James Munro - The Innocent Bystanders

"Shalom," said Craig, and the man was still. Craig got up and moved to him, his left hand moved over the other's body, came away with a knife. He stepped back, the left hand flicked, and the knife spun away, stuck high in the wall. The man's eyes ignored everything but the gun.

"Miriam," Craig shouted, and the girl came ranning, then stared at the man who faced her. He was taller than Marcus, and that was right. Thinner too, bone-thin, but then Marcus had said that Aaron favored his father's side of the family, who were beanpoles. It was Marcus and his mother who'd had weight problems. The face was okay too, in a way. In it there were echoes of things she knew and loved in Marcus: the boldness of a splendidly Semiticnose, a sensitivity about the mouth, a chin she had always wished were a little more determined, especially when Marcus tried to persuade Ida it would be nice to have another cocktail before dinner. He was a Kaplan. She was sure of it; and yet he couldn't be. Aaron was supposed to be fifty-three years old; five years younger than Marcus. The man in front of her looked seventy at least. A tough seventy: the stringy body looked durable enough—but the deeply etched lines on his face, the wrinkled, work-worn hands—seemed to belong to Marcus's father, not his brother. "Well?" said Craig.

"He looks right," Miriam said. "But he's too old."

"Should he speak English?" Craig asked. She nodded.

"How old are you?" asked Craig.

The man stayed silent.

"Try him in Hebrew," Craig said.

She spoke to him, first in Hebrew, then in Yiddish. The old man gave no sign of comprehension.

Craig waited, immobile, till she'd finished, then moved, suddenly, appallingly, so that the girl cried out. One stride took him to the old man, then the gun barrel swung, smashed into his neck, slapping him to the floor, and Craig's voice bellowed orders in a language she did not understand. At once, agonizedly, the old man scrambled to his feet, lurched to the wall, and put his hands against it in the classic pose of the prisoner waiting to be searched.

"We'll take him," said Craig. He walked to the wall of the cottage, tucked the revolver in the waistband of his trousers and took down the rifle, slung it over his shoulder, then again orders streamed from him in that language she did not know, yet which seemed familiar. The man moved forward at once, and out of the cottage, Craig behind him. There was a weariness in the old man's movements, an acceptance of ultimate defeat that sickened the girl. No human being deserved to be so crushed by another.

Outside, Craig looked at his watch then walked the old man and the girl ahead of him, up into the hills, in a line parallel to the path. They found a dip in the hills near the olive trees, and he pushed them into its cover, then settled down to wait. The old man gave no least sign of resistance.

His whole being was concentrated on Craig's hands, watching them test the rifle, examinine its sights and magazine with care, before Craig lay sprawled on the ground, eyes on the road, sights set at a hundred meters. Again orders streamed from him, and the old man bowed his head in submission.

They waited thirty-five minutes before they heard the engine, then the Jaguar streamed effortlessly round the bend in the road, the engine whispering its contempt at the speed it was held to. The girl was driving. Royce sat beside her, looking angry. Craig waited till the car came past them, then the rifle came up, his finger squeezed on the trigger. The rear off-side tire blew like an echo of the shot, and the girl fought the car to a standstill. As she did so, Royce was already moving, gauging his leap from the car, rolling out of it to the roadside before it had stopped.

"Good boy," said Craig, and fired again. Royce went down as if his legs had been swept from under him. Benson stopped the car and left it, using it for cover as she too made for the protection of the road. Craig fired a third time, into the gas tank, and the car exploded in a roaring whoosh of flame that sent Royce scuttling like a wounded snake from the shelter of the ditch. Craig got to his feet then, and led them down to the Fiat, ordered the old man into the back of the van and got in after him, then handed the keys to Miriam.

"You drive," he said. "Back toward the village. Stop when I tell you."

They found a place a mile out of Kutsk—a track that led to a deserted quarry. Craig told her to stop, and she got out. The rifle still in his hands, he ordered the old man out, then followed. The hard words of that elusive language were still in her ears when he switched to English.

"This woman does not speak Russian," he said.

Russian, thought Miriam. Of course.

"We will talk English. First, your name."

"Imares," said the man. "Mohammed Imares."

"Profession?"

"Shepherd ... I used to be a business man, but I made a little money, you understand ... I thought it was best to get away from the wickedness of life in Istanbul."

"Of course," said Craig. "Your age?"

"Sixty. Perhaps I should explain that I have been very ill. I know 1 look older."

"You talk too much," said Craig. The man was instantly silent.

Craig transferred the rifle to his left hand then, almost casually, knocked the man down with a back-handed blow. He fell, heavily, but scrambled at once to his feet as Craig yelled at him in Russian. Miriam ran between them.

"Stop it," she said. "For God's sake, stop it." "Get out of the way," said Craig. "There isn't time for all that." "No," she said.

His hand moved again, pushing her to one side, and he moved up to Imares, who stood swaying on his feet.

"I'm in a hurry," said Craig. "Don't waste my time."

"I told you the truth," said Imares.

"I thought Volochanka had better teachers," said Craig.

Imares's face seemed to disintegrate. Suddenly and silently, he began to cry.

"Kaplan," said Craig. "Tell me your full name."

"Aaron Israel Kaplan."

"Age?"

"Fifty-three."

"Profession?"

"Agronomist." Kaplan sobbed out the word, and covered his face with his hands. Craig let him weep for a moment, then turned to the girl.

"You see," he said. "There was only one way to handle it. It didn't take long." '

"But how could you be so sure?" she asked.

"You spotted him straight off," Craig said, "apart from his age. And you've never seen anybody who's been in Siberia. I have. If they age only twenty years—they're lucky. So I tried him with Russian. Talked like a KGB executive-"

"And acted like one."

"No," said Craig. "For a KGB executive I treated him soft. But he's broken already. And scared out of his mind.

Two blows and a few Russian curses and I had him back in Siberia. After that, he couldn't help telling the truth."

"What happens now?" she asked.

"I'm going to see Omar. Get my money back."

"And go back to the States?"

"Eventually," said Craig. "First of all I want to get away from Benson and Royce. I bet they don't love us at all."

"You didn't kill them," she said. "You could have." "Disappointed?" he asked. "No. Surprised."

"I haven't finished with them yet," said Craig. "It isn't their time to die."

They drove back to the road, and on toward Kutsk. When they reached the outskirts of the village Craig made her stop and, climbed a nearby hill, stared down into the village. There were only a handful of boats bobbing in the harbor; the quayside was deserted, apart from three old men mending nets. It was a good time to call on Omar.

CHAPTER9

Miriam drove the Fiat up to the coffeeshop door. Inside the van Kaplan lay trussed like an oven-ready bird with handkerchiefs and ties. Craig had done it himself; the knots would hold. As the van stopped, Craig stepped out soundlessly, moved from the morning heat to the coolness inside. In the gloom he could discern one man sitting at a table, his head on his arms. An old man, having a good rest, conscious of a night's work well done. Soundlessly Craig moved up to him, his hand moved, the Smith and Wesson appeared. On Omar's table was an empty cup of coffee and a glass of water half-full. Craig picked up the water glass, emptied it over the sleeping man, and Omar shot up at once, shocked into awareness. The gun was the first thing he saw.