James Munro - The Innocent Bystanders

Asimov lay on his back, nursing his strength as Daniel had taught him. He was weary now, utterly weary, with a tiredness of the will that exhausted him as completely as the mine at Volochanka. He thought of the ten of them, the plot to escape, the lectures, the preparation, the training. They had all meant hope for the future, and with hope even Siberia is bearable. And when he and Daniel had escaped, they still had a reason to go on fighting life. Revenge, this time. An ignoble emotion, though the Elizabethans, he remembered, had made a whole literature out of it, with Hamlet as its finest flower. Love was better, the philosophers said, and he'd loved Daniel. He must have done, not to have stopped him that day in the Graydon. But revenge was better than nothing. It made you keep on living till you achieved what you set out to do. But it would be better if he could forget that day at the Graydon: the surprise on the girl's face just before she died: the man's agonized screams smothered by the gag. Daniel had been so skillful, and he'd stood by and watched.

Maybe he'd enjoyed-The thought was unbearable. If

it were true, it made him everything that Turk had said. No better than the guards at Volochanka, no better than Kaplan.

He began to think of a poem he had written in prison. A pattern of ice on a birch tree, and the dull red disc of the sun. Since they'd got out, he hadn't written a line of poetry. Couldn't. He looked up into the darkness of the pine tree that sheltered him. Behind it were the mountains of Troodos, rich, fat mountains, alive with hares, birds, fruit. If it weren't for his shoulder, he could live here indefinitely. From the distance he could hear the growl of a heavy engine. Asimov rolled over on to his stomach. The rifle was by his side, the shoulder of his jacket stuffed with grass to take the impact of its recoil. He was as ready as he would ever be.

Craig had rehearsed the move to the Land-Rover carefully. First Joanna, going quickly into the driver's seat, backing it up to the door, then Miriam, then Kaplan, limping, wearing a blond wig, then Royce in a white wig, then Craig, Kaplan and Craig acting like bodyguards. Royce got into the Land-Rover next to Joanna, and Craig sat beside him. Miriam and Kaplan were in the back. Joanna let in the clutch and drove off at once, and the four-wheel drive tackled the mud track as if it were an autobahn. Mindful of his instructions, she hit a good pace and kept to it.

"Something's up," Royce said at last. "And you know what it is."

Craig kept his eyes on the mountainside. Slopes and ridges, outcrops of rock; perfect sniper country.

"You've got no right to do this to me," said Royce, then yelled at the silence: "For God's sake, tell me what's happening."

"It's possible there's a sniper out there," said Craig.

Royce hunched down in his seat, and as he did so a bullet starred the window by Craig, smacked into Royce as they heard the report of a rifle. Joanna accelerated, and reached a corner in a burst of speed as Craig yelled instructions. The car skidded round the corner and stopped. Craig leaped out of it and raced up the side of the hill, rolled into cover behind a rock. From where he lay he could see Kaplan bending over Royce; Joanna getting out of the driving seat, examining the engine with what looked like frantic haste. He could see, too, a ripple of movement in the long grass on the mountainside, the movement of a man who had been trained to move with caution and skill. Craig took out the 9-millimeter automatic. It had nothing like the range of the rifle, but if Asimov came close enough, it would do.

The ripple of the grass came closer, and at last he could see Asimov's body as he wriggled his way between Craig and the Land-Rover. The group on the road didn't see him until he raised himself to his feet, the rifle held at the hip. Craig could see that he was swaying, very slightly.

Joanna and Miriam froze, as he had told them to do, but Kaplan panicked, turned and dived out of the car seat, racing across the road. And as he moved, Asimov saw him. He raised the rifle, his body swaying more than ever, though the gun was steady. Behind him, Craig got to his feet, his arm raised in the classic pistol-shooting position.

"Asimov!" he yelled, and the Russian checked, then started to turn, far too late. Craig fired once, then again, and the impact of the heavy bullets knocked Asimov sprawling, set him rolling over and over down the long, lush grass until he came to rest at last by the Land-Rover's front wheel. Joanna Benson looked down at him. Two wounds: one through the side of the head, one through the heart, fired from fifty feet away as he turned. Asimov had had no chance at all, and that was exactly as it should be.

Craig came slowly down to them, his eyes on Kaplan as he walked back across the road. Miriam, for the first time, saw emotion in his eyes, a boiling rage it took all his strength to contain. He looked down at Royce, picked up a spent bullet embedded in the floorboard of the car.

"Is he dead?" he asked.

"No," Kaplan said. "The bullet hit him across the neck. Creased a nerve, I think."

Craig pulled Royce upright. The bullet had furrowed a great gouge from his ear almost to his nape. He'd be marked for life, unless Loomis paid for plastic surgery, but he was alive. Joanna got a first-aid kit from the back of the Land-Rover, put lint on the wound and held it in place with tape.

"Poor Andrew," she said. "It's all I seem to do for him."

Still looking at Kaplan, Craig said, "Asimov wasn't so lucky. You damn fool, why couldn't you stay still and let me take him alive?"

"I was afraid," Kaplan said. "I can't help it, Craig. I'll always be afraid."

"That's what makes you so dangerous," Craig said. "You get scared and somebody else gets killed."

He bent, picked up the rifle, and dragged Asimov into a cleft behind a rock that hid him from the road. The face that looked up at him was suddenly ten years younger, smooth and untroubled. He'd lived through horror, and he'd seen and done terrible things, but he hadn't been irreclaimable, like Daniel. There had still been loyalty in him, and courage, and a zest for life. Something could have been done with Asimov, but not nearly as much as could be done with Kaplan. And so, thought Craig, he died. No. That was dishonest thinking. And so I killed him.

Royce recovered consciousness on the road to Nicosia. He looked up, and saw Craig beside him. "You bastard," he whispered.

"If it makes you any happier, the man who did it is dead," said Craig.

"You set me up for this, didn't you? You wanted it to happen."

"Rest," said Craig. "You're suffering from shock, poor boy."

Joanna had their air tickets and passports, luggage waited for them at Nicosia airport, and the fat man himself waited to see them off. The sight of Royce displeased him, and he said so. Royce closed his eyes as the great voice roared on. Craig took him to the bar.

"I had to do it that way," he said. "I knew Asimov was up in the hills with a rifle."

"You get him?"

"Yes," said Craig.

"That leaves Daniel."

"No," Craig said. "He's dead too."

"You have come back to life," Loomis said.

"My swan song. Anyway, I muffed it. I let Asimov get away. And Daniel killed Angelos."

Loomis looked at him and said carefully, "Rule number one in our business. Never have any chums."

"He wasn't my chum," said Craig. "He didn't like me at all."

"What was he, then?"

"My debtor."

"Not any more," said Loomis. "I reckon he's paid. Which reminds me—Royce is no good to you now either. D'you want me to send some people out from England?"

"We'll have to go to Athens to get to New York," said Craig. "Force Three could be waiting for us. I'll need a man there. A Greek if you've got one."