Simmons took a step forward.
'Everything's all right,' he shouted. 'Go up to your room.'
'But there's a man here with a gun. And I heard a shot.'
'Thieves,' said Simmons, moving closer to the door. 'They ran away. Go to your room.'
He was now very close to Craig. Medani stopped praying. Behind them Tania still searched through the bureau. Deliberately Craig half turned away from Medani. It was the chance they had been waiting for, the system that Zelko and Simmons had used when they—when they—Craig closed his mind to what had happened and concentrated on the practice session in the cellar. That was how it would be. Medani slumped forward in his chair, crouched like a runner, feet tensed for a spring. Craig looked again at Tania, and Simmons moved.
His fist curled up from his side, aimed at Craig's neck, but Craig was already leaping away from him, hands grabbing for Medani as he came out of the chair, clutching his arm, pulling him into the three-fingered strike that slammed into his stomach, spinning him round to spoil Simmons's attack, the young Arab clutching at Simmons for support before Craig's final blow cracked to the back of his neck and he fell. Simmons leaped over him, and Craig swung his head aside just in time from a punch aimed at the throat, then his own return blow was countered and Simmons threw him, then leaped after. Craig rolled away from a kick that would have killed him, then flicked a blow at Simmons's outstretched foot, making him stumble as Craig scrambled up again. They faced each other, and Craig could see no fear in Simmons's eyes, only the boiling hate that can take a man to a lightning victory, or betray him into disaster. Simmons's hand, held flat, swept at his shoulder, seeking the collarbone, and Craig swerved, wary for the second blow that would follow the feint. It was a fist strike, the one he wanted, and Craig grabbed the fist, his hands locking round it in a clean smack, using Simmons's own momentum, pulling him into the bar of his outstretched leg so that he dived at the wall. Even then the man's reflexes were fantastic, as he hit the wall spinning, his head tucked in, arms in front of him to take the blow, cushioning the shock so that he could leap straight back. But this time Craig too had moved, and it was his foot that shot out, leg rigid from thigh to ankle, slamming into Simmons's body even as he leaped. A terrible blow, its force carefully controlled, worked out in exact accord with the vengeance Craig had to have. It took Simmons in the groin, and the fight was over. Simmons lay on the floor and screamed until Craig went to him, hauled him up, and struck again. Then he was silent.
Tania said: 'That is all, Craig. You will not touch him again.'
Craig looked at her. The Makarov was back in her hand. From the doorway he could hear Boris's voice as he stood and looked down on Simmons.
'We have been kind to you,' Boris said. 'Be satisfied.'
'Do you know what he did to me?' asked Craig.
Tania looked down at Simmons. Even unconscious, he was in agony.
'We don't know,' she said. 'We don't want to know. But whatever it was, you have paid him.'
Craig turned to Medani, now struggling to his feet, his hands pressed to his stomach.
'What about him?' he said. 'And the girl?'
'The girl's locked in her room,' Boris said. 'We don't need this one.' He smiled and raised the
Makarov. 'And he has said his prayers.' Craig said: 'We'll have him.' 'Alive?' asked Tania.
'His father is important,' said Craig. 'No doubt he'll do a lot to get his son back unharmed.'
Tania's head came up and he added quickly: 'You've got Simmons after all. That just leaves the girl.'
'We don't need her,' said Tania. 'But we can't leave her here.'
Craig said: 'I'll take her, too.'
'Such chivalry,' Tania said. Craig shrugged.
'She might be useful,' he said. 'She's her father's heir.' He turned to Medani. 'We will speak in English,' he said.
Medani groaned, and rubbed his stomach.
'I feel as if I had been stabbed,' he said. 'What did you hit me with?'
'This,' said Craig, and held up his three fingers. 'You're lucky. I used my foot on Simmons.'
Medani looked down at the man on the floor. His face showed the fatalism of a race that knew defeat inevitably meant death at best; at worst torture, mutilation, not only for the loser but for everyone connected with him. It had always been so; it could be no different now.
'You won,' he said. 'We lost.' He looked at Boris. 'Why do you not let this man kill me?'
'You fool,' Craig said. 'You stupid bloody fool.' The proud head came up to the whip of his voice, arrogant even in defeat.
'Don't you understand yet?' said Craig. 'Why did you join Simmons?'
'He and Brodski were going to save us from the
Russians,' Medani said. 'We do not want communism here. Simmons would keep it out.'
'By letting the Chinese in?'
The arrogance turned to a childish bewilderment.
'He would not—' Medani began. 'A man called Chan was here yesterday,' said Craig.
'He's staying with the governor. My father would not meet him,' said Medani.
'Simmons did. I saw him. I heard him. He'll give Chan anything he wants—for help against Russia.'
'You lie,' said Medani.
Tania said: 'No. It's all here. Among his papers. May he see?'
Craig nodded, and watched the birth of disillusion as the young man read. At last he raised his face, and there was no hope in it at all.
'He told us it was to be a crusade,' said Medani. 'We were fighting for Islam, he said. Our way of life. Our history.' He turned to the unconscious figure and spat. 'We fought only for him.'
'We'd better let your father know,' said Craig, and turned to Tania. 'I'll have to stay,' he said. 'This is important.'
'You may be caught,' she said.
Craig's hand weighed down on Medani's shoulder.
'I am this man's guest,' he said.
* * *
He went up to the bedroom. She lay on the bed, seeing nothing, feeling nothing, the little bottle still clasped in her hands. Craig strode over to her, twitched it from her fingers. The bottle was almost full. He sighed his relief and hauled her upright, then his hand cracked against her cheeks, left and right, till she whimpered and her eyes opened.
'I couldn't,' she said. 'I wanted to, but I couldn't.' Her fingers moved up to her cheeks as the pain came to her. 'Did you kill Daddy?'
'No,' said Craig. 'He's going on a trip.'
'A long one?'
'He's never coming,back.'
She said: 'I know what he did to you ... Will I see him?'
'No,' said Craig.
She began to cry then, and he left her. It was time to talk to Istvan. He took the Merc's keys with him.
He was still in the car, and beside him sat an earnest young man in a crumpled lightweight suit. The two of them were talking furiously in German.
'Mr. Hornsey,' said Craig. 'How nice to see you.'
'Nice to see you,' said Hornsey. 'At least I hope so. The trouble is—it's the money, you see. Simmons's money, I mean.'
'Our money,' said Craig.
'Well, our money really,' said Hornsey. 'At least not even ours. Not really. Oh, I better explain. My name's not Hornsey by the way. It's Heinze. I'm a German, Mr. Craig. At least my father was— my mother's British. I work for the Defense of the Constitution. I was controller for Driver. We hired him to work for us too.'
'To find forged twenty-dollar bills?'
'No,' said Hornsey, 'to find forged Deutschmarks. The dollars were just bait. Unfortunately they made poor Driver greedy. You have the Deutschmarks, Mr. Craig. A million pounds' worth.'
'Oh my God,' said Craig, and began to laugh.
'It gets better,' said Istvan bitterly. 'Guess who made the plates.'
