James Munro - The Innocent Bystanders

Asimov lay back and closed his eyes, and Kaplan grabbed for him, shook him.

"You must tell me now," he screamed.

Miriam went to him, pulled his hands from Asimov and pushed him into a chair.

"Let him rest," she said.

"You will never know how important this is," he told her.

"I know," said Craig. He bent closer to Asimov. "All right you're tired, so I won't make you talk. All you have to do is listen. But you'd better do that Asimov, or I'll leave you with Kaplan."

"Talk, then," said Asimov. "It's all foolishness anyway."

"The KGB reached you," said Craig, "and they told you what you already knew—that Kaplan had betrayed you. They said they'd help you to find him, because they wanted him dead too. They gave you money, and sent you to New York." The girl turned to him, wide-eyed. "You had to get information from Marcus Kaplan, I should think, but when you got there you found the Americans were ahead of you. Marcus already had a bodyguard. So then you went to see the man who'd interrogated Kaplan, a man called Laurie S. Fisher—at an apartment building called the Graydon Arms."

Asimov leaned back further in the chair.

"Don't go to sleep now," said Craig. "This is where it gets interesting. You found Fisher all right. The way you found him must have been perfect for you. He was in bed with a woman. You killed the woman, then tortured him until he told you all you needed to know. Then you killed him." He hurried on, not looking at Miriam. "Then your KGB contact found out I was in town and sent a couple of blokes to kill me. They tried, when I was with Marcus Kaplan—and they made a mess of it. But that wasn't too important, was it? Fisher had told you Kaplan was in Kutsk, and you went there looking for him. You made a mistake at Kutsk, Asimov. That place is full of Omar's relatives. The only language they understand is money ... But your luck held anyway. You stayed on in Famagusta, waiting. It's nice and handy for Turkey, and your cover was good. A lot of Israelis stay here. Then damn me if I didn't walk right in on you at Angelos's night club. And the girl who takes them off while the bouzouki plays said: 'I can't understand Angelos. He's never at the club these days.' So you followed him, didn't you, mate? And you did a spot of mountaineering and climbed in through the kitchen window and brought your score up to three."

"How can you know this is true?" Kaplan asked.

"I saw Fisher and his girl," said Craig. "I saw what was done to him. And that's the only way our intrepid hero could have found out how to reach you, Kaplan." He turned to Miriam. "You think I'm rough," he said. "You should see this fellow's work. Even Royce wouldn't be ashamed of it."

Asimov said in a whisper, "That was Daniel."

"You should record that and save your voice," said Craig.

"I don't mean to excuse myself. I was there and saw it happen and did nothing to prevent it. I did nothing to stop him killing your friend, either. And Angelos had been very kind to us."

"And this is the man you worshipped?" Miriam said.

"He saved my life so many times I almost lost count. Even in the camp, he helped me. Looked after me. He showed me how to survive—and how to hit back. If it hadn't been for Daniel, I'd still be an animal in the cage of Volochanka. When we got out—in Norway, in Sweden, then here—he taught me how to be a man again, and not just an animal." He looked at Kaplan. "Also he taught me how to hate properly. In this world, existence is hopeless unless you can hate. And I hate you, Kaplan. I will hate you till Craig kills me."

"Maybe I'll let him do it," said Craig. "Maybe I won't do it at all. You puzzle me, friend. You really do."

"I did what had to be done to kill Kaplan," said Asimov. "Why is that puzzling?"

"Can you tell him, Omar?" Craig asked.

"You don't have to tell a Turk anything about hating," Omar said. "We've been doing it for years. Greeks mostly. And Arabs. Almost anybody who isn't a Turk—and quite a few that are. But when we hate—we hate a man and his family. Not strangers. We don't torture strangers or kill a woman making love because she's in the way, or a fat man who has been kind to us, even if he is a Greek."

Asimov said, "Killing Kaplan was our whole world. Nothing else mattered."

"I hate your world," said Miriam.

"I spit on it," said Omar. "I spit on you."

"Hate it, spit on it, my world exists," said Asimov, and looked at Kaplan.

"Let the old Jew kill the young one, effendi," Omar said. "It's the worst punishment you could think of for the young one, and the old one will enjoy it."

"No," said Kaplan. "I don't want to kill him."

"He wants you to live," said Craig. "To remind him there's somebody else as bad as he is. After all that wonderful talk in the camp, you wound up working for the KGB."

"Are you going to kill me, then?" "Why should I?" "I let Angelos die."

"And I killed Daniel—the one you worshipped. Just how good a hater are you? Suppose I let you live—do I go on your list too? And Omar and the girl? They stood by and let me do it."

"Please," Asimov said. "Please, I really am tired." His lips curled up for a moment. "Dead tired."

His body slumped forward. Craig caught him and carried him into a bedroom, then came out and looked at the body of Daniel. Omar came up beside him.

"It's hot here, boss. Even up in the mountains. This one and the Greek—they won't keep long."

Craig looked down at the dead face. It was strong and hard as a weapon, the face of a man with an overwhelming drive to the achievement of one objective at a time, a man who would feel neither pity nor remorse for what had to be done to achieve that objective. Asimov didn't look like that. Not yet.

"Put them in the garage," Craig said. "Take the air-conditioning unit out of your bedroom and plug it in." "Air conditioning, boss?" Craig did it for him.

CHAPTER 13

They lay together in the coolness of the room, and she could sense his relaxation in the tenderness of his hands as he embraced her, the sigh of content when he lit a cigarette after they had made love. In the darkness her fingers explored the scars on his body.

"There was a time when I thought you were the most hateful man in the world," she said.

"You had a remarkable way of showing it."

She dug an elbow into his stomach and he grunted with pain.

"It was partly cracks like that that made me think it," she said. "But now I know you're only Little League stuff —compared with Kaplan, Daniel, Asimov. You're just an amateur."

"I was never in Volochanka," he said.

"You've had things done to you-"

"And I've hit back."

"Sure—at your enemies. Not people who haven't harmed you. And you didn't betray—like Kaplan." She put an arm round his chest. "I hate that man," she said. "Liar. Betrayer. And now he's happy—just as you said—because somebody else is as bad as he is. What a credit to my people. He's like a cartoon Jew in a Nazi comic strip."

"He's what other people made him," said Craig.

"He could have done so much."

"He will."

Suddenly the girl's body moved away from his. He put out his hand, felt the tender weight of a breast, then his fingers moved up her throat to her face. She was crying.

"I say, look here. Dash it, old girl. What?" he said.

She giggled for a moment, but her tears continued. He gathered her into his arms and held her gently, whispering to her as the tears spilled on to his shoulder. She was weeping for a world of illusions wrecked, of values destroyed, and for Kaplan too. Soon and late, Miriam would shed a lot of tears for Kaplan. Craig got up and dressed. It was his turn to keep watch.

As he entered the living room he knew at once that something was wrong. Omar sat in the chair, as he should —but he was too still, too relaxed. Craig went to him. The old man lay back in his chair, breathing in great snoring gasps. A bruise darkened the side of his head. The rifle was gone. Craig raced to Kaplan's bedroom, took the key from his pocket, unlocked the heavy door, and went in. Kaplan lay sleeping, and Craig raced back to Asimov's room. It was empty.