The Money That Money Can't Buy

'But good God,' said the earl, 'Simmons never even hinted—it sounded like a good idea, you know. Keeping Russia in bounds. Showing her up. And anyway,' he said, 'what possible use could I be in a scheme like that?'

'How much money have you got?' asked Loomis.

'On me?' asked Airlie. 'Do you need some?' Loomis began to turn red, and Wetherly rushed

in.

'How much are you worth?' he said.

'Oh,' said the earl. 'Oh, I see. Hard to say really. They reckon about four million.' He frowned. 'I wouldn't have let him have any, you know. Not for that.'

'He'd allowed for that,' said Loomis. 'If he hadn't got you hooked on the crusade he could always blackmail you.'

'Blackmail me?'

'You're like a bloody echo,' said Loomis. 'Of course blackmail. When you went to bed with the bird he found you he took pictures.' Airlie turned scarlet. 'And he would have involved you in the torture too. You keen on his daughter?' Airlie nodded. 'He'd use that as well.' He paused a moment. The earl had leaned back in his chair and Wetherly took his pulse, then nodded.

'I think you better tell us everything,' said Loomis. 'Make us all feel better.'

Airlie swallowed hard, then began to talk.

16

The yacht club was smart, white-painted, chic, with silent-footed servants, tall, cool drinks, and a yacht basin full of the world's most expensive toys. Craig had a visitor's membership already made out for him, and walked into the bar easy and relaxed. He had half finished his Scotch before the man who was tailing him appeared. Craig wondered if he'd had to make a phone call. He was a chunky, relaxed little man, with a lot of friends at the bar. Craig had no doubt he enjoyed his drink. It was a hot day . . .Then suddenly he had a friend at the bar, too. Esteban. In the old days he had been a Spanish smuggler. Now he was a citizen of Morocco, a respected businessman who hired boats on charter. They bought each other drinks, and talked about old times. He looked at the yachts in the basin, staring out through the picture-frame windows.

'Lovely,' he said. 'Aren't they lovely? The stuff we could have run in them. Look at that one.' He gestured to a beautiful twin-diesel painted white, with glittering brasswork. 'Belongs to a man called Carter. He's in Meknes. Having it overhauled for a trip.' Indeed he is, thought Craig. A trip with a mil-

lion. And as he looked at Esteban it was as though fifteen years had never been, and he was a much younger Craig, marveling how Esteban was always first with information and never able to use it properly.

'It looks like the fastest thing here,' said Craig.

'Just about,' said Esteban. 'There's another that's almost as good. Belongs to an Arab called Medani.'

Craig put down his glass. His hand was quite steady.

'Where is it?' he asked.

'Out I expect,' Esteban said. 'Medani's a poor sailor. Gets seasick. He lends it to a Pole called Brodski. Staying at the Villa Florida. He goes out with a woman—such a woman.'

Craig endured a lovingly accurate description of Tania, then Esteban said: 'I came here looking for you.' Craig said nothing. 'You are not surprised?'

'Nothing surprises me in Tangier,' said Craig.

'Fuad is chief of police now. You remember Fuad?' Craig did indeed. 'He said he'd heard you were here.' Craig didn't waste time asking how Fuad had heard. 'He gave me a message for you. Said you were welcome. But you weren't to start anything.'

'I'm only here for a week,' said Craig. 'This is a holiday, Esteban. The old days are finished.'

'That's true.' Esteban sighed.

'Tell Fuad I said so,' said Craig. 'And now I have to go.'

He turned from the bar and as he did so the chunky, relaxed little man bumped into him, clutched his lapel for support, apologized, and left.

'Who on earth was that?' asked Craig.

'I have no idea,' said Esteban, who had begun life as a pimp, matured as a thief, and made his fortune as a smuggler. 'Nowadays they let anybody in here.'

Craig walked out of the bar. The relaxed little man was waiting, and fell in behind him at once. Craig walked along the short pier that led to the shore road, then took a taxi to the Casbah. The relaxed little man followed him there in a private car that contained two of his friends, and Craig lost all three of them in ten minutes. It is impossible to tail a man in the Casbah if he knows it and doesn't want to be tailed. Craig shouldered his way through a crowd that was watching a snake charmer who'd just been bitten by his star performer and was about to light straw with the venom; dodged a man with a rack holding perhaps a hundred sandals; old women selling eggs, tomatoes, live chickens; a man with a brass pot of lemonade. By then only the relaxed little man was left, and his relaxed air had left him. Craig lost him in a maze of side streets: tailors', silversmiths', potters'. He ducked back then, and came out of the Casbah near the Spanish cathedral, then found a garage that rented cars. For fifty pounds he was given an elderly Chevrolet for three days, and the tiresome formality of passports was waived. A policeman directed him to the Villa Florida. It was on the Asilah road, in a brand-new estate gratifyingly near the king's most northern palace. Craig drove there quickly, and with a growing respect for the Chevrolet. Its appearance might be deplorable, but its engine had plenty of stamina left.

The Villa Florida and its garden covered about a half a block of a wide, palm-shaded street. Craig drove past it, and parked under the shade of a palm. The villa had wrought-iron gates, and a ten-foot fence of iron stakes. There was a porter at the gate, armed with what looked like a walking stick; but often, Craig remembered, those sticks too were made of iron. He walked down the road, then round to the back of the gardens. The fence there was just as high, and behind it in the garden were dwarf palms, then flowering shrubs. Craig looked out for alarm wires. There were none, and he scaled the fence, moved past the palms, and into the shelter of the shrubs, moving as he had been taught, without a sound, until he came at last to a gap in the shrubs and looked down into the garden.

It was of the Arab kind that delighted in shaded walks, islands of flowers, and tiny fountains, and in its center was the swimming pool, which is now obligatory for every rich man in a warm climate. Jane Simmons in a yellow bikini lay at the pool's edge and watched as her father dived from a springboard, swam to her in a fast crawl, and hauled himself out beside her.

'Marvelous, darling,' she said.

Craig stared -at the man who had hurt him, studying every line, every muscle of his body, and there was greed in his stare, almost a kind of lust. He was about to leave when a man came out of the villa and walked over to Simmons. Craig saw the quick movement of Simmons's hand that sent Jane scurrying to shield her body from him in a yellow terrycloth robe. The new man was Chinese. His glance ignored Jane as she walked past him toward the villa. He was intent only on Simmons. Craig wondered what Sir Matthew Chinn would make of the fact that Jane wore yellow so often.

'We should not talk here,' said the Chinese.

'I like the open air,' said Simmons. 'No one can hear us.'

'Someone could hide over there,' said the Chinese, and pointed to where Craig lay hidden.

'There's a guard there,' said Simmons, and Craig froze. The Chinese looked satisfied and began to talk, and Craig, guard or no guard, listened. This was big stuff indeed, the biggest he had ever heard. After a moment he eased out, testing every touch of hand and foot before he risked his weight, until at last he could crouch, and look for the guard. He saw a foot at last, protruding from a dry ditch, and moved carefully to it, peering over the edge of the ditch, ready to dive before the man could yell. He was a big man, rather negroid, and he was fast asleep. Craig slithered down the ditch and looked at him. The man didn't move. There was an empty food dish beside him, and a water bottle. Craig spoke softly, then shook the man, but still he slept. Drugged. Craig shook the water bottle. There was still some in it. He poured it on to the ground and the thirsty earth received it avidly. Soon it would disappear completely. Craig looked back toward the bushes, and behind them the murmur of voices, and wished he had been able to carry a gun.

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