Passage by Night (v5)

by Jack Higgins

  'Good thing you did,' Manning said. 'That explains my meeting with Morrison on the wharf. Presumably you followed us.'

  Viner nodded. 'All the way. We were in the garden at Mother Diamond's when the shooting started. That's when we broke in.'

  'Now she's a weird old bird if you like,' Manning said. 'Put a curse on me as they took her downstairs.'

  'Did they get anything out of her?'

  'Not a thing. They only used her place as a clearinghouse. She was in it for the money, that's all.'

  At that moment, the door to the Commissioner's office opened and Morrison came out. He grinned. 'I don't know about you guys, but I could use a drink.'

  'Good idea,' Manning said.

  They went out into the cool night and walked towards the waterfront. When they reached the corner of Bay Street, Seth caught hold of Manning's sleeve.

  'If it's okay with you, I'll go back to the boat, Harry. I don't feel so good.'

  'You do that,' Manning said. 'Get some sleep. I'll be along later.'

  They watched him negotiate the busy street successfully, then walked along the pavement and entered the first bar they came to. It was still early by Nassavian standards and the place was almost deserted. Morrison ordered gin slings and they sat in a secluded booth in the corner.

  'What happens now?' Manning said.

  Morrison shrugged. 'Looks like we've hit a brick wall. Pelota dead and our only lead on the way to the Isle of Tears, God help him.'

  'What is this place?' Manning asked.

  'A small island off the Cuban coast about a hundred and thirty miles south of Andros. There's a port there called San Juan. Used to be a centre for deepsea fishermen. Since the revolution, they've been forbidden to come up to the islands any more. I hear the town is on the decline in a big way.'

  'Pelota seemed to think there was still something pretty special about the place.'

  'There is,' Morrison said. 'An old fortress they've turned into a prison for political offenders. It's the final resting place for anyone they really want to get rid of. So far nobody's survived long enough to be released.'

  'So that's what Pelota meant when he said Garcia would receive his reward here on earth.'

  Morrison nodded. 'I don't know what the poor devil's expecting. If he's lucky, it'll be a bullet.'

  There was a short silence and then Viner said slowly, 'Forgive me, Mr Morrison, but it would appear that there is much more to this affair than appears on the surface. Am I right?'

  Morrison took his time over a lighted cigarette. When he looked up, his face was grim. 'By agreement with Great Britain, the United States has certain bases in the Bahamas.'

  'You mean in connection with the Canaveral project?'

  Morrison nodded. 'There are stations containing electronic brains which track, guide and probe missile behaviour during flights, on Grand Bahama, San Salvador and several other islands.'

  'Everyone knows that. It's common knowledge.'

  'Three weeks ago, one of them was badly sabotaged.'

  'You've kept damned quiet about it,' Manning said.

  'We had to. You can imagine the king-sized international row there'd be if it got out.'

  'And you think it was the same people who were responsible for this latest affair?' Viner said.

  Morrison nodded. 'We think they're based here in the Bahamas.'

  Manning whistled softly. 'Seven hundred islands and two thousand cays and rocks. That's quite an area to search.'

  'And the whole thing's got to be done under cover. We just can't afford a stink at this stage. The eyes of the whole world are going to be turned this way when the President and your Prime Minister meet here in a couple of weeks.'

  'The Russians as usual, I suppose?' Viner said.

  'I don't think so. Since the Cuban crisis, they've been leaning over backwards to keep things from boiling over. More likely some undercover group of Cuban fanatics. They're the only ones who'd stand to gain from promoting another international row. They haven't been too pleased with Moscow lately. Maybe they're trying to force their hand.'

  'And Garcia's the only lead you've got?' Viner said.

  'And he'll be landing in San Juan about now.'

  Manning went to the bar and got himself a large rum. When he got back, he was frowning. 'The word is, you've got agents all over Cuba. Why can't someone go to San Juan, see what he can dig up on Garcia. For all we know, he could be sitting in the best hotel in town living it up.'

  'Somehow I don't think so.' Morrison shook his head.

  'Surely it's worth checking on?'

  'In any case, we've been having to take it pretty steady ourselves since the crisis. We don't want another storm at the moment any more than the Russians do. A Yank in Cuba just now would be like a red rag to a bull.'

  'How about an Englishman?'

  Morrison frowned. 'You must be crazy.'

  'I don't see why not,' Manning said. 'Relations between Cuba and Britain aren't exactly marvellous, but they're better than yours are.'

  'You'd be running your head straight into a noose.'

  Manning shrugged. 'All I need is a good cover story.'

  'We couldn't help you. We couldn't help you at all. You'd be strictly on your own.'

  'Who said I needed any help? If I went, it would be for personal reasons. I've as much interest as you have in running this group down.'

  Morrison shook his head. 'An attractive offer, Manning. I won't deny that, but it wouldn't work. In the first place, you just couldn't sail into San Juan. They'd clap you in jail the moment you landed.'

  'I don't know about that,' Viner said. 'There are men from the islands, British citizens, who still make the occasional run to San Juan and out again.'

  Morrison turned to him and frowned. 'Are you sure you know what you're talking about?'

  Viner selected a cigarette and fitted it into his holder. 'My business activities are varied, Mr Morrison. They take me, on occasion, into strange places.' He lit his cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. 'On the southern tip of Andros Island there is a small fishing port called Harmon Springs. The people who live there are Greeks, mainly sponge fishermen from the Aegean who moved out here forty years ago. Deep-sea fishermen now. Some of them still make the run to San Juan with tuna and wahoo. The Cubans welcome them because supplies of big game fish are limited these days. The Greeks get a good price.'

  Morrison turned to Manning. 'Did you know about this?'

  Manning shook his head. 'I've never been to Harmon Springs. They don't exactly encourage visitors. Still talk Greek amongst themselves and stick to the old customs. I can believe what Viner says. They're pretty tough customers. I can't think of much on top of the sea or below it that would frighten a Greek. They're the best divers in the world.'

  'How come you know so much about them?'

  'I was in the Aegean for three years during the war with the Special Boat Service.'

  Morrison's face was pinched with excitement as he turned to Viner. 'Got any contacts down there?'

  Viner shook his head. 'I'm afraid not. Most of what I've told you is hearsay. I can guarantee the information to be accurate, but that's all.'

  'It's good enough for me,' Manning said flatly.

  Morrison stared down into his glass for a moment or two. When he looked up, he had regained his composure. 'I could let you have money. As much as you need, but that's all. If you go, you're strictly on your own. We know nothing about you.'

  Manning got to his feet and crossed to the window. Rain splattered against the glass and a small wind moved in from the sea, calling to him as it moaned through the rigging of the fishing boats moored to the wharf. A sudden shiver of excitement moved inside him. He smiled to himself, turned and went back to the table.

  'If I'm going to get anywhere at Harmon Springs I'll need a good cover story. Let's have another drink and see what we can cook up.'

  7

  Beware of Greeks

  It was just before noon on the follow
ing day when the Grace Abounding came into Harmon Springs. Seth was at the wheel with old man Saunders acting as deckhand and Manning stood at the rail wearing a panama hat and lightweight suit in tropical worsted.

  As the boat rounded the curve promontory crowded with its white houses, a single-masted caique, sails bellying in the breeze, moved out to sea, passing so close that he could see the great eyes painted on each side of the prow to ward off evil spirits.

  He raised his hand in greeting, but the man at the tiller ignored him completely and Saunders spat over the rail. 'Nasty bastards they are down here, Harry. Half of them still build their boats to suit themselves.'

  The engines began to falter as they slowed to enter harbour. Several deep-sea launches were moored to the jetty, but on the white curve of sand, brightly painted caiques were beached and fishermen sat beside them mending their nets while naked children chased each other in the shallows.

  It was like something from another world and by some trick of memory, Manning's mind went back through the years to the war and his time in the Aegean with the Special Boat Service.

  He went into the cabin. A couple of cameras in leather cases were on the table and he slung them over his shoulder. He put on a pair of sunglasses, picked up a canvas grip and went up on deck.

  They were already working alongside the wooden jetty. As he watched, the engine stopped, and everything seemed curiously still in the great heat. A couple of youths leaned against the rail smoking and three old men dozed in the sun, but no one made any attempt to catch the line that Saunders threw to them. He cursed and stepped over the rail, picked up the line and ran it round a stanchion.

  'Lousy bastards!' he muttered.

  As Manning joined him, Seth moved out of the wheelhouse. 'We'll hang around for an hour or two, Harry. Just to see what happens.'

  Manning shook his head. 'I'll be in touch, Seth. Don't worry.'

  He stood there waiting and Seth sighed and went back into the wheelhouse. A moment later, the engines rumbled into life again. Saunders unlooped the line and stepped over the rail.

  Manning waited until the Grace Abounding was passing out of the harbour before picking up his canvas grip. The three old men were all sitting up straight eyeing him curiously and the two youths had stopped talking. He went past them, his footsteps booming hollowly on the wooden planking, and turned along the waterfront.

  The little town seemed strangely still as if waiting for something to happen and, near at hand, someone started to sing. He followed the sound and came to a bar on the corner of a side street. Just inside the entrance, a youth sprawled in a chair against the wall and sang in a low voice, his fingers gently stroking the strings of a bouzouki.

  He made no effort to move. Manning stared down at him, anonymous in his dark glasses, and then stepped carefully over the outstretched legs and moved inside. The place was dark and cool with a marble-topped bar and three men sat at a small table drinking.

  The man behind the bar was middle-aged, his wrinkled face the colour of mahogany, but his blue eyes were full of life and the mouth was shrewd and kindly. As Manning moved towards him, all conversation died.

  He dropped his canvas grip and placed the cameras on the counter. 'I could do with a drink. Something long and cool.'

  The man grinned, put a tall glass on the bar and spooned ice into it. 'Journalist?'

  Manning nodded. 'I might be around here for a day or two. I could do with a room. Can you do anything for me?'

  'Sure I can. It's nothing fancy, but the food's good.'

  The bouzouki player struck a single angry chord and the men at the table laughed. One of them called across to the youth in Greek. 'Heh, Dimitri, don't you like the look of the fancy man? Maybe he'll beat your time with the girls. No more lolling on the beach after dark.'

  'Why don't you shut up?' the boy replied angrily.

  They were typical rough seaman of a kind to be found the world over. Men who worked hard and didn't accept strangers easily. Manning turned, removed his sunglasses and looked at them calmly. The smiles faded a little and they leaned together, muttering in low voices.

  As he turned back to his drink, one of them said loudly in Greek, 'So Dimitri's just a bag of wind after all. A bag of wind dressed up in fancy clothes.'

  The youth jumped to his feet. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate and then moved along the bar, deliberately jogging Manning's elbow as he raised his glass to his mouth.

  As the rum spilled across the bar, Manning put down the glass and turned to face him. 'Now you can buy me another one.'

  'Buy your own,' the boy said.

  Manning slapped him backhanded across the face, sending him staggering against the wall. 'I shan't ask you again.'

  The boy's hand moved to his hip pocket. As he flung himself forward, a six-inch blade honed like a razor seemed to jump out of his right fist. Manning stepped quickly to one side. He grabbed for the wrist and twisted it round and up into the small of the boy's back so that he screamed and dropped the knife. Almost in the same motion, Manning pushed him across the table, scattering the three occupants and their drinks.

  'Never send a boy to do a man's work,' he said in Greek.

  There was a moment of stunned silence. As they started to rise, the barman moved round the counter fast, a wooden truncheon in one hand. 'The first one to start, gets his skull cracked. You men tried to have a little fun, but you made a mistake. Let that be the end of it.'

  They resumed their seats and the boy turned and ran from the entrance. The barman smiled up at Manning and held out his hand. 'Nikoli Aleko. You speak good Greek for an Englishman.'

  'Spent three years in the Aegean during the war, but that was a long time ago. Manning's the name. Harry Manning.'

  'Another drink, Mr Manning? On the house.'

  'On me,' Manning said. 'For all of us.' He pulled forward a chair and sat down and the three men grinned.

  'Anyone who can speak Greek as good as you is okay with me,' one of them said. 'Have a cigarette.'

  Aleko brought the drinks and they solemnly toasted each other. As Manning put down his glass, one of them said, 'You here for the fishing?'

  'I'm a photographer. A big American magazine's just commissioned me to do a feature for them.'

  'On Harmon Springs?'

  Manning shook his head. 'On Cuba. They want me to go to a place called San Juan. Take a few pictures. See how things have altered since the revolution.'

  They looked at each other in surprise and then one of them raised his glass. 'Good luck, my friend. You're going to need it.'

  'Any special reason?'

  'Nobody goes to San Juan these days. It's the last place God made.'

  'I was told differently in Nassau. I heard that boats from here often made the trip.'

  'That was last year. Things have changed plenty since then.'

  Manning took out his wallet. 'I'm on a pretty good expense account. I'd pay well.'

  The man who had been doing most of the talking laughed harshly. 'My friend, we have a saying. If you want a man to risk his life for money, look for a poor man.'

  The other two laughed uproariously and one of them said, 'He should try Papa Melos. The state he's in, he'd do anything.'

  Manning got to his feet and moved across to the bar. 'Did you hear that?'

  Aleko nodded. 'They're right in what they say. Before the crisis, many of our boats called at San Juan with tuna. The Cubans are forbidden to come north so the prices were high. Since the crisis, everything's changed.'

  'You mean the Cubans have forbidden you to call?'

  Aleko shook his head. 'Not exactly, but the atmosphere's bad. One can't tell which way they will jump. Nobody wants to lose his boat.'

  'Who's this Papa Melos they mentioned?'

  Aleko smiled. 'A wonderful old man. He runs a motor cruiser, the Cretan Lover. His only boy, Yanni, was drowned last year. He has a daughter, Anna, a bright girl. He sent her to America to be educated. A place called Vassar. Maybe you
heard of it?'

  Manning grinned. 'I've heard of it all right.'

  'He squeezed himself dry to keep her there and after the boy was killed, he had difficulty in getting good catches. The girl turned up three months ago. When she found out what had happened, she refused to go back. She's been crewing for him ever since.'

  'What do they go after - tuna?'

  Aleko shook his head. 'Not any more. There's a reef about ten miles west near Blair Cay. The old man found mother of pearl there. He's been diving for it lately.'

  'At his age?' Manning said incredulously. 'How deep?'

  'Fifteen, maybe twenty fathoms, and the suit he's using must be all of forty years old.'

  'He must be crazy.'

  'He doesn't want to lose his boat, that's all. That and Anna are the only two things he's got left in the world.'

  'Do you think he'd be interested in running me across to San Juan?'

  Aleko shrugged. 'A desperate man is capable of anything.'

  'You never said a truer word.' Manning picked up his grip and the cameras. 'I'll have a look at that room now, if you don't mind.'

  As he followed Aleko along a whitewashed corridor, a sudden spark of excitement moved inside him as he realized, with complete certainty, that he had found the solution to his problem.

  Aleko was the owner of a small twelve-foot launch which he was willing to hire out. Two hours later after a change of clothes and one of the best meals he'd had in a long time, Manning took her out of the harbour and turned west along the southern tip of the island.

  The sea was like glass and the cloudless blue sky dipped away to the horizon. He lit a cigarette and sat back in the swing chair, one hand on the wheel, wondering about Papa Melos. What made a man keep on fighting when every card in the deck was stacked against him? There was no answer. Some men went under struggling to the last. Others sank without a cry.

  He rounded Blair Cay within forty minutes and saw the boat anchored about a quarter of a mile out in the gulf. He slowed down and coasted in towards her, aware of the dull rhythmic throbbing of the mechanical pump that forced air down through the blue water to the man below.