The Innocent Bystanders c-4 Page 14

  "You pig," Craig said. "You stupid, lying pig. Don't you ever learn? Don't you know you can't even die till we say so? You're still in Volochanka, Kaplan. You'll always be there."

  He pushed him sprawling, then picked up an end of rope, knotted his hands behind his back and tied the other end of the rope to the mast, then turned to Miriam.

  "Ask your questions," he said. "He's ready."

  He went aft then, took the tiller, and sent Omar into the cabin to prepare a meal. Omar scuttled away and Craig lazed back against the strakes, giving his body ease and rest. He could hear the sound of Miriam's voice and Kaplan's responses, but not the words. It didn't matter. Miriam's interrogation was only a warm-up, anyway; the truth would come when he had Kaplan on shore, alone, when Royce and Benson were out of the way. He supposed that eventually he'd have to kill Royce. Maybe Benson too. But she'd let him escape; that made it harder to kill her. Why did she do it? Craig wondered. What was she trying to gain? He leaned forward and looked down into the cabin. Omar was old, but he was determined, and money acted on him as fear did on Kaplan. Omar had sliced bread and cheese and peeled fruit. The knife he had used was long and sharp, and he held it in his hand, looked at it with love.

  "No," said Craig.

  Omar sighed and put down the knife, then fetched up the food and four bottles of water, gave some to Kaplan and Miriam, then came back to Craig, sat cross-legged beside him as they ate, and took the tiller.

  "Effendi," said Omar, "you must be very rich."

  "Sometimes," said Craig.

  "One day you might need a partner."

  "Why?"

  "A very small partner. One who could keep his eyes and ears open. Tell you things." "What things?"

  "What the Americans and the Russians are doing. For money I could find out."

  "Why should I want to do that?"

  "You are a spy," Omar said. "Just as Royce and Miss Benson are spies." There was neither shock nor surprise in Omar's voice. He might have said: "You're a grocer."

  "Who do you think I spy for?"

  "Not the Russians or Americans. Not the British, either. You spy for yourself. For money. I could help you. Truly, I could."

  "You're still afraid 111 kill you," said Craig.

  "I'll always be afraid of that," Omar said. "But I want to show you I'll be more useful if you let me live."

  Craig ate bread and cheese left-handed. The bread was dry, the cheese old and tough, but he chewed on it stolidly. It was fuel.

  "Always the left hand," said Omar. "You take care of yourself."

  "That's right," said Craig. "Show me how you can be useful."

  "That shepherd there. He was in hiding."

  "I found him," said Craig. "There's nothing for you in that." He ate some grapes. "Did you know Royce and Benson were looking for him?"

  "No," said Omar. "The bastards didn't trust me." Craig chuckled. "But I guessed it."

  "How?"

  "The Russians were looking for him too." Somehow Craig went on chuckling. "I know that," he said. Omar's face fell.

  "You know who they are?" he asked. "No," said Craig. "I don't know that." "I do," Omar said. "How much is it worth?" "A thousand dollars," Craig said.

  "It should be worth much more," said Omar. "This is big news."

  "A thousand dollars," Craig said again. "You're lucky I feel lazy today. I could get it for nothing."

  "That isn't very nice," said Omar. "We're not in a nice business."

  "They call themselves Israelis," Omar said. "They came to Kutsk three weeks ago. They are Jews, I think, and they had Jewish names—Lindemann, Stein—but really they were Russians. I heard them speak."

  "You speak Russian?"

  "I know how it sounds," said Omar. "All Turks do if they've got any sense." "Go on."

  "First they tried to find the shepherd themselves. He was too well hidden. Then they asked me. I said there wasn't any such man. I should explain," he continued, "that the shepherd paid us money to say he wasn't there."

  "You'd have sold him out to me—or Royce and Benson."

  "You would have offered more money than the shepherd. The Russians wanted him for nodiing." "Describe them," said Craig.

  "Lindemann is tall—about your height—heavy-shouldered, brown eyes, black hair. He is the younger. Stein is a head shorter than you, but a big body. Like a bear. A very strong man. His eyes are almost black. His hair was once black, now it is gray."

  "Their age?"

  "Hard to say. They look older than they are, I think. The way you do, effendi." He hesitated. "What I mean is they look good at their job. Like you."

  "Where did they go after Kutsk? Back to Israel?"

  "That's what they said in the village. They lied. They came in a boat, and my sister's husband's nephew saw it two days later. It was headed for Famagusta, in Cyprus."

  "Many Israelis go to Cyprus."

  "Perhaps they were Israelis who couldn't go to Israel." His eyes searched Craig's face. "Is it worth a thousand dollars?"

  "Yes," said Craig. "You'll get it when you go."

  "I believe you," Omar said. "You're the biggest bastard I ever met, but I don't think you tell lies if you can help it."

  "Try to be like me," Craig said. "Tell me about Royce and Benson."

  "They came to Kutsk about three or four days ago. They said they were—those people who are interested in old things."

  "Archeologists?" Craig suggested.

  "Some Greek word. They drove all over the place. They were looking for the shepherd. At first they weren't in too much of a bloody hurry. Then one day Royce got a telegram."

  "What did it say?"

  "You think I could get hold of somebody else's telegram? "

  "I'm sure of it," said Craig.

  "It was all numbers," said Omar. "A code. I couldn't read it. But I think it told them you were coming. They were worried after that. They came to me before you did."

  "Why should they do that?" "I've got a reputation," Omar said. "You mean a police record?"

  "No, no." Omar sounded more surprised than offended. "I'm not stupid, you know. But a lot of people know about me. I'll help in most things if the price is right."

  He squinted up at the sun, altered course a point, and continued: "They wanted me to help them if you turned up. I said I would—and you know the rest. For such young people, I thought they did a pretty good job. The sheila_"

  "Yes?" said Craig.

  "She is very beautiful," said Omar, "and very dangerous. Even more dangerous than the man. I think they'll try to kill you. I don't want to be there when they try— not for just a thousand dollars."

  "You won't be," said Craig.

  He lay back again, relaxed and comfortable. Miriam and Kaplan talked on as they ate, and in the distance a long bight of land grew slowly visible.

  "Cape Andreas," said Omar. "You want to make for there?"

  "No," said Craig. "Famagusta."

  "For just a thousand dollars I don't want to see the Russians either." "You won't."

  "Famagusta's full of bleeding Greeks," Omar said. "Greeks don't like me, effendi."

  "What an old worry guts you are," said Craig. "Just do as you're told. You'll be fine. I'll even pay you."

  "You promise that?"

  "I promise," said Craig.

  Omar sighed again, and obeyed. The big Englishman's strength was frightening, but there was comfort in it too— if you thought he was going to use it to protect you. There was also the money.

  Craig dozed in the sun and watched the land slip by, white sand and scattered rocks, and beyond it a lush green vegetation, sloping back into the island's gentle mountains. Omar stayed well away from land, and to any casual watcher they would be just one more unhurrying boat in a sea full of boats that never hurried. He would be safe in Cyprus, and so would Kaplan, until his purchase price came through.

  Craig thought of slaves and auction blocks, of men and women examined as if they were animals. He'd come down to that. And n
ow he was a slave trader. The thought disgusted him, but he made his mind accept it. Once weaken, once relent, and Craig would be dead. And if he died, Miriam would probably die too, and Omar. Only Kaplan would have a chance to survive, a chance he might not want. Craig thought of the things he had done for Department K, cruel, terrible things. He thought of the smashed bones, the pistol beatings, the neat holes that a Smith and Wesson Airweight makes if you use it right. He thought of the things that had been done to him. He'd been shot, stabbed, knifed, clubbed, and tortured in a way that almost cost him his manhood. All for Department K. For the department and its chief, Loomis. He supposed that Loomis connected to other people, other places. To M-16 and the government, ultimately to the people and the country. To Loomis's own highly personal view of Great Britain. But Craig hadn't felt like that. His loyalty had gone as far as Loomis and the department, and there it had stopped. (Mostly his enemies had been Russians and Chinese, because that was the way the world functioned nowadays—in a duality of terror and detestation that sometimes got very close to love. Look at the bright kids. The ones in the West all wanted to be leftists; the ones in Russia all wanted to be Beatles.) But he hadn't ever had that depth of patriotism that rendered Loomis immune from pity or self-disgust whatever disgusting trick he'd played.

  He'd gone into this thing because he was good at it. The fulfillment of each assignment had been the most complete satisfaction he could hope to know. And the enemy hadn't always been Russian or Chinese. There'd been Spaniards, Italians, Germans, Frenchmen, and more than one Englishman. He'd handled them all, just as efficiently. And now he was putting a middle-aged Jew on the auction block and forcing a young Jewess to keep him there. He wondered if Miriam would ever know just how terrible a price she was paying. I must want to live pretty desperately, he thought. When I get out of this I'll take a course in ethics and kill myself.

  The girl came aft to sit beside him, moving clumsily against the movement of the ship.

  "His arms are hurting him," Miriam said.

  "Has he answered all your questions yet?"

  "Yes," she said. "But I think he's lying sometimes."

  "Go back and tell him I'll let him loose when he tells you the truth."

  Beside him, Omar cackled respectfully. The girl got up and went back to Kaplan. Despite her clumsy movements, her body was beautiful again.

  "Not like the Benson sheila," said Omar. "A tigress and a deer, eh, effendi?"

  Craig grinned at him. "The world's big enough for both kinds," he said.

  The darkness came in quickly, and Omar was worried about the lights. Craig took the tiller as he lit them. Slowly they slipped closer to the shore, and then, in the last rays of the sunlight, Craig could see the white line of foam that marked the sunken ruins of Salamis, the speckled gleam of Famagusta in the distance. Craig got to his feet, picked the rifle up from the deck, slipped out the magazine and put it in his pocket. Omar watched without speaking. Next Craig took out his money, counted it, put it back in his pocket, except for ten one-hundred-dollar bills. Still silent, Omar licked his lips, then cried out aloud as Craig tore the ten beautiful pieces of paper in half, dropped one half into his lap.

  "Half in advance. I'm going ashore soon," said Craig. "You'll get the rest when I come back. If you behave."

  "Yes, effendi," said Omar.

  "Are you a good Muslim?" said Craig.

  "Pretty good."

  "If I were you I would pray a lot while I'm gone. Pray that nobody comes here looking for the shepherd. If they do, they'll kill you. If you try to contact anybody and do a deal, I'll kill you. Staying alone is your only chance of staying alive. Believe that, Omar."

  "I do believe it," Omar said.

  Craig went forward to the girl then, where she stood beside Kaplan.

  "Well?" he asked.

  "I think he's telling the truth now."

  Craig untied the man's hands, but lashed his ankles together. In Russian he said, "You're too fond of swimming," then to Miriam in English, "I'm going ashore. I shouldn't be long. When I come back I'll have help."

  "For him?" She nodded at Kaplan who sat on the deck, head on hands.

  "It's possible," said Craig, "but don't count on it."

  He told Omar to heave to, and together they manhandled over the side the stone that served as an anchor, then he disappeared into the cabin. When he came back he was naked, his clothes and shoes wrapped in a piece of waterproof and strapped to his head like a turban. The others turned away as he lowered himself into the water, swam in a steady breaststroke toward the lights of the town. The sea was calm and warm, tangy with salt, as placid as a bath, but the feel of it round him was refreshing, shook off his drowsiness. Too soon he reached shallow water and waded ashore to dry himself on a scrap of sailcloth, the only towel on the boat, and dress quickly, in the darkness. He walked along the beach, staying out of reach of the villas' lights, the sight of holiday-makers having one last outdoor drink before dinner, then reached a path that led up to a road, and walked along the road till he found a cafe with one car parked beside it.

  He went into the cafe and ordered ouzo. The language he spoke was Greek, but with a Cretan accent, very different from Cypriot. The barman who served him showed a flicker of surprise.

  "I thought you Greeks were supposed to wear uniform," he said.

  "I'm not in the army," said Craig, and looked round the bar. Its only occupants were three men playing xeri under a portrait of Archbishop Makarios. The barman watched him nervously.

  "Things are quiet in Cyprus now," he said. "Most people like them like that."

  "I like it," said Craig. "I haven't come for trouble. Just visiting friends."

  He put an English pound note on the counter, and the barman gave him his change in Cypriot mils.

  "Which is the taxi driver?" Craig asked.

  The barman called out "Stephanou," and a fat man put down his cards and gathered up his winnings, then walked out to the cab, the inevitable Mercedes.

  Craig finished his ouzo.

  "There are lots of UNO patrols now," the barman said. "The civil war is over."

  "I won't start it again," said Craig. "I promise."

  He went out to the cab, and in his mind he cursed himself, thoroughly and obscenely. It had been a mistake to speak Greek; a bad one. English was a far more natural tongue for Cyprus than the Cretan dialect that was the only Greek he knew. But Greek to him was the language of friendship: when first he'd been a fighting man, most of his comrades were Greeks. He'd lived with them and learned their skills. In the islands still there were men and women who regarded Craig as their brother. So out of his loneliness he'd spoken Greek, and like a damned fool forgotten that Cypriots regarded Greeks from Greece sometimes as heroes, more often as a dangerous nuisance, who took to the mountains and slaughtered in the name of Enosis.

  And at one time Cypriots also had gone into the mountains, killed British troops and been killed by them. That had been a bad time for Craig. But the British had gone now, and UNO troops had replaced them: Irish, Canadians, unlikely Swedes, and highly improbable Finns on the island of Venus, drinking brandy at five shillings a bottle and persuading Cypriot Greeks and Cypriot Turks to stop killing each other. Enosis—union with Greece— was somehow forgotten; the island was prosperous, not least because UNO paid its bills so promptly. The Greek and Turkish troops billeted on the island to protect their own nationals were already resented as a threat of war, a threat to prosperity. And Greek civilians were resented even more. They hinted that the days of terror might still come back.

  Craig told the driver to head toward the port, which was the Turkish quarter.

  "Greeks can't go there," the driver said.

  "I'm not a Greek," said Craig. "I'm an American. My father came from Heraklion."

  "Oh, an American." The driver was delighted, and all at once relaxed. "Why do you want to go to the port? Whisky—girls? We got plenty in our own bars."

  "I want to look at it," said Crai
g. The driver shrugged, a comprehensive movement involving his whole torso, completely Hellene, that said more clearly than words that Americans made their own rules as they went along. Craig watched as they drove through the new town, Varosha, past the smart bars, tavemas, souvenir shops, then into the older town of cheap bars and night clubs, to the oldest Famagusta of all.

  "This'U do," he said, and remembering he was an American, gave the driver too much money. When he got out the driver roared off at once—to his favorite cafe, Craig hoped, to tell a worried barman to stop worrying.

  He looked at the dark bastion in front of him. The Venetians had built that, more than four hundred years before: a staggering achievement in military architecture, massive yet shapely towers and walls built to keep the Turks out of Cyprus. For Cyprus was rich, and Venice had needed the money: but the Turks had got in even so, and flayed the Venetian commander alive. Craig thought that Omar would have been proud of his ancestors. Their descendants, huddled and restricted inside the walls, he would have had no time for. Every single one of them was poor.

  Craig turned his back on history, and walked toward the bars and night clubs. The place he wanted was small and intimate, and famous for its bouzouki music. Angelos, the man who owned it, had been a waiter in London when the Second World War began, and had joined the navy. In 1945 he and Craig had been part of a Special Boat Service Group that had landed on the island of Cos. It was Craig's eighteenth birthday, and he had saved Ange-los's life.

  Craig walked in and spoke English to the waiter who led him to a table. It was early, but already the place was filling up, the air conditioning inadequate to counteract the heat of too many bodies. The waiter led him to a table near the back of the room, and Craig was quite happy about it. He refused the local champagne, and ordered a bottle of Arsinoe, a dry, delicate wine, and a plateful of the delicious Cyprus sausages called seftalies, and the chipped potatoes that are different from the chipped potatoes anywhere else in the world. The waiter brought the wine at once, and Craig sipped and smiled, and asked to speak to Angelos.