by James Munro
"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.
