Omar sighed and put down the knife, then fetched up the food and four bottles of water, gave some to Kaplan and Miriam, then came back to Craig, sat cross-legged beside him as they ate, and took the tiller.
'Effendi,' said Omar, 'you must be very rich.'
'Sometimes,' said Craig.
'One day you might need a partner.'
'Why?'
'A very small partner. One who could keep his eyes and ears open. Tell you things.' 'What things?'
'What the Americans and the Russians are doing. For money I could find out.'
'Why should I want to do that?'
'You are a spy,' Omar said. 'Just as Royce and Miss Benson are spies.' There was neither shock nor surprise in Omar's voice. He might have said: 'You're a grocer.'
'Who do you think I spy for?'
'Not the Russians or Americans. Not the British, either. You spy for yourself. For money. I could help you. Truly, I could.'
'You're still afraid 111 kill you,' said Craig.
'I'll always be afraid of that,' Omar said. 'But I want to show you I'll be more useful if you let me live.'
Craig ate bread and cheese left-handed. The bread was dry, the cheese old and tough, but he chewed on it stolidly. It was fuel.
'Always the left hand,' said Omar. 'You take care of yourself.'
'That's right,' said Craig. 'Show me how you can be useful.'
'That shepherd there. He was in hiding.'
'I found him,' said Craig. 'There's nothing for you in that.' He ate some grapes. 'Did you know Royce and Benson were looking for him?'
'No,' said Omar. 'The bastards didn't trust me.' Craig chuckled. 'But I guessed it.'
'How?'
'The Russians were looking for him too.' Somehow Craig went on chuckling. 'I know that,' he said. Omar's face fell.
'You know who they are?' he asked. 'No,' said Craig. 'I don't know that.' 'I do,' Omar said. 'How much is it worth?' 'A thousand dollars,' Craig said.
'It should be worth much more,' said Omar. 'This is big news.'
'A thousand dollars,' Craig said again. 'You're lucky I feel lazy today. I could get it for nothing.'
'That isn't very nice,' said Omar. 'We're not in a nice business.'
'They call themselves Israelis,' Omar said. 'They came to Kutsk three weeks ago. They are Jews, I think, and they had Jewish names—Lindemann, Stein—but really they were Russians. I heard them speak.'
'You speak Russian?'
'I know how it sounds,' said Omar. 'All Turks do if they've got any sense.' 'Go on.'
'First they tried to find the shepherd themselves. He was too well hidden. Then they asked me. I said there wasn't any such man. I should explain,' he continued, 'that the shepherd paid us money to say he wasn't there.'
'You'd have sold him out to me—or Royce and Benson.'
'You would have offered more money than the shepherd. The Russians wanted him for nodiing.' 'Describe them,' said Craig.
'Lindemann is tall—about your height—heavy-shouldered, brown eyes, black hair. He is the younger. Stein is a head shorter than you, but a big body. Like a bear. A very strong man. His eyes are almost black. His hair was once black, now it is gray.'
'Their age?'
'Hard to say. They look older than they are, I think. The way you do, effendi.' He hesitated. 'What I mean is they look good at their job. Like you.'
'Where did they go after Kutsk? Back to Israel?'
'That's what they said in the village. They lied. They came in a boat, and my sister's husband's nephew saw it two days later. It was headed for Famagusta, in Cyprus.'
'Many Israelis go to Cyprus.'
'Perhaps they were Israelis who couldn't go to Israel.' His eyes searched Craig's face. 'Is it worth a thousand dollars?'
'Yes,' said Craig. 'You'll get it when you go.'
'I believe you,' Omar said. 'You're the biggest bastard I ever met, but I don't think you tell lies if you can help it.'
'Try to be like me,' Craig said. 'Tell me about Royce and Benson.'
'They came to Kutsk about three or four days ago. They said they were—those people who are interested in old things.'
'Archeologists?' Craig suggested.
'Some Greek word. They drove all over the place. They were looking for the shepherd. At first they weren't in too much of a bloody hurry. Then one day Royce got a telegram.'
'What did it say?'
'You think I could get hold of somebody else's telegram? '
'I'm sure of it,' said Craig.
'It was all numbers,' said Omar. 'A code. I couldn't read it. But I think it told them you were coming. They were worried after that. They came to me before you did.'
'Why should they do that?' 'I've got a reputation,' Omar said. 'You mean a police record?'
'No, no.' Omar sounded more surprised than offended. 'I'm not stupid, you know. But a lot of people know about me. I'll help in most things if the price is right.'
He squinted up at the sun, altered course a point, and continued: 'They wanted me to help them if you turned up. I said I would—and you know the rest. For such young people, I thought they did a pretty good job. The sheila_'
'Yes?' said Craig.
'She is very beautiful,' said Omar, 'and very dangerous. Even more dangerous than the man. I think they'll try to kill you. I don't want to be there when they try— not for just a thousand dollars.'
'You won't be,' said Craig.
He lay back again, relaxed and comfortable. Miriam and Kaplan talked on as they ate, and in the distance a long bight of land grew slowly visible.
'Cape Andreas,' said Omar. 'You want to make for there?'
'No,' said Craig. 'Famagusta.'
'For just a thousand dollars I don't want to see the Russians either.' 'You won't.'
'Famagusta's full of bleeding Greeks,' Omar said. 'Greeks don't like me, effendi.'
'What an old worry guts you are,' said Craig. 'Just do as you're told. You'll be fine. I'll even pay you.'
'You promise that?'
'I promise,' said Craig.
Omar sighed again, and obeyed. The big Englishman's strength was frightening, but there was comfort in it too— if you thought he was going to use it to protect you. There was also the money.
Craig dozed in the sun and watched the land slip by, white sand and scattered rocks, and beyond it a lush green vegetation, sloping back into the island's gentle mountains. Omar stayed well away from land, and to any casual watcher they would be just one more unhurrying boat in a sea full of boats that never hurried. He would be safe in Cyprus, and so would Kaplan, until his purchase price came through.
Craig thought of slaves and auction blocks, of men and women examined as if they were animals. He'd come down to that. And now he was a slave trader. The thought disgusted him, but he made his mind accept it. Once weaken, once relent, and Craig would be dead. And if he died, Miriam would probably die too, and Omar. Only Kaplan would have a chance to survive, a chance he might not want. Craig thought of the things he had done for Department K, cruel, terrible things. He thought of the smashed bones, the pistol beatings, the neat holes that a Smith and Wesson Airweight makes if you use it right. He thought of the things that had been done to him. He'd
