Die Rich Die Happy c-2

by James Munro

  "They still have hopes of the Haram," Schiebel said. "There may be oil there, and they still have hopes of Middle East oil. I shall have to take steps to find out their interest."

  "What steps?" Soong asked.

  "I might join them," Schiebel said. "With my face, what else could I be but a Queen's Messenger?" "And then?"

  "Then I shall have your cobalt shipped to you direct," said Schiebel. "I'll get it to Shanghai. Then it's up to you to use it."

  "Just get it to us. It will be used; I promise you," said

  Soong.

  » · *

  Swyven felt at peace with the world. He adored sunshine, and offbeat places, and Beirut was still offbeat enough for him; a marvelous jumble of Mercedes taxis and tiny bazaar shops and plush casinos and coffee in brass pots. It was all a bit chichi of course, but chichi in an amusing sort of way, and it was pleasant to sit in a seaside cafe and drink one's campari and soda, and look at the bodies—brown, bronze, and gold—soaking in the sun. There was no anger in Lebanon either, and that was the most pleasing thing of all.

  A shadow spread coolness across his face, and he looked up. A man was standing over him, a man whose photograph was in his pocket so that he knew who it must be, and yet it was so incredible that he gasped aloud.

  "Hello, Mark," said Schiebel. "I hope I'm not late?"

  "No, no. Not at all," Swyven said. "Please sit down."

  Schiebel sat. He wore a beach robe and bathing trunks. His body was tanned to the color of milk chocolate. It was a tall, lean body, long-muscled, durable as whipcord. Between his right collarbone and breast was a patch of skin still white, like a bandage. Once there had been a series of burn scars there. The bums had been made by cigarettes. Swyven looked at it—and knew this was the man, then looked again at the face. It really was incredible.

  The face was English. A long, thin nose with fine nostrils, the skin stretched tight over the cheekbones, the mouth wide, with a wry twist to it, the chin small, but firm, out-thrusting.

  "I can't believe it," Swyven said.

  Schiebel laughed. The laugh, like the voice, had not changed.

  "They have very good plastic surgeons in Switzerland," he said. "Mine was the best I could find. Do you approve of me, Mark?"

  "But of course I do," Swyven said.

  "Where does this face belong?" Schiebel asked.

  Swyven said at once. "In the Army. Or the Foreign Office. Or perhaps at the Bar. It's just a shade too naughty for the House of Commons, I think—"

  "But it is Establishment?"

  "Quite definitely," Swyven said.

  "Good. My photograph please—if you are quite satisfied about who I really am?"

  Swyven handed over the photograph, and watched as Schiebel rolled it up, lit it, dropped it flaming into an ashtray and waited until it smouldered to crinkled foil, then broke it into pieces.

  Schiebel was as thorough as he was dangerous, and Swyven was terrified of him.

  "Dyton-Blease brought the girl?" Schiebel said. It wasn't a question. Schiebel knew.

  "Yes," Swyven said. "He's gone on to his island. It was quite a journey apparently. She's resting in her room."

  "No one knows she's here?"

  "No. I was terribly careful."

  "I'm sure you were," said Schiebel.

  "Her father, the emir, is quite prepared to sell—if the price is right," Swyven said. "Naturally he has no idea what the stuff is for, but he wants the money to buy machine guns."

  Schiebel laughed aloud, a clear, happy sound, and Swyven stopped. "What's wrong?" he asked.

  "I'm sorry," said Schiebel. "He wants machine guns, and he's sitting on a mountain of cobalt. He's got enough explosive to blow his country to the moon—and he wants to shoot bullets."

  "It's that strong?" Swyven asked.

  "It's fantastic," Schiebel said. "One little bomb could blow up"—he paused and grinned at Swyven—"the entire British Navy. Now you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

  "I hope it happens," said Swyven.

  "It isn't very likely, but it's possible," Schiebel said. "Say a thousand-to-one shot. If you like outsiders."

  Swyven looked across to his hotel. A girl was walking down its steps, a brown, black-haired girl in a backless pink sundress, who walked with an effortless arrogance that turned every male head in range.

  "There she is," said Swyven.

  Schiebel rose at once.

  'The desert princess," he said. "I'd like to make a journey with her myself. Look me up before you leave. I'm in Room 108."

  "Of course," Swyven said.

  "I'm making arrangements to have her sent to Menos. We must be discreet for a little while. I shall have her smuggled in. Cloak and dagger stuff. Which reminds me— I've got a little surprise for you," said Schiebel. "I'm going to join the British Secret Service. Is that Establishment enough for you?"

  Then he was gone and Swyven sat, open-mouthed, till the brown girl came up to him, and sank into a chair with a serene and effortless grace that brought waiters speeding like whippets. Swyven ordered her lemonade.

  "How are you?" he asked.

  "Rotten," she said. "You'll have to show me again how to manage that bloody girdle. I can't get the hang of it at

  * Chapter 3 *

  Loomis sweated until his face was shining and his shirt was a damp rag in the small of his back, oozing wetness. The hut was small and stifling with strong and recent memories of garlic, fish, and resinated wine. Outside, the heat was like a blow, the white sand glistened until the eyes ached to look at it. In the hut it was a little, a very littie cooler, but the smells had a life of their own, an assertive, extrovert life that clamored for attention.

  Loomis said: "It's too dark in here," and the lean, elegant policeman beside him jerked the shutter from the window.

  A bar of sunlight pierced the dimness of the room, showing him the old fisherman and his wife who owned the hut, and who were happy to hear English spoken, because the noises Loomis made assured them that he was a friend, though they didn't understand a word. Their faces were old, seamed, weather-worn, and proudly, fiercely Greek. Despite their age, there was strength in them, and endurance. They had learned well how to endure, and experts had taught them. Saracens, Turks, Venetians. Greeks like the old peasant and his wife had outlasted them all. They had even outlasted the Germans.

  The white bar probed like a searchlight beam into the

  comer of the hut. A man lay there on a heap of nets, face down. Loomis walked over to him. The man was tall, heavily built, dirty. He had a four-day growth of beard and his mahogany-colored hair was bleached with sun and salt spray. He wore old tattered jeans and a dirty T-shirt. Beside him was a bottle of ouzo. Loomis put his foot under the man's stomach and heaved him over. The effort of it made him sweat again, so that his vast, meat-red face looked as if it had been rubbed in oil. He looked down at the man he had turned over, at the high forehead, the thin sensual mouth, the strong, capable hands. The little finger of the left hand was crooked. It had been broken once, and reset very badly. There were other marks on him too, marks he could never remove. He was weeping.

  "Yes," said Loomis. "This is the man."

  The elegant policeman began to talk in Greek, and the two old people listened patiently, warily, then the old man replied, speaking to Loomis, not the policeman.

  "He says he is glad that a friend of his has come. Craig is their friend also—all that they have is his—but they are worried about him. He needs his own people to help him." The old man said something else, and the policeman hesitated.

  "Go on," said Loomis. "What does he say?"

  "He says he needs a special kind of doctor, and they have no money, but anyone as fat as you must be very rich."

  Loomis glared. His arrogant nose quivered, his eyes were pale with rage. The old man stared back, without fear or insolence, and Loomis laughed, and began to sweat once more. "You've been kind," he said, and added, in halting Greek, how grateful he was for their help. The ol
d man nodded.

  "How are we going to get him round?" Loomis asked. "He looks as if he's been drunk for days."

  "Two weeks," the old man said. "He thinks he is dying of sadness."

  "He's not dying of anything," said Loomis, "not just now. He's got work to do. For me." The old man and his wife left the room.

  Loomis bent down over the unconscious man, hauled him upright and stuffed him into a chair, then he and the policeman went to work. By the time they had finished, the policeman didn't look nearly so elegant. They shook him, slapped him, poured water over him and coffee into him, and very gradually his eyes opened, focused, looked, and at last began to comprehend. Loomis's great streaming face became known and he began, unwillingly, to remember.

  "Oh," said Craig, "I know you, don't IF'

  Loomis looked at the policeman, who saluted, sardonic, weary, and left.

  "Nice of you to look me up," said Craig, and looked around the hut as if even looking were a superhuman effort. "There's a bottle of ouzo here somewhere."

  "You can't have it," said Loomis. "I didn't know you were a boozer."

  Before his eves the man on the chair changed into someone harder, more menacing, an enormous strength of will fighting the rotgut spirits he had taken.

  "It's mv drink," said Craig, "you can have some if you

  like— "

  "No," said Loomis.

  "—but don't push your luck."

  His eyes, pouched and bloodshot looked into Loomis's; the comprehension in them quickened.

  "You're Loomis," he said "I did a job for you. I killed Colonel de St. Briac."

  "That's right," said Loomis.

  "There were others too. A man called La Valere and two Corsicans. They killed Tessa." "I know," said Loomis.

  Craig spoke on, not hearing him; his eyes looking into a world Loomis could never hope to see.

  "Tessa was my girl," he said. "We were going to live here—after I'd killed him. I loved Tessa. I'd never loved anybody before, but I loved her. I didn't know until it was too late—two days before she died. That's not long enough to love someone, Loomis."

  "You had a job in a war," Loomis said. "Tessa Harling was a casualty. You can't choose casualties in a war."

  "True enough," said Craig, "I'd have been dead years ago."

  He braced himself and stood up.

  "I want a drink," he said, "and I'm going to get one."

  "Don't bother," said Loomis, "I know where it is."

  He fetched the bottle, and a couple of thick, cheap

  glasses.

  Craig poured two drinks and pushed one across to Loomis. It burned viciously, but the fat man drank it with a prim lack of reaction that made Craig laugh.

  "All right," he said, "you didn't come here to chat about old times. Who do you want me to kill now?"

  "Nobody," said Loomis, "I want you to keep somebody

  alive."

  "Anybody I know?"

  "A man called Naxos. Aristides Naxos. Known to his friends as Harry. Oil and Shipping. Fifty-one years old, worth a hundred million quid."

  "Cigars," said Craig. "He liked cigars—Romeo y Ju-lietas. I used to get them for him, buy them cheap in Tangier and sell them rich on Naxos's yacht. That was when I was a smuggler. You knew I'd met him?"

  "Of course," said Loomis, "that's why I want you."

  "There was always a blonde about," said Craig. "He was daft about blondes."

  "He married one," said Loomis. "He thinks the sun shines out of her, and she may be the one to die."

  "Like Tessa," said Craig, and held out his hand, watched his fingers tremble.

  "You're too late, Loomis. I'm past it."

  He poured out two more drinks and pushed one across to Loomis.

  "You should have found me a few years ago—nowadays I can't be bothered. And anyway—" he hesitated.

  "Go on," Loomis said.

  "I'm drunk all the time."

  He took another drink, and Loomis saw how quickly it worked, how easily it softened the hard edge of his will.

  "I had a bit of difficulty finding you," he said, "you were always good at disappearing. None of your Greek friends knew where you were."

  "They're good friends," Craig said.

  "They'd be a help in this job."

  "No job," said Craig.

  His hand reached out for his drink, finished it, then explored the table for the bottle, cautious not to spill it. Loomis spoke quickly.

  "This girl Naxos married—she's a lot like Tessa was." The restless searching hand was still, Craig's eyes burned into Loomis's. "She's an American, and used to be

  what they call a starlet. So far as I can gather, that means she had three lines in four pictures and a lot of men went to hed with her. Some women too. Very strange place, Hollywood. She also had her photograph taken from time to time—not with a lot of clothes on. After a bit somebody got her on drugs."

  "Like Tessa?" said Craig. "Don't be stupid."

  His hand sought the bottle once more.

  "She's a very pretty girl, not very bright, very kind, very likable. Just as Tessa was. She was in a mess too, wasn't she? And she needed a man to get her out of it."

  "I got her out of it all right. Right under a tube train."

  "It wasn't your fault. You gave her something she needed. That's what Naxos has given this girl."

  'That and a hundred million."

  'That too. All right. All that money made it easier. But getting her off drugs—that wasn't easy. Trying to keep her from killing herself wasn't easy either."

  "You're breaking my heart," Craig said. "Where's your violin?"

  Loomis's face flushed a savage red.

  "You really are past it, aren't you?" he said. "Sitting there soaking because one girl died. This girl is more important than Tessa could ever hope to be. I can't have her hurt."

  "Why not?"

  "Because if she is, Naxos will go to pieces, and if that happens he won't be any use to us." "Us?"

  'The country," said Craig. "He own 5 percent of Arbit Oil. The British Government owns 47K percent; 475s and 5 is 52M. So long as he votes with us things go our way." He sighed. "It was a lot easier for us when Naxos was a bachelor."

  'That's more like it," Craig said. "You don't really care about the girl at all, do you?"

  "She's a bloody nuisance," said Loomis, "but she mustn't be hurt." He finished his drink and stood up. "There's nearly a bottle left," he said. "It should last you for a couple of hours."

  He walked to the door, then turned.

  "It'll have to be Grierson, I suppose," he said. "Pity."

  "Why?" said Craig. "Why is it a pity?"

  "Because he isn't up to it. But he's the best I've got left now that you've run away. He'll probably be killed," Loomis said.

  "You bastard," Craig said equably. "Sit down and tell me more." He picked up the bottle and rammed the cork into it

  "I suppose I should have thrown it at the wall, but Serafin could use it." "Serafin?"

  "My host," Craig said. "He owns this luxuriously appointed dwelling."

  "It stinks," said Loomis. "So does he."

  "He's seventy-three years old," Craig said. "He could still put a knife in you from twenty feet away." He looked at Loomis's enormous sagging body. "He could hardly miss, could he? You're a hell of a size, Loomis. It's disgusting."

  Loomis chuckled indulgently. He'd got Craig back. An insult now and again wasn't a very high price for that.

  "I'll tell you about her," he said, "when you've dried yourself out. I'll give you ten days, then I'll meet you again in Athens. And you'd better be fit by then, Craig. If you're not I don't want you. Go out fishing or smuggling, or whatever your host does!" He went out then, not forgetting to slam the door, and Craig sat, thinking about Tessa, knowing that this was what she would have wanted him to do. Someone needed help; Tessa wouldn't have hesitated. It was because she had tried to help him that she had died.

  Serafin came in, looked at the corke
d bottle and smiled. 'The fat one has gone. And the policeman." He nodded at the bottle. "This is finished for you?"

  "Yes," said Craig.

  "The fat one is good. A strong man under all that."

  His hands gestured, curving the balloons of Loomis's belly and buttocks, as Craig dragged off his shirt and jeans,

  "I'm going for a swim," he said. "Are you going fishing tonight?"

  Serafin nodded.

  "We'll take the caique. Under sail."

  "Like old times," Serafin said. "Very like old times, if you wish it. I have goods to collect, if you will help me."

  "Do what you like you old villain," said Craig. "I'm only the crew."

  He walked out into the sunlight, staggering down the burning, glittering sand to the sea, that was only fifty yards

  away, then fell into its warm, sustaining embrace, struck out into its incredible blue. From the hut door, Serafin watched him. Craig had finished with the ouzo and that was good. Soon his body would be hard and strong once more, and Craig would be happy. Craig was as much to Serafin as his son Stavros, and Stavros was a doctor now, with a practice in Athens, the glory and wonder of Andraki. But in 1944, Craig had saved Stravros's life. All that Serafin had was his.

  # * #

  The stars were big and tender, without the hard, diamond brightness of the northern cold, and Serafin and Craig took the big old caique out, the elderly diesel two-stroke clanking, coughing on a faulty cylinder. The hollow popping sound it made seemed unnaturally loud on the silent sea. The caique, like all caiques, was an unwieldy, primitive craft, broad in the beam, high in prow and stern. Serafin loved it.

  They sailed out into the Aegean, until Andraki was no more than a smudge of darkness on the purple sea, and Craig killed the engine, hoisted the creaking sail, sweating with his need for a drink and cigarette.

  "When do we fish?" he asked.

  "Later," said Serafin. "Make for the northeast, my

  son."

  Craig obeyed, and the caique heeled over, eager for the breeze, the water chuckling, cackling past.

  "The first fish will be in tins," said Serafin. "Hold her so! I shall sleep for a while. I am an old man. My strength has gone."