The Innocent Bystanders

"Don't have any more. Come here instead. I want to talk to you." "But you said-"

"I changed my mind," Loomis snarled. "I'm allowed to. I'm the boss."

He hung up then, and Craig finished his drink reflex-ively, without thought, then realized what he had done and put the glass down, very deliberately, still looking at the park. Benson had really liked that view, he thought. But then she was young and healthy and quite sure she wasn't going to die; that kind could afford to like things. He went back to the bathroom, and noticed on the Way what a big mistake the last drink had been. He was staggering. He ran the water cold, stuck his head under it, and thought. The tablets were out now. If he took them, Loomis might send a man round—they'd find him and have him pumped out before they had a chance to work, and Craig had no intention of being as vulnerable as that to Loomis, if Loomis were going to let him live. He had to get away, have time to think—but in London Loomis was the master. There was nowhere to hide from him. And out of London? The seaports were watched, and the airports too. Always. And the men who watched them knew Craig. They'd know at once which ship, which plane—and at the other end Loomis's men would be waiting. Men who'd spot him at once, though he'd never seen them before.

"Sods," Craig said aloud. "Bloody sods." And the words came out in the hard, flat accent of his childhood. And as he said them, he remembered. There was a way.

Getting there involved two tubes, a taxi, and three buses, and time was important. But even more important was to know you weren't followed, and by the time he reached the boatyard he was sure. It was in Wapping, behind a dirty back wall and a sagging door that waited in crumbling patience for the demolition squad. But inside it was neat, tidy, craftsmanlike, filled with every kind of pleasure craft from dinghys to trimarans, and every one built with patient skill. Arthur Candlish did well out of sailing boats, and paid his taxes on them. His other incomes were all tax-free. He listened in silence, a slow, big-boned man of fifty, as Craig talked. Candlish's slowness was not stupidity, but it helped when others thought it was. Craig told him his life was in danger, and he had to get away.

"Who's after you?" Candlish asked. "The coppers?"

"No," said Craig. "Not the coppers. These lads mean it." And Candlish smiled.

"You brought a feller here once," he said. "Big fat feller. I did a job for you. Is that him?"

Craig nodded, and Candlish sighed. "Ill charge you . nowt, John," he said. "But there'll be others, and it'll cost money to beat him."

"How much?" asked Craig.

"A thousand quid."

"Fifteen hundred," said Craig. "Ill pay in dollars. You're entitled to your share."

"I couldn't take money off ye," said Candlish. "I knew your da." He paused, and Craig marveled for the hundredth time that twenty years of London hadn't modified Candlish's voice in the slightest, so that he had only to speak to carry Craig back at once to his childhood: the cobbled streets, the gulls and docks, the cold, gray-glittering sea.

"Where?" Candlish asked, and Craig had dreaded the question. "Ireland," he said.

Candlish went out and Craig saw him dismissing his men, then at the telephone. There was no other way. He'd realized it there in Regent's Park, when he looked at Joanna Benson's view. He couldn't kill himself. Not now. Maybe if he'd been left alone and got drunk enough he'd have done it then. Maybe. But he couldn't try again. And he couldn't just drift, waiting for Loomis to find him. All he could do was finish the job, and do it well enough for Loomis to lay off him till the next time. That meant going back to the States and finding Marcus Kaplan—and getting more information. There had to be more. That was why the Americans had him, but he could be found.

Candlish came back. "We'd better make a start," he said.

He rose and put on a bowler hat of antique design that made him look like a bookmaker with a taste for religion.

"That fat friend of yours won't have forgotten me," he said.

Loomis missed him by seven minutes. When he arrived the boatyard was locked up tight, and a sign outside said closed till further notice. Nobody had seen Craig, nobody had seen Candlish. The staff—three men and a lad —were on holiday, and Mr. Candlish had probably gone up North to see his relatives . . .

Mr. Candlish, in fact, was driving to Holyhead in a fish lorry, and Craig went with him as his mate. They stopped in the suburbs for Craig to have his photograph taken, and were met outside Holyhead by a young man in an Aston Martin DB6 who had Craig's new passport—not too new, not too blank, the American visa exactly as it should be. Craig found that his name was John Adams, and that he was a general dealer.

"Useful that," said the young man. "You can deal in anything you like. Early Picassos or army surplus. Two hundred and fifty quid please."

"Send me the bill," Candlish said.

"Anything you say, Mr. Candlish."

The Aston Martin roared and disappeared, nervous at being so far from London, and Candlish drove on down to the docks. In place of the fishing boat Craig had expected there was an elegant power launch complete with owners—a thin Manchester cotton broker and his fat Sal-ford wife—Craig and Candlish were the crew.

"Six hundred quid they want—and a hundred and fifty for the lorry," said Candlish. "It's a bloody scandal."

There was satisfaction in the thought that A. J. Scott-Saunders had provided the money.

They sailed at once, and made for Cork. There was relief in handling a boat again, the relief of knowing that one skill at least had not deserted him—and the realization of what waited for him in the States killed his need for alcohol. The fat lady from Salford could cook, too, and the weather was clear and bright. The trip at least was bearable, and more than bearable when Arthur started to talk about the old days, about the father Craig could scarcely remember. He took the wheel while Arthur slept, and when it was his turn, found that he too could sleep. Four healing hours that left him alert, ready, as the boat ran into a small, empty cove and Candlish and Craig prepared to go ashore in the dinghy. The thin man and fat woman said nothing, but their eyes on Craig were hungry. Money was going ashore. A lot of money.

Craig took the oars and Candlish cast off. The sea gleamed in the morning sunlight, bright and diamond-hard, without the Mediterranean tenderness Craig knew so well.

"You'll have to watch those two," said Craig.

"I'll watch them." Candlish's voice showed no trace of worry. "They're a bit scared of me, John."

Craig was still laughing as the dinghy beached. They walked ashore dry shod.

"Straight up to those cliffs," said Candlish. "Get to the top and you'll find a bit of a path. Follow that and you'll come to a farmhouse. There'll be a Volkswagen there. Take it."

"Stolen?"

Candlish chuckled. "Your own car, lad. All in order.

There's papers to prove it. Just leave it where you want. When the police find it—you'll be miles away." It wasn't a question. He had no doubts of Craig's ability. "Good luck, John."

Craig scrambled ashore. "Thanks," he said. "So long."

Candlish watched as Craig went up the beach to the cliff. A good lad. A hard one to get on the wrong side of. He touched the inside of his jacket, and the hundred-dollar bills crackled like music. That fat bitch would be happy when he paid her. Slow and easy he rowed back to the launch.

Craig found the Volkswagen waiting, a road map open on the front seat, and drove at once to Cork and breakfast in a hotel. Bacon and eggs and tea, and a waiter who talked because he felt like it, because it was a beautiful morning. Craig went next to a travel agency, and then bought clothes, a suitcase, shoes, and set off for Shannon across the cheerful Irish landscape, the improbable green grass and whitewashed cabins unreal as a film set. And why not? The Irish were all actors anyway. That didn't make them any less efficient when they wanted to be, Craig thought, and drove the Volkswagen with care. He daren't risk an accident.

At Shannon, Ireland stopped and Mid Atlantica began. Even the tea tasted different, at one with the plastic and insurance machines and flight calls. Craig boarded an Aer Lingus Boeing at five o'clock. Nine hours later he was in Chicago, and it was eight p.m. Two hours after that he was at Kennedy, and it was eleven p.m. He went into New York by bus, and found a hotel in the West Forties in downtown Manhattan, and slept for fourteen hours. When he awoke it was time to find Miss Loman.

He rang Marcus Kaplan Inc. and asked for him by name. When a secretary's voice told him he was on holiday, he said:

"My name is Adams. John Adams. I had rather hoped to see Mr. Kaplan."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Adams. We have no way of contacting him right now."

"Oh dear," said Craig, very British. "It's about claypigeon shooting. What I believe you call skeet shooting over here."

"That's right," said the girl, and the voice was weary now, long-suffering—a secretary too often involved in her boss's obsession. Skeet shooting to Kaplan was like a fix to a junkie. She didn't dare get in the way. Get off the hook, her instincts said. Fast.

"You might try Miss Loman, sir," she said. It was that easy.

She lived in Greenwich Village, on the ground floor of a house in Grove Street, with a small brick yard where a maple tree somehow survived and even gave shade. When Craig called she had been sunbathing, and had to put on a robe to answer the bell's ring. When she saw who it was, she blushed again.

"I'm sorry," said Craig. "Did I disturb you?"

"No," she said. "I was in the yard. Do you want to come out?"

He followed her, thinking how young she was, how easy her movements, with the ease that comes from knowing, really knowing, that nothing can ever go wrong, nothing can really hurt all that much. There was a chair under the tree, and she waved him to it. She sat on a li-lo that lay in the full glare of the sun. She was still blushing.

Craig said, "What's wrong?"

"It's ridiculous," Miss Loman said. "Every time I see you I'm like this. Maybe you think I don't have any clothes ... I was sunbathing."

"Go ahead and sunbathe," said Craig. She hesitated. "Look, Miss Loman, I can't be a prowler. I'm British."

She giggled then, took off the robe, and lay down. She wore a tiny bikini and her body was sleek with suntan lotion. A small, luscious body that would one day be fat, but that day was yet to come. A woman's body, thought Craig, who had never subscribed to the theory that women were failed men and ought to look like it.

"I've come to ask about your uncle," he said.

Miss Loman pouted. "He's fine," she said. "But he's not my uncle."

"I'm sorry, I'd forgotten that," said Craig. "Just an old family friend, isn't he?"

"That's right."

"Is your father in the millinery business too?"

"My father's dead, Mr. Craig. So's my mother. Marcus brought me up. Supported me." She hesitated. "He's supporting me now. I got bored being a secretary."

"You know where he is?"

She swung round to look at him, her body's movements forgotten. She was wary of him now. "I can't tell you," she said.

"He's in danger," said Craig. "He could be hurt." She got up and backed away. Craig sat on, under the tree.

"Just who are you?" she said.

"You weren't surprised at what I said. You knew it already," said Craig.

"And how did you know I was here?" She hesitated, then—"Adams. You rang up Marcus's firm, didn't you? Called yourself Adams." She took a step backwards, then another. "I want you out of here."

Craig sat on, and she retreated further.

"Marcus knows where his brother is," Craig said. "Maybe you know it too."

The words stopped her.

"His brother's dead," she said. "He died in Volochanka prison."

"He's alive," said Craig. "He escaped from prison—God knows how. The story is he's in Turkey."

She began to move again, and Craig, still slouched in his chair, suddenly had a gun in his hand. It moved up slowly from her waist to a point between her eyes.

"Look at it, Miss Loman," said Craig.

"I'm looking," she said. "You'd never dare-"

"Miss Loman, you don't believe that," said Craig. "Come and sit down."

Slowly, her eyes fixed on the gun's black mouth, she obeyed. Craig still didn't move.

"There's a question you missed," he said. "You should have said, 'Who the hell are you, anyway?'"

"Who the hell are you, anyway?"

"British Intelligence. M-16. Department K," said Craig.

"You'll have to leave here sometime. Ill call the police-"

She stopped. Craig was shaking his head. "Why wouldn't I?"

"All sorts of reasons. If you did that—I'd kill your uncle. Or you. Or both." "But that's crazy."

"Miss Loman, you're up to your neck in a very crazy business. There's another reason. Your uncle wants to see his brother." Her eyes looked into his then, for the first time ignoring the gun. "You know that's true, Miss Loman." She nodded. "I'm the only one who can find him."

"You think you're so good?"

Craig said wearily, "I have to be. If I don't, I'm a dead man myself."

He stood up then, and the gun disappeared in a blur of speed. She looked up into flat gray eyes that told her nothing at all.

"Where's your uncle, Miss Loman?"

"Miami Beach," she said. "The Portland Arms."

"Any skeet shooting there?"

"Yes," she said. "But nobody goes there now."

"We will," said Craig.

He moved then, and took her arm. She could sense the power, carefully controlled, in his hard hands. There was something else too. He was trembling, but her body meant nothing to him. She was sure of it.

"I meant what I told you," he said. "If I don't get Kaplan, I'm dead. And if I die, Miss Loman, I'm going to have company." He paused. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I'll have to watch you dress."

To her amazement, she realized the apology was genuine.

CHAPTER 6

He wouldn't let her pack. She wore the new dress Marcus had bought for her birthday—a drip-dry thing in glittering yellow, and her handbag was big enough to contain a spare pair of stockings, bra, and pants. He let her take them, but that was all, then they walked together down the street, the pretty girl and the attentive beau who was taking her out to lunch.

"Nothing's more conspicuous than a suitcase," he said. "Even if your neighbors aren't nosy."

They took a cab to the air terminal and a bus to Kennedy. He paid for everything in cash, and seemed to have plenty. All the way he was polite and attentive, and she realized that in other circumstances this man would have been attractive to her, tremendously attractive, in spite of the threat of cruelty behind the politeness. Perhaps even because of it. But he was unaware of her as a woman, she knew, and the thought irked her, even then.

Only once did she almost panic and try to get away. They were in the departure lounge, waiting for their flight call, and a cop walked by, the kind of cop you needed in a situation like this. A big one, big and mean, not the kind who helps old ladies across streets. She stirred in her seat, ready to run, to scream maybe, but Craig was as fast and as sensitive as a cat. His left hand reached out and touched her arm, and pain scalded through her. He let it go, and she saw that his right hand was inside his coat.

"No," he said. "Not yet." She sat very still. "I had to do that to your uncle once," he said. "You're a hard family to convince."

Then the flight call came, and they went out to the 727 and he was polite and attentive all over again as he sat by her side. It should have felt like a nightmare, she thought, but it wasn't. She knew that everything he had told her was true, and she was very frightened. For the first time in her twenty-three years of life, death was real to her. She did exactly what he told her, and the smiling, polite man watched her as intently as ever. When they touched down at Miami he bought her a meal, then took her to the car-rental firm that tries harder, and watched as she hired a Chevrolet coupe with the money he had given her. She drove, and he made her pull up on the road into town, slipped something into her hand. "Here," he said. "Put it on."

It was a wedding ring. Slowly, hating him, she put it on her finger.

"Don't be sentimental," Craig said. "That's a luxury, believe me—and we can't afford luxuries. You're alive, Miss Loman. Be thankful."

She drove on, and he made her pull up at a supermarket. They went inside and he bought whisky, sandals, a shirt and jeans for her, and for himself, toothbrushes and a zippered traveling bag. They went to a motel then, and he booked them in for the night, saying little and sounding, when he did speak, like a New Yorker. The woman at reception hardly looked at him, at her not at all. The unending soap opera on the transistor radio had all her attention. Craig thanked her even so, and they drove past the dusty palms, the minute swimming pool to cabin seven. She switched on the air conditioning at once as Craig carried in the bag. The plastic-and-vinyl room was as glittering and unreal as a television ad, but the chairs were comfortable and the twin beds still had springs. Craig opened the bag, took out the whisky, and mixed two drinks, offered one to her. She shook her head.

"Suit yourself," he said, and took off his coat and sprawled on the bed. She saw for the first time the supple leather harness of his shoulder holster, the gun butt that looked like an obscene extension of his body. Her eyes misted with tears.

"Not yet," said Craig. "You can cry later. Drink your drink."

"I hate you," she said.

"I know. Drink your drink."

The whisky was strong, and she choked on it, but the tears left her.

"Get your uncle on the phone," he said, "and tell him exactly what I say. Tell him you're with me—and he's not to worry about you if he does as he's told. Then tell him to meet us at the skeet-shooting place—does he know where it is?"

She nodded. "He was at the championship here five years ago," she said.

"Tell him to be there in an hour."

She looked up the Portland Arms in the phone book, and did just as he said. Aunt Ida was at the beauty shop, and that made it easier. Her uncle took a lot of convincing.

"Craig?" he said. "That tough Englishman?" "You're to meet him at the skeet-shoot—in an hour," she said.

"Honey—you know I can't do that."

She said quickly, "Marcus, you've got to. If you don't— I'm all right now. But if you don't—maybe I won't be. I'm not fooling, Marcus."

"He's with you?"

"Yes," she said. "He's with me. Marcus—please do as I say."

Craig took the phone from her.

"That's good advice, Mr. Kaplan," he said.

"If you harm that girl-"

"It'll be because you didn't turn up," said Craig. "Drive carefully."

He hung up. She was looking at him in loathing. "I don't believe it," she said. "The first time I met you— I liked you."

"It doesn't matter," he said. "Get changed." "Here?"

"In the bathroom, if you're shy," he said. "Just do it. And hurry."

When she came back she wore the shirt and jeans. The gun lay on the bed, near her hand, and her eyes went to it at once.

n

"Go on," said Craig. "Pick it up. Shoot me." She didn't move. "Go on. Get the gun."

She leaped for it then, and the speed of his reaction was terrifying. He came at her like a diver, and a hard shoulder slammed her into the bed as one hand pinioned her gun hand, the other splayed beneath her chin, thumb and forefinger pressing. She forgot the pain that made her drop the gun, forgot the pain in her breast where his shoulder had caught her, and thought only of the agony the thumb and finger made, crushing nerves, choking out breath.

"Please," she gasped. "Oh, please."

He let her go, and the intake of air was an unavoidable agony to her. He picked up the gun and dropped it near her hand.

"Want to try again?" he said. She shook her head. "Poor Miss Loman," said Craig. "But I had to do it, you know." "Why?" she said. "Why?"

"To show you you can't win. Look at my hands, Miss Loman."

He held them up in front of her, and she saw the hard ridges of skin from fingertip to wrist, and across the knuckles.

"I can break wooden boards with these. With my feet, too. It's called karate. I'm a Seventh Dan black belt. There are only five men outside Japan who can beat me—and they're not in Miami. Miss Loman, we're not taking the gun." He moved his hands closer to her. "Just these."

"You're hell on women," she said.

"And middle-aged furriers. I want you to remember that."

She drove him to the skeet-shoot club, through downtown Miami, past the resort hotels and the restaurants and the pastel-blue Atlantic. Traffic was light, the tourist season was over, and they made good time. Craig sat back easy and relaxed, drinking in the wealth of the place. There was so much of it, and it went on for so long. They left it at last, and got into country-club land, golf-club land, where shaven grass was as obvious a sign of wealth as a Cadillac or a chinchilla coat, and stopped at last before a building of glittering white stone, of the kind

that she had called Hispaniola Baroque that time she had kidded Marcus about it, when he'd shot there five years ago—a glittering white building with pillars and pilasters and mullioned windows, and miniature cannon on its embrasured roof. All it needed, she'd said, was Long John Silver limping down the stairs, a parrot on his shoulder. Marcus had laughed then. He wasn't laughing now.

They left the car to a Negro attendant in white, a scarlet cummerbund round his waist, and walked up the steps toward him, Craig on her right. When they reached him Craig's left arm went round her waist, his right hand held out to Marcus, who hesitated.

"Take it," said Craig, "or I'll hurt her."

His fingers moved, and the girl gasped. At once Marcus's hand came out to him.

"Great to see you again," Marcus said. "How are you?"

"Fine," said Craig, "Everything's fine. So far. Let's get on with the match, shall we?"

They went inside the building then, through a low, cool bar to the gun room, where Kaplan signed for two guns and ammunition, then picked up one gun as Craig took up the other. With the gun in his hands, Kaplan changed at once. The gun was something he knew; it gave him confidence, even courage.

Craig said, "You walk ahead, Miriam. Lead the way while Marcus and I talk."

She did as he bade her at once, without question, and Craig followed, the shotgun under his arm, English style, the muzzle aimed at a point behind her feet, but Marcus knew, capable of tilting to her back in less than a second. He had been warned about shotgun wounds, knew what they could do to her at such close range. His courage receded.

"Guns are useless things," Craig said, "unless we're prepared to shoot. Don't you agree, Mr. Kaplan?" "What do you want me to do, Craig?" "Tell me where your brother is." "I don't know."

They reached the shooting range then, and Miriam waited till they came up, ready to work the treadle that would fire the skeet.

"That's a pity," said Craig. "For you it certainly is."

"For all of us. You see I know you're lying, Mr. Kaplan. And if you go on lying, I'm going to kill Miriam here." "You're crazy," Kaplan said.

Craig said, "I'm desperate, certainly. And I mean it." His hand moved onto the safety catch of the shotgun, the barrel came up. "I'll kill you" said Marcus.

"Maybe," said Craig. "You've never done it before .. . And even if you did, she'd still be dead." Kaplan didn't move.

Craig said, "Mr. Kaplan—if I don't find your brother, I'm dead anyway." His finger moved to the trigger.

"Marcus," said the girl, "he means it. For God's sake tell him."

"Outside Kutsk," Kaplan said. "In Turkey. He sent me a postcard from there eight months ago. That's the first time I heard from Aaron in twenty-five years. I told you that."

The gun barrel dropped.

"You told Miss Benson and Mr. Royce too?"

"Yes," said Kaplan. "A man from the CIA asked me to."

"What else did you tell them?"

"Things," said Kaplan. "Family things. You know. About my father, my uncle—all that. The way things were in Russia. So Aaron would know they came from me."

"Does Miss Loman know these family things?" Kaplan nodded. "Then I won't bother you about them," Craig said.

Kaplan looked up. "You mean you're not going to let her go?"

"How could I?" said Craig. "You'd tell the CIA." He raised the gun again. "Just be quiet and everything will be fine."

Kaplan stood immobile, his hands clenched round the shotgun. The CIA had warned him so carefully: no one but Royce and Miss Benson must be told the things he knew about his brother. To tell anyone else would be to betray his country, and Kaplan loved his country, not because of what it was, but for what it would become. His was a questioning, suspicious, and demanding love, but it was real; real enough for him to die for it. He had seen this, in his daydreams: Major Kaplan, USAAF, in a dogfight with Messerschmitts; Commander Kaplan, USN, steering his tincan to intercept a Jap cruiser. In the reality of his warehouse he had acknowledged the silliness of his daydreams, but not his right to the dreams themselves. Only he had never daydreamed Miriam's death. His hands loosed their grip.

"This CIA man, Laurie Fisher-" said Craig.

Kaplan looked up. "You know him?" he said.

"I've seen him once," said Craig. "He was the one who told you to take a vacation?"

"Yes," said Kaplan.

"It was good advice," said Craig, "but from now on stay in a crowd. If you think I'm rough, Mr. Kaplan, you should try the KGB—like your brother." He paused, then added: "Let's see you shoot, Mr. Kaplan, That's what we came for, wasn't it?"

Miriam worked the treadle, and the skeet balls shot out, small and traveling fast. Kaplan fired, pumped the gun, fired, pumped the gun, over and over. The first two missed, the next eight were smack on the target.

"You're brilliant, Mr. Kaplan," said Craig. "If you could keep emotion out of your shooting you'd be deadly. Me, please."

Miriam worked the treadle, and Craig shot: the first two misses, then eight hits. He grinned at Kaplan.

"We must have a play-off sometime," he said.

"So you're just brilliant, like me?" Kaplan said.

"No," said Craig. "I'm deadly. But I've never shot skeet before."

They left Kaplan at the clubhouse, and she drove back to the motel. On the way they were picked up by a blue Buick sedan that followed them decorously through the Miami traffic. It was still with them when they turned off for the motel. Craig sighed.

"Drive on a bit," he said. "Make this thing go."

The Chevrolet moved from fifty to seventy, then on to eighty, and the Buick was still there. When the girl slowed down, so did the Buick's driver. Craig sighed again.

"That Buick's following us," said the girl. Her incredulity was touching.

"Start to slow down," said Craig. "Wait till we get near a lay-by, then cut your motor and coast in."

She did as he said, and the Buick slowed too. When they went into the lay-by, the Buick slowed even more, then entered it in front of them. By that time Craig had got out of the car and was looking at its offside rear tire. The man who got out of the Buick was young, broad-shouldered, Florida brown. He walked back to the Chevrolet and smiled at Miriam, a warm and friendly smile.

"Having trouble, folks?" he asked.

Before she could answer, Craig said, "Yeah. Look here," and the tall young man leaned toward the tire.

Craig's body uncurled like a spring, and the tall young man went down to a back-handed strike. On the way down he met Craig's knee, and after that the concrete, then Craig went through his pockets, hefted him into the trunk of the Buick, and threw its ignition keys into the bushes.

Miriam stared at him, her mouth open in a silent scream. "Let's go home," said Craig.

She fought for words that refused to come, and at last gasped out, "You killed him."

"No," said Craig. "He'll live. And he's out of the way for a while. Drive on."

She obeyed at last, and they made for the motel.

"Who was he?" she asked.

"No card," said Craig. "Licence said Harry Bigelow. Just fifty dollars cash, a big smile and a Colt .38. Harry Bigelow, CIA."

"You're so sure?"

"We're lucky it was," said Craig. "The KGB wouldn't play it like that. And neither will Harry—not any more. To start with there'd probably be two of them—tailing your uncle. When we left they'd split up. The better one would take Kaplan. I got the apprentice, poor kid. It all looked easy, didn't it?"

"Horribly easy."

Craig chuckled. "It isn't usually. But your Uncle Marcus was routine—so they thought. So they gave some of it to a new boy. It won't happen again. The CIA knows its stuff."

And so does Loomis, Craig thought; yet he's risking a new boy.

"What now?" said the girl.

"We go back to the motel," said Craig, "and ask for a nine-o'clock call tomorrow morning. But that's because we're sneaky. Actually we leave tonight."

"Where to?" Miriam asked. "Back to New York?"

"Eventually," said Craig. "First we go to Caracas, Venezuela, then the Azores, then Rome, then Istanbul, then—if you're a good girl, back to New York."

"But you can't," Miriam said.

"I'm doing it."

"But I haven't got my passport."

"I picked it up for you," said Craig. "While you were dressing." Suddenly she started to blush again. "What's the matter?" he asked. "I've got to go to the John," said Miriam.

CHAPTER 7

The tall man's name was Lederer. His cover was that of investment counselor in the firm of Shoesmith, Lederer, and Fine. The chubby man with hexagonal glasses was called Mankowitz. His cover was that of consultant psychologist, and was worth a hundred thousand dollars a year. Some of those dollars he invested on Lederer's advice. It was an excuse for meeting, and Lederer's advice was good. They met in Lederer's office as Craig and Miss Loman landed in Caracas. Both men liked Lederer's office. It was in Wall Street, on the eighteenth floor of an aging skyscraper, it had a kind of brown-leathered, New England dignity, and it was not bugged. The last, negative virtue was the most desirable of all, but the others also had charm. For Lederer they represented a continuity of life: prep school in New England, Harvard, a home in Long Island, a summer place in Maine. For Mankowitz they had all the charm of novelty. Enormous leather chairs, Hogarth prints, period furniture; there was even a humidor, and the cigars it contained were Havana, and quite illegal in the States, no matter where your allegiance lay. He took one and pierced it with a device that might have been used for extracting confessions. Lighting it was a ritual that occupied two minutes and three matches. When it was drawing Lederer said:

"Craig got to Marcus Kaplan." The chubby man looked up, surprised. "He took the girl with him. Miriam Loman. They met at some skeet club Kaplan uses. It seems likely that Kaplan told Craig all he wanted to know."

Mankowitz sucked on his cigar like a fat child with a lollipop.

"You gave us the wrong advice," Lederer said. Man-kowitz pouted.

"I didn't give you any advice," he said. "I gave you facts. Craig as an agent was finished. That was a fact. He's too scared of pain. That was a fact. He'd lost his drive— another fact. And the way Fisher was handled threw him —also a fact."

"In Miami he put through a nice, smooth operation. He wasn't scared and he didn't panic."

"Then something's happened to him," Mankowitz said.

"What?"

The fat man's shoulders heaved in a comprehensive shrug.

"How do I know? For that sort of guessing I need a crystal ball."

"I'd be obliged if you'd use it," said Lederer, and Mankowitz pouted again.

"I can tell you a possibility," he said. "But that's all it is."

"Tell me a possibility."

"Somewhere Craig's got the idea that he's got nothing else to lose. He's so far down he can only go out—or up. Craig isn't the type to go out. So he's started to hit back."

"But you saw him a couple of days ago. What could have happened since then?"

"He went back to London," the fat man said. "It's possible he saw Loomis."

"Inevitable," Lederer said.

"Maybe Loomis rejected him. The archetypal father-figure rejected him. That means he's absolutely alone." "Except for the girl."

"The girl is expendable. For Craig, now, everyone may be expendable. And he is expendable to everyone. Hence his need for a hostage. Nobody loves him any more."

"That's why I let him take the girl," Lederer said. "The way he is now, he might just do the job for us."

"You can keep track of him?"

"Oh yes. He's booked through to Rome. He stops over at the Azores. If he makes Rome, he goes on to Turkey. We've got plenty of chances to pull Loman out if we have to."

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"It might be wiser not to take them," Mankowitz said. "If Craig's recovered his skill as a result of—whatever has happened, he'll need the Loman girl to find Aaron Kaplan. Then we can take over."

"Not in Turkey. Turkey's a little difficult for us at the moment."

"Then get him out of Turkey. Surely there are ways?"

Lederer thought for a moment, watching the thick coil of cigar smoke plume into nothingness as the air conditioning got it.

"There's a man called Royce and a girl called Benson. They're after Kaplan too. Craig won't want to meet them. Perhaps we could use that. I'd like to. It would make the whole thing so much neater."

"It would make Loomis mad too."

Lederer smiled. "There's that also, of course. And when Loomis is angry he's at his most vulnerable. Yes. That's the way we'll play it."

One of Lederer's phones rang. He had three on his desk and one on a side table, an old-fashioned piece of ivory, inlaid with gilt, that belonged to Paris in the naughtiest nineties. Most people thought of it as decoration, but it worked, though its number was unlisted. He walked to it now, and picked it up.

"Yes?" he said. The phone squawked briskly, then went dead. He hung up and turned to Mankowitz.

"Craig's recovered remarkably," he said. "Yesterday he clobbered a CIA man."

The journey was a grueling one, and by the end of it the yellow Orion dress had lost its glitter. Beside her, Craig looked as indestructible as ever, in his crumpled suit, the shirt that had stopped being white the day before. Rome was behind them now, and they were on an Al Italia Caravelle, headed for Istanbul. She had a confused memory of meals that were always breakfast, of sound systems that shouted first in Portuguese, or Spanish, or Italian, then in English; of uneasy sleep and only half-awake wakefulness as one plane or another screamed across the Atlantic, Spain, the Mediterranean, Italy, and now the

Middle East. All the way he had been kind to her, considerate for her comfort, easing the strain of travel that seemed to touch him not at all, so that in the end she had slept against him, her head resting on the hard muscle of his shoulder, and he had sat unmoving, hour after hour. Once she had awakened, and found him looking down at her. There had, she thought, been a kind of pity in his face, but it had disappeared at once, the blank mask taking its place as he settled her down again, put his arm across her shoulders, the most impersonal arm she had ever felt. It was there now as the plane strung islands like jewels below them: Limnos, Imroz, Samothraki, before the long ride down to Gallipoli, Marmara, Istanbul. He shook out one of his rare cigarettes and lit it left handed.

"Are we nearly there?" she asked.

"Soon," said Craig.

"Boy, could I use a shower," she said. The arm quivered, she looked up and saw that he was laughing. "What did I say?" she asked.

"Miss Loman, Miss Loman, how American you are."

"Well of course I'm American," she said, "and anyway, I wish you'd stop calling me Miss Loman."

"Never spoil a professional relationship for the sake of a little politeness," said Craig.

She looked up at him, but his face as usual told her nothing. He concentrated on the pleasure the cigarette gave him.

"Professional relationship?"

"We're colleagues," he said. "We may not want to be, but we are."

The no smoking sign came on then, and it was time to fasten seat belts.

The customs, she thought, were disappointed in them. They carried so little luggage, but currency control cheered up appreciably when they saw the dollars he carried. They walked through the bright impersonality of the arrival lounge, and already she felt bewilderment, even resentment. The Middle East resembled the Middle West far too much. He guided her out to a clouded sunlight that added to her resentment—they had better weather in Chicago—and took her to a long line of taxi cabs. This too was Middle Western, but twenty years too late. An unending line of museum pieces: Fords, Chewies, Oldsmobiles, even a salmon-pink Cadillac that reminded her of the pictures Marcus had in his album; the kind of cars they made when Detroit started rolling again, just after the war, before she was a year old, battered now, their paint peeling, the shark's grin of chromium turned yellow, or nonexistent, but as American, she thought bitterly, as Mom's apple pie. Only the drivers were different, but there the difference was so marked it almost compensated for the rest. Miriam had never seen taxi drivers before who promised so much in so many different languages.

Craig let his glance move across them, taking his time. To her they all seemed alike, swarthy, noisy, not very clean, but Craig found one at least who was different, and walked toward him, a tubby and excitable man with an ancient Packard that smelled of nothing more terrible than coarse soap, recently used. Craig spoke to him in a language she didn't recognize, but which she presumed to be Turkish, and the taxi driver grinned and answered him in a speech that lasted until they drove away from the cab rank and were on the highway to the city. From time to time Craig butted in for a word or two, and once they both exploded with laughter, then the driver gave up at last and concentrated on passing everything else on the road. As he did so, he twiddled with the radio, and station after station wailed out the music of the Middle East. For some reason this annoyed the driver, who twiddled even harder, but the radio was obstinate.

"So you speak Turkish too?" she said.

"No," said Craig. "That was Greek. There are thousands of Greeks in Istanbul."

"You've—worked in Greece?" she asked.

"During the war," he said. "My war. You weren't even born then."

"You're still fighting," she said, and yawned. She couldn't help it. "Where are you taking me?" "This fellow knows a place," he said, and she remembered the laughter, and willed herself not to blush. "It's quiet and it's clean, and the food's good," he said. "I'll wake you when we get there."

But in fact she woke long before, as they drove into the racket of the new suburbs, and the even worse racket of the old city: old cars, even older buses, horse-drawn carts, mules, and people, once even a small, bunchy herd of sheep that threaded their way through streets that grew narrower and narrower, past tall, shuttered houses, with now and again a glimpse of the dome and minaret of a mosque, until at last they turned a corner, and in front of them was the Golden Horn, blue and gleaming, the ships bobbing on it like birds. She looked and cried out, "My God, it's marvelous."

"You should have brought your camera," said Craig. The driver abandoned his war with the radio and turned to grin at her, then flung out a hand as if offering the blue water, the purple-hazed hills beyond, white houses embedded in them like pearls. He spoke again, and again Craig laughed.

"He says it was a Greek city first," he said. "And in many ways it still is."

He settled back as the car just scraped through a narrow cobbled street, turned a corner, and stopped at last in a tiny square, one side of which was a long building of wood that seemed to have emerged at the whim of generations of owners. Parts of it seemed wholly isolated from others. There were three roofs and four entrances, and everywhere tiny, shuttered windows. It was painted a fading green, but the white of its balconies still dazzled. There was a charm about the place that she found hard to define. It certainly didn't lie in its design or proportions—only there was a Tightness about it; it belonged there, opposite the tiny Orthodox church and alongside the great warehouse that looked like a Sultan's palace. Their driver picked up the canvas bag and led them through an entrance, past a sign that said, in Turkish and Latin script, Hotel Akropolis.

They were in a cool room then, low, dim, marble-tiled, with a battered desk and a fat woman behind it who could only have been the driver's sister. Craig signed the register, and handed over his passport. Nobody asked for Miriam's and the fact annoyed her even as it consoled. Then an aged crone appeared, and led them through a maze of corridors, and flung open a door with a flourish. Inside was a huge room with an enormous canopied bed, more marble flooring, and a vast wooden fan like the paddle of a steamer that stirred the sluggish air when the crone pressed the switch. Off the bedroom was a bathroom with a copper bath built on the same scale as the bed, and a huge copper shower suspended above it. The crone looked at it in wonder that people should waste so much time in being clean, then went back to the bedroom again, prodded the mattress, and grinned. Here at least was luxury that made sense, and she said so to Craig. It cost him a quarter to get rid of her.

Miriam watched him take off his coat. The gun harness was still there, but the gun was in the waistband of his trousers. He took it out, checked it, laid it on the bedside table. The time was four thirty, and she was dizzy with fatigue.

"You want to bathe first?" he asked. She nodded. "Go ahead."

"Are we sleeping together?" she asked.

He looked at the bed. "Looks like it," he said. "Don't worry, Miss Loman. I'll control my bestial desires."

She flinched at that and went into the bathroom. When she came back, she wore a towel tied round her like a Hawaiian pareu, covering her from shoulder to thigh.

"Very pretty," he said.

"I've washed my dress."

"Tomorrow I'll buy you a new one. Which side of the bed d'you want?" She got in on the left. The gun was close to her hand. "I'll bet it isn't loaded," she said.

"You'd win," said Craig. "Little girls shouldn't play with loaded guns. They go off."

"Please," she said. "I'm not a child. Don't treat me like one. It's bad enough being here-■"

"You're on your honeymoon," he said. "That's what I told them downstairs. You're nervous and shy, and you might try to run away. Don't try it, Miss Loman. Nobody speaks any English for miles around. They'd just bring you back and embarrass you."

She began to cry then, and still crying, fell asleep.

When she woke it was daylight, and she was alone. She got up quickly, and the towel fell from her. She ran to the door—it was locked—and then to the bathroom. Her dress was dry, and she put on bra, panties, and dress with clumsy haste, then prowled the room. There was no sign of the gun, no sign that Craig had ever been there. She had no memory of him in the bed. The thought should have been a comfort to her. She wondered what Ida would say if she knew how her Miriam had spent the night, and the thought made her smile, until she remembered Marcus, and the look on his face when Craig had taken her away. She loved Marcus as he loved her, un-questioningly, without reservation. A fat, middle-aged milliner had no business to possess such a capacity for love. It was a wonderful thing, no doubt, but one day it would destroy him.

She went out on to the tiny balcony and looked down. The Bosphorus was below her, the ships tied up to the stone quays, the racket of the port unending: stevedores, lorry drivers, even policemen milling about, and not one she could talk to, not one who could understand a word she said, even if she could escape from the hotel. She picked up her handbag and looked in the change purse. A five-dollar bill, three dollar bills, two quarters, and seven pennies. And Craig must be carrying thousands of dollars. Suddenly there was the sound of music, American music, below her. She leaned over the balcony and looked down. A small, dark man was washing the windows of the floor below. There was a transistor radio hooked to his ladder, and it was playing "Stardust" very loud. It had to be loud to compete with the racket of the port, but the volume couldn't mar the clean drive of the trumpet. She began to feel better.

When he came back, his arms were filled with parcels. She lay on the bed, not sleeping, and he looked so like

Hollywood's version of the wholesome American husband at Christmas time that she smiled.

"There should be a sound track playing 'Jingle Bells,'" she said.

"I bought you some clothes," he said. She sat up then, angry.

"Did it ever occur to you I might like to choose my own?" she asked.

"Perhaps you'll like these, Miss Loman," he said. "It's possible."

She opened the parcels, adored everything he'd bought her, and hated him even more.

"I'm hungry," she said.

"Lunch is on its way up," he said.

The feeling of frustration grew inside her. She had never known anything as hateful as this massive and very British competence.

Lunch was moussaka, grilled swordfish, salad and cheese, and a white wine she decided she detested, then drank three glasses of. After it, she felt well and wide awake for the first time since she'd left the aircraft.

"You're looking well," said Craig, and again the intuitive competence enraged her. She watched in silence as the crone poured Turkish coffee from a battered brass pot and left them.

"This food will probably make me ill," she said. "You know what we Americans are like—if the food's not flown in from home we go down with a bug."

"Ah," he said. "I'm glad you reminded me. I bought you some pills for that."

She slammed down her coffee cup.

"I hate you," she said.

"That's obvious—but it doesn't matter, so long as we don't let it get in the way. You ready to go?" "Now?"

"We haven't a lot of time," he said. "And Kutsk is five hundred miles away. Are you frightened?"

"Horribly," she said. He nodded.

"Me too," he said, and caught her look of surprise. "No matter how often I do it, I'm always frightened. So are all the others—except the nuts, and they don't last very long. Being frightened's part of the game, Miss Loman." "This isn't my game," she said.

"Poor little innocent bystander," said Craig. "Get your things together."

The Greek taxi driver had found Craig a Mercedes, a battered 200S that had nothing to recommend it except its engine, but that was astonishing. He drove Craig to the outskirts of the city, and again the girl had glimpses of the other Istanbul, the five star dream world of the tourist —Haggia Sophia, the Blue Mosque, the Dolmabace Palace —that gave way too soon to the narrow caverns of streets, first shops, then houses, then the dusty wastelands that fence in all big cities: abandoned cars, billboards, the first ploughed field. The driver pulled up at last by a bus stop and made another speech. At the end of it, he shook hands with Craig, then got out.

"He hopes we'll be very happy," said Craig. "That's nice of him," the girl said. "He's not to know it's impossible, is he?"

When she looked back, the driver was waving to them, teeth flashing.

Turkey turned out to be mostly dry hills and plains, waiting for water. That, and terrible roads that the Merc took with more philosophy than she did. And mosques of course, mosques in every village and town, built of everything from mud to marble. There were almost as many mosques as sheep. The car ate up the miles to Ankara— this was Turkey's main highway, the one they kept repaired—and Craig drove quickly, yet with caution, saving his strength for what was to come. When darkness came the girl drowsed again, and woke to more street lights, and Istanbul was nearly two hundred miles away. Craig drove slowly now, following the directions the Greek had given him, and stopped in a wide avenue, lined with olive trees that whispered softly even in that still night. He led the drowsy girl to the doorway, rang the bell, and again there was the babble of Greek, another crone, another vast bed with cool, white sheets. Then supper came: olives, lamb kebab, rice and fruit, and a dark, acrid wine that Craig drank freely. The whisky stayed in his bag untouched. Then after supper came Turkish coffee, and the sound of the crone running a bath. She took the first bath without asking. This time there were bath salts, the talc he had bought her, and a dressing gown, a scarlet kimono he had chosen that did a lot for the plumpness of her body, made her taller, more elegant. She went back to the bedroom.

He was standing, half turned away from her, practicing with the gun, drawing it, aiming, the muzzle a pointed, accusing finger, then putting it back in the holster, repeating the process over and over, then switching, the gun in the waistband of his pants, pulling it, aiming: and the whole thing so fast that the gun seemed to unfold in his hands into the hardness of death. He saw her, but didn't stop until he was satisfied, the sweat glistening on his face, pasting his shirt to his body. The girl thought of boxing champions she had seen on television, the endless training sessions devoted to just such a skill in hurting the man who faced you.

"You work so hard at it," she said.

"I'm still alive."

He left her then, and this time took the gun with him to the bathroom.

He'd bought her a nightgown, yellow like her dress. It lay on the bed, and she picked it up, looked at it. Pretty. She pulled the cord of her kimono, felt the smooth silk slide from her, felt her naked body react to the coolness of the room. She was sleepy again, but sleep was a luxury and her world was poor. Her world was two hard hands and a terrifying speed with a lightweight Smith and Wesson .38. And beyond that the certainty of danger, probable pain, the possibility of death.

I'm twenty-three years old, she thought. It can't happen to me. It mustn't.

She turned, and the mirror on the wardrobe showed her a pretty, plump girl, her nude body in a showgirl's pose, holding a splash of yellow to bring out the honey gold of her skin. She jutted one hip and admired the result. In twenty years she would be fat—maybe in ten— but now she was, not beautiful maybe, but pretty. And desirable. Surely she was desirable? She put a hand to a breast that was firm and rounded—and cold. The cold was fear.

He came in from the bathroom wearing pajamas, carrying his clothes. This time the gun went under his pillow. "Who can hurt us tonight?" she asked. "The Russians," he said. "My people. Yours." "Mine?"

"Not the CIA," he said. "They're not bad, but they're not up to this one. For this, your side will use Force Three." He frowned, trying to explain it to her. "Look, the Russians have the KGB. But for really nasty jobs— like this one—they use the Executive. That's blokes like me. And Force Three—that's me too, ten years younger, in a Brooks Brothers suit."

"All to find Marcus's brother?"

"You know what he did," said Craig.

She pulled the sheet more tightly around her.

"Betrayed the Revolution," she said. "They sent him to Volochanka. But he escaped, so they want him dead."

"They have the easy job," said Craig, and she shivered. "Your people want him alive."

"Marcus wants him alive."

"Because he's his brother. The Americans want him alive because he can perform one miracle." "Only one?"

"It's a good one," he said. "He can turn sea water to rain water. Cheap. He can make the desert blossom. He's America's present to the underprivileged world."

"And why do you want him alive?"

"So that I can stay alive too," said Craig. "If I've got him, everybody will be my chum."

"With all that opposition—you think you can do it?"

"It's not much of a chance, but it's the only one I've got."

He put the light off and got into bed. Before he could turn from her, her arms came round him, her body eased against his. He put up his hands and found that she was naked.

"Miss Loman," he said, "you're making a big mistake." Her mouth found his, her hands tore at his pajama jacket, then she found herself pulled away from him. He

was gentle about it, but his strength was too much for her.

"Please," she said. "Please, Craig."

He got out of bed, switched on the light again, and looked down on her, her bare breasts tight with love, then he lit a cigarette and his hands were shaking.

"Miss Loman," he said. "What the hell are you playing at?"

"I don't love you," she said. "I never could love you. But I may die tomorrow. That scares me—it scares us both." She wriggled out of the sheets, her body supple in youth, but the logic she offered was ageless. "We need each other. Now," she said. "It's all there is." He turned away from her. "Am I that hard to take?"

"No, Miss Loman, you're not," he said. "But my interest in women ended a year ago. They have a machine that does that. All very modern. It gives you electric shocks."

"Oh, my God," she said.

"Maybe I'm wasting my time staying alive, Miss Loman." "Who did it to you?"

"A man who hated me. In our business, we stir up a lot of hatred. I nearly died. They tell me I was crazy for a while. Then they patched me together—the surgeons and psycho experts—and sent me after the man who did it."

"Did you kill him?"

"No," he said. "He had to live. But he wanted to die. Very much." He came to her then, and he looked at her body and smiled. His hand reached out, smoothed the hair from her brow.

"I'm sorry, Miss Loman," he said.

"Couldn't you just hold me?" she said. "I'm so alone, Craig."

He put the light off. She heard the rustle of cloth as he removed his pajamas, then he lay on the bed beside her, took her in his arms, kissed her gently. Her hands moved across him, and her fingertips told her of what he had suffered, the knife wound, the two gun shots, the flogging. His body was marked for life, but the strength inside him had overcome everything that had been done, until the last, most appalling pain had left him alone, uncaring, with only one emotion left, the fear of death. Her hands moved down, over the hard belly. Her body rubbed soft and luscious against him.

"I'll make you," she said. "I'll make you want me."

There was a compassion in her hands and lips that went beyond the ruttishness of fear, a gentle understanding that knew nothing of the game without rules he'd played for far too long. Even now, in the very offering of herself, this girl was on the side of friendship, of life.

His mind loved her for it, but his body would not respond. Could not. She touched him, and his flesh remembered the pain and only the pain, but he willed himself not to cry out, or move away. She was offering him compassion: the least he could do was accept it. Suddenly Craig decided that, whatever happened, Miriam Loman wouldn't be killed. Her compassion was too rare, too precious a commodity to be squandered before its time. And with that realization, the memory of the pain receded, and she became not just the embodiment of a virtue but a woman too, and Craig realized, as he needed her at last, that his frigidity had become a kind of necessary selfishness, a protection against the involvements women always demanded, this one not least, and yet how could one repay such compassion except with involvement? His hands grew strong on her, and she rolled back, then pushed up to meet him, brave in her passion.

"There, my darling, you see?" She said, then, "Yes. Oh, please. Please."

When they had done, they bathed together, then lay down cool on the rumpled sheets. She smiled at him then, a grin of triumph.

"You didn't believe it was possible, did you?" she said. "And I made you."

"You made me."

"That's something isn't it? After what they did to you? You ought to say, Thank you, Miss Loman." "Thank you, Miss Loman."

"That's a good boy." She kissed his mouth. "A very good boy. You can call me Miriam." She stretched out, feeling the hardness of his leg against hers. She felt marvelous: relaxed, fulfilled, yet still engrossed in her body's responses to his. There was just one thing-

"I don't want you to think I do this sort of thing all that often," she said. "I don't."

"You mean I wasn't much good?"

She made a joke of it, but the anxiety to please was there, would always be there.

"You were perfect," he said. "That's how I know you didn't do it often."

"Just one man," she said. "One nice Jewish boy. I adored him. And he went to Israel."

"Does Marcus know?"

"I hope not," she said. "I never told him. He'll never know about you either. You bastard. You drag me here, kidnap me, then let me rape you. And tomorrow you'll probably get me killed."

"No," said Craig. "You won't die, and it wasn't rape— or kidnapping either."

She said quickly, "I feel great—but I'm still scared."

He turned to her then, and his hands were gentle on her, coaxing yet slow, as she had been to him, till the girl cried out aloud, her arms came round him, taking him to her.

CHAPTER 8

They drove through Kirikkale, then on to Kayseri, climbing the foothills of the Taurus Mountains. The road was bad now, the pavement giving out for long stretches, but the Mercedes took all it was given, and came back for more. They passed hamlets of mud and stone, tiny fields wherever there was water, and where there was not— scrubland, goats, and sheep. Gas stations were a rarity, and whenever he passed one Craig filled up the tank, paying in Turkish lire this time.

Once a police car followed them, then shot past them, waving them down. The girl was frightened, but Craig was unhurried, and wound down his window as the two policemen came up to him, thin and hard and dark as gypsies. One of them spoke a little French, and asked them if they were lost. Craig said they were not. They were going to Iskenderun to consider the possibility of making a film there. The policeman was impressed, and gabbled to the other man in Turkish, then asked if Craig had ever met Brigitte Bardot, and Craig said no, but he'd met a man who had. The policeman asked if they were American, and Craig said they were. His partner then took a deep breath and said, "Hey, Joe. Gimme some whisky and a broad." Craig applauded then, and scowled at Miriam till she applauded too. The French-speaking policeman then explained that his partner had fought in Korea, Craig handed round Chesterfields and they were free to go.

They drove on sedately to the next bend, then Craig put his foot down. "My God," said the girl.

"Take it easy. They were bored and they wanted cigarettes. When trouble comes, it won't be wearing a uniform."

It came at Volukari, eighty miles farther on. Craig had stopped yet again for gas and the girl had gone into the fly-festooned shack beyond it that said cafe. He sat and waited, looking at the town that seemed to be in training for its next famine. Tired houses, unpaved streets, people who owned nothing but time, but in time they were millionaires. The women, he supposed, were bored at home; it was a crowd of men and boys who watched his tank fill up; the big excitement of the day. And then they had another excitement: the peremptory blast of a horn, the squeal of tires that longed for tarmac and met only dirt, then an E-type Jaguar went by, and the crowd exploded into comment. Four foreigners in one day. If things kept up at this rate they'd have to organize a festival. Miriam came back, and the crowd settled down to watch again, careful not to miss a single detail, the flick of her skirts, the glimpse of knee before the door closed. Craig's mind was elsewhere; he was thinking of the E-type. The man driving it was Andrew Royce, the girl beside him Joanna Benson.

"I've just seen two more film producers," he said, "and we're both after the same property."

He had no doubt that Royce and Benson had seen him.

They drove on into the evening, through Iskenderun, on past a little beach where somebody optimistic had built a little white hotel, with beach umbrellas and fairy lights and a couple of discouraged palm trees like thin old ladies. It seemed like a good place to stop if you drove an E-type, but there was no sign of it. Instead they picked up an elderly Fiat truck that rattled along behind them, then dropped slowly back as they drove round the bay and came at last to Kutsk, a gaggle of fishermen's huts huddled round a mosque, with one larger building, just as dirty, just as decrepit as the others, coffeeshop, bar, and restaurant combined. With any luck, it would be the hotel, too.

"Welcome to the Kutsk Hilton," said Craig.

He got out and stretched stiffly, near exhaustion, not daring to yield to it. The E-type could cover a hell of a lot of country, even this country. He took the girl's arm and led her inside the coffeeshop.

She found herself in a world of men. In Turkey, she realized, a man's business was to drink coffee; a woman's was to make it. The silence that greeted her was absolute, and she moved closer to Craig. The room was long and narrow, with deal tables and chairs. One unshaded light bulb competed unsuccessfully with cigarette smoke and flies. The room smelled—had smelled for twenty years— of cigarette smoke, sweat, and coffee. It reeked of coffee. The proprietor, a chunky man who smelled like his property, came up and stood in front of them without enthusiasm. Around him his customers looked on, like men pleased with themselves at being in on something good. Craig tried him in Arabic, French, and Greek, with no reaction. In the end he resorted to pantomime, and the patron nodded his understanding and relaxed enough to jerk a thumb at a table. The villagers relaxed then; the show was over. Someone switched on a radio, and they began at once to shout over it as a woman brought plates of fish stew, bread, and water to Craig's table. The girl looked at it dubiously.

"Eat," said Craig. "It'll be good."

It was, and Miriam discovered how hungry she was. Craig ate left-handed, and watched the door. When the stew was gone, the woman brought coffee, and with it an aging man who smelled of fish walked up to Craig and bowed, then began making noises with his mouth. At first the girl thought he was singing, then realized, incredulously, that he was speaking English, but English of a kind she had never heard before. Craig pulled over a chair and signed to the woman to bring more coffee. The aging man went on talking English with a combined Turkish and Australian accent. He had fought in Arabia in the First World War and been captured by Australian Cavalry. Was Craig an American, he asked, and when Craig said he was English he was delighted, or so Craig deduced. "Good on you, cobber" were the words he used. He went on to make it clear that, what trouble Russia hadn't made, America had, and asked how he could serve Craig. A room? Of course. His son owned this appalling coffeehouse, but it had one room for Craig and his wife. A good room. Almost an English room.

He led them to it. It was behind the coffee room and the racket was appalling, but it was clean. Craig remembered where he was, and made a long speech in praise of the room. The aging man was delighted.

"You know your manners, sport. My oath you do," he said, then bowed again. "My name is Omar."

"John Craig."

Still remembering his manners, Craig made no move to introduce Miriam as his wife or anything else, and Omar, remembering his, didn't look at her.

"Sorry I wasn't around when you came in," Omar said. "I was sleeping." He yawned. "You come far?"

"Ankara," said Craig, and Omar's eyes widened. Craig might have said the moon.

"You have business here?" he asked.

"Maybe," said Craig. "Perhaps we can talk tomorrow?"

"Too right," said Omar, and turned to the door.

"D'you get many English here?" Craig asked.

The aging man giggled.

"Before today I hadn't set eyes on a Pommy for fifty years," he said, and left them.

Craig locked the door. When he turned round she was removing her dress, but her eyes were angry.

"Why do I have to be British?" she said.

"You don't like us?"

Again the blush came. "Oh you," she said, then the anger came back. "I love my country."

Americans, he thought. With their passion for precision. Love is a pure word: color it red, white, and blue. When would they get away from primary colors?

"Usually I'm quite fond of the old place, sometimes I adore it, sometimes I absolutely loathe it." Was it possible to be as ambivalent as that to a fact as enormous as America?

"If you love it you want to help it," he said. "And you can help it best by letting Omar think you're British."

"You're treating me like a child again."

"No—an innocent American," he said. "I'm a wise European."

"And decadent too?" "You tell me," said Craig.

"Henry James would have loved this one," said Miriam. "Who?"

She sighed, came up to him, put her arms round his neck and kissed him.

"Would a wise European help an innocent American take off her bra?"

They came in soundlessly, surely, the way they had been taught—the man at the window, the girl at the door. It was early morning, half light, but that was light enough. The man carried a 9-millimeter Walther automatic, thirteen shot, a stopper. The girl had a .32 revolver, a neat little job with a cross-checked butt. Nobody ever stopped anything with a .32. The girl was a dead shot. They stood holding the bed in their crossfire, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the dark, picking out the masses of the shapes on the beds, ears strained for the faint sound of breathing in the most profound sleep of the night. Suddenly the light came on, and behind them a voice they knew and detested said, "Pascoe would have been proud of you."

Joanna Benson froze, Andrew Royce began to turn.

"No," said Craig, and Benson stayed sail. Miriam Loman sat up in the bed, frightened, bewildered, and pushed away the bolster she had lain against.

"Guns on the bed," said Craig. The armed man and woman made no move to obey, and Craig, by the light switch, risked a quick look at Miriam. The terror was still there.

Omar's voice said, "Your gun on the bed, Mr. Craig."

He stood in the doorway; in his hands was a single barreled shotgun. It was old, but serviceable, and it pointed straight at Miriam.

"I'll drop your sheila, Mr. Craig," Omar said.

The Smith and Wesson landed at Miriam's feet, and Royce scooped it up, slipped it into his pocket and nirned to Craig.

"Thanks, Omar," he said. "Come and join us, Craig." He gestured with the Walther. "Come on."

Warily, ready for a blow, Craig moved forward. The shotgun still pointed at Miriam's breast.

"You lied to me, Omar," he said. "You disappoint me."

"No," Omar said. "I told you that before today I hadn't seen a Pommy for fifty years. That was the truth, Mr. Craig."

Royce stepped back out of Craig's line of vision, but the barrel of Joanna Benson's gun was aimed steadily at his heart.

"Why did you do it?" Miriam asked. "I thought you liked us?"

"I do like you," said Omar, and his voice was indignant, "but I like money more."

Royce struck then, using the edge of his hand with a careful economy of strength. Craig fell across the foot of the bed.

"You're right," Royce said. "Pascoe will be proud of us."

He came back to consciousness in a stone shed that smelled of animals. He was lying on straw, and the straw stank. The shed was lit by an oil lamp hung high on the wall. His hands were tied behind him, and his neck ached vilely where Royce had hit him. His wrists, too, ached to the construction of the wire that was cutting into him, but he lay still, not moving, eyes closed, letting his mind and body regain strength.

Joanna Benson's voice said, "I think he's conscious."

The toe of a shoe crashed into his ribs, and he gasped with the pain. Pain he could see coming he could control, but pain from nowhere made the body's reaction inevitable.

Royce said, "He's conscious."

Hard hands grabbed him, propped him against the wall of the shed. His head lolled forward. He needed time to recruit his strength.

"We brought your girl, too," said Joanna Benson, and his head came up then. Royce chuckled. Miriam sat in the straw a few feet from him, and before them Royce and Benson stood. Royce's gun wasn't showing, but Benson still held her .32. They looked relaxed, strong in the arrogant beauty of youth. The weight of Craig's years had never been so heavy.

"You're an innocent American," Royce said. "I'm a wise European."

"And decadent too?" Joanna Benson asked.

"You tell me," said Royce.

"Would a wise European help an innocent American to take her bra off?" Joanna Benson said. She even got the accent right. Miriam stood up, screaming.

"Stop it," she yelled. "Stop it. Stop it. Stop it."

"Sit down, darling," said Benson. "You're not being dignified."

"You have no right to do this," Miriam sobbed. "No right."

"Tell me, Craig," said Benson. "Treat her like a child again."

No, Craig thought. Not even a child. Any kid over there could follow the logic of their situation.

"Sit down, Miriam," he said wearily. "Sit down and be quiet. She's got the gun."

Miriam slid down into the straw, pressed her hands to her face. Benson looked at her. The look was that of one fighter appraising another before the bell went for the first round.

"You must do something very special, darling," she said. "I got absolutely nowhere."

Royce said, "I think we'd better get on with it," and Benson shrugged.

"Loomis is very angry with you," Royce said. "He told us to kill you."

"In certain circumstances," said Benson, and Royce nodded agreement.

"In certain circumstances. Those circumstances are almost fulfilled."

"But you can't," said Miriam. "He's on our side."

"No, darling," Benson said, "he's on your side. We,"— the .32 flicked to Royce and herself—"we are on our side."

Miriam's body tensed in the straw and Craig snarled at her, "For God's sake sit still."

Benson laughed, a husky, very feminine laugh.

"You really picked an innocent, Craig," she said. "I don't believe she's worked it out yet."

Royce said to him, "Perhaps you'd better tell her. She'd take it better from you."

Craig turned to her then, and for the first time Miriam could read emotion in his eyes, a vast and weary compassion.

"If they kill me," Craig said, "they won't leave any witnesses .. . I'm sorry."

The girl swerved round, staring at him.

"I don't believe it," she said. "I simply don't believe it."

"But you will," Benson said. "When it happens—you'll believe it all right. Won't she, Craig?"

He made no answer. Whether she was enjoying herself or simply softening him up, there was no need to help her. Royce took a quick step forward, his foot moved, finding the place he'd hit before. But this time Craig saw it coming. He made no sound.

"Answer the lady," said Royce. Craig shrugged.

"She'll know nothing," he said. "She'll be dead. Like me. Like both of you, in all probability."

"Loomis said you never gave up," said Joanna Benson. "Let's go on about your death." She waited a mcment. "It's the best offer we can give you, you know .. . death. Once you've told us where Kaplan is."

"But you know where he is," said Craig.

"Kutsk," said Royce. "That's all we've got. We reckon you have more."

"Why should I?" Craig asked.

"Because you went to see Marcus Kaplan," Joanna Benson said. "Because she's here with you. There has to be more, Craig."

Craig said, "That's all I got." Royce's shoe came back. "I came here looking for you."

The leather cracked again on his rib cage. Once more, and the ribs would break.

"Wait," Benson said. "We'll have time for aE that." She came closer to Craig. "Look, darling," she said, "if this place was all you had, why did you bother coming? You knew we'd be ahead of you."

"At Volukari you were behind me."

"We were looking for you," Royce said. "We got a tip-off you were coming. You weren't all that hard to find."

"You switched cars, didn't you? Followed us in a Fiat van?"

"Yes," Benson said. "Don't waste time, Craig. If all you knew was the town, why did you come?"

"To hijack him from you," said Craig.

Royce drew back his foot again, but Benson spoke quickly, stopping him.

"It makes sense," she said. "You know what he's like— the middle-aged wonderboy."

"But Loomis said-" Royce began.

"Loomis said somebody knew where Kaplan is, and somebody does." She turned to Miriam. "Right, Miss Loman?"

Craig said, "You're completely wrong. She doesn't know a thing. I made her come here."

"How?" Joanna Benson asked. "By stealing her bra? Come on, darling. We know you're not that stupid." She moved closer to Miriam. "Force Three sent you, didn't they? They told you to let Craig pick you up. They told you to let him take you to Turkey. Help him get Kaplan out. Let him kill us, or the Russians if they were handy, and then let their boys take over." Her dark eyes burned into Craig. "You knew that all the time, didn't you, darling? But once you'd got Kaplan—you thought you could bargain."

Miriam said, "It isn't true. He did force me-"

"The innocent American," Joanna Benson said.

"That was later. It just happened. I was scared. I-"

"No True Confessions," said Benson. "Just tell me where Kaplan is."

"But I don't know. I honestly don't know." Benson said, "Let me tell you about this place—and him." She nodded at Royce. "It's a barn. Part of a farm. The farmer and his family are away. There isn't another human being in five miles. You can scream pretty loud I should think, darling—you've got the build for it—but you can't scream five miles' worth. Now, our friend here. Where we trained, he did the interrogators' course. I gather he has a talent for it—and with talent there usually goes a certain amount of enthusiasm. He'll hurt you, darling. Later on you'll be amazed how very much he did hurt you. You wouldn't believe your body could stand so much pain. You'll hate him, of course, but you'll hate yourself more. Because you'll have told him, you see. All that pain will have been for nothing." She looked down at Miriam. "Now tell me, darling. Honestly, you'll do it anyway. Won't she, Craig?"

"Yes," said Craig. "She'll tell you." He began to curse them both, a measured stream of the filthiest invective his mind remembered. Benson and Royce ignored him. Their whole concentration was on the girl.

"But I don't know," Miriam said. "Honestly I don't."

Royce hit her, a hard right that left her sprawling in the straw. His hands went to his pockets and came out with a noose of wire. Quickly he twisted her hands behind her back, drew the noose around them till the girl screamed in pain as he twisted the wire to a spike in the wall.

"Shh, darling," said Benson. "He hasn't started yet."

Royce sat on her legs, pulled the golden zipper of the dress, let it split open down her body. His hands moved again, and Craig turned away, tasting the horror of it, knowing what was to come. Suddenly Miriam screamed again, but not as she had screamed before. A blow hurts and you yell, but the pain is not so strong, and diminishes all the time: but this, this is appalling, degrading, unbearable, and its rhythm intensifies, this terrible, scalding thing he's doing: it never stops, it goes on, gets worse. Her screams ceased to be human, became an animal bellow of agony, continuing even after he'd stopped, he'd hurt her so much, so that in the end he had to strike her across the face, a savage left and right to bring her back to the awareness of the room, the man's weight on her legs, the woman looking down at her. The screams choked to sobs: the terror stayed in her eyes.

"Tell us where Kaplan is, Miss Loman," Benson said.

"Please," Miriam begged, "please believe me. I don't know." The man's hand moved and she screamed out, "I want to tell you. Honestly I do. But I just don't know."

Then the hand moved, the noises began again; the pain grew worse and worse, settled at a high peak of unbearable intensity, then again the blows on her face brought her back to reality.

"Three minutes," said Miss Benson. "He's only done it for three minutes . . . We've got all day, Miss Loman. How long have you got?"

"Don't know," Miriam said, over and over. "Don't know . . . Please."

Craig said, "Can I suggest something?" Benson nodded. "Give me ten minutes with her. Alone . . . She'll tell you."

"Royce is the expert," Benson said.

"I don't need to hurt her," said Craig.

"What then?"

"Talk to her." The disbelief in her face was clear. "What does it matter what I do, if I give you what you want? Ten minutes," he went on. "Suppose I fail. You said yourself—you've got all day."

"Why bother, Craig?"

"I don't want her to be hurt any more."

"You'll recall that once she tells us you'll die?"

"I recall that very well. I still don't want her to be hurt."

Again the dark eyes looked into his. She examined him as if he were a member of an alien species; one she'd been briefed on.

"Ten minutes," she said.

"And my hands free?"

Royce wanted to protest at that, but she moved behind Craig and her hands found the slip-knot, eased him free. The release was agony: the renewed insulation of blood so painful he had to exert all his strength not to yell. He looked at Royce.

"You did this," he said.

"My pleasure," said Royce, and got up from Miriam, looked down at Craig, eager for the word that could unleash the power to hurt. Craig looked at him empty-eyed.

"I don't like this," Royce said. "It's better to use the girl. With his hands free-"

"If he tries anything I'll kill him," said Benson. "He knows that."

"I don't trust him," Royce said.

"You like hurting people," said Benson. "Miss Loman just warmed you up. But we didn't come here to get you your kicks, Andrew."

"We came here for Kaplan," Royce said. "There's only one way to get him."

Benson looked down at the gun in her hand. It pointed between Craig and Royce, an impersonal menace.

"You can have ten minutes' rest," she said. "You go first." Royce hesitated for a moment, then left. Benson looked down at Craig.

"There's a bucket and towel over there," she said. "Clean her up if you want to, darling. Andrew can always do it again."

She left then, and Craig unhooked the wire round Miriam's wrists, soaked the towel in water, placed it on her. Even the touch of the towel made her cry out. He held it against her, and gradually the agony on her face faded.

"Oh, my God, that's good," she whispered. Then the fear came back. "But he'll do it again, won't he?" She began to cry, dry, racking sobs, and he took her in his arms, drew the dress around her.

"You really don't know where Kaplan is?"

She shook her head. "If I did—I'd try to hold out against him. But I don't think I could. Not much longer. As it is—I guess it's all for nothing. What he did to me."

"The postcard," Craig said. "Marcus didn't lose it, did he? He left it with you. What was on the postcard? Can you remember?"

"What's the use, John?" she said. "I don't know where he is."

He held her more tightly.

"Ten minutes isn't long," he said. "Just answer my questions."

"It had a picture on it," she said. "A flock of sheep and a shepherd leading them."

"What sort of shepherd?"

"Just an old man with a walking-stick."

"Traditional sort of clothes?" She shook her head. "What was the message?"

"He'd written it in Hebrew. It meant something like— 'This is a lovely place. The old man reminds me of old

Rabbi Eleazar. Do you remember how he used to read the psalms to us? He was a good shepherd to us, wasn't he? I miss him very much, and you too, Marcus. Be happy. Aaron.' That was all."

"Nothing else?" said Craig. "You're sure?"

"Just the postmark, Kutsk. Marcus hired a private detective from Istanbul to come down. Nobody had ever even heard of him. But he must have been here, mustn't he?"

"You're sure there was nothing else?" She was silent for a moment, examining the postcard in her mind.

"Just the date," she said. "That was funny too. He'd written it the Jewish way." "How is that?"

"We're in the year 5725. Aaron wrote 2.23.5725. Some lousy postal service." "Why?" asked Craig.

"Two must be February," she said. "The postmark on the card was April. Marcus got it in May."

Craig said, "When were you supposed to tell me all this?" He felt her body stiffen, and went on. "You were, weren't you? Force Three set you up for me, didn't they? Just as Benson said."

She nodded. "They told me what to tell you—but when you made me come with you they said that was all right too. I phoned them, you know. When I went to the John."

"Of course you did," said Craig. "Sometimes I thought you were never going to ask." "But when did you know?"

"Right from the start," he said. "It was all too easy. A

girl in a fur coat—and almost out of it-"

"I hated that," said Miriam.

"It's not a thing you forget," said Craig. "I was supposed to follow it up. Tell Loomis. Force Three knew he'd send somebody. It turned out to be me instead."

"But you knew it was a trap."

"There were nothing but traps," Craig said. "Yours was the prettiest. And it got me nearer Kaplan." He looked at his watch. "What did they tell you to tell me?"

Ill

"About the postcard," she said. "It seemed so stupid." "Not stupid at all," said Craig. "I'm surprised Marcus didn't see it." "See what?" "Where his brother is."

Cautious not to hurt her, he zipped up her dress. When Benson and Royce came back, they were sitting apart. This time, both the man and the woman carried guns.

Benson said, "I hope you've got good news, darling."

"Me, too," said Craig. "But at least I can tell you where he's been."

"Get on with it, then," said Royce.

"Marcus Kaplan got a postcard. There was a picture of a shepherd on it, leading his flock. The message was signed Aaron—his brother. The text had a reference to a rabbi they'd both known as children—that proved it came from Aaron. The rabbi had taught them the psalms. The whole thing was written in Hebrew—even the date: 2.23.5725."

"So?" said Royce.

"2.23," said Craig. "It could be February twenty-third —except the card was postmarked April. On the other hand, if we remember the shepherd on the front of the card, it could be the Twenty-third Psalm—second verse."

"Go on," said Benson.

"Do you happen to know what that is?"

" 'He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters,'" Benson said, and added: "I once had to write it all out ten times. So useful, being taught by nuns."

"Then there was the date—5725," said Craig.

"That's a distance in yards, do you think?"

"No," said Craig. "Kaplan's a Russian. My guess is it means meters."

"Green fields and a lake," said Benson. "About six thousand meters from here. Which direction?"

"You'll need a map," Craig said. "That's all she knows. She didn't even realize she knew that—till I got it out of her."

"Maestro," said Benson, and bowed. Royce raised his automatic.

"What a fool you are, maestro," he said. "You're going to die."

"Well, actually, darling, not quite yet," said Benson. "We do have to be sure he's telling the truth." She turned to Miss Loman. "And that she told him the truth."

"Do we leave them here?"

"They'll be safe for a little while," Benson said. "Get the car."

"What about tying them up?"

"I'll do that," Benson said. "Give me the wire." He handed it to her. "On your tummies, darlings," said Benson.

Royce watched as she drew the wire over Miriam's hands, heard the sharp gasp of pain, then went outside. Minutes later he came back, holding a large-scale map of the area. Craig and Miriam lay face down, wrists bound behind them, feet tied to staples in the wall. He grinned. "Not even love could find a way," he said.

"You've hardly made it worthwhile to try," said Benson. "Any luck?"

"Three possibles," Royce said. "It shouldn't take long."

Benson crouched down by Craig. "We'll do the whole thing in a couple of hours," she said. "Then we'll kill you, Craig. Sorry and all that, darling—but you know what Loomis is like." She got up then, and left them.

Miriam lay in the straw, biting her lip to stop herself from crying out. The pressure of her body was bringing back the pain. Beside her she could hear the movements of Craig's body as he fought against the wire that held him. The fool, she thought. The poor, brilliant, stupid fool. To stop me being tortured he gets himself killed, and now he's trying to burst his bonds like a comic strip hero. The movement of his hands must be agony, she thought. Even lying still was almost more than she could bear.

"Save it, John," she said. "We're going to die. Accept it."

The writhing movements went on beside her.

"Look," she said. "You did it to stop me being hurt any more. All right. I couldn't take any more. I wanted to die. I really did. All right. I got what I wanted. I don't blame you for it. Only please will you stop fighting? It's just no use."

The writhing stopped at last, and then he was bending over her, untwisting the wire at her ankles and wrists. She sat up cautiously, and he rubbed her wrists and ankles, chafing back the circulation.

"I don't believe it," she said. "It isn't possible."

"No," he said. "It's impossible. Unless the girl who tied you up did it wrong."

"You mean that man-eating debutante made a mistake?" Miriam asked. "Oh, I like that very much. I love it."

"No," said Craig. "Benson doesn't make mistakes. She meant it."

"But why?"

"We'll find out later. She also meant it when she said we had just two hours to get out of here. Otherwise Royce will kill us."

"She didn't say that."

"She meant it. She handled Royce as well as anyone could handle him, but there are limits with his kind. Believe me, I know."

He looked round the shed as he talked. The door was four great slabs of wood, hard and old, and bolted on the outside. The windows were too tiny even for Miriam to squeeze through. Patiently, he sought the straw for some kind of tool, but there was nothing. He went to the door again, tested its heavy strength. It could have stood up against a charging bull.

"She was only teasing us," said Miriam. "Making it worse."

"There's a way," said Craig. "There has to be."