James Munro - The Innocent Bystanders

She sighed, came up to him, put her arms round his neck and kissed him.

"Would a wise European help an innocent American take off her bra?"

They came in soundlessly, surely, the way they had been taught—the man at the window, the girl at the door. It was early morning, half light, but that was light enough. The man carried a 9-millimeter Walther automatic, thirteen shot, a stopper. The girl had a .32 revolver, a neat little job with a cross-checked butt. Nobody ever stopped anything with a .32. The girl was a dead shot. They stood holding the bed in their crossfire, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the dark, picking out the masses of the shapes on the beds, ears strained for the faint sound of breathing in the most profound sleep of the night. Suddenly the light came on, and behind them a voice they knew and detested said, "Pascoe would have been proud of you."

Joanna Benson froze, Andrew Royce began to turn.

"No," said Craig, and Benson stayed sail. Miriam Loman sat up in the bed, frightened, bewildered, and pushed away the bolster she had lain against.

"Guns on the bed," said Craig. The armed man and woman made no move to obey, and Craig, by the light switch, risked a quick look at Miriam. The terror was still there.

Omar's voice said, "Your gun on the bed, Mr. Craig."

He stood in the doorway; in his hands was a single barreled shotgun. It was old, but serviceable, and it pointed straight at Miriam.

"I'll drop your sheila, Mr. Craig," Omar said.

The Smith and Wesson landed at Miriam's feet, and Royce scooped it up, slipped it into his pocket and nirned to Craig.

"Thanks, Omar," he said. "Come and join us, Craig." He gestured with the Walther. "Come on."

Warily, ready for a blow, Craig moved forward. The shotgun still pointed at Miriam's breast.

"You lied to me, Omar," he said. "You disappoint me."

"No," Omar said. "I told you that before today I hadn't seen a Pommy for fifty years. That was the truth, Mr. Craig."

Royce stepped back out of Craig's line of vision, but the barrel of Joanna Benson's gun was aimed steadily at his heart.

"Why did you do it?" Miriam asked. "I thought you liked us?"

"I do like you," said Omar, and his voice was indignant, "but I like money more."

Royce struck then, using the edge of his hand with a careful economy of strength. Craig fell across the foot of the bed.

"You're right," Royce said. "Pascoe will be proud of us."

He came back to consciousness in a stone shed that smelled of animals. He was lying on straw, and the straw stank. The shed was lit by an oil lamp hung high on the wall. His hands were tied behind him, and his neck ached vilely where Royce had hit him. His wrists, too, ached to the construction of the wire that was cutting into him, but he lay still, not moving, eyes closed, letting his mind and body regain strength.

Joanna Benson's voice said, "I think he's conscious."

The toe of a shoe crashed into his ribs, and he gasped with the pain. Pain he could see coming he could control, but pain from nowhere made the body's reaction inevitable.

Royce said, "He's conscious."

Hard hands grabbed him, propped him against the wall of the shed. His head lolled forward. He needed time to recruit his strength.

"We brought your girl, too," said Joanna Benson, and his head came up then. Royce chuckled. Miriam sat in the straw a few feet from him, and before them Royce and Benson stood. Royce's gun wasn't showing, but Benson still held her .32. They looked relaxed, strong in the arrogant beauty of youth. The weight of Craig's years had never been so heavy.

"You're an innocent American," Royce said. "I'm a wise European."

"And decadent too?" Joanna Benson asked.

"You tell me," said Royce.

"Would a wise European help an innocent American to take her bra off?" Joanna Benson said. She even got the accent right. Miriam stood up, screaming.

"Stop it," she yelled. "Stop it. Stop it. Stop it."

"Sit down, darling," said Benson. "You're not being dignified."

"You have no right to do this," Miriam sobbed. "No right."

"Tell me, Craig," said Benson. "Treat her like a child again."

No, Craig thought. Not even a child. Any kid over there could follow the logic of their situation.

"Sit down, Miriam," he said wearily. "Sit down and be quiet. She's got the gun."

Miriam slid down into the straw, pressed her hands to her face. Benson looked at her. The look was that of one fighter appraising another before the bell went for the first round.

"You must do something very special, darling," she said. "I got absolutely nowhere."

Royce said, "I think we'd better get on with it," and Benson shrugged.

"Loomis is very angry with you," Royce said. "He told us to kill you."

"In certain circumstances," said Benson, and Royce nodded agreement.

"In certain circumstances. Those circumstances are almost fulfilled."

"But you can't," said Miriam. "He's on our side."

"No, darling," Benson said, "he's on your side. We,"— the .32 flicked to Royce and herself— "we are on our side."

Miriam's body tensed in the straw and Craig snarled at her, "For God's sake sit still."

Benson laughed, a husky, very feminine laugh.

"You really picked an innocent, Craig," she said. "I don't believe she's worked it out yet."

Royce said to him, "Perhaps you'd better tell her. She'd take it better from you."

Craig turned to her then, and for the first time Miriam could read emotion in his eyes, a vast and weary compassion.

"If they kill me," Craig said, "they won't leave any witnesses .. . I'm sorry."

The girl swerved round, staring at him.

"I don't believe it," she said. "I simply don't believe it."

"But you will," Benson said. "When it happens—you'll believe it all right. Won't she, Craig?"

He made no answer. Whether she was enjoying herself or simply softening him up, there was no need to help her. Royce took a quick step forward, his foot moved, finding the place he'd hit before. But this time Craig saw it coming. He made no sound.

"Answer the lady," said Royce. Craig shrugged.

"She'll know nothing," he said. "She'll be dead. Like me. Like both of you, in all probability."

"Loomis said you never gave up," said Joanna Benson. "Let's go on about your death." She waited a mcment. "It's the best offer we can give you, you know .. . death. Once you've told us where Kaplan is."

"But you know where he is," said Craig.

"Kutsk," said Royce. "That's all we've got. We reckon you have more."

"Why should I?" Craig asked.

"Because you went to see Marcus Kaplan," Joanna Benson said. "Because she's here with you. There has to be more, Craig."

Craig said, "That's all I got." Royce's shoe came back. "I came here looking for you."

The leather cracked again on his rib cage. Once more, and the ribs would break.

"Wait," Benson said. "We'll have time for aE that." She came closer to Craig. "Look, darling," she said, "if this place was all you had, why did you bother coming? You knew we'd be ahead of you."

"At Volukari you were behind me."

"We were looking for you," Royce said. "We got a tip-off you were coming. You weren't all that hard to find."

"You switched cars, didn't you? Followed us in a Fiat van?"

"Yes," Benson said. "Don't waste time, Craig. If all you knew was the town, why did you come?"

"To hijack him from you," said Craig.

Royce drew back his foot again, but Benson spoke quickly, stopping him.

"It makes sense," she said. "You know what he's like— the middle-aged wonderboy."

"But Loomis said-" Royce began.

"Loomis said somebody knew where Kaplan is, and somebody does." She turned to Miriam. "Right, Miss Loman?"

Craig said, "You're completely wrong. She doesn't know a thing. I made her come here."