by James Munro
"To see it by moonlight," Joanna said. "It really excites me.
"There's a moon tonight," said Craig.
"But we can't see the park from here."
"We can from my flat," said Craig.
"So we can," said Joanna. "Darling, would you mind?"
Craig didn't mind, and Joanna loaded glasses and cups on a tray, Craig carried the coffeepot and brandy bottle, and they moved with exaggerated stealth to his door, went quickly inside. The "darling" was a fact now, the business of carrying the coffee and brandy a small intimacy, a game for lovers. Craig switched off the lights and pulled the curtains wide. Below them the park was a vast silver-point, elegant yet shadowed. Joanna sighed.
"I know it's trite," she said, "but it makes me think of Hermia and Helena and that ridiculous mixup in the wood. Don't you think so, darling?"
"I think it's beautiful," said Craig. And dangerous. Those pools of shadow are always dangerous.
The girl made a slight, inevitable movement, and she was in his arms. Her lips on his, the touch of her lightly clad body, were meaningless to him, but he returned her kiss with a simulated passion that the strength of his arms underlined. She gasped as he held her.
"You're very strong," she said. Her body wriggled as she spoke. He sensed her fingers unhook, ungrip, and the black chiffon drifted downwards like a black cloud. She wore fashionably little beneath it. Mechanically his hands stroked the cool softness of her back, but his mouth could kiss no more.
"Don't you like me?" asked the girl.
Craig said, "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I don't feel very-"
He allowed himself to sway on his feet. She grabbed him. It took all her strength to get him to a chair, but at last she did so, and he collapsed into it, and she looked down at him. In the moonlight, it was hard to read her face.
"Pills," Craig whispered. "In my pocket."
He fell back, and at once she took his wrist, felt for his pulse, but the benzedrine he had taken took care of that. It was racing. For a long moment she looked at him, then drew the curtains together and switched on the lights; Craig made no move. She put on her dress and began systematically to search the flat.
Craig let her look for three minutes. She was quick, methodical, and sure, and wary always of him lying in the chair. She held her handbag with her, too, wherever she went ... In time, this one would be deadly. At last she found it necessary to get his keys. They were in his right-hand trouser pocket, and she had to move him. She came up to him, wary as a cat, but he lay quite motionless. Reluctantly she put down her handbag, grasped his shoulders, and heaved. He was too heavy for her. She swore, and heaved again, and this time he came up in a quick surge of power, and one splayed hand pushed under her chin, one held her right arm away from her bag. Joanna found that movement, any movement, brought instant agony. She stayed still.
"You did very well," said Craig. "Very well indeed. But you should have checked to see where my pills were first ... I haven't got any." The hand under her throat moved, brought her to her knees. He let her numbed arm go, reached for her bag, took out the little Biretta automatic. "And you should have kept hold of this," he said. "All the time. It was the only chance you had."
Andrew Royce made no attempt to reach him at all. No dinner invitations, no call to read the gas meter or chat in a bar. Instead, Royce studied the outside of Craig's flat, then worked in the gym every day, and with one of the experts who had visited the school. The expert's field was burglary, and he was a master. Loomis observed his plans and said nothing to Craig. Royce's choice of methods was his own.
He chose a night when Craig went to bed early. Patiently he waited for the lights in the flat to die, then climbed, steady, not hurrying, his body protected by shadow from the dying moon. He found the window of the spare bedroom and felt for burglar alarms. There were none. No wires, no photoelectric cells. The tools the expert had taught him to use worked admirably, and the window catch yielded to him in minutes. Cautiously then, he greased the side of the window, let it slide open, and was inside. Once in, he pulled a mask over his face and moved silently to the door of Craig's bedroom. Royce had considered the problem of the sleeper from the beginning. Loomis had impressed on him how important the document was. Inevitably, it would be hidden. That meant either a long search or forcing Craig into telling him where it was. In either case Craig would have to be put out of action first. Royce looked at the cold chisel he'd used on the window, then dropped it into his pocket. The chisel was dangerous: he might hit too hard. For a job like this it was better to use the hands.
An accident saved Craig. As Royce opened the bedroom door and eased, slowly, noiselessly round it, the phone rang. Craig woke up at once and Royce saw him stir. He leaped for Craig, and his hand, held like an ax blade, struck down with controlled force. (On no account must the man be killed, Loomis had said.) But Craig had flung the covers aside already and the blow was smothered in bedclothes. Royce followed it up with his fist, and the punch caught Craig on the side of the neck, the impact an immediate eruption of pain. Craig groaned, fell back, and Royce leaped for him, but Craig's fall became a spin that took him out of the bed and on to the floor. He scrambled to his feet and the pain stabbed at him, slowing him so that Royce too had time to roll free.
Royce was younger and faster than Craig, and he had not been hit. He was wide awake, and Craig had been asleep. He leaped in again, anxious to get it over, but Craig swayed away from the three-finger strike he aimed at him, and countered with a chop that smashed just below his ribs. Royce groaned and lashed out with a karate kick aimed at the groin. Again Craig swayed, and the shoe scored along the edge of his thigh, but his hand smacked under the heel even so. He levered and pulled, and Royce spun like a top in the air, then his arms smashed down, absorbing the impact of his fall, but Craig still held on to his foot, and any attempt at movement was agony. Craig looked at the masked face on the floor. This was Andrew, he had no doubt, and Andrew was fast and young and tricky—and mad because he'd been beaten. If he let him go, Andrew would immediately start again, and Craig had taken two blows already. Still holding the foot, he limped forward, then his own bare foot flicked, the hard edge seeking the nerve at the base of the neck, and Royce's body stiffened, then relaxed. The phone rang again. Craig picked it up.
"Is that the Mercury Mini Cab Service?" said a voice that would stand no nonsense. "I rang you a minute ago and nobody answered."
"You see it's a bit difficult," said Craig. "We're not on the phone." He hung up. He hadn't finished yet.
Craig rang the bell at the Queen Anne's Gate and the porter answered.
"You're expected," he said, then watched Craig climb the stairs. It was some satisfaction to know that he was limping. Loomis made no mention of it, but for once Craig was glad to sink into an overstuffed armchair and watched the red, eagle-beaked face glower down at him.
"Branch won't do?" he asked.
"Not at maximum risk," said Craig. "He gets excited. It makes him obvious."
"And the girl? This Benson person?"
"Good," said Craig. "Subtle. And she doesn't overdo it. She'd have made it with another man."
Loomis nodded. "And Royce?" he said.
"Excellent," said Craig. "Strong and fast. Tough-minded. A good brain too. He worked it all out."
"Worked what all out?"
"The exercise," said Craig. "He knew there was a good chance this was a test, so he came in from outside—when I was asleep ... I like that. And he knew he'd have to clobber me. Hurt me maybe. That didn't bother him. Even if I turned out to be on his side. He'll do well."
"Weaknesses?"
"He hates being beaten," Craig said. "It makes him angry . . . But it won't happen often. He'd have beaten me—if it hadn't been for that phone call."
"You think I could use those two then?"
"I know it," said Craig. Loomis sighed, and Craig thought of whales wallowing.
"Would they break easy?" he asked.
"Ask the psychia
trists," Craig said.
"Oh I will, son. Over and over I'll ask them. But just now I'm asking you. You've had what you might call first hand experience."
"They'll break eventually," said Craig. "Everybody does. But they'll last as long as most."
"Good," said Loomis. "They can be your assistants then. I got a job for you."
"A month ago you said I was finished," said Craig.
"I was wrong," said Loomis. "It's happened before. Twice. You showed I was wrong the way you handled those three. Royce in particular. And the Benson person. Women can't get at you, son. Not any more."
"Royce and I won't get on all that well," said Craig. "Not after what I did to him. And the girl—she's bright. Maybe she knows about me. I couldn't work with her if she knew."
"They won't work with you," said Loomis. "They'll assist you by being decoys. If they see you in the street they won't look at you twice."
"What's the job?" said Craig.
"You're going to Turkey to pick up a feller," Loomis said. "And when you've got him you're going to take him to Israel. But first you're going to New York. There's people in New York can tell you all about this feller. Name of Kaplan. The Russians want him too."
"That's why you're setting up decoys?"
"That's why," said Loomis. "They got him in one of their 'Most Urgent' files. You know what that means."
"It means he's going to die," said Craig.
"That's not our business—provided we get him to Israel first. And that's your job. I'll send you the file we got on him. Work on it in your office. It doesn't leave here . . . You fly to New York on Thursday. That's all on file too .. . You better get on with it, son."
Craig levered himself out of the chair and limped to the door. He felt old and battered and very tired. Three days in the gym would help, but not enough. The savage concentration of strength he had once summoned at will, was gone, perhaps forever.
"Why me, Loomis?" he asked.
"You're not what you were," said Loomis, "but you're still the best I've got for this sort of caper."
"The KGB are after him. 'Most Urgent.' That means they'll be after me too."
"Not if we use decoys," said Loomis.
"They're just out of school. What chance will they have?" said Craig.
"Very little," said Loomis. "But that isn't your business."
CHAPTER 4
The Kaplan file was thin. Aaron Israel Kaplan had been born in Riga in 1915, the son of a rabbi, and the family-had moved to Moscow just before the Revolution. By 1932 he was a Komsomol leader and a biology student at Moscow University and had broken with his family; by 1936 he was researching in agricultural method at the Lenin Institute, and had begun a crash course in water engineering. His overriding interest was the cultivation of crops in dry areas, and papers he had written on this had gone as far as the Central Committee when the war came. In 1938 his father had died, but Kaplan had not been present at the funeral. During the war Kaplan had fought with distinction as a political commissar attached to an infantry regiment that had finished up in East Germany. After it he had gone back to work at the Lenin Institute, at first with success. He had survived the Lysenko scandal, and once again the Central Committee had read his papers. There was talk of financing a scheme of his—a capital investment of seven million rubles. He had nine assistants, limitless opportunity for research, and access to the Institute's papers, no matter how highly classified. Then, quite suddenly, he had crashed. His scheme was dropped, his research team broken up. Then his membership at the Institute was revoked, his car and dacha taken from him. For three months he worked as a factory hand, then he was arrested, tried, and sentenced to Siberia. His sentence was "indeterminate," which meant he stayed there till he died. The camp he went to, Volochanka, was the hardest of them all. His sentence had never been revoked, and yet he had been reported in Turkey. He was one of three brothers. One had been killed at Stalingrad and the other had left Russia with an uncle in 1922 and was living in New York—Marcus Kaplan, 189 West 95th Street. The most recent photographs of Kaplan had been taken in 1939 and had all the fuzziness to be expected of a black and white print taken with a box camera, ineptly handled. It suggested that Kaplan was tall, scholarly, and thin, but his features were anonymous.
Craig turned the page. There followed a note in Loomis's small, neat writing: "For further information on Kaplan consult his brother and Laurie S. Fisher, the Graydon Arms, 145 East 56th Street." On the next page was a description of Volochanka. Craig wondered how any man could possibly escape from such a place. After that there came key information about Turkey, the sort of stuff he would need to get Kaplan out without the Russians knowing, but no information about where he was. Even Loomis didn't know that. That had to wait until he got to New York, and then Laurie S. Fisher would tell him, if he thought him good enough. The file didn't tell him why Kaplan was important, either, but that wasn't Craig's business. Craig's business was to get him to Israel. He telephoned Sanuki Hakagav/a at the house in Kensington and made an appointment for that evening, then went back to the file and read it through again and again. Gradually the information it contained began to stick. In two days he would never need it again.
The Hakagawas had the ground floor and basement of a house off Church Street, one of a series of Edwardian monsters of salmon-pink brick relieved with stone painted a glittering white. The exterior was fussy, ornate, blatantly opulent, the interior furnished with the same spare elegance of Japanese who still lived in the traditional style so far as London would let them. Sanuki opened the door to him, slim and ageless in a sweater and jeans.
"Please go down to the gymnasium," she said. "Shinju is waiting for you."
Craig went down the steps to the changing rooms. There was a judo costume waiting for him, and a black belt. He changed slowly, allowing his mind to achieve the state of wary relaxation essential before a fight with Shinju Hakagawa. When he went in the Japanese was already waiting for him, on the dojo mat. Craig joined him on the mat and the two men bowed in the ritual of greeting.
"What style shall we fight?" Hakagawa asked. "We'll just fight," said Craig.
It was like very fast chess, every move played out to the limits of strength, every throw a potential opening to the checkmate that could end your life if you didn't get up, or counter, in time. At the end of twenty minutes Hakagawa signaled a halt, and both men were steaming with sweat. Hakagawa produced towels, and they dabbed at their sweating bodies, then knelt, facing each other, on the mat.
"You have been drinking too much," said Hakagawa. "You are slow. This time I could have killed you." "I'm old, Hak," Craig said.
"Not as old as me. I am fifty-four years old." Craig looked at the squat, bullet-headed Japanese. His face was astonishingly beautiful and almost unlined.
"Show me your hands."
Craig held out his hands and Hakagawa very carefully examined the lines of hard skin along their edges, and across the knuckles.
"You have neglected them," said Hakagawa. "Suppose I asked you to punch the board."
"I couldn't do it," said Craig.
"It will take you two weeks to get your hands right. You will practice here every day."
"I can't," said Craig. "I go to New York in three days."
"I will give you the address of a master there," said Hakagawa. "You must become right again—or karate is finished for you."
"Become right?"
"You do not mean it any more," Hakagawa said. "It is in your hands, but not in your mind. You are becoming what boxers call a gym fighter." He paused, and looked at Craig in affection. "Until your mind changes you will never beat me again. When it changes, you will beat me every time. Shower now. You drink too much."
Each evening until he left, Craig fought with Haka-gawa. His hands began to harden and his speed and stamina increased as he sweated the alcohol out of his system, but his mind remained the same. He could not beat Haka-gawa. After the second defeat he went back to the department and booked
a session on the firing range. He used the gun he'd always preferred, a Smith and Wesson .38, and that skill at least had not deserted him. Over and over he aimed and fired, and each time he scored a bull. The PSI who ran the place, an ex-gunman himself, looked on and was happy. Craig never gave him any problems. Craig began to relax, until the thought hit him: no matter what you do to a target, you cannot make it feel.
He went back to his flat and worked doggedly on his hands, punching and striking at the thin bags of hard sand. When he had had enough, he went to the phone and called Sir Matthew Chinn. Sir Matthew was the very eminent psychiatrist who had treated him after he had been tortured. Craig spoke to a housemaid, a butler, and a secretary. They were unanimous. Sir Matthew was unavailable for at least six weeks. Craig wondered if Sir Matthew's unavailability were Loomis's idea. Sir Matthew had not wanted Craig to work for the department ever again, but Loomis had insisted. He was insisting now. From time to time Craig hated Loomis, but there was no sense in it really, he thought. There was nowhere else for him to go.
New York began in the Boeing 707, and Craig was grateful for it. There was a hell of a lot of New York to get used to. The flight was all dry martinis and chicken a la king and the toasted cigarettes he could never learn to enjoy. There was a movie, too. Hollywood money, Spanish location. All about the war in Greece. It was bold, noisy, and totally inaccurate. Craig calculated that if the hero had behaved in reality as he did on the screen he would have been shot dead twenty-three times. He enjoyed the movie. It was right that he should. According to his cover, he was an advertising man sent over to study American techniques; not the ulcer-gnarled, thwarted genius advertising man, the extrovert, jolly kind, the kind that actually likes war movies that gross six million. After the movie he read a paperback about rape in Streatham, then abandoned that for The New York Times. The race riots were going to be late this year on account of the cool weather; the President needed another hundred million dollars for Vietnam; the longshoremen were going to strike after all, and baseball would never be the same without Mickey Mantle. Craig slept till Boston.