Santorini

by Alistair MacLean

  'Vevey?' Van Gelder said. 'On Lake Geneva?'

  'I don't think so. Hardly what you might call an international banking centre. Ah! I have it. Not in Switzerland, but it might as well be. Vaduz. Liechtenstein. I don't know much about those things but I understand that once cash disappears into the vaults of Vaduz it never surfaces again. B could be Berne or Basle -- Andropulos would know, of course. G has to be Geneva. How am I doing, Number One?'

  'Splendidly. I'm sure you're right. I hardly like to point out, sir, that we still don't have the names and addresses of those banks.'

  True. Crest-fallen, but only slightly. We still have names and addresses of other banks. You have a list of those cities where those banks are located?'

  'I don't have to,' Theodore said. 'I have it in my head. They're all over the place, west, east and in between. Places as different as Miami, Tijuana, Mexico City, Bogota in Colombia, Bangkok, Islamabad in Pakistan, Kabul in Afghanistan. Why anyone should want to hide away money in Kabul is quite beyond me. Country is torn by war and the Russians occupy and control the capital.'

  'Andropulos would appear to have friends everywhere,' Talbot said. 'Why should the poor Russians be left out in the cold? That about the lot?'

  'Quite a few other places,' Theodore said. 'Mostly smaller accounts. One exception, though. The biggest deposit of the lot.'

  'Where?'

  'Washington, DC.'

  'Well, now.' Talbot was silent for a few minutes. 'What do you make of that, Number One?'

  'I think I've just about stopped making anything out of anything. My mind has kind of taken a leave of absence. But my eyes are still working, in a fashion, you might say. I think I see a faint light at the end of the tunnel.'

  'I think if we think a bit more it might turn into a searchlight. How much money?'

  'Eighteen million dollars.'

  'Eighteen million dollars,' Van Gelder said. 'My, my. Even in Washington, DC, a man could buy a lot with eighteen million dollars.'

  Chapter 6

  The Angelina, to put it at its most kindly, was a rather striking-looking craft. An eighty-tonner built of pinewood from the forests of the island of Samos, she had a dazzling white hull which contrasted strongly -- some would have said violently - with her vermilion gunwale. Wide of beam and low in the water amidships, she had a pronounced flare aft and for'ard, a curved stem that projected high above the gunwale. As a sailing boat, she was well equipped with a standing-lug main and balance-lug foresail, together with two jibs. Had it been left at that, as she had originally been built, the Angelina, a typical example of the Tehandiri class, would not only have been striking but downright handsome. Unfortunately, it had not been left at that.

  The owner, Professor Wotherspoon, although a self-avowed traditionalist, was also strongly attached to his creature comforts. Not content with converting the craft's very considerable hold -- it was, after all, originally constructed as a cargo vessel -- into cabins and bathrooms, he had constructed on the deck a bridge, saloon and galley which, while admittedly functional, detracted notably from the overall aesthetic effect.

  Shortly before ten o'clock in the morning, the Angelina, almost slack-sailed and ghosting along under a Meltemi that hardly rated as a zephyr, tied up along the starboard side of the Ariadne. Talbot, accompanied by Denholm, climbed down a rope ladder to greet the owner.

  The first impression that Talbot had of Wotherspoon was that he didn't look a bit like a professor or an archaeologist but then, he had to admit, he had no idea what a professor or archaeologist was supposed to look like. He was tall, lean, shock-haired and deeply tanned: humorous of mien and colloquial of speech, he was the last person one would expect to find wandering through the groves of Academe. He was certainly not more than forty years old. His wife, with auburn hair and laughing hazel eyes, was at least ten years younger and was also, it seemed, an archaeologist.

  Introductions effected by Denholm, Talbot said: 'I appreciate this very much, Professor. Very kind of you to come. Not to say very gallant. You appreciate that there is a fair chance that you might find yourself prematurely in another world? Lieutenant Denholm did explain the dangers to you?'

  'In a cautious and roundabout fashion. He's become very tight-lipped since he joined the Senior Service.'

  'I didn't join. I was dragooned.'

  'He did mention something about vaporization. Well, one gets a bit tired of studying ancient history. Much more interesting to be a part of the making of it.'

  'It might be a very short-lived interest indeed. Does Mrs Wotherspoon share your short-lived interests?'

  '"Angelina", please. We had to entertain a very prim and proper Swiss lady the other day and she insisted on addressing me as Madame Professor Wotherspoon. Ghastly. 'No, I can't say I share all of my husband's more extravagant enthusiasms. But, alas, he does have one professorial failing. He's horribly absent-minded. Someone has to look after him.'

  Talbot smiled. 'A fearful thing for so young and attractive a lady to be trapped for life. Again, thank you both very, very much. I should like it if you would join us for lunch. Meantime, I'll leave Lieutenant Denholm to explain the full horrors of the situation to you -- especially the ones you'll encounter across the lunch table.'

  'Gloom and despondency,' Van Gelder said. 'It ill becomes one so young and beautiful to be gloomy and despondent. What is the matter, Irene?'

  In so far as one so young and beautiful could look morose, Irene Charial gazed out morosely over the taffrail of the Ariadne.

  'I am not, Lieutenant-Commander Van Gelder, in the mood for flattery.'

  'Vincent. Flattery is an insincere compliment. How can the truth be flattery? But you're right about the word "mood". You are in a mood. You're worried, upset. What's troubling you?'

  'Nothing.'

  'Being beautiful doesn't mean you're above telling fibs. You could hardly call that flattery, could you?'

  'No.' A fleeting smile touched the green eyes. 'Not really.'

  'I know this is a very unpleasant situation you find yourself in. But we're all trying to make the best of it. Or did something your parents say upset you?'

  'You know perfectly well that that's not true.' Van Gelder also knew it, Denholm had reassured him on that point.

  'Yes, that's so. You were hardly in a cheerful frame of mind when I first met you this morning. Something worries you. Is it so dreadful a secret that you can't tell me?'

  'You've come here to pry, haven't you?'

  'Yes. To pry and probe. Crafty, cunning, devious questions to extract information from you that you don't know you're giving away.' It was Van Gelder's turn to look morose. 'I don't think I'm very good at it.'

  'I don't think you are, either. That man sent you, didn't he?'

  'What man?'

  'Now you're being dishonest. Commander Talbot. Your captain. A cold man. Distant. Humourless.'

  'He's neither cold nor distant. And he's got a very considerable sense of humour.'

  'Humour. I don't see any signs of it.'

  'I'm beginning not to be surprised.' Van Gelder had stopped smiling. 'Maybe he thought it would be wasted on you.'

  'Maybe he's right.' She appeared not to have taken offence. 'Or maybe I just don't see too much to laugh about at the moment. But I'm right about the other thing. He's remote, distant. I've met people like him before.'

  'I doubt it very much. In the same way that I doubt your power of judgement You don't seem to be very well equipped in that line.'

  'Oh.' She made a moue. 'Flattery and charm have flown out the window, is that it?'

  'I don't flatter. I've never claimed to have charm.'

  'I meant no harm. Please. I see nothing wrong with being a career officer. But he lives for only two things - the Royal Navy and the Ariadne.'

  'You poor deluded creature.' Van Gelder spoke without heat. 'But how were you to know? John Talbot lives for only two things -- his daughter and his son. Fiona, aged six, and Jimmy, aged three. He dotes on them. So do I.
I'm their Uncle Vincent.'

  'Oh.' She was silent for some moments. 'And his wife?'

  'Dead.'

  'I am sorry.' She caught his arm. 'To say I didn't know is no excuse. Go ahead. Call me a clown.'

  'I don't flatter, I don't charm - and I don't tell lies.'

  'But you do turn a pretty compliment.' She took her hand away, leaned on the rail and looked out over the sea. After some time, she said, without looking around: 'It's my Uncle Adam, isn't it?'

  'Yes. We don't know him, we don't trust him and we think he's a highly suspicious character. You will forgive me talking about your nearest and dearest in this fashion.'

  'He is not my nearest and dearest.' She had turned to face him. There was neither vehemence in her voice nor marked expression in her face: at most, a slight degree of bewilderment in both. 7 don't know him, / don't trust him and / think he's a highly suspicious character.'

  'If you don't know him, what on earth are - were - you doing aboard his yacht?'

  'I suppose that, too, seems suspicious. Not really. Three reasons, I would think. He's a very persuasive man He seems to be genuinely fond of our family -- my younger brother and sister and myself - for he is forever giving us presents, very expensive presents, too, and it seemed churlish to refuse his invitation. Then there was the element of fascination. I know practically nothing about him, nor what his business activities are or why he spends so much time in foreign countries. And, of course, perhaps both Eugenia and I are snobs at heart and were flattered by the invitation to go cruising on a very expensive yacht.'

  'Well, good enough reasons. But still not good enough to explain why you went with him if you dislike him.'

  'I didn't say I disliked him. I said I distrusted him. Not the same thing. And I didn't begin distrusting him until this trip.'

  'Why start now?'

  'Alexander is why.' She gave a mock shudder. 'Would you

  trust Alexander?'

  'Candidly, no.'

  'And Aristotle is almost as bad. The three of them spent hours talking together, usually in the radio-room. Whenever Eugenia or I went near them, they stopped talking. Why?'

  'Obvious, isn't it? They didn't want you to hear what they were talking about. Ever been with him abroad on his business trips?'

  'Good heavens, no.' She was genuinely startled at the idea.

  'Not even on the Delos!'

  'I've only been on the Delos once before. With my brother and sister. A short trip to Istanbul.'

  He was going to have less than a sensational report to make to his captain, Van Gelder reflected. She didn't know her uncle. She didn't know what his businesses were. She never travelled with him. And her only reason for distrusting him was that she distrusted Alexander, a feeling almost certainly shared by the majority of people who had ever met him. Van Gelder made one last try.

  'Your mother's brother, of course?' She nodded. 'What does she think of him?'

  'She never speaks ill of him. But she never speaks ill of anyone. She's a wonderful lady, a wonderful mother, not simple or anything like that, just a very trusting person who could never bring herself to speak ill of anyone.'

  'She's obviously never met Alexander. Your father?'

  'He never speaks of Uncle Adam either, but he doesn't speak in a very different way, if you follow me. My father is a very straight, very honest man, very clever, head of a big construction company, highly respected by everyone. But he doesn't speak of my uncle. I'm not as trusting as my mother. I believe my father strongly disapproves of Uncle Adam or whatever businesses he runs. Or both. I don't believe they've talked in years.' She shrugged and gave a faint smile. 'Sorry I can't be of more help. You haven't learnt anything, have you?'

  'Yes, I have. I've learnt I can trust you.'

  This time the smile was warm and genuine and friendly. 'You don't flatter, you don't charm and you don't tell lies. But you are gallant.'

  'Yes,' Van Gelder said. 'I believe I am.'

  'Sir John,' the President said, 'you have put me in a most damnably awkward position. I speak, you understand, more in sorrow than in anger.'

  'Yes, Mr President. I am aware of that and I'm sorry for it. It is, of course, no consolation for you to know that I am in an equally awkward situation.' If Sir John Travers, the British Ambassador to the United States, did indeed find himself in such a situation, he showed no signs of it. But then Sir John was renowned throughout the diplomatic world for his savoir-faire, his monolithic calm and his ability to remain wholly unruffled in the most trying and difficult situations. 'I'm only the messenger boy. Grade one, of course.'

  'Who the hell is this fellow Hawkins, anyway?' Richard Hollison, deputy head of the FBI, couldn't quite match Sir John's tranquil serenity but he had his obvious anger under tight control. 'I don't think I care very much for having a foreigner telling the White House, the Pentagon and the FBI how to run their business.'

  'Hawkins is a Vice-Admiral in the British Navy.' The General was the fourth and only other person in the office. 'An exceptionally able man. I cannot think of any United States naval officer whom I would sooner have in his place in those near-impossible circumstances. And I don't think I need point out that I am in the most awkward situation of all. I don't want to sound overly possessive but, bloody hell, the Pentagon is my concern.'

  'Richard Hollison,' Sir John said. 'I've known you for some years now. I know your reputation for toughness is matched only by your reputation for fairness. Be fair in this case. Admiral Hawkins, as the General has just said, is in a position of having to cope with almost impossible circumstances which, as you are in a position to know better than most, involves making almost impossible decisions. He's not telling anyone how to run their business. In order to get a message to the President, without anyone in the Government or the Pentagon seeing the message before the President, he elected to bypass the Pentagon and all the standard avenues of communication. Certainly the Pentagon knows it's already under investigation, but Hawkins didn't want anyone to know that he was pointing fingers in certain directions. If it is your intention to set a cat among the pigeons or let loose an eagle in the dovecote, you don't send a postcard in advance announcing your intentions.'

  'Yes, I accept that,' Hollison said. 'With weary resignation, I accept it. But don't ask me to like it.'

  'Like it or lump it,' the President said, 'I accept it, too.' He looked unenthusiastically at the paper before him on his desk. 'It would appear that this Adamantios Andropulos, who is Hawkins's temporary guest - I could well imagine that Admiral Hawkins would use the term "guest" even if this unfortunate were clapped in irons in some shipboard dungeon -- has an account with a Washington bank, name and address supplied, of some eighteen million dollars, and would we kindly make enquiries to see if he has been disbursing any of this of late and, if so, in what direction. I know this lies well within your capabilities, Richard. Point is, how long will it take?'

  'All depends upon how many false names, how many dud companies, how much of the usual laundering paraphernalia is involved. The villain, if there is a villain, might well have a numbered account in outer Mongolia. Unlikely, I admit, but you take my point. One hour, maybe three. We will not stand upon the order of our going. Excuse me, Mr President. Excuse me, gentlemen.' Hollison left.

  'The Army and the Marines will be pleased to learn - when they do learn of it -- that Admiral Hawkins does not consider them worthy of his regard,' the President went on. 'Only the Air Force and the Navy. The Air Force I can, in the circumstances, understand. But it would be interesting to

  know why he has deemed the Navy to be deserving of his interests. He gives no indications on that score.' The President sighed. 'Maybe he doesn't even trust me. Or maybe he knows something that we don't know.'

  Sir John said placidly: 'If that is the case -- that he knows something we don't - I have little doubt that he'll tell us in the fullness of time.'

  The man under discussion in the White House was, at that moment, dwelling on pr
ecisely the same subject.

  Time's winged chariot, John. I forget the rest of the quotation but it's definitely on the wing.' Leaning back in a comfortable armchair, a glass of frosted lime juice in his hand, Hawkins succeeded only in giving the impression of a man with all the time in the world. 'So much to do, so little time to do it in. How stands the Ariadne in respect of the rest of this uncaring world?'

  'I think you might say, sir, that the patient is coming along as well as could be expected. Our carpenter is aboard the Angelina, building a cradle for the bomb according to the specifications the Pentagon gave us. There will be two hinged clamps to secure it in even the worst weather which, as you can see for yourself, is the last thing we expect today.'

  'Indeed.' The Admiral looked through the window of his cabin. 'The weather is all wrong, John. Considering the possibly apocalyptic and doom-laden task we have on hand, the least we could reasonably expect is high winds, torrential rain, thunder, lightning, tempests, tornadoes and all those other adverse weather conditions that King Lear encountered on his walkabout around the blasted heath. But what do we have? A blistering July sun, a cloudless blue sky and the wine-dark seas without even a ripple to show for themselves. Downright disappointing. Also disappointing, not to say extremely disturbing, is the likelihood that if those zero-wind conditions persist, it'll take the Angelina a week to get even half way towards the horizon.'