him. Craig knows about us now. He is too good for any one of us. Even you, Robert.'
The captain frowned.
'I'll go myself,' he said.
'No,' said the colonel. 'I need you here.'
He nodded at the door, and the guard went out. 'We need more funds, Robert. And you raise funds so prettily. You are so big and blond and boyish-what old lady could resist you? We need money, Robert. The Middle East is too quiet. Muscat, Oman, Aden-calm everywhere. The British should be struggling as we are struggling in Algeria. It's time to work on the old ladies.'
The captain stiffened to attention, his face so miserable that the colonel laughed.
'Being nice to old ladies is important too,' he said. 'Without money we can do nothing. Even to execute Craig costs money. Get me the money, Robert, and I'll find you other work. There's plenty of it. Almost too much. But not quite. We shall keep Algeria. It is part of France. If it goes, we have only one excuse. What is it, Robert?'
'We shall all be dead,' said the captain. He said it without melodrama; a simple statement of fact.
'That won't happen,' said the colonel. 'I promise you it won't. Not if you get me the money I need. And there is always your pretty Englishman when your work is finished.' Again the captain tried to protest, and again was quiet at once when the colonel spoke.
'The fact that you are a homosexual is unimportant to me,' he said. 'But be careful, Robert. It must not become public, you understand?'
'Yes, sir,' said the captain.
'Then you may go,' said the colonel.
When Robert left, the colonel unlocked a drawer and took out a list. Craig's name was on it, neatly ruled out in red ink. So were Lange's, and Rutter's. Neatly, precisely, the colonel wrote it in again.
Captain Robert La Valere removed his rank badges, then walked out to the Place Massena. A thin young man in a shirt of yellow silk, wine-red, tapered slacks, and yellow sandals sat outside a cafe, scowling in the sunlight at the office building, his drink untasted beside him. In his mind he was saying, over and over, the words on its door plaque. Society for the Solution of the Algerian Problem. President: Colonel de St. Briac, and adding each time obscenities that did not match a yellow silk shirt and wine-red, tapered slacks. Then he saw Robert, and the scowl vanished. For Robert there was always a smile. Perhaps one day he would have to betray Robert, but it would be for his own good. Always for his own good. He adored Robert. The captain held out his hand, and he held it in both of his. Held it and held it.
In Tessa's flat, Craig settled easily into a routine, working at the exercises that Hakagawa had set him; loving Tessa, talking to her, listening to her. Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, he allowed himself to become involved with another person, to regulate his life in terms of another's. It altered his appearance far more than the beard he was growing.
When she came home with the newspaper, he didn't try to argue. It was better that she should know who he was. The knowledge gave her ultimate power over him, but if she chose to use it, it was better that he should die. She had wanted him so much; surely she would never try to destroy him. If he were going to be involved with other people, then they and he would have to take tremendous risks, and if he were not, then he must condemn himself to another time of loneliness and fear, before he tried, like Baumer, like Rutter, to create a new character whom they could not know.
All Tessa said was, 'I gather you're married.' He nodded. 'You didn't like her much, did you?'
'No,' he said. 'Not for a long time. I should have tried harder. She didn't help me much, but I should have tried. Does it bother you, my being married?'
'I haven't dreamed about orange blossoms for an awfully long time,' Tessa said. 'I hope she'll be all right.'
'So do I,' said Craig. 'It's my fault that she was hurt. It's my fault that she was left alone after it happened. I had my chance to help her, and all I did was run. If anything happened to you, that would be my fault too.'
The phone rang then, and she looked to Craig for permission before she picked it up.
'Have you heard from your Sir Galahad yet?' Grierson asked.
'Who?'
'The bloke who laid out Lishman. Hasn't he been to see you yet?'
'You mean Reynolds? I'd have to look in my diary,' Tessa said.
Grierson sighed.
'Tell him to ring me,' he said, and hung up.
Tessa tried to speak before she had put the receiver down, but Craig put his finger to his hps, and replaced it for her.
'They may be tapping the wire,' he said. 'I don't think so, but they might. What did Grierson mean about my calling him?' She looked away. 'You'd better tell me,' he said.
Tessa looked at him stubbornly, preparing to resist. He might hurt her, but for his own sake he mustn't know.
'Tessa,' he said. 'Don't make up my mind for me. I can reach Grierson myself if I want to. All I have to do is tell a policeman who I am. Just let me know what he's after first. I'm the expert in this game, love, not you. Keeping quiet might be the biggest risk of the lot.'
It was the only way to learn what he wanted to know, and she told him at once.
'Grierson said, 'We know about Rutter-and we can help you.'' She gave him the phone number. 'Did he say who 'we' were?' Craig asked. She shook her head. 'More police, I suppose.' 'Maybe, but I don't think Grierson's a copper.' 'What then?'
Craig shrugged. 'Cloak and dagger boy,' he said. 'Airy smile and a gay flick of the wrist. The one who beds the contessa while somebody else breaks open the safe and steals the plans. He'd better watch it this time. I can flick my wrist too.'
'What are you going to do?' she asked.
'You,' said Craig. 'For not telling me before.'
Later she asked him again, and he said, 'I'l think about it. I'll think about it a lot. And when I've got the answer, HI tell you.'
CHAPTER 9
Loomis sent again for Grierson, and once again Grierson sipped black and scalding coffee and listened to Loomis grumbling. It was very important that they should talk to Craig; it would save certain people, Loomis said menacingly, a great deal of work; it might even save the taxpayers' money. Why the hell couldn't Grierson produce him?
'I'm trying to, sir,' said Grierson. 'Linton's got half the narks in London looking for him. We're watching ports and airlines, doing spot checks on the trains. Trouble is, the only photographs we could find are the ones left over from the war. We've had them touched up a bit, but they're not exactly portraits. Do you want Linton to give them to the press?'
'Good God, no,' said Loomis, genuinely horrified.
'If I had any idea why you wanted him, it might help,' Grierson said.
'All right. You can't say I don't give you every chance.
I want Craig to do a job for me.' Grierson's cup clattered in its saucer. 'Craig? A job?' he asked.
'Don't shout,' Loomis yelled. 'I can't stand shouting. Certainly a job. Why not? He's the only one who can do it, except you. You might-if you were lucky, and if I can't find Craig, I may have to use you anyway. But I'd sooner use him. He won't need any luck.'
'What's the job?' Grierson asked.
'The one you set up in Nice. He's made to order for it. Now where the hell do you think he is?'
Grierson said, 'I've no idea.'
'Well, I have,' Loomis said. 'It's sticking out a mile. He's still with that Tessa person. In Holland Park.'
'But we searched the place twice.'
