The Innocent Bystanders

He grubbed in the straw again and found a couple of horse blankets, heavy, ancient things that stank to heaven. Quickly he began to pile the straw up round the door, working with care, clearing the rest of the dirt floor, then threw a blanket to her, took one himself, and moved the bucket of water back to the window.

"Get over here," he said.

She obeyed him, and he lifted the oil lamp from its hook, hefted it in his hand, then moved back to join her. "Benson doesn't make mistakes," he said. "But Royce

does. He left the lamp burning—and it's daylight." He soaked the blankets with the water, then flicked his wrist. The lamp spun through the air, then burst like a bomb against the door. She had never believed that a fire could take place so quickly. There was a bang, as the lamp burst, and the blazing oil streamed down into the straw, tongues of flame reared up like waves, searing the side of the door, and the blast of heat made her throw up her hands to cover her face. Even pressed against the farthest wall, the temperature was almost unbearable. Pieces of burning straw spiraled up in the warm air, then drifted down on them. Craig pushed closer to the window as the room filled with stifling smoke. She stood there, whimpering softly, convinced that he'd gone crazy, that they'd burn to death.

Streaming-eyed, coughing, he watched the fire take hold of the door, reduce its weathered hardness to flame. At last, before the smoke made him unconscious, he went to the door, hands wrapped in the towel, holding the blanket in front of him like a shield, but even so the heat seared him through the heavy cloth. He drew up his knee, then kicked flat-footed at the burning door, aiming for the bolt, using every ounce of the karate skill. The flames bit into his leg, and he drew back his foot and kicked again, feeling the door yield slightly but not enough. Another kick was needed, delivering it a task almost beyond his powers. Sobbing, he went closer, bent his knee, kicked, and the bolt gave, the door swung open. He turned to Miriam.

"Put the blanket round yourself," he yelled. "Come on."

But she stared at the flames and stayed, motionless. Her nerve had gone. Craig went back to her, wrapped one blanket round her, swathed the other over them both. When she realized what he was going to do she struggled, till he swore at her, threatening, and she was still. He took a last gasp of air at the window, then charged at the half-open door. Again flame leaped round him, then his shoulder hit the door, it opened wider, and he was through, running into the coolness of the morning, stopping at last, releasing her from the blanket as if she were a parcel.

"Gift-wrapped," he said. "That's nice." He slapped at his trousers, charred from the flames, then sat down wearily, pulled up the trouser-legs, looked for the mark of the flames. Scorched, no more. He'd been lucky.

"I thought we hadn't a chance," she said.

"We had the chance Benson gave us." He looked at his watch. "There's an hour and three quarters before they get back. We'd better use them."

He turned and looked back. The fire was dying now, the straw spent, only the wood still smouldering. Behind their prison was a derelict farmhouse and a corrugated-iron shed. He got up and went towards the shed. Somehow Miriam got to her feet and staggered after him.

Inside the shed was the Fiat van. He went over it carefully, wary of booby traps. There were none. He opened the door, got into the van. The keys were in the lock. He drove it out, and Miriam got in beside him, picked up something lying at her feet, something heavy and metallic, wrapped in cloth. She handed it to Craig, and he uncovered his Smith and Wesson .38. He broke it, examined the magazine. It was loaded, but even so he took out each cartridge, checking that the shell was there intact, before he snapped it together, stuck it into his waistband. He turned to her and smiled.

"Nice, kind Miss Benson. Let's go and see Omar and give him a big surprise," he said.

She shook her head.

"Look, darling," he said. "He likes money, remember? I bet he's liking mine right this minute."

Miriam said, "He's got a lot coming all right. But we can't give it to him. Not yet, anyway."

"Why the hell not?" asked Craig. "I've got to get you out of here, and that'll take money."

"There was something else on the card. Something I didn't tell you. The picture."

"An old shepherd with a flock of sheep."

"It was sunset, John, and he was walking toward it."

"So the place is west of Kutsk," said Craig.

"That's right. And there's a chance they'E leave it till the last. We could still be there first."

"Look," he said, "you're scared. You know you are.

You've been knocked stupid, tortured, hauled through a fire. A very efficient sadist wants to kill you. If we stay here, he probably will—when he's finished playing."

"I know it," she said, "but we've got to do this. It's what we came for."

Craig's shoulders began to shake, weird sounds came from his throat. He was laughing.

"You innocent Americans," he said. "When will I ever understand you?"

A jolting track led from the farm to the road, and from there they moved on to Kutsk. There was no way of skirting the place, and Craig drove through it fast, hoping that if Omar saw them he would think they were Benson and Royce. The west road was smooth and easy till they reached a crossroads, and there Craig stopped. There were three roads to choose from. Two of them were at least metaled, the third was a potholed disaster. The girl chose it instinctively.

"That old shepherd looked as if he'd never even seen a highway," she said.

Gingerly he eased the van on to its pock-marked surface, and they bounced along for a couple of miles in second gear. At last they rounded a curve, and before them they could see a sheet of water, rolling green hills, dotted with the puff-ball shapes of sheep. Craig drew to a halt and the girl rolled down the window, absorbing the scene.

"I think so, John," she said. "I think this is it."

He moved on again, hurrying now, feeling the holes in the road menace his axle, till at last they reached the lake shore and a clump of olive trees. A mile beyond them was a hut, and from its chimney soft feathers of smoke drifted up in the still air.

Craig drove past the trees, then backed the van in behind them. If anything, the ground seemed easier than the road. He got out, walked back to the road, and stared intently. The van was perfectly hidden. As the girl climbed stiffly out of the cab, he went back into cover, opened his coat and drew the gun, replaced it, drew it again, over and over, till hand and fingers felt right and the gun's movement was smooth, inevitable. Next, the terrain. The hills were small, undulating, deficient in cover, but a man could hide there if he had to. And if a man were hidden there, and had a rifle, he could pick the two of them off with no trouble at all. On the other hand, it was early yet, even for a shepherd, and there was smoke coming from the cottage. He looked at the ground that separated them from it, working out a line of approach. When he'd got it he said:

"We can get there—but it won't be easy. If he's out there on the hill, he can kill us as soon as we're in range. Maybe I'd better go in first by myself."

"No," she said. "This is what I came for, too."

"You always do what Force Three tells you?"

"I do what Marcus asks me," she said.

"All right," said Craig. "But take your time. Do exactly what I do—and nothing else. Understand?"

She nodded and he moved at a running crouch to the shelter of some bushes, then began a slow and agonizing crawl toward the cottage. Again the sleeping pain awoke inside her, but she gritted her teeth and crept on after him. Despite the blows he had taken, the exhaustion, the frantic escape from the shed, he moved easily, deftly, with the tiniest whisper of sound. When at last her strength gave out, he led her to the shelter of a boulder and made her lie behind it, flat on her back, legs and arms outstretched, then did the same himself. No recrimination, no argument, only an acceptance of physical limitations, but those limitations were pushed as far as they could go.

After five minutes her legs had ceased to tremble, and he made her go on again, till at last they reached the end of grass, bush, and stone, and found themselves among rows of vines. Beyond the vines was a neat kitchen garden, with orderly lines of melons, pumpkins, and tomatoes, and beyond that, the blank wall of the cottage. Craig very cautiously rose to his feet, and motioned her to absolute silence. A dog lay sleeping under a vine. Carefully, a step at a time, Craig moved toward it. As he moved, she watched his hands. They were both held out straight, the little fingers rigid.

The dog awoke to complete alertness and changed at once from a cuddly chum to something very like a wolf, teeth bared, mouth opened to snarl, as Craig flung himself forward, taking his weight on his left hand, the right hand thudding into its neck like an ax blade. The noise of breaking bone was the only sound she heard, and she knew at once that the dog was dead. His body pivoted on his left hand, and when he came up he was holding the gun. He moved off at once, not looking back, and she saw for the first time the Craig who had existed before he was tortured, a man who reminded her very much of Royce. Poor Marcus, she thought. Poor Miriam. What chance do we have?

She followed him round the blank wall of the cottage, waited at his signal as he moved round the corner, peered through a window, ducked down, and moved to the door. He never looked back at her, offered her comfort. He was an automaton now, programmed and set in motion, and it would be stupid on her part to regret it. She had done the programming. He reached the door, and contemplated its problem. It was flimsy enough, and its simple latch was rusted. He breathed deeply and evenly, then his foot came back once more, his body exploded into activity. The sole of his foot crashed against the latch, then his shoulder hit the opening door, he was inside the cottage in a dive that took him to the hard earth floor, looking up over the sights of the Smith and Wesson at a man trying to lift a rifle mounted on pegs in the wall.

"Shalom," said Craig, and the man was still. Craig got up and moved to him, his left hand moved over the other's body, came away with a knife. He stepped back, the left hand flicked, and the knife spun away, stuck high in the wall. The man's eyes ignored everything but the gun.

"Miriam," Craig shouted, and the girl came ranning, then stared at the man who faced her. He was taller than Marcus, and that was right. Thinner too, bone-thin, but then Marcus had said that Aaron favored his father's side of the family, who were beanpoles. It was Marcus and his mother who'd had weight problems. The face was okay too, in a way. In it there were echoes of things she knew and loved in Marcus: the boldness of a splendidly Semitic nose, a sensitivity about the mouth, a chin she had always wished were a little more determined, especially when Marcus tried to persuade Ida it would be nice to have another cocktail before dinner. He was a Kaplan. She was sure of it; and yet he couldn't be. Aaron was supposed to be fifty-three years old; five years younger than Marcus. The man in front of her looked seventy at least. A tough seventy: the stringy body looked durable enough—but the deeply etched lines on his face, the wrinkled, work-worn hands—seemed to belong to Marcus's father, not his brother. "Well?" said Craig.

"He looks right," Miriam said. "But he's too old."

"Should he speak English?" Craig asked. She nodded.

"How old are you?" asked Craig.

The man stayed silent.

"Try him in Hebrew," Craig said.

She spoke to him, first in Hebrew, then in Yiddish. The old man gave no sign of comprehension.

Craig waited, immobile, till she'd finished, then moved, suddenly, appallingly, so that the girl cried out. One stride took him to the old man, then the gun barrel swung, smashed into his neck, slapping him to the floor, and Craig's voice bellowed orders in a language she did not understand. At once, agonizedly, the old man scrambled to his feet, lurched to the wall, and put his hands against it in the classic pose of the prisoner waiting to be searched.

"We'll take him," said Craig. He walked to the wall of the cottage, tucked the revolver in the waistband of his trousers and took down the rifle, slung it over his shoulder, then again orders streamed from him in that language she did not know, yet which seemed familiar. The man moved forward at once, and out of the cottage, Craig behind him. There was a weariness in the old man's movements, an acceptance of ultimate defeat that sickened the girl. No human being deserved to be so crushed by another.

Outside, Craig looked at his watch then walked the old man and the girl ahead of him, up into the hills, in a line parallel to the path. They found a dip in the hills near the olive trees, and he pushed them into its cover, then settled down to wait. The old man gave no least sign of resistance.

His whole being was concentrated on Craig's hands, watching them test the rifle, examinine its sights and magazine with care, before Craig lay sprawled on the ground, eyes on the road, sights set at a hundred meters. Again orders streamed from him, and the old man bowed his head in submission.

They waited thirty-five minutes before they heard the engine, then the Jaguar streamed effortlessly round the bend in the road, the engine whispering its contempt at the speed it was held to. The girl was driving. Royce sat beside her, looking angry. Craig waited till the car came past them, then the rifle came up, his finger squeezed on the trigger. The rear off-side tire blew like an echo of the shot, and the girl fought the car to a standstill. As she did so, Royce was already moving, gauging his leap from the car, rolling out of it to the roadside before it had stopped.

"Good boy," said Craig, and fired again. Royce went down as if his legs had been swept from under him. Benson stopped the car and left it, using it for cover as she too made for the protection of the road. Craig fired a third time, into the gas tank, and the car exploded in a roaring whoosh of flame that sent Royce scuttling like a wounded snake from the shelter of the ditch. Craig got to his feet then, and led them down to the Fiat, ordered the old man into the back of the van and got in after him, then handed the keys to Miriam.

"You drive," he said. "Back toward the village. Stop when I tell you."

They found a place a mile out of Kutsk—a track that led to a deserted quarry. Craig told her to stop, and she got out. The rifle still in his hands, he ordered the old man out, then followed. The hard words of that elusive language were still in her ears when he switched to English.

"This woman does not speak Russian," he said.

Russian, thought Miriam. Of course.

"We will talk English. First, your name."

"Imares," said the man. "Mohammed Imares."

"Profession?"

"Shepherd ... I used to be a business man, but I made a little money, you understand ... I thought it was best to get away from the wickedness of life in Istanbul."

"Of course," said Craig. "Your age?"

"Sixty. Perhaps I should explain that I have been very ill. I know 1 look older."

"You talk too much," said Craig. The man was instantly silent.

Craig transferred the rifle to his left hand then, almost casually, knocked the man down with a back-handed blow. He fell, heavily, but scrambled at once to his feet as Craig yelled at him in Russian. Miriam ran between them.

"Stop it," she said. "For God's sake, stop it." "Get out of the way," said Craig. "There isn't time for all that." "No," she said.

His hand moved again, pushing her to one side, and he moved up to Imares, who stood swaying on his feet.

"I'm in a hurry," said Craig. "Don't waste my time."

"I told you the truth," said Imares.

"I thought Volochanka had better teachers," said Craig.

Imares's face seemed to disintegrate. Suddenly and silently, he began to cry.

"Kaplan," said Craig. "Tell me your full name."

"Aaron Israel Kaplan."

"Age?"

"Fifty-three."

"Profession?"

"Agronomist." Kaplan sobbed out the word, and covered his face with his hands. Craig let him weep for a moment, then turned to the girl.

"You see," he said. "There was only one way to handle it. It didn't take long." '

"But how could you be so sure?" she asked.

"You spotted him straight off," Craig said, "apart from his age. And you've never seen anybody who's been in Siberia. I have. If they age only twenty years—they're lucky. So I tried him with Russian. Talked like a KGB executive-"

"And acted like one."

"No," said Craig. "For a KGB executive I treated him soft. But he's broken already. And scared out of his mind.

Two blows and a few Russian curses and I had him back in Siberia. After that, he couldn't help telling the truth."

"What happens now?" she asked.

"I'm going to see Omar. Get my money back."

"And go back to the States?"

"Eventually," said Craig. "First of all I want to get away from Benson and Royce. I bet they don't love us at all."

"You didn't kill them," she said. "You could have." "Disappointed?" he asked. "No. Surprised."

"I haven't finished with them yet," said Craig. "It isn't their time to die."

They drove back to the road, and on toward Kutsk. When they reached the outskirts of the village Craig made her stop and, climbed a nearby hill, stared down into the village. There were only a handful of boats bobbing in the harbor; the quayside was deserted, apart from three old men mending nets. It was a good time to call on Omar.

CHAPTER 9

Miriam drove the Fiat up to the coffeeshop door. Inside the van Kaplan lay trussed like an oven-ready bird with handkerchiefs and ties. Craig had done it himself; the knots would hold. As the van stopped, Craig stepped out soundlessly, moved from the morning heat to the coolness inside. In the gloom he could discern one man sitting at a table, his head on his arms. An old man, having a good rest, conscious of a night's work well done. Soundlessly Craig moved up to him, his hand moved, the Smith and Wesson appeared. On Omar's table was an empty cup of coffee and a glass of water half-full. Craig picked up the water glass, emptied it over the sleeping man, and Omar shot up at once, shocked into awareness. The gun was the first thing he saw.

"How are you, digger?" said Craig.

Omar stared into the gun's barrel.

"Looks like I made a mistake," he said.

"Looks like it."

"The other girl—that tall sheila—and that young bloke-"

"They had an accident," said Craig, and Omar sighed. "Come to that, sport, you might have one too."

"You don't have to get violent," Omar said.

"Maybe I do," said Craig. "They were going to kill me, Omar. I don't like that. And you had a gun on my girl. You took my money and my luggage. I think you deserve an accident."

"I'll give you your money back—and your luggage." "Of course," said Craig.

"Look, mister," Omar said, speaking more loudly. "I know I done you no good, but-"

"Omar," Craig interrupted, "your family are all asleep, aren't they? And you're trying to wake them. But ask yourself one question first: Is it wise?"

"I don't understand," said Omar.

"Then put it this way," said Craig. "If anybody else comes in, I'll blow your head off."

Omar looked again into the Smith and Wesson's barrel.

"Do you believe me?"

"Yes," said Omar. "Jesus, yes."

"Let's take care of your family," said Craig.

Omar's son and his wife snored happily on top of a bed. Craig locked them in their room. Two old women snored happily in the kitchen. He locked them in too. In the guest bedroom he picked up the valise, his and Miriam's clothes. That left the money. Back in the coffeeshop, Omar disgorged it, reluctantly, from his person. It smelled a little more than it had done, but it was all there.

"You see?" Omar said. "You got it all back. You don't have to shoot me, mister."

"Maybe," said Craig. "How many boats have you got?"

"Three," said Omar, then stopped, angry. "I'm not all that rich, mister."

"I don't want your money," said Craig. "I'm not even going to touch the money you got from the other two for helping them. I'm going to be nice to you, Omar."

The old man looked wary.

"You take me for a cruise and I'll let you live. Isn't that nice of me?"

"Where d'you want to go, mister?"

"Cyprus," said Craig. "Now." He raised the gun, tapped the old man's forehead with the barrel.

"Think about it," he said. The old man sighed.

"You're the boss, mister," he said.

"Remember that," said Craig.

Before they left he drained the gas tank of the Fiat, tore out its wires, unscrewed its steering wheel. Royce and Benson needed the exercise, he thought, and Craig needed time. They walked down to the quay then, and Craig's luck held. The three old men had finished mending their nets. The place was deserted. They walked in pairs, Omar and Kaplan leading. Kaplan, still groggy from the beating and tying up, seemed the older of the two. Behind them Craig and Miriam, he with a hand in his coat pocket, she limping along, carrying the rifle wrapped in sacking.

Two of Omar's boats were out on charter, fishing, but the third, the pride of his fleet, lay tied up at the quayside. It was a big and beamy craft with a diesel engine and a lateen sail, very like the caiques Craig remembered from twenty years ago. He helped Omar cast off and made him go out under sail, moving easily before a following wind until they were out of the harbor. Only then would he let him fire the engine, and then they moved off at a steady, pop-popping six knots, watching the land diminish behind them from a toy village to a picture postcard to a gray smudge against the intense blue of the sea. At last, even the smudge disappeared, and Craig lay back, content. Omar heard the sigh, and risked speech.

"It's not good for a Turk in Cyprus, mister," he said.

"It's not good for a Turk in Kutsk. Not when he robs me and nearly gets me killed," said Craig.

He turned to Miriam and Kaplan, motioned them to the prow of the boat. From there Omar was clearly visible, but he couldn't hear them.

"Why Cyprus?" Miriam asked.

Craig said, "I know a man there who'll help me."

"All we have to do is find Force Three," said Miriam.

"And how do you propose to do that?"

"They told me how."

He saw the obstinate set of her mouth, and smiled.

"And you promised you wouldn't tell, is that it? All right. I don't want to know. To tell you the truth, I don't want to go near them."

"But they'll help you," she said.

"No," said Craig. "They'll help you, love. They'll give me back to a man called Loomis."

"The one Royce said had condemned you to death?"

"That's right," said Craig. "But he can't, now that I've got him." He looked at Kaplan appraisingly.

"You'd be amazed how popular you are," he said. "Everybody wants you—and I've got you."

"That's not strictly true," Miriam said. "We've got him."

"You forget so easily," said Craig. "Don't you remember when you told Royce and Benson we were all on the same side?"

"But you wouldn't hand him back to the Russians?" "He's up for auction," said Craig. "Let's see what I'm bid."

"But you've got no right to do this."

Craig said, "Force Three told you to use me. Right?" She nodded. "And that's exactly what you did. But there's something you don't realize. When you use somebody— you get what that person has to offer, and nothing else. I can only do this my way, love. If I did it your way, I'd lose."

"You used me too," said the girl.

"We used each other. It was the only good thing in the whole business." "And now it's over?"

Craig shrugged. "We can't make decisions any more. We're lumbered." He nodded at Kaplan. "With him. The solid-gold leg iron."

Kaplan felt Craig's eyes on him and looked away. Craig spoke in Russian again, and he nodded.

"I've told him you're going to interrogate him," said Craig. "Come here."

He led her to the side of the boat, away from Kaplan. Utterly weary, she went with him.

"Don't try to explain who you are," he said. "Just ask questions. He's the one who has to answer. Talk in English —and if you think he's lying, switch languages on him. Try him in Hebrew—or Yiddish. Br you still think he's lying, send for me."

"Can't I even tell him about Marcus?" she asked, and he shook his head.

"Why not?"

"Because that would make him a person—give him an identity. At the moment he's nothing. So long as he stays nothing, we'll get the truth." She wanted to argue, and he went on, "Look. All he understands is fear. It's the only emotion that makes him react. Why do you think I speak Russian to him? For him, Russian's the language of fear."

Suddenly Kaplan moved, scrambling toward the far side of the ship. Craig leaped from her and his hands grabbed for Kaplan as he went over the side, one gripping his shirt, the other holding his thick, white hair. Craig stood straddle-legged, and lifted Kaplan back aboard the boat as Kaplan screamed with pain. He released his grip on the shirt and tugged on the hair, lifting Kaplan to his toes, then the hand moved down, forcing him to his knees, and all the time he spoke to him in Russian. The fingers twisted, and Kaplan screamed again.

"You pig," Craig said. "You stupid, lying pig. Don't you ever learn? Don't you know you can't even die till we say so? You're still in Volochanka, Kaplan. You'll always be there."

He pushed him sprawling, then picked up an end of rope, knotted his hands behind his back and tied the other end of the rope to the mast, then turned to Miriam.

"Ask your questions," he said. "He's ready."

He went aft then, took the tiller, and sent Omar into the cabin to prepare a meal. Omar scuttled away and Craig lazed back against the strakes, giving his body ease and rest. He could hear the sound of Miriam's voice and Kaplan's responses, but not the words. It didn't matter. Miriam's interrogation was only a warm-up, anyway; the truth would come when he had Kaplan on shore, alone, when Royce and Benson were out of the way. He supposed that eventually he'd have to kill Royce. Maybe Benson too. But she'd let him escape; that made it harder to kill her. Why did she do it? Craig wondered. What was she trying to gain? He leaned forward and looked down into the cabin. Omar was old, but he was determined, and money acted on him as fear did on Kaplan. Omar had sliced bread and cheese and peeled fruit. The knife he had used was long and sharp, and he held it in his hand, looked at it with love.

"No," said Craig.

Omar sighed and put down the knife, then fetched up the food and four bottles of water, gave some to Kaplan and Miriam, then came back to Craig, sat cross-legged beside him as they ate, and took the tiller.

"Effendi," said Omar, "you must be very rich."

"Sometimes," said Craig.

"One day you might need a partner."

"Why?"

"A very small partner. One who could keep his eyes and ears open. Tell you things." "What things?"

"What the Americans and the Russians are doing. For money I could find out."

"Why should I want to do that?"

"You are a spy," Omar said. "Just as Royce and Miss Benson are spies." There was neither shock nor surprise in Omar's voice. He might have said: "You're a grocer."

"Who do you think I spy for?"

"Not the Russians or Americans. Not the British, either. You spy for yourself. For money. I could help you. Truly, I could."

"You're still afraid 111 kill you," said Craig.

"I'll always be afraid of that," Omar said. "But I want to show you I'll be more useful if you let me live."

Craig ate bread and cheese left-handed. The bread was dry, the cheese old and tough, but he chewed on it stolidly. It was fuel.

"Always the left hand," said Omar. "You take care of yourself."

"That's right," said Craig. "Show me how you can be useful."

"That shepherd there. He was in hiding."

"I found him," said Craig. "There's nothing for you in that." He ate some grapes. "Did you know Royce and Benson were looking for him?"

"No," said Omar. "The bastards didn't trust me." Craig chuckled. "But I guessed it."

"How?"

"The Russians were looking for him too." Somehow Craig went on chuckling. "I know that," he said. Omar's face fell.

"You know who they are?" he asked. "No," said Craig. "I don't know that." "I do," Omar said. "How much is it worth?" "A thousand dollars," Craig said.

"It should be worth much more," said Omar. "This is big news."

"A thousand dollars," Craig said again. "You're lucky I feel lazy today. I could get it for nothing."

"That isn't very nice," said Omar. "We're not in a nice business."

"They call themselves Israelis," Omar said. "They came to Kutsk three weeks ago. They are Jews, I think, and they had Jewish names—Lindemann, Stein—but really they were Russians. I heard them speak."

"You speak Russian?"

"I know how it sounds," said Omar. "All Turks do if they've got any sense." "Go on."

"First they tried to find the shepherd themselves. He was too well hidden. Then they asked me. I said there wasn't any such man. I should explain," he continued, "that the shepherd paid us money to say he wasn't there."

"You'd have sold him out to me—or Royce and Benson."

"You would have offered more money than the shepherd. The Russians wanted him for nodiing." "Describe them," said Craig.

"Lindemann is tall—about your height—heavy-shouldered, brown eyes, black hair. He is the younger. Stein is a head shorter than you, but a big body. Like a bear. A very strong man. His eyes are almost black. His hair was once black, now it is gray."

"Their age?"

"Hard to say. They look older than they are, I think. The way you do, effendi." He hesitated. "What I mean is they look good at their job. Like you."

"Where did they go after Kutsk? Back to Israel?"

"That's what they said in the village. They lied. They came in a boat, and my sister's husband's nephew saw it two days later. It was headed for Famagusta, in Cyprus."

"Many Israelis go to Cyprus."

"Perhaps they were Israelis who couldn't go to Israel." His eyes searched Craig's face. "Is it worth a thousand dollars?"

"Yes," said Craig. "You'll get it when you go."

"I believe you," Omar said. "You're the biggest bastard I ever met, but I don't think you tell lies if you can help it."

"Try to be like me," Craig said. "Tell me about Royce and Benson."

"They came to Kutsk about three or four days ago. They said they were—those people who are interested in old things."

"Archeologists?" Craig suggested.

"Some Greek word. They drove all over the place. They were looking for the shepherd. At first they weren't in too much of a bloody hurry. Then one day Royce got a telegram."

"What did it say?"

"You think I could get hold of somebody else's telegram? "

"I'm sure of it," said Craig.

"It was all numbers," said Omar. "A code. I couldn't read it. But I think it told them you were coming. They were worried after that. They came to me before you did."

"Why should they do that?" "I've got a reputation," Omar said. "You mean a police record?"

"No, no." Omar sounded more surprised than offended. "I'm not stupid, you know. But a lot of people know about me. I'll help in most things if the price is right."

He squinted up at the sun, altered course a point, and continued: "They wanted me to help them if you turned up. I said I would—and you know the rest. For such young people, I thought they did a pretty good job. The sheila_"

"Yes?" said Craig.

"She is very beautiful," said Omar, "and very dangerous. Even more dangerous than the man. I think they'll try to kill you. I don't want to be there when they try— not for just a thousand dollars."

"You won't be," said Craig.

He lay back again, relaxed and comfortable. Miriam and Kaplan talked on as they ate, and in the distance a long bight of land grew slowly visible.

"Cape Andreas," said Omar. "You want to make for there?"

"No," said Craig. "Famagusta."

"For just a thousand dollars I don't want to see the Russians either." "You won't."

"Famagusta's full of bleeding Greeks," Omar said. "Greeks don't like me, effendi."

"What an old worry guts you are," said Craig. "Just do as you're told. You'll be fine. I'll even pay you."

"You promise that?"

"I promise," said Craig.

Omar sighed again, and obeyed. The big Englishman's strength was frightening, but there was comfort in it too— if you thought he was going to use it to protect you. There was also the money.

Craig dozed in the sun and watched the land slip by, white sand and scattered rocks, and beyond it a lush green vegetation, sloping back into the island's gentle mountains. Omar stayed well away from land, and to any casual watcher they would be just one more unhurrying boat in a sea full of boats that never hurried. He would be safe in Cyprus, and so would Kaplan, until his purchase price came through.

Craig thought of slaves and auction blocks, of men and women examined as if they were animals. He'd come down to that. And now he was a slave trader. The thought disgusted him, but he made his mind accept it. Once weaken, once relent, and Craig would be dead. And if he died, Miriam would probably die too, and Omar. Only Kaplan would have a chance to survive, a chance he might not want. Craig thought of the things he had done for Department K, cruel, terrible things. He thought of the smashed bones, the pistol beatings, the neat holes that a Smith and Wesson Airweight makes if you use it right. He thought of the things that had been done to him. He'd been shot, stabbed, knifed, clubbed, and tortured in a way that almost cost him his manhood. All for Department K. For the department and its chief, Loomis. He supposed that Loomis connected to other people, other places. To M-16 and the government, ultimately to the people and the country. To Loomis's own highly personal view of Great Britain. But Craig hadn't felt like that. His loyalty had gone as far as Loomis and the department, and there it had stopped. (Mostly his enemies had been Russians and Chinese, because that was the way the world functioned nowadays—in a duality of terror and detestation that sometimes got very close to love. Look at the bright kids. The ones in the West all wanted to be leftists; the ones in Russia all wanted to be Beatles.) But he hadn't ever had that depth of patriotism that rendered Loomis immune from pity or self-disgust whatever disgusting trick he'd played.

He'd gone into this thing because he was good at it. The fulfillment of each assignment had been the most complete satisfaction he could hope to know. And the enemy hadn't always been Russian or Chinese. There'd been Spaniards, Italians, Germans, Frenchmen, and more than one Englishman. He'd handled them all, just as efficiently. And now he was putting a middle-aged Jew on the auction block and forcing a young Jewess to keep him there. He wondered if Miriam would ever know just how terrible a price she was paying. I must want to live pretty desperately, he thought. When I get out of this I'll take a course in ethics and kill myself.

The girl came aft to sit beside him, moving clumsily against the movement of the ship.

"His arms are hurting him," Miriam said.

"Has he answered all your questions yet?"

"Yes," she said. "But I think he's lying sometimes."

"Go back and tell him I'll let him loose when he tells you the truth."

Beside him, Omar cackled respectfully. The girl got up and went back to Kaplan. Despite her clumsy movements, her body was beautiful again.

"Not like the Benson sheila," said Omar. "A tigress and a deer, eh, effendi?"

Craig grinned at him. "The world's big enough for both kinds," he said.

The darkness came in quickly, and Omar was worried about the lights. Craig took the tiller as he lit them. Slowly they slipped closer to the shore, and then, in the last rays of the sunlight, Craig could see the white line of foam that marked the sunken ruins of Salamis, the speckled gleam of Famagusta in the distance. Craig got to his feet, picked the rifle up from the deck, slipped out the magazine and put it in his pocket. Omar watched without speaking. Next Craig took out his money, counted it, put it back in his pocket, except for ten one-hundred-dollar bills. Still silent, Omar licked his lips, then cried out aloud as Craig tore the ten beautiful pieces of paper in half, dropped one half into his lap.

"Half in advance. I'm going ashore soon," said Craig. "You'll get the rest when I come back. If you behave."

"Yes, effendi," said Omar.

"Are you a good Muslim?" said Craig.

"Pretty good."

"If I were you I would pray a lot while I'm gone. Pray that nobody comes here looking for the shepherd. If they do, they'll kill you. If you try to contact anybody and do a deal, I'll kill you. Staying alone is your only chance of staying alive. Believe that, Omar."

"I do believe it," Omar said.

Craig went forward to the girl then, where she stood beside Kaplan.

"Well?" he asked.

"I think he's telling the truth now."

Craig untied the man's hands, but lashed his ankles together. In Russian he said, "You're too fond of swimming," then to Miriam in English, "I'm going ashore. I shouldn't be long. When I come back I'll have help."

"For him?" She nodded at Kaplan who sat on the deck, head on hands.

"It's possible," said Craig, "but don't count on it."

He told Omar to heave to, and together they manhandled over the side the stone that served as an anchor, then he disappeared into the cabin. When he came back he was naked, his clothes and shoes wrapped in a piece of waterproof and strapped to his head like a turban. The others turned away as he lowered himself into the water, swam in a steady breaststroke toward the lights of the town. The sea was calm and warm, tangy with salt, as placid as a bath, but the feel of it round him was refreshing, shook off his drowsiness. Too soon he reached shallow water and waded ashore to dry himself on a scrap of sailcloth, the only towel on the boat, and dress quickly, in the darkness. He walked along the beach, staying out of reach of the villas' lights, the sight of holiday-makers having one last outdoor drink before dinner, then reached a path that led up to a road, and walked along the road till he found a cafe with one car parked beside it.

He went into the cafe and ordered ouzo. The language he spoke was Greek, but with a Cretan accent, very different from Cypriot. The barman who served him showed a flicker of surprise.

"I thought you Greeks were supposed to wear uniform," he said.

"I'm not in the army," said Craig, and looked round the bar. Its only occupants were three men playing xeri under a portrait of Archbishop Makarios. The barman watched him nervously.

"Things are quiet in Cyprus now," he said. "Most people like them like that."

"I like it," said Craig. "I haven't come for trouble. Just visiting friends."

He put an English pound note on the counter, and the barman gave him his change in Cypriot mils.

"Which is the taxi driver?" Craig asked.

The barman called out "Stephanou," and a fat man put down his cards and gathered up his winnings, then walked out to the cab, the inevitable Mercedes.

Craig finished his ouzo.

"There are lots of UNO patrols now," the barman said. "The civil war is over."

"I won't start it again," said Craig. "I promise."

He went out to the cab, and in his mind he cursed himself, thoroughly and obscenely. It had been a mistake to speak Greek; a bad one. English was a far more natural tongue for Cyprus than the Cretan dialect that was the only Greek he knew. But Greek to him was the language of friendship: when first he'd been a fighting man, most of his comrades were Greeks. He'd lived with them and learned their skills. In the islands still there were men and women who regarded Craig as their brother. So out of his loneliness he'd spoken Greek, and like a damned fool forgotten that Cypriots regarded Greeks from Greece sometimes as heroes, more often as a dangerous nuisance, who took to the mountains and slaughtered in the name of Enosis.

And at one time Cypriots also had gone into the mountains, killed British troops and been killed by them. That had been a bad time for Craig. But the British had gone now, and UNO troops had replaced them: Irish, Canadians, unlikely Swedes, and highly improbable Finns on the island of Venus, drinking brandy at five shillings a bottle and persuading Cypriot Greeks and Cypriot Turks to stop killing each other. Enosis—union with Greece— was somehow forgotten; the island was prosperous, not least because UNO paid its bills so promptly. The Greek and Turkish troops billeted on the island to protect their own nationals were already resented as a threat of war, a threat to prosperity. And Greek civilians were resented even more. They hinted that the days of terror might still come back.

Craig told the driver to head toward the port, which was the Turkish quarter.

"Greeks can't go there," the driver said.

"I'm not a Greek," said Craig. "I'm an American. My father came from Heraklion."

"Oh, an American." The driver was delighted, and all at once relaxed. "Why do you want to go to the port? Whisky—girls? We got plenty in our own bars."

"I want to look at it," said Craig. The driver shrugged, a comprehensive movement involving his whole torso, completely Hellene, that said more clearly than words that Americans made their own rules as they went along. Craig watched as they drove through the new town, Varosha, past the smart bars, tavemas, souvenir shops, then into the older town of cheap bars and night clubs, to the oldest Famagusta of all.

"This'U do," he said, and remembering he was an American, gave the driver too much money. When he got out the driver roared off at once—to his favorite cafe, Craig hoped, to tell a worried barman to stop worrying.

He looked at the dark bastion in front of him. The Venetians had built that, more than four hundred years before: a staggering achievement in military architecture, massive yet shapely towers and walls built to keep the Turks out of Cyprus. For Cyprus was rich, and Venice had needed the money: but the Turks had got in even so, and flayed the Venetian commander alive. Craig thought that Omar would have been proud of his ancestors. Their descendants, huddled and restricted inside the walls, he would have had no time for. Every single one of them was poor.

Craig turned his back on history, and walked toward the bars and night clubs. The place he wanted was small and intimate, and famous for its bouzouki music. Angelos, the man who owned it, had been a waiter in London when the Second World War began, and had joined the navy. In 1945 he and Craig had been part of a Special Boat Service Group that had landed on the island of Cos. It was Craig's eighteenth birthday, and he had saved Ange-los's life.

Craig walked in and spoke English to the waiter who led him to a table. It was early, but already the place was filling up, the air conditioning inadequate to counteract the heat of too many bodies. The waiter led him to a table near the back of the room, and Craig was quite happy about it. He refused the local champagne, and ordered a bottle of Arsinoe, a dry, delicate wine, and a plateful of the delicious Cyprus sausages called seftalies, and the chipped potatoes that are different from the chipped potatoes anywhere else in the world. The waiter brought the wine at once, and Craig sipped and smiled, and asked to speak to Angelos.

As he waited, the show began, and Craig found that the days of originality were not yet over. A girl came on and started to strip to bouzouki music, while Canadians, Swedes, Irishmen, and Finns looked on and cheered. He watched, intrigued. Two cultures met and ignored each other completely. The girl was preparing for love, or at any rate, sex—in a brisk, mid-Atlantic sort of way: the bouzouki was telling of death and sacrifice in a mountain battle a hundred and fifty years ago. But nobody else seemed to find it displeasing, except the bouzouki player. He became aware of a man moving toward him, a tubby

man, sleek with success, in a black sharkskin suit and a Hardy Amies tie; a man who carried a plateful of seftalies and chipped potatoes because he chose to, to oblige a friend. He put the food down in front of Craig.

"Hallo, John," he said, and sat at the table, snapped his fingers. A waiter seemed to grow out of the ground like a speeded-up flower.

"Bring another glass," said Craig.

"And another bottle," Angelos added, and Craig remembered that Cypriots always drink as if all the alcohol in the world is due to disappear next day.

"You recognized me, then?" he asked.

"Of course," said Angelos, and poured wine, motioning to Craig to eat his food. "You haven't changed, John. Not like me. See how fat I'm getting."

"Prosperity," said Craig.

"I have money, yes. If you need any-"

"No," said Craig. "I've got money too."

"What, then?" Angelos asked.

"Does it have to be anything?"

Angelos emptied his glass, poured more wine, and smiled at Craig.

"Yes, John. With you it has to be something."

"You're right," said Craig. "But do me a favor first. Tell me how you knew."

"That day in Cos," Angelos said. "In a way, it was the most important day of my life—the day I should have died—and didn't. You were the reason I didn't die. I have thought about it many times. On bad nights I still dream about it. Mostly I dream about the fat German— the one you got with the knife."

"I thought I shot him," said Craig.

"No. You shot the young one, the one who had hit me with the gun butt. The fat one you knifed—in the throat. He bled all over me."

"I'd forgotten that," said Craig.

"That's the kind of man you are," Angelos said. "I'm not like that. I can't forget."

"Maybe you're the lucky one," Craig said. "Go on about why you know I want something."

"You are a very loyal person," Angelos said, "but you have no talent for friendship."

"Now, wait a minute," Craig said. "If you don't want to help me, say so."

"Of course I want to help you," Angelos said. "I have to help you."

Craig looked at him across the table, expressionless gray eyes telling nothing. Angelos shook like a man in terror, but that was stupid. What was there to fear?

"I came back for you," said Craig. "I killed those two Jerries for you."

"You killed them for the group," Angelos said. "That was where your loyalty was. For me—Angelos—you did nothing. You cared nothing. What did you do after that fat German died, John?"

Craig thought back hard. It had been in an olive grove, he remembered. One of so many running fights, scrambling, terrifying, ecstatic. They'd got back to the caique, and the pursuing Germans had run into a blast of Bren gun fire. But the details had gone.

"I can't remember," he said.

"I'll tell you. You wiped your knife on the German, put it back in its sheath, then carried me back to the caique. The young German had hit me and broken my ribs. I couldn't walk. You carried me for half a mile, and you never said a word."

"I was busy."

"Not then, or afterwards. I was in hospital for a month, then I came back to the group. You never even mentioned what had happened. You have no talent for friendship, John."

Craig said, "Are you saying you hate me?" "No."

"What, then?"

"You'll never understand. You can't understand," Angelos shouted, then lowered his voice as customers turned to stare. "Almost everyone needs the friendship of others. They need it as they need food and drink. You—don't. All you need is a group to belong to—but for you the group is an abstraction, not people. Never people. Shall

I tell you something. We've been talking for some while-"

"You've done most of it," said Craig.

"—And you've never even spoken my name. After twenty-three years."

"And yet you say you'll help me."

"Of course I'll help you. I must. I've been waiting to do so ever since that night."

"Do you mind telling me why?"

"I want to be free of you," said Angelos.

Craig said, "What I want—it isn't a small thing."

"I'm glad of that," Angelos said.

"There's risk." He looked at the fat man. He was smiling. "That makes you happy?" "Very happy."

"I want you to help pick up three people from a boat, then hide them, and me. Then I want you to act as messenger boy."

"Who are these people?"

"An American girl, a Russian man, and a Turk." "A Turk," said Angelos. "That's all it needed. All right. I'll do it."

"There's a risk in all of it," said Craig. "Being messenger boy is the worst."

"It's a kidnapping?" Craig nodded.

"Yes," Angelos said. "It would be. Crime was inevitable for you, just as this"—he gestured to the club—"is inevitable for me." He finished his wine. "Shall we go now?"

"Two more questions," said Craig. "And one request—I want all the British and American papers you can get here. Next—are you married?"

"No," said Angelos. "There are plenty of girls available. I shan't marry for another few years. And the other question?"

"There are two men in Famagusta—supposed to be Israelis. One's called Lindemann. About my height. Big shoulders. Brown eyes. Black hair. The other one's called Stein. Stocky. Built like a barrel. Black eyes. Black hair going gray. Do you know them?"

"Very well," said Angelos. "They're sitting five tables away. Behind you."

Craig's hands moved on the table, and Angelos watched them. They were weapons still, he thought. In twenty-three years Craig had only become more himself.

"They come in here very often," he continued. "They have what seems to be an inexhaustible passion for cabaret girls who don't cost too much. The girls usually find it flattering. I take it they are—business rivals?" Craig nodded. "Do they know you?"

"I hope not," said Craig. "Otherwise the risk would be so big you'd be ecstatic. Can we go now?"

"Yes," said Angelos. "My car is outside. I have a boat, too. That will be useful."

"Very," said Craig. "Where can you hide us?"

"In the mountains. I have a little place where I take a girl sometimes. It's very quiet. But I don't suppose you'll mind that."

"Not a bit," said Craig. "Do you have only one car?" "Two," said Angelos.

"I want to borrow one of them," said Craig. "You won't refuse me?"

Angelos sighed. "I forgot how clever you are," he said. "That was a mistake. I told you too much, didn't I? You aren't the kind of man to refuse an advantage just because it's unfair."

He got up then and led the way to the door. When he'd reached it, Craig looked back. Lindemann and Stein looked just as Omar had described them. They were talking hard to the bouzouki stripper and another girl off the same assembly line. There were two bottles of brandy and four glasses on the table. They didn't look like men who were in a hurry to move.

Angelos's two cars were a Volkswagen and an MGB. Craig chose the Volkswagen. It hadn't the sports car's speed, but it was built for the mountains. They parked the cars near the beach and boarded Angelos's boat, a neat little outboard job that would just about hold five. Craig steered it toward Omar's sailing boat, another problem.

"Can you put that somewhere inconspicuous?" he asked.

Angelos thought. "I could take it to Melos," he said at last. "My brother has a boatbuilding business there. I could say it's due for overhaul." "How far is Melos?"

"Just a few miles. Or better still I could get my brother to come and collect it. Now if you like."

"That would be fine," said Craig, "if your brother keeps his mouth shut."

"He will," said Angelos. "He owes me money." He hesitated, then said, "Craig, do I have to hide a Turk?"

"Either that or kill him," said Craig. Angelos said no more.

CHAFTEi 10

The house in the mountains was the best accommodation Miriam had seen since her night in Ankara. It had comfortable beds, a bathroom, and a workmanlike kitchen well stocked with food. It was the man who owned it who puzzled her. He behaved to Craig as if he detested him, yet obeyed his every word, and accepted all that Craig had done without question. When Craig had cut Kaplan loose for instance the fat man had accepted it without a blink; as if he expected violence from Craig, and cruelty, and a complete disregard for the comfort and dignity of others. The fat man wasn't like that, Miriam knew, yet he found it fascinating in Craig, as well as hateful. For his part, Craig simply issued orders, certain that the fat man would obey, and he did.

When the fat man had gone, Craig led her to the kitchen and made her cook a meal for Omar, Kaplan, and herself. They ate it in silence. When they had finished Craig took Kaplan to the bathroom, then to his bed. He looked at him in silence, then spoke in Russian.

"You've told the girl the truth?" he asked.

"Yes. I swear it," said Kaplan.

"I hope so. Tomorrow you will tell the truth to me. Let's hope it's the same truth." He turned away.

"Please," said Kaplan. Craig turned back to him.

"Please. What are you doing to me? Why am I here? I thought I was going to be left in peace."

"Tomorrow," said Craig. He went out and locked the door.

In the kitchen, Omar was washing dishes, Miriam drying. Omar, Craig was pleased to see, looked very worried. "Effendi," he said, "how long do I have to stay here?"

"A thousand dollars' worth," said Craig. "And maybe a bonus." He sniffed. "Take a bath, Omar, then go to bed."

Omar left them. He still looked worried.

"Aren't you going to lock him in?" the girl asked. Craig shook his head. "You trust him?"

"Nobody trusts Omar," said Craig. "But he's in Cyprus. The toughest part. The Greek part. A Turk out here alone wouldn't have a chance, and Omar knows it. He won't leave us."

The girl slumped forward in her chair. She looked exhausted.

"It's just as well I've got you and your friends to arrange things," she said. He said nothing. "Are you sure you can trust your friend?"

"Yes," said Craig. "I can trust him. He's all alone. No woman to find out his secrets."

She sat up then. "Why do you have to hurt people all the time?" she asked.

"Do I? That wasn't supposed to be hurtful. I just said what I meant to say. Maybe that's what hurts." He hesitated. "I'm not cruel like Royce, you know."

"But you are," Miriam said. "The way you treated Kaplan."

"Cruelty's the key to Kaplan," Craig said. "All I did was use it. I didn't enjoy it."

"The fact that you used it at all-"

"It's what we all use," he said. "Force Three, the KGB, Department K. We use it because it works." He looked at her again, saw how tired she was. "I wanted to hear what Kaplan told you," he said, "but it'll keep till tomorrow. Go to bed."

"Are you coming with me?" she asked, and the question whipped the blood into her face. "Suppose you get pregnant?" "Would you care?"

He didn't answer. She would never believe that she was the only one he would look out for in the whole sorry mess. Better for them both that she wouldn't. He went with her to the bedroom and she came into his arms fierce and demanding, the body's needs drowning the questions her mind feared. But their bodies at least made a dialogue, a question and answer that at last achieved solution. When they had done, she fell asleep at once, and he kissed her as she slept, then fell asleep beside her, as relaxed as a cat, and as wary.

In the morning, as she put on her clothes, she put on her doubts, her fears, her wariness. It was early, but Omar was already in the kitchen, making omelettes. He looked cleaned and rested, and his omelettes were delicious. Craig took the girl onto a verandah that looked straight across the valley to the mountains of Troodos, rich, sweet mountains, green with vine and olive and pine tree, swift tumbling snow streams, houses perched like birds wherever a ridge made it possible.

"It's beautiful here," Miriam said.

"And safe," said Craig. "What did Kaplan tell you?"

"Weren't you happy last night?" she said. "Wasn't your body happy? Because if it was—that was thanks to me, wasn't it?"

"I was happy."

"Then shouldn't you be grateful to me? Be nice to me? Or is it you just don't know how to be nice to people?"

Ask Angelos, Craig thought. He's the expert on my talent for friendship. He waited.

"Oh hell," the girl said at last. "Hell! Hell!"

She sat down opposite Craig, and her voice became cold, impersonal.

"First of all, I'm sure that Kaplan is Kaplan. I ran all the checks Marcus told me about, and he didn't fluff one. He told me about his work in Russia-"

"What about it?"

"How he was a successful scientist. Then he fell out with the Politburo and finished up in Volochanka. Craig, he escaped from there!"

"We know that," said Craig.

"But you don't know how. There were ten of them—all Jews. It was like a miracle."

She told him about the minyan, and the slow evolution of their plan to escape. ("Angelos should hear this too," said Craig. "He'd tell you all about my loyalty to groups as abstract concepts.") She told him of the break-out and how he got separated from the others; the long, agonized trek alone to freedom. How he'd wandered alone until he'd almost died, would have died if some Lapps hadn't found him and smuggled him over the border into Sweden, hundreds of miles away. Sweden was lucky for him. He had money in Stockholm. He'd got to the bank and taken out the money, but the Swedes were too interested in him. They wanted him to ask for political asylum, but he was afraid the publicity would betray him to the KGB. He'd had to get away. The money had bought him forged papers and a passage on a ship for Hamburg. From Hamburg he'd flown to Rome, from Rome to Ankara, and from there he'd drifted south, to settle finally at Kutsk.

"Why choose Turkey?" Craig said.

"Because the Turks hated the Russians," she told him. "They'd give him asylum if ever he needed it. And it was remote. The kind of place nobody ever went to. When he bought the flock of sheep he'd learned something else too. He was happy there, a hermit, alone. He hadn't been happy for as long as he could remember.

"Isn't it wonderful?" said Miriam.

"Fantastic," he said. "What else is there?"

"He's afraid," she said, "of you and others like you."

"Did you tell him about going to America?"

"You told me not to."

"Did he say anything about our knowing his real name?"

"Yes," she said. "I don't understand that. He said Kaplan was supposed to be dead and buried. He said your people promised. I guess he meant the Russians."

"I'm sure he did."

Craig got up then and walked round the garden that encircled Angelos's house. He'd done it before, when they arrived the preceding night, but it was better to do it by daylight. The house was set in a fold in the hills, encircled by pine trees. A stream supplied its water, a turbine generator its power. A mud track was the only approach to it, and the nearest neighbor was seven miles away. He went back into the house and called Omar and Miriam, led them into the living room, where a big picture window looked out on the track that led to the house. For the last four hundred feet there was no cover at all.

"I want you to watch this place," said Craig. "If anybody comes up that road, call me at once."

"You want both of us to watch?" Omar asked.

"Both of you. All the time, Omar." The Turk looked up at him. "It's possible the lady may want to leave this room. See that she doesn't."

"Too right," said Omar.

"What are you going to do?" the girl asked.

"Find out the truth," said Craig. "I'm sick of fairy stories."

He left them, and she sat watching the path. After a few minutes she heard Kaplan cry out, and jumped to her feet. At once Omar also rose, standing between her and the door. He was an old man, but he was strong, she knew. She'd be helpless against him. Then Kaplan cried out again, and she ran at Omar, trying to get past him. But he picked her up, held her in his gaunt, work-worn hands, and looked at her with eyes that were curiously gentle, almost compassionate.

"It's no use, miss," he said. "We've got to do what the boss says. Now you sit down and watch the road. It's what we're here for."

But she went on struggling until there was neither fight nor breath left in her, even when Kaplan yelled a third time. After that she sat down as Omar bade her, and there was no more noise.

Craig came back into the room forty minutes later, and Kaplan followed him. There was a bruise over his left eye and he was limping. Miriam got up at once and led him to a chair. Craig fetched water and gave it to Kaplan, who drank it eagerly.

"The shepherd's got a new statement to make," said Craig.

"Looks like a pretty important shepherd," Omar said.

"He is," said Craig. "A man could get killed just knowing what his real name is. Do you want to know it?"

"No, thank you," said Omar. "I think I'd sooner cook lunch."

Craig watched him go, then said, "I roughed him up a bit."

"I heard you," Miriam said.

"It was nothing like you got," said Craig. "That's work for experts. But this poor bastard's scared silly. He's got nothing left." He turned to Kaplan, and this time he spoke in English.

"Now tell this woman what you told me," said Craig. "Unless you want to change your story again." "I told you the truth," said Kaplan. "Now tell it to her."

Kaplan looked at her, but his whole body was concentrated on Craig, standing beside him.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but most of what I told you yesterday was lies. There were no friendly Lapps, no smuggling across the border to Sweden."

"You didn't escape?" Miriam asked.

"No. The other nine did—that is true. But I did not."

"Tell her what you did, Kaplan," said Craig.

The agony on his face was unbearable.

"I betrayed them," he said, "to the commandant of the camp. The price of my betrayal was a pardon."

"Get on with it," said Craig.

"I told the commandant the night we—we were ready to go. You have to be in Volochanka to know how it was. Slow death in the camp, quick death outside. The commandant was drunk all the time. He was drunk when I came to warn him. He beat me. Threw me out. Went back to his vodka. Then it happened. We made our break. Only I didn't go. I went to the deputy commandant instead, told them where to pick up the others. He got seven of them. All the time I had to hide in his hut. If I'd come out, the other prisoners would have killed me. Then the commandant was shot, and the deputy took over. He put in a word for me, got my pardon. I was allowed to live. They gave me new papers, sent me to work in the Crimea. On a collective. I was happy there." He paused till Craig raised his head, then went on immediately. "Then a man came to see me from the Central Scientific Bureau. They'd opened up my dossier again, run some tests on my theory. He said I was to be pardoned."

"But what had you done?'" the girl asked.

"Slept with a man's wife and been found out," he said. "The man was a close friend of Lavrenti Beria. The charge was moral degeneracy." He looked at Miriam. "It wasn't that. I swear it. I loved the woman very much. It was the second time in all my life I had known what love was and-"

"Tell us about your theory," said Craig.

"It's a way to bring water to desert places. It's part engineering—using atomic plant to make sea water into fresh water—and part agriculture—the growth of certain crops intermingled to help each other—catching the dew and so on. The Central Scientific Bureau said it ought to be tried out in a limited experiment. They were going to rehabilitate me. I couldn't stand it. I ran away."

"You couldn't stand what?" Craig asked.

"Coming back to life. Beria was dead by that time, but his friend—the man whose wife I loved—he's still alive. Doing well. His wife is still with him. I'd have had to meet them again, go to receptions, parties—as if nothing had ever happened. And he knows I betrayed my friends. I couldn't face them—not with that. I ran away, stole money, crossed the Turkish border. It wasn't easy, but I'd been trained how to do it in Volochanka. In Turkey, I robbed again—it seems I have a talent for that, too, and bought papers. When I had enough money, I settled down, paid those peasants to keep their mouths shut. I had a life of my own then. It was a good life, but the peasants betrayed me. I should have expected it. It's what I did myself."

"You felt safe?" Miriam asked.

"I'll never be safe. But the ones I feared were all Russian. If they knew I was alive, they'd kill me. The knowledge I have is too important to be taken out of Russia."

"They know you're alive," said Craig. "They're looking for you now."

"You won't give me to them?"

"Not if we can get a better offer," Craig said. "I'm pretty sure we can. The Americans want you, Kaplan." "They don't need my skills."

"A gift to underdeveloped countries. A nice gesture from Uncle Sam."

"Well, it is," said Miriam.

"Of course it is," said Craig. "If they can keep him alive."

CHAPTER 11

Late that afternoon, Angelos came back. Omar was watching the window and called out to Craig, who brought the rifle, held the MGB in its sights until Angelos stopped the car and walked up the path, a wad of newspapers under his arm. Craig left Omar on duty by the window, and let Angelos in. The rifle made Mm smile.

"I expected a Bren gun at least," he said.

"I could use it," said Craig, and led him to the kitchen. "What's happening?" he asked.

"Nothing. The two Israelis got very drunk, but they made love to my girls first."

"Nobody followed you here?"

"Nobody as far as I know. I haven't your skill in these matters. I brought you your papers. And came for my instructions."

"I'll have to read the papers first," said Craig.

He began to read through the small ad columns of the Herald Tribune, the Christian Science Monitor, the continental Daily Mail, the London Times, and the London Daily Telegraph. It was a long and boring process, but in the end he found what he wanted.

"Tell the girl to come here," he asked.

Angelos stiffened to attention, the parody of a soldier.

"Jawohl, Herr Oberst," he said.

He went out, and Miriam came in.

"There are a lot of messages for you. I've marked them," said Craig. "Look."

He handed her the European edition of the Herald Tribune. An advertisement read, "Darling, Won't you listen to Stardust just once more? Marcus misses you." A box number in Paris followed.

"It's in every paper," Craig said. "Crude—but they're in a hurry—and worried about you. So they make you worry about Marcus."

"They shouldn't have mentioned him," she said. "That gave it away."

"Only to me," said Craig. "And they know you're with me anyway. So they mention Marcus—and tell it to me too. Stardust was your code name, I suppose?"

"Yes," she said.

"How many times did they reach you?"

"Only once. In Istanbul. Our people aren't too strong in Turkey. They were blown—that's the word isn't it?—six months ago."

"That's why they hired Loomis," said Craig.

"What do we do now?"

"Write to the box number. Tell them our terms." "Our terms?"

"Mine, then. They can have him for me—if they'll get Department K off my back. Otherwise he goes to the Russians."

"Can they get Department K off your back?" "If they want Kaplan badly enough, yes. But with the Yanks it's easier."

"You can trust us, you mean?"

"Of course not," said Craig. "But you spend more money."

He found a piece of paper and an envelope, wrote an answer to the box number in the Herald Tribune, and gave it to Angelos to post, watched the MGB back down the path to the road, then went to bed and slept for four hours.

That night, he and Omar took it in turns to watch the road, patrol the grounds. He trusted Angelos—all his instincts told him that he was right to do so, but he had no faith in his competence. For this kind of operation he needed a Royce and a Benson; what he'd got was a moralist, a female idealist, and an old man.

Next day, Angelos came back at dusk. Again Craig followed the drill in admitting him, and again Angelos grinned at the sight of the rifle, this time in Omar's hands.

"I have some news you should know," he said. "There are two English people in Famagusta asking for you. Or at least for someone who could be you. They are asking for a tall, well-built Englishman and his American wife, believed to be traveling with the girl's uncle and an elderly Turkish servant. The Turk is causing a great deal of excitement."

"I believe you," said Craig.

"They are saying the Englishman has come into a great deal of money, that is why he must be found." "Who are they?"

"A solicitor and his secretary. The secretary is very beautiful. The solicitor has a limp." "Benson and Royce," Craig said. "They say the senior partner is flying out today." "Who are they saying it to?"

"Anyone who'll listen. They want the word to get around, it seems." Craig thought hard for a minute. "Where are they staying?" "The Esperia Tower."

"I want you to sit here for a while," Craig said. "Keep an eye on my guests." "Very well."

Craig hesitated, then took out the Smith and Wesson, offered it to the other. "Are they such reluctant guests?" Angelos asked. "They have enemies," said Craig.

"And so have you, no doubt. I have a gun, John. It's in the car."

"I won't be gone long," Craig said. "You shouldn't have any trouble."

He called for Omar then and gave him precise instructions. When the old man agreed, Craig took out ten more hundred-dollar bills, tore them in half and gave one half to him. That left Miriam. He called her into the kitchen.

"Department K's caught up with us," he said.

"But how could they?"

"By knowing their job," said Craig. "I told you they're good. They're offering a deal."

"What kind of a deal?"

"That's what I've got to go and find out."

"Go to them? That's crazy."

"No," he said. "It's sane enough. I've got Kaplan. They won't hurt me if I can hurt him." She winced. "This could be the end of it," he said. "You should be glad."

"I want my people to have him," Miriam said. "They're the ones who'll help him do what he should be doing."

"We'll listen to their offer too," said Craig.

Angelos walked back with him to his MGB, and took from the trunk an old Webley .45 revolver.

"Who are you going to shoot?" Craig asked. "Elephants?"

"I hope nothing," said Angelos. "But if I use this, I make sure the man I hit stays down."

"If you hit anything at all. That damn thing kicks like a mule."

"How much you forget," said Angelos. "In the old days I always used one of these. I didn't miss very often."

Craig drove the MGB back that night. It was fast, and he didn't have to use the mountain tracks. The new road from Troodos to Nicosia was finished now, a well-paved highway that seemed especially designed for testing out an MGB. It was an eager, thrusting little car, and Craig enjoyed it as he swung into the road's wide, planing curves, easing down at last as he came into Nicosia. The town was noisy with people promenading in the wisp of a breeze that sometimes stirred at evening. There were taxis and buses with vast overhangs and donkeys pulling carts, and pedestrians who walked as if the internal-combustion engine had yet to be invented. He was glad to thread his way through the town and get on to the highway to Famagusta.

This is a curious road. Once it had been a railway line, and when the railway was abandoned the track was pulled up, the road put in its place. It ran arrow-straight for almost all of its fifty miles, and the MGB liked this one too: rev-counter and speedometer climbed up and over in steady power. He kept going at speed till the last possible moment. If the senior partner of Royce's firm had arrived he would try anything, and the best way to combat him on a lonely highway was to keep moving fast. At last the lights of Famagusta grew bigger and brighter, and Craig eased off his speed and drove with finicking care through the old town to Varosha suburb. He drove past the hotel and found space to park. This seemed to be one of the few places left in the world where you could still find space to park, Craig thought.

He went into the lobby and asked for Mr. Royce. He was in the bar, the desk clerk said, with his secretary and another gentleman.

"A fat man?" Craig asked. "Red face and white hair?"

The desk clerk said austerely, "Mr. Royce's friend is rather fat." Craig moved to the lift.

"Is your name Craig, sir?" the desk clerk asked. Craig said it was. "You're to go straight up. Mr. Royce and the others are expecting you. They've ordered dinner at nine, sir."

Whatever you did to Loomis he always bounced right back up, Craig thought. Dinner at nine, for instance. That was for his own benefit, not Craig's, designed to show Craig that he wasn't important enough to make Loomis miss his dinner.

He went into the bar. It was long and dark and cool, the air conditioning muted to a murmur. At the bar itself, a group of wealthy Cypriots drank Keo beer, deplored the price of oranges, and tried not to be caught looking at Joanna Benson's legs. She, Royce, and Loomis were sitting on low chairs round a table. A fourth chair waited for Craig. Loomis didn't look as if he were enjoying it much. He never did enjoy sitting on chairs that weren't specially made for him. Craig moved toward them. The girl's face was impassive. Royce's glance told him that Royce hated him. Loomis raised his massive head and gave him a two-inch nod.

"Ah, Craig," he said. "Good of you to look us up. What'll you have?"

"Same as you," said Craig.

"Ouzo," Loomis said, and they sat in silence till the barman brought it.

"Nice here?" Craig said at last.

"Too nice for you," said Loomis. "Where the hell d'you get your clothes these days?"

"Savile Row," said Craig.

"Have your suit cleaned, then. It's disgusting."

"One of the nice things about being retired is you don't have to worry about looking smart all the time," Craig said. As he spoke, he watched Royce's hands. The left one clasped his drink, the right one fiddled nervously with the lapel of his jacket. Craig turned to him. "Why bother?" he said. "You can't start anything here."

Loomis glowered at him. "Sit still," he snarled, then turned back to Craig. "He could start something if I told him to. And so could this Benson person."

"You're not that daft," said Craig.

"I want you, son," Loomis said. "I want your hide in strips."

"That's just self-indulgence," said Craig. "I've wanted to put you on a diet for years, but I know I'm never going to get the chance. Anyway, I heard I'd come into money. That's why I'm here."

"A bloke called John Adams has come into money," Loomis said.

"You didn't give my name?" Craig asked.

"No," said Loomis, and his voice was wistful. "Not yet."

"How much?"

"A hundred thousand pounds," said Loomis. "Any currency you want."

Craig said, "You're taking a risk, aren't you? Talking of sums like that in front of these impressionable young people?"

"No," said Loomis.

"You aren't afraid that one day they may follow my example?"

"No, cock, I'm not. They got more sense." "And I've got a hundred thousand pounds. It's not enough, Loomis." "How much, then?"

"Oh, the money'll do," Craig said, "but I want something else as well. Security."

Loomis laughed aloud, a roaring boom that seemed to bounce against the walls of the room.

"Oh, son," he said. "The things you say."

Craig waited as he wiped his eyes.

"You want our friend, don't you?" he asked. "That's the price. A hundred thousand quid I can enjoy in peace. Guaranteed."

"And how could I guarantee a thing like that? Dammit, man, can't you see it's impossible?"

"You could give me a statement of what you did—and what these two did. What your orders were, how they carried them out. You could sign it and they could witness it. I'd call that a guarantee."

"I'd call it bloody madness," said Loomis.

"That's the price," Craig said. He stood up.

"Wait," Loomis said. "Let's have dinner first."

They went into the dining room, Royce limping badly, and Craig enjoyed the food and wine; enjoyed even more Loomis's struggle to be polite. It had been so many years since Loomis had had to be polite to anyone. He spoke of Craig's abilities, and praised in particular the skill with which he'd outwitted Force Three.

"Good chaps," he said. "Very good chaps. But they have the American weakness—and you used it."

"What do you mean, sir?" Benson asked.

"They tend to think that patriotism compensates for skill," said Loomis, "so they used the Loman girl. Once Craig knew who she was, she had no chance."

"How did you know Force Three was involved?"

"Those ads in the papers. 'Marcus is worried.' They must have been desperate to take a chance like that."

Craig said, "It's not that bad. They knew I'd see the papers—and it's me they want to talk to."

For a moment, Loomis looked up from his plate; his angry eyes burned into Craig's.

"That's right," said Craig.

"What about the Russians?" Joanna Benson asked. "Are you open to offers from them, too?"

"I'm open to offers from Martians—if they've got the money and guarantees," said Craig.

Loomis went on eating.

"There's something interests me," Craig said. "I wonder if I might ask about it."

"We'll see." Loomis's words were a growl.

Craig turned to Royce and smiled politely.

"What happened after I shot you?" he asked. There was a silence, then Joanna Benson giggled.

"What a bastard you are," said Loomis. "All right, Benson. You tell him."

She pushed away her plate and sat back. Royce continued to eat, his eyes looking downwards. It was impossible to look at Craig; to see the mockery in his eyes. At least, Loomis hadn't made him answer. He was grateful for that.

"You were really rather kind to us," Joanna Benson said. "I can't think why. Blowing up the Jag was a bit strong, though, wasn't it? Such a lovely car."

"Sorry about that," Craig said. "But I had to set you on foot."

"Poor Andrew was hardly even that," said the girl. "It was hands and knees most of the time. You got him in the leg, you know. Nothing serious, but he bled quite a bit. I had to use tourniquets and things." Royce went on eating. His tournedos Rossini absorbed him utterly. The girl went on: "It was all a bit of a problem. I couldn't carry Andrew and he needed a doctor. I walked back up the road and found a farm with a telephone and called the police. They produced an old boy who spoke a bit of German and I said we'd been attacked by bandits. You've never seen such excitement. Then I scurried back to Andrew and told him what to say, and the gendarmes arrived with an ambulance and took him off to hospital. After that it was all questions and statements and a big hunt for that mad shepherd. They patched Andrew up quite well, I think, and I said we had friends in Cyprus and we'd recuperate there, so they found us a boat and told us they'd let us know as soon as they'd found the mad shepherd. They thought he was running amok or something. His dog was dead, you see. They think he killed it."

"No. I did that," said Craig. He looked at Loomis. "Why Cyprus?"

"Benson's a sensible young person," said Loomis. It was as much praise as he ever offered a woman. "She was in a spot of bother and she handled it well, then she reported back to me. When she phoned I had a look in your file. Sending them here was my idea."

"What made you do it?" asked Craig.

"Where else in this part of the world have you got friends? But Angelos Kouprassi's your friend. He has to be. When you were a boy wonder in the SBS you saved his life."

Loomis's passion had always been for detail, mountains of it. But he had an unerring ability to pick out the one fact that was significant, and use it.

"So I sent the two of them here," he said, "and damn if you're not here too. How's Angelos?"

"Well," said Craig.

"Up in that little place of his in the mountains?" asked Loomis. He chuckled. "Nice people these Greek Cypriots, but the biggest bloody chatterboxes I ever came across. Still, it's useful. Benson here's a good listener. She's sensible, Craig. Wouldn't you say?"

"She is."

"Then how the hell did she come to let you get away once she'd tied you up?"

"I'm afraid that's my secret," Craig said.

Joanna Benson gave no sign of relief.

"But I did it the way Pascoe showed me," she said. "It's

impossible to- No, that's ridiculous, isn't it? You're

here, after all."

"You'll have to show Pascoe that one," said Loomis.

Craig shook his head. "That's over," he said.

Loomis turned to the other two. "Go and take your coffee on the roof garden," he said.

Royce left, still not looking at Craig, and limping heavily. The girl made no move to help him.

"He'd kill you for nothing," said Loomis. "You've beaten him twice. He hates you for it."

"He hates too much. And he enjoys hurting people too much."

"Yes. So I gather. And Benson?"

"She watched. I don't think she enjoyed it,"

"Tell me," said Loomis. "How d'you come to beat an upstanding young feller like Royce?"

"You made me angry. It was the best thing you could have done, Loomis. It gave me my skill back."

"How on earth did I make you angry?"

"You used me for bait. All that stuff about how I had one more chance to prove myself. I had no chance at all. From the minute I got to New York I was the decoy, wasn't I? Money but no gun, no proper contacts—just a twit from the FO—and Royce and Benson ahead of me all the time. When I was picked up in New York I didn't have a chance."

The fat man sat, impassive.

"Tell me about that," he said.

"What do you care?" asked Craig. "I got away and came back to London and you were too busy to see me. You weren't too busy to see Royce and Benson."

"Ah," said Loomis.

He struggled and wrestled with his own body to get a hand to an inside pocket. It came out holding a cigar. Loomis looked at it, sighed, and handed it to Craig, then wrestled himself again for another.

"Go on, son," he said.

"You saw them that day. You didn't see me. And I knew why. Craig was out. Finished. If the KGB didn't get me, you would. So I got out of the country-"

"Your friend Candlish is a very resourceful feller."

"—went back to the States and got hold of Miriam Loman."

"Royce and Benson should have got on to her," said Loomis. "Youth has its drawbacks."

"They're not mine. The Loman girl took me right to Kaplan and I've got him."

"In your friend's house in the mountains. Suppose we take him from you?"

"You can't," said Craig.

Loomis clipped his cigar, lit it as if he were cauterizing a wound.

"We're chums with the Cypriots now," he said. "We could tell them some yarn. They'd let us use force. There's a unit of the RAF Regiment not far from here."

"Kaplan's no good to you dead. Or have you started subcontracting to the KGB?"

"I see," said Loomis. "You'd go that far, would you? But suppose I'd sent some of the boys along now—to pick him up while you and I were chatting?"

"He'd still be dead," said Craig.

"Your friend Angelos? No. I don't think so. And not the Loman person. She's hardly appropriate for the role. Omar the terrible Turk, eh, Craig?"

"Never mind," said Craig. "Just believe what I told you. You only get Kaplan alive if you pay for him."

"A hundred thousand," said Loomis.

"And a written guarantee."

"Even I can't give you that without authority."

"Then get it. I have other offers, you know."

For the first time since Craig had known him, Loomis became angry in silence. No purple face, no outraged bull frog swellings of the chest, no pounded tables.

He said softly, "I think you'd be very unwise."

"The other offers have guarantees, too," said Craig.

"You'd still be unwise."

Craig got up then and looked down at Loomis. The fat man was as still as a statue, and just about as hard.

"You know what we businessmen say," said Craig. "Buy now and avoid disappointment. Let me know when you've got your guarantee."

He went down to the foyer and spoke to the desk clerk.

"Could you ring Miss Benson and Mr. Royce?" he said. "They're up in the roof garden. Tell them that Mr. Loomis wants to see them in the restaurant."

The clerk lifted a phone, spoke briefly, first in Greek, then in English, and turned to Craig.

"They're on their way, sir," he said.

"Thanks," said Craig.

At least now they wouldn't try to stop him reaching his car—and Loomis would have lots to say to them.

CHAPTER 12

He drove back to the mountains fast, alert for foEowing cars. There were none. When he turned off on to the track to Angelos's house, he was quite alone. Up to Loomis now, he thought, unless the Yanks come up with a better offer. He sounded his horn as he drew to a halt, then deliberately stood in the glare of the headlights, making himself visible before he switched them off and walked up the path. The door opened as he approached it, and Angelos stood in the light, the Webley massive in his fist.

"You forget things, too," said Craig. "Don't you know better than to make yourself a target?"

They moved toward the living room. From the kitchen there came a tinkle of glass, as Craig opened the living-room door. In the living room Miriam, Omar, and Kaplan sat waiting. Craig raced into the room, tipped up the heavy chair Kaplan sat in, pushed him behind it.

"Angelos," he yelled. "The lights. Get the fights."

Angelos reached for the switch and a shot boomed out behind him. His body jerked to its impact, and he reeled into the room, took two stiff-legged strides and crashed down on to the floor. Craig fired into the hallway, and risked a look into the room. Omar had disappeared behind an upturned sofa, Miriam beside him. From the darkness behind the living room, a voice spoke.

"Mr. Craig," it said, "all we want is Kaplan."

Beside him a rifle went off, an appalling explosion of noise in the confined space of the room, then Omar said softly, "If I have to kill people—that's extra, effendi."

The voice spoke again.

"It's no use, Mr. Craig. We've got all the advantages. Just send Kaplan out. That's all we want."

Craig looked at Kaplan, who was whimpering with terror, then crouched lower behind the chair. The Russian was right. He had no chance at all, pinned down in the light. The chair and sofa they crouched behind were solid enough, but not solid enough to stop a heavy-caliber bullet. There was no chance of shooting out the lights, either: there were lamps all over the room, and he had no extra ammo . . . Something stirred by the door, and he looked at Angelos. The fat man, unseen in the angle of the door, had stirred. Blood soaked from a hole in his side on to the floor, but he was still alive.

Craig said softly in Greek, "Angelos, turn the lights off."

The fat man stirred again, and moaned.

Craig spoke more urgently. "Angelos, you can hear me. Turn the lights off."

The voice outside spoke again. "I shall count to ten. After that, we'll start firing into you. It will be your own fault, Craig. We only want Kaplan." There was a silence, then—"One—Two—Three-"

Craig said, "Turn the lights off, Angelos—and then we'll be even. You won't owe me a damn thing."

The voice had reached eight when Angelos rose with the shambling uncertainty of a drunk, lurched to the wall, and staggered into the doorway, his hand on the light switch. A second shot smashed into him, and it was the weight of his body falling that plunged the room into darkness.

Craig yelled to Omar not to fire, and swerved over the chair, wriggled on his belly to the door angle, waiting for a gun flash. When it came, he snapped off an answering shot and rolled behind the door. Another gun banged, and Craig noted its direction. In the darkness of the corridor a man was cursing—perhaps he'd hurt one of them, and he waited, tense, his hand stretched out in front of him, till he felt the softness of Angelos's body. He followed the outline of shoulder and arm, till at last he found the massive shape of the Webley, hefted it in his hands.

"All right, Omar," he whispered. "Give him three rounds, then cease fire."

"Three rounds," said Omar. "A hundred dollars a round."

The sound of the rifle was like blows from a giant hammer smashing the room, and after the third Craig leaped crouching into the doorway, sensed movement to his right and dropped flat. A gun banged, a shot cut the air where he'd been, and behind him, he could hear Miriam screaming. He fired the Webley, and the kick from it brought up the barrel until it pointed at the ceiling. The noise it made was scarcely less than the rifle's. He fired again, rolled to a new position. There was a sound of scuffling feet, the heavy thud of a falling body, then silence. Craig lay still in the darkness. One man was certainly out of it, and his guess was that there had only been two, and that the second one was hurt. But even so, there was no point in taking chances: if he miscalculated now they would all be dead. He waited a minute, two minutes. In the living room behind him he could hear Omar fidgeting restlessly with the rifle. At last, the voice spoke again. It sounded weak.

"There were only two of us, Mr. Craig," it said, "and you have killed my partner and wounded me. I should like to surrender." Craig willed himself to stay silent. "I'm going to put my gun down," the voice said. There was a scraping sound and a heavy object scraped along the corridor. Noiselessly, an inch at a time, he stretched out his left hand until he touched it: a gun all right, an automatic; 9-millimeter by the feel of it. Three-gun Craig.

"I'm now going to stand up," said the voice, and Craig became aware of a dark shape in the darkness before him. In the living room Omar's rifle clicked.

"Don't shoot yet, Omar," Craig shouted.

"Thank you, Mr. Craig," said the voice.

Craig rose to a crouch and moved to the light switch in the hall, pushed it up with the barrel of the automatic while the Webley covered the corridor. A tall, heavy-shouldered man stood swaying in front of him. Further back, in the kitchen doorway, an older man, squat, barrelchested, built like a bear, lay flat on his back. He was dead.

"Come forward slowly," said Craig. "Let's have a look at you, Mr. Lindemann."

The young man's eyes flickered up at him as he lurched into the living room, one hand pressed to his shoulder. In front of him Miriam, Kaplan, and Omar faced him. Miriam had both hands pressed to her face, stifling the screams that had muted now to sobs, Omar's hands were clawlike on the rifle, his face alight with excitement. Kaplan looked once at Lindemann, then away, his face ageing even more as Craig watched. Lindemann spoke in Russian.

"All that can wait," said Craig, and led Lindemann to a chair, opened his coat, and looked at the wound.

"Get me some hot water," he said. Omar moved, still holding the rifle. "Not you," said Craig. "You stay here. Miriam."

The girl's hands fell from her face and she moved slowly to the door. Angelos's body was in the way. "Move him, Omar," said Craig.

The old man slung the rifle over his shoulder and dragged Angelos out. Craig looked at the wound, a clean puncture through the right shoulder, a neat, purple-ringed hole back and front.

"You were lucky," he said.

"In a sense," said Lindemann.

Miriam brought hot water, and linen cloth torn into strips, then watched as Craig bandaged the wounded man, his hands deft and sure. Once he hurt Lindemann, making him cry out, but Craig went on as if nothing had happened, as if there were no blood on the carpet, no reek of cordite in the room, no ache in the ears from the crash of the rifle; as if Lindemann were a perfectly ordinary young man who'd had minor injuries in a car crash. When he'd finished he gave him a cigarette and a drink.

"So all you wanted was Kaplan," Craig said. Lindemann was silent. "Only you didn't get him," said Craig. "You got a mate of mine instead." Again silence. "Nice chap. Quiet. Ran a nice little business. You and your friend used to go there, didn't you? Chat up the girls. Is that why you killed him? So he couldn't identify you?"

"Stein killed him."

"You didn't work all that hard to stop him. And now we can identify you. The girl, the old man, and me. Are you going to kill us if you get the chance?"

"The question is academic," Lindemann said.

"Not to me . . . Maybe not to you, either."

"All we wanted was Kaplan. Angelos—it was an accident. I am sorry for it."

"Me too," said Craig. "He didn't have to die at all. You could have bought Kaplan. He's for sale."

"Bought him?"

"A million rubles COD."

"We are Israelis," Lindemann said.

Craig looked over to Kaplan. "Is that right?" he asked. Kaplan said, "I don't know. I've never seen them before."

"But you spoke in Russian," Miriam said. "They're Russian, aren't they? KGB?"

"Russian, yes. KGB, no," said Craig. "They're in your file," he told Kaplan. "They're the ones who survived the break-out from Volochanka. Their names are Daniel and Asimov. Daniel's the dead one. Right?" The young man looked away again. "You wanted Kaplan because he betrayed you. Isn't that right, Kaplan?"

Kaplan said, "I have never—have never-" Then his

voice choked. He turned away.

"You've wanted him dead ever since you got out of Volochanka."

"One year, three weeks, and four days," said Asimov. "It was the only thought in our minds." "Tell us about it," said Craig.

"He's sick," the girl said. "He should be in a hospital."

"No," Asimov said. "That isn't important. What Kaplan did—that is important. I want you to know."

"We do know," said Craig.

"Not all. I am sure Kaplan did not tell you all."

Asimov looked at Kaplan then, with a hunger of hate such as Craig had rarely seen, an almost sensual appraising of the older man's body, as if Asimov were calculating how much he could endure before he broke.

"Please. I want to get out of here," Kaplan said.

"No," said Craig, and at once Omar moved in on Kaplan, who sat down and turned his face from them. He was willing himself not to listen, Craig knew, but his will was not strong enough.

"He told you about the minyan, no doubt," said Asi-mov. Craig nodded. "And about our plan to escape? It was a good plan. A beautiful plan. Daniel made it." He looked up then, facing Craig. "There is something you must realize. I worshipped Daniel."

"Go on," said Craig.

"The plan worked perfectly, as Daniel had promised it would. Only—when we got out, Kaplan was missing. I thought he had been unfortunate, but even then Daniel knew better. He knew that Kaplan had betrayed us—and because he knew it, I am still alive. When we split up, you see, we took a different route—not the one we had discussed when Kaplan was present—and so we got out alive. We learned later that the others did not. The guards caught them and killed them, every single one."

"What happened to you?"

"We should have died then. I mean—there was no real possibility that we could survive. And yet somehow we did. Fishing. Trapping animals. Digging up roots. We lived like beasts, and like beasts we survived, and got away to the West. The filthy capitalist West. A place called Vardo, up in the north of Norway. By then it was winter, and we got a job on the railway. We told the boss we were Finns and we'd lost our passports. He didn't believe us, but he didn't do anything about it either. Labor's scarce up there in the winter. We worked through till spring, then took off. It was time for him to tell the police about it. We got to Oslo. That wasn't easy, but after Volochanka, nothing was too difficult."

"You could have told the Norwegians who you were," said Craig. "They'd look after you."

"On their terms," said Asimov. "We wanted our freedom—to find out about Kaplan."

"What happened in Oslo?" Craig asked.

"Daniel knew of a man there who could forge papers for us if we paid him."

"Where did you get the money?" asked Miriam.

"We stole it. Stealing isn't difficult—not if you're taught by experts. There were many thieves in Volochanka. We got the money and the man gave us our papers. We became Israelis. Lindemann and Stein. Then we flew to Cyprus."

He stopped then, as if the recital were finished. Craig thought otherwise.

"You didn't stay here," he said. Asimov looked at Miriam.

"I really am tired now," he said. The girl moved closer to them, her eyes fixed on Asimov, glowing with admiration. Behind her Kaplan sat like a stone man, but he had heard every word.

"Can't he rest for a while?" Miriam asked.

"No," said Craig. "He has to finish it. Then we can decide what to do with him."

"He's been through so much."

"More than you realize," said Craig, and turned to the Russian. "Tell us about when the KGB found you."

Asimov's good hand clenched on his lap. He said nothing.

"Was it the man who forged your papers?" Craig asked. "Is that how they found out?" He waited a moment, looking at Asimov. He was white now, exhausted, the onset of shock catching up with him at last.

"I've got all night," Craig said. "I don't think you have. But the KGB found you, didn't they? They even offered to help you. Weapons—money—information. And you took them all."

Kaplan said, "That can't be true. You know that can't be true."

Craig looked at him. His face trembling, Kaplan walked over to Asimov, looked down at him, and spoke, his voice a scream. "Is it true?"

Asimov lay back and closed his eyes, and Kaplan grabbed for him, shook him.

"You must tell me now," he screamed.

Miriam went to him, pulled his hands from Asimov and pushed him into a chair.

"Let him rest," she said.

"You will never know how important this is," he told her.

"I know," said Craig. He bent closer to Asimov. "All right you're tired, so I won't make you talk. All you have to do is listen. But you'd better do that Asimov, or I'll leave you with Kaplan."

"Talk, then," said Asimov. "It's all foolishness anyway."

"The KGB reached you," said Craig, "and they told you what you already knew—that Kaplan had betrayed you. They said they'd help you to find him, because they wanted him dead too. They gave you money, and sent you to New York." The girl turned to him, wide-eyed. "You had to get information from Marcus Kaplan, I should think, but when you got there you found the Americans were ahead of you. Marcus already had a bodyguard. So then you went to see the man who'd interrogated Kaplan, a man called Laurie S. Fisher—at an apartment building called the Graydon Arms."

Asimov leaned back further in the chair.

"Don't go to sleep now," said Craig. "This is where it gets interesting. You found Fisher all right. The way you found him must have been perfect for you. He was in bed with a woman. You killed the woman, then tortured him until he told you all you needed to know. Then you killed him." He hurried on, not looking at Miriam. "Then your KGB contact found out I was in town and sent a couple of blokes to kill me. They tried, when I was with Marcus Kaplan—and they made a mess of it. But that wasn't too important, was it? Fisher had told you Kaplan was in Kutsk, and you went there looking for him. You made a mistake at Kutsk, Asimov. That place is full of Omar's relatives. The only language they understand is money ... But your luck held anyway. You stayed on in Famagusta, waiting. It's nice and handy for Turkey, and your cover was good. A lot of Israelis stay here. Then damn me if I didn't walk right in on you at Angelos's night club. And the girl who takes them off while the bouzouki plays said: 'I can't understand Angelos. He's never at the club these days.' So you followed him, didn't you, mate? And you did a spot of mountaineering and climbed in through the kitchen window and brought your score up to three."

"How can you know this is true?" Kaplan asked.

"I saw Fisher and his girl," said Craig. "I saw what was done to him. And that's the only way our intrepid hero could have found out how to reach you, Kaplan." He turned to Miriam. "You think I'm rough," he said. "You should see this fellow's work. Even Royce wouldn't be ashamed of it."

Asimov said in a whisper, "That was Daniel."

"You should record that and save your voice," said Craig.

"I don't mean to excuse myself. I was there and saw it happen and did nothing to prevent it. I did nothing to stop him killing your friend, either. And Angelos had been very kind to us."

"And this is the man you worshipped?" Miriam said.

"He saved my life so many times I almost lost count. Even in the camp, he helped me. Looked after me. He showed me how to survive—and how to hit back. If it hadn't been for Daniel, I'd still be an animal in the cage of Volochanka. When we got out—in Norway, in Sweden, then here—he taught me how to be a man again, and not just an animal." He looked at Kaplan. "Also he taught me how to hate properly. In this world, existence is hopeless unless you can hate. And I hate you, Kaplan. I will hate you till Craig kills me."

"Maybe I'll let him do it," said Craig. "Maybe I won't do it at all. You puzzle me, friend. You really do."

"I did what had to be done to kill Kaplan," said Asimov. "Why is that puzzling?"

"Can you tell him, Omar?" Craig asked.

"You don't have to tell a Turk anything about hating," Omar said. "We've been doing it for years. Greeks mostly. And Arabs. Almost anybody who isn't a Turk—and quite a few that are. But when we hate—we hate a man and his family. Not strangers. We don't torture strangers or kill a woman making love because she's in the way, or a fat man who has been kind to us, even if he is a Greek."

Asimov said, "Killing Kaplan was our whole world. Nothing else mattered."

"I hate your world," said Miriam.

"I spit on it," said Omar. "I spit on you."

"Hate it, spit on it, my world exists," said Asimov, and looked at Kaplan.

"Let the old Jew kill the young one, effendi," Omar said. "It's the worst punishment you could think of for the young one, and the old one will enjoy it."

"No," said Kaplan. "I don't want to kill him."

"He wants you to live," said Craig. "To remind him there's somebody else as bad as he is. After all that wonderful talk in the camp, you wound up working for the KGB."

"Are you going to kill me, then?" "Why should I?" "I let Angelos die."

"And I killed Daniel—the one you worshipped. Just how good a hater are you? Suppose I let you live—do I go on your list too? And Omar and the girl? They stood by and let me do it."

"Please," Asimov said. "Please, I really am tired." His lips curled up for a moment. "Dead tired."

His body slumped forward. Craig caught him and carried him into a bedroom, then came out and looked at the body of Daniel. Omar came up beside him.

"It's hot here, boss. Even up in the mountains. This one and the Greek—they won't keep long."

Craig looked down at the dead face. It was strong and hard as a weapon, the face of a man with an overwhelming drive to the achievement of one objective at a time, a man who would feel neither pity nor remorse for what had to be done to achieve that objective. Asimov didn't look like that. Not yet.

"Put them in the garage," Craig said. "Take the air-conditioning unit out of your bedroom and plug it in." "Air conditioning, boss?" Craig did it for him.

CHAPTER 13

They lay together in the coolness of the room, and she could sense his relaxation in the tenderness of his hands as he embraced her, the sigh of content when he lit a cigarette after they had made love. In the darkness her fingers explored the scars on his body.

"There was a time when I thought you were the most hateful man in the world," she said.

"You had a remarkable way of showing it."

She dug an elbow into his stomach and he grunted with pain.

"It was partly cracks like that that made me think it," she said. "But now I know you're only Little League stuff —compared with Kaplan, Daniel, Asimov. You're just an amateur."

"I was never in Volochanka," he said.

"You've had things done to you-"

"And I've hit back."

"Sure—at your enemies. Not people who haven't harmed you. And you didn't betray—like Kaplan." She put an arm round his chest. "I hate that man," she said. "Liar. Betrayer. And now he's happy—just as you said—because somebody else is as bad as he is. What a credit to my people. He's like a cartoon Jew in a Nazi comic strip."

"He's what other people made him," said Craig.

"He could have done so much."

"He will."

Suddenly the girl's body moved away from his. He put out his hand, felt the tender weight of a breast, then his fingers moved up her throat to her face. She was crying.

"I say, look here. Dash it, old girl. What?" he said.

She giggled for a moment, but her tears continued. He gathered her into his arms and held her gently, whispering to her as the tears spilled on to his shoulder. She was weeping for a world of illusions wrecked, of values destroyed, and for Kaplan too. Soon and late, Miriam would shed a lot of tears for Kaplan. Craig got up and dressed. It was his turn to keep watch.

As he entered the living room he knew at once that something was wrong. Omar sat in the chair, as he should —but he was too still, too relaxed. Craig went to him. The old man lay back in his chair, breathing in great snoring gasps. A bruise darkened the side of his head. The rifle was gone. Craig raced to Kaplan's bedroom, took the key from his pocket, unlocked the heavy door, and went in. Kaplan lay sleeping, and Craig raced back to Asimov's room. It was empty.

He roused Miriam and sent her to look after Omar, then went back to Kaplan, grateful for the solid doors in Angelos's house, and for the fact that he'd locked Kaplan in every night. He'd locked in Asimov, too, even though he'd looked so weak, and so defeated. But he'd found a way past the door. And now he was up in the mountains with a rifle. Craig woke up Kaplan and told him what had happened. The fear that was a part of his life came back to his face.

By the morning, Omar had recovered consciousness. His face looked gray, and very old, but his strength was astonishing. Craig marveled at the hardness of the old man's head, and the stamina that had brought him round.

"I was a fool, effendi. A bloody fool—and at my age too," he said. "He asked me if he could go to the toilet." He put a hand to his head. "My oath, he can hit."

"It wasn't your fault," Craig said.

"He'll be up in the mountains." Craig nodded. "With a rifle. But he won't use it, boss. Not with that shoulder the way it is."

"Why not?"

"It'll kill him."

"I don't suppose he cares," said Craig, and made for the door.

Omar called out to him. "Did he take my money, boss?" "No," Craig said. "It's here." He rummaged in a dressing-table drawer and produced the half bills, put them in Omar's hands.

"Thanks," said Omar, and went to sleep holding his money.

Later that day a Land-Rover appeared on the path. Miriam was watching, and she called Craig at once. Joanna Benson was driving, and beside her Loomis sat, enormous, liquescent, and very angry.

Craig told Omar to stay out of sight, and left Miriam on watch, then he went into the kitchen, collected Kaplan, who was preparing lunch, and locked him in his room, warning him to stay away from the window. As Loomis waddled angrily to the open front door, Joanna following, Craig stood inside it, the Smith and Wesson in his hand. Loomis puffed past him without a word, and Craig let Joanna go by and took them into the kitchen. The smell of food made Loomis angrier than ever.

"All right," he said. "I accept your offer."

Craig raised the Smith and Wesson.

"What the devil are you looking so coy about?" asked Loomis. "And put that thing down."

"I hardly know how to say this," Craig said. "Face the wall, please."

"You really have gone potty," Loomis yelled.

"Face the wall." The gun, that had pointed between them, now concentrated on Loomis, and he obeyed.

"Handbag on the table, Miss Benson," Craig said. She put it down. "Now, turn around. Put your hands on the wall. Lean forward."

In silence, they did as they were told. Joanna Benson's handbag yielded the .32 she had carried before; neither of them had weapons concealed on them.

'"All right," said Craig. "You can turn around."

"I bet you enjoyed that," Joanna Benson said, and Loomis said only, "There are limits, Craig. You've reached them."

"It's a compliment, really," said Craig. "There's nothing you wouldn't try to do me down, and we both know it." "Balls," said Loomis. "I told you. I accept your offer," "Let's see the guarantee," said Craig.

Loomis reached into his pocket and handed over a sheet of paper. It contained all that he had asked. "The money," said Craig.

"Ah," Loomis said. "We got conditions about the money. Kaplan goes to New York—the Yanks insist on delivery— and you take him. When you get there you get a hundred thousand quid in dollars—less fifty thousand dollars you pinched from the emergency fund."

"Why doesn't the department take him?"

"I want my hundred thousand quid's worth," said Loomis.

"I may need a bit of help."

"Why?"

"The KGB want Kaplan too. Let me have Royce and Benson here." "All right."

"She can take you back in the Land-Rover, then come back to pick us up. Royce too."

"His foot's still bad," said Loomis.

"He doesn't shoot with his foot. She can also get a man's white wig, a man's yellow wig, a Cyprus stamp on Miriam Loman's passport—and mine. And air tickets to New York."

Loomis glowered at him once more.

"You like your pound of flesh, don't you?"

"That brings us to Omar," Craig said. "You'll have to smuggle him out or it's no deal. Well?"

"I'll find a feller to do it," said Loomis.

"That's it, then," Craig said. He stuck the gun in his waistband. "You're a pleasure to do business with, Mr. Loomis."

Loomis used three words. Craig had heard them all before. He put the .32 back in the handbag and gave it to Joanna Benson.

Miriam was delighted to be going home. Omar also was happy. He'd lost his boat—that was unfortunate—but instead he had a vast wad of hundred dollar bills. Craig found him a roll of transparent tape and Omar was happy. Kaplan alone made difficulties.

"I don't want to go to America," he said. "I was happy in Kutsk."

"You can't go back there. Asimov will find you," Miriam said. "And anyway—what's wrong with going to America? Your brother's there."

"I'd like to see Marcus. That's fine," said Kaplan. "But what will they make me do there?"

"Work," said Craig. "The kind of work you should be doing."

"But the KGB will find out. They'll come after me again."

"You'll be looked after," Craig said. "I was happy in Kutsk," Kaplan said again. "You had six months," said Craig. "You're lucky it lasted that long."

The Land-Rover arrived, and in it were Royce, Benson, and a taciturn sailor whose business was to take Omar back to Turkey. Craig sent them both off at once in the Volkswagen. The old man turned to Craig, his fingers counted the money for the last time.

"You made me rich, effendi," he said. "The only rich man in Kutsk." He sighed. "Now I'll have to buy my wife a fur coat."

"Don't tell her," said Craig.

"Boss," Omar's voice was reproachful. "She's a woman. How can I help it?" He bowed to Craig. "Have a good journey. And come and look me up some time. Maybe we can do some more business together."

Craig watched him go, then turned to Royce. "How's the limp?" he asked.

"Fair," Royce said.

"Let's see you walk."

Royce braced himself, then moved across the room. For a short distance, at least, the limp was hardly noticeable.

"That's fine," said Craig. "Now you and Kaplan change clothes."

"What is this?" said Royce.

"Didn't Loomis tell you who was boss? Go in the bedroom if you're shy."

When they'd gone, Joanna Benson looked from Miriam to Craig.

"Isn't there someone missing?" she asked. "Who?"

"Your friend Angelos. I thought he was with you." "He is," said Craig. "But it's better if you and he don't meet."

"Fair enough," said Joanna. "Then there's the Israeli pair. I had a look for them, Craig. They've disappeared." She hesitated. "Is that why Andrew's changing clothes with Kaplan?" Craig didn't answer. "Loomis was right. You really do like your pound of flesh." She turned to Miriam. "Doesn't he, darling?"

Royce and Kaplan came back and Craig fitted on the wigs Joanna had brought.

"These wouldn't fool anybody," said Royce.

They'd fool a man on a mountainside, watching a moving car, Craig thought.

Asimov would soon be ill. He'd taken another look at his wound, seen how inflamed it was. His temperature was rising too, and soon he'd have fever. But there was food enough to keep him going—last night he'd robbed the kitchen—and water in the mountain streams. And he didn't have to hold out for long. He was certain of it. The Land-Rover would be coming back soon, with Kaplan in it, and no matter what precautions Craig took, he, Asimov, would then kill Kaplan. The likelihood was that he would then die, of exposure and weakness, up here in the mountains, or by execution, if they hanged murderers in Cyprus. He didn't know. It was funny. He was going to commit a murder and he didn't know what the penalty was. Life imprisonment, perhaps. The British had abolished hanging, and maybe the Cypriots had too. Life imprisonment he could face, so long as the prison wasn't Volochanka, and he'd even escaped from there.

Asimov lay on his back, nursing his strength as Daniel had taught him. He was weary now, utterly weary, with a tiredness of the will that exhausted him as completely as the mine at Volochanka. He thought of the ten of them, the plot to escape, the lectures, the preparation, the training. They had all meant hope for the future, and with hope even Siberia is bearable. And when he and Daniel had escaped, they still had a reason to go on fighting life. Revenge, this time. An ignoble emotion, though the Elizabethans, he remembered, had made a whole literature out of it, with Hamlet as its finest flower. Love was better, the philosophers said, and he'd loved Daniel. He must have done, not to have stopped him that day in the Graydon. But revenge was better than nothing. It made you keep on living till you achieved what you set out to do. But it would be better if he could forget that day at the Graydon: the surprise on the girl's face just before she died: the man's agonized screams smothered by the gag. Daniel had been so skillful, and he'd stood by and watched.

Maybe he'd enjoyed-The thought was unbearable. If

it were true, it made him everything that Turk had said. No better than the guards at Volochanka, no better than Kaplan.

He began to think of a poem he had written in prison. A pattern of ice on a birch tree, and the dull red disc of the sun. Since they'd got out, he hadn't written a line of poetry. Couldn't. He looked up into the darkness of the pine tree that sheltered him. Behind it were the mountains of Troodos, rich, fat mountains, alive with hares, birds, fruit. If it weren't for his shoulder, he could live here indefinitely. From the distance he could hear the growl of a heavy engine. Asimov rolled over on to his stomach. The rifle was by his side, the shoulder of his jacket stuffed with grass to take the impact of its recoil. He was as ready as he would ever be.

Craig had rehearsed the move to the Land-Rover carefully. First Joanna, going quickly into the driver's seat, backing it up to the door, then Miriam, then Kaplan, limping, wearing a blond wig, then Royce in a white wig, then Craig, Kaplan and Craig acting like bodyguards. Royce got into the Land-Rover next to Joanna, and Craig sat beside him. Miriam and Kaplan were in the back. Joanna let in the clutch and drove off at once, and the four-wheel drive tackled the mud track as if it were an autobahn. Mindful of his instructions, she hit a good pace and kept to it.

"Something's up," Royce said at last. "And you know what it is."

Craig kept his eyes on the mountainside. Slopes and ridges, outcrops of rock; perfect sniper country.

"You've got no right to do this to me," said Royce, then yelled at the silence: "For God's sake, tell me what's happening."

"It's possible there's a sniper out there," said Craig.

Royce hunched down in his seat, and as he did so a bullet starred the window by Craig, smacked into Royce as they heard the report of a rifle. Joanna accelerated, and reached a corner in a burst of speed as Craig yelled instructions. The car skidded round the corner and stopped. Craig leaped out of it and raced up the side of the hill, rolled into cover behind a rock. From where he lay he could see Kaplan bending over Royce; Joanna getting out of the driving seat, examining the engine with what looked like frantic haste. He could see, too, a ripple of movement in the long grass on the mountainside, the movement of a man who had been trained to move with caution and skill. Craig took out the 9-millimeter automatic. It had nothing like the range of the rifle, but if Asimov came close enough, it would do.

The ripple of the grass came closer, and at last he could see Asimov's body as he wriggled his way between Craig and the Land-Rover. The group on the road didn't see him until he raised himself to his feet, the rifle held at the hip. Craig could see that he was swaying, very slightly.

Joanna and Miriam froze, as he had told them to do, but Kaplan panicked, turned and dived out of the car seat, racing across the road. And as he moved, Asimov saw him. He raised the rifle, his body swaying more than ever, though the gun was steady. Behind him, Craig got to his feet, his arm raised in the classic pistol-shooting position.

"Asimov!" he yelled, and the Russian checked, then started to turn, far too late. Craig fired once, then again, and the impact of the heavy bullets knocked Asimov sprawling, set him rolling over and over down the long, lush grass until he came to rest at last by the Land-Rover's front wheel. Joanna Benson looked down at him. Two wounds: one through the side of the head, one through the heart, fired from fifty feet away as he turned. Asimov had had no chance at all, and that was exactly as it should be.

Craig came slowly down to them, his eyes on Kaplan as he walked back across the road. Miriam, for the first time, saw emotion in his eyes, a boiling rage it took all his strength to contain. He looked down at Royce, picked up a spent bullet embedded in the floorboard of the car.

"Is he dead?" he asked.

"No," Kaplan said. "The bullet hit him across the neck. Creased a nerve, I think."

Craig pulled Royce upright. The bullet had furrowed a great gouge from his ear almost to his nape. He'd be marked for life, unless Loomis paid for plastic surgery, but he was alive. Joanna got a first-aid kit from the back of the Land-Rover, put lint on the wound and held it in place with tape.

"Poor Andrew," she said. "It's all I seem to do for him."

Still looking at Kaplan, Craig said, "Asimov wasn't so lucky. You damn fool, why couldn't you stay still and let me take him alive?"

"I was afraid," Kaplan said. "I can't help it, Craig. I'll always be afraid."

"That's what makes you so dangerous," Craig said. "You get scared and somebody else gets killed."

He bent, picked up the rifle, and dragged Asimov into a cleft behind a rock that hid him from the road. The face that looked up at him was suddenly ten years younger, smooth and untroubled. He'd lived through horror, and he'd seen and done terrible things, but he hadn't been irreclaimable, like Daniel. There had still been loyalty in him, and courage, and a zest for life. Something could have been done with Asimov, but not nearly as much as could be done with Kaplan. And so, thought Craig, he died. No. That was dishonest thinking. And so I killed him.

Royce recovered consciousness on the road to Nicosia. He looked up, and saw Craig beside him. "You bastard," he whispered.

"If it makes you any happier, the man who did it is dead," said Craig.

"You set me up for this, didn't you? You wanted it to happen."

"Rest," said Craig. "You're suffering from shock, poor boy."

Joanna had their air tickets and passports, luggage waited for them at Nicosia airport, and the fat man himself waited to see them off. The sight of Royce displeased him, and he said so. Royce closed his eyes as the great voice roared on. Craig took him to the bar.

"I had to do it that way," he said. "I knew Asimov was up in the hills with a rifle."

"You get him?"

"Yes," said Craig.

"That leaves Daniel."

"No," Craig said. "He's dead too."

"You have come back to life," Loomis said.

"My swan song. Anyway, I muffed it. I let Asimov get away. And Daniel killed Angelos."

Loomis looked at him and said carefully, "Rule number one in our business. Never have any chums."

"He wasn't my chum," said Craig. "He didn't like me at all."

"What was he, then?"

"My debtor."

"Not any more," said Loomis. "I reckon he's paid. Which reminds me—Royce is no good to you now either. D'you want me to send some people out from England?"

"We'll have to go to Athens to get to New York," said Craig. "Force Three could be waiting for us. I'll need a man there. A Greek if you've got one."

Loomis downed a massive jolt of local brandy, and wrapped on the counter for another.

"We got a bloke in Athens already," he said.

"I'll need him too," said Craig, and began to explain. When he'd finished, Loomis thought for a moment, then said, "It might work, cock. If you're as good as you think you are. But are you sure two men's enough? You don't want any help after that?"

"Benson's all I need," said Craig.

"At least she's on your side," said Loomis. Craig turned to him, wearily going through the motions of calm, hand steady as he lifted his glass, knowing he didn't fool Loomis for a second.

"What the hell does that mean?" he asked.

"She helped you get away, and we both know it. That day they had you and the Loman person prisoner in the barn, she measured you against Royce and opted for you. Why?"

"Royce tortured Miriam," said Craig.

"You're saying Benson's squeamish?"

"I'm saying she thinks ahead. Royce enjoyed his work —and it showed. And Benson saw it was a weakness. Look, Loomis—Benson talks like a deb and acts like an idiot with a daddy in the peerage, but she's as shrewd as you are. So she let me get away. It was her way of making a deal."

"And very nice too," said Loomis. "Except I'm the one who pays the bill. I must have a word with her about that. Royce too." He sighed. "Pity about that. He was damn good at the school. Think I should send him to a psychiatrist?"

"You could try," said Craig. "Too bad Asimov missed him, isn't it?"

"Tut tut," said Loomis. "The things you say."

"Like a couple of weeks ago. I said, 'You can hardly just let me go, can you?' And you said, 'No. I can hardly do that.'"

Loomis said, "One of these fine days I'll drop dead of overeating, and a nice little feller in a bowler hat and pinstriped underwear'll come and see you and offer you my job. What'll you do then, son?"

"Refuse."

"That may not be easy."

"I can always shoot myself," said Craig.

The flight call came then, and they went out to the aircraft. For once Loomis had been generous, and they traveled first class. Craig sat beside Kaplan, and they made the journey in silence. Joanna and Miriam didn't talk much either.

CHAPTER 14

They had four rooms in a hotel in Constitution Square. It was a pleasant hotel, big, shady, cool, with a fifty-year-old elegance that was already as valuable as an antique. The hotel was full of Americans just off to Delphi, Germans just back from Crete, Italians making a film, and Swedes absorbing sun and culture in such quantities that only the bar could save their sanity and their skins. Craig watched them as he waited for the lift. There were too many of them. Kaplan shouldn't stay here. And yet in America it could only be worse. When the lift doors opened, Craig watched approvingly as Joanna pushed Kaplan in ahead of her, her tall body covering him. Then Miriam went, and Craig last, his right hand inside his coat, ready, waiting.

The rooms were on the fifth floor, and the clang of contemporary Athens was muted below them. Athenians have never been an inhibited people: noise as an art form they find as convenient as any other, and cheap to practice. Craig sent Kaplan to his room, locked him in, and turned to the others.

"What do you want to do?" he asked.

"I want to go out," said Miriam. "I'm sick of being cooped up."

"All right," said Craig. "I'll go with you."

"If you want to," she said. "Wouldn't you sooner take a rest?"

"I would. Yes," Craig said. "I'm just worried about you, that's all."

"Oh, I'll be just fine," she said. "All I want to do is be a tourist for a while. Go to the Acropolis, maybe."

Joanna Benson opened her mouth, saw the look in Craig's eye and shut it again.

"Off you go, then," said Craig. "But don't be late. Pm waiting for a cancelation on a flight. If we eet it, we leave at dawn."

Before she left, Miriam kissed him. Then the door closed and Joanna Benson said, ''Darling-, I know she sleeps with you and all that, but aren't you being a teeny bit self-indulgent?"

"No," said Craig. "She'll be followed. I set it up with Loomis before I left."

The tall girl sighed her relief. "Do you think there's much danger in Athens?"

"Some," said Craig. "The CIA made a deal with Loomis —information for Kaplan. Then they subcontracted to Force Three. If Force Three picks up Kaplan here, Loomis doesn't get his information and I don't get my money."

"So you let her take a walk," said Joanna.

"I like to know who the opposition is," said Craig.

It was pleasant to be out alone, to walk across the square, to feel the press of an anonymous crowd about you. That reminded her of New York, and the thought made her smile. She had always hated the crowds in New York. She crossed the street to a cafe in the middle of the square, and Maskouri, who was following her, hoped she would sit down and drink coffee. It was much too hot to walk very far. She chose a table in the shady part, and Maskouri was relieved. Too many Americans liked to sit in the sun. He found a table nearby and ordered beer, sipped first at the glass of cold water that came with it. The Loman girl ordered a large, and, to Maskouri's eyes, disgusting ice cream, and spooned it up with enthusiasm. Then suddenly she hesitated. A tall American was approaching her. He was carrying a transistor radio, and it was playing a tune Maskouri recognized vaguely, and somehow associated with a sad-faced little man who played the piano. The American looked down at the girl, then said:

"Why, Miriam Loman! Well, for heaven's sakes. I was talking to Marcus just two days ago."

The girl smiled at him, and said "Hello," and asked him to sit down. Maskouri doubted that she had seen the tall American before, and this might be important. And once he'd sat down, he wasn't talking loud enough for Maskouri to hear. He wondered whether he should report back or not, when the American rose, took the girl's hand and said, "Great to see you, Miriam. Just great. Be sure to give my love to Marcus when you see him."

"Oh, I certainly will," said Miriam.

The tall American went off, and Miriam paid her bill, changing dollars with the waiter, then walked to the taxi rank. Maskouri got up to follow, and was promptly knocked flat by a couple of Americans, who apologized profusely for not looking where they were going. They picked him up and the grip they had on him seemed friendly enough, but Maskouri was sensible. He knew enough not to struggle. When the taxi had gone, one of the Americans said, "Sorry, feller," and offered him a cigar. Maskouri, being Athenian, was a philosopher. He accepted it.

"She's taking her time," Joanna Benson said.

"So's the man Loomis sent to Athens," said Craig. He looked at his watch. "He should have rung in an hour ago. I think we'd better make arrangements."

"Such as?"

"They'll come for Kaplan—alive. And to make sure of that, they'll immobilize us first."

"Immobilize? Do you by any chance think they'll kill us?"

"Not if they can avoid it," said Craig. "But the bloke Maskouri saw talking to her will do it if he has to. He'd prefer to use knockout drops or a bang on the head."

"Neither's terribly pleasant."

Craig grinned. "Neither's going to happen," he said. "Listen."

He began to talk; and first Joanna smiled, then laughed aloud.

"But darling, it's positively kinky," she said. "Get the silencer."

She produced it from her handbag and Craig screwed it on to the end of the Smith and Wesson, then broke the gun, looked into the magazine. Three shots left. But the silencer wouldn't last more than three shots anyway. After that he would have to fall back on the Webley, and an utter lack of privacy.

"You'd really use that thing on our allies?" the girl asked.

"I have no allies. I'm a free-lance," said Craig. "Yes, but even so-"

"Listen," said Craig. "These aren't nice, gentlemanly Ivy Leaguers from the CIA. These are professionals. The way you think you are."

"You'll find out," Joanna said.

"I always knew. Forgive the sarcasm," said Craig. "Just take my word for it. These are blokes the KGB would be proud of."

The phone rang. Craig picked it up and listened, then turned to her.

"That was Loomis's man," he said. "Miriam met two more Americans at the Acropolis. He couldn't get close enough to hear."

When Miriam returned, she found the others in Craig's room, having a meal of coffee and sandwiches.

"Aren't we dining downstairs?" she asked.

"No," said Craig. "Too risky. Have a sandwich. Joanna, pour Miriam some coffee."

"Risky?"

"Yes," said Craig. "I've had a premonition. Do you ever have premonitions, Miriam?"

Joanna handed her a sandwich. The whole thing was as English as a thirties farce: sandwiches and tinkling spoons, and the distinguished elderly foreigner who was about to upset his cup any minute. And there was farce in the way they were overplaying it, too. Farce or its nearest neighbor, violence.

"John," Miriam said. "What is all this?"

"An hour and a half ago I heard from a dark stranger," said Craig. "At least I expect he's dark. Most Greeks are.

Chap called Maskouri. You didn't see him, by any chance?"

"I didn't see anybody—except a man who used to know Marcus. But I got rid of him. Then I had some ice cream and went to the Acropolis."

Craig turned to Joanna. "Why would she he to me? A nice girl like that."

"Do have another sandwich," Joanna said to Miriam, then to Craig, "Patriotism, perhaps?"

"You mean the American she met told her it was in her country's best interests not to tell a soul that they had met?"

"He probably showed her a picture of Lyndon Johnson or Bugs Bunny or somebody."

"More likely music. Music to remind her of happy days. Junior Proms and old films on TV and traveling in the elevator at the Hilton. I bet he played her 'Stardust.' "

Joanna's eyes had never left Miriam's face.

"Do you know," she said, "I believe he did."

"You followed me," said Miriam. "But you got it wrong. He was a friend of Marcus."

"Good heavens, we British chappies don't have to follow people," said Craig. "We get ruddy foreigners to do that. No, love. We deduced it." He moved a step closer to her. "I'm afraid you're going to have to tell us, you know." She was silent. "Ah," he said. "I know what you're thinking. Royce isn't here, you tell yourself, and a decent chap like Craig wouldn't do things like that, and Miss Benson's an English gentlewoman after all. Sews Union Jacks on her panties. But that isn't the point, love. The point is we know they're in Athens."

"How could they be?" Miriam asked.

"Loomis sent a wire to that box number in Paris," said Joanna. "Told them the deal with Craig is off. And there's only three ways out of Cyprus, darling—Turkey, Israel, and Greece. They'll be watching them all. But it's the ones in Greece who'll get hurt."

Craig said, "We won't hurt you, Miriam, and I don't want to hurt them. You tell us what they're up to and we won't hurt them. If you don't—it might get a bit messy."

"You're angry with me—for what I've done," she said.

"If I am, I have no right to be."

"It's my country, John. My people."

He nodded. "And it's your people who'll get hurt—if you don't tell me."

"Don't you ever fight fair?" she asked.

"How can I?" said Craig. "Now, drink your coffee and tell me all about it."

Suddenly the mockery had gone. She was aware that he wanted to be kind to her, kind and uncomplicated, and that he was finding it difficult.

It was early morning, the dead hour, the hour of the ultimate spy. The one who will kill if he must. There were three of them. One stayed in the corridor, watching the rooms of Kaplan and Joanna, the others entered the room that Craig had given to Miriam. Her bed, they knew, was to the right of the room, facing the bathroom, and Craig would be in it. That had been Miriam's assignment, to get Craig into her bed, and she'd resisted it furiously at first. She'd taken a lot of convincing, but in the end she'd agreed. And having got him there, the team leader reckoned, she'd keep him pretty busy. Craig was a tough one. Exhausted or not, their instructions were to keep out of range of his hands. Those hands of Craig's could batter like steel clubs.

The lock specialist took out his skeleton key and got on with it. Hotel locks, even the locks of good hotels, didn't keep him waiting long. He probed with the casual skill of a surgeon performing a routine operation. Two tiny clicks sounded, and the lock specialist withdrew the key, slipped it into an oil bottle and inserted it again. Next time he turned it, the door opened without a sound, and he and the team leader entered in a whisper, the door drifted to behind them as they stayed still for a count of ten, their eyes grew used to the blackness.

At last, the leader touched the lock man. In the imperfect dark they could see the two shapes of bodies lying on the bed, one hunched over the other. The lock man moved to the wall, switched on the lights, and as he did so his right hand made an abrupt gesture, ending up holding a short-nosed Colt .45 fitted with a silencer. The leader stood six feet away from him, holding a similar gun, and one of the figures on the bed stirred and shot up indignantly.

For a moment the leader thought they'd gone into the wrong room—a mistake so elementary he wanted to kill himself—for the figure in front of him was that of a beautiful and very naked woman. He hesitated just a split second too long, and was already starting to turn when Craig's voice spoke behind him.

"Be sensible," said Craig. "You can't win them all. Guns on the bed, please."

The lock expert waited until the leader's hand moved, then he too threw his gun down. The gorgeous broad moved as if she was wearing clothes up to her chin, and tucked the guns under her pillow. The lock expert began to sweat, then sweated harder as she got out of bed and put on a negligee. She moved like a stripper and her body was perfect. The last thing the lock expert saw before Craig hit him behind the ear was the splendid curve of one deep, full breast. Craig caught him before he fell, lowered him to the floor. The leader turned then, fast, but the gun was already on him. When he looked up, the dark girl held a gun too, his own, and the leader had no illusions about its accuracy. In the bed, Miriam Loman slept. She, too, was naked. The dark girl pulled the covers over her.

"You got one outside?" asked Craig. The leader nodded, "Tell him to come in. You'll need some help with your friend."

The leader hesitated, and Joanna said, "I'd do what he says. Honestly I would."

"Come on in, Harry," the leader called, and Harry came in to see the team leader covered by Craig, and a broad in the kind of negligee they used to wear at Minsky's pointing a gun at him.

"Tell Harry what to do with his gun," said Craig.

"On the bed," said the leader, and Harry obeyed, and his gun went on the pillow.

"Sit down over there," said Craig, and nodded toward two chairs in the corner of the room. The leader moved first. "Stay away from the bed," said Craig. "This isn't a party."

Carefully, the two men sat.

"What is this? A dyke affair?" Harry asked.

"No, darling. The girls' dorm," Joanna said.

"Miss Loman seems a good sleeper," the leader said.

"I put a little something in her coffee," said Joanna. "Poor darling, she needs her rest. She's had too much excitement lately."

The leader nodded. Even with two guns pointed at him, he managed to look elegant enough for a whisky ad.

"You're looking better, Craig," he said.

"I'm feeling it," said Craig.

"No hard feelings, I hope?"

"None," said Craig, and spoke to Joanna. "This gentleman took me on a drug party in New York. I wound up telling him the story of my life." He turned back to the leader. "Do you have a name?"

"Lederer will do. Where's our mutual friend?"

"Dickens," said Joanna. "I adore intellectual conversation."

"In the bathroom," said Craig. "Go and take a look— but mind how you walk."

Lederer looked round the bathroom door. Kaplan sat strapped to the toilet, fast asleep.

"That's some coffee you serve," said Lederer. "I'll give you half a million dollars for him."

"I've got half a million dollars."

"A million—tax free."

"You shouldn't talk in such vast sums. It's what makes you Americans so unpopular," Joanna said.

"And guaranteed protection," said Lederer.

"I've already got a deal—with Loomis," said Craig.

"So has the CIA. He wants information. I'd sooner spend money."

"I'm sorry," said Craig. "I really am."

It was at that moment that Harry found it necessary to prove his manhood. A broad halfway through a burlesque routine seemed to him an insult to his maleness, even if she did hold a Colt .45. And anyway, he reasoned, a Colt is too big a gun for a broad. And with Lederer watching he'd be doing himself a whole lot of good. He'd been watching her, and sure enough the gun barrel had sagged, her concentration was all on Lederer and Craig.

Harry swiveled slightly on his chair. She took no notice. Careful to show no evidence of tension on his face or body, Harry prepared himself the way they'd taught him and made his grab. What happened was like a nightmare in slow motion. She seemed to have all the time in the world to bring the gun up, to choose the spot where the bullet would go. There was no tension in her eyes, only a glittering excitement as she pulled the trigger, the gun popped, and Harry felt as if the room had fallen on his shoulder before he lost consciousness. And all the time, Craig's gun stayed on Lederer.

"He's a little overexcitable," Lederer said.

Joanna went to him, opened his coat.

"He's lucky he's not a little dead," she said. "He didn't give me much time to choose a spot."

She went into the bathroom and came back with a towel.

"First they make one shoot them, then they expect one to patch them up. It's no fun being a woman," she said.

"The information Loomis is asking for is a little expensive," Lederer said to Craig. "Why don't you and I just settle this privately? I could go up to a million five."

"No deal," said Craig. "I'm sorry."

"It's too bad we need that bastard," said Lederer. "He costs too much."

Joanna looked up from Harry.

"What makes him so very expensive?" she asked.

"He can make the deserts blossom," said Lederer. "Put him down on sand and sea water and he'll turn it into an orange grove. It takes money and it takes technology, but he can do it. So we'll work out the technique, and sell it round the world."

"Sell it?"

"Not for money. As you say—we Americans have enough. For cooperation. For commitment." "You should start with Israel," Craig said. "We intend to."

"He's not exactly a willing worker," said Craig.

"He will be. Who else has he got but us?" He looked into Craig's eyes. "You don't like him much, do you?"

"I don't like him at all. But he's needed. A lot of better men died because of him, but the world hasn't any use for them. They couldn't do his trick."

"Give him a few years and he'll be just as friendly and lovable and integrated as any other millionaire," said Lederer. The lock expert groaned and twitched feebly.

"I guess we better be going," Lederer said. It sounded like a question.

"I think you had," said Craig.

"Just one thing I want to ask. How on earth did you know we were coming?" "We had her followed."

"Sure. I know that. Your local guy. We blocked him off before he could get near."

"We rather thought you would," said Craig. "You're very efficient. So we put another man on to her as well. Flew him in from England this morning."

Lederer accepted it without regret. "I guess we had it coming," he said. "One way or another, we gave you quite a runaround." He looked at the sleeping figure on the bed. "And Miss Loman."

"If your own operators hadn't been blown, you'd have got him yourselves," said Craig. "You did all you could do ¹—under the circumstances."

"The circumstances were lousy," Lederer said. "But at least we've got Kaplan."

"You will have, tomorrow," said Craig.

"You're flying him back?"

"BOAC. It was funny how every American airline just happened to have four seats available."

Lederer grinned. "Can't blame us for trying, son," he said. "Next time, we'll block you off before the operation even gets started."

"There won't be a next time," said Craig.

The man on the floor groaned again. He should have been happy.

For the Americans, getting out of the hotel was easy. They used the same drunken-party technique they'd used with Craig, a hundred-drachma note to a night porter, and a waiting Buick. When they'd gone, Joanna put down the gun, stretched her arms and sighed. Translucent silk slid over her hips, stretched taut across her breasts.

"What a very exciting night," she said.

"Stop being the middle pages of Playboy" said Craig.

She moved toward him.

"I feel like the middle pages of Playboy," she said. She stood very close to him, and kissed him. He made no response. "Is it her?" she asked, and looked at the bed.

"No," Craig said. "That's over. In a way, it never even started. It was all loneliness and fear and"—he struggled for the word—"compassion. It almost got her killed. She deserves better than anything I could give her."

"I don't," Joanna said. "I don't expect it. I don't want it. You're what I want."

"Is that why you let me go free?"

"Of course it was."

Craig laughed. "And I thought it was because you thought you had a better chance with me than with Royce."

Suddenly, she was laughing too. It made her more beautiful, more exciting than ever. Still kughing, she pressed herself against him once more.

"You and I will get on beautifully, darling. You've so much to teach me," she said. Her arms came around him. "And vice-versa, of course."

CHAPTER 15

They flew to Rome, and then to New York. This time the movie was about sex in the Deep South. Craig's sympathies were with the South. He had always understood it had problems enough without that. Back in time they went, eating the same plastic meals, drinking the exactly measured drinks; bored, restless, embalmed in space. Craig sat beside Miriam, and tried to think of ways of saying good-bye. There were none.

"I'm taking a holiday," she said. "I reckon I deserve it."

"Send the bill to Force Three," he said. "The least they can do is pay."

"I thought maybe you'd like to come along."

"You've had enough of me, and everybody like me."

"Listen," she said. "Sometimes I hate you. Sometimes I could kill you for the way you can always get a rise out of me. The way you look at life—the things you do—it hurts me even when I think of them. The trouble is I love you."

"The trouble is I make you unhappy."

"I was happy for five nights," Miriam said. "Maybe I was lucky it lasted so long. You said something like that to Kaplan—that night in Troodos. Only he had six months."

"Maybe he earned it," Craig said.

"After what he did?"

"After what he suffered. You had it rough, Miriam, and most of it was my fault, and I'm sorry. But Kaplan—we can't even begin to guess the things they did to him."

"What about the things he did to the Jews? His own people."

"He's paid for some of them," said Craig. "He'll go on paying. Even more than he owes."

"How?"

"The United States wants his knowledge—to help underdeveloped countries. They'll protect him, give him asylum, and in return he'll work on desert-reclamation problems."

"What's wrong with that?"

"The first place they'll send him to is Israel."

"Israel?"

"Can you imagine the propaganda the Russians will make out of that? The things they'll say about him? What he did to the friends who trusted him?"

"Israel won't accept him," Miriam said.

"Israel must," said Craig. "They need the water. But he'll never be one of them, love. He's alone now till he dies. You should pity him."

"He deserves it," the girl said. "He deserves much more. Even a Jew couldn't pity him, after what he'd done."

Craig leaned back in his seat. Maybe the best thing was silence, after all.

He'd hoped for a glimpse of Marcus Kaplan when they reached Kennedy, but instead they were whisked into a VIP lounge and a smart matronly person like a successful beautician took Miriam away as soon as they'd said goodbye. Three men waited for Kaplan. Two of them were Lederer and the lock expert, the third a scientist whom Kaplan recognized at once. The scientist began asking questions, and Kaplan's replies at first were hesitant, dredged up deep from the well of memory.

"It's been so long," he said.

"Wait till we get to Utah," the scientist said. "We have everything set up there under test conditions. You'll soon catch up."

He went on talking, and as they watched, Kaplan came to life.

"How's Harry?" Joanna asked.

"Mending," said Lederer. "But you've really shaken his faith in Western woman. If he doesn't watch it, he'll wind up a fag."

A chauffeur and two more men appeared, and Lederer tapped Kaplan on the shoulder. He started, and for a moment the fear returned, then he relaxed. He was important now, with a bodyguard of his own. Gravely he waited as the big men surrounded him, walked him to the door. Craig wondered if he'd lied to Miriam after all: if the Kaplans of the world ever paid back a cent.

He and Joanna were alone now, except for a short, stumpy figure who had waited for them patiently. Now he came forward: a chubby, benign man wearing hexagonal rimless glasses.

"Hi there," he said.

"Hi," said Craig. "How's the pentathol business?"

"That's what I came to see you about," said the benign man. "Oh, say. My name's Mankowitz. Excuse me, sugar." He walked Craig away from Joanna. "I came to ask if we could run some more tests on you."

"Who's we?"

"Force Three. You know that," Mankowitz said. "Mind you, last time you thought I was KGB. That helped. They really scare you, don't they? Come and see me. If you pass, there's a chance we could use you."

"Mr. Mankowitz, do you know how old I am?" asked Craig.

"Know everything about you. We really could use you, feller. If the tests work out. Tell you the truth, I could stand to know what happened to you during the last ten days. Last time I saw you, you were finished."

"I still am," said Craig. "Sorry."

"Suit yourself," Mankowitz said. "You ever change your mind, I'm in the book. First name Joel. Psychologist, 419 East 59th Street. That's in Manhattan."

"Isn't everything?"

"Cynicism suits your age group," Mankowitz said. "Work at it. And don't forget my address." He clapped Craig on the shoulder and was gone.

Because he was rich Craig took a taxi to the hotel in the West Forties. He and Joanna had suites booked already, and letters awaited them both. Craig's was a statement from the First National Bank that two hundred and thirty-nine thousand dollars were at his disposal and they awaited his instructions. His very truly. Joanna's was a brisk but cordial request from Loomis to get back as soon as she could. She handed it to Craig.

"How long have I got?" she asked.

"He'll usually hang on for two days. After that, he gets mad."

"That isn't what I meant," she said.

"I know it wasn't. Look, I've got to go out for a while."

"Must you?"

"Yes," said Craig. "Just to make sure this money's okay. Wait for me, will you?"

"I'm glad you said that, John." She began to loosen her coat. "It sounded as if you really wanted me to."

As he went down in the elevator, Craig thought It might be the last time he'd ever see her.

He came back two hours later with the beginning of a black eye and two inches of skin missing from his left elbow.

"Darling, what on earth did you do at the bank? Rob it?" she asked.

"The bank? No. The money's fine. I just beat hell out a man called Thaddeus Cooke," said Craig.

She was still shaking with laughter as they began to make love. Later they rose, dressed, drank in the murky twilight of the cocktail bar, ate at the Four Seasons. They were asleep when the knocking began, but she, like Craig, was awake at once. Quickly they put on dressing gowns, and Craig slipped the .38 into the pocket of his as she reached for her handbag.

"What is it?" asked Craig.

"Telegram for Mr. Craig."

Craig moved into the lounge, unlatched the door.

"Bring it in," he said. "The door's not locked."

He moved into the space behind the door. Suddenly it flew open, and Marcus Kaplan came into the room. In his hands was a skeet gun. He seemed almost crazy with rage, but the hands on the gun were steady. If I give him half a chance he'll blast me, Craig thought. The only sane thing to do is put a bullet in him now. But he couldn't. It was impossible. The realization flicked through his. mind as Marcus started to turn. Craig tossed his life up in the air like a coin, and took a long stride toward him, put the muzzle of the gun on Kaplan's neck. "Just drop it," he said.

Kaplan tensed, willing himself to turn and blast, and Craig found he couldn't even hit him.

Joanna's voice spoke from the bedroom door. "I shouldn't, Mr. Kaplan," she said. "You kill him and I'll kill you. You won't die quickly."

Kaplan's hands opened; the skeet gun thudded on the carpet. Craig grabbed it up and pushed on the safety catch, then went to the door. The corridor was empty, except for a long, soft leather bag. He brought it inside, and steered the other man to a chair. Marcus was crying. Craig opened the drinks cupboard and poured whisky.

"I'll have one too," said Joanna.

Craig offered one to Marcus, who pushed it away. He waited till the man's sobs died, and offered it again.

"Murder doesn't come all that easy to you," Craig said. "Take a drink, you need it."

Reluctantly, Marcus Kaplan accepted it, and choked it down. Craig poured him another.

"D'you want to tell me why, Marcus?" he asked.

"I've just finished talking to Miriam," Marcus said. "She told me—she told me-"

"She'd been to bed with me?"

"I hate you, Craig. I want you dead."

Craig waited once more, and Joanna came to the room and poured herself a drink.

Suddenly Marcus sprang from the chair and hurled himself at Craig, a pathetically unskillful attack; the onslaught of a civilized man who doesn't know how to hurt. Gently, Craig took hold of the clumsy hands and forced him back into the chair.

"Don't try it," said Craig. "You don't know how to."

He increased his pressure a little, and Marcus was still.

"Did she tell you how we became lovers?" Craig asked, and Marcus nodded. "And you can't forgive her for it?"

"Her? Of course I can," Marcus said. "I could have understood you, too. But you kicked her out, didn't you? For this—this-" He turned on Joanna.

"I did right," said Craig. "You know I did."

"You left her when she was helpless."

"It won't be for long," said Joanna. "And Craig has no future in the millinery business."

The words hit Kaplan like blows.

"Joanna, for God's sake," said Craig.

"But he's jealous, darling. Surely you can see that."

"I've never touched her," said Kaplan.

"But you'd like to, wouldn't you, Marcus?"

"Lay off," said Craig, and turned to Marcus once more. "It happened. There's nothing anyone can do. Accept that."

"No," Kaplan said. "One of these days I'll catch up with you. I swear it."

"Marcus, you're no good at this. That telegram gag's archaic," Craig said. "You don't even know how to hate. Believe me. I've seen experts. Forget about me. She's the one you should be looking after-"

"It's easy for you," said Kaplan. "You do this to her and just walk away-"

"I did rather more than that," said Craig. "I got her father back."

Joanna swirled round. The whisky slopped in her glass.

"She's your niece, isn't she?" Craig said. "Aaron's daughter. You brought her out of Germany in 1946. You should have told her, Marcus."

"I couldn't," Kaplan said. "By that time Russia was the enemy. I didn't want her to think her father was—one of them."

"Before we set out to get him," said Craig. "She had a right to know then."

"By that time she was virtually my daughter," Kaplan said.

"What about your wife?" asked Joanna.

"Ida never knew," said Kaplan. "Aaron wrote to me just after the war—but it was to the office. He asked me to look out for a girl he'd met. He'd been ordered back to Russia, and the girl had moved out into the Western zone. I—I didn't like to tell Ida. I faked a business trip to Europe and went to see her. Brigitte, her name was. Brigitte Hahn. She was dying then—tuberculosis. Aaron hadn't even known she was pregnant. I adopted the baby—it was easy then. She didn't look like Aaron at all."

"What did Ida say?" Joanna asked.

"I told her I'd found her in a Jewish orphanage. That I couldn't resist her. Ida loved her as soon as she saw her," Kaplan said.

"Why Loman?" asked Craig.

"It was the name on her papers," said Kaplan. "Forged papers. They cost me seven hundred dollars. It was like investing in Paradise." He sipped at his drink. "How did you know, Craig?"

"I guessed it," said Craig. "It fitted so well it had to be true. Except—you still haven't told me why you kept quiet before we went to Turkey."

"I wanted to find out if she loved him," Kaplan said.

"And now you know. She hates him. What are you going to do, Marcus?"

"What can I do?"

"Keep quiet."

"But she's his daughter."

"He doesn't deserve a daughter like that—but you do," said Craig.

"But I came here to kill you," said Marcus.

"That's part of it. Go home, Marcus. Put your skeet gun in its nice leather bag and go home."

He watched, empty-handed, as Marcus Kaplan picked up the gun and packed it into its container.

"You take some terrible chances, John," Joanna said,

Marcus looked up, genuinely puzzled.

"Oh," he said. "The gun. Believe me, Miss Benson, I wouldn't—I mean, I'm very sorry, I-"

"Forget it," Craig said. "Just tell me how you knew I was here."

"This was the thirty-fifth hotel I phoned," said Kaplan. He picked up the bag. "Well-" he said.

"Forgive me," said Joanna, "but didn't anybody ask you what was in your bag?"

"Why should they?" asked Kaplan. "Some very important people shoot skeet."

He left then, and Joanna snorted with laughter. This time Craig didn't join in.

"Darling," she said. "Wasn't he funny?" "Hilarious," said Craig. "But he had to break his heart to do it."

Next morning, Craig went through what he intended to be a ritual for the rest of his life. After bathing, shaving, and ordering breakfast, he looked first at his bank statement, then at the letter Loomis had signed. The bank statement was fine; the letter was a blank page. Craig held it to the light, ran a finger over its surface. It was a blank paper and nothing more. He went into the bedroom and woke Joanna, held the paper out in front of her.

"You knew, didn't you?" he asked.

She shrugged. There was no sense in denial.

"Yes, darling. That's why we made you wait a day. Loomis didn't need authority. He needed the ink. It had to be flown out from London."

"The bastard," said Craig. "The great, fat, cunning bastard."

"You've still got two hundred and thirty-nine thousand dollars," she said, then. "He gave me a message for you." "Well?"

"We can travel back together if we want to. Economy. If we go back first we pay the difference."

Craig took off his coat, began to loosen his tie.

"What on earth are you doing?" she asked.

"I've got two days of freedom," said Craig. "I'm going to enjoy them."

"But you said you'd show me New York."

"You can begin with this ceiling," said Craig.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

James Munro was born in 1926 in the north of England. Since his graduation from Oxford, he has worked in a shipyard, in the Civil Service, as a travel courier and as a teacher. He is the author of The Man Who Sold Death, Die Rich Die Happy, and The Money That Money Can't Buy, as well as other novels, short stories, and television plays. He has two children and lives with his wife in London.