by James Munro
"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 transfer
red 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.
