"Eat," said Craig. "It'll be good."
It was, and Miriam discovered how hungry she was. Craig ate left-handed, and watched the door. When the stew was gone, the woman brought coffee, and with it an aging man who smelled of fish walked up to Craig and bowed, then began making noises with his mouth. At first the girl thought he was singing, then realized, incredulously, that he was speaking English, but English of a kind she had never heard before. Craig pulled over a chair and signed to the woman to bring more coffee. The aging man went on talking English with a combined Turkish and Australian accent. He had fought in Arabia in the First World War and been captured by Australian Cavalry. Was Craig an American, he asked, and when Craig said he was English he was delighted, or so Craig deduced. "Good on you, cobber" were the words he used. He went on to make it clear that, what trouble Russia hadn't made, America had, and asked how he could serve Craig. A room? Of course. His son owned this appalling coffeehouse, but it had one room for Craig and his wife. A good room. Almost an English room.
He led them to it. It was behind the coffee room and the racket was appalling, but it was clean. Craig remembered where he was, and made a long speech in praise of the room. The aging man was delighted.
"You know your manners, sport. My oath you do," he said, then bowed again. "My name is Omar."
"John Craig."
Still remembering his manners, Craig made no move to introduce Miriam as his wife or anything else, and Omar, remembering his, didn't look at her.
"Sorry I wasn't around when you came in," Omar said. "I was sleeping." He yawned. "You come far?"
"Ankara," said Craig, and Omar's eyes widened. Craig might have said the moon.
"You have business here?" he asked.
"Maybe," said Craig. "Perhaps we can talk tomorrow?"
"Too right," said Omar, and turned to the door.
"D'you get many English here?" Craig asked.
The aging man giggled.
"Before today I hadn't set eyes on a Pommy for fifty years," he said, and left them.
Craig locked the door. When he turned round she was removing her dress, but her eyes were angry.
"Why do I have to be British?" she said.
"You don't like us?"
Again the blush came. "Oh you," she said, then the anger came back. "I love my country."
Americans, he thought. With their passion for precision. Love is a pure word: color it red, white, and blue. When would they get away from primary colors?
"Usually I'm quite fond of the old place, sometimes I adore it, sometimes I absolutely loathe it." Was it possible to be as ambivalent as that to a fact as enormous as America?
"If you love it you want to help it," he said. "And you can help it best by letting Omar think you're British."
"You're treating me like a child again."
"No—an innocent American," he said. "I'm a wise European."
"And decadent too?" "You tell me," said Craig.
"Henry James would have loved this one," said Miriam. "Who?"
She sighed, came up to him, put her arms round his neck and kissed him.
"Would a wise European help an innocent American take off her bra?"
They came in soundlessly, surely, the way they had been taught—the man at the window, the girl at the door. It was early morning, half light, but that was light enough. The man carried a 9-millimeter Walther automatic, thirteen shot, a stopper. The girl had a .32 revolver, a neat little job with a cross-checked butt. Nobody ever stopped anything with a .32. The girl was a dead shot. They stood holding the bed in their crossfire, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the dark, picking out the masses of the shapes on the beds, ears strained for the faint sound of breathing in the most profound sleep of the night. Suddenly the light came on, and behind them a voice they knew and detested said, "Pascoe would have been proud of you."
Joanna Benson froze, Andrew Royce began to turn.
"No," said Craig, and Benson stayed sail. Miriam Loman sat up in the bed, frightened, bewildered, and pushed away the bolster she had lain against.
"Guns on the bed," said Craig. The armed man and woman made no move to obey, and Craig, by the light switch, risked a quick look at Miriam. The terror was still there.
Omar's voice said, "Your gun on the bed, Mr. Craig."
He stood in the doorway; in his hands was a single barreled shotgun. It was old, but serviceable, and it pointed straight at Miriam.
"I'll drop your sheila, Mr. Craig," Omar said.
The Smith and Wesson landed at Miriam's feet, and Royce scooped it up, slipped it into his pocket and nirned to Craig.
"Thanks, Omar," he said. "Come and join us, Craig." He gestured with the Walther. "Come on."
Warily, ready for a blow, Craig moved forward. The shotgun still pointed at Miriam's breast.
"You lied to me, Omar," he said. "You disappoint me."
"No," Omar said. "I told you that before today I hadn't seen a Pommy for fifty years. That was the truth, Mr. Craig."
Royce stepped back out of Craig's line of vision, but the barrel of Joanna Benson's gun was aimed steadily at his heart.
"Why did you do it?" Miriam asked. "I thought you liked us?"
"I do like you," said Omar, and his voice was indignant, "but I like money more."
Royce struck then, using the edge of his hand with a careful economy of strength. Craig fell across the foot of the bed.
"You're right," Royce said. "Pascoe will be proud of us."
He came back to consciousness in a stone shed that smelled of animals. He was lying on straw, and the straw stank. The shed was lit by an oil lamp hung high on the wall. His hands were tied behind him, and his neck ached vilely where Royce had hit him. His wrists, too, ached to the construction of the wire that was cutting into him, but he lay still, not moving, eyes closed, letting his mind and body regain strength.
Joanna Benson's voice said, "I think he's conscious."
The toe of a shoe crashed into his ribs, and he gasped with the pain. Pain he could see coming he could control, but pain from nowhere made the body's reaction inevitable.
Royce said, "He's conscious."
Hard hands grabbed him, propped him against the wall of the shed. His head lolled forward. He needed time to recruit his strength.
"We brought your girl, too," said Joanna Benson, and his head came up then. Royce chuckled. Miriam sat in the straw a few feet from him, and before them Royce and Benson stood. Royce's gun wasn't showing, but Benson still held her .32. They looked relaxed, strong in the arrogant beauty of youth. The weight of Craig's years had never been so heavy.
"You're an innocent American," Royce said. "I'm a wise European."
"And decadent too?" Joanna Benson asked.
"You tell me," said Royce.
"Would a wise European help an innocent American to take her bra off?" Joanna Benson said. She even got the accent right. Miriam stood up, screaming.
"Stop it," she yelled. "Stop it. Stop it. Stop it."
"Sit down, darling," said Benson. "You're not being dignified."
"You have no right to do this," Miriam sobbed. "No right."
"Tell me, Craig," said Benson. "Treat her like a child again."
No, Craig thought. Not even a child. Any kid over there could follow the logic of their situation.
"Sit down, Miriam," he said wearily. "Sit down and be quiet. She's got the gun."
Miriam slid down into the straw, pressed her hands to her face. Benson looked at her. The look was that of one fighter appraising another before the bell went for the first round.