thing in any area we chose. We would not, of course, use it— except once perhaps, to show that we are in earnest. Simply to possess it—that is all we need. America would listen to us; very carefully, very humbly. Russia would be persuaded to act as a Communist country once more. All deviations would be corrected.'
He looked almost pleadingly at Schiebel.
'Marshal Chen Yi sent me himself when he heard what this stuff might be. The two scientists will report direct to Comrade Chou. Can we get at it?'
Schiebel smiled then; smiled with the certain arrogant charm of a very superior person.
'Of course,' he said. 'I'm arranging to have it delivered to you.'
'Albania?' Soong asked. 'You could get it to Albania?'
'No,' said Schiebel. 'That's too clumsy. I like things to be'—his hand made a graceful gesture—'elegant. It will take a little time of course, and the British won't like it—' Soong sniggered. The noise was an ugly contrast to his smooth-fitting clothes. There was rage in it, as well as disgust.
'They still have hopes of the Haram,' Schiebel said. 'There may be oil there, and they still have hopes of Middle East oil. I shall have to take steps to find out their interest.'
'What steps?' Soong asked.
'I might join them,' Schiebel said. 'With my face, what else could I be but a Queen's Messenger?' 'And then?'
'Then I shall have your cobalt shipped to you direct,' said Schiebel. 'I'll get it to Shanghai. Then it's up to you to use it.'
'Just get it to us. It will be used; I promise you,' said
Soong.
» · *
Swyven felt at peace with the world. He adored sunshine, and offbeat places, and Beirut was still offbeat enough for him; a marvelous jumble of Mercedes taxis and tiny bazaar shops and plush casinos and coffee in brass pots. It was all a bit chichi of course, but chichi in an amusing sort of way, and it was pleasant to sit in a seaside cafe and drink one's campari and soda, and look at the bodies—brown, bronze, and gold—soaking in the sun. There was no anger in Lebanon either, and that was the most pleasing thing of all.
A shadow spread coolness across his face, and he looked up. A man was standing over him, a man whose photograph was in his pocket so that he knew who it must be, and yet it was so incredible that he gasped aloud.
'Hello, Mark,' said Schiebel. 'I hope I'm not late?'
'No, no. Not at all,' Swyven said. 'Please sit down.'
Schiebel sat. He wore a beach robe and bathing trunks. His body was tanned to the color of milk chocolate. It was a tall, lean body, long-muscled, durable as whipcord. Between his right collarbone and breast was a patch of skin still white, like a bandage. Once there had been a series of burn scars there. The bums had been made by cigarettes. Swyven looked at it—and knew this was the man, then looked again at the face. It really was incredible.
The face was English. A long, thin nose with fine nostrils, the skin stretched tight over the cheekbones, the mouth wide, with a wry twist to it, the chin small, but firm, out-thrusting.
'I can't believe it,' Swyven said.
Schiebel laughed. The laugh, like the voice, had not changed.
'They have very good plastic surgeons in Switzerland,' he said. 'Mine was the best I could find. Do you approve of me, Mark?'
'But of course I do,' Swyven said.
'Where does this face belong?' Schiebel asked.
Swyven said at once. 'In the Army. Or the Foreign Office. Or perhaps at the Bar. It's just a shade too naughty for the House of Commons, I think—'
'But it is Establishment?'
'Quite definitely,' Swyven said.
'Good. My photograph please—if you are quite satisfied about who I really am?'
Swyven handed over the photograph, and watched as Schiebel rolled it up, lit it, dropped it flaming into an ashtray and waited until it smouldered to crinkled foil, then broke it into pieces.
Schiebel was as thorough as he was dangerous, and Swyven was terrified of him.
'Dyton-Blease brought the girl?' Schiebel said. It wasn't a question. Schiebel knew.
'Yes,' Swyven said. 'He's gone on to his island. It was quite a journey apparently. She's resting in her room.'
'No one knows she's here?'
'No. I was terribly careful.'
'I'm sure you were,' said Schiebel.
'Her father, the emir, is quite prepared to sell—if the price is right,' Swyven said. 'Naturally he has no idea what the stuff is for, but he wants the money to buy machine guns.'
Schiebel laughed aloud, a clear, happy sound, and Swyven stopped. 'What's wrong?' he asked.
'I'm sorry,' said Schiebel. 'He wants machine guns, and he's sitting on a mountain of cobalt. He's got enough explosive to blow his country to the moon—and he wants to shoot bullets.'
'It's that strong?' Swyven asked.
'It's fantastic,' Schiebel said. 'One little bomb could blow up'—he paused and grinned at Swyven—'the entire British Navy. Now you'd like that, wouldn't you?'
'I hope it happens,' said Swyven.
'It isn't very likely, but it's possible,' Schiebel said. 'Say a thousand-to-one shot. If you like outsiders.'
Swyven looked across to his hotel. A girl was walking down its steps, a brown, black-haired girl in a backless pink sundress, who walked with an effortless arrogance that turned every male head in range.
'There she is,' said Swyven.
Schiebel rose at once.
'The desert princess,' he said. 'I'd like to make a journey with her myself. Look me up before you leave. I'm in Room 108.'
'Of course,' Swyven said.
'I'm making arrangements to have her sent to Menos. We must be discreet for a little while. I shall have her smuggled in. Cloak and dagger stuff. Which reminds me— I've got a little surprise for you,' said Schiebel. 'I'm going to join the British Secret Service. Is that Establishment enough for you?'
Then he was gone and Swyven sat, open-mouthed, till the brown girl came up to him, and sank into a chair with a serene and effortless grace that brought waiters speeding like whippets. Swyven ordered her lemonade.
'How are you?' he asked.
'Rotten,' she said. 'You'll have to show me again how to manage that bloody girdle. I can't get the hang of it at
* Chapter 3 *
Loomis sweated until his face was shining and his shirt was a damp rag in the small of his back, oozing wetness. The hut was small and stifling with strong and recent memories of garlic, fish, and resinated wine. Outside, the heat was like a blow, the white sand glistened until the eyes ached to look at it. In the hut it was a little, a very littie cooler, but the smells had a life of their own, an assertive, extrovert life that clamored for attention.
Loomis said: 'It's too dark in here,' and the lean, elegant policeman beside him jerked the shutter from the window.
A bar of sunlight pierced the dimness of the room, showing him the old fisherman and his wife who owned the hut, and who were happy to hear English spoken, because the noises Loomis made assured them that he was a friend, though they didn't understand a word. Their faces were old, seamed, weather-worn, and proudly, fiercely Greek. Despite their age, there was strength in them, and endurance. They had learned well how to endure, and experts had taught them. Saracens, Turks, Venetians. Greeks like the old peasant and his wife had outlasted them all. They had even outlasted the Germans.
The white bar probed like a searchlight beam into the
