"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.
"You're looking better, Craig," he said.
"I'm feeling it," said Craig.
"No hard feelings, I hope?"
"None," said Craig, and spoke to Joanna. "This gentleman took me on a drug party in New York. I wound up telling him the story of my life." He turned back to the leader. "Do you have a name?"
"Lederer will do. Where's our mutual friend?"
"Dickens," said Joanna. "I adore intellectual conversation."
"In the bathroom," said Craig. "Go and take a look— but mind how you walk."
Lederer looked round the bathroom door. Kaplan sat strapped to the toilet, fast asleep.
"That's some coffee you serve," said Lederer. "I'll give you half a million dollars for him."
"I've got half a million dollars."
"A million—tax free."
"You shouldn't talk in such vast sums. It's what makes you Americans so unpopular," Joanna said.
"And guaranteed protection," said Lederer.
"I've already got a deal—with Loomis," said Craig.
"So has the CIA. He wants information. I'd sooner spend money."
"I'm sorry," said Craig. "I really am."
It was at that moment that Harry found it necessary to prove his manhood. A broad halfway through a burlesque routine seemed to him an insult to his maleness, even if she did hold a Colt .45. And anyway, he reasoned, a Colt is too big a gun for a broad. And with Lederer watching he'd be doing himself a whole lot of good. He'd been watching her, and sure enough the gun barrel had sagged, her concentration was all on Lederer and Craig.
Harry swiveled slightly on his chair. She took no notice. Careful to show no evidence of tension on his face or body, Harry prepared himself the way they'd taught him and made his grab. What happened was like a nightmare in slow motion. She seemed to have all the time in the world to bring the gun up, to choose the spot where the bullet would go. There was no tension in her eyes, only a glittering excitement as she pulled the trigger, the gun popped, and Harry felt as if the room had fallen on his shoulder before he lost consciousness. And all the time, Craig's gun stayed on Lederer.
"He's a little overexcitable," Lederer said.
Joanna went to him, opened his coat.
"He's lucky he's not a little dead," she said. "He didn't give me much time to choose a spot."
She went into the bathroom and came back with a towel.