'I don't,' said Loomis, 'but I have to take them.'
'With him?'
'You tell me.'
'For the moment he's a reasonable risk,' Sir Matthew said. 'He's not a psychopathic murderer in the usual sense.'
'Cut out the codology,' said Loomis.
'He won't kill unless there's risk to himself,' said Sir Matthew.
'Even now?'
Sir Matthew nodded. 'At one time he had a love-hate for that kind of killing—it disgusted him, but it exhilarated him, too.'
'Like sex to a vicar,' said Loomis.
'The established clergy have their own problems,' Sir Matthew said. 'Most of them are too poor to afford me. Craig is no longer aware of this love-hate when he kills.'
'Why not?'
'He's killed too often,' Sir Matthew said. 'I made him.' 'I didn't say that.'
'You didn't have to. Look, I need Craig, d'you see?' 'I do indeed.' 'Is it safe to use him?'
'For a while, yes, if you must,' said Sir Matthew. 'He's good at it, you know, and he's still got it under control.'
'And one day he won't?'
'That's very possible. He's no longer aware of his love-hatred for killing, but it's stronger than ever. One day he won't wait for you to find his targets.'
'How long?'
'He'd better see me in three months,' said Sir Matthew, and stalked to the door, then he turned around. Loomis was surprised to see that his face expressed emotion. The emotion was malice.
'I should make a note of it, Loomis,' said Sir Matthew. 'One fact is overwhelmingly clear. Once Craig rejects your authority, his first target is obvious.'
'Who?' Loomis asked.
'You,' said Chinn.
* * *
Mrs. McNab brought in more newspapers, and Craig groaned aloud. The room held a couple of thousand already.
'These are the last,' said Mrs. McNab. Craig grunted. 'Any orders, sir?'
'Keep reading,' said Craig.
If Mrs. McNab had not been a lady, she would have groaned too.
They were looking for news items on Russia: copy that knocked the country. Vanishing Sputniks, failure of five-year plans, plane crashes, the defeat of Moscow Dynamo, reputed sex changes in Russian women athletes. Anything that made Russia look bad. There was plenty of it. Craig and Mrs. McNab read of riots in Azerbaijan, attempted kidnapping of defecting diplomats in Sydney, denunciations of poets in Leningrad, towns that changed their names as one after the other of the giant idols—Trotsky, Kamenev, Stalin, Khrushchev—crashed. Carefully they noted the date and the edition of each paper that ran each story. Russian claims to have invented everything from the telephone to the airplane; political theorizing that ruined a wheat crop; drunks and the jet set and the man who made a fortune bootlegging the records of Louis Armstrong, until long before the end it seemed to Craig that only two kinds of people existed: the Russians, who did stupid things, and the rest of the world, who watched. Craig gathered up a pile of foolscap and went to the door.
'You needn't wait,' he told Mrs. McNab. 'It's almost teatime anyway.'
'Very good, sir,' said Mrs. McNab.
The time was 8:30. She hated him more than ever.
Loomis seemed to have devoured even more papers in even less time. The room was littered with them. He'd simply hurled them away when he'd finished with them, to make room for more. He sat now before an enormous plate on which was a roast chicken stuffed with truffles. The remains of a sole mornay had been pushed aside, a wedge of Stilton lay waiting. With it he drank a Chateau Lafite.
'I told you,' he grunted. 'Thinking makes me hungry. Want a drink?'
'Please,' said Craig.
'Find a glass then,' said Loomis.
Craig found a teacup, and Loomis shuddered.
'See a pattern?' he asked.
Craig sipped, and nodded, then looked at his sheaf of foolscap.
'All the newspapers belong to Salvation Press,' Craig said. 'They do
'It's a groovy trend setter,' Craig said ex-pressionlessly. 'The mag that shows you tomorrow's world today. It doesn't like Russia either. Nor does
'You're not just a pretty face are you?' said Loomis. 'That's the way I worked it out as well. Salvation Press is always first with the Russian stuff. Ahead of the
'That's right,' said Craig, and drained his teacup.
'They got a tip-off,' said Loomis. 'They must have. There's too much coincidence, d'you see? I think that's what Calvet was on about.'
'Yes,' said Craig. 'Nice wine, this.'
Loomis grunted and pushed the bottle in-finitesimally toward Craig, who filled his cup.
'There's something else,' he said. Loomis grunted again. 'Salvation Press is run by a bloke called Simmons,' said Craig. 'C. G. Simmons. He owns Midland Television, too.'
'That so?' said Loomis, and chuckled.
'He's got a daughter,' Craig said. 'Jane. She was with the walking party who saw Soong die.'
'Bit o' luck, that,' Loomis said. 'Linton reckons she was sweet on you.'
'You have plans for me?'
'You need a bit of a breather,' said Loomis. 'Country air. Wholesome food.' He speared a mouthful of chicken and truffles. 'Surrey. That's the place.'
'Where Simmons lives?'
'Ahh,' said Loomis. 'Go down there and chat her up a bit. See if you can meet her pa.'
'What's my cover?' Craig asked. 'She knows I'm on to the Soong business.'
'Foreign Office,' said Loomis. 'Far East Department. They had you up there in case Red China got irritated. I'll let you have the papers tomorrow.' He chuckled. 'Oh son,' he said, 'I've waited for years to see you in a bowler hat.'
'I thought I was going to rob a bank,' said Craig.
'That comes later,' said Loomis. 'When you get help.'
yl'd rather pick my own,' Craig said, but Loomis shook his head.
'That's out,' he said. 'Pity. But it'll keep anyway. This Simmons person—pretty, is she?'
'Very.'
'Twenty,' Loomis said. 'And rich. Very rich. Only child, too. Her father dotes on her. And she's daft enough to dote on you. Use that.'
'All right,' said Craig.
'I give you a free hand,' Loomis said. 'Do what
you like, tell her what you like—only find out
where her father gets his Russian news from. And,
son, she's young, she'll be looking for glamour.
