"We can get there—but it won't be easy. If he's out there on the hill, he can kill us as soon as we're in range. Maybe I'd better go in first by myself."
"No," she said. "This is what I came for, too."
"You always do what Force Three tells you?"
"I do what Marcus asks me," she said.
"All right," said Craig. "But take your time. Do exactly what I do—and nothing else. Understand?"
She nodded and he moved at a running crouch to the shelter of some bushes, then began a slow and agonizing crawl toward the cottage. Again the sleeping pain awoke inside her, but she gritted her teeth and crept on after him. Despite the blows he had taken, the exhaustion, the frantic escape from the shed, he moved easily, deftly, with the tiniest whisper of sound. When at last her strength gave out, he led her to the shelter of a boulder and made her lie behind it, flat on her back, legs and arms outstretched, then did the same himself. No recrimination, no argument, only an acceptance of physical limitations, but those limitations were pushed as far as they could go.
After five minutes her legs had ceased to tremble, and he made her go on again, till at last they reached the end of grass, bush, and stone, and found themselves among rows of vines. Beyond the vines was a neat kitchen garden, with orderly lines of melons, pumpkins, and tomatoes, and beyond that, the blank wall of the cottage. Craig very cautiously rose to his feet, and motioned her to absolute silence. A dog lay sleeping under a vine. Carefully, a step at a time, Craig moved toward it. As he moved, she watched his hands. They were both held out straight, the little fingers rigid.
The dog awoke to complete alertness and changed at once from a cuddly chum to something very like a wolf, teeth bared, mouth opened to snarl, as Craig flung himself forward, taking his weight on his left hand, the right hand thudding into its neck like an ax blade. The noise of breaking bone was the only sound she heard, and she knew at once that the dog was dead. His body pivoted on his left hand, and when he came up he was holding the gun. He moved off at once, not looking back, and she saw for the first time the Craig who had existed before he was tortured, a man who reminded her very much of Royce. Poor Marcus, she thought. Poor Miriam. What chance do we have?
She followed him round the blank wall of the cottage, waited at his signal as he moved round the corner, peered through a window, ducked down, and moved to the door. He never looked back at her, offered her comfort. He was an automaton now, programmed and set in motion, and it would be stupid on her part to regret it. She had done the programming. He reached the door, and contemplated its problem. It was flimsy enough, and its simple latch was rusted. He breathed deeply and evenly, then his foot came back once more, his body exploded into activity. The sole of his foot crashed against the latch, then his shoulder hit the opening door, he was inside the cottage in a dive that took him to the hard earth floor, looking up over the sights of the Smith and Wesson at a man trying to lift a rifle mounted on pegs in the wall.
"Shalom," said Craig, and the man was still. Craig got up and moved to him, his left hand moved over the other's body, came away with a knife. He stepped back, the left hand flicked, and the knife spun away, stuck high in the wall. The man's eyes ignored everything but the gun.
"Miriam," Craig shouted, and the girl came ranning, then stared at the man who faced her. He was taller than Marcus, and that was right. Thinner too, bone-thin, but then Marcus had said that Aaron favored his father's side of the family, who were beanpoles. It was Marcus and his mother who'd had weight problems. The face was okay too, in a way. In it there were echoes of things she knew and loved in Marcus: the boldness of a splendidly Semitic nose, a sensitivity about the mouth, a chin she had always wished were a little more determined, especially when Marcus tried to persuade Ida it would be nice to have another cocktail before dinner. He was a Kaplan. She was sure of it; and yet he couldn't be. Aaron was supposed to be fifty-three years old; five years younger than Marcus. The man in front of her looked seventy at least. A tough seventy: the stringy body looked durable enough—but the deeply etched lines on his face, the wrinkled, work-worn hands—seemed to belong to Marcus's father, not his brother. "Well?" said Craig.
"He looks right," Miriam said. "But he's too old."
"Should he speak English?" Craig asked. She nodded.
"How old are you?" asked Craig.
The man stayed silent.
"Try him in Hebrew," Craig said.
She spoke to him, first in Hebrew, then in Yiddish. The old man gave no sign of comprehension.
Craig waited, immobile, till she'd finished, then moved, suddenly, appallingly, so that the girl cried out. One stride took him to the old man, then the gun barrel swung, smashed into his neck, slapping him to the floor, and Craig's voice bellowed orders in a language she did not understand. At once, agonizedly, the old man scrambled to his feet, lurched to the wall, and put his hands against it in the classic pose of the prisoner waiting to be searched.
"We'll take him," said Craig. He walked to the wall of the cottage, tucked the revolver in the waistband of his trousers and took down the rifle, slung it over his shoulder, then again orders streamed from him in that language she did not know, yet which seemed familiar. The man moved forward at once, and out of the cottage, Craig behind him. There was a weariness in the old man's movements, an acceptance of ultimate defeat that sickened the girl. No human being deserved to be so crushed by another.
Outside, Craig looked at his watch then walked the old man and the girl ahead of him, up into the hills, in a line parallel to the path. They found a dip in the hills near the olive trees, and he pushed them into its cover, then settled down to wait. The old man gave no least sign of resistance.
His whole being was concentrated on Craig's hands, watching them test the rifle, examinine its sights and magazine with care, before Craig lay sprawled on the ground, eyes on the road, sights set at a hundred meters. Again orders streamed from him, and the old man bowed his head in submission.
They waited thirty-five minutes before they heard the engine, then the Jaguar streamed effortlessly round the bend in the road, the engine whispering its contempt at the speed it was held to. The girl was driving. Royce sat beside her, looking angry. Craig waited till the car came past them, then the rifle came up, his finger squeezed on the trigger. The rear off-side tire blew like an echo of the shot, and the girl fought the car to a standstill. As she did so, Royce was already moving, gauging his leap from the car, rolling out of it to the roadside before it had stopped.
"Good boy," said Craig, and fired again. Royce went down as if his legs had been swept from under him. Benson stopped the car and left it, using it for cover as she too made for the protection of the road. Craig fired a third time, into the gas tank, and the car exploded in a roaring whoosh of flame that sent Royce scuttling like a wounded snake from the shelter of the ditch. Craig got to his feet then, and led them down to the Fiat, ordered the old man into the back of the van and got in after him, then handed the keys to Miriam.