The Innocent Bystanders c-4

by James Munro

  "Something's up," Royce said at last. "And you know what it is."

  Craig kept his eyes on the mountainside. Slopes and ridges, outcrops of rock; perfect sniper country.

  "You've got no right to do this to me," said Royce, then yelled at the silence: "For God's sake, tell me what's happening."

  "It's possible there's a sniper out there," said Craig.

  Royce hunched down in his seat, and as he did so a bullet starred the window by Craig, smacked into Royce as they heard the report of a rifle. Joanna accelerated, and reached a corner in a burst of speed as Craig yelled instructions. The car skidded round the corner and stopped. Craig leaped out of it and raced up the side of the hill, rolled into cover behind a rock. From where he lay he could see Kaplan bending over Royce; Joanna getting out of the driving seat, examining the engine with what looked like frantic haste. He could see, too, a ripple of movement in the long grass on the mountainside, the movement of a man who had been trained to move with caution and skill. Craig took out the 9-millimeter automatic. It had nothing like the range of the rifle, but if Asimov came close enough, it would do.

  The ripple of the grass came closer, and at last he could see Asimov's body as he wriggled his way between Craig and the Land-Rover. The group on the road didn't see him until he raised himself to his feet, the rifle held at the hip. Craig could see that he was swaying, very slightly.

  Joanna and Miriam froze, as he had told them to do, but Kaplan panicked, turned and dived out of the car seat, racing across the road. And as he moved, Asimov saw him. He raised the rifle, his body swaying more than ever, though the gun was steady. Behind him, Craig got to his feet, his arm raised in the classic pistol-shooting position.

  "Asimov!" he yelled, and the Russian checked, then started to turn, far too late. Craig fired once, then again, and the impact of the heavy bullets knocked Asimov sprawling, set him rolling over and over down the long, lush grass until he came to rest at last by the Land-Rover's front wheel. Joanna Benson looked down at him. Two wounds: one through the side of the head, one through the heart, fired from fifty feet away as he turned. Asimov had had no chance at all, and that was exactly as it should be.

  Craig came slowly down to them, his eyes on Kaplan as he walked back across the road. Miriam, for the first time, saw emotion in his eyes, a boiling rage it took all his strength to contain. He looked down at Royce, picked up a spent bullet embedded in the floorboard of the car.

  "Is he dead?" he asked.

  "No," Kaplan said. "The bullet hit him across the neck. Creased a nerve, I think."

  Craig pulled Royce upright. The bullet had furrowed a great gouge from his ear almost to his nape. He'd be marked for life, unless Loomis paid for plastic surgery, but he was alive. Joanna got a first-aid kit from the back of the Land-Rover, put lint on the wound and held it in place with tape.

  "Poor Andrew," she said. "It's all I seem to do for him."

  Still looking at Kaplan, Craig said, "Asimov wasn't so lucky. You damn fool, why couldn't you stay still and let me take him alive?"

  "I was afraid," Kaplan said. "I can't help it, Craig. I'll always be afraid."

  "That's what makes you so dangerous," Craig said. "You get scared and somebody else gets killed."

  He bent, picked up the rifle, and dragged Asimov into a cleft behind a rock that hid him from the road. The face that looked up at him was suddenly ten years younger, smooth and untroubled. He'd lived through horror, and he'd seen and done terrible things, but he hadn't been irreclaimable, like Daniel. There had still been loyalty in him, and courage, and a zest for life. Something could have been done with Asimov, but not nearly as much as could be done with Kaplan. And so, thought Craig, he died. No. That was dishonest thinking. And so I killed him.

  Royce recovered consciousness on the road to Nicosia. He looked up, and saw Craig beside him. "You bastard," he whispered.

  "If it makes you any happier, the man who did it is dead," said Craig.

  "You set me up for this, didn't you? You wanted it to happen."

  "Rest," said Craig. "You're suffering from shock, poor boy."

  Joanna had their air tickets and passports, luggage waited for them at Nicosia airport, and the fat man himself waited to see them off. The sight of Royce displeased him, and he said so. Royce closed his eyes as the great voice roared on. Craig took him to the bar.

  "I had to do it that way," he said. "I knew Asimov was up in the hills with a rifle."

  "You get him?"

  "Yes," said Craig.

  "That leaves Daniel."

  "No," Craig said. "He's dead too."

  "You have come back to life," Loomis said.

  "My swan song. Anyway, I muffed it. I let Asimov get away. And Daniel killed Angelos."

  Loomis looked at him and said carefully, "Rule number one in our business. Never have any chums."

  "He wasn't my chum," said Craig. "He didn't like me at all."

  "What was he, then?"

  "My debtor."

  "Not any more," said Loomis. "I reckon he's paid. Which reminds me—Royce is no good to you now either. D'you want me to send some people out from England?"

  "We'll have to go to Athens to get to New York," said Craig. "Force Three could be waiting for us. I'll need a man there. A Greek if you've got one."

  Loomis downed a massive jolt of local brandy, and wrapped on the counter for another.

  "We got a bloke in Athens already," he said.

  "I'll need him too," said Craig, and began to explain. When he'd finished, Loomis thought for a moment, then said, "It might work, cock. If you're as good as you think you are. But are you sure two men's enough? You don't want any help after that?"

  "Benson's all I need," said Craig.

  "At least she's on your side," said Loomis. Craig turned to him, wearily going through the motions of calm, hand steady as he lifted his glass, knowing he didn't fool Loomis for a second.

  "What the hell does that mean?" he asked.

  "She helped you get away, and we both know it. That day they had you and the Loman person prisoner in the barn, she measured you against Royce and opted for you. Why?"

  "Royce tortured Miriam," said Craig.

  "You're saying Benson's squeamish?"

  "I'm saying she thinks ahead. Royce enjoyed his work —and it showed. And Benson saw it was a weakness. Look, Loomis—Benson talks like a deb and acts like an idiot with a daddy in the peerage, but she's as shrewd as you are. So she let me get away. It was her way of making a deal."

  "And very nice too," said Loomis. "Except I'm the one who pays the bill. I must have a word with her about that. Royce too." He sighed. "Pity about that. He was damn good at the school. Think I should send him to a psychiatrist?"

  "You could try," said Craig. "Too bad Asimov missed him, isn't it?"

  "Tut tut," said Loomis. "The things you say."

  "Like a couple of weeks ago. I said, 'You can hardly just let me go, can you?' And you said, 'No. I can hardly do that.'"

  Loomis said, "One of these fine days I'll drop dead of overeating, and a nice little feller in a bowler hat and pinstriped underwear'll come and see you and offer you my job. What'll you do then, son?"

  "Refuse."

  "That may not be easy."

  "I can always shoot myself," said Craig.

  The flight call came then, and they went out to the aircraft. For once Loomis had been generous, and they traveled first class. Craig sat beside Kaplan, and they made the journey in silence. Joanna and Miriam didn't talk much either.

  CHAPTER 14

  They had four rooms in a hotel in Constitution Square. It was a pleasant hotel, big, shady, cool, with a fifty-year-old elegance that was already as valuable as an antique. The hotel was full of Americans just off to Delphi, Germans just back from Crete, Italians making a film, and Swedes absorbing sun and culture in such quantities that only the bar could save their sanity and their skins. Craig watched them as he waited for the lift. There were too many of them. Kaplan shou
ldn't stay here. And yet in America it could only be worse. When the lift doors opened, Craig watched approvingly as Joanna pushed Kaplan in ahead of her, her tall body covering him. Then Miriam went, and Craig last, his right hand inside his coat, ready, waiting.

  The rooms were on the fifth floor, and the clang of contemporary Athens was muted below them. Athenians have never been an inhibited people: noise as an art form they find as convenient as any other, and cheap to practice. Craig sent Kaplan to his room, locked him in, and turned to the others.

  "What do you want to do?" he asked.

  "I want to go out," said Miriam. "I'm sick of being cooped up."

  "All right," said Craig. "I'll go with you."

  "If you want to," she said. "Wouldn't you sooner take a rest?"

  "I would. Yes," Craig said. "I'm just worried about you, that's all."

  "Oh, I'll be just fine," she said. "All I want to do is be a tourist for a while. Go to the Acropolis, maybe."

  Joanna Benson opened her mouth, saw the look in Craig's eye and shut it again.

  "Off you go, then," said Craig. "But don't be late. Pm waiting for a cancelation on a flight. If we eet it, we leave at dawn."

  Before she left, Miriam kissed him. Then the door closed and Joanna Benson said, ''Darling-, I know she sleeps with you and all that, but aren't you being a teeny bit self-indulgent?"

  "No," said Craig. "She'll be followed. I set it up with Loomis before I left."

  The tall girl sighed her relief. "Do you think there's much danger in Athens?"

  "Some," said Craig. "The CIA made a deal with Loomis —information for Kaplan. Then they subcontracted to Force Three. If Force Three picks up Kaplan here, Loomis doesn't get his information and I don't get my money."

  "So you let her take a walk," said Joanna.

  "I like to know who the opposition is," said Craig.

  It was pleasant to be out alone, to walk across the square, to feel the press of an anonymous crowd about you. That reminded her of New York, and the thought made her smile. She had always hated the crowds in New York. She crossed the street to a cafe in the middle of the square, and Maskouri, who was following her, hoped she would sit down and drink coffee. It was much too hot to walk very far. She chose a table in the shady part, and Maskouri was relieved. Too many Americans liked to sit in the sun. He found a table nearby and ordered beer, sipped first at the glass of cold water that came with it. The Loman girl ordered a large, and, to Maskouri's eyes, disgusting ice cream, and spooned it up with enthusiasm. Then suddenly she hesitated. A tall American was approaching her. He was carrying a transistor radio, and it was playing a tune Maskouri recognized vaguely, and somehow associated with a sad-faced little man who played the piano. The American looked down at the girl, then said:

  "Why, Miriam Loman! Well, for heaven's sakes. I was talking to Marcus just two days ago."

  The girl smiled at him, and said "Hello," and asked him to sit down. Maskouri doubted that she had seen the tall American before, and this might be important. And once he'd sat down, he wasn't talking loud enough for Maskouri to hear. He wondered whether he should report back or not, when the American rose, took the girl's hand and said, "Great to see you, Miriam. Just great. Be sure to give my love to Marcus when you see him."

  "Oh, I certainly will," said Miriam.

  The tall American went off, and Miriam paid her bill, changing dollars with the waiter, then walked to the taxi rank. Maskouri got up to follow, and was promptly knocked flat by a couple of Americans, who apologized profusely for not looking where they were going. They picked him up and the grip they had on him seemed friendly enough, but Maskouri was sensible. He knew enough not to struggle. When the taxi had gone, one of the Americans said, "Sorry, feller," and offered him a cigar. Maskouri, being Athenian, was a philosopher. He accepted it.

  "She's taking her time," Joanna Benson said.

  "So's the man Loomis sent to Athens," said Craig. He looked at his watch. "He should have rung in an hour ago. I think we'd better make arrangements."

  "Such as?"

  "They'll come for Kaplan—alive. And to make sure of that, they'll immobilize us first."

  "Immobilize? Do you by any chance think they'll kill us?"

  "Not if they can avoid it," said Craig. "But the bloke Maskouri saw talking to her will do it if he has to. He'd prefer to use knockout drops or a bang on the head."

  "Neither's terribly pleasant."

  Craig grinned. "Neither's going to happen," he said. "Listen."

  He began to talk; and first Joanna smiled, then laughed aloud.

  "But darling, it's positively kinky," she said. "Get the silencer."

  She produced it from her handbag and Craig screwed it on to the end of the Smith and Wesson, then broke the gun, looked into the magazine. Three shots left. But the silencer wouldn't last more than three shots anyway. After that he would have to fall back on the Webley, and an utter lack of privacy.

  "You'd really use that thing on our allies?" the girl asked.

  "I have no allies. I'm a free-lance," said Craig. "Yes, but even so-"

  "Listen," said Craig. "These aren't nice, gentlemanly Ivy Leaguers from the CIA. These are professionals. The way you think you are."

  "You'll find out," Joanna said.

  "I always knew. Forgive the sarcasm," said Craig. "Just take my word for it. These are blokes the KGB would be proud of."

  The phone rang. Craig picked it up and listened, then turned to her.

  "That was Loomis's man," he said. "Miriam met two more Americans at the Acropolis. He couldn't get close enough to hear."

  When Miriam returned, she found the others in Craig's room, having a meal of coffee and sandwiches.

  "Aren't we dining downstairs?" she asked.

  "No," said Craig. "Too risky. Have a sandwich. Joanna, pour Miriam some coffee."

  "Risky?"

  "Yes," said Craig. "I've had a premonition. Do you ever have premonitions, Miriam?"

  Joanna handed her a sandwich. The whole thing was as English as a thirties farce: sandwiches and tinkling spoons, and the distinguished elderly foreigner who was about to upset his cup any minute. And there was farce in the way they were overplaying it, too. Farce or its nearest neighbor, violence.

  "John," Miriam said. "What is all this?"

  "An hour and a half ago I heard from a dark stranger," said Craig. "At least I expect he's dark. Most Greeks are.

  Chap called Maskouri. You didn't see him, by any chance?"

  "I didn't see anybody—except a man who used to know Marcus. But I got rid of him. Then I had some ice cream and went to the Acropolis."

  Craig turned to Joanna. "Why would she he to me? A nice girl like that."

  "Do have another sandwich," Joanna said to Miriam, then to Craig, "Patriotism, perhaps?"

  "You mean the American she met told her it was in her country's best interests not to tell a soul that they had met?"

  "He probably showed her a picture of Lyndon Johnson or Bugs Bunny or somebody."

  "More likely music. Music to remind her of happy days. Junior Proms and old films on TV and traveling in the elevator at the Hilton. I bet he played her 'Stardust.' "

  Joanna's eyes had never left Miriam's face.

  "Do you know," she said, "I believe he did."

  "You followed me," said Miriam. "But you got it wrong. He was a friend of Marcus."

  "Good heavens, we British chappies don't have to follow people," said Craig. "We get ruddy foreigners to do that. No, love. We deduced it." He moved a step closer to her. "I'm afraid you're going to have to tell us, you know." She was silent. "Ah," he said. "I know what you're thinking. Royce isn't here, you tell yourself, and a decent chap like Craig wouldn't do things like that, and Miss Benson's an English gentlewoman after all. Sews Union Jacks on her panties. But that isn't the point, love. The point is we know they're in Athens."

  "How could they be?" Miriam asked.

  "Loomis sent a wire to that box number in Paris," said Joa
nna. "Told them the deal with Craig is off. And there's only three ways out of Cyprus, darling—Turkey, Israel, and Greece. They'll be watching them all. But it's the ones in Greece who'll get hurt."

  Craig said, "We won't hurt you, Miriam, and I don't want to hurt them. You tell us what they're up to and we won't hurt them. If you don't—it might get a bit messy."

  "You're angry with me—for what I've done," she said.

  "If I am, I have no right to be."

  "It's my country, John. My people."

  He nodded. "And it's your people who'll get hurt—if you don't tell me."

  "Don't you ever fight fair?" she asked.

  "How can I?" said Craig. "Now, drink your coffee and tell me all about it."

  Suddenly the mockery had gone. She was aware that he wanted to be kind to her, kind and uncomplicated, and that he was finding it difficult.

  It was early morning, the dead hour, the hour of the ultimate spy. The one who will kill if he must. There were three of them. One stayed in the corridor, watching the rooms of Kaplan and Joanna, the others entered the room that Craig had given to Miriam. Her bed, they knew, was to the right of the room, facing the bathroom, and Craig would be in it. That had been Miriam's assignment, to get Craig into her bed, and she'd resisted it furiously at first. She'd taken a lot of convincing, but in the end she'd agreed. And having got him there, the team leader reckoned, she'd keep him pretty busy. Craig was a tough one. Exhausted or not, their instructions were to keep out of range of his hands. Those hands of Craig's could batter like steel clubs.

  The lock specialist took out his skeleton key and got on with it. Hotel locks, even the locks of good hotels, didn't keep him waiting long. He probed with the casual skill of a surgeon performing a routine operation. Two tiny clicks sounded, and the lock specialist withdrew the key, slipped it into an oil bottle and inserted it again. Next time he turned it, the door opened without a sound, and he and the team leader entered in a whisper, the door drifted to behind them as they stayed still for a count of ten, their eyes grew used to the blackness.

  At last, the leader touched the lock man. In the imperfect dark they could see the two shapes of bodies lying on the bed, one hunched over the other. The lock man moved to the wall, switched on the lights, and as he did so his right hand made an abrupt gesture, ending up holding a short-nosed Colt .45 fitted with a silencer. The leader stood six feet away from him, holding a similar gun, and one of the figures on the bed stirred and shot up indignantly.