by James Munro
She said quickly, "I feel great—but I'm still scared."
He turned to her then, and his hands were gentle on her, coaxing yet slow, as she had been to him, till the girl cried out aloud, her arms came round him, taking him to her.
CHAPTER 8
They drove through Kirikkale, then on to Kayseri, climbing the foothills of the Taurus Mountains. The road was bad now, the pavement giving out for long stretches, but the Mercedes took all it was given, and came back for more. They passed hamlets of mud and stone, tiny fields wherever there was water, and where there was not— scrubland, goats, and sheep. Gas stations were a rarity, and whenever he passed one Craig filled up the tank, paying in Turkish lire this time.
Once a police car followed them, then shot past them, waving them down. The girl was frightened, but Craig was unhurried, and wound down his window as the two policemen came up to him, thin and hard and dark as gypsies. One of them spoke a little French, and asked them if they were lost. Craig said they were not. They were going to Iskenderun to consider the possibility of making a film there. The policeman was impressed, and gabbled to the other man in Turkish, then asked if Craig had ever met Brigitte Bardot, and Craig said no, but he'd met a man who had. The policeman asked if they were American, and Craig said they were. His partner then took a deep breath and said, "Hey, Joe. Gimme some whisky and a broad." Craig applauded then, and scowled at Miriam till she applauded too. The French-speaking policeman then explained that his partner had fought in Korea, Craig handed round Chesterfields and they were free to go.
They drove on sedately to the next bend, then Craig put his foot down. "My God," said the girl.
"Take it easy. They were bored and they wanted cigarettes. When trouble comes, it won't be wearing a uniform."
It came at Volukari, eighty miles farther on. Craig had stopped yet again for gas and the girl had gone into the fly-festooned shack beyond it that said cafe. He sat and waited, looking at the town that seemed to be in training for its next famine. Tired houses, unpaved streets, people who owned nothing but time, but in time they were millionaires. The women, he supposed, were bored at home; it was a crowd of men and boys who watched his tank fill up; the big excitement of the day. And then they had another excitement: the peremptory blast of a horn, the squeal of tires that longed for tarmac and met only dirt, then an E-type Jaguar went by, and the crowd exploded into comment. Four foreigners in one day. If things kept up at this rate they'd have to organize a festival. Miriam came back, and the crowd settled down to watch again, careful not to miss a single detail, the flick of her skirts, the glimpse of knee before the door closed. Craig's mind was elsewhere; he was thinking of the E-type. The man driving it was Andrew Royce, the girl beside him Joanna Benson.
"I've just seen two more film producers," he said, "and we're both after the same property."
He had no doubt that Royce and Benson had seen him.
They drove on into the evening, through Iskenderun, on past a little beach where somebody optimistic had built a little white hotel, with beach umbrellas and fairy lights and a couple of discouraged palm trees like thin old ladies. It seemed like a good place to stop if you drove an E-type, but there was no sign of it. Instead they picked up an elderly Fiat truck that rattled along behind them, then dropped slowly back as they drove round the bay and came at last to Kutsk, a gaggle of fishermen's huts huddled round a mosque, with one larger building, just as dirty, just as decrepit as the others, coffeeshop, bar, and restaurant combined. With any luck, it would be the hotel, too.
"Welcome to the Kutsk Hilton," said Craig.
He got out and stretched stiffly, near exhaustion, not daring to yield to it. The E-type could cover a hell of a lot of country, even this country. He took the girl's arm and led her inside the coffeeshop.
She found herself in a world of men. In Turkey, she realized, a man's business was to drink coffee; a woman's was to make it. The silence that greeted her was absolute, and she moved closer to Craig. The room was long and narrow, with deal tables and chairs. One unshaded light bulb competed unsuccessfully with cigarette smoke and flies. The room smelled—had smelled for twenty years— of cigarette smoke, sweat, and coffee. It reeked of coffee. The proprietor, a chunky man who smelled like his property, came up and stood in front of them without enthusiasm. Around him his customers looked on, like men pleased with themselves at being in on something good. Craig tried him in Arabic, French, and Greek, with no reaction. In the end he resorted to pantomime, and the patron nodded his understanding and relaxed enough to jerk a thumb at a table. The villagers relaxed then; the show was over. Someone switched on a radio, and they began at once to shout over it as a woman brought plates of fish stew, bread, and water to Craig's table. The girl looked at it dubiously.
"Eat," said Craig. "It'll be good."
It was, and Miriam discovered how hungry she was. Craig ate left-handed, and watched the door. When the stew was gone, the woman brought coffee, and with it an aging man who smelled of fish walked up to Craig and bowed, then began making noises with his mouth. At first the girl thought he was singing, then realized, incredulously, that he was speaking English, but English of a kind she had never heard before. Craig pulled over a chair and signed to the woman to bring more coffee. The aging man went on talking English with a combined Turkish and Australian accent. He had fought in Arabia in the First World War and been captured by Australian Cavalry. Was Craig an American, he asked, and when Craig said he was English he was delighted, or so Craig deduced. "Good on you, cobber" were the words he used. He went on to make it clear that, what trouble Russia hadn't made, America had, and asked how he could serve Craig. A room? Of course. His son owned this appalling coffeehouse, but it had one room for Craig and his wife. A good room. Almost an English room.
He led them to it. It was behind the coffee room and the racket was appalling, but it was clean. Craig remembered where he was, and made a long speech in praise of the room. The aging man was delighted.
"You know your manners, sport. My oath you do," he said, then bowed again. "My name is Omar."
"John Craig."
Still remembering his manners, Craig made no move to introduce Miriam as his wife or anything else, and Omar, remembering his, didn't look at her.
"Sorry I wasn't around when you came in," Omar said. "I was sleeping." He yawned. "You come far?"
"Ankara," said Craig, and Omar's eyes widened. Craig might have said the moon.
"You have business here?" he asked.
"Maybe," said Craig. "Perhaps we can talk tomorrow?"
"Too right," said Omar, and turned to the door.
"D'you get many English here?" Craig asked.
The aging man giggled.
"Before today I hadn't set eyes on a Pommy for fifty years," he said, and left them.
Craig locked the door. When he turned round she was removing her dress, but her eyes were angry.
"Why do I have to be British?" she said.
"You don't like us?"
Again the blush came. "Oh you," she said, then the anger came back. "I love my country."
Americans, he thought. With their passion for precision. Love is a pure word: color it red, white, and blue. When would they get away from primary colors?
"Usually I'm quite fond of the old place, sometimes I adore it, sometimes I absolutely loathe it." Was it possible to be as ambivalent as that to a fact as enormous as America?
"If you love it you want to help it," he said. "And you can help it best by letting Omar think you're British."
"You're treating me like a child again."
"No—an innocent American," he said. "I'm a wise European."
"And decadent too?" "You tell me," said Craig.
"Henry James would have loved this one," said Miriam. "Who?"
She sighed, came up to him, put her arms round his neck and kissed him.
"Would a wise European help an innocent American take off her bra?"
They came in soundlessly, surely, t
he way they had been taught—the man at the window, the girl at the door. It was early morning, half light, but that was light enough. The man carried a 9-millimeter Walther automatic, thirteen shot, a stopper. The girl had a .32 revolver, a neat little job with a cross-checked butt. Nobody ever stopped anything with a .32. The girl was a dead shot. They stood holding the bed in their crossfire, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the dark, picking out the masses of the shapes on the beds, ears strained for the faint sound of breathing in the most profound sleep of the night. Suddenly the light came on, and behind them a voice they knew and detested said, "Pascoe would have been proud of you."
Joanna Benson froze, Andrew Royce began to turn.
"No," said Craig, and Benson stayed sail. Miriam Loman sat up in the bed, frightened, bewildered, and pushed away the bolster she had lain against.
"Guns on the bed," said Craig. The armed man and woman made no move to obey, and Craig, by the light switch, risked a quick look at Miriam. The terror was still there.
Omar's voice said, "Your gun on the bed, Mr. Craig."
He stood in the doorway; in his hands was a single barreled shotgun. It was old, but serviceable, and it pointed straight at Miriam.
"I'll drop your sheila, Mr. Craig," Omar said.
The Smith and Wesson landed at Miriam's feet, and Royce scooped it up, slipped it into his pocket and nirned to Craig.
"Thanks, Omar," he said. "Come and join us, Craig." He gestured with the Walther. "Come on."
Warily, ready for a blow, Craig moved forward. The shotgun still pointed at Miriam's breast.
"You lied to me, Omar," he said. "You disappoint me."
"No," Omar said. "I told you that before today I hadn't seen a Pommy for fifty years. That was the truth, Mr. Craig."
Royce stepped back out of Craig's line of vision, but the barrel of Joanna Benson's gun was aimed steadily at his heart.
"Why did you do it?" Miriam asked. "I thought you liked us?"
"I do like you," said Omar, and his voice was indignant, "but I like money more."
Royce struck then, using the edge of his hand with a careful economy of strength. Craig fell across the foot of the bed.
"You're right," Royce said. "Pascoe will be proud of us."
He came back to consciousness in a stone shed that smelled of animals. He was lying on straw, and the straw stank. The shed was lit by an oil lamp hung high on the wall. His hands were tied behind him, and his neck ached vilely where Royce had hit him. His wrists, too, ached to the construction of the wire that was cutting into him, but he lay still, not moving, eyes closed, letting his mind and body regain strength.
Joanna Benson's voice said, "I think he's conscious."
The toe of a shoe crashed into his ribs, and he gasped with the pain. Pain he could see coming he could control, but pain from nowhere made the body's reaction inevitable.
Royce said, "He's conscious."
Hard hands grabbed him, propped him against the wall of the shed. His head lolled forward. He needed time to recruit his strength.
"We brought your girl, too," said Joanna Benson, and his head came up then. Royce chuckled. Miriam sat in the straw a few feet from him, and before them Royce and Benson stood. Royce's gun wasn't showing, but Benson still held her .32. They looked relaxed, strong in the arrogant beauty of youth. The weight of Craig's years had never been so heavy.
"You're an innocent American," Royce said. "I'm a wise European."
"And decadent too?" Joanna Benson asked.
"You tell me," said Royce.
"Would a wise European help an innocent American to take her bra off?" Joanna Benson said. She even got the accent right. Miriam stood up, screaming.
"Stop it," she yelled. "Stop it. Stop it. Stop it."
"Sit down, darling," said Benson. "You're not being dignified."
"You have no right to do this," Miriam sobbed. "No right."
"Tell me, Craig," said Benson. "Treat her like a child again."
No, Craig thought. Not even a child. Any kid over there could follow the logic of their situation.
"Sit down, Miriam," he said wearily. "Sit down and be quiet. She's got the gun."
Miriam slid down into the straw, pressed her hands to her face. Benson looked at her. The look was that of one fighter appraising another before the bell went for the first round.
"You must do something very special, darling," she said. "I got absolutely nowhere."
Royce said, "I think we'd better get on with it," and Benson shrugged.
"Loomis is very angry with you," Royce said. "He told us to kill you."
"In certain circumstances," said Benson, and Royce nodded agreement.
"In certain circumstances. Those circumstances are almost fulfilled."
"But you can't," said Miriam. "He's on our side."
"No, darling," Benson said, "he's on your side. We,"— the .32 flicked to Royce and herself—"we are on our side."
Miriam's body tensed in the straw and Craig snarled at her, "For God's sake sit still."
Benson laughed, a husky, very feminine laugh.
"You really picked an innocent, Craig," she said. "I don't believe she's worked it out yet."
Royce said to him, "Perhaps you'd better tell her. She'd take it better from you."
Craig turned to her then, and for the first time Miriam could read emotion in his eyes, a vast and weary compassion.
"If they kill me," Craig said, "they won't leave any witnesses .. . I'm sorry."
The girl swerved round, staring at him.
"I don't believe it," she said. "I simply don't believe it."
"But you will," Benson said. "When it happens—you'll believe it all right. Won't she, Craig?"
He made no answer. Whether she was enjoying herself or simply softening him up, there was no need to help her. Royce took a quick step forward, his foot moved, finding the place he'd hit before. But this time Craig saw it coming. He made no sound.
"Answer the lady," said Royce. Craig shrugged.
"She'll know nothing," he said. "She'll be dead. Like me. Like both of you, in all probability."
"Loomis said you never gave up," said Joanna Benson. "Let's go on about your death." She waited a mcment. "It's the best offer we can give you, you know .. . death. Once you've told us where Kaplan is."
"But you know where he is," said Craig.
"Kutsk," said Royce. "That's all we've got. We reckon you have more."
"Why should I?" Craig asked.
"Because you went to see Marcus Kaplan," Joanna Benson said. "Because she's here with you. There has to be more, Craig."
Craig said, "That's all I got." Royce's shoe came back. "I came here looking for you."
The leather cracked again on his rib cage. Once more, and the ribs would break.
"Wait," Benson said. "We'll have time for aE that." She came closer to Craig. "Look, darling," she said, "if this place was all you had, why did you bother coming? You knew we'd be ahead of you."
"At Volukari you were behind me."
"We were looking for you," Royce said. "We got a tip-off you were coming. You weren't all that hard to find."
"You switched cars, didn't you? Followed us in a Fiat van?"
"Yes," Benson said. "Don't waste time, Craig. If all you knew was the town, why did you come?"
"To hijack him from you," said Craig.
Royce drew back his foot again, but Benson spoke quickly, stopping him.
"It makes sense," she said. "You know what he's like— the middle-aged wonderboy."
"But Loomis said-" Royce began.
"Loomis said somebody knew where Kaplan is, and somebody does." She turned to Miriam. "Right, Miss Loman?"
Craig said, "You're completely wrong. She doesn't know a thing. I made her come here."
"How?" Joanna Benson asked. "By stealing her bra? Come on, darling. We know you're not that stupid." She moved closer to Miriam. "Force Three sent you, didn't they? They told you to let Craig pick you up. They told
you to let him take you to Turkey. Help him get Kaplan out. Let him kill us, or the Russians if they were handy, and then let their boys take over." Her dark eyes burned into Craig. "You knew that all the time, didn't you, darling? But once you'd got Kaplan—you thought you could bargain."
Miriam said, "It isn't true. He did force me-"
"The innocent American," Joanna Benson said.
"That was later. It just happened. I was scared. I-"
"No True Confessions," said Benson. "Just tell me where Kaplan is."
"But I don't know. I honestly don't know." Benson said, "Let me tell you about this place—and him." She nodded at Royce. "It's a barn. Part of a farm. The farmer and his family are away. There isn't another human being in five miles. You can scream pretty loud I should think, darling—you've got the build for it—but you can't scream five miles' worth. Now, our friend here. Where we trained, he did the interrogators' course. I gather he has a talent for it—and with talent there usually goes a certain amount of enthusiasm. He'll hurt you, darling. Later on you'll be amazed how very much he did hurt you. You wouldn't believe your body could stand so much pain. You'll hate him, of course, but you'll hate yourself more. Because you'll have told him, you see. All that pain will have been for nothing." She looked down at Miriam. "Now tell me, darling. Honestly, you'll do it anyway. Won't she, Craig?"
"Yes," said Craig. "She'll tell you." He began to curse them both, a measured stream of the filthiest invective his mind remembered. Benson and Royce ignored him. Their whole concentration was on the girl.
"But I don't know," Miriam said. "Honestly I don't."
Royce hit her, a hard right that left her sprawling in the straw. His hands went to his pockets and came out with a noose of wire. Quickly he twisted her hands behind her back, drew the noose around them till the girl screamed in pain as he twisted the wire to a spike in the wall.
"Shh, darling," said Benson. "He hasn't started yet."
Royce sat on her legs, pulled the golden zipper of the dress, let it split open down her body. His hands moved again, and Craig turned away, tasting the horror of it, knowing what was to come. Suddenly Miriam screamed again, but not as she had screamed before. A blow hurts and you yell, but the pain is not so strong, and diminishes all the time: but this, this is appalling, degrading, unbearable, and its rhythm intensifies, this terrible, scalding thing he's doing: it never stops, it goes on, gets worse. Her screams ceased to be human, became an animal bellow of agony, continuing even after he'd stopped, he'd hurt her so much, so that in the end he had to strike her across the face, a savage left and right to bring her back to the awareness of the room, the man's weight on her legs, the woman looking down at her. The screams choked to sobs: the terror stayed in her eyes.
