The Innocent Bystanders c-4

by James Munro

  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."