The Money That Money Can't Buy c-3

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The Money That Money Can't Buy c-3 Page 19

by James Munro


  be the answer. It wouldn't be the answer at all. * * *

  He slept until dinnertime, then rose, bathed, changed into a dark silk tussore suit and black crepe-soled shoes. Beneath his coat was the Smith and Wesson; in his leg was a sheathed knife, leaf-bladed, single-edged, needle-pointed. He spread his hands, then held them out. They were quite steady. He went into the living room.

  Istvan and Boris were waiting. They too wore dark suits and, Craig had no doubt that Boris was armed. Neither of them was drinking. Food and drink would have to wait.

  Boris said: "Istvan's being difficult."

  "I'm not surprised," said Craig. "He knows you're going to kill him."

  Boris began to deny it, fluently, passionately. It was obvious that Istvan was not impressed.

  Craig said: "He knows it because it's logical. You're a nation of chess players, Boris. You always lose a pawn to take a king."

  Istvan said: "Or even a king's ransom. You had better shoot me now."

  Craig said: "Why not talk it over with Tania?"

  "She's with Brodski," Boris said. "I can't reach her."

  "Work him over then," said Craig. "We haven't much time."

  Istvan said: "You do too good a job, Boris. If you hurt me, I couldn't work for you afterwards."

  Craig said: "I'll do it then."

  He moved in on Istvan, one fist clinched, the other hand out flat, like an ax.

  "No," said Boris. "No karate."

  Craig stood still.

  "You're right," he said. "All he'd do is agree, then rat on us when we got to the bank. Right?"

  Istvan managed to smile. It was a kind of courage.

  "Absolutely," he said.

  "It's a stand-off," said Craig. "Unless—" Boris looked at him. "Give him to me when it's over," Craig said. "He knows a few tricks that would interest my chief. So long as he's useful, he'll live. And I promise you he won't chat."

  Boris said: "All right with me," and looked at Istvan.

  "London," said Istvan. "Swinging London. Birds. Mini skirts. Le topless." He stuck out a hand to Craig. "Okay," he said.

  Boris said: "We pick up Tania at eleven. Until then we should go over your plan."

  They sat round the table, and Craig began to talk. The Russian and the Hungarian were very patient listeners.

  * * *

  At ten forty-five the three men left their room. In the lobby the night porter handed Craig a package that had'been left for him. They went out of the hotel to where a rented car waited, a Mercedes 300 SE. The chauffeur was Tania, in black slacks and sweater and a short black coat. They got in and Craig opened the package. It contained two keys.

  Tania said: "Brodski stays at the villa. So does Simmons—and Jane. Chan is with the governor."

  Craig said: "It'll have to be Simmons then. Can you get in?"

  "You have decided not to kill him?" she asked.

  "It looks as if I have to," Craig said. "Can you get in?"

  "He thinks I'm dining with a girl friend," said Tania. "I said I'd try to get back for a drink about one o'clock. He told me he's working late tonight."

  "He's going to get his orders from Simmons," said Craig.

  A beggar came up to the car, and Craig wound down his window, handed over a dirham. They talked softly together in Arabic, then the beggar salaamed as the big car moved away.

  "Listen carefully," said Craig. "I want you to know where the launch will be—just in case one of us doesn't make it."

  He began to talk, and the others listened with the same furious patience. At last Craig said: "If anything goes wrong with the boat we make for Ceuta. I've got a friend there with a fishing boat. But if it comes to that, the only chance we've got is Gibraltar."

  Tania said: "Very well," and drove into the town, waited patiently for a left turn into the Boulevard Pasteur, then turned into a side street. The street was dimly lit after the boulevard, and there were cars parked on both sides. As they turned in, a Fiat van pulled out, and Craig congratulated Tania on her efficiency as the Mercedes slid into the space the Fiat had left.

  They got out then, and Craig looked down toward the lights of the boulevard. The Credit Labonne building was on the corner, dark and shuttered as a fortress. Beside it were houses with a narrow frontage and heavy doors, their tiny windows latticed. Craig waited as Boris opened the Merc's boot, then he and Istvan took out the two neat leather cases that contained Istvan's equipment—Brought in, no doubt, by diplomatic pouch, thought Craig. He walked down the street to the house next to the bank and went in. The others followed, lagging, giving him time to open the door. For this he needed the key with the string tied to it. The lock worked easily, and in he went. The others followed, and the door swung to. Craig led the way down the flight of steps that led to a basement room, and from there down older steps, carved into rock, that brought him to the cellar beneath the house. Once grain had been stored there, or oil. A ring set in the wall hinted that it might have been a private prison, a place where slaves were taken for discipline. Before the liberation, Craig remembered, it might have contained weapons, waiting for transport south to the Sahara, then over the border to Algeria. Now all it held was an old bicycle and the remains of a pram. An unshaded bulb gave off a grudging light, and Craig moved to the wall adjoining the bank. Patiently someone had chipped away the stone, just enough to admit a man of Boris's size, or Craig's. Behind the stone was a sheet of steel, and someone had cut a hole in that, too, just enough. The steel plate and broken rock were piled neatly by the hole. There was no sign of tools, or a blow torch.

  "Your people are thorough, too," said Tania.

  "We rented the basement for a month," said Craig. "The rock was easy, but we had to wait until the bank closed tonight to cut through the steel." He turned to Istvan. "In you go," he said.

  Istvan disappeared as naturally as a rabbit into a burrow, and Boris followed.

  Craig turned to the woman.

  "You'll keep watch?" She nodded. "If we're blown and there's time, come into the bank. We'll set up an escape straight through to the front door. If there's any excitement, there'll be a car waiting. A green Buick taxi."

  "It's a pleasure to work with you," said Tania.

  He went through the hole, and Tania sat, her back against the wall. It was cold in the cellar, and for that reason only she shivered, then took from her pocket a Makarov 9mm. semi-automatic pistol. It was made in the USSR and was very, very accurate.

  One corner of the bank cellar was filled with the massive outline of the time-lock safe. Istvan examined it by the light of a pencil torch, then grinned with the affection reserved for an ancient enemy, as Craig led the way up the stairs to the door that led to the mezzanine. He moved aside for Istvan to join him, then held the torch as the Hungarian used his picklock with slow, careful skill. On the mezzanine floor an armed guard was posted, and above him on the ground floor was another. Until they were silenced they could risk no noise at all. As Craig watched, the picklock engaged, and Istvan's gloved hand reached out, the door handle turned. Slowly, a fraction at a time, he opened the door. Craig watched through the widening crack, then his hand touched Istvan's arm. The door stayed still. The room was lit, and Craig could see the guard sitting in a chair, his back to the door. He looked over to the windows. They were completely shuttered. He watched as Istvan took an oil can from his case and oiled the door hinges, then pulled the door open wider. Craig went through like a cat, moving up to the guard. The man sat still until Craig almost reached him, then suddenly became aware of the other's presence. He started to rise as Craig's hand struck out, moving into the blow, then fell back into the seat; that would have fallen too if Craig had not held it steady. No cry, no crash, no sound at all. Craig looked down at the guard as the other two came in. He was an Arab in a uniform that looked vaguely military, blue bat-tledress with the initials C.L.—Credit Labonne— on the shoulders. Behind his ear a bruise darkened to purple on the olive skin. Istvan took wire and tape from his bag and tied him
to the chair, then gagged him. When he had done, Craig felt the guard's pulse. He had not thought the guard would move. That increased the force of the blow, and he hadn't meant the guard to die. The pulse was thin and ragged, but it was there. Only Sir Matthew Chinn knew why Craig was relieved.

  Istvan oiled the hinges of the mezzanine door, then looked at the grille in the room, and the safe behind it. He pointed at his watch. Time was running short. He listened, then opened the door to a half flight of steps and a third door above them. Behind it was the second guard. Again Istvan worked with the picklock, oiled the door hinges, eased the door ajar. This time the guard was sitting half facing the door. Boris began an elaborate pantomime, and Craig nodded. Istvan closed the door and began to lock it. Boris shook his head, and Craig and Istvan moved back to the mezzanine. Boris took out a Makarov, then a ten-dirham coin about the size and weight of a shilling. He let the coin fall on the stone steps. From behind the door he heard in the room the creak of a chair, footsteps, the grating of a key in a lock. Then the door opened, and as it did so Boris pushed it from his side. It slammed into the man behind it and Boris swerved through and struck with the butt of the Makarov as the guard opened his mouth to yell. From the mezzanine they heard the thud of his body hitting the floor. Istvan looked down at Craig's right hand. It held the Smith and Wesson, and it was rock-steady. He began to feel better.

  Boris called to them softly, and again Istvan wired and taped the guard, then threaded his way past the caisse to inspect the main door, unlocking it, leaving only one heavy bolt in place. Then they went back to the mezzanine, and the fiendishly complex lock that protected the combination of the grille. Craig held the torch as Istvan examined it.

  "The same as before," he said. "Good. This will not take long."

  Once again he probed and tested, then took out the key he had made for the safe Loomis had set up for him. He tried it, and it didn't work. Delicately, with extreme care, he filed two of the wards. Again it failed. Istvan swore, then filed a third ward, oiled the key and eased it into the lock. It clicked as it engaged, then he again put a bar of metal into the -ring end and twisted—one to the right, three to the left, two more to the right. The lock opened and Istvan pushed across the shutter that screened the combination. His hand reached out to turn it, then froze into stillness. Inside the combination panel were two tiny photoelectric cells. Boris shuffled with impatience as Istvan searched for their wires. To reach them he had to dig into the plaster walls. He cut them and went back to the combination.

  "No nation thinks so highly of money as the French," he said. "They revere it as they do God. Even the West Germans don't treat the Deutsch-mark like that." His hand turned the dial, and the tumblers clicked.

  "I would prefer you not to talk," said Boris.

  "It soothes me," Istvan said, and turned the dial again. "To the West German, the Deutschmark is a symbol, no more."

  "The swastika was a symbol," said Boris. But the tumblers clicked again, and Istvan was listening. He took a stethoscope from his bag and listened even more intently, and Craig wondered why the conversation should seem so important to him. They had come to steal money—but there was more to it than that. What Istvan had said was important. Loomis had said it too, weeks ago. The Deutschmark was a sacred symbol. They would do anything to protect it. The tumblers clicked, and Istvan sighed, and Craig put the problem from his mind.

  "That's it," said Istvan.

  He pressed a button on the wall and there was a whirring hum as the shutter folded upward. Behind it was the door of the safe, and two more cells.

  Istvan said: "These electronic eyes are a nuisance. But I dare not switch off the electricity. The bank must show some light on to the street."

  Again he found and cut the wires, then worked at the lock protecting the combination of the safe. When it gave at last there were more photoelectric-cell wires to cut before he could begin on that. The stethoscope swung from his neck. In his dark suit he looked like a doctor called from a dinner party to an urgent case, and he moved with a doctor's jaunty professionalism.

  "Last lap," he said.

  Craig looked at his watch. Eleven fifty. They had been in the bank for forty minutes. It seemed like forty hours.

  The combination to the safe was more difficult than the grille's, and Istvan played it like an angler with a twenty-pound salmon. Again and again he spun the dials and listened, isolating the possible permutations of numbers until he gave the sigh that Craig had been waiting for. The dials spun for the last time, and Istvan's lips moved as he repeated the numbers, then the lock clicked loud in the stillness, and Istvan began to twist the wheel that opened the massive door. As he did so, there came a muffled thud from above them. Craig motioned them to be still, then went back upstairs. The guard there had slouched forward and his chair had fallen. He was still unconscious. Craig picked him up and jammed the chair with its back against the clerks' desk that ran the length of the bank. The man was breathing in great snoring gasps, probably concussion. Boris, he thought, was no sadist, but he had a damned heavy hand. He turned to go back down and the phone rang. Craig cursed. There wasn't time to ignore the phone. If they let it ring they would have to leave now, and there could be no second chance. No one had told him about phone calls, either. This might be a new spot-check, or a policeman might have spotted them going into the house next door ... It had to be answered. Even if his bluff failed, they still had time to run. He moved to the switchboard behind the tellers' desk, and picked up the operator's phone, then grunted: "Who's this?" in Arabic, trying to sound sleepy and irritable, and not at all like Craig.

  The voice at the other end said in English: "I'm terribly sorry. I seem to have the wrong number."

  Craig spoke in Arabic again, and the voice at the other end apologized and hung up, then Craig replaced his own receiver.

  He went back to the mezzanine. Istvan was inside the safe now, working on the lock of the trapdoor that led to the time-lock safe below. He was working with a furious but carefully controlled speed that Craig found admirable. He had understood the significance of the phone call without waiting to be told.

  Boris said: "What happened?"

  "The guard's chair fell over," said Craig, "then some fool dialed the wrong number." But it hadn't been a fool, Craig was sure. It had been Hornsey.

  When the trapdoor opened, Istvan swung down, as sure as a cat. Craig followed; Boris stayed on guard on the floor above. They were now inside the time-lock safe. Istvan switched on the lamp he had brought with them, and they looked about them. The safe was a vast cupboard, lined with shelves, and each shelf was divided up into enormous pigeonholes, each with its own safe door.

  "Number three on the right," said Craig.

  Istvan nodded, but went first to the main door of the safe. He carefully cracked the glass panel that covered its four clocks, took it out, then unscrewed the metal panel that covered the mechanism. They could hear the clock ticking quite clearly. Delicately then he detached the springs from the balance wheels and the ticking stopped. He went over to each of the four large steel bars that secured the door in turn, and swung them into a vertical position, then turned the wheel by the door, making it swing open. Carefully he measured the gap. When it got to a foot he stopped.

  "Another electronic eye," he said, then grinned. "It's lucky they have a wheel on both sides of this door. I'd hate to try to push it open."

  Craig said: "All right. We've got an escape route. Get on with it."

  He watched once more as Istvan tackled the lock. Before he had thought of a fisherman playing a salmon, but that was wrong. Istvan would never do anything so energetic. The analogy, he thought, should be different. Hungarians were often musicians, and that was what Istvan made him think of. The capable fingers working with such loving skill; it was like watching a pianist resolve a difficult cadenza. He looked at his watch. 12:30. Tania would be late at the Villa Florida. Then, for the last time, Istvan sighed, and the small safe door swung open.
r />   He hadn't known what to expect. Bundle after bundle of notes probably; hard, useful currencies in sets of a hundred. Instead there were suitcases, six of them, a matched set in black leather with hand-forged brass locks and the initials BC in gold. Istvan hefted one from the shelf, then swore as it slipped in his fingers.

  "I'd forgotten how much good paper weighs," he said.

  "Get them all out," said Craig. "I'll go for Boris."

  Craig scrambled into the safe above, then heard the soft click of a picklock on metal. He grinned and counted to a hundred before he fetched Boris. That was all the start Istvan could have.

  The guards were still unconscious as Craig and

 

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