by James Munro
"I'm sorry," he said, "but most of what I told you yesterday was lies. There were no friendly Lapps, no smuggling across the border to Sweden."
"You didn't escape?" Miriam asked.
"No. The other nine did—that is true. But I did not."
"Tell her what you did, Kaplan," said Craig.
The agony on his face was unbearable.
"I betrayed them," he said, "to the commandant of the camp. The price of my betrayal was a pardon."
"Get on with it," said Craig.
"I told the commandant the night we—we were ready to go. You have to be in Volochanka to know how it was. Slow death in the camp, quick death outside. The commandant was drunk all the time. He was drunk when I came to warn him. He beat me. Threw me out. Went back to his vodka. Then it happened. We made our break. Only I didn't go. I went to the deputy commandant instead, told them where to pick up the others. He got seven of them. All the time I had to hide in his hut. If I'd come out, the other prisoners would have killed me. Then the commandant was shot, and the deputy took over. He put in a word for me, got my pardon. I was allowed to live. They gave me new papers, sent me to work in the Crimea. On a collective. I was happy there." He paused till Craig raised his head, then went on immediately. "Then a man came to see me from the Central Scientific Bureau. They'd opened up my dossier again, run some tests on my theory. He said I was to be pardoned."
"But what had you done?'" the girl asked.
"Slept with a man's wife and been found out," he said. "The man was a close friend of Lavrenti Beria. The charge was moral degeneracy." He looked at Miriam. "It wasn't that. I swear it. I loved the woman very much. It was the second time in all my life I had known what love was and-"
"Tell us about your theory," said Craig.
"It's a way to bring water to desert places. It's part engineering—using atomic plant to make sea water into fresh water—and part agriculture—the growth of certain crops intermingled to help each other—catching the dew and so on. The Central Scientific Bureau said it ought to be tried out in a limited experiment. They were going to rehabilitate me. I couldn't stand it. I ran away."
"You couldn't stand what?" Craig asked.
"Coming back to life. Beria was dead by that time, but his friend—the man whose wife I loved—he's still alive. Doing well. His wife is still with him. I'd have had to meet them again, go to receptions, parties—as if nothing had ever happened. And he knows I betrayed my friends. I couldn't face them—not with that. I ran away, stole money, crossed the Turkish border. It wasn't easy, but I'd been trained how to do it in Volochanka. In Turkey, I robbed again—it seems I have a talent for that, too, and bought papers. When I had enough money, I settled down, paid those peasants to keep their mouths shut. I had a life of my own then. It was a good life, but the peasants betrayed me. I should have expected it. It's what I did myself."
"You felt safe?" Miriam asked.
"I'll never be safe. But the ones I feared were all Russian. If they knew I was alive, they'd kill me. The knowledge I have is too important to be taken out of Russia."
"They know you're alive," said Craig. "They're looking for you now."
"You won't give me to them?"
"Not if we can get a better offer," Craig said. "I'm pretty sure we can. The Americans want you, Kaplan." "They don't need my skills."
"A gift to underdeveloped countries. A nice gesture from Uncle Sam."
"Well, it is," said Miriam.
"Of course it is," said Craig. "If they can keep him alive."
CHAPTER 11
Late that afternoon, Angelos came back. Omar was watching the window and called out to Craig, who brought the rifle, held the MGB in its sights until Angelos stopped the car and walked up the path, a wad of newspapers under his arm. Craig left Omar on duty by the window, and let Angelos in. The rifle made Mm smile.
"I expected a Bren gun at least," he said.
"I could use it," said Craig, and led him to the kitchen. "What's happening?" he asked.
"Nothing. The two Israelis got very drunk, but they made love to my girls first."
"Nobody followed you here?"
"Nobody as far as I know. I haven't your skill in these matters. I brought you your papers. And came for my instructions."
"I'll have to read the papers first," said Craig.
He began to read through the small ad columns of the Herald Tribune, the Christian Science Monitor, the continental Daily Mail, the London Times, and the London Daily Telegraph. It was a long and boring process, but in the end he found what he wanted.
"Tell the girl to come here," he asked.
Angelos stiffened to attention, the parody of a soldier.
"Jawohl, Herr Oberst," he said.
He went out, and Miriam came in.
"There are a lot of messages for you. I've marked them," said Craig. "Look."
He handed her the European edition of the Herald Tribune. An advertisement read, "Darling, Won't you listen to Stardust just once more? Marcus misses you." A box number in Paris followed.
"It's in every paper," Craig said. "Crude—but they're in a hurry—and worried about you. So they make you worry about Marcus."
"They shouldn't have mentioned him," she said. "That gave it away."
"Only to me," said Craig. "And they know you're with me anyway. So they mention Marcus—and tell it to me too. Stardust was your code name, I suppose?"
"Yes," she said.
"How many times did they reach you?"
"Only once. In Istanbul. Our people aren't too strong in Turkey. They were blown—that's the word isn't it?—six months ago."
"That's why they hired Loomis," said Craig.
"What do we do now?"
"Write to the box number. Tell them our terms." "Our terms?"
"Mine, then. They can have him for me—if they'll get Department K off my back. Otherwise he goes to the Russians."
"Can they get Department K off your back?" "If they want Kaplan badly enough, yes. But with the Yanks it's easier."
"You can trust us, you mean?"
"Of course not," said Craig. "But you spend more money."
He found a piece of paper and an envelope, wrote an answer to the box number in the Herald Tribune, and gave it to Angelos to post, watched the MGB back down the path to the road, then went to bed and slept for four hours.
That night, he and Omar took it in turns to watch the road, patrol the grounds. He trusted Angelos—all his instincts told him that he was right to do so, but he had no faith in his competence. For this kind of operation he needed a Royce and a Benson; what he'd got was a moralist, a female idealist, and an old man.
Next day, Angelos came back at dusk. Again Craig followed the drill in admitting him, and again Angelos grinned at the sight of the rifle, this time in Omar's hands.
"I have some news you should know," he said. "There are two English people in Famagusta asking for you. Or at least for someone who could be you. They are asking for a tall, well-built Englishman and his American wife, believed to be traveling with the girl's uncle and an elderly Turkish servant. The Turk is causing a great deal of excitement."
"I believe you," said Craig.
"They are saying the Englishman has come into a great deal of money, that is why he must be found." "Who are they?"
"A solicitor and his secretary. The secretary is very beautiful. The solicitor has a limp." "Benson and Royce," Craig said. "They say the senior partner is flying out today." "Who are they saying it to?"
"Anyone who'll listen. They want the word to get around, it seems." Craig thought hard for a minute. "Where are they staying?" "The Esperia Tower."
"I want you to sit here for a while," Craig said. "Keep an eye on my guests." "Very well."
Craig hesitated, then took out the Smith and Wesson, offered it to the other. "Are they such reluctant guests?" Angelos asked. "They have enemies," said Craig.
"And so have you, no doubt. I have a gun, John. It's in the car."
&nb
sp; "I won't be gone long," Craig said. "You shouldn't have any trouble."
He called for Omar then and gave him precise instructions. When the old man agreed, Craig took out ten more hundred-dollar bills, tore them in half and gave one half to him. That left Miriam. He called her into the kitchen.
"Department K's caught up with us," he said.
"But how could they?"
"By knowing their job," said Craig. "I told you they're good. They're offering a deal."
"What kind of a deal?"
"That's what I've got to go and find out."
"Go to them? That's crazy."
"No," he said. "It's sane enough. I've got Kaplan. They won't hurt me if I can hurt him." She winced. "This could be the end of it," he said. "You should be glad."
"I want my people to have him," Miriam said. "They're the ones who'll help him do what he should be doing."
"We'll listen to their offer too," said Craig.
Angelos walked back with him to his MGB, and took from the trunk an old Webley .45 revolver.
"Who are you going to shoot?" Craig asked. "Elephants?"
"I hope nothing," said Angelos. "But if I use this, I make sure the man I hit stays down."
"If you hit anything at all. That damn thing kicks like a mule."
"How much you forget," said Angelos. "In the old days I always used one of these. I didn't miss very often."
Craig drove the MGB back that night. It was fast, and he didn't have to use the mountain tracks. The new road from Troodos to Nicosia was finished now, a well-paved highway that seemed especially designed for testing out an MGB. It was an eager, thrusting little car, and Craig enjoyed it as he swung into the road's wide, planing curves, easing down at last as he came into Nicosia. The town was noisy with people promenading in the wisp of a breeze that sometimes stirred at evening. There were taxis and buses with vast overhangs and donkeys pulling carts, and pedestrians who walked as if the internal-combustion engine had yet to be invented. He was glad to thread his way through the town and get on to the highway to Famagusta.
This is a curious road. Once it had been a railway line, and when the railway was abandoned the track was pulled up, the road put in its place. It ran arrow-straight for almost all of its fifty miles, and the MGB liked this one too: rev-counter and speedometer climbed up and over in steady power. He kept going at speed till the last possible moment. If the senior partner of Royce's firm had arrived he would try anything, and the best way to combat him on a lonely highway was to keep moving fast. At last the lights of Famagusta grew bigger and brighter, and Craig eased off his speed and drove with finicking care through the old town to Varosha suburb. He drove past the hotel and found space to park. This seemed to be one of the few places left in the world where you could still find space to park, Craig thought.
He went into the lobby and asked for Mr. Royce. He was in the bar, the desk clerk said, with his secretary and another gentleman.
"A fat man?" Craig asked. "Red face and white hair?"
The desk clerk said austerely, "Mr. Royce's friend is rather fat." Craig moved to the lift.
"Is your name Craig, sir?" the desk clerk asked. Craig said it was. "You're to go straight up. Mr. Royce and the others are expecting you. They've ordered dinner at nine, sir."
Whatever you did to Loomis he always bounced right back up, Craig thought. Dinner at nine, for instance. That was for his own benefit, not Craig's, designed to show Craig that he wasn't important enough to make Loomis miss his dinner.
He went into the bar. It was long and dark and cool, the air conditioning muted to a murmur. At the bar itself, a group of wealthy Cypriots drank Keo beer, deplored the price of oranges, and tried not to be caught looking at Joanna Benson's legs. She, Royce, and Loomis were sitting on low chairs round a table. A fourth chair waited for Craig. Loomis didn't look as if he were enjoying it much. He never did enjoy sitting on chairs that weren't specially made for him. Craig moved toward them. The girl's face was impassive. Royce's glance told him that Royce hated him. Loomis raised his massive head and gave him a two-inch nod.
"Ah, Craig," he said. "Good of you to look us up. What'll you have?"
"Same as you," said Craig.
"Ouzo," Loomis said, and they sat in silence till the barman brought it.
"Nice here?" Craig said at last.
"Too nice for you," said Loomis. "Where the hell d'you get your clothes these days?"
"Savile Row," said Craig.
"Have your suit cleaned, then. It's disgusting."
"One of the nice things about being retired is you don't have to worry about looking smart all the time," Craig said. As he spoke, he watched Royce's hands. The left one clasped his drink, the right one fiddled nervously with the lapel of his jacket. Craig turned to him. "Why bother?" he said. "You can't start anything here."
Loomis glowered at him. "Sit still," he snarled, then turned back to Craig. "He could start something if I told him to. And so could this Benson person."
"You're not that daft," said Craig.
"I want you, son," Loomis said. "I want your hide in strips."
"That's just self-indulgence," said Craig. "I've wanted to put you on a diet for years, but I know I'm never going to get the chance. Anyway, I heard I'd come into money. That's why I'm here."
"A bloke called John Adams has come into money," Loomis said.
"You didn't give my name?" Craig asked.
"No," said Loomis, and his voice was wistful. "Not yet."
"How much?"
"A hundred thousand pounds," said Loomis. "Any currency you want."
Craig said, "You're taking a risk, aren't you? Talking of sums like that in front of these impressionable young people?"
"No," said Loomis.
"You aren't afraid that one day they may follow my example?"
"No, cock, I'm not. They got more sense." "And I've got a hundred thousand pounds. It's not enough, Loomis." "How much, then?"
"Oh, the money'll do," Craig said, "but I want something else as well. Security."
Loomis laughed aloud, a roaring boom that seemed to bounce against the walls of the room.
"Oh, son," he said. "The things you say."
Craig waited as he wiped his eyes.
"You want our friend, don't you?" he asked. "That's the price. A hundred thousand quid I can enjoy in peace. Guaranteed."
"And how could I guarantee a thing like that? Dammit, man, can't you see it's impossible?"
"You could give me a statement of what you did—and what these two did. What your orders were, how they carried them out. You could sign it and they could witness it. I'd call that a guarantee."
"I'd call it bloody madness," said Loomis.
"That's the price," Craig said. He stood up.
"Wait," Loomis said. "Let's have dinner first."
They went into the dining room, Royce limping badly, and Craig enjoyed the food and wine; enjoyed even more Loomis's struggle to be polite. It had been so many years since Loomis had had to be polite to anyone. He spoke of Craig's abilities, and praised in particular the skill with which he'd outwitted Force Three.
"Good chaps," he said. "Very good chaps. But they have the American weakness—and you used it."
"What do you mean, sir?" Benson asked.
"They tend to think that patriotism compensates for skill," said Loomis, "so they used the Loman girl. Once Craig knew who she was, she had no chance."
"How did you know Force Three was involved?"
"Those ads in the papers. 'Marcus is worried.' They must have been desperate to take a chance like that."
Craig said, "It's not that bad. They knew I'd see the papers—and it's me they want to talk to."
For a moment, Loomis looked up from his plate; his angry eyes burned into Craig's.
"That's right," said Craig.
"What about the Russians?" Joanna Benson asked. "Are you open to offers from them, too?"
"I'm open to offers from Martians—if they've got the mone
y and guarantees," said Craig.
Loomis went on eating.
"There's something interests me," Craig said. "I wonder if I might ask about it."
"We'll see." Loomis's words were a growl.
Craig turned to Royce and smiled politely.
"What happened after I shot you?" he asked. There was a silence, then Joanna Benson giggled.
"What a bastard you are," said Loomis. "All right, Benson. You tell him."
She pushed away her plate and sat back. Royce continued to eat, his eyes looking downwards. It was impossible to look at Craig; to see the mockery in his eyes. At least, Loomis hadn't made him answer. He was grateful for that.
"You were really rather kind to us," Joanna Benson said. "I can't think why. Blowing up the Jag was a bit strong, though, wasn't it? Such a lovely car."
"Sorry about that," Craig said. "But I had to set you on foot."
"Poor Andrew was hardly even that," said the girl. "It was hands and knees most of the time. You got him in the leg, you know. Nothing serious, but he bled quite a bit. I had to use tourniquets and things." Royce went on eating. His tournedos Rossini absorbed him utterly. The girl went on: "It was all a bit of a problem. I couldn't carry Andrew and he needed a doctor. I walked back up the road and found a farm with a telephone and called the police. They produced an old boy who spoke a bit of German and I said we'd been attacked by bandits. You've never seen such excitement. Then I scurried back to Andrew and told him what to say, and the gendarmes arrived with an ambulance and took him off to hospital. After that it was all questions and statements and a big hunt for that mad shepherd. They patched Andrew up quite well, I think, and I said we had friends in Cyprus and we'd recuperate there, so they found us a boat and told us they'd let us know as soon as they'd found the mad shepherd. They thought he was running amok or something. His dog was dead, you see. They think he killed it."
"No. I did that," said Craig. He looked at Loomis. "Why Cyprus?"
"Benson's a sensible young person," said Loomis. It was as much praise as he ever offered a woman. "She was in a spot of bother and she handled it well, then she reported back to me. When she phoned I had a look in your file. Sending them here was my idea."
"What made you do it?" asked Craig.