by James Munro
"Tell us where Kaplan is, Miss Loman," Benson said.
"Please," Miriam begged, "please believe me. I don't know." The man's hand moved and she screamed out, "I want to tell you. Honestly I do. But I just don't know."
Then the hand moved, the noises began again; the pain grew worse and worse, settled at a high peak of unbearable intensity, then again the blows on her face brought her back to reality.
"Three minutes," said Miss Benson. "He's only done it for three minutes . . . We've got all day, Miss Loman. How long have you got?"
"Don't know," Miriam said, over and over. "Don't know . . . Please."
Craig said, "Can I suggest something?" Benson nodded. "Give me ten minutes with her. Alone . . . She'll tell you."
"Royce is the expert," Benson said.
"I don't need to hurt her," said Craig.
"What then?"
"Talk to her." The disbelief in her face was clear. "What does it matter what I do, if I give you what you want? Ten minutes," he went on. "Suppose I fail. You said yourself—you've got all day."
"Why bother, Craig?"
"I don't want her to be hurt any more."
"You'll recall that once she tells us you'll die?"
"I recall that very well. I still don't want her to be hurt."
Again the dark eyes looked into his. She examined him as if he were a member of an alien species; one she'd been briefed on.
"Ten minutes," she said.
"And my hands free?"
Royce wanted to protest at that, but she moved behind Craig and her hands found the slip-knot, eased him free. The release was agony: the renewed insulation of blood so painful he had to exert all his strength not to yell. He looked at Royce.
"You did this," he said.
"My pleasure," said Royce, and got up from Miriam, looked down at Craig, eager for the word that could unleash the power to hurt. Craig looked at him empty-eyed.
"I don't like this," Royce said. "It's better to use the girl. With his hands free-"
"If he tries anything I'll kill him," said Benson. "He knows that."
"I don't trust him," Royce said.
"You like hurting people," said Benson. "Miss Loman just warmed you up. But we didn't come here to get you your kicks, Andrew."
"We came here for Kaplan," Royce said. "There's only one way to get him."
Benson looked down at the gun in her hand. It pointed between Craig and Royce, an impersonal menace.
"You can have ten minutes' rest," she said. "You go first." Royce hesitated for a moment, then left. Benson looked down at Craig.
"There's a bucket and towel over there," she said. "Clean her up if you want to, darling. Andrew can always do it again."
She left then, and Craig unhooked the wire round Miriam's wrists, soaked the towel in water, placed it on her. Even the touch of the towel made her cry out. He held it against her, and gradually the agony on her face faded.
"Oh, my God, that's good," she whispered. Then the fear came back. "But he'll do it again, won't he?" She began to cry, dry, racking sobs, and he took her in his arms, drew the dress around her.
"You really don't know where Kaplan is?"
She shook her head. "If I did—I'd try to hold out against him. But I don't think I could. Not much longer. As it is—I guess it's all for nothing. What he did to me."
"The postcard," Craig said. "Marcus didn't lose it, did he? He left it with you. What was on the postcard? Can you remember?"
"What's the use, John?" she said. "I don't know where he is."
He held her more tightly.
"Ten minutes isn't long," he said. "Just answer my questions."
"It had a picture on it," she said. "A flock of sheep and a shepherd leading them."
"What sort of shepherd?"
"Just an old man with a walking-stick."
"Traditional sort of clothes?" She shook her head. "What was the message?"
"He'd written it in Hebrew. It meant something like— 'This is a lovely place. The old man reminds me of old
Rabbi Eleazar. Do you remember how he used to read the psalms to us? He was a good shepherd to us, wasn't he? I miss him very much, and you too, Marcus. Be happy. Aaron.' That was all."
"Nothing else?" said Craig. "You're sure?"
"Just the postmark, Kutsk. Marcus hired a private detective from Istanbul to come down. Nobody had ever even heard of him. But he must have been here, mustn't he?"
"You're sure there was nothing else?" She was silent for a moment, examining the postcard in her mind.
"Just the date," she said. "That was funny too. He'd written it the Jewish way." "How is that?"
"We're in the year 5725. Aaron wrote 2.23.5725. Some lousy postal service." "Why?" asked Craig.
"Two must be February," she said. "The postmark on the card was April. Marcus got it in May."
Craig said, "When were you supposed to tell me all this?" He felt her body stiffen, and went on. "You were, weren't you? Force Three set you up for me, didn't they? Just as Benson said."
She nodded. "They told me what to tell you—but when you made me come with you they said that was all right too. I phoned them, you know. When I went to the John."
"Of course you did," said Craig. "Sometimes I thought you were never going to ask." "But when did you know?"
"Right from the start," he said. "It was all too easy. A
girl in a fur coat—and almost out of it-"
"I hated that," said Miriam.
"It's not a thing you forget," said Craig. "I was supposed to follow it up. Tell Loomis. Force Three knew he'd send somebody. It turned out to be me instead."
"But you knew it was a trap."
"There were nothing but traps," Craig said. "Yours was the prettiest. And it got me nearer Kaplan." He looked at his watch. "What did they tell you to tell me?"
Ill
"About the postcard," she said. "It seemed so stupid." "Not stupid at all," said Craig. "I'm surprised Marcus didn't see it." "See what?" "Where his brother is."
Cautious not to hurt her, he zipped up her dress. When Benson and Royce came back, they were sitting apart. This time, both the man and the woman carried guns.
Benson said, "I hope you've got good news, darling."
"Me, too," said Craig. "But at least I can tell you where he's been."
"Get on with it, then," said Royce.
"Marcus Kaplan got a postcard. There was a picture of a shepherd on it, leading his flock. The message was signed Aaron—his brother. The text had a reference to a rabbi they'd both known as children—that proved it came from Aaron. The rabbi had taught them the psalms. The whole thing was written in Hebrew—even the date: 2.23.5725."
"So?" said Royce.
"2.23," said Craig. "It could be February twenty-third —except the card was postmarked April. On the other hand, if we remember the shepherd on the front of the card, it could be the Twenty-third Psalm—second verse."
"Go on," said Benson.
"Do you happen to know what that is?"
" 'He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters,'" Benson said, and added: "I once had to write it all out ten times. So useful, being taught by nuns."
"Then there was the date—5725," said Craig.
"That's a distance in yards, do you think?"
"No," said Craig. "Kaplan's a Russian. My guess is it means meters."
"Green fields and a lake," said Benson. "About six thousand meters from here. Which direction?"
"You'll need a map," Craig said. "That's all she knows. She didn't even realize she knew that—till I got it out of her."
"Maestro," said Benson, and bowed. Royce raised his automatic.
"What a fool you are, maestro," he said. "You're going to die."
"Well, actually, darling, not quite yet," said Benson. "We do have to be sure he's telling the truth." She turned to Miss Loman. "And that she told him the truth."
"Do we leave them here?"
"They'l
l be safe for a little while," Benson said. "Get the car."
"What about tying them up?"
"I'll do that," Benson said. "Give me the wire." He handed it to her. "On your tummies, darlings," said Benson.
Royce watched as she drew the wire over Miriam's hands, heard the sharp gasp of pain, then went outside. Minutes later he came back, holding a large-scale map of the area. Craig and Miriam lay face down, wrists bound behind them, feet tied to staples in the wall. He grinned. "Not even love could find a way," he said.
"You've hardly made it worthwhile to try," said Benson. "Any luck?"
"Three possibles," Royce said. "It shouldn't take long."
Benson crouched down by Craig. "We'll do the whole thing in a couple of hours," she said. "Then we'll kill you, Craig. Sorry and all that, darling—but you know what Loomis is like." She got up then, and left them.
Miriam lay in the straw, biting her lip to stop herself from crying out. The pressure of her body was bringing back the pain. Beside her she could hear the movements of Craig's body as he fought against the wire that held him. The fool, she thought. The poor, brilliant, stupid fool. To stop me being tortured he gets himself killed, and now he's trying to burst his bonds like a comic strip hero. The movement of his hands must be agony, she thought. Even lying still was almost more than she could bear.
"Save it, John," she said. "We're going to die. Accept it."
The writhing movements went on beside her.
"Look," she said. "You did it to stop me being hurt any more. All right. I couldn't take any more. I wanted to die. I really did. All right. I got what I wanted. I don't blame you for it. Only please will you stop fighting? It's just no use."
The writhing stopped at last, and then he was bending over her, untwisting the wire at her ankles and wrists. She sat up cautiously, and he rubbed her wrists and ankles, chafing back the circulation.
"I don't believe it," she said. "It isn't possible."
"No," he said. "It's impossible. Unless the girl who tied you up did it wrong."
"You mean that man-eating debutante made a mistake?" Miriam asked. "Oh, I like that very much. I love it."
"No," said Craig. "Benson doesn't make mistakes. She meant it."
"But why?"
"We'll find out later. She also meant it when she said we had just two hours to get out of here. Otherwise Royce will kill us."
"She didn't say that."
"She meant it. She handled Royce as well as anyone could handle him, but there are limits with his kind. Believe me, I know."
He looked round the shed as he talked. The door was four great slabs of wood, hard and old, and bolted on the outside. The windows were too tiny even for Miriam to squeeze through. Patiently, he sought the straw for some kind of tool, but there was nothing. He went to the door again, tested its heavy strength. It could have stood up against a charging bull.
"She was only teasing us," said Miriam. "Making it worse."
"There's a way," said Craig. "There has to be."
He grubbed in the straw again and found a couple of horse blankets, heavy, ancient things that stank to heaven. Quickly he began to pile the straw up round the door, working with care, clearing the rest of the dirt floor, then threw a blanket to her, took one himself, and moved the bucket of water back to the window.
"Get over here," he said.
She obeyed him, and he lifted the oil lamp from its hook, hefted it in his hand, then moved back to join her. "Benson doesn't make mistakes," he said. "But Royce
does. He left the lamp burning—and it's daylight." He soaked the blankets with the water, then flicked his wrist. The lamp spun through the air, then burst like a bomb against the door. She had never believed that a fire could take place so quickly. There was a bang, as the lamp burst, and the blazing oil streamed down into the straw, tongues of flame reared up like waves, searing the side of the door, and the blast of heat made her throw up her hands to cover her face. Even pressed against the farthest wall, the temperature was almost unbearable. Pieces of burning straw spiraled up in the warm air, then drifted down on them. Craig pushed closer to the window as the room filled with stifling smoke. She stood there, whimpering softly, convinced that he'd gone crazy, that they'd burn to death.
Streaming-eyed, coughing, he watched the fire take hold of the door, reduce its weathered hardness to flame. At last, before the smoke made him unconscious, he went to the door, hands wrapped in the towel, holding the blanket in front of him like a shield, but even so the heat seared him through the heavy cloth. He drew up his knee, then kicked flat-footed at the burning door, aiming for the bolt, using every ounce of the karate skill. The flames bit into his leg, and he drew back his foot and kicked again, feeling the door yield slightly but not enough. Another kick was needed, delivering it a task almost beyond his powers. Sobbing, he went closer, bent his knee, kicked, and the bolt gave, the door swung open. He turned to Miriam.
"Put the blanket round yourself," he yelled. "Come on."
But she stared at the flames and stayed, motionless. Her nerve had gone. Craig went back to her, wrapped one blanket round her, swathed the other over them both. When she realized what he was going to do she struggled, till he swore at her, threatening, and she was still. He took a last gasp of air at the window, then charged at the half-open door. Again flame leaped round him, then his shoulder hit the door, it opened wider, and he was through, running into the coolness of the morning, stopping at last, releasing her from the blanket as if she were a parcel.
"Gift-wrapped," he said. "That's nice." He slapped at his trousers, charred from the flames, then sat down wearily, pulled up the trouser-legs, looked for the mark of the flames. Scorched, no more. He'd been lucky.
"I thought we hadn't a chance," she said.
"We had the chance Benson gave us." He looked at his watch. "There's an hour and three quarters before they get back. We'd better use them."
He turned and looked back. The fire was dying now, the straw spent, only the wood still smouldering. Behind their prison was a derelict farmhouse and a corrugated-iron shed. He got up and went towards the shed. Somehow Miriam got to her feet and staggered after him.
Inside the shed was the Fiat van. He went over it carefully, wary of booby traps. There were none. He opened the door, got into the van. The keys were in the lock. He drove it out, and Miriam got in beside him, picked up something lying at her feet, something heavy and metallic, wrapped in cloth. She handed it to Craig, and he uncovered his Smith and Wesson .38. He broke it, examined the magazine. It was loaded, but even so he took out each cartridge, checking that the shell was there intact, before he snapped it together, stuck it into his waistband. He turned to her and smiled.
"Nice, kind Miss Benson. Let's go and see Omar and give him a big surprise," he said.
She shook her head.
"Look, darling," he said. "He likes money, remember? I bet he's liking mine right this minute."
Miriam said, "He's got a lot coming all right. But we can't give it to him. Not yet, anyway."
"Why the hell not?" asked Craig. "I've got to get you out of here, and that'll take money."
"There was something else on the card. Something I didn't tell you. The picture."
"An old shepherd with a flock of sheep."
"It was sunset, John, and he was walking toward it."
"So the place is west of Kutsk," said Craig.
"That's right. And there's a chance they'E leave it till the last. We could still be there first."
"Look," he said, "you're scared. You know you are.
You've been knocked stupid, tortured, hauled through a fire. A very efficient sadist wants to kill you. If we stay here, he probably will—when he's finished playing."
"I know it," she said, "but we've got to do this. It's what we came for."
Craig's shoulders began to shake, weird sounds came from his throat. He was laughing.
"You innocent Americans," he said. "When will I ever understand you?"
&
nbsp; A jolting track led from the farm to the road, and from there they moved on to Kutsk. There was no way of skirting the place, and Craig drove through it fast, hoping that if Omar saw them he would think they were Benson and Royce. The west road was smooth and easy till they reached a crossroads, and there Craig stopped. There were three roads to choose from. Two of them were at least metaled, the third was a potholed disaster. The girl chose it instinctively.
"That old shepherd looked as if he'd never even seen a highway," she said.
Gingerly he eased the van on to its pock-marked surface, and they bounced along for a couple of miles in second gear. At last they rounded a curve, and before them they could see a sheet of water, rolling green hills, dotted with the puff-ball shapes of sheep. Craig drew to a halt and the girl rolled down the window, absorbing the scene.
"I think so, John," she said. "I think this is it."
He moved on again, hurrying now, feeling the holes in the road menace his axle, till at last they reached the lake shore and a clump of olive trees. A mile beyond them was a hut, and from its chimney soft feathers of smoke drifted up in the still air.
Craig drove past the trees, then backed the van in behind them. If anything, the ground seemed easier than the road. He got out, walked back to the road, and stared intently. The van was perfectly hidden. As the girl climbed stiffly out of the cab, he went back into cover, opened his coat and drew the gun, replaced it, drew it again, over and over, till hand and fingers felt right and the gun's movement was smooth, inevitable. Next, the terrain. The hills were small, undulating, deficient in cover, but a man could hide there if he had to. And if a man were hidden there, and had a rifle, he could pick the two of them off with no trouble at all. On the other hand, it was early yet, even for a shepherd, and there was smoke coming from the cottage. He looked at the ground that separated them from it, working out a line of approach. When he'd got it he said: