The Money That Money Can't Buy

'That's Driver,' said Millington.

Craig looked down at Millington's unzipped fly.

'You do pick your times, don't you?' he said.

The van drove off at last, and Craig set up the developing tank inside it, curtained it off, and switched on the infrared lights. The photographs came out well enough, even the photographs of photographs of the stars of Nuderama, Karen and Tempest and Maxine. Craig numbered each picture and took notes on the names as Millington talked. For the first time Millington became aware of Craig's fury of concentration, his utter disregard of everything but the job on hand. Millington began to wonder what a man had to do to afford a fifty-guinea suit, a Longines- Wittnauer watch, Guerlain cologne. He looked for the hundredth time at Craig's hands. They were big hands, for Craig himself was big—six feet two and thirteen stones at least, with a heaviness of shoulder that stretched his suit glove-tight across the back—but they were neat hands too, long-fingered, deft in their movements. The knuckles were strange: each was flattened, so that across the back of each hand there was a continuous ridge of bone, and the skin that covered it looked like leather. The edge of each hand was odd too, because it was not rounded but straight and flat, and covered from wrist to fingertip in the same leathery skin. It reminded Millington of the blade of an ax.

The van pulled over to the curb by a tube station, and Craig finished his notes.

'All right,' he said. 'This is where you leave us.'

'What are you going to do now?' Millington asked. 'Can you tell me?'

'I'm going back there,' said Craig. 'Our people see this as a rush job. So I'll rush it.' He grinned. 'That's where I've got the edge on you. I can go in there and make things happen. You have to wait and pick up the pieces.'

'I have to go back there myself,' said Mill-ington. 'Not after Driver,' he added hastily. 'We're laying off him till we get clearance from you. But I may see you.'

'You won't know me,' said Craig.

'Naturally not,' Millington stood up, and surprised himself by holding out his hand.

'Good luck,' he said.

'You too,' said Craig^ and shook his hand.

Millington said: 'Yes, well—' and scrambled out of the van. A moment later his head reappeared in the doorway.

'You're parked on a yellow line,' he said.

5

The room was bare, efficient, and utterly devoid of decoration. On one cream-washed wall a darker patch showed where a picture had once hung. It had been a portrait of Stalin. Chelichev was glad that such extravagant idolatry was no longer necessary. It was idiotic, and it interfered with the clean lines of his room. So did the dark patch, but he refused to have it painted out. It reminded him of days that had not been gone for very long, days that might, if one was not careful, come back. He settled back in his chair; he looked like an ad for superior whisky, a lean, leathery, handsome horseman; a tough and well-preserved Fifty who could still play hell with the ladies. His Soviet army general's uniform had been cut and tailored by an expert. It, like everything else in the room, was fanatically clean, as if room and owner had been purged by fire. He looked at the one note on his desk, tore it into four neat squares, murmured into a desk phone, then sat back, at once at ease and watchful, as a cat sits.

The woman who came in was beautiful. Tall and deep-bosomed, green-eyed, with thick, heavy hair

so blond as to be almost white. A former prima ballerina assoluta of the Bolshoi had taught her to move, a film makeup man had taught her how to make up, a Hungarian couturier had spent weeks showing her how to choose and match clothes, gloves, handbags, shoes. The result was at once beautiful and splendid: a woman of superb proportions and exquisite taste. Chelichev looked pleased.

The woman said: 'This is an honor, comrade-general.'

The voice was deep, melancholy, beautiful. An actor of the Stanislavsky method had made it so.

Chelichev said: 'For me it is a pleasure. A very great pleasure.' The woman lowered her head, acknowledging a tribute that could never be commonplace.

'Soong is dead,' he continued. 'You did remarkably well in Morocco.'

'Thank you, comrade-general.'

'The information you passed on to Dovzhenko was relayed here. We knew he had gone to Britain of course— it was just good luck that we found him —but the execution, that was remarkably efficient. Except'—he scowled —'that somebody thought it would be amusing to have one of the executives speak to him in Cantonese. We are not here to be amusing. To be amusing is to betray a secret. In this case I think it betrayed who killed Soong to Department K.'

'The British intelligence organization?'

'Exactly. Department K is very good. Very original. They never make jokes.' He paused. 'No. That is not true. The British always make jokes, but it is part of their technique. Their minds work that way. Soong is a good lead for them.' He paused again, and the woman knew she was on trial. It was her turn to speak.

'You mean it might lead them to BC?'

'It might. Yes. Their leader, Loomis, is a terrible man. He is also very clever. Everything that happens he turns to his advantage. How would such a man react if he knew that a foreign group was doing all it could to attack the USSR?'

'There have been more incidents?'

'Two cases of sabotage,' he said. 'One very spectacular. The theft of a certain archives—they were recovered, and the man who stole them killed himself. That was a pity—but to retain the archives was essential. They were about Beria, and very revealing. BC exists all right.'

'Of course,' the woman said.

'Of course.' Chelichev's voice was ironic. 'But there are certain people, even in the Presidium, who do not think so. They blame it all on the Americans and the British. If it were true, it would be an act of war. We must stop BC before our masters start demanding reprisals.'

He looked at the woman again, noting the fact of her youth and beauty. His look was not one of desire but of pity.

'Another war could destroy us all,' he said, 'including those of our masters who say it couldn't happen. Just because we take reprisals against those who have done nothing to us. We must find BC and destroy it. Soon.'

The woman said: 'Dovzhenko had a lead. BC has a bank account in Tangier. I heard about it and brought in Dovzhenko to find out.'

'In a bank called Credit Labonne,' said Chelichev. 'They have a million pounds in Deutschmarks.'

'A million pounds sterling?' He nodded. 'What a strange way to put it. Why not just say however many million Deutschmarks it is? Unless—'

'It's about eleven million,' said Chelichev. 'Unless what?'

'Unless Dovzhenko found out from an Englishman—or an Englishman put the money in the bank,' answered the woman.

'I want you to go to Tangier again and find out,' said Chelichev.

'Why not send Dovzhenko too? He's good,' the woman said.

'Very good. Unfortunately Department K took him from us two days ago. That is why I feel so sure they'll know about BC by now.'

'They kidnapped Dovzhenko?' Somehow she stopped herself from adding the stupid 'But that's impossible.'

'He did, not they. A man called Craig, from Department K.'

'He must be a remarkable man.'

'Very. He could—quite literally—kill you with one finger. We have a file on him. Read it.'

'Do you think Loomis will use the BC information to hurt us?'

'No,' said Chelichev. 'He doesn't want a war any more than I do. I might even get him to help us find out who the BC members are. At a price.'

'You think they're based in England?'

'Soong went to England, and we know he was trying to contact the BC.'

He looked at his watch and said: 'That is all, I think. You will study the situation here for a few more days, then go back to Tangier.'