Loomis flushed a savage and unpleasing mauve, and struggled for twenty seconds before he regained his temper. Grierson thought it might turn out to be a pretty decent afternoon.
'You think our friends got at you through whoever was watching the house?' he gasped at last. Craig nodded. 'But how could they?'
'They'd go to my house,' said Craig. 'They'd see a lot of policemen and reporters there, so they'd say they were reporters too. Then they'd find out Security was on to it.
They'd find out about Tessa. Then all they had to do was watch the blokes who were watching me.'
'You gave yourself away at the Lucky Seven,' Loomis said.
'Just as well for you I did,' said Craig. 'You'd never have got on to me otherwise. Now what's the proposition?'
'You do a job for us and we'll help you get away. There'll be money in it as well.'
'Never mind the money. I've got enough. What about Tessa?'
'We'll get her out too.'
'What's the job?'
'Cadella and Pucelli worked for a man called St. Briac,' said Loomis.
'Colonel Pierre-Auguste Lucien de St. Briac,' said Craig.
'You've met him?'
Craig shook his head. 'If I had one of us would be dead.'
Loomis said, 'He's a dangerous man. Very dangerous. The whole bloody lot in Algeria are madmen, but St. Briac's raving. He's trying to drag us into his war. He thinks it's about time we had a go at the Arabs too. Did you know that?'
'No,' said Craig.
'Well, he does,' said Loomis. 'He's stirring up trouble for us in the Middle East wherever he can. Jordan, Oman, Aden, Iraq, anywhere where there's British interests. And God knows, where there's oil there's trouble. He's had politicians beaten up so that they nearly died, and used that to start riots-three this year already. The last one cost eleven dead. Three of them were women. Two were kids. And he's going to go on doing it until we're in an Arab war as deep as the French are.'
'But why on earth-' Craig began.
'The way he sees it, the Arabs will unite-and I dare say he's right-so he thinks we should unite too. The French can't lick the Algerians on their own. They need help. He thinks we're the ones who should help them.'
'We'll never do it,' said Craig.
'Of course not, but we'll have a hell of a time keeping out after what he's done,' said Loomis. 'He's made sure we've taken the blame for everything he's done.'
'Why not just deny it? Say it was him?'
'The Arabs would never believe us. Why should they? They've got the evidence he left. Payoffs in five-pound notes, British arms and ammunition, letters and pamphlets from British fascist organizations. It's not easy to deny that sort of thing and be convincing when you're doing it. Especially when the people you're trying to convince want to believe it's all your fault anyway.'
'Complain to the French,' said Craig.
'We have,' said Loomis. 'Oh, brother, we have. But St. Briac's nobody. Nobody official, that is. They chucked him out of the Army for brutality. Officially, French Intelligence has never heard of him-and unofficially half of them give him all the help he needs. They've even had the blasted nerve to tell us they can't trace him, and all the time he's got an H.Q. in Nice. The Society for the Solution of the Algerian Problem, it's called. And it's got two aims, two ideas. One is dragging this country into their war and the other is what they call the exclusion of undesirable influences. By undesirable influences he means you and blokes like you, and by exclusion he means murder, and he's bloody good at it. You're the first one he's missed twice. He got Rutter first time off.'
'You want me to kill him,' Craig said.
'Yes,' said Loomis, 'I do. I've tried everything else and it hasn't worked. The Middle East's a powder magazine and he's sitting in the middle of it, giggling away and tossing matches. My orders are to stop him. How I do it is up to me. But you need him dead, son.'
'Why can't he do it?' Craig asked, nodding at Grierson.
'Ah,' said Loomis, 'I thought you'd ask that. St. Briac's a bit tricky to get at. Bodyguards and all that. I mean, you can't just ring up and make an appointment and shoot him in the tripes. You've got to reach him. Now that should be a piece of cake for you. He's been trying to reach you for weeks. All you've got to do is tell him you want to make a deal and you're home and dried. Then there's another thing. You want to kill him.'
'You've already said that,' said Craig.
'It'll stand a repeat,' said Loomis. 'He killed Lange. He killed Rutter. Sooner or later he'll kill Baumer too. He's nearly killed your wife and had two goes at you and one at your girl friend. Killing him's the only way you'll get any peace.'
'I could run,' said Craig.
'Not any more.' Loomis coughed, delicately for him, an eruptive gurgle into a square foot of white lawn. 'You see what I mean, don't you, son? We've got to get St. Briac. And if we can't have you for executioner, we'll have you for bait.'
Craig said nothing.
'There's another thing too,' said Loomis. 'You're a natural for the job. You've killed before. You're neat and quick and quiet, so the Navy says, and you get on with it. You've worked at it too. Worked bloody hard. Black belt. Karate. And you can use a pistol too.' Craig nodded. 'Oh you'll do a grand job. You know, son, when you cut out all the balls about duty and survival, I think you enjoy it.'
Craig took it without a word.
'So there you are,' said Loomis. 'What do you say?'
'There's another thing too,' Craig said. 'If I get killed myself trying to do it, nobody can say I'm one of your lot, can they? It'll all be blamed on the gun-running.'
'Exactly,' said Loomis, and beamed at Grierson. 'Shrewd as well,' he added. 'He's so good it's creepy.' He turned back to Craig. 'We've got you now, son. We aren't going to let you go.'
'I want to think,' Craig said.
'How long?'
'Tomorrow. It'll keep till tomorrow.'
'Just as you like,' Loomis said. 'We'll lunch at my club. You can tell me all about it then.' He levered himself up from his chair. 'There's just one thing. We'd like to give you a checkup. Do you mind coming downstairs?'
'No, I don't mind,' said Craig. 'But there's something I'd like to know first.'
'I'll do my best,' Loomis said.
'Just who the hell will I be working for if I do it?' 'This is Department K of M.I.6,' said Loomis. 'We're a sort of sump really. Whatever comes in is filtered through the pipeline, and we collect the dregs; the stuff that's too dirty for anybody else to handle. All very unofficial, naturally. Nobody knows about us and nobody wants to know. Our sort of job is usually pretty nasty, you see. This one's nasty. But I have to do something about it. It's important, son.'
They went down to the cellars in an old and cautious elevator, and on the way out Loomis motioned to Craig to go first. The floor and walls were of hard, dark stone, and the fluorescent light flickered unevenly. Craig walked along the passage in the half-dark, and Loomis and Grierson lagged farther behind. He turned a corner, and a pistol crashed like thunder in the stone-enclosed space, a bullet wheeped savagely past him, then spanged in whining ricochet from the wall. Craig dived to the floor, then rolled over and over to the darkest corner. Already he had seen the bulk of the man who had fired. His own gun roared once, and again, then suddenly more lights came on and he saw what he had aimed at was a dummy.
Loomis and Grierson came around the corner, and Loomis chuckled, a smug, fat sound.
'You're quick, son,' he said. 'Let's see if you're accurate.'
Grierson walked to the dummy, a cheap, tailor's window creation, with the shoulders of a heavyweight and the face of Bardot.
'Gorgeous, isn't it?' Loomis asked.
He looked at it more closely. There were two small holes, four inches apart, near where the heart should
