The Innocent Bystanders

flayed the Venetian commander alive. Craig thought that Omar would have been proud of his ancestors. Their descendants, huddled and restricted inside the walls, he would have had no time for. Every single one of them was poor.

Craig turned his back on history, and walked toward the bars and night clubs. The place he wanted was small and intimate, and famous for its bouzouki music. Angelos, the man who owned it, had been a waiter in London when the Second World War began, and had joined the navy. In 1945 he and Craig had been part of a Special Boat Service Group that had landed on the island of Cos. It was Craig's eighteenth birthday, and he had saved Ange-los's life.

Craig walked in and spoke English to the waiter who led him to a table. It was early, but already the place was filling up, the air conditioning inadequate to counteract the heat of too many bodies. The waiter led him to a table near the back of the room, and Craig was quite happy about it. He refused the local champagne, and ordered a bottle of Arsinoe, a dry, delicate wine, and a plateful of the delicious Cyprus sausages called seftalies, and the chipped potatoes that are different from the chipped potatoes anywhere else in the world. The waiter brought the wine at once, and Craig sipped and smiled, and asked to speak to Angelos.

As he waited, the show began, and Craig found that the days of originality were not yet over. A girl came on and started to strip to bouzouki music, while Canadians, Swedes, Irishmen, and Finns looked on and cheered. He watched, intrigued. Two cultures met and ignored each other completely. The girl was preparing for love, or at any rate, sex—in a brisk, mid-Atlantic sort of way: the bouzouki was telling of death and sacrifice in a mountain battle a hundred and fifty years ago. But nobody else seemed to find it displeasing, except the bouzouki player. He became aware of a man moving toward him, a tubby

man, sleek with success, in a black sharkskin suit and a Hardy Amies tie; a man who carried a plateful of seftalies and chipped potatoes because he chose to, to oblige a friend. He put the food down in front of Craig.

'Hallo, John,' he said, and sat at the table, snapped his fingers. A waiter seemed to grow out of the ground like a speeded-up flower.

'Bring another glass,' said Craig.

'And another bottle,' Angelos added, and Craig remembered that Cypriots always drink as if all the alcohol in the world is due to disappear next day.

'You recognized me, then?' he asked.

'Of course,' said Angelos, and poured wine, motioning to Craig to eat his food. 'You haven't changed, John. Not like me. See how fat I'm getting.'

'Prosperity,' said Craig.

'I have money, yes. If you need any-'

'No,' said Craig. 'I've got money too.'

'What, then?' Angelos asked.

'Does it have to be anything?'

Angelos emptied his glass, poured more wine, and smiled at Craig.

'Yes, John. With you it has to be something.'

'You're right,' said Craig. 'But do me a favor first. Tell me how you knew.'

'That day in Cos,' Angelos said. 'In a way, it was the most important day of my life—the day I should have died—and didn't. You were the reason I didn't die. I have thought about it many times. On bad nights I still dream about it. Mostly I dream about the fat German— the one you got with the knife.'

'I thought I shot him,' said Craig.

'No. You shot the young one, the one who had hit me with the gun butt. The fat one you knifed—in the throat. He bled all over me.'

'I'd forgotten that,' said Craig.

'That's the kind of man you are,' Angelos said. 'I'm not like that. I can't forget.'

'Maybe you're the lucky one,' Craig said. 'Go on about why you know I want something.'

'You are a very loyal person,' Angelos said, 'but you have no talent for friendship.'

'Now, wait a minute,' Craig said. 'If you don't want to help me, say so.'

'Of course I want to help you,' Angelos said. 'I have to help you.'

Craig looked at him across the table, expressionless gray eyes telling nothing. Angelos shook like a man in terror, but that was stupid. What was there to fear?

'I came back for you,' said Craig. 'I killed those two Jerries for you.'

'You killed them for the group,' Angelos said. 'That was where your loyalty was. For me—Angelos—you did nothing. You cared nothing. What did you do after that fat German died, John?'

Craig thought back hard. It had been in an olive grove, he remembered. One of so many running fights, scrambling, terrifying, ecstatic. They'd got back to the caique, and the pursuing Germans had run into a blast of Bren gun fire. But the details had gone.

'I can't remember,' he said.

'I'll tell you. You wiped your knife on the German, put it back in its sheath, then carried me back to the caique. The young German had hit me and broken my ribs. I couldn't walk. You carried me for half a mile, and you never said a word.'

'I was busy.'

'Not then, or afterwards. I was in hospital for a month, then I came back to the group. You never even mentioned what had happened. You have no talent for friendship, John.'

Craig said, 'Are you saying you hate me?' 'No.'

'What, then?'

'You'll never understand. You can't understand,' Angelos shouted, then lowered his voice as customers turned to stare. 'Almost everyone needs the friendship of others. They need it as they need food and drink. You—don't. All you need is a group to belong to—but for you the group is an abstraction, not people. Never people. Shall

I tell you something. We've been talking for some while-'

'You've done most of it,' said Craig.

'—And you've never even spoken my name. After twenty-three years.'

'And yet you say you'll help me.'

'Of course I'll help you. I must. I've been waiting to do so ever since that night.'

'Do you mind telling me why?'

'I want to be free of you,' said Angelos.

Craig said, 'What I want—it isn't a small thing.'

'I'm glad of that,' Angelos said.

'There's risk.' He looked at the fat man. He was smiling. 'That makes you happy?' 'Very happy.'

'I want you to help pick up three people from a boat, then hide them, and me. Then I want you to act as messenger boy.'

'Who are these people?'

'An American girl, a Russian man, and a Turk.' 'A Turk,' said Angelos. 'That's all it needed. All right. I'll do it.'

'There's a risk in all of it,' said Craig. 'Being messenger boy is the worst.'

'It's a kidnapping?' Craig nodded.

'Yes,' Angelos said. 'It would be. Crime was inevitable for you, just as this'—he gestured to the club—'is inevitable for me.' He finished his wine. 'Shall we go now?'

'Two more questions,' said Craig. 'And one request—I want all the British and American papers you can get here. Next—are you married?'

'No,' said Angelos. 'There are plenty of girls available. I shan't marry for another few years. And the other question?'

'There are two men in Famagusta—supposed to be Israelis. One's called Lindemann. About my height. Big shoulders. Brown eyes. Black hair. The other one's called Stein. Stocky. Built like a barrel. Black eyes. Black hair going gray. Do you know them?'

'Very well,' said Angelos. 'They're sitting five tables away. Behind you.'

Craig's hands moved on the table, and Angelos watched them. They were weapons still, he thought. In