The Money That Money Can't Buy c-3

by James Munro

  "I doubt it," Chinn said. "The detail is too clear, and too consistent."

  Loomis said impatiently: "You can sort that out when he's conscious."

  "There's one thing we may not be able to sort out," Chinn said. "He weeps, Loomis. Weeps all the time. His pillow is constantly wet with his tears."

  "He tried to kill the nurse," Loomis said.

  Wetherly said: "He wept even when he was doing that."

  Loomis sighed, his pendulous cheeks inflating like balloons.

  "It's a bloody nuisance," he said. "I need him. Need him badly."

  "No doubt you have a job for him tonight," said Chinn.

  "I have a job for him every night," said Loomis. "But I can wait a week." Chinn looked at him as if he were a problem in

  chess.

  "I didn't think it was possible for me to hate anyone any more," he said. "The nature of my work insulates me from"—his hand gestured—"all that. But I find you singularly repellent, Loomis. That man has suffered unbelievable agonies on your behalf. There is more than a chance that he did not betray you—"

  "We're covered if he has," Loomis said.

  "—and all you can think of is to subject him to the same risks once more."

  Loomis said: "I need him. I need him to destroy Simmons. Because Simmons and his pals are making trouble for us with the Russkies. So far it's just middle-sized trouble—the kind that ends in iron curtains. But it could be big trouble in time. The biggest. The kind that ends in twenty-megaton bombs and Chinese commissars in Wigan. So I want to stop it now. And Craig's the best weapon I've got for it."

  "What about this man Hornsey?" asked Chinn.

  "What about him?"

  "He rescued Craig," said Chinn. "Brought him back here. Craig loves him for it."

  "You mean he's a fairy now?"

  "I mean he's formed a strong emotional attachment based on gratitude. Emotional involvement has always been difficult for Craig."

  "I wish it had been impossible," Loomis said. "What were you going to say about Hornsey?"

  "Couldn't he do Craig's job?"

  "No," said Loomis.

  "But surely—"

  "He doesn't work for Department K," said Loomis. "And now you tell me Craig loves him."

  After three days they relaxed the sedation; after five, he could control his bladder again. By that time the marks on his body were fading, the dislocated finger usable, the cracked ribs reduced to a caution against unwary movement. Even the burn marks had begun to heal, and the pain lived most vividly in his nightmares, though these were still frequent and intense. Carefully Wetherly and Chinn began to explore the damage that pain had done to his mind, moving into it with the caution of architects in a house suspected of dry rot.

  It took them three days, but at last they were sure, and left Craig enshrouded in sleep, like a silkworm in silk. Then, and only then, would they permit Loomis to look at him. He waddled into the room set aside as a ward with the vast, clumsy menace of a gorilla, then looked down at Craig, peering into his face. For the only time since Loomis had known him, Craig made no reaction to his nearness. He lay perfectly still, his breathing almost silent, the harshness gone from his face so that it seemed as if he were his own younger brother, married and mortgaged and at peace.

  "What's he on?" said Loomis, and they told him.

  Loomis grunted. "We could march a brass band through here and he wouldn't even dream."

  Wetherly nodded. "He needs all the rest we can give him," he said.

  "Looks a bloody sight better than he did before Simmons got him," Loomis said, and added with the painstaking thoroughness of one to whom praise is meaningless: "You blokes must have had your work cut out."

  Chinn said: "At least he's sane now," Loomis glowered at him. "Sometimes people who have undergone his particular form of maltreatment become hopelessly neurotic. Craig has not."

  "Reflexes?" asked Loomis.

  "The indications are that they are unimpaired. He's in no condition yet for extensive tests."

  "What about his nerve?" Loomis asked.

  Wetherly said "Ah!" Chinn studied the tips of his fingers.

  Loomis looked at the sleeping man's mouth. Always before it had been a hard line parallel with his forehead; now its corners turned down, almost into gentleness.

  "You'd better get on with it," he said.

  Wetherly said: "Simmons attacked his maleness in the most literal sense. Craig's mind appears to have converted that fact into metaphor."

  "Never mind the codology," said Loomis automatically. "I have to know."

  Wetherly tried again. "Craig was the most utterly masculine man I have ever known," he said. "He was hard, aggressive, ruthless. A tremendous fighter—and when he fought—completely without pity. Killing the right sort of enemy was part of being a man, to Craig.

  "He was also very successful sexually. Women feared him, but in a way that gave them pleasure. This made them want him, and when he slept with them they enjoyed it intensely, sometimes with a degree of gratification they had never known before. This again Craig accepted as being a natural part of manhood. He was a strong, aggressive, even brutal lover, but in an odd sort of way he was also very polite in bed, even gentlemanly."

  He broke off for a moment, as he and Chinn observed with pleasure that Loomis was blushing.

  "His most recent conquest was Simmons's daughter, Jane," Wetherly'said. "She is a healthy young woman, not a virgin almost certainly—" he looked at Chinn, who nodded. There was no appeal from that nod. "But she's young, to a certain degree innocent, and what Craig would call a lady. She appears to have gotten intense pleasure from Craig. Almost immediately afterwards she betrayed him to her father, who punished him by destroying his penis as a sexual organ, slowly and painfully."

  "He's impotent?" asked Loomis.

  "Not organically," Chinn said. "But impotence is in his mind."

  "And with it the loss of his manhood," said Wetherly. "He couldn't possibly have withstood one more shock. And in his unconscious he knows this very clearly. He knows, too, that if he continues working for you he may suffer again. But he can only work for you while he is a man. That means a fighter and a lover. The two are absolutely intertwined for him. Take one away and the other must fail. You understand what I'm telling you?"

  "Just tell it," said Loomis.

  "His mind has decided that he can no longer make love. That way he won't have to fight either. Or risk the consequences of failure in a fight."

  Loomis turned to Chinn.

  "You agree with all this?"

  Chinn nodded once more, and again there was no appeal.

  Loomis said desperately: "He went for the nurse."

  "He was afraid of her afterwards," said Chinn. "We had to send her away."

  "You mean I've lost him?"

  Chinn said: "He was almost played out anyway. I warned you at the nursing home—"

  "You gave him three months—"

  "Before he turned on you," said Chinn.

  "I'd take care of that. But I need those three months."

  "He would betray you at the first threat of pain," said Chinn.

  Almost before their eyes the fat man crumbled as his aggressive optimism left him. He looked twenty pounds lighter, and twenty years older: a man with too much responsibility, too much power, and too little time. An old man.

  "He had one more job to do," said Loomis. "He was made for it."

  "To dispose of Simmons?" Chinn asked.

  "And others," Loomis said. "Nut cases. Blokes who hate the Russians."

  "He's the last man in the world to kill Simmons now," said Chinn.

  "There's one way," Wetherly said suddenly. He turned to Chinn.

  "I think not," said Chinn.

  "But dammit man, it's got a good chance. For three months, anyway."

  "How long would it take?" Loomis asked.

  "Two weeks. Three at the most," said Wetherly, "and he needs that long to heal." He looked at the Napoleonic li
ttle man.

  "A few days after that is all we need," he said.

  Chinn said "No!" and for the first time he raised his voice.

  "Can you do it?" Loomis asked, and Wetherly shook his head.

  "It's Chinn's technique," he said. "There isn't anybody else."

  Loomis swelled up in front of them like a combative bullfrog, growing lighter and more manic by the second, all his energies reaching out to Chinn, who speculated on how freely the adrenaline must be pumping into him.

  "At least you can tell me about it," said Loomis, and his voice was soft and reasonable.

  "You're being dishonest, Loomis," said Chinn, then surrendered. "Very well, I'll tell you about it. At least I'll tell you what I can do to Craig—then

  I'll tell you why I won't do it."

  "I'm listening," said Loomis.

  "I can simplify him," said Chinn. "For a time, at any rate. I can seal off his fears about his sex life and canalize his energies into destruction. Turn him into a machine for killing people, or for hurting them."

  "You're a very dangerous little feller," said Loomis.

  "I've dealt with disordered personalities before," said Chinn. "Lots of them. Some of them have been the result of artificially induced stress—like Craig. It is possible to simplify such people up to a point—sometimes to the point where they can take their place in society at large. If I did what you want to Craig, that of course would not be possible."

  "How d'you do it?"

  "Drugs, hypnosis, certain Pavlovian techniques. Stimuli buried in the unconscious." He smiled a smile like midwinter. "That information is useless unless I were to be more specific. I shan't—any more than I shall do it to Craig."

  "You said you would tell me why not," said Loomis.

  Sir Matthew said at once: "Because it would contravene my conception of what one human being may morally do to another."

  "All right," said Loomis. "And now I'll tell you why you will do it."

  Chinn said: "Really, Loomis," but the fat man talked straight through it, his eyes bright with the certainty of what had to be done.

  "Simmons is up to his ears with a group called

  BC. They're a bunch of wealthy fanatics who hate Russia—and they'll do anything that hurts the Russians. Anything. Well we've had nuts before, and usually they're easy to cope with. But these particular nuts are good. They only do the big jobs —and they bring them off. And now they've ganged up with the Chinese."

  "To attack the Russians?" said Chinn.

  "The Chinese hate the Russians because they think they've betrayed communism," said Loomis. "The BC hates Russia just because it exists. But they both hate her, and they both want to hurt. They're pushing hard, trying to blame the West for the things they're doing. And the Russians don't push easy. They don't like it, d'you see? I met a feller in Paris recently—chap called Chelichev— head of the Executive Division of the KGB. He knows the things the BC's done. But his masters blame us. They'll go on blaming us until we can prove they're wrong—or get rid of who's doing it."

  "And if we don't?" asked Wetherly, on cue.

  "We'll lose all the gains we've made," said Loomis. "It'll be the cold war all over again. Or maybe the hot one."

  "How could it possibly—" Chinn began.

  "Suppose BC knocked off a few Russian politicians? The premier maybe, and a few members of the Presidium, and it looked like the Yanks had done it, or us? Because that's what they're after," Loomis said. "And that's what they'll do." He looked at the still figure in the coma. "Unless—"

  "And there's really no one else you can use?" asked Chinn.

  "How many like him have you ever treated?" asked Loomis, and Chinn sighed. "Look, cocu, I want rid of him. He's dangerous. But I can't do without him. For what I want he's the best I've ever seen—or even heard of. Now try your moral conceptions on that one."

  "There's no need," said Chinn. "If you are telling me the truth."

  "Every word," said Loomis, and looked into the bright, unwinking eyes.

  "I believe you," said Chinn, "and I'll do what you ask."

  "Wetherly can help you," said Loomis.

  "No," said Chinn. "Wetherly's concept of morality differs from mine. He might use the technique again for reasons that I would not approve." He turned to the bland, smooth man. "I'm sorry, Wetherly," he said, "but if Craig comes to my nursing home, and you attempt to observe the techniques I use on him I shall give him up." His glance flicked to Loomis. "I assure you I mean that," he said.

  13

  Chelichev poured vodka neatly and precisely. The woman tossed hers back at once, like a man, and still looked strong and female and beautiful.

  "I have been through the English newspaper reports," she said. "Among the people in the cafe was a girl called Jane Simmons. Her father owns newspapers. I have read some. He does not like Russia."

  Chelichev smiled at her, very proudly, yet with compassion. She had done so well.

  "He also has a friend called Brodski who is going to Tangier," he said. "Simmons and his daughter will go there too. They are agents of BC." He smiled again. "No one in our department told me," he said. "You are the first. I congratulate you."

  "Who then?"

  "Department K," he said. "I told you. They are very good. You will go to Tangier, too, and meet Brodski. He is a Pole. If you are Polish too he will love you even more. Find out all you can. I want names." She nodded. "Simmons runs the organization. Brodski is liaison officer with people in Po-

  land, East Germany, and Hungary. The Chinese deal with Simmons direct. If necessary, you will bring me Simmons or Brodski alive. We must have the names of the people they hire in the next three weeks. Is that understood?"

  "Yes, comrade-general."

  "I will send an executive to you. He will execute the others."

  "Yes, comrade-general."

  "Craig will go with you also."

  She looked surprised.

  "Loomis insists on this. Anyway, the British are very strong in Tangier and you may need help."

  "Very good, comrade-general."

  "You of course will be controller. There is also the million pounds in Deutschmarks to be considered. You will steal it and destroy it."

  "Destroy it?"

  "It must not be used against us. By BC or anybody else."

  "The British will want some."

  "The British will get far more than money," Chelichev said.

  "Very good, comrade-general. Will I have assistance to steal this money?"

  "You will," Chelichev said. "I am also sending you a minor genius. He is emotionally unstable, as genius often is, and the executive will get rid of him after the mission. A pity in a way, his genius is unquestionable. His me'tier is theft."

  * * *

  It took nine days. At the end of that time Sir Matthew Chinn had lost seven pounds, and was as familiar with Craig's unconscious as with the contents of his own wardrobe. He had worried at first that Craig would resist the reintroduction of the urge to kill, but the resistance had been minimal. His craving was for orientation, a sense of purpose, and these Chinn gave him. The difficulty had been to erase the fixation that Craig developed for him almost from the beginning. But he had achieved it at last, as he had achieved an erasure of undue reliance on Hornsey. Under deep hypnosis, buried fathoms deep in the dark floor of his unconscious, Craig had acquired something else, too, something that Sir Matthew Chinn, to save his life, could not resist putting there, since to Sir Matthew the professional conscience was far more important than life. What Craig had acquired was the need to question Loomis's instructions, every time, but only to reveal that questioning when death was involved. Anybody's death, from Loomis's down.

  On the tenth day Craig drove to the office and rang the bell. The porter looked at him, and even that phlegmatic man was awe-struck. From where he stood, Craig was completely unchanged. The porter remembered the soiled, naked mess under the blanket in the Lamborghini, looked at the man in the gray lightweight
suit, silk shirt, Dior tie, and marveled. The Craig of that terrible night seemed never to have happened: the man was indestructible.

  "Hallo, Mr. Craig," said the porter. "Feeling better?" "I'm fine," said Craig.

  He walked into the hallway and heard the porter shut the door, then suddenly his body swirled like a big fish in water, his arms came up behind the other man's back, pinning him, while his thumbs pressed into the nerves on either side of his jaw. The porter tried to kick back, but the thumbs pressed in, lifting him higher, forcing aggression out of him.

  "Got a new one for you," said Craig.

  Loomis appeared at the head of the vast staircase.

  "Oh you're back, are you?" he said, and added pettishly: "Put him down, Craig. Go and look at your correspondence, then come and see me. There's a lot to do."

  Craig let the porter go, and turned the man around. The gray eyes had never given warning but now they were flat as disks. Rage, love, anger, hate: they were all gone. Burned out.

  "I'll see you in the gym," said Craig. "You're getting slow." He left him then, and the caretaker thought of how carefully he'd lifted him from the Lamborghini, and regretted it. There was just no point in being nice to Craig.

  Mrs. McNab thought so too. She treated Craig as she always did when he came back from a job: bade him good morning, found him coffee, waited while he read through his papers. Neither of them referred to what had happened; neither of them wanted to. Craig worked steadily, making neat notes as he went, then drank his coffee, which had cooled, and dictated rapidly and precisely for twenty minutes. Mrs. McNab's pencil flew and her mind marveled. Craig hadn't missed a trick.

  When he had done Craig said: "Book me a session on the range this afternoon." Mrs. McNab made a note. "And tell the caretaker and the other chap to stand by. I'll see them in the gym at five." He stood up and stretched, and his hands were cruel.

  "Tell them no beer or cigarettes until I see them."

  "Very good, sir," said Mrs. McNab. There was a question in her voice.

  Craig grinned. "I want them savage," he said, and made for the door. "I'm off to see Loomis— then lunch. I'll check that stuff I dictated before I go down to the range."

  Then the door closed behind him, and Mrs. McNab wept softly, for perhaps five seconds, tears of frustration. One never knew how to react with Craig. He was a sort of Martian.