James Munro - The Innocent Bystanders

The fat man sat, impassive.

"Tell me about that," he said.

"What do you care?" asked Craig. "I got away and came back to London and you were too busy to see me. You weren't too busy to see Royce and Benson."

"Ah," said Loomis.

He struggled and wrestled with his own body to get a hand to an inside pocket. It came out holding a cigar. Loomis looked at it, sighed, and handed it to Craig, then wrestled himself again for another.

"Go on, son," he said.

"You saw them that day. You didn't see me. And I knew why. Craig was out. Finished. If the KGB didn't get me, you would. So I got out of the country-"

"Your friend Candlish is a very resourceful feller."

"—went back to the States and got hold of Miriam Loman."

"Royce and Benson should have got on to her," said Loomis. "Youth has its drawbacks."

"They're not mine. The Loman girl took me right to Kaplan and I've got him."

"In your friend's house in the mountains. Suppose we take him from you?"

"You can't," said Craig.

Loomis clipped his cigar, lit it as if he were cauterizing a wound.

"We're chums with the Cypriots now," he said. "We could tell them some yarn. They'd let us use force. There's a unit of the RAF Regiment not far from here."

"Kaplan's no good to you dead. Or have you started subcontracting to the KGB?"

"I see," said Loomis. "You'd go that far, would you? But suppose I'd sent some of the boys along now—to pick him up while you and I were chatting?"

"He'd still be dead," said Craig.

"Your friend Angelos? No. I don't think so. And not the Loman person. She's hardly appropriate for the role. Omar the terrible Turk, eh, Craig?"

"Never mind," said Craig. "Just believe what I told you. You only get Kaplan alive if you pay for him."

"A hundred thousand," said Loomis.

"And a written guarantee."

"Even I can't give you that without authority."

"Then get it. I have other offers, you know."

For the first time since Craig had known him, Loomis became angry in silence. No purple face, no outraged bull frog swellings of the chest, no pounded tables.

He said softly, "I think you'd be very unwise."

"The other offers have guarantees, too," said Craig.

"You'd still be unwise."

Craig got up then and looked down at Loomis. The fat man was as still as a statue, and just about as hard.

"You know what we businessmen say," said Craig. "Buy now and avoid disappointment. Let me know when you've got your guarantee."

He went down to the foyer and spoke to the desk clerk.

"Could you ring Miss Benson and Mr. Royce?" he said. "They're up in the roof garden. Tell them that Mr. Loomis wants to see them in the restaurant."

The clerk lifted a phone, spoke briefly, first in Greek, then in English, and turned to Craig.

"They're on their way, sir," he said.

"Thanks," said Craig.

At least now they wouldn't try to stop him reaching his car—and Loomis would have lots to say to them.

CHAPTER 12

He drove back to the mountains fast, alert for foEowing cars. There were none. When he turned off on to the track to Angelos's house, he was quite alone. Up to Loomis now, he thought, unless the Yanks come up with a better offer. He sounded his horn as he drew to a halt, then deliberately stood in the glare of the headlights, making himself visible before he switched them off and walked up the path. The door opened as he approached it, and Angelos stood in the light, the Webley massive in his fist.

"You forget things, too," said Craig. "Don't you know better than to make yourself a target?"

They moved toward the living room. From the kitchen there came a tinkle of glass, as Craig opened the living-room door. In the living room Miriam, Omar, and Kaplan sat waiting. Craig raced into the room, tipped up the heavy chair Kaplan sat in, pushed him behind it.

"Angelos," he yelled. "The lights. Get the fights."

Angelos reached for the switch and a shot boomed out behind him. His body jerked to its impact, and he reeled into the room, took two stiff-legged strides and crashed down on to the floor. Craig fired into the hallway, and risked a look into the room. Omar had disappeared behind an upturned sofa, Miriam beside him. From the darkness behind the living room, a voice spoke.

"Mr. Craig," it said, "all we want is Kaplan."

Beside him a rifle went off, an appalling explosion of noise in the confined space of the room, then Omar said softly, "If I have to kill people—that's extra, effendi."

The voice spoke again.

"It's no use, Mr. Craig. We've got all the advantages. Just send Kaplan out. That's all we want."

Craig looked at Kaplan, who was whimpering with terror, then crouched lower behind the chair. The Russian was right. He had no chance at all, pinned down in the light. The chair and sofa they crouched behind were solid enough, but not solid enough to stop a heavy-caliber bullet. There was no chance of shooting out the lights, either: there were lamps all over the room, and he had no extra ammo . . . Something stirred by the door, and he looked at Angelos. The fat man, unseen in the angle of the door, had stirred. Blood soaked from a hole in his side on to the floor, but he was still alive.

Craig said softly in Greek, "Angelos, turn the lights off."

The fat man stirred again, and moaned.

Craig spoke more urgently. "Angelos, you can hear me. Turn the lights off."

The voice outside spoke again. "I shall count to ten. After that, we'll start firing into you. It will be your own fault, Craig. We only want Kaplan." There was a silence, then—"One—Two—Three-"

Craig said, "Turn the lights off, Angelos—and then we'll be even. You won't owe me a damn thing."

The voice had reached eight when Angelos rose with the shambling uncertainty of a drunk, lurched to the wall, and staggered into the doorway, his hand on the light switch. A second shot smashed into him, and it was the weight of his body falling that plunged the room into darkness.

Craig yelled to Omar not to fire, and swerved over the chair, wriggled on his belly to the door angle, waiting for a gun flash. When it came, he snapped off an answering shot and rolled behind the door. Another gun banged, and Craig noted its direction. In the darkness of the corridor a man was cursing—perhaps he'd hurt one of them, and he waited, tense, his hand stretched out in front of him, till he felt the softness of Angelos's body. He followed the outline of shoulder and arm, till at last he found the massive shape of the Webley, hefted it in his hands.

"All right, Omar," he whispered. "Give him three rounds, then cease fire."

"Three rounds," said Omar. "A hundred dollars a round."

The sound of the rifle was like blows from a giant hammer smashing the room, and after the third Craig leaped crouching into the doorway, sensed movement to his right and dropped flat. A gun banged, a shot cut the air where he'd been, and behind him, he could hear Miriam screaming. He fired the Webley, and the kick from it brought up the barrel until it pointed at the ceiling. The noise it made was scarcely less than the rifle's. He fired again, rolled to a new position. There was a sound of scuffling feet, the heavy thud of a falling body, then silence. Craig lay still in the darkness. One man was certainly out of it, and his guess was that there had only been two, and that the second one was hurt. But even so, there was no point in taking chances: if he miscalculated now they would all be dead. He waited a minute, two minutes. In the living room behind him he could hear Omar fidgeting restlessly with the rifle. At last, the voice spoke again. It sounded weak.

"There were only two of us, Mr. Craig," it said, "and you have killed my partner and wounded me. I should like to surrender." Craig willed himself to stay silent. "I'm going to put my gun down," the voice said. There was a scraping sound and a heavy object scraped along the corridor. Noiselessly, an inch at a time, he stretched out his left hand until he touched it: a gun all right, an automatic; 9-millimeter by the feel of it. Three-gun Craig.