James Munro - The Innocent Bystanders

"How?" Joanna Benson asked. "By stealing her bra? Come on, darling. We know you're not that stupid." She moved closer to Miriam. "Force Three sent you, didn't they? They told you to let Craig pick you up. They told you to let him take you to Turkey. Help him get Kaplan out. Let him kill us, or the Russians if they were handy, and then let their boys take over." Her dark eyes burned into Craig. "You knew that all the time, didn't you, darling? But once you'd got Kaplan—you thought you could bargain."

Miriam said, "It isn't true. He did force me-"

"The innocent American," Joanna Benson said.

"That was later. It just happened. I was scared. I-"

"No True Confessions," said Benson. "Just tell me where Kaplan is."

"But I don't know. I honestly don't know." Benson said, "Let me tell you about this place—and him." She nodded at Royce. "It's a barn. Part of a farm. The farmer and his family are away. There isn't another human being in five miles. You can scream pretty loud I should think, darling—you've got the build for it—but you can't scream five miles' worth. Now, our friend here. Where we trained, he did the interrogators' course. I gather he has a talent for it—and with talent there usually goes a certain amount of enthusiasm. He'll hurt you, darling. Later on you'll be amazed how very much he did hurt you. You wouldn't believe your body could stand so much pain. You'll hate him, of course, but you'll hate yourself more. Because you'll have told him, you see. All that pain will have been for nothing." She looked down at Miriam. "Now tell me, darling. Honestly, you'll do it anyway. Won't she, Craig?"

"Yes," said Craig. "She'll tell you." He began to curse them both, a measured stream of the filthiest invective his mind remembered. Benson and Royce ignored him. Their whole concentration was on the girl.

"But I don't know," Miriam said. "Honestly I don't."

Royce hit her, a hard right that left her sprawling in the straw. His hands went to his pockets and came out with a noose of wire. Quickly he twisted her hands behind her back, drew the noose around them till the girl screamed in pain as he twisted the wire to a spike in the wall.

"Shh, darling," said Benson. "He hasn't started yet."

Royce sat on her legs, pulled the golden zipper of the dress, let it split open down her body. His hands moved again, and Craig turned away, tasting the horror of it, knowing what was to come. Suddenly Miriam screamed again, but not as she had screamed before. A blow hurts and you yell, but the pain is not so strong, and diminishes all the time: but this, this is appalling, degrading, unbearable, and its rhythm intensifies, this terrible, scalding thing he's doing: it never stops, it goes on, gets worse. Her screams ceased to be human, became an animal bellow of agony, continuing even after he'd stopped, he'd hurt her so much, so that in the end he had to strike her across the face, a savage left and right to bring her back to the awareness of the room, the man's weight on her legs, the woman looking down at her. The screams choked to sobs: the terror stayed in her eyes.

"Tell us where Kaplan is, Miss Loman," Benson said.

"Please," Miriam begged, "please believe me. I don't know." The man's hand moved and she screamed out, "I want to tell you. Honestly I do. But I just don't know."

Then the hand moved, the noises began again; the pain grew worse and worse, settled at a high peak of unbearable intensity, then again the blows on her face brought her back to reality.

"Three minutes," said Miss Benson. "He's only done it for three minutes . . . We've got all day, Miss Loman. How long have you got?"

"Don't know," Miriam said, over and over. "Don't know . . . Please."

Craig said, "Can I suggest something?" Benson nodded. "Give me ten minutes with her. Alone . . . She'll tell you."

"Royce is the expert," Benson said.

"I don't need to hurt her," said Craig.

"What then?"

"Talk to her." The disbelief in her face was clear. "What does it matter what I do, if I give you what you want? Ten minutes," he went on. "Suppose I fail. You said yourself—you've got all day."

"Why bother, Craig?"

"I don't want her to be hurt any more."

"You'll recall that once she tells us you'll die?"

"I recall that very well. I still don't want her to be hurt."

Again the dark eyes looked into his. She examined him as if he were a member of an alien species; one she'd been briefed on.

"Ten minutes," she said.

"And my hands free?"

Royce wanted to protest at that, but she moved behind Craig and her hands found the slip-knot, eased him free. The release was agony: the renewed insulation of blood so painful he had to exert all his strength not to yell. He looked at Royce.

"You did this," he said.

"My pleasure," said Royce, and got up from Miriam, looked down at Craig, eager for the word that could unleash the power to hurt. Craig looked at him empty-eyed.

"I don't like this," Royce said. "It's better to use the girl. With his hands free-"

"If he tries anything I'll kill him," said Benson. "He knows that."

"I don't trust him," Royce said.

"You like hurting people," said Benson. "Miss Loman just warmed you up. But we didn't come here to get you your kicks, Andrew."

"We came here for Kaplan," Royce said. "There's only one way to get him."

Benson looked down at the gun in her hand. It pointed between Craig and Royce, an impersonal menace.

"You can have ten minutes' rest," she said. "You go first." Royce hesitated for a moment, then left. Benson looked down at Craig.

"There's a bucket and towel over there," she said. "Clean her up if you want to, darling. Andrew can always do it again."

She left then, and Craig unhooked the wire round Miriam's wrists, soaked the towel in water, placed it on her. Even the touch of the towel made her cry out. He held it against her, and gradually the agony on her face faded.

"Oh, my God, that's good," she whispered. Then the fear came back. "But he'll do it again, won't he?" She began to cry, dry, racking sobs, and he took her in his arms, drew the dress around her.

"You really don't know where Kaplan is?"

She shook her head. "If I did—I'd try to hold out against him. But I don't think I could. Not much longer. As it is—I guess it's all for nothing. What he did to me."

"The postcard," Craig said. "Marcus didn't lose it, did he? He left it with you. What was on the postcard? Can you remember?"

"What's the use, John?" she said. "I don't know where he is."

He held her more tightly.

"Ten minutes isn't long," he said. "Just answer my questions."

"It had a picture on it," she said. "A flock of sheep and a shepherd leading them."

"What sort of shepherd?"

"Just an old man with a walking-stick."

"Traditional sort of clothes?" She shook her head. "What was the message?"

"He'd written it in Hebrew. It meant something like— 'This is a lovely place. The old man reminds me of old

Rabbi Eleazar. Do you remember how he used to read the psalms to us? He was a good shepherd to us, wasn't he? I miss him very much, and you too, Marcus. Be happy. Aaron.' That was all."

"Nothing else?" said Craig. "You're sure?"

"Just the postmark, Kutsk. Marcus hired a private detective from Istanbul to come down. Nobody had ever even heard of him. But he must have been here, mustn't he?"

"You're sure there was nothing else?" She was silent for a moment, examining the postcard in her mind.

"Just the date," she said. "That was funny too. He'd written it the Jewish way." "How is that?"

"We're in the year 5725. Aaron wrote 2.23.5725. Some lousy postal service." "Why?" asked Craig.

"Two must be February," she said. "The postmark on the card was April. Marcus got it in May."