by James Munro
"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.
