Durell took the cigarette that had burned down between her fingers. Her hand was cold. She held his wrist and pulled herself up, and her arms tightened around him.
"Please hold me a little. I am so frightened. . . ."
Her body was warm and suggestive. He was aware of her as a woman, helpless, forlorn. He could not ignore the quickening stimulus she gave him. But his mind raced over what she had said, and he frowned.
"Shkoeder went to Pollini for maps of the area, to find the gold. He didn't get them. How could he hope to find the gold even if I could safely get him in and out of there while I got rid of the missiles?" He stared at her thoughtfully. "I'm trying to reconstruct Shkoeder's thoughts and ideas, you see. I can follow it up to Pollini. I can understand why he felt he had to pretend to come to Harris and me with his information about the rockets. But he hadn't found the gold even though he'd hunted for it for twenty years. He couldn't—" He paused suddenly, a quick excitement in him. "For twenty years he's been in Albania, of course. Is there anyone else, outside of that country—not Pollini, of course—who could confirm this tale of gold bullion in the Albanian mountains?"
The girl stared, wide-eyed. She touched a finger to her mouth. "But, of course. There is someone. You don't find it difficult to believe me? What a strange world we live in! Yesterday, a year ago, who could tell what the world would be like now? Or what it may be like tomorrow—"
"You said there's somebody who knows about this gold, somebody else outside of Albania," he insisted.
"Yes. Yes, there is Captain Stephanes."
"And who is he?"
"Oh, a fine old man, a Greek guerilla fighter. He must be past seventy by now. Pollini always talked of him as an enemy, but with respect and even fondness. A remarkable man, as Pollini described him. Stephanes, you see, led the Albanian guerillas who routed Pollini's Italian division in Debrec."
"Does this Stephanes still live?"
"I do not know."
"Where can he be found?"
Lisette frowned and took her arms from around him. "He lives in a small village in Greece—Pollini and I visited him not long ago, as a matter of fact. Last year, or two years ago. I can't remember, exactly. Pollini always said that Stephanes knew where the gold bullion was cached. Since the war was long over, Pollini wished his curiosity satisfied about it."
"And did he learn anything?"
"I think not. Stephanes said the past was buried—in the minds of men and under the earth."
"Just where did you go with Pollini when you visited this old Greek?"
"Oh, it's where the old Greek theater is, you know, the one where the tourists go for the festival of drama that's going on right now."
"Epidaurus?" Durell asked softly.
"Yes, that's the place. Epidaurus. If Captain Stephanes is still alive, that is where you can find him."
He felt as if several pieces of the puzzle had clicked satisfactorily into place. Shkoeder was after gold he hadn't been able to find even before his flight from the Red regime in Albania. Pollini had not helped him; Pollini, rather, had forced him into trying to bargain with Durell and Harris. But even if Durell got him safely into Debrec to blow up the missiles, Shkoeder would not know where to find the gold. Not in all the years past had Shkoeder been able to leave his country safely. But now that he had defected, he had gone first to Pollini, and now—straight to Greece, straight to Captain Stephanes.
And afterward, if he managed to squeeze by terror or torture, what he wanted to know from the old man, he would circle back and pretend to keep his bargain with Durell to go into Albania. Durell would keep him safe from the mountaineers long enough for him to fulfill his obsessive dreams of gaining wealth. A jet flight would take him, with his gold, to some far corner of the world in hours—safe from the bombs that might fall if Durell's mission failed and the rockets were not destroyed.
He turned abruptly from the girl and went to the phone, roused the desk clerk, and put through a call to the Minoa Hotel, near Epidaurus. There were long delays. The girl sat watching him with wide, green eyes. He smiled reassuringly at her. When at last he reached his connection, he waited again while a distant phone rang incessantly in Harris' room. Harris, following Shkoeder to Epidaurus, had checked in there all right. But he was not in his room now. And it was almost daylight. He left word for the call to be repeated every half hour until Harris was contacted and then hung up, frustrated.
"What is it?" Lisette asked*
"I don't know."
But some of his tension eased away as he looked at her. If Lisette Pollini had told him the truth, then it added up, and Shkoeder would be certain to come back for help in getting into Albania. He could not be sure that Lisette was not lying, but he was inclined to go along with her. For the moment, he concluded, she was harmless.
"You have sent someone to Epidaurus already?" she asked
"Yes. Harris. But I can't reach him."
"What are you thinking of now?"
"I've decided to accept your story," he said. "And I'll help you all I can."
She turned her head from him, and after a moment he realized that she was weeping.
"It will be all right, Lisette," he said gently. "I promise you."
She did not turn to face him. Her whisper was almost inaudible. "It does not seem real. Life has been a nightmare for such a long time—and my husband was such a foolish old man—"
He was silent.
She said in a murmur: "May I stay here with you, as long as you stay?"
"If you wish," he said.
"It is difficult to express—but you are the only man I have seen and met—in such a long time—" She still spoke without turning to face him. Her words were awkward, strained in the pre-dawn, smoky dimness of the hotel room, "How long will you be here?"
"A few hours."
"You sound tired."
"I am, a little."
"For a short time, perhaps—I would like to forget what it is like to be afraid. Can you understand? Do you know what I am saying? It is not easy for me."
"Look at me, Lisette," he said.
She turned her head. Her eyes, as pale green as pre-dawn light on a glimmering sea, did not quite meet his. Her face was calm, except for the trembling at the corners of her soft mouth. Then her arms went around him with a fierce demand that could not be denied. Out of her terror and her loneliness came a silent cry for love, for the reassurance and comfort of another human touch. He could not deny her. He did not wish to. She gasped as he felt the length of her rich body against him.
"Hold me, please."
"Yes."
"Please. Closer."
Beyond her, the dawn began to lighten through the window, and he could see the loom of the ancient Acropolis and the pale, ghostly marble shine of the Parthenon, the guardian temple of ancient Athens, detached and ineffably beautiful, floating against a velvet sky.
Chapter Eleven
He took Lisette with him in Xanakias' car when they left the Grande Bretagne at eight o'clock that morning. He had slept for an hour, holding the girl's subdued form in his arms, after listening to her quiet breathing for some time. He had pondered briefly the meaning of what had happened, and he knew that for Lisette it had been a necessary thing she had demanded in order to survive. He could not have said no to her.
There had been no return call from the Minoa Hotel near Epidaurus. No contact had been made with Harris. The morning promised dry, dusty heat when they started off. He took the time, too, to speak to Xanakias, to ask if any word had come in from the NATO agent. There had been no report.
"Washington has been on the scrambler again," the Greek said. "They insist I relay a direct order that you contact 22/Sapphire in London. I am sorry, my friend. There has been some liaison with the Russians, after all. It seems you will be directed to accommodate yourself to Helmuth Dinov's apparatus, in this affair."
"We'll see," Durell said.
He hung up. He was not concerned about Harris' failure to repo
rt, or to make himself available at the Minoa. Harris couldn't have accomplished much in the small hours of morning, in any case. He was more disturbed by Washington's urgency about cooperating with Dinov. Some featherbrained desk jockey saw dancing visions of a new era of sweetness and light. If it were anyone but Dinov on the other side, Durell might have been more willing; if he were wrong on this, then his career, perhaps his life, was at stake. He was gambling on a judgment of what Dinov really wanted in that dim, hidden valley in the Albanian mountains. Xanakias had offered to send some men with him to Epidaurus, but Durell preferred to go alone. He hadn't known quite what to do about Lisette, however. He could not leave her here; he might be abandoning her to Dinov, after all. At breakfast, her eyes never left his face, watching him with wide, careful wonder.
"Please take me with you," she said softly. "I will try to help. If Dinov has managed to come to Athens, then I am lost, don't you see? I want to stay with you. Perhaps, if we find this Captain Stephanes, he will accept me as General Pollini's widow. That might be useful. He might speak more freely, since Stephanes and Pollini, although once enemies, came to meet here again, not long ago. Stephanes won that battle years back, when Pollini's troops went into a panic, but he always admitted that the General behaved bravely, and perhaps saved the village from even worse disaster than it suffered."
He agreed that she might help. And he felt better for her company on the highway that led west along what had been the Sacred Way to Eleusis, two thousand years ago. The sky was pure and cloudless, a pale washed blue that made the stark hills and mountains of Attica stand out in sharp and crystalline clarity. Mount Parnes seemed to float in the air, detached from the rocky vineyards below. The sea, glimpsed from the twisting, dusty bends of the road, was dark and heavy, following the tortuous indentations of cove and fishing harbor all along the shore. Here was the place where Xerxes watched from his golden throne as his mighty host of Persians and Phoenicians went down to defeat in the naval battle of Salamis. On the distant horizon was the island of Aegina, and then they turned north across the bridge over the Isthmus canal to Corinth. Where the triremes of Athens had once sailed were now a few fishing boats, spongers and trawlers, placidly floating on the sunlit Aegean. An airliner sounded overhead. The villages they passed were of whitewashed stucco, dazzling in the sun, with faded tiled roofs. Goats and sheep dotted the rugged hillsides. Occasionally they passed a crowded bus, rocking recklessly along the twisting highway.
Durell drove deftly, aware of the hidden power under the hood of the car. Lisette wore another of her filmy stoles, letting the silk flutter in the wind behind her. She was silent for the most part, her eyes reflecting the inward trend of her thoughts. The trip to Epidaurus was 176 kilometers, following the irregular contours of the sea and shore; then they turned inland toward the fabulous ancient theater, away from the harbor of Old Epidaurus. Traffic was heavier than Durell had expected. Tourists were evident, identifiable by the cameras they inevitably wore slung around their necks and shoulders.
"It is the festival," Lisette said. "I saw some of the dramas last year. This time they are doing "Prometheus" by Aeschylus, and "The Wasps" by Aristophanes. Two others, too, but I can't remember what they are, at the moment." "You say you were here last year?"
"Yes, I thought I told you. I was here with General Pollini, my husband."
"You gave me the impression it was farther back than that, when Pollini last saw Stephanes." "Did I? I'm sorry—" "You know this neighborhood, then?" "A little. But really, I'm not familiar—" "Do you know exactly where Stephanes lives?" "I know where he can be found." Her eyes were fixed on some unseen horizon, and her voice was low and moody. "Did you know that Epidaurus is the mythical birthplace of Asclepius, the god of medicine among the old Greeks? Among the ancients, this place was his shrine for centuries. It was a healing center for the whole world then." Her words quickened, tumbled rapidly now, as if to distract him. "Now the National Theater of Greece annually gives these special performances of classic tragedy and comedy in the old theater. They are truly remarkable. And of course the theater is a miracle—did you know it was built by Polycleitus the Younger, a famous Argive sculptor and architect? They had universal genius in those days, it seems. They say the theater here in Epidaurus, outdoors, has perfect acoustics and ideal architectural harmony."
"You sound like a guide book, Lisette," he said bluntly. "I'm sorry." She flushed. "It always excited me. Long ago, I once thought I might be in the theater."
"Perhaps you do have a talent for acting," he agreed.
She bit her lip and made no response. Traffic grew thicker, and he accepted her silence in the need to pay attention to the road that twisted past vineyards and farms and around the coves where fishing boats, painted all the gay colors of the rainbow, were drawn up to the stone quays before whitewashed, stuccoed houses. Durell swung past a busload of tourists, with Swedish license plates and insignia, and followed the lift of the road around the harbor of Old Epidaurus. Green hills, darkly waving cypress groves, olive trees and vineyards in careful terraces, then more boats, with distant glimpses of a shimmering sea against stark headlands. Then bunting and signs proclaiming the drama festival, more tourists, a fragmented snatch of music from a taverna, and he turned the car inland at Lisette's nod.
'This Minoa Hotel where you told your friend Harris to stay," she said, "is not far from here now. It is just a country inn, you know. But there was a cafe there where Pollini and I rested and had an aperitif last year. I am sure the meeting with Captain Stephanes was accidental. But there he was suddenly—that old, solid oak of a man, and they were like two old boars, circling the table. They frightened me for a moment, until Pollini offered his hand and Captain Stephanes took it. From there we went to Stephanes' house, and we walked for miles in the hills, where Stephanes—like every other Greek these days, it seems—is doing some amateur digging to soothe his archeological fever."
"And they really talked of a cache of gold bullion hidden in the Albanian hills?"
"They did. I know you do not quite trust me yet, not even after—after last night, but I have told you only the truth, and I have acted with you only in truth."
He tried to meet her eyes, but they slid away, long and green and somber, shadowed with recollections of their bodies entwined in the cool of dawn not many hours before.
He kept alert for any glimpse or hint of either Dinov or Gregori Shkoeder. The tourists were more evident here, gathered in the government pavilion, the new inns, the narrow streets, the dusty hotels of Nauplion and Ligourio. He followed Lisette's directions and turned off the main road, away from the way that led to the ancient theater, and found himself abruptly on a gravel road that went twisting and bumping across the barren shoulders of hills overlooking the sea. There were vineyards and olive orchards, and then.the car dipped down into a valley filled with flocks of sheep, dotted with peasant huts, and with billowing white and fleecy clouds overhead that burnished the soaring rock summits all around them.
"There," Lisette said suddenly. She pointed ahead. "That's the place, the Minoa. That is where I first saw Captain Stephanes. See, at the cafe terrace there."
Durell halted the car before the dusty, flagged entrance where half a dozen vested, moustached peasants sat in the shade under a tattered canvas awning near gnarled and twisted olive trees.
The heat of the morning felt instantly oppressive, the moment Durell got out of the car. Lisette followed, and, to his surprise, spoke what sounded like fluent Greek to the nearest group of men on the cafe terrace. She suddenly looked radiant and commanding, and the men responded with native gallantry and respect. One of them pointed to the summit of the hills at the head of the long valley, where the marble ruins of an ancient temple glimmered like a mirage in the bright sunshine and crystal air. Then the proprietor, a stout and jovial man in a white apron, came out carrying a bottle of dark wine; he smiled, offered glasses, and spoke in broken English with a Brooklyn accent.
"Sure, I b
een your country two year, mister, driving taxi. But much troubles there, you know? Better here in this place, my uncle die and leave hotel, I do a little business, have many good friends."
He felt relieved that he did not have to rely on Lisette's translation. He asked about Harris, and learned that the red-haired American had checked in about three in the morning, and had then gone back to the harbor area. Yes, the proprietor had answered the calls from Athens; no, he was sorry, the American hadn't come back yet.
"He left no word as to where he was going?"
"No, mister. Nothing."
"All right," Durell said. He had to be content about Harris. "Perhaps you can help me with something else. We're looking for a Captain Stephanes, who lives around here. An old fellow—"
"Not old in heart, mister. Panayotis Stephanes is always easy to find these days. He's usually around."
"Where?"
"You'll find the captain up at the temple, on top of the mountain, over there. See it?" The proprietor of the Minoa pointed to the glinting mirage of white marble at the head of the valley. "You can drive most of the way there, but then it gets to be a walk. You listen for old Panayotis' pick, hey?
He likes the old stones. He says the soul of our people is in the old stones, and it mustn't be left buried in the earth forever. So he digs and digs. For your wife, this nice lady, it might be a difficult walk, though—"
"I can manage," Lisette said quickly.
Durell then described Gregori Shkoeder and asked if a man like him had been seen in Epidaurus yesterday or this morning. The proprietor shook his head, then spoke to his chums drinking at the next table, and one of them spoke volubly and angrily.
"Some tourists, they get lost," said the Epidaurian. "I hold them here with wine and talk until they spend some money, and then I tell 'em the way out of the valley so they can go to the theater and see the old plays."
Assignment The Girl in the Gondola Page 10
