into the cruiser. The commander's eyes flicked from the rifle to the bullet-torn deck.
"You're a bit conspicuous, Mr. Jameson," he said. "Your people promised the admiral that you wouldn't be."
"Sorry about the rifle," said Craig. "We thought we might have a pop at a dolphin. Unfortunately," his eyes flicked to the damage on deck, "it started to fire back." He kicked the Lee-Enfield down the companionway out of sight.
"Where's my patient?" said the doctor.
Craig jerked his thumb toward the cabin.
"He's violent," said Craig, and the commander, R.N., sighed and followed the doctor. Craig took out cigarettes and offered one to Allen. They smoked in silence, then Allen said: "I'm sorry."
Craig drew on his cigarette. If the doctor got a move on they could catch the morning plane, be in London by teatime. He might even have time for a bath, do something about his shoulder where Calvet had hit him. He knew how to hit. That was inevitable. The KGB Executive trained its members with absolute thoroughness.
Allen said: "I was told I'd be paid when we finished the job."
"Oh yeah," said Craig. "You want money."
He took a check out of his pocket. It was already signed. He dated it.
"Five hundred for the job, five hundred for the boat. All right?"
"That's fine," said Allen.
Craig wrote in words and figures. "One thousand pounds," and gave him the check.
Allen took it, folded it in three, and put it carefully in his wallet.
"I suppose I can cash it in Gib?" he said.
"Of course," said Craig.
"That's fine then," said Allen as he stood up and climbed onto the quay. "I think I'll trot along now. Have some breakfast."
"Do that," said Craig.
"Then I thought I'd pop into the bank."
"Good idea."
"You don't mind if I leave you for a bit?" "You're leaving us forever," said Craig. "We don't need you any more."
4
The navy ambulance nosed its way toward Gibraltar airport with the ponderous yet swift-moving dignity that only Daimler knows how to build. Inside it were Craig, the doctor, and the commander, who had changed into mufti, and Calvet. Calvet was on a stretcher, asleep, and comprehensively bandaged from thorax to head. Both his legs were in splints. The money Craig had taken was inside the bandages.
"I've given him a sedative," said the doctor. "He shouldn't give you any trouble."
"Thanks," said Craig.
"He's quite considerably bruised," said the doctor. "Particularly in the stomach and just below the nose. Forgive me, but what did you hit him with?"
"I just hit him," said Craig.
The commander stared gloomily at the notices scrawled on painted walls: "260 Afios de Liber-tad," and "Gibraltar es Espanol," one canceling out the other, over and over again. They stopped at a policeman's signal at the corner of Winston Churchill Avenue, and the commander looked at his watch.
"You mustn't miss your plane," he said.
"I won't," said Craig.
The policeman signaled them on.
"I suppose it has to wait for you?"
"No," Craig said. "But there's lots of time and lots of planes."
"The admiral wants you off the Rock," said the commander. "It's my business to see that you go."
"You mean he doesn't like me?"
"Of course he doesn't like you. I don't like you."
"I find that incredible," said Craig.
The doctor snorted.
"You're in a dirty business," said the commander. "I realize it has to be done, but you can't expect me to approve of it. Of course it's different for you—you seem to enjoy it."
Craig thought of the way he had terrorized, used, and finally abandoned Allen; the blow that had struck the girl; the impact of his shoe into Calvet's belly. He said nothing.
"But the navy shouldn't be asked to help you. The whole enterprise is sheer piracy."
"You talk a lot," said Craig. "The trouble is you never say anything much."
The ambulance arrived then, nosed in past a flurry of taxi drivers and porters, and Craig got out to collect tickets for himself and David Lloyd, the battered victim of a motor accident now being flown back to his parents in Merioneth. He bought cigarettes, Scotch, and perfume at the duty-free shop, and went back to the ambulance. The doctor had gotten out and was escorting a mobile stretcher with Calvet in it up to the ticket barrier.
The commander said: "You'd better leave now."
"Can't I say good-bye to the admiral?" asked Craig.
"He doesn't know you exist. None of us do," the commander said. "It makes me very happy."