The Money That Money Can't Buy

Russki, and they'll have to come and ask for him

back. And then,' Loomis lay back like a basking

whale, 'and then we can talk.'

* * *

The Comet 4B landed on time at Barajas airport. Everything about it had been predictable: its punctuality, its comfort, the size of its drinks, the dullness of its food, the uncertain glory of its hostesses. Craig walked down the steps and hurried to the waiting bus—the wind from the Sierras was cold. The other passengers, like himself, huddled into their coats, as the bus jolted toward the administration building. There were only twenty of them.

It wasn't enough. Craig preferred the anonymity of a crowd, but this time there wasn't a chance. Loomis was in a hurry, and this was the fullest flight he could get.

That day the two Spanish officials had time to spare. They looked at his passport photograph three times and criticized the photographer, read slowly and earnestly through the details of his fiche, and at last let him in to Customs, where a thin, elegant Madrilefto ignored him completely as he scrawled on his two suitcases. One man had ignored him; two had looked at him, and his photograph, with care. Craig didn't like the odds. He took a taxi into Madrid, and stopped off at a car-hire place near the Puerto del Sol. They had a Fiat 1800 waiting for him, and once again he waited while Spaniards struggled with his passport—his name this time was Jameson, which they assumed began with a noise like a percussive 'H'—then he signed the documents and drove out into the city and to the main highway to the south.

The car seemed good for 120 kilometers an hour, which for a hired car is excellent, and Craig enjoyed the almost empty road, the harshness of the high Sierras as he drove through New Castile. This was a country made for war, hard and pure and arid, its mountains gaunt and white-tipped still, their winter snow matte as a bandage on a wound, so that by comparison the Lake District seemed gentle as the mountains of a dream. He drove on to Toledo and stopped there and got out, as a tourist should, to buy paper knives of Toledo steel, and ate lunch, which was hot, aggressive, and yet eager to please, a very Spanish lunch. Then on again, through Ciudad Real to Valdepeflas, and there he spent the night. Valdepenas was quiet, restful, and almost devoid of tourist attractions. On the other hand, a vine grew there which produced an excellent wine. Craig drank it and in limping Spanish congratulated his waiter, who, being a Spaniard, took the matter as a personal compliment, and suggested another bottle, then apologized that the town should have nothing else to offer the foreigner. But the gentleman was going on to Granada? Ah, then tomorrow he really would see something worth seeing. The waiter was a Castilian, and despised Andalusia totally and comprehensively, but the customer had been nice about the wine. He thanked the Englishman again, and told him to the centimo how much his tip should be.

Craig woke next morning early, drove on to Granada, and hired a guide who gave him enthusiastic and quite often accurate information about the Generalife, the churches, the old town, Moorish architecture in general, and the Moorish contribution to the culture of Spain, then took him to a souvenir shop, and beamed with a schoolmaster's pride in a boy who had learned his lessons while Craig bought purses and marquetry boxes and mantillas and combs, and the shopkeeper and the guide said: 'Tipico, ttpico,' and when he had bought enough let him go. He lunched late and well, then set off again in the warmer air, driving on south, where orange and lemon groves were coming into blossom, through village after village where already the preparations for Easter were approaching the frantic, and petrol was scarce and not very good, and the mountains of the Sierra Nevada enfolded it all, an eternity of rock and snow. He bypassed Malaga, and turned west along the coast road, past the little seaside resorts where the foreigners—English, Germans, French, Americans, Swedes— were already arriving with their donations of pesetas to stabilize the Spanish economy, and asking in return only the sun, the opportunity to wear dark glasses, to dress in bright, weirdly cut clothes that they would never, never wear at home. He passed Torremolinos and Fuengirola, and arrived at last at Marbella. There was a bar he had to find, off the Calle Mayor, and he found it at last in a street of whitewashed houses, a bar bright with neon and a jukebox stuffed with the top twenty, and wrought-iron tables with marble tops, and portraits of the Queen and Union Jacks, and Watney's Red Barrel on the counter. Outside, in daylight, one could see an inn sign, with a picture. The bar was called 'The Dog and Duck.' It was full of Englishmen drinking beer, and Englishwomen drinking gin. Craig went inside, ignored two Spanish barmen, and waited for the attention of a squat, slow-moving, chunky man with pale, thin, nondescript hair and skin still pink from the sun, pale skin that would never darken to more than a fiery, ill- tempered red. When the man turned, Craig recited his formula.

'Forgive me, but you must be George Allen,' he said.

The chunky man continued to wash glasses beneath the bar for a second, then said carefully: 'I'm George Allen. Yes. Who might you be?'

Craig said: 'Norman Jameson—Linda's brother.'

Allen said, counting out each word: 'Well, well, well.' Then added: 'How is Linda?'

'Fine,' said Craig. 'She sends you her love.'

'What would you like?' asked Allen.

'Scotch,' said Craig. 'Teacher's for preference. No ice. Water on the side.'

Allen nodded then and brought him his drink. Craig was accepted. Even so, he felt like a fool. Passwords to Craig could never ever sound like conversation, much less replace it. He knew that the men and women around him had heard and forgotten what he had said, but he remembered. He talked for a while about Linda, her husband Frank, and their children—Arthur had failed 'O' level French again; Elaine still had a brace on her teeth—went out to dine on gazpacho, arroz a la Valenciana, and fruit, then returned to the bar. Allen was waiting for him, and came at once from behind the counter and took him into the living room behind it. The living room was furnished throughout by Liberty's, and on the walls were pictures of George Allen: Allen at school, Allen in the first fifteen, Allen as house prefect. Then more pictures: Allen in the RAF regiment in Aden, Singapore, Hong Kong; Allen as a tea planter, a PRO man, a car salesman; and finally Allen as publican, shaking hands with pop singers, bullfighters, film stars. Craig liked the setup less and less. Allen poured Spanish brandy and Craig asked for ginger ale. When it came, Allen said: 'I heard you were on your way. What do you want?'

There was a tycoon's preoccupation in his voice: so much to be done, so little time to do it in. Craig watched as Allen's neat brandy disappeared, and another, larger shot replaced it. He said nothing.

'Look sport,' said Allen. 'I'm a busy man. I'm running a bar. The bar makes money. I don't live in Wogland because I like it—and this is my high season. Now what do you want? If I can help you I will.'

'Your bar makes you thirty pounds a week from April to September,' said Craig. 'Your boat makes you another twenty—smuggling. That's fifteen hundred a year. We've paid you a couple of thousand for the last three years. You're not doing me any favors, Allen. You're paying off six thousand quid.'

Allen picked up his glass and poured down the brandy. His face at once turned a fierce, banked-down red, and he opened his mouth to yell.

'If you start anything,' said Craig, 'I'll knock you unconscious. And you won't work for us again. Ever.'

Allen sat at the table, his hands groping for the brandy bottle. Craig eased it away from the searching fingers, stood up, walked round the table, and hauled Allen to his feet. Allen's body resisted the thrust of the hand in his shirt collar, but he came up anyway.

'I want politeness,' said Craig. 'And cooperation. And I want them now. We've heard about, you, Allen. You're lazy. You want the money. You don't want the work. We don't see it like that. We want you to start earning, old son.'

Allen said: 'All right. All right. This shirt cost me a hundred and sixty pesetas.'

Craig let him go; and Allen smoothed out his shirt collar.

'Just tell me what you want,' he said. 'If I can help you I will.'

Craig's right hand reached for Allen's neck, the V formed by the splayed forefinger and thumb across the throat, the thumb depressing the carotid artery, the forefinger hard on the nerve behind the ear. Pain exploded in Allen's face, but he learned at once how foolish he would be to yell as the pressure of thumb and forefinger increased. Craig spoke to him, his voice unhurried and utterly certain. 'You belong to us, Allen. We own you. When we say jump, by Christ you jump. We know all about your smuggling, remember. You try it on and we give you to the Spaniards. On a plate, old boy.' The pressure of thumb and forefinger increased, and the pain boiled in Allen's neck, then was suddenly, mercifully gone.

'I'm sorry,' Allen began.

'Don't be,' said Craig. 'You hate me. But I can destroy you. Just accept that.'

Reluctantly, hating himself, Allen agreed.