"You drive," he said. "Back toward the village. Stop when I tell you."
They found a place a mile out of Kutsk—a track that led to a deserted quarry. Craig told her to stop, and she got out. The rifle still in his hands, he ordered the old man out, then followed. The hard words of that elusive language were still in her ears when he switched to English.
"This woman does not speak Russian," he said.
Russian, thought Miriam. Of course.
"We will talk English. First, your name."
"Imares," said the man. "Mohammed Imares."
"Profession?"
"Shepherd ... I used to be a business man, but I made a little money, you understand ... I thought it was best to get away from the wickedness of life in Istanbul."
"Of course," said Craig. "Your age?"
"Sixty. Perhaps I should explain that I have been very ill. I know 1 look older."
"You talk too much," said Craig. The man was instantly silent.
Craig transferred the rifle to his left hand then, almost casually, knocked the man down with a back-handed blow. He fell, heavily, but scrambled at once to his feet as Craig yelled at him in Russian. Miriam ran between them.
"Stop it," she said. "For God's sake, stop it." "Get out of the way," said Craig. "There isn't time for all that." "No," she said.
His hand moved again, pushing her to one side, and he moved up to Imares, who stood swaying on his feet.
"I'm in a hurry," said Craig. "Don't waste my time."
"I told you the truth," said Imares.
"I thought Volochanka had better teachers," said Craig.
Imares's face seemed to disintegrate. Suddenly and silently, he began to cry.
"Kaplan," said Craig. "Tell me your full name."
"Aaron Israel Kaplan."
"Age?"
"Fifty-three."
"Profession?"
"Agronomist." Kaplan sobbed out the word, and covered his face with his hands. Craig let him weep for a moment, then turned to the girl.
"You see," he said. "There was only one way to handle it. It didn't take long." '
"But how could you be so sure?" she asked.
"You spotted him straight off," Craig said, "apart from his age. And you've never seen anybody who's been in Siberia. I have. If they age only twenty years—they're lucky. So I tried him with Russian. Talked like a KGB executive-"
"And acted like one."
"No," said Craig. "For a KGB executive I treated him soft. But he's broken already. And scared out of his mind.
Two blows and a few Russian curses and I had him back in Siberia. After that, he couldn't help telling the truth."
"What happens now?" she asked.
"I'm going to see Omar. Get my money back."
"And go back to the States?"
"Eventually," said Craig. "First of all I want to get away from Benson and Royce. I bet they don't love us at all."
"You didn't kill them," she said. "You could have." "Disappointed?" he asked. "No. Surprised."
"I haven't finished with them yet," said Craig. "It isn't their time to die."
They drove back to the road, and on toward Kutsk. When they reached the outskirts of the village Craig made her stop and, climbed a nearby hill, stared down into the village. There were only a handful of boats bobbing in the harbor; the quayside was deserted, apart from three old men mending nets. It was a good time to call on Omar.
CHAPTER 9
Miriam drove the Fiat up to the coffeeshop door. Inside the van Kaplan lay trussed like an oven-ready bird with handkerchiefs and ties. Craig had done it himself; the knots would hold. As the van stopped, Craig stepped out soundlessly, moved from the morning heat to the coolness inside. In the gloom he could discern one man sitting at a table, his head on his arms. An old man, having a good rest, conscious of a night's work well done. Soundlessly Craig moved up to him, his hand moved, the Smith and Wesson appeared. On Omar's table was an empty cup of coffee and a glass of water half-full. Craig picked up the water glass, emptied it over the sleeping man, and Omar shot up at once, shocked into awareness. The gun was the first thing he saw.
"How are you, digger?" said Craig.
Omar stared into the gun's barrel.
"Looks like I made a mistake," he said.
"Looks like it."
"The other girl—that tall sheila—and that young bloke-"
"They had an accident," said Craig, and Omar sighed. "Come to that, sport, you might have one too."
"You don't have to get violent," Omar said.
"Maybe I do," said Craig. "They were going to kill me, Omar. I don't like that. And you had a gun on my girl. You took my money and my luggage. I think you deserve an accident."
"I'll give you your money back—and your luggage." "Of course," said Craig.
"Look, mister," Omar said, speaking more loudly. "I know I done you no good, but-"
"Omar," Craig interrupted, "your family are all asleep, aren't they? And you're trying to wake them. But ask yourself one question first: Is it wise?"
"I don't understand," said Omar.
"Then put it this way," said Craig. "If anybody else comes in, I'll blow your head off."
Omar looked again into the Smith and Wesson's barrel.
"Do you believe me?"
"Yes," said Omar. "Jesus, yes."
"Let's take care of your family," said Craig.
Omar's son and his wife snored happily on top of a bed. Craig locked them in their room. Two old women snored happily in the kitchen. He locked them in too. In the guest bedroom he picked up the valise, his and Miriam's clothes. That left the money. Back in the coffeeshop, Omar disgorged it, reluctantly, from his person. It smelled a little more than it had done, but it was all there.
"You see?" Omar said. "You got it all back. You don't have to shoot me, mister."
"Maybe," said Craig. "How many boats have you got?"
"Three," said Omar, then stopped, angry. "I'm not all that rich, mister."
"I don't want your money," said Craig. "I'm not even going to touch the money you got from the other two for helping them. I'm going to be nice to you, Omar."
The old man looked wary.
"You take me for a cruise and I'll let you live. Isn't that nice of me?"
"Where d'you want to go, mister?"
"Cyprus," said Craig. "Now." He raised the gun, tapped the old man's forehead with the barrel.
"Think about it," he said. The old man sighed.
"You're the boss, mister," he said.
"Remember that," said Craig.
Before they left he drained the gas tank of the Fiat, tore out its wires, unscrewed its steering wheel. Royce and Benson needed the exercise, he thought, and Craig needed time. They walked down to the quay then, and Craig's luck held. The three old men had finished mending their nets. The place was deserted. They walked in pairs, Omar and Kaplan leading. Kaplan, still groggy from the beating and tying up, seemed the older of the two. Behind them Craig and Miriam, he with a hand in his coat pocket, she limping along, carrying the rifle wrapped in sacking.
Two of Omar's boats were out on charter, fishing, but the third, the pride of his fleet, lay tied up at the quayside. It was a big and beamy craft with a diesel engine and a lateen sail, very like the caiques Craig remembered from twenty years ago. He helped Omar cast off and made him go out under sail, moving easily before a following wind until they were out of the harbor. Only then would he let him fire the engine, and then they moved off at a steady, pop-popping six knots, watching the land diminish behind them from a toy village to a picture postcard to a gray smudge against the intense blue of the sea. At last, even the smudge disappeared, and Craig lay back, content. Omar heard the sigh, and risked speech.
"It's not good for a Turk in Cyprus, mister," he said.
"It's not good for a Turk in Kutsk. Not when he robs me and nearly gets me killed," said Craig.