training for its next famine. Tired houses, unpaved streets, people who owned nothing but time, but in time they were millionaires. The women, he supposed, were bored at home; it was a crowd of men and boys who watched his tank fill up; the big excitement of the day. And then they had another excitement: the peremptory blast of a horn, the squeal of tires that longed for tarmac and met only dirt, then an E-type Jaguar went by, and the crowd exploded into comment. Four foreigners in one day. If things kept up at this rate they'd have to organize a festival. Miriam came back, and the crowd settled down to watch again, careful not to miss a single detail, the flick of her skirts, the glimpse of knee before the door closed. Craig's mind was elsewhere; he was thinking of the E-type. The man driving it was Andrew Royce, the girl beside him Joanna Benson.
'I've just seen two more film producers,' he said, 'and we're both after the same property.'
He had no doubt that Royce and Benson had seen him.
They drove on into the evening, through Iskenderun, on past a little beach where somebody optimistic had built a little white hotel, with beach umbrellas and fairy lights and a couple of discouraged palm trees like thin old ladies. It seemed like a good place to stop if you drove an E-type, but there was no sign of it. Instead they picked up an elderly Fiat truck that rattled along behind them, then dropped slowly back as they drove round the bay and came at last to Kutsk, a gaggle of fishermen's huts huddled round a mosque, with one larger building, just as dirty, just as decrepit as the others, coffeeshop, bar, and restaurant combined. With any luck, it would be the hotel, too.
'Welcome to the Kutsk Hilton,' said Craig.
He got out and stretched stiffly, near exhaustion, not daring to yield to it. The E-type could cover a hell of a lot of country, even this country. He took the girl's arm and led her inside the coffeeshop.
She found herself in a world of men. In Turkey, she realized, a man's business was to drink coffee; a woman's was to make it. The silence that greeted her was absolute, and she moved closer to Craig. The room was long and narrow, with deal tables and chairs. One unshaded light bulb competed unsuccessfully with cigarette smoke and flies. The room smelled—had smelled for twenty years— of cigarette smoke, sweat, and coffee. It reeked of coffee. The proprietor, a chunky man who smelled like his property, came up and stood in front of them without enthusiasm. Around him his customers looked on, like men pleased with themselves at being in on something good. Craig tried him in Arabic, French, and Greek, with no reaction. In the end he resorted to pantomime, and the patron nodded his understanding and relaxed enough to jerk a thumb at a table. The villagers relaxed then; the show was over. Someone switched on a radio, and they began at once to shout over it as a woman brought plates of fish stew, bread, and water to Craig's table. The girl looked at it dubiously.
'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.
