"I thought I shot him," said Craig.
"No. You shot the young one, the one who had hit me with the gun butt. The fat one you knifed—in the throat. He bled all over me."
"I'd forgotten that," said Craig.
"That's the kind of man you are," Angelos said. "I'm not like that. I can't forget."
"Maybe you're the lucky one," Craig said. "Go on about why you know I want something."
"You are a very loyal person," Angelos said, "but you have no talent for friendship."
"Now, wait a minute," Craig said. "If you don't want to help me, say so."
"Of course I want to help you," Angelos said. "I have to help you."
Craig looked at him across the table, expressionless gray eyes telling nothing. Angelos shook like a man in terror, but that was stupid. What was there to fear?
"I came back for you," said Craig. "I killed those two Jerries for you."
"You killed them for the group," Angelos said. "That was where your loyalty was. For me—Angelos—you did nothing. You cared nothing. What did you do after that fat German died, John?"
Craig thought back hard. It had been in an olive grove, he remembered. One of so many running fights, scrambling, terrifying, ecstatic. They'd got back to the caique, and the pursuing Germans had run into a blast of Bren gun fire. But the details had gone.
"I can't remember," he said.
"I'll tell you. You wiped your knife on the German, put it back in its sheath, then carried me back to the caique. The young German had hit me and broken my ribs. I couldn't walk. You carried me for half a mile, and you never said a word."
"I was busy."
"Not then, or afterwards. I was in hospital for a month, then I came back to the group. You never even mentioned what had happened. You have no talent for friendship, John."
Craig said, "Are you saying you hate me?" "No."
"What, then?"
"You'll never understand. You can't understand," Angelos shouted, then lowered his voice as customers turned to stare. "Almost everyone needs the friendship of others. They need it as they need food and drink. You—don't. All you need is a group to belong to—but for you the group is an abstraction, not people. Never people. Shall
I tell you something. We've been talking for some while-"
"You've done most of it," said Craig.
"—And you've never even spoken my name. After twenty-three years."
"And yet you say you'll help me."
"Of course I'll help you. I must. I've been waiting to do so ever since that night."
"Do you mind telling me why?"
"I want to be free of you," said Angelos.
Craig said, "What I want—it isn't a small thing."
"I'm glad of that," Angelos said.
"There's risk." He looked at the fat man. He was smiling. "That makes you happy?" "Very happy."
"I want you to help pick up three people from a boat, then hide them, and me. Then I want you to act as messenger boy."
"Who are these people?"
"An American girl, a Russian man, and a Turk." "A Turk," said Angelos. "That's all it needed. All right. I'll do it."
"There's a risk in all of it," said Craig. "Being messenger boy is the worst."
"It's a kidnapping?" Craig nodded.
"Yes," Angelos said. "It would be. Crime was inevitable for you, just as this"—he gestured to the club—"is inevitable for me." He finished his wine. "Shall we go now?"
"Two more questions," said Craig. "And one request—I want all the British and American papers you can get here. Next—are you married?"
"No," said Angelos. "There are plenty of girls available. I shan't marry for another few years. And the other question?"
"There are two men in Famagusta—supposed to be Israelis. One's called Lindemann. About my height. Big shoulders. Brown eyes. Black hair. The other one's called Stein. Stocky. Built like a barrel. Black eyes. Black hair going gray. Do you know them?"
"Very well," said Angelos. "They're sitting five tables away. Behind you."
Craig's hands moved on the table, and Angelos watched them. They were weapons still, he thought. In twenty-three years Craig had only become more himself.
"They come in here very often," he continued. "They have what seems to be an inexhaustible passion for cabaret girls who don't cost too much. The girls usually find it flattering. I take it they are—business rivals?" Craig nodded. "Do they know you?"
"I hope not," said Craig. "Otherwise the risk would be so big you'd be ecstatic. Can we go now?"
"Yes," said Angelos. "My car is outside. I have a boat, too. That will be useful."
"Very," said Craig. "Where can you hide us?"
"In the mountains. I have a little place where I take a girl sometimes. It's very quiet. But I don't suppose you'll mind that."
"Not a bit," said Craig. "Do you have only one car?" "Two," said Angelos.
"I want to borrow one of them," said Craig. "You won't refuse me?"
Angelos sighed. "I forgot how clever you are," he said. "That was a mistake. I told you too much, didn't I? You aren't the kind of man to refuse an advantage just because it's unfair."
He got up then and led the way to the door. When he'd reached it, Craig looked back. Lindemann and Stein looked just as Omar had described them. They were talking hard to the bouzouki stripper and another girl off the same assembly line. There were two bottles of brandy and four glasses on the table. They didn't look like men who were in a hurry to move.
Angelos's two cars were a Volkswagen and an MGB. Craig chose the Volkswagen. It hadn't the sports car's speed, but it was built for the mountains. They parked the cars near the beach and boarded Angelos's boat, a neat little outboard job that would just about hold five. Craig steered it toward Omar's sailing boat, another problem.
"Can you put that somewhere inconspicuous?" he asked.
Angelos thought. "I could take it to Melos," he said at last. "My brother has a boatbuilding business there. I could say it's due for overhaul." "How far is Melos?"
"Just a few miles. Or better still I could get my brother to come and collect it. Now if you like."
"That would be fine," said Craig, "if your brother keeps his mouth shut."
"He will," said Angelos. "He owes me money." He hesitated, then said, "Craig, do I have to hide a Turk?"
"Either that or kill him," said Craig. Angelos said no more.
CHAFTEi 10
The house in the mountains was the best accommodation Miriam had seen since her night in Ankara. It had comfortable beds, a bathroom, and a workmanlike kitchen well stocked with food. It was the man who owned it who puzzled her. He behaved to Craig as if he detested him, yet obeyed his every word, and accepted all that Craig had done without question. When Craig had cut Kaplan loose for instance the fat man had accepted it without a blink; as if he expected violence from Craig, and cruelty, and a complete disregard for the comfort and dignity of others. The fat man wasn't like that, Miriam knew, yet he found it fascinating in Craig, as well as hateful. For his part, Craig simply issued orders, certain that the fat man would obey, and he did.
When the fat man had gone, Craig led her to the kitchen and made her cook a meal for Omar, Kaplan, and herself. They ate it in silence. When they had finished Craig took Kaplan to the bathroom, then to his bed. He looked at him in silence, then spoke in Russian.
"You've told the girl the truth?" he asked.
"Yes. I swear it," said Kaplan.
"I hope so. Tomorrow you will tell the truth to me. Let's hope it's the same truth." He turned away.
"Please," said Kaplan. Craig turned back to him.
"Please. What are you doing to me? Why am I here? I thought I was going to be left in peace."
"Tomorrow," said Craig. He went out and locked the door.