floor, but he was still alive.
Craig said softly in Greek, 'Angelos, turn the lights off.'
The fat man stirred again, and moaned.
Craig spoke more urgently. 'Angelos, you can hear me. Turn the lights off.'
The voice outside spoke again. 'I shall count to ten. After that, we'll start firing into you. It will be your own fault, Craig. We only want Kaplan.' There was a silence, then—'One—Two—Three-'
Craig said, 'Turn the lights off, Angelos—and then we'll be even. You won't owe me a damn thing.'
The voice had reached eight when Angelos rose with the shambling uncertainty of a drunk, lurched to the wall, and staggered into the doorway, his hand on the light switch. A second shot smashed into him, and it was the weight of his body falling that plunged the room into darkness.
Craig yelled to Omar not to fire, and swerved over the chair, wriggled on his belly to the door angle, waiting for a gun flash. When it came, he snapped off an answering shot and rolled behind the door. Another gun banged, and Craig noted its direction. In the darkness of the corridor a man was cursing—perhaps he'd hurt one of them, and he waited, tense, his hand stretched out in front of him, till he felt the softness of Angelos's body. He followed the outline of shoulder and arm, till at last he found the massive shape of the Webley, hefted it in his hands.
'All right, Omar,' he whispered. 'Give him three rounds, then cease fire.'
'Three rounds,' said Omar. 'A hundred dollars a round.'
The sound of the rifle was like blows from a giant hammer smashing the room, and after the third Craig leaped crouching into the doorway, sensed movement to his right and dropped flat. A gun banged, a shot cut the air where he'd been, and behind him, he could hear Miriam screaming. He fired the Webley, and the kick from it brought up the barrel until it pointed at the ceiling. The noise it made was scarcely less than the rifle's. He fired again, rolled to a new position. There was a sound of scuffling feet, the heavy thud of a falling body, then silence. Craig lay still in the darkness. One man was certainly out of it, and his guess was that there had only been two, and that the second one was hurt. But even so, there was no point in taking chances: if he miscalculated now they would all be dead. He waited a minute, two minutes. In the living room behind him he could hear Omar fidgeting restlessly with the rifle. At last, the voice spoke again. It sounded weak.
'There were only two of us, Mr. Craig,' it said, 'and you have killed my partner and wounded me. I should like to surrender.' Craig willed himself to stay silent. 'I'm going to put my gun down,' the voice said. There was a scraping sound and a heavy object scraped along the corridor. Noiselessly, an inch at a time, he stretched out his left hand until he touched it: a gun all right, an automatic; 9-millimeter by the feel of it. Three-gun Craig.
'I'm now going to stand up,' said the voice, and Craig became aware of a dark shape in the darkness before him. In the living room Omar's rifle clicked.
'Don't shoot yet, Omar,' Craig shouted.
'Thank you, Mr. Craig,' said the voice.
Craig rose to a crouch and moved to the light switch in the hall, pushed it up with the barrel of the automatic while the Webley covered the corridor. A tall, heavy-shouldered man stood swaying in front of him. Further back, in the kitchen doorway, an older man, squat, barrelchested, built like a bear, lay flat on his back. He was dead.
'Come forward slowly,' said Craig. 'Let's have a look at you, Mr. Lindemann.'
The young man's eyes flickered up at him as he lurched into the living room, one hand pressed to his shoulder. In front of him Miriam, Kaplan, and Omar faced him. Miriam had both hands pressed to her face, stifling the screams that had muted now to sobs, Omar's hands were clawlike on the rifle, his face alight with excitement. Kaplan looked once at Lindemann, then away, his face ageing even more as Craig watched. Lindemann spoke in Russian.
'All that can wait,' said Craig, and led Lindemann to a chair, opened his coat, and looked at the wound.
'Get me some hot water,' he said. Omar moved, still holding the rifle. 'Not you,' said Craig. 'You stay here. Miriam.'
The girl's hands fell from her face and she moved slowly to the door. Angelos's body was in the way. 'Move him, Omar,' said Craig.
The old man slung the rifle over his shoulder and dragged Angelos out. Craig looked at the wound, a clean puncture through the right shoulder, a neat, purple-ringed hole back and front.
'You were lucky,' he said.
'In a sense,' said Lindemann.
Miriam brought hot water, and linen cloth torn into strips, then watched as Craig bandaged the wounded man, his hands deft and sure. Once he hurt Lindemann, making him cry out, but Craig went on as if nothing had happened, as if there were no blood on the carpet, no reek of cordite in the room, no ache in the ears from the crash of the rifle; as if Lindemann were a perfectly ordinary young man who'd had minor injuries in a car crash. When he'd finished he gave him a cigarette and a drink.
'So all you wanted was Kaplan,' Craig said. Lindemann was silent. 'Only you didn't get him,' said Craig. 'You got a mate of mine instead.' Again silence. 'Nice chap. Quiet. Ran a nice little business. You and your friend used to go there, didn't you? Chat up the girls. Is that why you killed him? So he couldn't identify you?'
'Stein killed him.'
'You didn't work all that hard to stop him. And now we can identify you. The girl, the old man, and me. Are you going to kill us if you get the chance?'
'The question is academic,' Lindemann said.
'Not to me . . . Maybe not to you, either.'
'All we wanted was Kaplan. Angelos—it was an accident. I am sorry for it.'
'Me too,' said Craig. 'He didn't have to die at all. You could have bought Kaplan. He's for sale.'
'Bought him?'
'A million rubles COD.'
'We are Israelis,' Lindemann said.
Craig looked over to Kaplan. 'Is that right?' he asked. Kaplan said, 'I don't know. I've never seen them before.'
'But you spoke in Russian,' Miriam said. 'They're Russian, aren't they? KGB?'
'Russian, yes. KGB, no,' said Craig. 'They're in your file,' he told Kaplan. 'They're the ones who survived the break-out from Volochanka. Their names are Daniel and Asimov. Daniel's the dead one. Right?' The young man looked away again. 'You wanted Kaplan because he betrayed you. Isn't that right, Kaplan?'
Kaplan said, 'I have never—have never-' Then his
voice choked. He turned away.
'You've wanted him dead ever since you got out of Volochanka.'
'One year, three weeks, and four days,' said Asimov. 'It was the only thought in our minds.' 'Tell us about it,' said Craig.
'He's sick,' the girl said. 'He should be in a hospital.'
'No,' Asimov said. 'That isn't important. What Kaplan did—that is important. I want you to know.'
'We do know,' said Craig.
'Not all. I am sure Kaplan did not tell you all.'
Asimov looked at Kaplan then, with a hunger of hate such as Craig had rarely seen, an almost sensual appraising of the older man's body, as if Asimov were calculating how much he could endure before he broke.
'Please. I want to get out of here,' Kaplan said.
'No,' said Craig, and at once Omar moved in on Kaplan, who sat down and turned his face from them. He was willing himself not to listen, Craig knew, but his will was not strong enough.
'He told you about the minyan, no doubt,' said Asi-mov. Craig nodded. 'And about our plan to escape? It was a good plan. A beautiful plan. Daniel made it.' He looked up then, facing Craig. 'There is something you must realize. I worshipped Daniel.'
'Go on,' said Craig.
'The plan worked perfectly, as Daniel had promised it would. Only—when we got out, Kaplan was missing. I thought he had been unfortunate, but even then Daniel knew better. He knew that Kaplan had betrayed us—and because he knew it, I am still alive. When we split up, you see, we took a different route—not the one we had discussed when Kaplan was present—and so we got out alive. We learned later that the others did not. The guards caught them and killed them, every single one.'
