The writhing movements went on beside her.
"Look," she said. "You did it to stop me being hurt any more. All right. I couldn't take any more. I wanted to die. I really did. All right. I got what I wanted. I don't blame you for it. Only please will you stop fighting? It's just no use."
The writhing stopped at last, and then he was bending over her, untwisting the wire at her ankles and wrists. She sat up cautiously, and he rubbed her wrists and ankles, chafing back the circulation.
"I don't believe it," she said. "It isn't possible."
"No," he said. "It's impossible. Unless the girl who tied you up did it wrong."
"You mean that man-eating debutante made a mistake?" Miriam asked. "Oh, I like that very much. I love it."
"No," said Craig. "Benson doesn't make mistakes. She meant it."
"But why?"
"We'll find out later. She also meant it when she said we had just two hours to get out of here. Otherwise Royce will kill us."
"She didn't say that."
"She meant it. She handled Royce as well as anyone could handle him, but there are limits with his kind. Believe me, I know."
He looked round the shed as he talked. The door was four great slabs of wood, hard and old, and bolted on the outside. The windows were too tiny even for Miriam to squeeze through. Patiently, he sought the straw for some kind of tool, but there was nothing. He went to the door again, tested its heavy strength. It could have stood up against a charging bull.
"She was only teasing us," said Miriam. "Making it worse."
"There's a way," said Craig. "There has to be."
He grubbed in the straw again and found a couple of horse blankets, heavy, ancient things that stank to heaven. Quickly he began to pile the straw up round the door, working with care, clearing the rest of the dirt floor, then threw a blanket to her, took one himself, and moved the bucket of water back to the window.
"Get over here," he said.
She obeyed him, and he lifted the oil lamp from its hook, hefted it in his hand, then moved back to join her. "Benson doesn't make mistakes," he said. "But Royce
does. He left the lamp burning—and it's daylight." He soaked the blankets with the water, then flicked his wrist. The lamp spun through the air, then burst like a bomb against the door. She had never believed that a fire could take place so quickly. There was a bang, as the lamp burst, and the blazing oil streamed down into the straw, tongues of flame reared up like waves, searing the side of the door, and the blast of heat made her throw up her hands to cover her face. Even pressed against the farthest wall, the temperature was almost unbearable. Pieces of burning straw spiraled up in the warm air, then drifted down on them. Craig pushed closer to the window as the room filled with stifling smoke. She stood there, whimpering softly, convinced that he'd gone crazy, that they'd burn to death.
Streaming-eyed, coughing, he watched the fire take hold of the door, reduce its weathered hardness to flame. At last, before the smoke made him unconscious, he went to the door, hands wrapped in the towel, holding the blanket in front of him like a shield, but even so the heat seared him through the heavy cloth. He drew up his knee, then kicked flat-footed at the burning door, aiming for the bolt, using every ounce of the karate skill. The flames bit into his leg, and he drew back his foot and kicked again, feeling the door yield slightly but not enough. Another kick was needed, delivering it a task almost beyond his powers. Sobbing, he went closer, bent his knee, kicked, and the bolt gave, the door swung open. He turned to Miriam.
"Put the blanket round yourself," he yelled. "Come on."
But she stared at the flames and stayed, motionless. Her nerve had gone. Craig went back to her, wrapped one blanket round her, swathed the other over them both. When she realized what he was going to do she struggled, till he swore at her, threatening, and she was still. He took a last gasp of air at the window, then charged at the half-open door. Again flame leaped round him, then his shoulder hit the door, it opened wider, and he was through, running into the coolness of the morning, stopping at last, releasing her from the blanket as if she were a parcel.
"Gift-wrapped," he said. "That's nice." He slapped at his trousers, charred from the flames, then sat down wearily, pulled up the trouser-legs, looked for the mark of the flames. Scorched, no more. He'd been lucky.
"I thought we hadn't a chance," she said.
"We had the chance Benson gave us." He looked at his watch. "There's an hour and three quarters before they get back. We'd better use them."
He turned and looked back. The fire was dying now, the straw spent, only the wood still smouldering. Behind their prison was a derelict farmhouse and a corrugated-iron shed. He got up and went towards the shed. Somehow Miriam got to her feet and staggered after him.
Inside the shed was the Fiat van. He went over it carefully, wary of booby traps. There were none. He opened the door, got into the van. The keys were in the lock. He drove it out, and Miriam got in beside him, picked up something lying at her feet, something heavy and metallic, wrapped in cloth. She handed it to Craig, and he uncovered his Smith and Wesson .38. He broke it, examined the magazine. It was loaded, but even so he took out each cartridge, checking that the shell was there intact, before he snapped it together, stuck it into his waistband. He turned to her and smiled.
"Nice, kind Miss Benson. Let's go and see Omar and give him a big surprise," he said.
She shook her head.
"Look, darling," he said. "He likes money, remember? I bet he's liking mine right this minute."
Miriam said, "He's got a lot coming all right. But we can't give it to him. Not yet, anyway."
"Why the hell not?" asked Craig. "I've got to get you out of here, and that'll take money."
"There was something else on the card. Something I didn't tell you. The picture."
"An old shepherd with a flock of sheep."
"It was sunset, John, and he was walking toward it."
"So the place is west of Kutsk," said Craig.
"That's right. And there's a chance they'E leave it till the last. We could still be there first."
"Look," he said, "you're scared. You know you are.
You've been knocked stupid, tortured, hauled through a fire. A very efficient sadist wants to kill you. If we stay here, he probably will—when he's finished playing."
"I know it," she said, "but we've got to do this. It's what we came for."
Craig's shoulders began to shake, weird sounds came from his throat. He was laughing.
"You innocent Americans," he said. "When will I ever understand you?"
A jolting track led from the farm to the road, and from there they moved on to Kutsk. There was no way of skirting the place, and Craig drove through it fast, hoping that if Omar saw them he would think they were Benson and Royce. The west road was smooth and easy till they reached a crossroads, and there Craig stopped. There were three roads to choose from. Two of them were at least metaled, the third was a potholed disaster. The girl chose it instinctively.
"That old shepherd looked as if he'd never even seen a highway," she said.
Gingerly he eased the van on to its pock-marked surface, and they bounced along for a couple of miles in second gear. At last they rounded a curve, and before them they could see a sheet of water, rolling green hills, dotted with the puff-ball shapes of sheep. Craig drew to a halt and the girl rolled down the window, absorbing the scene.
"I think so, John," she said. "I think this is it."
He moved on again, hurrying now, feeling the holes in the road menace his axle, till at last they reached the lake shore and a clump of olive trees. A mile beyond them was a hut, and from its chimney soft feathers of smoke drifted up in the still air.
Craig drove past the trees, then backed the van in behind them. If anything, the ground seemed easier than the road. He got out, walked back to the road, and stared intently. The van was perfectly hidden. As the girl climbed stiffly out of the cab, he went back into cover, opened his coat and drew the gun, replaced it, drew it again, over and over, till hand and fingers felt right and the gun's movement was smooth, inevitable. Next, the terrain. The hills were small, undulating, deficient in cover, but a man could hide there if he had to. And if a man were hidden there, and had a rifle, he could pick the two of them off with no trouble at all. On the other hand, it was early yet, even for a shepherd, and there was smoke coming from the cottage. He looked at the ground that separated them from it, working out a line of approach. When he'd got it he said: