James Munro - The Innocent Bystanders

"Tell the girl to come here," he asked.

Angelos stiffened to attention, the parody of a soldier.

"Jawohl, Herr Oberst," he said.

He went out, and Miriam came in.

"There are a lot of messages for you. I've marked them," said Craig. "Look."

He handed her the European edition of the Herald Tribune. An advertisement read, "Darling, Won't you listen to Stardust just once more? Marcus misses you." A box number in Paris followed.

"It's in every paper," Craig said. "Crude—but they're in a hurry—and worried about you. So they make you worry about Marcus."

"They shouldn't have mentioned him," she said. "That gave it away."

"Only to me," said Craig. "And they know you're with me anyway. So they mention Marcus—and tell it to me too. Stardust was your code name, I suppose?"

"Yes," she said.

"How many times did they reach you?"

"Only once. In Istanbul. Our people aren't too strong in Turkey. They were blown—that's the word isn't it?—six months ago."

"That's why they hired Loomis," said Craig.

"What do we do now?"

"Write to the box number. Tell them our terms." "Our terms?"

"Mine, then. They can have him for me—if they'll get Department K off my back. Otherwise he goes to the Russians."

"Can they get Department K off your back?" "If they want Kaplan badly enough, yes. But with the Yanks it's easier."

"You can trust us, you mean?"

"Of course not," said Craig. "But you spend more money."

He found a piece of paper and an envelope, wrote an answer to the box number in the Herald Tribune, and gave it to Angelos to post, watched the MGB back down the path to the road, then went to bed and slept for four hours.

That night, he and Omar took it in turns to watch the road, patrol the grounds. He trusted Angelos—all his instincts told him that he was right to do so, but he had no faith in his competence. For this kind of operation he needed a Royce and a Benson; what he'd got was a moralist, a female idealist, and an old man.

Next day, Angelos came back at dusk. Again Craig followed the drill in admitting him, and again Angelos grinned at the sight of the rifle, this time in Omar's hands.

"I have some news you should know," he said. "There are two English people in Famagusta asking for you. Or at least for someone who could be you. They are asking for a tall, well-built Englishman and his American wife, believed to be traveling with the girl's uncle and an elderly Turkish servant. The Turk is causing a great deal of excitement."

"I believe you," said Craig.

"They are saying the Englishman has come into a great deal of money, that is why he must be found." "Who are they?"

"A solicitor and his secretary. The secretary is very beautiful. The solicitor has a limp." "Benson and Royce," Craig said. "They say the senior partner is flying out today." "Who are they saying it to?"

"Anyone who'll listen. They want the word to get around, it seems." Craig thought hard for a minute. "Where are they staying?" "The Esperia Tower."

"I want you to sit here for a while," Craig said. "Keep an eye on my guests." "Very well."

Craig hesitated, then took out the Smith and Wesson, offered it to the other. "Are they such reluctant guests?" Angelos asked. "They have enemies," said Craig.

"And so have you, no doubt. I have a gun, John. It's in the car."

"I won't be gone long," Craig said. "You shouldn't have any trouble."

He called for Omar then and gave him precise instructions. When the old man agreed, Craig took out ten more hundred-dollar bills, tore them in half and gave one half to him. That left Miriam. He called her into the kitchen.

"Department K's caught up with us," he said.

"But how could they?"

"By knowing their job," said Craig. "I told you they're good. They're offering a deal."

"What kind of a deal?"

"That's what I've got to go and find out."

"Go to them? That's crazy."

"No," he said. "It's sane enough. I've got Kaplan. They won't hurt me if I can hurt him." She winced. "This could be the end of it," he said. "You should be glad."

"I want my people to have him," Miriam said. "They're the ones who'll help him do what he should be doing."

"We'll listen to their offer too," said Craig.

Angelos walked back with him to his MGB, and took from the trunk an old Webley .45 revolver.

"Who are you going to shoot?" Craig asked. "Elephants?"

"I hope nothing," said Angelos. "But if I use this, I make sure the man I hit stays down."

"If you hit anything at all. That damn thing kicks like a mule."

"How much you forget," said Angelos. "In the old days I always used one of these. I didn't miss very often."

Craig drove the MGB back that night. It was fast, and he didn't have to use the mountain tracks. The new road from Troodos to Nicosia was finished now, a well-paved highway that seemed especially designed for testing out an MGB. It was an eager, thrusting little car, and Craig enjoyed it as he swung into the road's wide, planing curves, easing down at last as he came into Nicosia. The town was noisy with people promenading in the wisp of a breeze that sometimes stirred at evening. There were taxis and buses with vast overhangs and donkeys pulling carts, and pedestrians who walked as if the internal-combustion engine had yet to be invented. He was glad to thread his way through the town and get on to the highway to Famagusta.

This is a curious road. Once it had been a railway line, and when the railway was abandoned the track was pulled up, the road put in its place. It ran arrow-straight for almost all of its fifty miles, and the MGB liked this one too: rev-counter and speedometer climbed up and over in steady power. He kept going at speed till the last possible moment. If the senior partner of Royce's firm had arrived he would try anything, and the best way to combat him on a lonely highway was to keep moving fast. At last the lights of Famagusta grew bigger and brighter, and Craig eased off his speed and drove with finicking care through the old town to Varosha suburb. He drove past the hotel and found space to park. This seemed to be one of the few places left in the world where you could still find space to park, Craig thought.

He went into the lobby and asked for Mr. Royce. He was in the bar, the desk clerk said, with his secretary and another gentleman.

"A fat man?" Craig asked. "Red face and white hair?"

The desk clerk said austerely, "Mr. Royce's friend is rather fat." Craig moved to the lift.

"Is your name Craig, sir?" the desk clerk asked. Craig said it was. "You're to go straight up. Mr. Royce and the others are expecting you. They've ordered dinner at nine, sir."

Whatever you did to Loomis he always bounced right back up, Craig thought. Dinner at nine, for instance. That was for his own benefit, not Craig's, designed to show Craig that he wasn't important enough to make Loomis miss his dinner.

He went into the bar. It was long and dark and cool, the air conditioning muted to a murmur. At the bar itself, a group of wealthy Cypriots drank Keo beer, deplored the price of oranges, and tried not to be caught looking at Joanna Benson's legs. She, Royce, and Loomis were sitting on low chairs round a table. A fourth chair waited for Craig. Loomis didn't look as if he were enjoying it much. He never did enjoy sitting on chairs that weren't specially made for him. Craig moved toward them. The girl's face was impassive. Royce's glance told him that Royce hated him. Loomis raised his massive head and gave him a two-inch nod.

"Ah, Craig," he said. "Good of you to look us up. What'll you have?"

"Same as you," said Craig.

"Ouzo," Loomis said, and they sat in silence till the barman brought it.

"Nice here?" Craig said at last.