The Money That Money Can't Buy c-3 Read online

  The Money That Money Can't Buy

  ( Craig - 3 )

  James Munro

  Kirkus' Review

  Agent Craig is one hunk of a killing machine, smooth, professional, amoral, unquestioning. And the real drama comes after his masculinity has been almost severed. Will he turn on his manipulating department head Loomis? In the meantime he's successfully kidnapped a Russian agent and subsequently teamed up with other Russian agents to stop an anti-Soviet organization planning to flood the market with phoney money. But the slapdash action turns out to be equally counterfeit and the psychodrama Just so much spy schmaltz.

  James Munro - The Money That Money Can't Buy

  1

  The three men in the Volkswagen talked mostly about chess, to which they were all devoted. From time to time the conversation veered to ballet and thence to football—one of them had a son who hoped soon to have a trial for his factory team— but mostly they spoke of chess. The landscape did not interest them: lakes, undisciplined woodland, mountains dusted with snow—these were no novelty, and could be ignored; but chess was at once stimulating, familiar, and abstract. It was pleasant to talk of chess when you were on your way to do a job, and pleasant to drive with the windows open after a spell in a deep-sea trawler that had bumped and smashed its way through the North Channel to Whitehaven. The three men were technicians of the highest class: they were used to better transport and accommodation, but grumbling didn't occur to them. Not one wholly trusted the other two, except in the performance of their essential and highly specialized duties.

  The driver braked for a "halt. major road ahead" sign. Like the others, he had never been to England before, but the KGB had taken care of

  driving on the left for him, as it had taken care of everything else. He knew all about motorways and coffee bars, and which newspaper matched which clothes, and when to order beer and when to stick to Scotch. He and the others had had their hair cut for three months by a barber who had worked in Croydon. The clothes they were wearing had been bought a piece at a time from sports shops in London, Switzerland, Inverness: windcheaters, heavy nailed boots, windproof trousers, knitted hats. Their climbing rope was supple and well-used, their ice ax old and carefully maintained. Their very suntans had been applied with care, layer after layer of sun and wind against pale skin, so that they looked as if the mountains had called them from childhood. Their eyes, it is true, were wary, and blinked little, but climbers also are cautious men.

  They turned left at a sign that said "keswick— 7 miles ," drove on through the gaunt, pure beauty of the Lake District, and ignored it utterly. At their first glimpse of Derwentwater, their talk was still of knights and bishops, W formations, and Spectre de la Rose. Only when they reached the little town they grew silent, until the man beside the driver called out directions from the map he had spent a week in memorizing, and the Volkswagen nosed its way past hotels and sports shops and shops that sold Lakeland jet, woollens and rum butter and postcards and watercolors, into a twisted skein of side streets that the navigator knew as well as the face of his son who might soon play for the factory team, though he had never seen them before. They reached their destination at last, and the driver of a

  Volkswagen van which had sprawled across two parking places pulled up and gave them room to park. There was perhaps a certain delicacy in the choice of German transport for such an internationally flavored operation.

  The driver and co-driver got out, and the man in the back seat followed them. They stood together, stretched, and lit cigarettes, English cigarettes, king-size tipped. The lighter the driver used was English. He'd been told he could keep it, but they hadn't given him any fuel, and butane was difficult to obtain at home. The driver nodded at a restaurant across the street. The co-driver nodded agreement, but the third man shook his head and moved into the driver's seat. The other two men crossed the street toward the restaurant. It was April in the week before Easter, a cold day, with the threat of snow, and the street was very quiet. The third man pulled the gloves tight over his hands, and felt down the space between the two front seats. The ice ax was there. He pulled the latch of the car door open, laid the ice ax on his lap, and watched the big picture window of the restaurant.

  It was a new restaurant, with a decor of plastic designed to look like undressed pinewood. It sold eggs, bacon, hamburgers, sausages, baked beans, and chips in quantities designed to cope with the limitless appetites of walkers and climbers. When the driver and co-driver entered the restaurant and sat at the table nearest the door, it held a party of young men and girls in one corner who had already walked eleven miles that day and were waiting in impatience for their waiter. They could hear him talking in slow, patient English to a woman cook whose Lakeland accent was difficult for him to understand, hear also the sputter of frying fat and the clatter of crockery. They gobbled bread and wondered aloud if they had ordered enough, laughing to hide their embarrassment that they should crave so desperately anything as mundane as food. The two men by the door smoked king-sized tipped cigarettes and waited.

  The waiter was Chinese. He was young, tall, long-muscled, and deft at his job. He carried a tray piled with food, and he moved surely and neatly. As he skirted a table, he faced, for perhaps two seconds, the driver and co-driver. The driver spoke one phrase in Cantonese dialect. It had taken him three days to learn to say that phrase exactly right: Cantonese is difficult for any European. The group in the corner didn't hear what he said. Their embarrassment of laughter increased when they saw the object of their desire: rich gold of chips, pale gold of eggs, ham blush-pink, and the bold brown of sausage. But they did notice that the waiter stiffened, and the long, elegant lines of his body hardened with close-packed muscle, that his face showed first astonishment, then despair.

  And then the waiter moved. He threw the trayful of food, their beautiful, yearned-for food, at the two men by the door, and next did something even more crazy. He crossed his arms over his face and dived through the window. Glass flew like throwing knives at the group in the corner. One of the girls screamed, and the co-driver shouted "What's going on?" then rushed for the door with the driver. They ran out into the street, the Volkswagen van backed up and they jumped inside. Half a minute went by before one of the hungry ones went out. There was no living thing there: only a youngish Chinese waiter in white mess jacket and black trousers, an ice ax in the back of his head. The hungry one discovered that empty as his stomach was he could still be sick.

  * * *

  Craig disliked going to Queen Anne's Gate. It meant conferences and paperwork, most of it futile, and rows with a fat, angry man who could never find enough men for the things he had to do. He walked up to the front door and looked at the row of brass plates: Dr. H. B. Cunnington-Low, Lady Brett, Major Fuller, The Right Reverend Hugh Bean. The sort of people you expected to find in Queen Anne's Gate—except that they didn't exist. He pressed the bell marked "Caretaker," and the door opened at once. The man who opened it was short, muscular, and fast-moving, an excommando sergeant who was there because he had killed neatly, precisely and without emotion. Beneath the overalls he carried a Smith and Wesson revolver and a commando knife. From time to time, Craig practiced unarmed combat with him. The caretaker dreaded these sessions.

  "Morning, guv," said the caretaker. "His nibs is in."

  "How is he?" asked Craig.

  "Funny," said the caretaker. "Half the time he's mad, other half he's—well, he acts like something's happened and he can't believe it. Then he gets mad again."

  Craig took a tentative step backward. "There's a chap I promised to see," he said.

  "I'm to log you in," said the caretaker, "and you've to stand by."
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br />   Craig sighed and went up the stairs to his office. The caretaker scowled. He hated to bring bad news to Craig. Their practice sessions on the dojo mat were bad enough without that.

  Craig's office was the flat marked "Lady Brett." It, and his secretary, a grim widow called Mrs. McNab, had once belonged to Philip Grierson. Grierson had been an easy, elegant, amusing man, and Mrs. McNab had loved him, wordlessly and utterly. Grierson and she both had been adjusted to the fact that he might die at any time. Operators of Department K tended to live useful, violent, short lives, and M.I.6 recruited them with this end in view. Department K was the most ruthless branch of the service, the branch that handled the jobs that were too dangerous—or too dirty—for anyone else. The people who worked for it presented no problems for the gerontologist. And Grierson, like the others, had been aware that death was always near, and had been prepared for it. What he hadn't been prepared for was that his nerve would crack, and he would go crazy—utterly, completely, incurably. That too much violence and dirt and secrecy would break loose at last, wrap him in a cocoon of apathy, and that every attempt to break it would be met by tears, that Grierson in fact, without ever being sane enough to know it, might live on to old age, and be a problem for the gerontologist after all. Grierson had been working with Craig when his nerve and reason had left him, and Mrs. McNab knew this. She hated

  Craig, and treated him exactly as she had treated Grierson.

  She watched Craig slump at his desk and frown at the neatly stacked mound of files that waited for him. She watched the sure strength of his hands, the violence that lurked beneath the elegant suit. He's left Saville Row, she thought. That looks like Sloane Street. Well, well. Let's hope he's not going mod on us. She looked at the face then: a strong face, with a good nose, the mouth fuller than you would expect, and pale-gray eyes, eyes that told you nothing, eyes the color of cold seas. She could never love this man: he was too strong for her, but she could hate him, for Grierson's sake.

  "Mr. Loomis asked me to tell you to stand by, sir," she said. "Would you like coffee?"

  "No thank you," said Craig. There would be enough coffee when Loomis received him. He looked at the files. Today it was Morocco. Drugs, homosexuals, banks, smuggling, prostitution, bars. Something for everybody.

  Loomis sent for him at ten thirty. He went into the great man's room with its superb stucco ceiling and sash windows, sat or became immersed in a huge overstuffed armchair covered in flowered chintz, and looked at the man who faced him across a Chippendale desk. Loomis was vast: a gross monster of a man with a face the color of an angry sunset, pale manic eyes, red hair dusted with white like snow on a wheat field, and an arrogant nose. In rage he was both spectacular and cunning. He reminded Craig of a charging rhinoceros with a high I.Q.

  Loomis said: "Pour coffee," and Craig fought his way out of the chair to obey. The coffee was as hot, as dark, as bitter as Loomis himself. He put a cup down on Loomis's desk, then waited as the fat man, grunting with effort, produced a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his pocket and gave one to Craig as if it were rubies.

  "Got them from the minister," said Loomis, "duty-free."

  "Thanks," said Craig. The cigarette was cracked in the middle.

  "Smoke it then," Loomis said. "Ruin your wind. I don't care." Craig broke the cigarette in two, and lit the larger end.

  "Damn silly thing's happened," said Loomis. "Up in the Lake District. Somebody's murdered a Chinaman." Craig choked on the cigarette.

  "You don't by any chance think it's funny?" Loomis asked.

  "No, no. A little unusual," said Craig.

  "Very," said Loomis. "The only Chinaman for miles and somebody goes and murders him. Belts him over the head with an ice ax. One blow. It was still stuck in him when they found him."

  "Any leads?" asked Craig.

  "Oh yes. Three fellers drove up in one of those beetles—a Volkswagen. Two got out, went into the cafe where the Chinky worked, and spoke to him. The Chinky threw a trayful of food at them and jumped through the window. The third feller belted him with the ice ax. At least that's what the Cumberland police think. The witnesses aren't all that reliable."

  "They go off in the Volkswagen?"

  "No," said Loomis. "A Volkswagen van picked

  them up. The police have it now—and the car." "Fingerprints?"

  Loomis shook his head. "They were both absolutely clean," he said.

  "One blow could be luck or it could be skill," said Craig. "No fingerprints at all—that means experts." He paused. "You did say an ice ax?"

  Loomis grunted.

  "Don't they use them for glaciers?" Craig asked. "They do."

  "I used to live seventy miles from the Lakes," said Craig. "I didn't think they had glaciers."

  "They don't," said Loomis. "But the three blokes were dressed as climbers. They had all sorts of kit. The ice ax was a mistake really. Except they kept it hidden in the car." He paused for a moment, and Craig saw that he was struggling for words. This surprised Craig. The fat man was usually much too fluent.

  Loomis said at last: "If you laugh at what I'm going to say I'll—" He hesitated, then said: "No. It has to be said anyway. A Russian trawler put into Whitehaven the day of the kill. Minor engine trouble. They let a few men ashore. Whitehaven's twenty miles from Keswick. The trawler sailed seventy minutes after the murder."

  "Russians?" said Craig, a question in his voice. "Murdering a Chinaman? In Keswick?"

  "These men were pros," said Loomis. "Quick, neat job. One blow, no fingerprints, no murderers even. We can't touch them."

  "But they were seen," said Craig. "They killed in front of witnesses. The Russian Executive ne v .r does that."

  "Maybe they wanted us to know," said Loomis. "Did any of the witnesses suggest they were Russians?"

  "Very British, they said they looked. But they would for a job like this." "And the Chinese?"

  "His name's Soong, James Soong. Thirty. Hong Kong passport. I've got their police working on it."

  "He came here straight from Hong Kong?"

  "If the passport's telling the truth," said Loomis. "He'd worked in Keswick for six months. Big, tough lad, their police say. But kept himself to himself. No friends. No enemies either. Except a bloke with an ice ax."

  "But if the Russians really did do this—"

  "I know, cock. Right in our own back yard. I don't think I could stand it," said Loomis. His vast body heaved in uncertainty, and the chair beneath him groaned.

  "I'm sending you up there," he said. "Take Linton—then it can all be police business if things get normal."

  "Normal?"

  "As in 'News of the World,' " said Loomis wearily. "Even Chinamen must do some things that make people want to kill them. Let's hope it's that."

  "And if it isn't?"

  "I'll have those bloody Russians—" Loomis said, and his voice was a battle cry. "I'll have them on toast for breakfast."

  2

  The Mark X took them North in a smooth surge of power, and Detective Chief Inspector Linton was content to listen as Craig talked and drove. It was nice doing a job with Craig, he thought. Always a good car, and food and drink in proportion. For the survivors.

  . Craig said: "Loomis thinks there may be something in it."

  "He's got no evidence," said Linton. "No real evidence."

  "He's got a hunch," said Craig. "I think it's a good one. If we find he's right he'll hit the roof."

  Linton sighed. "There's one thing," he said. "Soong's passport was forged. We had it checked at the forensic lab."

  "Does Loomis know?"

  "Yes," said Linton. "I telephoned him myself. He was delighted."

  They drove on to Keswick, and stayed at the George, an old, staid, leathery, overstuffed hotel like a fat colonel, where the food was excellent and very English, and the central heating nonexistent. Linton approved of it, and Craig noted only that

  from time to time he slept, or was fed. The job had begun to fascinate him.

&nbs
p; Their suite had a small sitting room, and it was here that they talked to the walking party, seeing them one at a time, taking them patiently through the story, over and over again, stolidly enduring the timid complaints of the educated and respectable young when confronted by policemen investigating murder. They learned two things. The first came from Dr. Arthur Hornsey, aged twenty-seven, the elder statesman of the party, now engaged in research in the department of psychology at the University of Lancaster. Hornsey had observed the two men in the restaurant well. Craig showed him a series of photographs—a weird assortment of Russians and Russian-looking types, including dancers, strong men, Orthodox priests, and a genuine prince now working in advertising, and he identified the two men in the restaurant at once. Neither picture was good, and in neither case did the men wear climbing clothes, but Hornsey was sure although Linton pressed him hard.

  "I'm absolutely positive," he said. "I've always had a fantastic memory for faces."

  "Are they foreign?" Hornsey asked.

  "No," said Craig.

  Hornsey looked at him. The word was a flat, almost brutal denial of further discussion. To Hornsey, who had been trained for research, such a denial was unacceptable.

  "I mean they do look foreign," he said.

  Craig said nothing, and Hornsey felt himself blushing. He was a big, muscular young man who had gone out of a restaurant to face a mad Chinese who jumped through windows. His strength and courage were things he had always taken for granted. Yet he blushed at Craig's silence, and the force of will behind it.

  "We may need you later as a witness, sir," Linton said.

  "Oh yes. Identification Parade. That sort of thing, eh?" Hornsey asked.

  "Something like that," said Linton, and Hornsey left. It was only when he got outside that he realized that he knew Linton's rank, and had observed his questioning techniques. (Linton was well above average, he thought. At least beta plus.) He also realized that all he knew about Craig was his name and beyond that only a sensation, nothing more, of brooding, terrible power. Hornsey had a good mind, and it had been trained well. It would be best, he thought, to keep out of Craig's way.