The man who sold death c-1

by James Munro

  "It is a very amusing trick," Hakagawa said. "That is why I keep the boards here-to impress my pupils. But a good judoka, one who is ready, he needn't be afraid of a blow, even that blow. He will meet it and use it to throw the man who strikes. Be careful who you use it on."

  An hour later, streaming with sweat, Craig had begun to add to his knowledge of killing. Hakagawa had prepared for him two thin canvas bags, filled with sand. On these Craig would punch every day, using his fists and the edge of his hands, until they were hard and deadly enough for his skill in using them, until they became lethal weapons.

  Hakagawa said, "You are good. Very good. One day you will beat me."

  Craig said, "I don't think so."

  "Oh yes," said Hakagawa. "A year, two years, and you will beat me. You are a very unusual man, you see. Even today, after men have only just failed to kill you, all your body and mind are concerned with is defeating me. You are very dangerous, John."

  "I used to be," said Craig.

  "You are now. You can never be anything else."

  "Alice-my wife-doesn't think so. She thinks I'm a-" He hesitated. "A machine for making money and hoisting her up in the world. That isn't very gallant, is it? But I'm trying to tell the truth."

  Hakagawa knelt on the mat, and motioned to Craig to face him. Now was the time for Craig to talk, to ease the terrible pressure on his mind. Craig knelt too.

  "She was pregnant when I married her. That's why I did marry her. And I was lonely. She was nice in those days, too. And she knew how to behave, how to talk to people-all that. I didn't. Not even when they made me an officer. And in those days I wanted to know how to behave like a gentleman. She was the one who taught me. God knows where she learned it. Her background wasn't all that much better than mine." He grinned. "I was an orphan, Hak. A nothing. Joining the Navy was like going home. All I'd ever had before that was house mothers. Poor, stupid old bitches. The war was good to me. I got on. When it was over, I went to Tangier for a bit. And after that, Gunter's old manager was looking for help. The help he wanted was a pirate with a taste for bookkeeping, and I was the nearest he could find. So I got on again. I made money. A lot of money. I could have gone on my own, but Alice didn't want to risk that. She wanted me to be Sir Geoffrey's right-hand man." Again he grinned. "My right hand was stiff with holding him up. Ah well. I made more money anyway, but I didn't bore her with the details. She'd have been scared the Conservative Ladies' Tea Club would hear of it."

  "It was illegal?" Hakagawa.asked.

  "Yes," said Craig. "But I don't think it was dishonest."

  "What happened to the child?"

  "It died," Craig said. "Meningitis. She didn't want another. Neither did I, really. The way we got on-it wouldn't have been good for a child. Then I got mixed up in this business-I hope she doesn't die, Hak. I had no right to do that to her."

  Hakagawa said, "I hope neither of you die."

  "I suppose we've both got a chance," said Craig.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Society for the Solution of the Algerian Problem had its headquarters in Nice, in a big, stone-built building flanked by the offices of a petroleum company on one side and a multi-story garage on the other. A drab and unremarkable building except that its windows were of toughened glass, inches thick and protected by steel grilles; its main doors of steel, veneered with wood. It was impervious to direct assault from anything smaller than a tank, and the men who worked there were all ex-soldiers, trained in the skills of war in Indochina and Algeria, men dedicated and disciplined to the idea that Algeria was French forever. Within its offices were a gymnasium, a miniature rifle range, the complex paraphernalia of modern espionage: microfilm, dossiers, short-wave radio, masses of data on Arab countries, Arab leaders, friends of the cause, men who would fight, men who would give money, men who would give their lives. Lists of enemies too. Those who could be threatened, those who could be bribed; and the ultimate fist, those who had to be killed. There was one other department, the Department of Interrogation, but that was in the colonel's villa, and the specialists who worked there came into headquarters very infrequently.

  Three days after Charlie Green died, one came and was admitted at once. The office he went to was on the top floor, the most difficult to reach with a bomb or a bullet. On its door was written Colonel de St. Briac, Founder and President. Outside it was a man with an automatic carbine, and inside, a tall thin man in olive-green, who wore the epaulettes of a colonel in the office, although the French Army had long since dismissed him. He had the hungry strength and pale eyes of a fanatic, and he looked at his visitor with the dangerous calm of a man single-minded to the point of mania. At his feet an Alsatian crouched, watching the newcomer warily, waiting the word to kill. St. Briac tugged gently at its ear and it was still.

  "Come in, Cadella," St. Briac said, and the visitor entered, stamped to attention, and saluted.

  A big, chunky man, with a sallow face, neither French nor Italian. A Corsican, devious and deadly, standing now waiting for the praise that was his due.

  "I've seen the English papers-you've done very well," St. Briac said.

  Cadella stayed rigidly at attention.

  "You may stand at ease," said the colonel, and was obeyed at once. Cadella, even in a business suit, could be nothing but a warrant officer in front of his colonel.

  "Craig was the most difficult by far," St. Briac said, "and yet you succeeded the first time. That is good. That leaves us with Baumer and Rutter."

  He rang a bell, and another, smaller man came in, another Corsican, wiry, neat in his movements. He smiled as he saw Cadella.

  "A wonderful job," he said. "I congratulate you."

  "Just two more wonderful jobs, and that particular annoyance is ended," said St. Briac softly, and Pucelli was silent at once.

  "Rutter is captain of a ship called the Rose of Tralee now," said St. Briac. "It is due quite shortly in Trieste."

  Pucelli said, "I request permission to meet him there."

  "No," said St. Briac. "Ships are not very reliable as a means of transport. They are delayed by storm, or redirected. It will be better if Rutter comes to you." He produced a key, opened a filing cabinet, flicked through a row of files, and took out one marked Rutter.

  "He will know soon," he said. "Perhaps he knows already. When he reaches port he will run-to you."

  "You know where he will go then?"

  "He will go to Geneva," said St. Briac. "He will call himself Altern and he will go to his bank there." He smiled. "He has a great deal of money. Watch the hotels -the big ones. No fuss, Pucelli. No bangs. Not this time. I don't want any fuss this time."

  Pucelli bowed.

  "That leaves Baumer," St. Briac continued. "It's likely that he'll go to Brazil. He has inquired at several travel agencies. I have a man here who is anxious to help us." He paused. "For money." He picked up an. internal telephone.

  "I will see Cavalho," he said.

  They waited in silence until the door was opened by the guard, and St. Briac's hand went to the dog, soothing him with impersonal tenderness. The man who came in was fat, sweating, soft, with small, shrewd eyes as black as prunes. He bobbed a neat, swift bow to St. Briac.

  "How can I help you, Colonel?" he asked.

  "You can find a man called Baumer for me," said St. Briac.

  He went to the filing cabinet- once more and produced a photograph. "This man. He is forty-three years old. Jewish. Quite wealthy, I understand."

  "And what do you want me to do with him?"

  "I want you to kill him," said St. Briac, and Cavalho winced. "Or have him killed. He has all his money with him… A wealthy Jew. You can keep his money."

  "If I find him," said Cavalho.

  "You'll find him," said St. Briac. "If you don't, you'll lose fifty thousand francs.'" He paused. "Five thousand now to take you back to Brazil, forty-five thousand when I know he's dead."

  He pulled open a desk drawer. It was unlocked, and crammed with money so tightl
y that bank notes spilled out of it on to the floor. PucelH stooped, and picked up five thousand-franc notes, crumpled them into a ball, and tossed it to the fat man, whose hand moved, darting to the magnetic tug of money, holding it tight as he stared at the fortune in the unlocked drawer. St. Briac smiled.

  "You find it strange that the drawer is unlocked?" he asked.

  "Forgive me," said Cavalho. "I merely wondered-if a thief should break in here-"

  "He would be killed," said St. Briac. "Believe me, Cavalho, anyone who tried to cheat or rob me would be killed." He turned to Cadella. "Take him to the villa," he said. "Show him the sights. There are things he has to remember if he is going to do his best for us."

  He walked up to Cavalho, and the fat man flinched, then gasped aloud as the colonel held out his hand, took his in its dry, hard grip.

  "I will do my utmost," he began. "I assure you-"

  "There is no need," St. Briac said. "I know you will find Baumer. You are greedy, and you want his money-and mine. You are also afraid of what will happen if you fail. You are right to be afraid."

  He was dismissed, and Cadella took him out to the villa. He saw many things that frightened him, and one that made him vomit. When he left he knew that it was better to kill himself than to let down the colonel, and better still to kill Baumer.

  ›?‹ CHAPTER 5 ^

  THE wireless operator of the Rose of Tralee took a message to the captain. Captain Rutter was asleep when the operator knocked but in one smooth movement he had rolled off his couch and was facing the door. He called "Come in," and took the flimsy the operator handed him.

  "Regret inform you Mr. Craig killed in motorcar explosion. Gunter." He read it, and nodded.

  The operator asked, "I suppose that must be the manager, sir?"

  Rutter looked up at him, and the operator sensed the force in the small, neatly bearded man.

  "Yes," said Rutter. "But why waste time sending cables here? We'll be in port this afternoon."

  "Any reply, sir?"

  "There can't be," said Rutter. "He's dead."

  The operator left, and Rutter, very methodically, began to work out what he had to do. If they were waiting for him on the Genoa docks, he was finished. But Genoa wasn't on their original schedule. The Rose of Tralee had been rerouted there from Trieste. If they were still waiting for him at Trieste, he had a chance. He opened the ship's safe; inside was his survival kit; a Colt revolver, five thousand American dollars and a Central American passport. If he got a sufficient start, they should be enough.

  The ship reached Genoa harbor that afternoon, and Rutter was able to go ashore in daylight, dressed in the civilian suit he always wore when he went to see the agent, Ponti, a fat, hospitable man, generous with his brandy. The first mate of the Rose of Tralee wasn't worried for at least three hours. Sessions with Ponti were always long ones and he wished he was there too, or in a nice, quiet restaurant away from the waterfront, eating pasta. After three and a half hours he felt anxious. After four he rang the agent, and heard that Rutter had never reached him. By the time the police arrived, Rutter was well on the way to Rome. By the time they had organized a search of the docks, Rutter was in an airplane, bound for Switzerland. The Genoese police were still looking for him when he landed at Geneva and went to his bank.

  By then Gutter looked different. The name on his Central American passport was Altern, he was clean-shaven, wore an expensive Italian suit, and possessed three matched, lightweight suitcases, in addition to his briefcase. His bankers were delighted to see him, and offered him wine, the dry, light port they kept for the middle range of customers. Nothing, they assured him, would be easier than to transfer funds to Greece for him, if that was where he meant to settle for a while. Senor Altern thought he might take a place in the Greek islands, and the bankers were enchanted, and advised him to boil the water.

  Rutter went to a hotel, a good one, and for the first time he felt relaxed enough to phone down for a drink. He asked for Scotch, and specified the brand. When the knock on the door came, however, he put the Colt in his coat pocket and was well away from the line of the door when he called "Come in." It was the waiter. He poured out Rutter's drink and palmed his tip with professional deftness, but Rutter waited until the door had closed before he picked up his glass, and sipped. It was good Scotch. Very good.

  The waiter opened the door again, and for a fraction of a second Rutter saw him, reflected in the mirror. This time he wasn't carrying a tray. He held in his hand a small revolver with an oddly extended barrel. He shot Rutter twice, in the back of the neck, but once would have been enough. The two shots made no noise. No noise at all.

  CHAPTER 6

  Craig found it hard to fill in his days. In his role of incorporated accountant on a business trip, it was necessary to stay out of the Rowena a great deal, and necessary also to avoid conspicuousness, the attention of policemen, the curiosity of reporters. For the most part he bought clothes, visited picture galleries, and worried about the ten thousand pounds locked in the suitcase in his hotel bedroom. His plans for his future safety had been made years before, but it was necessary to wait before he moved, until even his enemies were satisfied that he was dead, and he could start to live again. In the meantime he looked at pictures. All he had to do was stare, and let his mind drift. It was in the National Gallery that he first thought of finding and killing the man who had planned the planting of the bomb.

  For six years he had been planning, negotiating, arranging; worrying about contracts and ports of delivery, forcing himself to look for trade between North Africa and France so that the men who hunted him now might not suspect, parading Sir Geoffrey in public on every possible occasion to show how unspottedly pure the Rose Line was. Six years had been enough. He'd all the money he needed. He could go anywhere, be anybody, so long as they thought that he was dead. And until the inquest had been held they wouldn't be absolutely sure: and so he drifted, tightening his mind and body to action only when he went for his lessons with Hakagawa.

  Then, in the Gallery, he saw the landscape, Rubens's "Chateau de Steen." In the foreground is a hunter with a long-barreled gun. Craig saw at once how right that hunter was; it was obvious in the way he moved, the way he handled the gun and used his cover. As he looked at the tiny figure, the whole picture made sense. A man who was hunting-he made sense too. Kilhng for food, or because somebody was trying to kill him. Either way he had no choice, and to Craig there was a passion in such killing that nothing else had ever supplied. It would be difficult to find out for certain who had planted the bomb, but it might not be impossible-and he knew very well who had ordered its use. He let his mind drift again, back to memories of the St. Pauli district in Hamburg, and his meetings with the man who had first got him into gun-ranning, a man called Lange.

  Lange had fought in Greece too, on the other side. He had known all about Craig since 1943, and for a brief while they worked together in Tangier, when Craig had turned to smuggling. Cigarettes. Nylons. Batteries. Tires. Almost everything was in short supply then; almost everything paid. Craig remembered a Greek millionaire who insisted on a weekly delivery of smuggled cigars, a Cata-lonian electrical dealer who had ordered a quarter of a mile of copper wire. They'd delivered both, and been paid top rates, though the Spanish police nearly sank their boat. An old German Raumboot they'd been using then, salvaged unofficially by some of Lange's friends. No overhead, no insurance, and enormous profits.

  In Tangier they had dressed quietly, discreedy, talking and acting like businessmen, which was what they believed themselves to be. Craig had wanted to be a businessman ever since the war, and he was happy. He was getting on. They didn't handle arms in those days. They didn't need to. The ordinary materials of commerce were so profitably scarce. When they did at last split up, they had gone on being businessmen, and for a while Craig really believed that he had made it, that his life was complete. The Rose Line needed him far more than he needed it, and yet he was grateful to it for providing him with
the kind of work he loved: the traveling, the contacts, the bookkeeping, the frantic scramble for cargoes, and for ships. And then, when the Rose Line was ticking away as smooth and untroubled as a Swiss watch, and his marriage had moved by easy stages from passion to tolerance to contempt, Lange had sought him out again. He had been patient and thorough and very German, waiting until Craig was so bored, so mutinous against his life, and his marriage, that when he made his offer Craig accept at once. Lange was clever, and he knew Craig well. T proposition he made was dangerous, heroic, and abc all romantic. They would supply arms to gallant freedo: fighters (the Algerian Arabs) and so help them in th struggle against brutal and tyrannous oppressors (t French). Because of the risks they ran, the gallant, fr‹ dom-loving Arabs would be happy to pay them a gn deal of money, but the money was a secondary thii Far more important was the need for action.

  Lange had been clever all right. He needed Crai contacts in the shipping world, he needed his ships, a above all he needed Craig's energy and drive, and he j them all. Once Craig was in charge, Lange reverted to natural role of adjutant, and took care of every det: meticulously. Once Craig was in charge, it was too f to discover that not every freedom-fighter was a patri or every Frenchman a swine. He was hooked, and knew it, and at first he didn't care. When he did at 1 decide to get out, the hunters were already on to him, a he had to stay in the organization to protect the othe That had been a disastrous mistake. They were all marl for death: Rutter, Lange, Baumer.

  Lange had always insisted that they meet in broth; strip-shows, night clubs whose only entertainment M obscenity. He had known that his time might be she and he'd made the most of it. Craig had warned him be more careful, but he'd died. According to the inqu there had been a car accident. There had been a with him, and she had died too, a casualty in a ba fought a thousand miles away. Craig knew that he too 1 had a share in her death. He shuddered, and began think about a man called McLaren.