main thing is to see that he doesn't go. O.K.?'
Craig said, 'He won't.'
'Funny bloke,' said Loomis. 'Ruthless, treacherous, nasty with it. Yet he thinks of himself as a gentleman. His personal honor's important to him. You should bear that in mind. It might help you to reach him.' He peered at Craig, assessing his strength, his skill, the speed of his reflexes, his ability to kill. At last he sat back. He was content. 'That's about it then,' he said. 'Unless there's anything you want?'
'I want to work with Grierson for a bit. There are one or two things I can teach him.'
'Use the gym in the cellars. Anything else?'
'Pucelli. When we go, I want him arrested. Not deported. Arrested. Keep him here till we get back.'
'Will do,' said Loomis, and grinned. 'I wish I'd met you earlier, son. I really do.'
Baumer had gone to Sao Paulo, not Rio de Janeiro. Rio could wait until things cooled off. He'd read about Rutter, and being a sentimental man he'd wept for him, but otherwise he had been happy in Sao Paulo. It was gay, noisy, brash, and the sun shone all day. In time
Baumer thought he might do business there. For the present he was enjoying a holiday: going to concerts, looking at pictures, loafing in the sun. It was very pleasant to be able to do that, after a childhood in Germany, a headlong flight to North Africa, and statelessness, then more Germans, more hiding, and for a while, prison in Spanish Morocco, before he managed to reach England, start a business, meet Lange, meet Craig.
He was not surprised to read that Craig had been killed. Craig was the strongest of them all, but he was also the most vulnerable. That was why he'd made the most money, and failed to five to enjoy it. Craig had had no talent for enjoyment. Baumer was sorry about that. He'd have liked Craig to five long enough to discover the value of pleasure, as he himself was doing. But Craig all his life had been at war. For him there was neither a public nor a private peace. For him Mozart and Velasquez were no more than names, a sunset the prelude to a night raid, a woman a few minutes of vulnerable relief. Baumer, for three weeks, enjoyed them all.
After that, Cavalho found him. A girl he knew had danced with Baumer in a Sao Paulo club and had remembered him because he was generous. In the end, Baumer had to tell Cavalho and his assistant where his money was, and they killed him. After that they got drunk, and smashed his records, ripped and tore his books. The girl Baumer had danced with was given a present. She chose a golden St. Christopher.
Loomis had final instructions for them. He came in and talked to them as they lay under a sunlamp, soaking up a tan that wouldn't disgrace them on beaches where to be pale was to be conspicuous, and hence to be discussed. Their contact, Ashford, would meet them in St. Tropez and tell them exactly when St. Briac would return to Nice. After that, he would keep out of their way.
'He's bitter, you see,' Loomis said. 'Bit of a fairy. That's how we got on to him. He's a friend of St. Briac's 2- I-C-that Valere feller I told you about. Chaps in our line shouldn't have friends, Craig.'
'I'm not in your line,' Craig said, 'and I'm not sorry.'
'It isn't all that fragrant, is it?' Loomis said. 'But I had to think of the alternative, and I told you what that was. Certainly mass murder and very possibly war. So I put the squeeze on him, just like I did with you. I didn't have much choice, son.'
'You've met him then?'
Loomis shook his head.
'Grierson arranged the details-and Grierson's going to tell Ashford he's working for you. This is an amateur's job. Grierson's just a gentleman crook you met in the old days in Tangier.'
'You were very sure I'd help you,' Craig said.
'It made very little difference,' said Loomis. 'We'd have done it in your name, whatever happened. Now I've promised Ashford that La Valere won't be touched, or rather you've promised him-unless it's absolutely unavoidable. La Valere's nothing without St. Briac, anyway. Just another barmy para officer. As I told you, he knows how to kill but he hasn't got much brains. And anyway he's in love. We needn't bother about him.
'Duclos now, he's another matter. Ex-Algerian police. Bit of a sadist, from all accounts, and a very single- minded lad. So long as someone's there to give him orders, Duclos's dangerous. So are the bodyguards. You'll have to get past them somehow, and it won't be by bribery.
'There are two places where you might get him. One's his villa in Villefranche, the other's the Association's offices in Nice itself. Ashford's briefed you on those.' He looked at Grierson, who nodded. 'If you can get any more about the organization, I'll be grateful, but the important thing is that St. Briac should die. Now what sort of stuff do you want?'
'It ought to be a bomb,' Craig said, 'but I'm not risking that. They kill too many people. Rifle?'
'We've had a good look at him,' Grierson said. 'A rifle might be possible, but he's on the lookout all the time- always has people around him. The only way we can be sure of him is to get in close, and if we do that we can't carry rifles.'
'Target pistol then,' Craig said. 'Something like a Colt Woodsman. Can you get me one?' Loomis nodded.
'Grierson has the escape route,' he said. 'He'll brief you on that himself. There's just one more thing. If they get hold of you, you know what will happen, don't you?' Craig nodded. 'We'll give you a pill for that. If you can't use it, they'll learn all about me.' He shrugged. 'It'll be a nuisance, but not the end of the world. According to Her Majesty's government, Loomis doesn't exist.' Still seated, he bowed, very formally, to Craig.
'Good luck, son,' he said. 'All the good luck in the world.'
CHAPTER 13
Craig flew to Paris in an Air France Caravelle. He looked and acted like a very wealthy tourist. For one night he stayed in a hotel near the Rue de Rivoli, drank in bars in the Champs-Elysees, visited the Louvre and the Musee Rodin, the Deux-Magots, the Casino, and the Crazy Horse Saloon. He attracted girls, bought them drinks, danced with them, ditched them. When he was sure that no one followed him, he went to join Grierson and made him practice, over and over, the skills he had learned from Hakagawa. Then Grierson disappeared for a while, and came back with a case of worn black leather. Inside it were two Colt.38's, Craig's Luger, and the Colt Woodsman that Craig had asked for. The Woodsman is a long-barreled weapon, a target pistol of tremendous accuracy. It has to be. Its.22 bullets have very little stopping power unless they hit a vital spot. Craig had practiced with it continually before he had left London. He was beginning to know it well. He lifted it out of its case and weighed it in his hand. 'Now we can go,' he said.
'We have to get you a car first,' Grierson said. 'I've ordered an Alfa Romeo.' 'Aren't we using yours?'
'No. The Lagonda stays in London. It's too conspicuous for this kind of work. I've got myself a Mercedes. Fast, not too conspicuous, left-hand drive.'
'Like the Alfa?'
Grierson nodded.
'He's planned this well,' said Craig. 'I like that.'
The Alfa was black, and waxed till it glowed. It had been hired to Craig by an Englishman who lived in Paris, and the receipt was there too. So was the Englishman, who watched Craig handle his heart's joy in the Paris traffic, then sighed softly and asked to be let out, stroked the gleaming paintwork and disappeared. Craig went to the Port de Picpus, and left Paris by the N5 and drove to Sens, seventy miles in an hour and a quarter, and the car had scarcely drawn breath. Grierson, following him, cursed as he pressed his foot down. He lunched in Sens, and took the N6 through Auxerre and Macon to Lyons, another two hundred and fifty miles. Grierson had to work hard to keep him in view. In Lyons he stayed the night. By now he knew the car; he had taken it beyond the hundred, experimented with its handling on winding side roads, proved the assurance of its brakes. The car, like his guns, was the best Loomis could get.
He dined at a restaurant near the Fourviere Basilica, a hushed and dedicated place where serious men ate seriously-gras-double a la Lyonnaise, cervelas en brioche, poulet en chemise-and drank, with a decent respect, Beaujolais, Macon, Cotes du Rhone. Grierson, two tables away, marveled at his digestion. Next morning, after coffee and brioches, they left Lyons on the N7, the fast Riviera road, and kept on going. The sun was shining now, hard enough for them to wear sunglasses, and the air was warm.
After a while Grierson pulled out and passed him in a glorious thunder of power. Craig accelerated and held
