James Munro - The Innocent Bystanders

Craig said, "When were you supposed to tell me all this?" He felt her body stiffen, and went on. "You were, weren't you? Force Three set you up for me, didn't they? Just as Benson said."

She nodded. "They told me what to tell you—but when you made me come with you they said that was all right too. I phoned them, you know. When I went to the John."

"Of course you did," said Craig. "Sometimes I thought you were never going to ask." "But when did you know?"

"Right from the start," he said. "It was all too easy. A

girl in a fur coat—and almost out of it-"

"I hated that," said Miriam.

"It's not a thing you forget," said Craig. "I was supposed to follow it up. Tell Loomis. Force Three knew he'd send somebody. It turned out to be me instead."

"But you knew it was a trap."

"There were nothing but traps," Craig said. "Yours was the prettiest. And it got me nearer Kaplan." He looked at his watch. "What did they tell you to tell me?"

Ill

"About the postcard," she said. "It seemed so stupid." "Not stupid at all," said Craig. "I'm surprised Marcus didn't see it." "See what?" "Where his brother is."

Cautious not to hurt her, he zipped up her dress. When Benson and Royce came back, they were sitting apart. This time, both the man and the woman carried guns.

Benson said, "I hope you've got good news, darling."

"Me, too," said Craig. "But at least I can tell you where he's been."

"Get on with it, then," said Royce.

"Marcus Kaplan got a postcard. There was a picture of a shepherd on it, leading his flock. The message was signed Aaron—his brother. The text had a reference to a rabbi they'd both known as children—that proved it came from Aaron. The rabbi had taught them the psalms. The whole thing was written in Hebrew—even the date: 2.23.5725."

"So?" said Royce.

"2.23," said Craig. "It could be February twenty-third —except the card was postmarked April. On the other hand, if we remember the shepherd on the front of the card, it could be the Twenty-third Psalm—second verse."

"Go on," said Benson.

"Do you happen to know what that is?"

" 'He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters,'" Benson said, and added: "I once had to write it all out ten times. So useful, being taught by nuns."

"Then there was the date—5725," said Craig.

"That's a distance in yards, do you think?"

"No," said Craig. "Kaplan's a Russian. My guess is it means meters."

"Green fields and a lake," said Benson. "About six thousand meters from here. Which direction?"

"You'll need a map," Craig said. "That's all she knows. She didn't even realize she knew that—till I got it out of her."

"Maestro," said Benson, and bowed. Royce raised his automatic.

"What a fool you are, maestro," he said. "You're going to die."

"Well, actually, darling, not quite yet," said Benson. "We do have to be sure he's telling the truth." She turned to Miss Loman. "And that she told him the truth."

"Do we leave them here?"

"They'll be safe for a little while," Benson said. "Get the car."

"What about tying them up?"

"I'll do that," Benson said. "Give me the wire." He handed it to her. "On your tummies, darlings," said Benson.

Royce watched as she drew the wire over Miriam's hands, heard the sharp gasp of pain, then went outside. Minutes later he came back, holding a large-scale map of the area. Craig and Miriam lay face down, wrists bound behind them, feet tied to staples in the wall. He grinned. "Not even love could find a way," he said.

"You've hardly made it worthwhile to try," said Benson. "Any luck?"

"Three possibles," Royce said. "It shouldn't take long."

Benson crouched down by Craig. "We'll do the whole thing in a couple of hours," she said. "Then we'll kill you, Craig. Sorry and all that, darling—but you know what Loomis is like." She got up then, and left them.

Miriam lay in the straw, biting her lip to stop herself from crying out. The pressure of her body was bringing back the pain. Beside her she could hear the movements of Craig's body as he fought against the wire that held him. The fool, she thought. The poor, brilliant, stupid fool. To stop me being tortured he gets himself killed, and now he's trying to burst his bonds like a comic strip hero. The movement of his hands must be agony, she thought. Even lying still was almost more than she could bear.

"Save it, John," she said. "We're going to die. Accept it."

The writhing movements went on beside her.

"Look," she said. "You did it to stop me being hurt any more. All right. I couldn't take any more. I wanted to die. I really did. All right. I got what I wanted. I don't blame you for it. Only please will you stop fighting? It's just no use."

The writhing stopped at last, and then he was bending over her, untwisting the wire at her ankles and wrists. She sat up cautiously, and he rubbed her wrists and ankles, chafing back the circulation.

"I don't believe it," she said. "It isn't possible."

"No," he said. "It's impossible. Unless the girl who tied you up did it wrong."

"You mean that man-eating debutante made a mistake?" Miriam asked. "Oh, I like that very much. I love it."

"No," said Craig. "Benson doesn't make mistakes. She meant it."

"But why?"

"We'll find out later. She also meant it when she said we had just two hours to get out of here. Otherwise Royce will kill us."

"She didn't say that."

"She meant it. She handled Royce as well as anyone could handle him, but there are limits with his kind. Believe me, I know."

He looked round the shed as he talked. The door was four great slabs of wood, hard and old, and bolted on the outside. The windows were too tiny even for Miriam to squeeze through. Patiently, he sought the straw for some kind of tool, but there was nothing. He went to the door again, tested its heavy strength. It could have stood up against a charging bull.

"She was only teasing us," said Miriam. "Making it worse."

"There's a way," said Craig. "There has to be."

He grubbed in the straw again and found a couple of horse blankets, heavy, ancient things that stank to heaven. Quickly he began to pile the straw up round the door, working with care, clearing the rest of the dirt floor, then threw a blanket to her, took one himself, and moved the bucket of water back to the window.

"Get over here," he said.

She obeyed him, and he lifted the oil lamp from its hook, hefted it in his hand, then moved back to join her. "Benson doesn't make mistakes," he said. "But Royce

does. He left the lamp burning—and it's daylight." He soaked the blankets with the water, then flicked his wrist. The lamp spun through the air, then burst like a bomb against the door. She had never believed that a fire could take place so quickly. There was a bang, as the lamp burst, and the blazing oil streamed down into the straw, tongues of flame reared up like waves, searing the side of the door, and the blast of heat made her throw up her hands to cover her face. Even pressed against the farthest wall, the temperature was almost unbearable. Pieces of burning straw spiraled up in the warm air, then drifted down on them. Craig pushed closer to the window as the room filled with stifling smoke. She stood there, whimpering softly, convinced that he'd gone crazy, that they'd burn to death.

Streaming-eyed, coughing, he watched the fire take hold of the door, reduce its weathered hardness to flame. At last, before the smoke made him unconscious, he went to the door, hands wrapped in the towel, holding the blanket in front of him like a shield, but even so the heat seared him through the heavy cloth. He drew up his knee, then kicked flat-footed at the burning door, aiming for the bolt, using every ounce of the karate skill. The flames bit into his leg, and he drew back his foot and kicked again, feeling the door yield slightly but not enough. Another kick was needed, delivering it a task almost beyond his powers. Sobbing, he went closer, bent his knee, kicked, and the bolt gave, the door swung open. He turned to Miriam.