"I hardly know how to say this," Craig said. "Face the wall, please."
"You really have gone potty," Loomis yelled.
"Face the wall." The gun, that had pointed between them, now concentrated on Loomis, and he obeyed.
"Handbag on the table, Miss Benson," Craig said. She put it down. "Now, turn around. Put your hands on the wall. Lean forward."
In silence, they did as they were told. Joanna Benson's handbag yielded the .32 she had carried before; neither of them had weapons concealed on them.
'"All right," said Craig. "You can turn around."
"I bet you enjoyed that," Joanna Benson said, and Loomis said only, "There are limits, Craig. You've reached them."
"It's a compliment, really," said Craig. "There's nothing you wouldn't try to do me down, and we both know it." "Balls," said Loomis. "I told you. I accept your offer," "Let's see the guarantee," said Craig.
Loomis reached into his pocket and handed over a sheet of paper. It contained all that he had asked. "The money," said Craig.
"Ah," Loomis said. "We got conditions about the money. Kaplan goes to New York—the Yanks insist on delivery— and you take him. When you get there you get a hundred thousand quid in dollars—less fifty thousand dollars you pinched from the emergency fund."
"Why doesn't the department take him?"
"I want my hundred thousand quid's worth," said Loomis.
"I may need a bit of help."
"Why?"
"The KGB want Kaplan too. Let me have Royce and Benson here." "All right."
"She can take you back in the Land-Rover, then come back to pick us up. Royce too."
"His foot's still bad," said Loomis.
"He doesn't shoot with his foot. She can also get a man's white wig, a man's yellow wig, a Cyprus stamp on Miriam Loman's passport—and mine. And air tickets to New York."
Loomis glowered at him once more.
"You like your pound of flesh, don't you?"
"That brings us to Omar," Craig said. "You'll have to smuggle him out or it's no deal. Well?"
"I'll find a feller to do it," said Loomis.
"That's it, then," Craig said. He stuck the gun in his waistband. "You're a pleasure to do business with, Mr. Loomis."
Loomis used three words. Craig had heard them all before. He put the .32 back in the handbag and gave it to Joanna Benson.
Miriam was delighted to be going home. Omar also was happy. He'd lost his boat—that was unfortunate—but instead he had a vast wad of hundred dollar bills. Craig found him a roll of transparent tape and Omar was happy. Kaplan alone made difficulties.
"I don't want to go to America," he said. "I was happy in Kutsk."
"You can't go back there. Asimov will find you," Miriam said. "And anyway—what's wrong with going to America? Your brother's there."
"I'd like to see Marcus. That's fine," said Kaplan. "But what will they make me do there?"
"Work," said Craig. "The kind of work you should be doing."
"But the KGB will find out. They'll come after me again."
"You'll be looked after," Craig said. "I was happy in Kutsk," Kaplan said again. "You had six months," said Craig. "You're lucky it lasted that long."
The Land-Rover arrived, and in it were Royce, Benson, and a taciturn sailor whose business was to take Omar back to Turkey. Craig sent them both off at once in the Volkswagen. The old man turned to Craig, his fingers counted the money for the last time.
"You made me rich, effendi," he said. "The only rich man in Kutsk." He sighed. "Now I'll have to buy my wife a fur coat."
"Don't tell her," said Craig.
"Boss," Omar's voice was reproachful. "She's a woman. How can I help it?" He bowed to Craig. "Have a good journey. And come and look me up some time. Maybe we can do some more business together."
Craig watched him go, then turned to Royce. "How's the limp?" he asked.
"Fair," Royce said.
"Let's see you walk."
Royce braced himself, then moved across the room. For a short distance, at least, the limp was hardly noticeable.
"That's fine," said Craig. "Now you and Kaplan change clothes."
"What is this?" said Royce.
"Didn't Loomis tell you who was boss? Go in the bedroom if you're shy."
When they'd gone, Joanna Benson looked from Miriam to Craig.
"Isn't there someone missing?" she asked. "Who?"
"Your friend Angelos. I thought he was with you." "He is," said Craig. "But it's better if you and he don't meet."
"Fair enough," said Joanna. "Then there's the Israeli pair. I had a look for them, Craig. They've disappeared." She hesitated. "Is that why Andrew's changing clothes with Kaplan?" Craig didn't answer. "Loomis was right. You really do like your pound of flesh." She turned to Miriam. "Doesn't he, darling?"
Royce and Kaplan came back and Craig fitted on the wigs Joanna had brought.
"These wouldn't fool anybody," said Royce.
They'd fool a man on a mountainside, watching a moving car, Craig thought.
Asimov would soon be ill. He'd taken another look at his wound, seen how inflamed it was. His temperature was rising too, and soon he'd have fever. But there was food enough to keep him going—last night he'd robbed the kitchen—and water in the mountain streams. And he didn't have to hold out for long. He was certain of it. The Land-Rover would be coming back soon, with Kaplan in it, and no matter what precautions Craig took, he, Asimov, would then kill Kaplan. The likelihood was that he would then die, of exposure and weakness, up here in the mountains, or by execution, if they hanged murderers in Cyprus. He didn't know. It was funny. He was going to commit a murder and he didn't know what the penalty was. Life imprisonment, perhaps. The British had abolished hanging, and maybe the Cypriots had too. Life imprisonment he could face, so long as the prison wasn't Volochanka, and he'd even escaped from there.
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.