James Munro - The Innocent Bystanders

"I'm now going to stand up," said the voice, and Craig became aware of a dark shape in the darkness before him. In the living room Omar's rifle clicked.

"Don't shoot yet, Omar," Craig shouted.

"Thank you, Mr. Craig," said the voice.

Craig rose to a crouch and moved to the light switch in the hall, pushed it up with the barrel of the automatic while the Webley covered the corridor. A tall, heavy-shouldered man stood swaying in front of him. Further back, in the kitchen doorway, an older man, squat, barrelchested, built like a bear, lay flat on his back. He was dead.

"Come forward slowly," said Craig. "Let's have a look at you, Mr. Lindemann."

The young man's eyes flickered up at him as he lurched into the living room, one hand pressed to his shoulder. In front of him Miriam, Kaplan, and Omar faced him. Miriam had both hands pressed to her face, stifling the screams that had muted now to sobs, Omar's hands were clawlike on the rifle, his face alight with excitement. Kaplan looked once at Lindemann, then away, his face ageing even more as Craig watched. Lindemann spoke in Russian.

"All that can wait," said Craig, and led Lindemann to a chair, opened his coat, and looked at the wound.

"Get me some hot water," he said. Omar moved, still holding the rifle. "Not you," said Craig. "You stay here. Miriam."

The girl's hands fell from her face and she moved slowly to the door. Angelos's body was in the way. "Move him, Omar," said Craig.

The old man slung the rifle over his shoulder and dragged Angelos out. Craig looked at the wound, a clean puncture through the right shoulder, a neat, purple-ringed hole back and front.

"You were lucky," he said.

"In a sense," said Lindemann.

Miriam brought hot water, and linen cloth torn into strips, then watched as Craig bandaged the wounded man, his hands deft and sure. Once he hurt Lindemann, making him cry out, but Craig went on as if nothing had happened, as if there were no blood on the carpet, no reek of cordite in the room, no ache in the ears from the crash of the rifle; as if Lindemann were a perfectly ordinary young man who'd had minor injuries in a car crash. When he'd finished he gave him a cigarette and a drink.

"So all you wanted was Kaplan," Craig said. Lindemann was silent. "Only you didn't get him," said Craig. "You got a mate of mine instead." Again silence. "Nice chap. Quiet. Ran a nice little business. You and your friend used to go there, didn't you? Chat up the girls. Is that why you killed him? So he couldn't identify you?"

"Stein killed him."

"You didn't work all that hard to stop him. And now we can identify you. The girl, the old man, and me. Are you going to kill us if you get the chance?"

"The question is academic," Lindemann said.

"Not to me . . . Maybe not to you, either."

"All we wanted was Kaplan. Angelos—it was an accident. I am sorry for it."

"Me too," said Craig. "He didn't have to die at all. You could have bought Kaplan. He's for sale."

"Bought him?"

"A million rubles COD."

"We are Israelis," Lindemann said.

Craig looked over to Kaplan. "Is that right?" he asked. Kaplan said, "I don't know. I've never seen them before."

"But you spoke in Russian," Miriam said. "They're Russian, aren't they? KGB?"

"Russian, yes. KGB, no," said Craig. "They're in your file," he told Kaplan. "They're the ones who survived the break-out from Volochanka. Their names are Daniel and Asimov. Daniel's the dead one. Right?" The young man looked away again. "You wanted Kaplan because he betrayed you. Isn't that right, Kaplan?"

Kaplan said, "I have never—have never-" Then his

voice choked. He turned away.

"You've wanted him dead ever since you got out of Volochanka."

"One year, three weeks, and four days," said Asimov. "It was the only thought in our minds." "Tell us about it," said Craig.

"He's sick," the girl said. "He should be in a hospital."

"No," Asimov said. "That isn't important. What Kaplan did—that is important. I want you to know."

"We do know," said Craig.

"Not all. I am sure Kaplan did not tell you all."

Asimov looked at Kaplan then, with a hunger of hate such as Craig had rarely seen, an almost sensual appraising of the older man's body, as if Asimov were calculating how much he could endure before he broke.

"Please. I want to get out of here," Kaplan said.

"No," said Craig, and at once Omar moved in on Kaplan, who sat down and turned his face from them. He was willing himself not to listen, Craig knew, but his will was not strong enough.

"He told you about the minyan, no doubt," said Asi-mov. Craig nodded. "And about our plan to escape? It was a good plan. A beautiful plan. Daniel made it." He looked up then, facing Craig. "There is something you must realize. I worshipped Daniel."

"Go on," said Craig.

"The plan worked perfectly, as Daniel had promised it would. Only—when we got out, Kaplan was missing. I thought he had been unfortunate, but even then Daniel knew better. He knew that Kaplan had betrayed us—and because he knew it, I am still alive. When we split up, you see, we took a different route—not the one we had discussed when Kaplan was present—and so we got out alive. We learned later that the others did not. The guards caught them and killed them, every single one."

"What happened to you?"

"We should have died then. I mean—there was no real possibility that we could survive. And yet somehow we did. Fishing. Trapping animals. Digging up roots. We lived like beasts, and like beasts we survived, and got away to the West. The filthy capitalist West. A place called Vardo, up in the north of Norway. By then it was winter, and we got a job on the railway. We told the boss we were Finns and we'd lost our passports. He didn't believe us, but he didn't do anything about it either. Labor's scarce up there in the winter. We worked through till spring, then took off. It was time for him to tell the police about it. We got to Oslo. That wasn't easy, but after Volochanka, nothing was too difficult."

"You could have told the Norwegians who you were," said Craig. "They'd look after you."

"On their terms," said Asimov. "We wanted our freedom—to find out about Kaplan."

"What happened in Oslo?" Craig asked.

"Daniel knew of a man there who could forge papers for us if we paid him."

"Where did you get the money?" asked Miriam.

"We stole it. Stealing isn't difficult—not if you're taught by experts. There were many thieves in Volochanka. We got the money and the man gave us our papers. We became Israelis. Lindemann and Stein. Then we flew to Cyprus."

He stopped then, as if the recital were finished. Craig thought otherwise.

"You didn't stay here," he said. Asimov looked at Miriam.

"I really am tired now," he said. The girl moved closer to them, her eyes fixed on Asimov, glowing with admiration. Behind her Kaplan sat like a stone man, but he had heard every word.

"Can't he rest for a while?" Miriam asked.

"No," said Craig. "He has to finish it. Then we can decide what to do with him."

"He's been through so much."

"More than you realize," said Craig, and turned to the Russian. "Tell us about when the KGB found you."

Asimov's good hand clenched on his lap. He said nothing.

"Was it the man who forged your papers?" Craig asked. "Is that how they found out?" He waited a moment, looking at Asimov. He was white now, exhausted, the onset of shock catching up with him at last.

"I've got all night," Craig said. "I don't think you have. But the KGB found you, didn't they? They even offered to help you. Weapons—money—information. And you took them all."

Kaplan said, "That can't be true. You know that can't be true."

Craig looked at him. His face trembling, Kaplan walked over to Asimov, looked down at him, and spoke, his voice a scream. "Is it true?"