James Munro - The Innocent Bystanders

"This CIA man, Laurie Fisher-" said Craig.

Kaplan looked up. "You know him?" he said.

"I've seen him once," said Craig. "He was the one who told you to take a vacation?"

"Yes," said Kaplan.

"It was good advice," said Craig, "but from now on stay in a crowd. If you think I'm rough, Mr. Kaplan, you should try the KGB—like your brother." He paused, then added: "Let's see you shoot, Mr. Kaplan, That's what we came for, wasn't it?"

Miriam worked the treadle, and the skeet balls shot out, small and traveling fast. Kaplan fired, pumped the gun, fired, pumped the gun, over and over. The first two missed, the next eight were smack on the target.

"You're brilliant, Mr. Kaplan," said Craig. "If you could keep emotion out of your shooting you'd be deadly. Me, please."

Miriam worked the treadle, and Craig shot: the first two misses, then eight hits. He grinned at Kaplan.

"We must have a play-off sometime," he said.

"So you're just brilliant, like me?" Kaplan said.

"No," said Craig. "I'm deadly. But I've never shot skeet before."

They left Kaplan at the clubhouse, and she drove back to the motel. On the way they were picked up by a blue Buick sedan that followed them decorously through the Miami traffic. It was still with them when they turned off for the motel. Craig sighed.

"Drive on a bit," he said. "Make this thing go."

The Chevrolet moved from fifty to seventy, then on to eighty, and the Buick was still there. When the girl slowed down, so did the Buick's driver. Craig sighed again.

"That Buick's following us," said the girl. Her incredulity was touching.

"Start to slow down," said Craig. "Wait till we get near a lay-by, then cut your motor and coast in."

She did as he said, and the Buick slowed too. When they went into the lay-by, the Buick slowed even more, then entered it in front of them. By that time Craig had got out of the car and was looking at its offside rear tire. The man who got out of the Buick was young, broad-shouldered, Florida brown. He walked back to the Chevrolet and smiled at Miriam, a warm and friendly smile.

"Having trouble, folks?" he asked.

Before she could answer, Craig said, "Yeah. Look here," and the tall young man leaned toward the tire.

Craig's body uncurled like a spring, and the tall young man went down to a back-handed strike. On the way down he met Craig's knee, and after that the concrete, then Craig went through his pockets, hefted him into the trunk of the Buick, and threw its ignition keys into the bushes.

Miriam stared at him, her mouth open in a silent scream. "Let's go home," said Craig.

She fought for words that refused to come, and at last gasped out, "You killed him."

"No," said Craig. "He'll live. And he's out of the way for a while. Drive on."

She obeyed at last, and they made for the motel.

"Who was he?" she asked.

"No card," said Craig. "Licence said Harry Bigelow. Just fifty dollars cash, a big smile and a Colt .38. Harry Bigelow, CIA."

"You're so sure?"

"We're lucky it was," said Craig. "The KGB wouldn't play it like that. And neither will Harry—not any more. To start with there'd probably be two of them—tailing your uncle. When we left they'd split up. The better one would take Kaplan. I got the apprentice, poor kid. It all looked easy, didn't it?"

"Horribly easy."

Craig chuckled. "It isn't usually. But your Uncle Marcus was routine—so they thought. So they gave some of it to a new boy. It won't happen again. The CIA knows its stuff."

And so does Loomis, Craig thought; yet he's risking a new boy.

"What now?" said the girl.

"We go back to the motel," said Craig, "and ask for a nine-o'clock call tomorrow morning. But that's because we're sneaky. Actually we leave tonight."

"Where to?" Miriam asked. "Back to New York?"

"Eventually," said Craig. "First we go to Caracas, Venezuela, then the Azores, then Rome, then Istanbul, then—if you're a good girl, back to New York."

"But you can't," Miriam said.

"I'm doing it."

"But I haven't got my passport."

"I picked it up for you," said Craig. "While you were dressing." Suddenly she started to blush again. "What's the matter?" he asked. "I've got to go to the John," said Miriam.

CHAPTER 7

The tall man's name was Lederer. His cover was that of investment counselor in the firm of Shoesmith, Lederer, and Fine. The chubby man with hexagonal glasses was called Mankowitz. His cover was that of consultant psychologist, and was worth a hundred thousand dollars a year. Some of those dollars he invested on Lederer's advice. It was an excuse for meeting, and Lederer's advice was good. They met in Lederer's office as Craig and Miss Loman landed in Caracas. Both men liked Lederer's office. It was in Wall Street, on the eighteenth floor of an aging skyscraper, it had a kind of brown-leathered, New England dignity, and it was not bugged. The last, negative virtue was the most desirable of all, but the others also had charm. For Lederer they represented a continuity of life: prep school in New England, Harvard, a home in Long Island, a summer place in Maine. For Mankowitz they had all the charm of novelty. Enormous leather chairs, Hogarth prints, period furniture; there was even a humidor, and the cigars it contained were Havana, and quite illegal in the States, no matter where your allegiance lay. He took one and pierced it with a device that might have been used for extracting confessions. Lighting it was a ritual that occupied two minutes and three matches. When it was drawing Lederer said:

"Craig got to Marcus Kaplan." The chubby man looked up, surprised. "He took the girl with him. Miriam Loman. They met at some skeet club Kaplan uses. It seems likely that Kaplan told Craig all he wanted to know."

Mankowitz sucked on his cigar like a fat child with a lollipop.

"You gave us the wrong advice," Lederer said. Man-kowitz pouted.

"I didn't give you any advice," he said. "I gave you facts. Craig as an agent was finished. That was a fact. He's too scared of pain. That was a fact. He'd lost his drive— another fact. And the way Fisher was handled threw him —also a fact."

"In Miami he put through a nice, smooth operation. He wasn't scared and he didn't panic."

"Then something's happened to him," Mankowitz said.

"What?"

The fat man's shoulders heaved in a comprehensive shrug.

"How do I know? For that sort of guessing I need a crystal ball."

"I'd be obliged if you'd use it," said Lederer, and Mankowitz pouted again.

"I can tell you a possibility," he said. "But that's all it is."

"Tell me a possibility."

"Somewhere Craig's got the idea that he's got nothing else to lose. He's so far down he can only go out—or up. Craig isn't the type to go out. So he's started to hit back."

"But you saw him a couple of days ago. What could have happened since then?"

"He went back to London," the fat man said. "It's possible he saw Loomis."

"Inevitable," Lederer said.

"Maybe Loomis rejected him. The archetypal father-figure rejected him. That means he's absolutely alone." "Except for the girl."

"The girl is expendable. For Craig, now, everyone may be expendable. And he is expendable to everyone. Hence his need for a hostage. Nobody loves him any more."

"That's why I let him take the girl," Lederer said. "The way he is now, he might just do the job for us."

"You can keep track of him?"

"Oh yes. He's booked through to Rome. He stops over at the Azores. If he makes Rome, he goes on to Turkey. We've got plenty of chances to pull Loman out if we have to."

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"It might be wiser not to take them," Mankowitz said. "If Craig's recovered his skill as a result of—whatever has happened, he'll need the Loman girl to find Aaron Kaplan. Then we can take over."