Craig said: "I'm a bit sad myself. Four hours in Gibraltar—and I only saw one monkey."
"Go away," said the commander. "Just go away."
"Okay," said Craig, and dropped the perfume in the commander's lap. "Think of me when you wear it, won't you?"
The perfume was called "Our Secret."
Craig walked after the doctor, and showed his tickets at the barrier. Passports and Customs had waved him through. He and Calvet were the first to arrive at the turboprop Viking, and Craig waited while the stretcher was eased into the first-class compartment and the doctor went in, checked, and came down again.
"I've had a look at him," the doctor said. "He won't move till you get to London."
"Thanks," said Craig.
"No really, I've enjoyed it," said the doctor. "It makes a change from picking broken glass out of drunken sailors."
Craig gave him the bottle of Scotch and climbed aboard. A trickle of tourists followed, then the Viking revved up at last, taxied out, and roared over the airstrip and out to sea: Africa was on one side, Europe on the other. It was raining on two continents. The plane climbed, the warning lights went out, and Craig unfastened his seat belt. In three and a half hours he'd be in London, and Calvet would be someone else's problem. He smoked, yawned, drank Scotch and ginger ale, then fell asleep.
There was another Daimler waiting in London,
with another doctor, and a man whom Craig didn't
know. He handed Calvet and the evidence over,
and took a taxi to his flat in Regent's Park. He still
hadn't had time to have a bath, and his shoulder
hurt like hell. He went home to rest.
* * *
Four days later Loomis sent for him. Craig drove to see him in the latest one of the series of black Mark X Jaguars with the 4.2-liter engine he had used ever since he'd been established in Department K. It was a ridiculously large automobile for one man, expensive to drive and impossible to park, but it suited his cover—that of a retired manufacturer of machine tools—and it enabled him whenever necessary to convey four or five other large men to where they were needed, and to do it quickly—at a hundred and thirty miles an hour, if the need arose. He parked in a mews, and walked back to Queen Anne's Gate, the wary caretaker, and Loomis's vile-tempered coffee.
"You did all right," Loomis said grudgingly. "He's coming along nicely."
"You've got him up at the nursing home?"
Loomis nodded.
"It's lovely up there just now," he said. "The daffodils are at their best. He didn't take to it at first, but he's doing fine now."
"What did you use?"
"Oh, different things," said Loomis. "Bit of this, bit of that. There's nothing like variety, cock. Now he's mostly on pentathol. Seems to like it. His name's Oleg Dovzhenko. Born in the Ukraine, 1938—you were giving a few years away. The KGB spotted him at Moscow University—brilliant linguist, good gymnast—and they gave him the usual tests. All that Pavlovian stuff. He worked in France for a while, then he did a bit in South America, then he went to Marbella. We've got it all down."
"Did he find much stuff about Gibraltar?"
"There's not a hell of a lot to find," said Loomis. "But he did his best. He was busier paying people to do things about Franco."
"Any good?"
"Oh yes," said Loomis. "He'd found out quite a bit about how far they'll support America, and he'd done some research on the Fifth Fleet, too. He had a man on the spot when the Yanks lost their H-bomb, and he'd done quite a bit of work on airfields. He was looking to the future, as well. Very forward-looking feller. Spotting blokes he could work on when Franco goes."
"What about the girl?" asked Craig.
"The young person you tied to the bed? She's a designer of expressionist jewelry. That means sequins in your belly button, sort of thing. She's clean. From what I hear she didn't even see you. You did all right." Loomis looked surprised.
"And Allen?"
"Bloody fool," said Loomis. "He went back to Spain. Had some money hidden in Marbella, so he put on a false beard and pretended he was invisible. The Spanish police picked him up in an hour. I expect he told them all about you. Not that it matters. You don't exist. They'll do him for smuggling and shooting at their navy. Now then"—he dismissed Allen with a wave of a meaty paw, and glowered at Craig—"that stuff you brought us. The R/T's nice, but we got a better one already. The money's better. We're always short of money here. Twenty-five thousand quid in dollars. Pity!"
"What's wrong?" Craig asked.
"They're all forged." He reached into his inside pocket with a fat man's economy of movement, then threw four twenty-dollar bills on to the desk in front of Craig. "See for yourself."
Craig picked them up and looked at them. They were crisp and clean, with the hard feel of good paper, the portrait of President Jackson sharp and well defined. The color was good, the printing excellent.
"Pretty," said Craig.
"Would you take one if it was offered?" Craig nodded, and Loomis nodded back, a one-inch inclination of the head that was regal in its dignity.
"Me too. Trouble is, there's three thousand bills and only four serial numbers between them. I've had them looked at. Chap at Scotland Yard specializes in this sort of thing. He liked them. Got very excited. Nearly wet himself." Loomis paused, then added: "Thin feller," as if in explanation. "Seems they've had one of these passed in London. He's got some of his young men working on it now. I think you'd better go and help them. It'll be a bit of an education for you."
Craig's tutor was Detective Sergeant Millington, a young, eager copper with an unquenchable thirst for promotion. Craig met him in a pub in Chelsea, a dim, chilly little place where even the feeling of decay was, if not elegant, at least expensive. Mill-ington was drinking beer and eating a sausage. He looked weary yet brimming with excitement, the energy fighting the weariness: as it must do when you work a sixty-hour week every week, and the assistants and equipment you need are eternally promised but never arrive. He was hatless and his shoes were not unduly large for his big man's weight, and yet Craig had spotted him at once for a copper. He had the look of a born hunter. Craig went over to him; he sensed the quick appraisal of the other's eyes. It had been the same when he'd gone to see him at Scotland Yard. Millington was afraid of Craig and disliked him because of it.
"I don't like this idea," Millington said. "It's asking for trouble. Anybody can see you're not a copper." He looked at Craig's hand-stitched gray suit, the white Sea Island cotton shirt, and Dior tie. "You're too well dressed for one thing."
"I thought I might look more like a crook," said Craig.
Millington scowled.
"I can't take you with me to interview people when you look like that."
"I don't want to be with you," Craig said. "Just show me who they are and let me work it out for myself."
"I don't think I can do that," Millington said. "After all, I'm responsible for you."
"Oh no," said Craig. "I don't think so."
Millington looked at him again, not trying to hide his dislike.
"Okay," he said, "I'll show them to you. But what good'll that do? They'll see you with me."
"No," said Craig. "They won't. We've got just the thing for that."
What he had was a Bedford van, with one-way black glass panels in the sides and back. A chain of roses was painted round the van, and on each side was the name "BLOSSOMS UNLiMiTED "jMillington wasn't amused. The interior of the van was furnished like a caravan with a camp bed and chairs; there were three Leica Ikon cameras with telefoto lenses, a 16-millimeter Eclair movie camera, two Ferrograph tape recorders, and a radio as well. Millington lusted after that van. It would have saved him hours of questioning, miles of walking. The driver got in, and the van drove away. They were going to Soho.