America? Your brother's there.'
'I'd like to see Marcus. That's fine,' said Kaplan. 'But what will they make me do there?'
'Work,' said Craig. 'The kind of work you should be doing.'
'But the KGB will find out. They'll come after me again.'
'You'll be looked after,' Craig said. 'I was happy in Kutsk,' Kaplan said again. 'You had six months,' said Craig. 'You're lucky it lasted that long.'
The Land-Rover arrived, and in it were Royce, Benson, and a taciturn sailor whose business was to take Omar back to Turkey. Craig sent them both off at once in the Volkswagen. The old man turned to Craig, his fingers counted the money for the last time.
'You made me rich, effendi,' he said. 'The only rich man in Kutsk.' He sighed. 'Now I'll have to buy my wife a fur coat.'
'Don't tell her,' said Craig.
'Boss,' Omar's voice was reproachful. 'She's a woman. How can I help it?' He bowed to Craig. 'Have a good journey. And come and look me up some time. Maybe we can do some more business together.'
Craig watched him go, then turned to Royce. 'How's the limp?' he asked.
'Fair,' Royce said.
'Let's see you walk.'
Royce braced himself, then moved across the room. For a short distance, at least, the limp was hardly noticeable.
'That's fine,' said Craig. 'Now you and Kaplan change clothes.'
'What is this?' said Royce.
'Didn't Loomis tell you who was boss? Go in the bedroom if you're shy.'
When they'd gone, Joanna Benson looked from Miriam to Craig.
'Isn't there someone missing?' she asked. 'Who?'
'Your friend Angelos. I thought he was with you.' 'He is,' said Craig. 'But it's better if you and he don't meet.'
'Fair enough,' said Joanna. 'Then there's the Israeli pair. I had a look for them, Craig. They've disappeared.' She hesitated. 'Is that why Andrew's changing clothes with Kaplan?' Craig didn't answer. 'Loomis was right. You really do like your pound of flesh.' She turned to Miriam. 'Doesn't he, darling?'
Royce and Kaplan came back and Craig fitted on the wigs Joanna had brought.
'These wouldn't fool anybody,' said Royce.
They'd fool a man on a mountainside, watching a moving car, Craig thought.
Asimov would soon be ill. He'd taken another look at his wound, seen how inflamed it was. His temperature was rising too, and soon he'd have fever. But there was food enough to keep him going—last night he'd robbed the kitchen—and water in the mountain streams. And he didn't have to hold out for long. He was certain of it. The Land-Rover would be coming back soon, with Kaplan in it, and no matter what precautions Craig took, he, Asimov, would then kill Kaplan. The likelihood was that he would then die, of exposure and weakness, up here in the mountains, or by execution, if they hanged murderers in Cyprus. He didn't know. It was funny. He was going to commit a murder and he didn't know what the penalty was. Life imprisonment, perhaps. The British had abolished hanging, and maybe the Cypriots had too. Life imprisonment he could face, so long as the prison wasn't Volochanka, and he'd even escaped from there.
Asimov lay on his back, nursing his strength as Daniel had taught him. He was weary now, utterly weary, with a tiredness of the will that exhausted him as completely as the mine at Volochanka. He thought of the ten of them, the plot to escape, the lectures, the preparation, the training. They had all meant hope for the future, and with hope even Siberia is bearable. And when he and Daniel had escaped, they still had a reason to go on fighting life. Revenge, this time. An ignoble emotion, though the Elizabethans, he remembered, had made a whole literature out of it, with Hamlet as its finest flower. Love was better, the philosophers said, and he'd loved Daniel. He must have done, not to have stopped him that day in the Graydon. But revenge was better than nothing. It made you keep on living till you achieved what you set out to do. But it would be better if he could forget that day at the Graydon: the surprise on the girl's face just before she died: the man's agonized screams smothered by the gag. Daniel had been so skillful, and he'd stood by and watched.
Maybe he'd enjoyed-The thought was unbearable. If
it were true, it made him everything that Turk had said. No better than the guards at Volochanka, no better than Kaplan.
He began to think of a poem he had written in prison. A pattern of ice on a birch tree, and the dull red disc of the sun. Since they'd got out, he hadn't written a line of poetry. Couldn't. He looked up into the darkness of the pine tree that sheltered him. Behind it were the mountains of Troodos, rich, fat mountains, alive with hares, birds, fruit. If it weren't for his shoulder, he could live here indefinitely. From the distance he could hear the growl of a heavy engine. Asimov rolled over on to his stomach. The rifle was by his side, the shoulder of his jacket stuffed with grass to take the impact of its recoil. He was as ready as he would ever be.
Craig had rehearsed the move to the Land-Rover carefully. First Joanna, going quickly into the driver's seat, backing it up to the door, then Miriam, then Kaplan, limping, wearing a blond wig, then Royce in a white wig, then Craig, Kaplan and Craig acting like bodyguards. Royce got into the Land-Rover next to Joanna, and Craig sat beside him. Miriam and Kaplan were in the back. Joanna let in the clutch and drove off at once, and the four-wheel drive tackled the mud track as if it were an autobahn. Mindful of his instructions, she hit a good pace and kept to it.
'Something's up,' Royce said at last. 'And you know what it is.'
Craig kept his eyes on the mountainside. Slopes and ridges, outcrops of rock; perfect sniper country.
'You've got no right to do this to me,' said Royce, then yelled at the silence: 'For God's sake, tell me what's happening.'
'It's possible there's a sniper out there,' said Craig.
Royce hunched down in his seat, and as he did so a bullet starred the window by Craig, smacked into Royce as they heard the report of a rifle. Joanna accelerated, and reached a corner in a burst of speed as Craig yelled instructions. The car skidded round the corner and stopped. Craig leaped out of it and raced up the side of the hill, rolled into cover behind a rock. From where he lay he could see Kaplan bending over Royce; Joanna getting out of the driving seat, examining the engine with what looked like frantic haste. He could see, too, a ripple of movement in the long grass on the mountainside, the movement of a man who had been trained to move with caution and skill. Craig took out the 9-millimeter automatic. It had nothing like the range of the rifle, but if Asimov came close enough, it would do.
The ripple of the grass came closer, and at last he could see Asimov's body as he wriggled his way between Craig and the Land-Rover. The group on the road didn't see him until he raised himself to his feet, the rifle held at the hip. Craig could see that he was swaying, very slightly.
Joanna and Miriam froze, as he had told them to do, but Kaplan panicked, turned and dived out of the car seat, racing across the road. And as he moved, Asimov saw him. He raised the rifle, his body swaying more than ever, though the gun was steady. Behind him, Craig got to his feet, his arm raised in the classic pistol-shooting position.
'Asimov!' he yelled, and the Russian checked, then started to turn, far too late. Craig fired once, then again, and the impact of the heavy bullets knocked Asimov sprawling, set him rolling over and over down the long, lush grass until he came to rest at last by the Land-Rover's front wheel. Joanna Benson looked down at him. Two wounds: one through the side of the head, one through the heart, fired from fifty feet away as he turned. Asimov had had no chance at all, and that was exactly as it should be.
Craig came slowly down to them, his eyes on Kaplan as he walked back across the road. Miriam, for the first time, saw emotion in his eyes, a boiling rage it took all his strength to contain. He looked down at Royce, picked up a spent bullet embedded in the floorboard of the car.
'Is he dead?' he asked.
'No,' Kaplan said. 'The bullet hit him across the neck. Creased a nerve, I think.'
Craig pulled Royce upright. The bullet had furrowed a great gouge from his ear almost to his nape. He'd be marked for life, unless Loomis paid for plastic surgery, but he was alive. Joanna got a first-aid kit from the back of the Land-Rover, put lint on the wound and held it in place with tape.
'Poor Andrew,' she said. 'It's all I seem to do for him.'
