"And my hands free?"
Royce wanted to protest at that, but she moved behind Craig and her hands found the slip-knot, eased him free. The release was agony: the renewed insulation of blood so painful he had to exert all his strength not to yell. He looked at Royce.
"You did this," he said.
"My pleasure," said Royce, and got up from Miriam, looked down at Craig, eager for the word that could unleash the power to hurt. Craig looked at him empty-eyed.
"I don't like this," Royce said. "It's better to use the girl. With his hands free-"
"If he tries anything I'll kill him," said Benson. "He knows that."
"I don't trust him," Royce said.
"You like hurting people," said Benson. "Miss Loman just warmed you up. But we didn't come here to get you your kicks, Andrew."
"We came here for Kaplan," Royce said. "There's only one way to get him."
Benson looked down at the gun in her hand. It pointed between Craig and Royce, an impersonal menace.
"You can have ten minutes' rest," she said. "You go first." Royce hesitated for a moment, then left. Benson looked down at Craig.
"There's a bucket and towel over there," she said. "Clean her up if you want to, darling. Andrew can always do it again."
She left then, and Craig unhooked the wire round Miriam's wrists, soaked the towel in water, placed it on her. Even the touch of the towel made her cry out. He held it against her, and gradually the agony on her face faded.
"Oh, my God, that's good," she whispered. Then the fear came back. "But he'll do it again, won't he?" She began to cry, dry, racking sobs, and he took her in his arms, drew the dress around her.
"You really don't know where Kaplan is?"
She shook her head. "If I did—I'd try to hold out against him. But I don't think I could. Not much longer. As it is—I guess it's all for nothing. What he did to me."
"The postcard," Craig said. "Marcus didn't lose it, did he? He left it with you. What was on the postcard? Can you remember?"
"What's the use, John?" she said. "I don't know where he is."
He held her more tightly.
"Ten minutes isn't long," he said. "Just answer my questions."
"It had a picture on it," she said. "A flock of sheep and a shepherd leading them."
"What sort of shepherd?"
"Just an old man with a walking-stick."
"Traditional sort of clothes?" She shook her head. "What was the message?"
"He'd written it in Hebrew. It meant something like— 'This is a lovely place. The old man reminds me of old
Rabbi Eleazar. Do you remember how he used to read the psalms to us? He was a good shepherd to us, wasn't he? I miss him very much, and you too, Marcus. Be happy. Aaron.' That was all."
"Nothing else?" said Craig. "You're sure?"
"Just the postmark, Kutsk. Marcus hired a private detective from Istanbul to come down. Nobody had ever even heard of him. But he must have been here, mustn't he?"
"You're sure there was nothing else?" She was silent for a moment, examining the postcard in her mind.
"Just the date," she said. "That was funny too. He'd written it the Jewish way." "How is that?"
"We're in the year 5725. Aaron wrote 2.23.5725. Some lousy postal service." "Why?" asked Craig.
"Two must be February," she said. "The postmark on the card was April. Marcus got it in May."
Craig said, "When were you supposed to tell me all this?" He felt her body stiffen, and went on. "You were, weren't you? Force Three set you up for me, didn't they? Just as Benson said."
She nodded. "They told me what to tell you—but when you made me come with you they said that was all right too. I phoned them, you know. When I went to the John."
"Of course you did," said Craig. "Sometimes I thought you were never going to ask." "But when did you know?"
"Right from the start," he said. "It was all too easy. A
girl in a fur coat—and almost out of it-"
"I hated that," said Miriam.
"It's not a thing you forget," said Craig. "I was supposed to follow it up. Tell Loomis. Force Three knew he'd send somebody. It turned out to be me instead."
"But you knew it was a trap."
"There were nothing but traps," Craig said. "Yours was the prettiest. And it got me nearer Kaplan." He looked at his watch. "What did they tell you to tell me?"
Ill
"About the postcard," she said. "It seemed so stupid." "Not stupid at all," said Craig. "I'm surprised Marcus didn't see it." "See what?" "Where his brother is."
Cautious not to hurt her, he zipped up her dress. When Benson and Royce came back, they were sitting apart. This time, both the man and the woman carried guns.
Benson said, "I hope you've got good news, darling."
"Me, too," said Craig. "But at least I can tell you where he's been."
"Get on with it, then," said Royce.
"Marcus Kaplan got a postcard. There was a picture of a shepherd on it, leading his flock. The message was signed Aaron—his brother. The text had a reference to a rabbi they'd both known as children—that proved it came from Aaron. The rabbi had taught them the psalms. The whole thing was written in Hebrew—even the date: 2.23.5725."
"So?" said Royce.
"2.23," said Craig. "It could be February twenty-third —except the card was postmarked April. On the other hand, if we remember the shepherd on the front of the card, it could be the Twenty-third Psalm—second verse."
"Go on," said Benson.
"Do you happen to know what that is?"
" 'He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters,'" Benson said, and added: "I once had to write it all out ten times. So useful, being taught by nuns."
"Then there was the date—5725," said Craig.
"That's a distance in yards, do you think?"
"No," said Craig. "Kaplan's a Russian. My guess is it means meters."
"Green fields and a lake," said Benson. "About six thousand meters from here. Which direction?"
"You'll need a map," Craig said. "That's all she knows. She didn't even realize she knew that—till I got it out of her."
"Maestro," said Benson, and bowed. Royce raised his automatic.
"What a fool you are, maestro," he said. "You're going to die."
"Well, actually, darling, not quite yet," said Benson. "We do have to be sure he's telling the truth." She turned to Miss Loman. "And that she told him the truth."
"Do we leave them here?"
"They'll be safe for a little while," Benson said. "Get the car."
"What about tying them up?"
"I'll do that," Benson said. "Give me the wire." He handed it to her. "On your tummies, darlings," said Benson.
Royce watched as she drew the wire over Miriam's hands, heard the sharp gasp of pain, then went outside. Minutes later he came back, holding a large-scale map of the area. Craig and Miriam lay face down, wrists bound behind them, feet tied to staples in the wall. He grinned. "Not even love could find a way," he said.
"You've hardly made it worthwhile to try," said Benson. "Any luck?"
"Three possibles," Royce said. "It shouldn't take long."
Benson crouched down by Craig. "We'll do the whole thing in a couple of hours," she said. "Then we'll kill you, Craig. Sorry and all that, darling—but you know what Loomis is like." She got up then, and left them.
Miriam lay in the straw, biting her lip to stop herself from crying out. The pressure of her body was bringing back the pain. Beside her she could hear the movements of Craig's body as he fought against the wire that held him. The fool, she thought. The poor, brilliant, stupid fool. To stop me being tortured he gets himself killed, and now he's trying to burst his bonds like a comic strip hero. The movement of his hands must be agony, she thought. Even lying still was almost more than she could bear.
"Save it, John," she said. "We're going to die. Accept it."