by James Munro
As he waited, the show began, and Craig found that the days of originality were not yet over. A girl came on and started to strip to bouzouki music, while Canadians, Swedes, Irishmen, and Finns looked on and cheered. He watched, intrigued. Two cultures met and ignored each other completely. The girl was preparing for love, or at any rate, sex—in a brisk, mid-Atlantic sort of way: the bouzouki was telling of death and sacrifice in a mountain battle a hundred and fifty years ago. But nobody else seemed to find it displeasing, except the bouzouki player. He became aware of a man moving toward him, a tubby
man, sleek with success, in a black sharkskin suit and a Hardy Amies tie; a man who carried a plateful of seftalies and chipped potatoes because he chose to, to oblige a friend. He put the food down in front of Craig.
"Hallo, John," he said, and sat at the table, snapped his fingers. A waiter seemed to grow out of the ground like a speeded-up flower.
"Bring another glass," said Craig.
"And another bottle," Angelos added, and Craig remembered that Cypriots always drink as if all the alcohol in the world is due to disappear next day.
"You recognized me, then?" he asked.
"Of course," said Angelos, and poured wine, motioning to Craig to eat his food. "You haven't changed, John. Not like me. See how fat I'm getting."
"Prosperity," said Craig.
"I have money, yes. If you need any-"
"No," said Craig. "I've got money too."
"What, then?" Angelos asked.
"Does it have to be anything?"
Angelos emptied his glass, poured more wine, and smiled at Craig.
"Yes, John. With you it has to be something."
"You're right," said Craig. "But do me a favor first. Tell me how you knew."
"That day in Cos," Angelos said. "In a way, it was the most important day of my life—the day I should have died—and didn't. You were the reason I didn't die. I have thought about it many times. On bad nights I still dream about it. Mostly I dream about the fat German— the one you got with the knife."
"I thought I shot him," said Craig.
"No. You shot the young one, the one who had hit me with the gun butt. The fat one you knifed—in the throat. He bled all over me."
"I'd forgotten that," said Craig.
"That's the kind of man you are," Angelos said. "I'm not like that. I can't forget."
"Maybe you're the lucky one," Craig said. "Go on about why you know I want something."
"You are a very loyal person," Angelos said, "but you have no talent for friendship."
"Now, wait a minute," Craig said. "If you don't want to help me, say so."
"Of course I want to help you," Angelos said. "I have to help you."
Craig looked at him across the table, expressionless gray eyes telling nothing. Angelos shook like a man in terror, but that was stupid. What was there to fear?
"I came back for you," said Craig. "I killed those two Jerries for you."
"You killed them for the group," Angelos said. "That was where your loyalty was. For me—Angelos—you did nothing. You cared nothing. What did you do after that fat German died, John?"
Craig thought back hard. It had been in an olive grove, he remembered. One of so many running fights, scrambling, terrifying, ecstatic. They'd got back to the caique, and the pursuing Germans had run into a blast of Bren gun fire. But the details had gone.
"I can't remember," he said.
"I'll tell you. You wiped your knife on the German, put it back in its sheath, then carried me back to the caique. The young German had hit me and broken my ribs. I couldn't walk. You carried me for half a mile, and you never said a word."
"I was busy."
"Not then, or afterwards. I was in hospital for a month, then I came back to the group. You never even mentioned what had happened. You have no talent for friendship, John."
Craig said, "Are you saying you hate me?" "No."
"What, then?"
"You'll never understand. You can't understand," Angelos shouted, then lowered his voice as customers turned to stare. "Almost everyone needs the friendship of others. They need it as they need food and drink. You—don't. All you need is a group to belong to—but for you the group is an abstraction, not people. Never people. Shall
I tell you something. We've been talking for some while-"
"You've done most of it," said Craig.
"—And you've never even spoken my name. After twenty-three years."
"And yet you say you'll help me."
"Of course I'll help you. I must. I've been waiting to do so ever since that night."
"Do you mind telling me why?"
"I want to be free of you," said Angelos.
Craig said, "What I want—it isn't a small thing."
"I'm glad of that," Angelos said.
"There's risk." He looked at the fat man. He was smiling. "That makes you happy?" "Very happy."
"I want you to help pick up three people from a boat, then hide them, and me. Then I want you to act as messenger boy."
"Who are these people?"
"An American girl, a Russian man, and a Turk." "A Turk," said Angelos. "That's all it needed. All right. I'll do it."
"There's a risk in all of it," said Craig. "Being messenger boy is the worst."
"It's a kidnapping?" Craig nodded.
"Yes," Angelos said. "It would be. Crime was inevitable for you, just as this"—he gestured to the club—"is inevitable for me." He finished his wine. "Shall we go now?"
"Two more questions," said Craig. "And one request—I want all the British and American papers you can get here. Next—are you married?"
"No," said Angelos. "There are plenty of girls available. I shan't marry for another few years. And the other question?"
"There are two men in Famagusta—supposed to be Israelis. One's called Lindemann. About my height. Big shoulders. Brown eyes. Black hair. The other one's called Stein. Stocky. Built like a barrel. Black eyes. Black hair going gray. Do you know them?"
"Very well," said Angelos. "They're sitting five tables away. Behind you."
Craig's hands moved on the table, and Angelos watched them. They were weapons still, he thought. In twenty-three years Craig had only become more himself.
"They come in here very often," he continued. "They have what seems to be an inexhaustible passion for cabaret girls who don't cost too much. The girls usually find it flattering. I take it they are—business rivals?" Craig nodded. "Do they know you?"
"I hope not," said Craig. "Otherwise the risk would be so big you'd be ecstatic. Can we go now?"
"Yes," said Angelos. "My car is outside. I have a boat, too. That will be useful."
"Very," said Craig. "Where can you hide us?"
"In the mountains. I have a little place where I take a girl sometimes. It's very quiet. But I don't suppose you'll mind that."
"Not a bit," said Craig. "Do you have only one car?" "Two," said Angelos.
"I want to borrow one of them," said Craig. "You won't refuse me?"
Angelos sighed. "I forgot how clever you are," he said. "That was a mistake. I told you too much, didn't I? You aren't the kind of man to refuse an advantage just because it's unfair."
He got up then and led the way to the door. When he'd reached it, Craig looked back. Lindemann and Stein looked just as Omar had described them. They were talking hard to the bouzouki stripper and another girl off the same assembly line. There were two bottles of brandy and four glasses on the table. They didn't look like men who were in a hurry to move.
Angelos's two cars were a Volkswagen and an MGB. Craig chose the Volkswagen. It hadn't the sports car's speed, but it was built for the mountains. They parked the cars near the beach and boarded Angelos's boat, a neat little outboard job that would just about hold five. Craig steered it toward Omar's sailing boat, another problem.
"Can you put that somewhere inconspicuous?" he asked.
Angelos thought. "I could take it to Melos," he said at last. "My brother
has a boatbuilding business there. I could say it's due for overhaul." "How far is Melos?"
"Just a few miles. Or better still I could get my brother to come and collect it. Now if you like."
"That would be fine," said Craig, "if your brother keeps his mouth shut."
"He will," said Angelos. "He owes me money." He hesitated, then said, "Craig, do I have to hide a Turk?"
"Either that or kill him," said Craig. Angelos said no more.
CHAFTEi 10
The house in the mountains was the best accommodation Miriam had seen since her night in Ankara. It had comfortable beds, a bathroom, and a workmanlike kitchen well stocked with food. It was the man who owned it who puzzled her. He behaved to Craig as if he detested him, yet obeyed his every word, and accepted all that Craig had done without question. When Craig had cut Kaplan loose for instance the fat man had accepted it without a blink; as if he expected violence from Craig, and cruelty, and a complete disregard for the comfort and dignity of others. The fat man wasn't like that, Miriam knew, yet he found it fascinating in Craig, as well as hateful. For his part, Craig simply issued orders, certain that the fat man would obey, and he did.
When the fat man had gone, Craig led her to the kitchen and made her cook a meal for Omar, Kaplan, and herself. They ate it in silence. When they had finished Craig took Kaplan to the bathroom, then to his bed. He looked at him in silence, then spoke in Russian.
"You've told the girl the truth?" he asked.
"Yes. I swear it," said Kaplan.
"I hope so. Tomorrow you will tell the truth to me. Let's hope it's the same truth." He turned away.
"Please," said Kaplan. Craig turned back to him.
"Please. What are you doing to me? Why am I here? I thought I was going to be left in peace."
"Tomorrow," said Craig. He went out and locked the door.
In the kitchen, Omar was washing dishes, Miriam drying. Omar, Craig was pleased to see, looked very worried. "Effendi," he said, "how long do I have to stay here?"
"A thousand dollars' worth," said Craig. "And maybe a bonus." He sniffed. "Take a bath, Omar, then go to bed."
Omar left them. He still looked worried.
"Aren't you going to lock him in?" the girl asked. Craig shook his head. "You trust him?"
"Nobody trusts Omar," said Craig. "But he's in Cyprus. The toughest part. The Greek part. A Turk out here alone wouldn't have a chance, and Omar knows it. He won't leave us."
The girl slumped forward in her chair. She looked exhausted.
"It's just as well I've got you and your friends to arrange things," she said. He said nothing. "Are you sure you can trust your friend?"
"Yes," said Craig. "I can trust him. He's all alone. No woman to find out his secrets."
She sat up then. "Why do you have to hurt people all the time?" she asked.
"Do I? That wasn't supposed to be hurtful. I just said what I meant to say. Maybe that's what hurts." He hesitated. "I'm not cruel like Royce, you know."
"But you are," Miriam said. "The way you treated Kaplan."
"Cruelty's the key to Kaplan," Craig said. "All I did was use it. I didn't enjoy it."
"The fact that you used it at all-"
"It's what we all use," he said. "Force Three, the KGB, Department K. We use it because it works." He looked at her again, saw how tired she was. "I wanted to hear what Kaplan told you," he said, "but it'll keep till tomorrow. Go to bed."
"Are you coming with me?" she asked, and the question whipped the blood into her face. "Suppose you get pregnant?" "Would you care?"
He didn't answer. She would never believe that she was the only one he would look out for in the whole sorry mess. Better for them both that she wouldn't. He went with her to the bedroom and she came into his arms fierce and demanding, the body's needs drowning the questions her mind feared. But their bodies at least made a dialogue, a question and answer that at last achieved solution. When they had done, she fell asleep at once, and he kissed her as she slept, then fell asleep beside her, as relaxed as a cat, and as wary.
In the morning, as she put on her clothes, she put on her doubts, her fears, her wariness. It was early, but Omar was already in the kitchen, making omelettes. He looked cleaned and rested, and his omelettes were delicious. Craig took the girl onto a verandah that looked straight across the valley to the mountains of Troodos, rich, sweet mountains, green with vine and olive and pine tree, swift tumbling snow streams, houses perched like birds wherever a ridge made it possible.
"It's beautiful here," Miriam said.
"And safe," said Craig. "What did Kaplan tell you?"
"Weren't you happy last night?" she said. "Wasn't your body happy? Because if it was—that was thanks to me, wasn't it?"
"I was happy."
"Then shouldn't you be grateful to me? Be nice to me? Or is it you just don't know how to be nice to people?"
Ask Angelos, Craig thought. He's the expert on my talent for friendship. He waited.
"Oh hell," the girl said at last. "Hell! Hell!"
She sat down opposite Craig, and her voice became cold, impersonal.
"First of all, I'm sure that Kaplan is Kaplan. I ran all the checks Marcus told me about, and he didn't fluff one. He told me about his work in Russia-"
"What about it?"
"How he was a successful scientist. Then he fell out with the Politburo and finished up in Volochanka. Craig, he escaped from there!"
"We know that," said Craig.
"But you don't know how. There were ten of them—all Jews. It was like a miracle."
She told him about the minyan, and the slow evolution of their plan to escape. ("Angelos should hear this too," said Craig. "He'd tell you all about my loyalty to groups as abstract concepts.") She told him of the break-out and how he got separated from the others; the long, agonized trek alone to freedom. How he'd wandered alone until he'd almost died, would have died if some Lapps hadn't found him and smuggled him over the border into Sweden, hundreds of miles away. Sweden was lucky for him. He had money in Stockholm. He'd got to the bank and taken out the money, but the Swedes were too interested in him. They wanted him to ask for political asylum, but he was afraid the publicity would betray him to the KGB. He'd had to get away. The money had bought him forged papers and a passage on a ship for Hamburg. From Hamburg he'd flown to Rome, from Rome to Ankara, and from there he'd drifted south, to settle finally at Kutsk.
"Why choose Turkey?" Craig said.
"Because the Turks hated the Russians," she told him. "They'd give him asylum if ever he needed it. And it was remote. The kind of place nobody ever went to. When he bought the flock of sheep he'd learned something else too. He was happy there, a hermit, alone. He hadn't been happy for as long as he could remember.
"Isn't it wonderful?" said Miriam.
"Fantastic," he said. "What else is there?"
"He's afraid," she said, "of you and others like you."
"Did you tell him about going to America?"
"You told me not to."
"Did he say anything about our knowing his real name?"
"Yes," she said. "I don't understand that. He said Kaplan was supposed to be dead and buried. He said your people promised. I guess he meant the Russians."
"I'm sure he did."
Craig got up then and walked round the garden that encircled Angelos's house. He'd done it before, when they arrived the preceding night, but it was better to do it by daylight. The house was set in a fold in the hills, encircled by pine trees. A stream supplied its water, a turbine generator its power. A mud track was the only approach to it, and the nearest neighbor was seven miles away. He went back into the house and called Omar and Miriam, led them into the living room, where a big picture window looked out on the track that led to the house. For the last four hundred feet there was no cover at all.
"I want you to watch this place," said Craig. "If anybody comes up that road, call me at once."
"You want both of us to watch?" Omar asked.
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"Both of you. All the time, Omar." The Turk looked up at him. "It's possible the lady may want to leave this room. See that she doesn't."
"Too right," said Omar.
"What are you going to do?" the girl asked.
"Find out the truth," said Craig. "I'm sick of fairy stories."
He left them, and she sat watching the path. After a few minutes she heard Kaplan cry out, and jumped to her feet. At once Omar also rose, standing between her and the door. He was an old man, but he was strong, she knew. She'd be helpless against him. Then Kaplan cried out again, and she ran at Omar, trying to get past him. But he picked her up, held her in his gaunt, work-worn hands, and looked at her with eyes that were curiously gentle, almost compassionate.
"It's no use, miss," he said. "We've got to do what the boss says. Now you sit down and watch the road. It's what we're here for."
But she went on struggling until there was neither fight nor breath left in her, even when Kaplan yelled a third time. After that she sat down as Omar bade her, and there was no more noise.
Craig came back into the room forty minutes later, and Kaplan followed him. There was a bruise over his left eye and he was limping. Miriam got up at once and led him to a chair. Craig fetched water and gave it to Kaplan, who drank it eagerly.
"The shepherd's got a new statement to make," said Craig.
"Looks like a pretty important shepherd," Omar said.
"He is," said Craig. "A man could get killed just knowing what his real name is. Do you want to know it?"
"No, thank you," said Omar. "I think I'd sooner cook lunch."
Craig watched him go, then said, "I roughed him up a bit."
"I heard you," Miriam said.
"It was nothing like you got," said Craig. "That's work for experts. But this poor bastard's scared silly. He's got nothing left." He turned to Kaplan, and this time he spoke in English.
"Now tell this woman what you told me," said Craig. "Unless you want to change your story again." "I told you the truth," said Kaplan. "Now tell it to her."
Kaplan looked at her, but his whole body was concentrated on Craig, standing beside him.