made no difference. Craig alone was more than he could cope with. They reached a door labeled 'Group Psychotherapy.' Grierson knocked, and went inside. Behind a desk heaped with carnations, Loomis beamed like a fat uncle at Christmas. His gaze moved over to Craig.
'Goodness,' he said. 'You do look authentic.'
Craig rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, then wiped the hand on his trouser seat.
'Don't overact,' said Loomis. 'Any trouble?'
'No,' said Craig. 'The cultural attache here—and his friend—'
'A sort of cultural attache's mate,' said Grierson.
'They started yelling about diplomatic immunity at first,' said Craig. 'Now they're more keen on political asylum.'
'What about Swyven?'
'He wants his mommy,' said Craig.
'And if he's a good boy—a very good boy—he shall have her,' said Loomis. 'Just take these two away and tidy them up, will you, Grierson?' He glowered at them. 'Tell the truth and we'll give you money. More truth, more money. If you tell enough truth, we won't let anybody shoot you. If you don't, we will.'
Grierson took them out, and Loomis came out from behind the desk, placed a massive hand on Swyven's shoulder, and rammed him into a chair.
'You've got a choice, you know,' Loomis said. 'You can tell me, or I can let Craig get it out of you. I don't like you, Swyven, but Craig hates the sight of you. You were too pally with a feller he didn't like.' He turned to Craig. 'Got a flash this morning. Doctor's report on Dyton-Blease. You paralyzed him, son. For life. He can't even speak.' He turned back to Swyven. 'That's the way Craig is, cock,' he said. 'I wouldn't cross him if I were you. Then there's your mother to consider.'
'You've no right to do this to me,' Swyven yelled. 'No right at all. And what's going to happen when the Zaarbist Embassy finds out about this?'
'Finds out about what?' said Loomis. 'Your two orangutans don't want to go back to their cage. They'll use the accident as an excuse to stay out. The accident's been reported to their embassy, and you're here for treatment. The road roller man will be charged with dangerous driving, and he'll plead guilty. What on earth can Zaarb do about it? You'd better concentrate on your mommy— and Craig here.'
'What about my mother?'
'She stole a lot of stuff,' said Loomis. 'Over ten thousand quid's worth. She'll go to prison, unless we find fresh evidence.'
'That's not very likely, is it?' said Swyven.
'Up to you,' said Loomis. 'Take another look at Craig, cock, then make up your mind. I won't ask you again.' Swyven looked round. A dirty man in dirty overalls. A hard man, harder even than poor, dear Dyton-Blease.
'All right,' he said.
'You just he back and make yourself comfy,' said Loomis.
'My mother—' Swyven said.
'I'll ring Scotland Yard as soon as we're finished,' Loomis said. 'Don't worry about a thing.' He looked quickly at Craig, his head jerked, and Craig turned to the door.
'Now just tell your old uncle,' said Loomis. Craig closed the door very sofdy, and went to wash, to change, to think about Fhp.
Loomis had it made, he thought. Naxos would sign anything now, so long as Flip was being cured. And Sir Matthew seemed to think she was. But yesterday when he had seen her, she had seemed relaxed, at ease, and completely crazy, dreams and reality blending at will, Hollywood True Confessions and worry and affection flowing together like sewerage in a reservoir. Sir Matthew must know his stuff. But whatever happened to Flip, Loomis would win, because he always did. Loomis could get the defense plans of Heaven out of the Archangel Michael. He went into a room marked 'Matron,' stretched out on the couch, and went to sleep. Counterespionage was mostly waiting anyway.
Three hours later, the door clicked open and Loomis came in, moving with incredible softness for a man of his size. He stood over Craig, and reached out a hand.
'No,' Craig said, eyes still closed. 'I'm ticklish.'
Loomis grunted, and sat down opposite Craig.
'I'm just about ready for the laughing academy,' Loomis said. 'That lad in there's got me tied in knots.'
Craig sat up, and faced him.
'It's bad then?' he asked.
'Oh no,' said Loomis. 'From our point of view it's perfect. Swyven and Dyton-Blease have been comrades for years, d'you see. Know their Marxist-Leninist dialectic, all that stuff. All for the suffering masses—unless they happen to be British, American, or West European. So they went out to Zaarb in the fifties and spread the gospel. While they were there they met Schiebel or Andrews, or whatever his bloody name is, and Schiebel welcomed them in. Of course. He was working loose from Russia at the time, and he needed a few chums. So Dyton-Blease and Swyven helped him in a fund-raising drive, flogging dope Schiebel brought in from China. That's how Dyton-Blease managed to borrow a couple of heavies from that Greek dope peddler. He was his main supplier. Then Schiebel sent Dyton-Blease into the Haram, that's Selina's father's place. His name's Sayed by the way. He was out looking for recruits to comradeism, but he couldn't see that happening in the Haram. They're all happy as pigs in muck there— it's like a Viking Valhalla—all fighting and feasting and screwing. So naturally, Dyton-Blease wants to change all that, but in the meantime he gets to be great chums with Sayed, and told him what swine the British were, and of course after Suez, Sayed believed every word, but unfortunately, he wasn't too keen on Dyton-Blease's other idea, which was that Zaarb was the new Jerusalem. Old Sayed had been knocking hell out of Zaarb for years, and he knew what they were like. So Dyton-Blease concentrated on just
being nice and friendly and anti-British, and waiting until Zaarb had a modern army to take over the Haram.'
'Why bother?' said Craig. 'There's not such a lot
of it.'
'Three reasons,' said Loomis. 'It's strategically useful, it's about 50 percent oil, and they've got a mountain there with enough cobalt to posion the entire earth.'
'Cobalt makes H-bombs look like cigarette lighters,' he continued. 'We won't touch the stuff, no more will the Yanks, and even the Russians have gone off it since Stalin— but the Chinese have exploded their second A-bomb, and they're looking ahead. Schiebel was anxious to provide them with the raw material. He's a nut for explosions, Swyven said. He's also just crazy enough not to care whether the little yellow brothers start popping the things off or not.
'Of course he needed transport to get the stuff to China in bulk, and that's where Naxos came in. If Naxos could be persuaded to vote the U.K. out of Zaarb Oil, then Zaarb would take over the Haram and start paying off Chinese aid with cobalt. Only that would be a bit dicey—I mean if we or the Yanks or even the Russians found out what they were doing—we'd have to stop them. Go to war. And Schiebel knew it. So he decided to use Naxos's ships for the job. After all, it's logical, it fits. They'd put the cobalt in Naxos's tankers and say it was oil to pay for Chinese equipment, and nobody would be surprised if Naxos got the job. He'd earned it by voting for Zaarb against us. And in a few years' time, the Chinese would be saying do as we say or there'll be a hell of a bang.'
Loomis sat back, grunted, and produced a vicious-looking cheroot from another pocket, then glowered at Craig, fumbled again with a fat man's intensity, produced another and tossed it to Craig. Craig lit it, and inhaled cautiously. It tasted like concentrated beetroot.
'I don't see what makes you ripe for the nut house,' Craig said.
'It's the motivation,' said Loomis. 'Dyton-Blease is easy. He just hates everybody—always has. The only fun he ever had was in destroying things and people—like old Serafin. Like you, if you hadn't cheated. Communism's built on two ideas: tear down, and rebuild. All Dyton-Blease believed in was the tearing down bit. Every time he hit somebody it was another blow for the masses. Schiebel's easy too. The Nazis built him, and the Russians improved the model, and he got away from them before they could change their minds and destroy him. He's a Communist for the same reason Dyton-Blease was—because it justifies destruction, and he was precision-made to destroy.
'But Swyven. You know why he's a Red? Because he loves his mommy and he hates his daddy. And you know
