James Munro - The Innocent Bystanders

"I have no allies. I'm a free-lance," said Craig. "Yes, but even so-"

"Listen," said Craig. "These aren't nice, gentlemanly Ivy Leaguers from the CIA. These are professionals. The way you think you are."

"You'll find out," Joanna said.

"I always knew. Forgive the sarcasm," said Craig. "Just take my word for it. These are blokes the KGB would be proud of."

The phone rang. Craig picked it up and listened, then turned to her.

"That was Loomis's man," he said. "Miriam met two more Americans at the Acropolis. He couldn't get close enough to hear."

When Miriam returned, she found the others in Craig's room, having a meal of coffee and sandwiches.

"Aren't we dining downstairs?" she asked.

"No," said Craig. "Too risky. Have a sandwich. Joanna, pour Miriam some coffee."

"Risky?"

"Yes," said Craig. "I've had a premonition. Do you ever have premonitions, Miriam?"

Joanna handed her a sandwich. The whole thing was as English as a thirties farce: sandwiches and tinkling spoons, and the distinguished elderly foreigner who was about to upset his cup any minute. And there was farce in the way they were overplaying it, too. Farce or its nearest neighbor, violence.

"John," Miriam said. "What is all this?"

"An hour and a half ago I heard from a dark stranger," said Craig. "At least I expect he's dark. Most Greeks are.

Chap called Maskouri. You didn't see him, by any chance?"

"I didn't see anybody—except a man who used to know Marcus. But I got rid of him. Then I had some ice cream and went to the Acropolis."

Craig turned to Joanna. "Why would she he to me? A nice girl like that."

"Do have another sandwich," Joanna said to Miriam, then to Craig, "Patriotism, perhaps?"

"You mean the American she met told her it was in her country's best interests not to tell a soul that they had met?"

"He probably showed her a picture of Lyndon Johnson or Bugs Bunny or somebody."

"More likely music. Music to remind her of happy days. Junior Proms and old films on TV and traveling in the elevator at the Hilton. I bet he played her 'Stardust.' "

Joanna's eyes had never left Miriam's face.

"Do you know," she said, "I believe he did."

"You followed me," said Miriam. "But you got it wrong. He was a friend of Marcus."

"Good heavens, we British chappies don't have to follow people," said Craig. "We get ruddy foreigners to do that. No, love. We deduced it." He moved a step closer to her. "I'm afraid you're going to have to tell us, you know." She was silent. "Ah," he said. "I know what you're thinking. Royce isn't here, you tell yourself, and a decent chap like Craig wouldn't do things like that, and Miss Benson's an English gentlewoman after all. Sews Union Jacks on her panties. But that isn't the point, love. The point is we know they're in Athens."

"How could they be?" Miriam asked.

"Loomis sent a wire to that box number in Paris," said Joanna. "Told them the deal with Craig is off. And there's only three ways out of Cyprus, darling—Turkey, Israel, and Greece. They'll be watching them all. But it's the ones in Greece who'll get hurt."

Craig said, "We won't hurt you, Miriam, and I don't want to hurt them. You tell us what they're up to and we won't hurt them. If you don't—it might get a bit messy."

"You're angry with me—for what I've done," she said.

"If I am, I have no right to be."

"It's my country, John. My people."

He nodded. "And it's your people who'll get hurt—if you don't tell me."

"Don't you ever fight fair?" she asked.

"How can I?" said Craig. "Now, drink your coffee and tell me all about it."

Suddenly the mockery had gone. She was aware that he wanted to be kind to her, kind and uncomplicated, and that he was finding it difficult.

It was early morning, the dead hour, the hour of the ultimate spy. The one who will kill if he must. There were three of them. One stayed in the corridor, watching the rooms of Kaplan and Joanna, the others entered the room that Craig had given to Miriam. Her bed, they knew, was to the right of the room, facing the bathroom, and Craig would be in it. That had been Miriam's assignment, to get Craig into her bed, and she'd resisted it furiously at first. She'd taken a lot of convincing, but in the end she'd agreed. And having got him there, the team leader reckoned, she'd keep him pretty busy. Craig was a tough one. Exhausted or not, their instructions were to keep out of range of his hands. Those hands of Craig's could batter like steel clubs.

The lock specialist took out his skeleton key and got on with it. Hotel locks, even the locks of good hotels, didn't keep him waiting long. He probed with the casual skill of a surgeon performing a routine operation. Two tiny clicks sounded, and the lock specialist withdrew the key, slipped it into an oil bottle and inserted it again. Next time he turned it, the door opened without a sound, and he and the team leader entered in a whisper, the door drifted to behind them as they stayed still for a count of ten, their eyes grew used to the blackness.

At last, the leader touched the lock man. In the imperfect dark they could see the two shapes of bodies lying on the bed, one hunched over the other. The lock man moved to the wall, switched on the lights, and as he did so his right hand made an abrupt gesture, ending up holding a short-nosed Colt .45 fitted with a silencer. The leader stood six feet away from him, holding a similar gun, and one of the figures on the bed stirred and shot up indignantly.

For a moment the leader thought they'd gone into the wrong room—a mistake so elementary he wanted to kill himself—for the figure in front of him was that of a beautiful and very naked woman. He hesitated just a split second too long, and was already starting to turn when Craig's voice spoke behind him.

"Be sensible," said Craig. "You can't win them all. Guns on the bed, please."

The lock expert waited until the leader's hand moved, then he too threw his gun down. The gorgeous broad moved as if she was wearing clothes up to her chin, and tucked the guns under her pillow. The lock expert began to sweat, then sweated harder as she got out of bed and put on a negligee. She moved like a stripper and her body was perfect. The last thing the lock expert saw before Craig hit him behind the ear was the splendid curve of one deep, full breast. Craig caught him before he fell, lowered him to the floor. The leader turned then, fast, but the gun was already on him. When he looked up, the dark girl held a gun too, his own, and the leader had no illusions about its accuracy. In the bed, Miriam Loman slept. She, too, was naked. The dark girl pulled the covers over her.

"You got one outside?" asked Craig. The leader nodded, "Tell him to come in. You'll need some help with your friend."

The leader hesitated, and Joanna said, "I'd do what he says. Honestly I would."

"Come on in, Harry," the leader called, and Harry came in to see the team leader covered by Craig, and a broad in the kind of negligee they used to wear at Minsky's pointing a gun at him.

"Tell Harry what to do with his gun," said Craig.

"On the bed," said the leader, and Harry obeyed, and his gun went on the pillow.

"Sit down over there," said Craig, and nodded toward two chairs in the corner of the room. The leader moved first. "Stay away from the bed," said Craig. "This isn't a party."

Carefully, the two men sat.

"What is this? A dyke affair?" Harry asked.

"No, darling. The girls' dorm," Joanna said.

"Miss Loman seems a good sleeper," the leader said.

"I put a little something in her coffee," said Joanna. "Poor darling, she needs her rest. She's had too much excitement lately."

The leader nodded. Even with two guns pointed at him, he managed to look elegant enough for a whisky ad.