As they moved towards it, the bar door opened. Berkeley swung round and fired through it. There was another scream of pain.
“You are a maniac,” Antonov panted. “A maniac.”
“I am also a very angry father,” Berkeley told him, and pushed him into a dark back yard. He closed the tavern door, pushed Antonov towards the fence. “You have ten seconds to live,” he said. “Tell me where I can find my daughter.”
Antonov panted. “You will not find her.”
“Nine,” Berkeley said.
“I sold her.”
“Eight. So you said. To whom?”
“To Yannif.”
“Who is Yannif?”
“You have not heard of Yannif? Everyone has heard of Yannif.”
The back door opened, cautiously. Berkeley sent a shot through it, and once again there was a scream of pain and a hasty retreat.
“You’d think they’d give up,” Berkeley said. He had been counting his shots, and reckoned he had four left before he needed to change magazines; but he also had Vladimir Antonov’s revolver in his other pocket. “Enlighten me about Yannif.”
“He has a chain of . . .” Antonov swallowed.
“I see,” Berkeley said. “You sold my daughter to a brothel keeper.”
“I wished to be rid of her,” Antonov explained. “She was to lure you to Bulgaria. But that didn’t work out. After that, I had no more use for her.”
“I’m sure,” Berkeley said. “And this man Yannif lives in Greece.”
“That is where he has his business, yes.”
“And you say he is well known?”
“Everybody knows Yannif.”
“Then I should be able to find him. Thank you, Mr Antonov. Tell me, did you rape my daughter?”
“Well . . .” Antonov licked his lips. “She was a pretty thing.”
“Oh, she was. Still is, I hope. And did you also beat her, from time to time?”
“She was spirited.”
“Of course,” Berkeley said, and shot him through the head.
The Father
Berkeley vaulted the back fence and made his way through various derelict properties; no one with any sense of values wished to live too close to the Orlando Tavern. Occasionally a dog barked, and once or twice a woman called; he was definitely in a red-light district. As he had assumed, there was no immediate pursuit. The denizens of that inn were in the first instance afraid to risk the back door and the deadly pistol, and when they did risk it, they would stop to discover what had happened to Antonov.
Nor did he suppose the police would be too interested in what was happening in a place like that inn. But they would be interested eventually, because of the dead man, and Antonov’s brother had his address, but not, he thought his real identity—Georgiu Antonov had not used his name. But if he reckoned he had a couple of hours, they had to be put to good use.
He regained the hotel in ten minutes. “Prepare my account,” he told the clerk.
Who looked at the clock. “Now, sir? It is half past eleven.”
“It is necessary,” Berkeley said. “When is the next train?”
“Where do you wish to go, sir?”
“Greece.”
“Ah. The next international train is at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, sir.”
“And local trains?”
“Well, there is a milk train at three in the morning. But it only goes as far as Kastanets.”
“That might be an idea. What sort of a place is Kastanets?”
“It is a medium-sized town, sir. You will find an hotel there, if you wish.”
“I might just do that,” Berkeley said. “Prepare that account.”
He went up to his room to collect his gear. He had only the one carpet-bag, so that did not take very long. Then he returned downstairs to settle his bill. He slid four of the English gold sovereigns he always carried across the counter. “Someone may come here asking for me. I’d be obliged if you’d tell him nothing more than that I have left.”
“Of course, sir.” The clerk pocketed the coins. “Shall I see if I can find you a cab?”
“I’ll walk to the station.”
Berkeley knew he had probably wasted his money, but it had been deliberate; the clerk could have no doubt that he was meaning to catch the first available south-bound train out of Sofia, as he would tell the police, and they would home in on the station. He did indeed go to the station, but only to use the men’s washroom. The place was deserted save for a single porter, and before going to the washroom Berkeley questioned him about the next trains, allowing the man to have a good look at him, while he bought a ticket on the three o’clock train to Kastanets. In the washroom he shaved off his beard and moustache, checked his appearance with the photograph in his real passport, and left again, this time making sure the porter had retired to his office.
The railway station would be the first place they would look – for the bearded Mr Smith.
Berkeley had kept the plan the clerk had given him of the city. He spent the night on a park bench, sleeping little, but he had become used to this during his campaigning days; besides, he had too much on his mind, not concerning either what he had just done or his own safety – this sort of thing was his life, when out of England. But the thought of Anna . . . He was up at dawn, as the city began to stir, and walked the streets briskly, an English gentleman out for his morning constitutional. His destination was the livery stable he had picked out on the map, and he arrived there as it opened for business, at eight o’clock.
He had a phrase book, but it was with some difficulty that he conveyed to the groom that he wished to hire a horse for the day, for a ride north into the mountains. Then he had to refuse the services of a hack, and convince the man he was actually a capable horseman.
There were papers to be completed; Berkeley gave his address as the Hotel Superior and his name as Mr Smith. He was gambling here, but again he had done this all of his life, on the whole successfully. He reckoned that a fracas, and even perhaps a murder, was not such an uncommon occurrence at the Orlando Tavern. The police would therefore not be over-interested. Much would depend on whether Vladimir Antonov told them the assassin had been an Englishman named Smith, but he didn’t think Vladimir would risk telling them why the murder had taken place – he had not appeared to know that his brother had been involved in Anna’s kidnapping, and there could be criminal charges.
That a non-Bulgarian national had been involved, and had hastily left his hotel, presumably to take a train at least as far as Kastanets, would have to be followed up, but again Berkeley felt sure the report of what – by Bulgarian standards – was a very minor incident, would not reach the desk of Colonel Panov for at least twenty-four hours. By then he intended to be beyond pursuit.
He walked his horse out of town, to the north in case anyone was watching, then swung round the city suburbs and rode east, before finally turning south. He bivouacked by a mountain stream that night, wrapped in his cloak, and remembering some of the adventures of his youth. In the morning he stripped off and had a bath in the ice-cold water rushing down from above, shaved, and dressed. By now he would no doubt be wanted for horse-stealing as well as murder and mayhem. But that again was Mr Smith.
It was late morning before he sighted the small town of Vakerel, some twenty miles south-east of Sofia . . . and the railway line. He unsaddled his weary horse and turned it out to pasture where there was both grass and water, leaving the saddle lying by the hedge. Someone would undoubtedly be along in the near future. As to whether the animal would ever get back to its rightful owner was another matter.
He walked into the town and straight to the station, caught the next train, which took him to the large city of Plovdiv. It was tempting to rest up for the night, but he didn’t intend to take any chances, went direct to a livery stable, and hired another horse.
Next morning he was across the border and into Greece. Now he was in familiar territory – he had crossed this count
ry several times during the Balkan Wars. Keeping the horse – when one has stolen one horse, a second makes very little difference – he made his way south, using hotels or inns in the villages he passed through, as he was no longer being pursued – any Bulgarian policeman found on Greek territory would meet with very short shrift – and reached Salonika two days later. Three days after that he was in Athens, and checking in at the Hotel Excelsior, which he had used so often in the past.
The Assistant Manager even remembered him, as he had been in Athens during the Great War as well as before it.
“General Townsend,” he gushed, seizing Berkeley’s hand to shake it. “How good to see you again.”
“Actually, it’s Colonel, Dreikas,” Berkeley said. “I am no longer serving with the Serbian Army.”
“To me, sir, you will always be a general. And Mr Lockwood is well?”
He looked past Berkeley as if expecting Lockwood to come through the door at any moment.
“Mr Lockwood is fine,” Berkeley said. “But he is not with me on this visit.”
“Of course. But . . .” he surveyed Berkeley’s travel-worn clothes. “You have been hunting?”
“Just exploring,” Berkeley said. “Nothing a hot bath and a change won’t put right. Do you still have a tailor in this establishment?”
“But of course, sir. I shall send for him right away.”
“There is also my horse.”
“He is already stabled, sir.”
“I have no more use for him. He is for sale.”
“Of course, sir. Of course. Is there anything else?”
“Yes,” Berkeley said. “I am looking for a man named Yannif.”
“A man named . . .” Dreikas licked his lips. “Of course, sir.”
“You know this man?”
“Ah . . . I know of him, sir.”
“Tell me where I can find him.”
“Ah. Yes. Mr Yannif has several establishments in the city.”
“You mean brothels.”
“Well . . .” the Assistant Manager looked extremely embarrassed. “He is . . . how shall I put it?”
“An unsavoury character,” Berkeley suggested.
“That is exactly it, sir. I would not recommend him. Now, if you would like me to arrange something in the hotel . . .” he paused, no doubt recalling that Berkeley had already brought a woman to the hotel, some eight years ago: Julia Braddock!
“I did not come to Athens for a woman,” Berkeley said, which was not strictly true, but not in the sense the manager would understand. “I came here to have a word with Mr Yannif.”
“Ah. Well, I will give you a list of the addresses at which he may be found. If he is in town.” His tone indicated that he fervently hoped the brothel keeper might be away.
“That would be very good of you,” Berkeley said. “Now there is just one thing more. Before the War I often employed a dragoman named Pathenikos. Do you know if he is still about?”
“Pathenikos. Why, yes. He is very well known. Very popular with our guests. He knows the Balkans very well, speaks all the languages. But . . .” the assistant manager frowned. “So do you, General.”
“Some,” Berkeley agreed. “I don’t have all that much Greek. Anyway, I don’t require Pathenikos as either an interpreter or a guide, Dreikas, I just require his company. Can you get hold of him for me?”
“Of course, sir.”
“And make out that list of Yannif’s houses,” Berkeley reminded him.
He soaked in a hot bath, while his clothes were taken away to be laundered and he tried to assess the situation. In Bulgaria he had acted with a white-hot heat, adequately disguised beneath his urbane exterior. The exhilaration of vengeance had carried him in his escape.
But now, as was inevitable, there came the let-down. He had avenged Anna’s mistreatment. But only to a degree. If she had been forced to become a prostitute, at the age of twelve . . .
He could only hope and pray that she was indeed in one of this man Yannif’s houses. Then she was within reach. And Yannif? That would depend on his treatment of the girl. He supposed in a sense the brothel-keeper was innocent. However much of a nauseous villain he might be, it had to be assumed that he had acted openly and in good faith. He had been offered an exquisite child. Almost certainly he would have been given no truthful information on who she might be or where she might have come from; the aftermath of the War had left the Balkans filled with parentless children, begging or selling themselves for food and shelter.
Yet the thought of what she might have had to experience, as she was turned into a prostitute . . .
But more extreme violence would be counter-productive, until he had got hold of Anna. Yannif was a businessman, that was obvious. He would have been offered a bargain, and he had snapped it up; a girl like Anna could earn him a fortune over the next few years, as long as he kept her healthy. But as a businessman, he had to be open to offers himself. Berkeley was not a rich man, but he was prepared to sacrifice a good deal of his not unsubstantial capital to get his daughter back. Just as he was prepared to resort to the extreme violence that was his trademark should his offer be refused.
*
Pathenikos arrived that afternoon, while Berkeley was being measured for his new suit,
“General Townsend! How good it is to see you.”
Pathenikos had always been short and fat. Berkeley did not suppose he could possibly have grown shorter, but he appeared to have done so, because he had definitely grown fatter. He was virtually bald, but sported a little moustache. And as always, he perspired.
“And it is good to see you, my old friend,” Berkeley said. “That will do for now, Melos. When will it be ready?”
“Well, sir . . .” The tailor was anxious, having been told by Dreikas that this was a very important man. “Tomorrow evening?”
“By six,” Berkeley told him. “And remember about the left shoulder.”
Melos gulped. “The left shoulder. Yes, sir, I have the note here.”
He had been told to make this slightly more loose than the right, without in any way affecting the exterior cut of the dinner jacket.
“And don’t forget the hat and shoes.”
“Yes, sir. By six.”
“Thank you.” Berkeley waited for the door to close.
“You have work for me, sir?” Pathenikos was anxious, on more than one count. He had first worked for Berkeley Townsend back in 1908, when he had accompanied him and Lockwood to Serbia and thence Sabac, for the first time, and found himself involved in a world of violence beyond his experience. Then there had been the kidnapping of Townsend’s wife . . . all very dangerous and unsettling, and criminal. On the other hand, on each occasion he had been very well paid.
“I would like you to come with me to see a man,” Berkeley said.
“Where, sir?”
“Oh, right here in Athens. I am not going to whisk you away into the Balkan Mountains.”
Pathenikos looked relieved. “Well, sir, if it is a matter of interpreting for you, I shall be pleased to help.”
“I suspect interpreting may come into it. But there may be more involved.”
Pathenikos swallowed.
“I assume you possess a weapon,” Berkeley said.
“Well, sir, every man must have a weapon.”
“Absolutely. What is it?”
“I have a revolver, sir. British service issue. I bought it off a soldier at the end of the War.”
“Capital. And you have cartridges?”
“Yes, sir. I have a box of cartridges.”
“And have you ever fired it?”
“I have practised, sir. But . . . are you requiring me to shoot somebody?”
“Hopefully not, but it pays to be prepared. Do you know a man called Yannif?”
Pathenikos rolled his eyes.
“He’s a bit of a thug, isn’t he?” Berkeley asked.
“Well, sir . . . yes, he is a very big thug.”
“Who runs a c
hain of brothels, here in Athens.”
“Throughout Greece, sir.”
“But I understand his headquarters are here in Athens. I propose to call on him, tomorrow night. It is a business matter. I would like you to accompany me, both to interpret, if that is necessary, and to back me up, if that is necessary. But officially you will be my interpreter.”
“And you wish me to bring my gun.”
“Yes. And to be prepared to use it, if that is necessary.”
Pathenikos licked his lips. “General, this man Yannif is very powerful. He is an underworld king. He has connections everywhere. And he is always surrounded by bodyguards.”
“That is why, in the absence of Mr Lockwood, I think I might need you,” Berkeley explained, patiently. “You will be well paid.”
“In advance?”
“Half in advance, the remainder when we are finished.”
“How much?”
“One hundred English pounds.”
“You say it is a business matter? So guns should not come into it at all.”
“You never know,” Berkeley said.
“Am I allowed to know what this business is? It is not a drug matter?”
“I do not deal in drugs,” Berkeley said. “Very simply, I believe Mr Yannif possesses something I want. I will offer to buy it from him, but if he refuses to sell, I will take it by force.”
Pathenikos had a fit of coughing.
*
Dreikas was his usual efficient self, and next morning he presented Berkeley with a list of six Athens addresses. “He is known most often to be at this one,” he said, indicating a side street leading away from Vathis Square. “He has offices there. But I do not know if he is in Athens at this time.”
“I’ll find out,” Berkeley said. “But thanks, anyway.”
“You intend to go to this place?”
“Yes. Don’t worry, Dreikas, I will be coming back.”
Berkeley spent the morning at the various shipping offices in the Piraeus, the port that lay a few miles away from the capital. He discovered there was a cargo vessel that carried a few passengers leaving for Marseilles the next morning at dawn. It was not full, and he was able to book a double cabin.
The Quest Page 17
