The Innocent Bystanders c-4 Read online

  "Can I get you something?" he said. "A drink?"

  Craig looked at his watch.

  "I'm not quite that far gone," he said. "Eleven o'clock in the morning is a shade too early, even for old dipsos like me. Where are all the pupils?"

  "At a lecture," Pascoe said. "They won't know you've been here."

  "Can I see them?" Craig asked.

  "Of course," said Pascoe. "They're watched all the time." He took a key from his pocket, inserted it into the back of a television set, and switched on. As its picture formed Craig saw five men and two women listening to a doctor. He was explaining how to set a broken arm. Craig thought he had never seen such an intensity of concentration.

  "No one-way glass?" he asked.

  "Certainly—if you'd prefer it," Pascoe said.

  He took the key from the set, then led the way toward the lecture room. Set in one wall of it was a mirror, and behind it Craig stood. From his side the mirror became a window, and he looked at the seven faces, the set of their bodies, the way they used their hands. After the lecture they went to the target range, and again Craig watched, unseen. Then it was unarmed combat, and he watched them on the dojo mat. Lunch then, with Pascoe presiding, the meal conducted with the formal stiffness of an embassy reception, butler and footman wary for mistakes with glasses, forks, knives, as Craig spied on them. After lunch Pascoe held his class in situations. You have to get information out of a man, but you must make no noise. What do you do? . . . You pretend to speak no Russian, and the KGB have trapped you into showing a knowledge of Russian. What do you do? . . . You have a message that must be delivered; a live drop. The courier who turns up seems impeccable—and yet you are not quite sure. What do you do? . . . Craig eavesdropped, and ate sandwiches.

  By the end of the class he had made his choice. He went to Pascoe's office, and Pascoe joined him.

  "They're in the language lab for half an hour," he said. "After that I really should turn them loose for a bit or they'll start to wonder."

  "The one you called David," said Craig. "David Branch. I'd like a copy of his file. And the fair lad—Andrew Royce." He paused, and Pascoe said:

  "You were asked to pick three."

  At last Craig said, "The rest of the men were pretty average."

  "And the girls?"

  Slowly, reluctantly, Craig said, "The tall one had possibilities."

  "Joanna Benson? I quite agree," said Pascoe. "They're the three I'd have picked myself."

  He went to a cabinet and took out three files. Craig signed for them.

  "How do you propose to organize these tests?"

  "You tell these three they've graduated. I'll take David first, then Joanna, then Andrew. Loomis will see them at the department—and give them their first briefing. For them it'll be the real thing. That way we'll know what they'd really be like—if and when."

  They walked back to the hall, and then on to the sun-warmed steps. At once the dogs appeared, then waited as Pascoe walked with Craig and saw him to his car. Craig slammed the door and Pascoe whistled; the dogs clustered round him.

  "I'll keep them here till the gates close," Pascoe said.

  Craig switched on and the engine exploded with life, then muted at once to murmured power.

  "I hope you won't hurt my students too much," Pascoe said.

  "I hope they won't hurt me," said Craig.

  CHAPTER 3

  Loomis gave the American lunch at his club. Years ago Loomis had decided that that was what Americans liked: the secret places of the Establishment, the byways that led to the corridors of power, the shabby leather of libraries, the mahogany bar, and pink gins before lunch with a man who had once been an admiral on the China Station. Then a traditional lunch—smoked salmon, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, gooseberry fool, washed down with draught bitter. The American was a gourmet, and the food at Loomis's club was appalling, but Loomis had allowed for this. It made the American defensive. He had come to ask a favor after all. Loomis ordered the beef underdone, then asked for an extra portion of sprouts. Even the waiter was awed by this: the sprouts at Loomis's club were notorious.

  Throughout the meal they talked of horses. Loomis had once served in a cavalry regiment and had hunted at Melton Mowbray; the American owned a ranch in Arizona and bred quarter horses. Their talk was detailed, impassioned, and very boring to others, as it was meant to be, and the American was grateful for it. It helped distract his mind from the appalling food. When they had finished the meal, Loomis said, "If I were you I wouldn't try the coffee here. It isn't all that good," and to the end of his days the American couldn't decide if he were serious.

  "Tell you what," said Loomis. "Come into the little library. I got a picture of Jumbo there. Horse I rode with the Quorn in '33. Seventeen hands and jumped stone walls."

  The American said carefully, "If you're sure it's all right?"

  "It's perfect," said Loomis. "Nobody can disturb us there."

  They got up, and the headwaiter bowed as they left.

  "I hope you enjoyed your meal, sir," he said.

  "Amazing," the American said. "Absolutely amazing."

  "You don't get grub like that in the States," said Loomis. The American shuddered.

  The little library was drab and oppressively hot. It was also safe. Loomis began talking at once.

  "We got your request," he said, "and I've been looking around. You want some pretty talented lads."

  "We do," the American said.

  "I thought you had some," said Loomis. "The ones I met seemed to know what they were doing."

  "We've had trouble in the Middle East," the American said. "Big trouble. There's a leak somewhere and we haven't plugged it yet. Anybody we sent could get blown."

  "We've had trouble too," said Loomis. "We've fixed it for now, but we can't use anybody that's known there. It would have to be a new face."

  "That's perfectly okay," the American said. "Provided it's somebody you have faith in."

  "I have faith in them all," said Loomis. "I made them. But I made them my way. Trouble is they don't understand your system. As a matter of fact, neither do I."

  The American hesitated. What he had to say now was painful to him, but it was an order. It had to be said.

  "We would take it as a favor if your department would handle the whole operation," he said at last.

  "Ah now, wait a minute. This is a biggish exercise," said Loomis, "and I'm a bit short-handed, d'you see."

  They began to bargain and the American discovered that Loomis had the ethical standards of a horse trader.

  At last he said, "Sir, I realize that we're asking you to mount a big operation, but what you're asking is far too much. After all, you can't give us any guarantee of success, now can you?"

  "I think I can," said Loomis. "You can pay for the whole bag of tricks COD."

  "Would you care to amplify that, sir?"

  Loomis said genially, "Ah, I forgot. You used to be a lawyer, didn't you? Put it this way. If we fail, you give me nothing. If we succeed, you give me the lot. That do you?"

  "You guarantee success?"

  "I guarantee it," said Loomis. "You want to draw up a contract?"

  "Your word is acceptable," the American said. "So's yours," said Loomis. "When d'you want us to start?"

  "Just as soon as you can. This one's urgent."

  "It'll take a week or two. I'm running some tests. I got to find the right operators."

  "You think you'll need more than one?"

  "Bound to," Loomis said. "I gave you a guarantee, didn't I? You got stuff I need, son. I got to have it. That means using a decoy."

  "An expendable decoy?"

  "We're all expendable in this business," Loomis said, surprised. "Surely you know that by now."

  This time the American was sure Loomis was not joking. He got up, took a framed photograph from the wall, and passed it to the American. It was of an enormous and very handsome horse.

  "That's Jumbo," he said.

 
; "Don't you have one with you up?" the American asked.

  Loomis grinned, a vast and evil grin. "Certainly not," he said. "Security burned 'em all. Want to stay for tea?"

  "I'm sorry, I can't," the American said. "I have to be in Paris this evening."

  "Paris," said Loomis. "I pop over there myself now and again. Nice place. But you can't trust the grub."

  He saw the American out, went back to the main library, spread the Financial Times over his face, and sprawled out motionless. Around him the sleepers whinnied and snorted. They reminded him of Jumbo . . . The Americans would pay if they had to, but only if. The information he had asked in payment was too high a price to be paid willingly. That meant two sets of risks—the operation itself and the chance of the Americans snatching the prize at the last minute. The men who brought this off would have to be good. So would the decoy . . . And the decoy was expendable . . . Pity, that . . . Loomis slept, and his snore was thunder.

  David Branch had not expected to like his first assignment. He had imagined himself being too much aware of the danger, too much afraid, if one were honest, to be able to enjoy applying the skills he had learned with so much labor; but it wasn't like that at all. He'd met Loomis and the task had been explained to him, and of course he'd chosen to be taken on as Craig's secretary. That was also pretty good. A nice room in an enormous flat, delicious meals, excellent wine, and not too much to do. Craig had made a disreputable fortune, and he got his money's worth in the way of comfort. He also had a secret. Something to do with Morocco, and some shady French maneuvers of ten years ago, when the sultan abdicated. Loomis wanted that secret: Branch had to get it.

  At first, the job looked easy. Craig had nothing in safe deposits, nothing—except money—at his bank, and no safe in the flat. Moreover, Craig was a man who was easily bored, and hence always involved in small, trivial expeditions: to art galleries, to the movies, the theater, new bars, new restaurants. Branch should have had all the time he needed, but he never did. Too often Craig forgot things and telephoned him to fetch them, or asked his cook to come in early and prepare a special dish, or simply got bored with what he was doing and left the movies halfway through the film. He moved very quietly too, and he was big. The hell of a size. Branch found consolation in the thoroughness of his training, but as the days slipped by and the deadline drew near the feeling of enjoyment left him. He began to worry if he would ever find that damn piece of paper.

  Then one day his luck was in. Craig took him out to dinner and proceeded to get quietly, unobtrusively drunk. It was hard for Branch to stay sober, but his terror of Loomis helped, and he managed at last to get Craig talking about Tangier in the old days. Craig talked at length.

  "Used to be a smuggler," he said. "Used to do all kinds of jobs. Made a bit of money—went into shipping. Did I tell you I was in shipping?"

  "Yes, sir," said Branch. "You did. But I never knew you were in Tangier."

  "Ought to do a book about it," said Craig. "You could write it for me."

  "I couldn't do it without the facts."

  "Gotemallathome," said Craig. "Show you. Gemme taxi."

  Branch got one, and Craig fell asleep in it. He woke him up and got him into the flat—he was hell to carry— and talked about Tangier and the book. Craig's hands flopped aimlessly towards his pockets. "Must find my keys," he said. "Drunk. Make me a cup of coffee, will you?"

  Branch made it and came back carrying the cup, to find Craig on his feet, holding his keys.

  "That's better," Craig said. "I must have had too much to drink. You shouldn't let me drink too much, David. It isn't good for me."

  "I'm sorry, sir," said Branch. Craig lurched toward him, took the coffee and sipped, then scowled. "Lousy coffee," he said.

  "I'm sorry, sir," Branch said again. "I made it just the way you like it."

  "I don't like this," said Craig. "Here, you taste it." He held out the cup. "Go on."

  He gestured again, and Branch took the cup and sipped warily. As he did so, Craig stumbled on the carpet and finished up behind him, then his right hand struck at the nerve in Branch's upper arm, paralyzing it, his left clamped on the cup, pushing the lip across Branch's mouth so that his head tilted back and he had to swallow. Had to. The pain was so much. And when the coffee was down it was too late to struggle, and anyway Craig held him in a hammer lock, and even breathing was agony.

  "I'm sorry," said Craig. "You're just not up to it, son. Four times you left signs you searched the place. And the way you ask questions is far too clumsy. You were wrong about the coffee, too. You shouldn't have drugged me till you knew which key to use."

  He could have said more, but Branch was asleep. Craig waited. Branch had a lot to tell him before he telephoned Loomis.

  "I'm sorry to bother you like this," Joanna Benson said.

  "That's perfectly all right," said Craig. He opened the door and stood aside. "Come in, won't you?"

  Her entrance was pleasing. She wore a ranch mink and a Balmain dress, her diamonds were real, and she handled her height with confidence. Craig led her to the sitting room and she stood, uncertain. She looked beautiful in her uncertainty.

  "Please sit down," he said.

  "Oh no. I couldn't possibly. I mean it's very late, isn't it?"

  "Nearly one o'clock," he said. She was doing much better than Branch.

  "Oh dear," said Joanna.

  "How can I help you, Miss-?"

  "Benson. Joanna Benson. Oh gosh—you do know who I am, don't you?"

  "You're my next-door neighbor but one."

  "That's right. We've met in the lift, haven't we?"

  "I'm flattered you should have remembered," said Craig.

  "You're very nice," said Joanna. "The thing is I've lost my key. I'm locked out. And I wondered if you could help me?"

  "Gladly," said Craig. "Are you sure you won't sit down?"

  This time she did so, and loosened her coat, and her body was there, decked out and jeweled, the merest hint of a promise. Really, thought Craig, she's awfully good.

  He went to the telephone.

  "What are you doing?" she asked.

  "Calling the hall porter. He has spare sets of keys." He put the phone down. "No. Wait a minute." He walked toward her, and her eyes were wary.

  "Are you sure you didn't overlook it?"

  "Certain," she said.

  "It might be in your bag," he said. "Just as well to make sure."

  She took the bag—it was a small thing of crocodile skin, with diamond clasps—and tipped it on to the table beside her. Lipstick, make-up, lighter, cigarettes, change purse, and wallet. No key. And no pockets in the mink. She was very thorough.

  "I'll ring for the porter," he said, and did so.

  "You've been awfully kind," said Joanna. "I'm sure I'm keeping you up. I did see your light on as I came in, and the people next door to me seem to be asleep."

  Very nicely done. Very nice indeed.

  "It's no trouble," he said.

  "I don't want you to think I'm as stupid as this all the time," said Joanna. "But at least it means we've got to know each other."

  "But we haven't. Not really. My name is-"

  "John Craig," she said, and added hastily, "it's on your door."

  Then the porter came up with the passkey, and she stood up to leave. She left the mink open and it swirled round her, making her very rich, very desirable. Craig walked with her to the door, shut it, came back, and poured himself a drink.

  This one was ahead of Branch. Everything she'd done so far proved it. She'd handled the whole thing with just the right amount of reserve—and of promise. If he'd been a normal man he'd have lain awake all night working out ways of meeting Joanna Benson next day, but he wasn't normal. He'd never be normal again, after what they had done to him. Women were an irrelevance now, or worse. An inconvenience. He looked and acted so male, and they expected him to do something about it. Their instincts were stronger than the squat young man's. They knew he had no time for men. Wh
at they didn't understand was that he had no time for anybody, not any more. A woman had betrayed him, and a man had almost destroyed him in one of the most agonizing ways anyone had yet devised. After that, it was better to be on your own, except that on your own life was so lonely and so boring.

  He made no attempt to find her, and she left him alone for two days, but on the third she came to call on him again. It was four o'clock in the afternoon and she was dressed in jodhpurs and hacking jacket, and she held her key in her hand. Not one woman in a thousand looks well in jodhpurs. Joanna Benson was the one. The gamine effect was there, as it should be, but she looked invincibly feminine. The best of both worlds.

  "I'm not in trouble this time," she said. "I came to ask you to dinner. Tomorrow."

  Damn Loomis, he thought, and his postgraduate exercises. And damn this girl who was so sure he would accept because her legs were long and her breasts were rounded. You were only safe on your own. Once you let them get near, hurt inevitably followed.

  "I'm afraid I haven't been too well," said Craig, and hesitated. "But it's very sweet of you. I'd be delighted."

  They dined with well-drilled friends: a rising young barrister and his wife, whom Joanna had been at school with. The wife, Rosemary, had obviously been carefully briefed by Joanna. They were there simply as window dressing, and behaved accordingly. Craig was the target, the victim. There could be no doubt that Rosemary approved. She did everything but wink at Joanna from the moment Craig entered the room. The husband, too, was impressed, and left it to Craig to pour the drinks, test the temperature of the wine. Joanne had no talent for cookery, and said so at once. The food had been ordered and was excellent. The wine she had attended to herself. It was superb, as was the brandy that followed. Joanna wore a short evening dress of black chiffon and looked very lovely, and, after the brandy, very slightly drunk. At midnight, the barrister remembered the baby sitter, and Craig, too, got up to leave. He felt no surprise when he did not succeed. This time Rosemary all but winked at him.

  Joanna poured more brandy and Craig realized that she was nervous as well as drunk, but she moved well even so, the short skirt swirling round her long, beautiful legs . . . And how, Craig wondered, do we get back to my flat? Why don't we just stay here, or are we saving my place for next time? Joanna moved about, stacking dishes and glasses, and as she moved she talked, about how lovely London was at this time of year, and how Regent's Park was the loveliest thing in London.