by Nick Carter
But when I got back into the little passageway off the main dining room, there was no one there at all, and I found the men's room empty. Christina was looking anxiously in my direction when I returned, and I shook my head as I sat down. "Nobody. You're positive it was the same man you saw at your hotel?"
"Yes."
"Describe him."
She hesitated, biting her lip. "He was… shorter than you, but very wide. Dark suit, dark hair. Balding, I think, but he wore a hat so I couldn't be sure."
"Just what did he do?"
"He was just… standing there. Talking to the desk clerk…"
"What language?"
"Oh, Greek. Yes."
"Did he speak to you? Do anything?"
"No, nothing like that. He simply looked; I could feel his eyes on me all the way up the stairway."
I laughed. "I can hardly blame him."
"But he's here!"
"Uh-huh. That's not funny, is it? Okay, Christina, an all-night sail it is. But you're going to have to spell me at the wheel if I can't keep my eyes open."
She smiled. "I promise, McKee, that I will do everything I can think of to keep you awake."
* * *
By the time we headed back to the boat, Christina's fleeting spell of lightheartedness was gone; at every turn she kept glancing back over her shoulder until I had to tell her to knock it off. When we were aboard and clearing the harbor, she scrutinized every craft we passed, then kept an eye on anything that moved. It was almost dark, but a number of other boats were still scudding back and forth. One was a good-sized power boat that skimmed close to us, jammed with shrieking revelers who obviously couldn't have cared less where the party was. Several of them waved at us; I waved back, but Christina seemed to try to shrink down out of sight.
"Cut that out!" I snapped. "You're just attracting attention to us. The wrong kind."
She glowered at me, then straightened, waved feebly at the retreating cruiser. As we watched, the speeding boat headed for a huge motor yacht, nearly as big as a cruise ship, that was idling along well out to sea. Every porthole was ablaze with lights, and even from that distance I could hear the throb of rock music coming faintly across the water.
"Looks like some kind of party," I remarked.
Christina nodded. We watched the power boat slow, come alongside the motor yacht. Lines were lowered and attached, and the smaller boat, still filled, was hauled up to the main deck level. There were whoops of laughter, and through my binoculars I saw one woman stand up, nearly falling overboard.
"Damn fools," I muttered.
"Yes," the girl beside me agreed. "Tourists."
I grinned at her. "That's me."
"No you are not, McKee. You are a spy."
I winced. "Okay, then, Miss Assistant Spy. Take the wheel while I go below and break out some warm sweaters for us. It's starting to get chilly."
Her smile was loaded with meaning. "But I am not at all cold."
She wore a light shirt, buttoned carelessly over the top of her bikini and the same faded blue shorts. I made a point of showing my appreciation of how she looked. "Let's keep it that way," I said, and went below.
When I got back she was half-curled up on the wide built-in seat that ran all the way around the cockpit, legs tucked under her and her head propped up on one elbow.
"That looks comfortable, but I don't want you running my boat like that during the night. Too easy to go to sleep in that position."
"Aye aye, Captain," she responded, flipping me a little salute.
I tossed her a sweater and dumped a blanket on the seat beside her, then went forward to check the jib. It was bellied nicely by the quartering breeze, and when I tested it I found the self-setting rig wasn't at all fouled up. The anchor was rigged, ready to go over the side if we had to stop, though in these deep waters there weren't many places where our line would reach bottom. I remembered to close the forward hatch, mentally accepting Nathaniel Franklin's pat on the back, and edged back to the cockpit.
"Everything shipshape, Skipper?" Christina asked.
"Uh-huh." I eyed her curiously. "You sound as though you've been seeing too many let's-go-Navy movies."
"I was taught to sail by an American ensign."
"Hah! You mean those swabbies can actually sail?"
"Well, it was a tiny little boat. There was barely room for both of us on it."
"That must have been cozy." I dropped down on the seat next to her tucked-under feet.
Abruptly she sat up straight, her eyes fixed on a flashing light off to starboard. "What is that?"
I didn't have to check my chart. "It's the light off that headland we saw when we went into port. Once we've put that behind us, we head north again."
"I see. You are right, McKee, this would be no time to be paying no attention. Do you wish to sleep? You have had a long day."
She sounded almost prim as she spoke, her eyes fixed straight ahead, both hands on the spoked wheel.
"No. Not now. I'll just sit here and… enjoy the view."
Christina didn't acknowledge the clumsy remark.
For a long time neither of us spoke; then she started to wriggle, conscious of my steady gaze.
"Why do you look at me so much?" she demanded irritably.
"I didn't think you minded. Last night, in the street, you were… a very different girl."
"That was acting."
"For the men in the tan Mercedes?"
"Of course."
"And now you're not?"
She turned her head to face me, and in the gathering darkness her eyes were steady and sober. "McKee, I would perhaps like to go to bed with you. Some time. If it were necessary to make love with you in order to convince anyone that we are what we pretend to be, then I would not hesitate. For a time I was in love with a fellow student, and I can honestly say he was not nearly so attractive as you. And yet…" She shrugged and glanced aloft again, then back at me. "I am not a tramp, to tumble into bed with the first American tourist, or spy, call yourself what you will, I meet. Do you understand?"
"Sure." I shifted slightly away from her, though not out of touching distance. "It also explains why you suddenly decided to sail all night long."
It was too dark to see if she flushed, but from the way she ducked her head I could see she was embarrassed.
"That is true, McKee. In part. If I am to be firm in my resolve, there is no point in risking unnecessary temptation."
"But only in part?"
"Yes. I have been doing some thinking since we spoke earlier today."
"About what?"
"About the way you have altered our plans."
"How do you mean?"
"Alex… he is highly cautious. Suspicious. I know just from the brief messages I have received from him."
"I've sort of gotten that impression myself."
"So I think… it would be unwise to make such a change."
"You mean we should go into Korfu as planned?"
"I think it would be best, yes."
Funny thing was, I'd been doing some thinking along the same lines myself, and decided I was being too careful. If there was a security breach, and a pursuit of some kind, it wouldn't make that much difference if we were between Korfu and the mainland or on the open sea; they'd catch us, either way.
"So do I," I said.
Her eyes widened in surprise, as though she'd been expecting an argument. "You do?"
I explained my reasoning. She nodded.
"The problem is," I went on, "we're going to have to kill a day or so after we get to Korfu at the rate we're going. The logical place to put in tomorrow would be Preveza…"
I could feel her tense at the name, and again wondered why she didn't want to go near the place.
"But," I went on, "since that's out, the next stopover short of Korfu should be Paxos. We could probably stay over there an extra day, but as long as you think we're being tailed I don't like to spend too long in any one port."
"Yes, I see. Oh, perhaps I am imagining things, McKee, but since I saw that man in the taverna back there in Argostilion I do not think so, not so much."
Maybe it was time to tell her about my own encounter, but I didn't think so. Not yet. The more I saw of this girl, the more complicated she became, and that was true of the mission, too.
"Okay," I said, "we'll worry about that tomorrow. Now, tell me how Alex plans to contact you next."
"I… I am not supposed to tell. Not even you."
"That's foolish. You said something about a taverna in Korfu, but no more. Suppose you fell overboard or something."
She smiled. "I swim like a fish."
"It wouldn't do you much good if you fall in at night while I'm asleep below. You can't catch a boat under sail, believe me."
"It won't happen, McKee."
"Don't be too sure. Anyway, I'm going to sleep up here."
"You will be cold."
"At least I'll have company. It's lonesome down below."
She laughed.
"So let's get back to cases. Your contact with Alex."
"Really, McKee. I may not say."
"You'd better think again, sweetheart. If there are people after us, we could get separated, or worse."
She hesitated, chewing at her lip. Finally she shook her head slowly. "Perhaps tomorrow. Let me think, McKee."
"Get this straight, Christina. "My orders are to rendezvous with Alex, pick him up and get him over to Italy. Right now you're the only contact I have with him, so we'd better trust each other or turn around right here and say the hell with it"
She started, her eyes widening in fear. "You wouldn't!"
"Damned right I would." I was bluffing, but from her reaction she seemed to be partly convinced.
"Please, McKee. All of this is so new to me; I don't know what to do, who to obey. Must we be in conflict?"
"It's up to you," I said flatly.
"Then I will tell you."
I waited until the silence grew thick enough to cut with a knife.
"Tomorrow," Christina said in a small voice.
I glowered at her, then sighed, stretched out on the cushioned seat and grabbed a life preserver for a pillow. "Wake me when you get tired," I growled.
"Yes," she said softly.
"And keep a sharp eye on that compass."
"Aye aye, sir."
Eleven
The morning came up blustery, with dark clouds scudding low overhead. By daylight there was a heavy chop working, and the heavy, broad-beamed boat rocked and dipped like a runaway hobby horse. Christina had gone below to sleep, but in a short while she emerged on deck again, pale and anxious.
"Are we all right?" she asked, looking at the clouds with alarm.
"Nothing to worry about." I had to yell above the rising shriek of the wind and the rattle and creak of the rigging. An abrupt shift in the wind started the big mainsail flapping like a tethered, frantic eagle; I fought the helm until we were on a heading that filled the canvas again.
Christina steadied herself with a hand on the cabin top and looked all around, slightly wild-eyed. "Where are we? I don't see any land."
"Oh, it's over there somewhere." I waved vaguely to starboard.
"But don't you know?" There was a tiny edge of panic in her voice.
"Don't worry." I checked my watch; it was close to six in the morning. Once during the night I'd estimated our speed, and figured we were roughly opposite Preveza, but that was very roughly. I didn't tell the girl. "If it looks like we're getting into trouble, all I have to do is head east and we'll strike land." Not, at the moment, an inviting prospect, since the wind was from that direction now, and it would have meant a laborious series of long tacks to buck it. I knew enough, thanks to Nathaniel, to realize that the underpowered auxiliary engine wouldn't be of much help in this kind of sea; without the stabilizing effect of the wind in the sails, Scylla would go more up and down than forward.
"But… can't we find out exactly where we are? With that… what do you call it? Trident?"
I chuckled. "Sextant." I glanced overhead. "And until there's some sun to take a fix on, the answer is no."
She frowned, clearly worried, took her bracing hand away from the cabin top and immediately staggered backward, nearly falling through the open companionway behind her.
"Watch it!" I shouted. "Let's not have any broken legs on this little pleasure cruise. Come over here and sit down."
She did as she was told, lurching across the open cockpit and almost crashing into the compass binnacle. I grabbed her arm, pulled her down beside me.
"Stay put. For God's sake don't break the compass, because then even I'd start to worry."
She smiled fleetingly and pushed her hair back from her face. Her skin was damp, and it wasn't from the spray that was occasionally breaking over the side. I knew the look.
"Feeling a little queasy?"
"Queasy? I don't know the word."
"Sickish."
"A… a little. It is so stuffy down there, and the boat jumping around so much."
"Uh-huh. Well, stay up here until we're out of this. Take the wheel."
"Me?" She pulled her hands away as though afraid to touch it.
"Why not? Best seasick cure in the world, keeping busy up on deck."
"I am not seasick!"
"Whatever you want to call it. Either way, I guarantee in a few minutes you'll feel fine. Take it. I have work to do."
She did as she was told, sliding over to the spot I vacated as I stood up. For a moment she looked dubiously at me, then took a deep breath and gripped the wheel with both hands. I went below to the head.
When I returned a few minutes later she was smiling faintly, lifting her head to catch the breeze and the salt spray. The treatment had worked quicker than I'd thought it would.
"Feel like talking?"
"Talking?"
"Uh-huh. You know."
"Oh yes." She lifted herself out of the seat to get a better look at the compass face. "A little later, eh McKee? I'm a little busy right now."
I let it go at that.
* * *
By noon the day was calm and sunny again; I took a fix with the sextant and a silent prayer that my rudimentary navigation would be at least reasonably accurate. I was surprised to find we had come further than I expected; Preveza should lie almost due east of us. It was a small island, no more than four or five miles long, and wouldn't be hard to miss. The wind was still blowing from the east, and though the sea was calmer there was still a nasty little chop. With a sigh I set to work on the first of our tacks. This was not going to be a day for pleasure, or even the business at hand.
I went below, set up the chart for our area on the broad table in the main cabin and marked our present position. From here on in I'd have to mark our deviations precisely as we tacked back and forth against the wind, keep track of the precise time spent on each tack and hope my estimations of distance covered were reasonably accurate. It wouldn't have been easy even with an experienced hand at the helm, but with Christina spelling me there it made things much more complicated and uncertain; after all, she'd never sailed out of sight of land before. On the other hand, I wasn't exactly an old-timer at deepwater sailing myself.
* * *
We hit the little island on the nose, late in the afternoon. The day had turned golden as we powered our way into the lovely little harbor of Porto Gayo. At first glance it seemed like a primitive, undeveloped place; all we could see was the silver-green of olive groves that stretched in all directions as far as we could see. Then as we drew nearer we could make out the low buildings, white and brown and pink, with bare masts of moored boats bobbing in the harbor.
The town was small but busy; most of the houses stretched along the waterfront. A stone quay bordered the harbor; on the shoreward side was a row of small shops, tavernas, and a couple of tiny hotels. Without discussing it, Christina agreed to spend the night aboard Scylla; the harbormaster assigned us a mooring
well away from shore, which suited me fine. Our boat, carried a tiny dinghy slung in davits at the stern, and getting into the bathtub-sized little boat was a major feat of balance and timing. With the two of us crammed in it, we rode so low in the water I expected us to be swamped before we could make the couple of hundred yards to the quayside.
"Lucky there aren't any water-skiers here," I commented.
"Oh?" Christina seemed cheerful now, the worries of the morning and the fear of the night before completely forgotten.
I shifted my weight just a little; the dinghy rocked and shipped some water over one side. The girl looked alarmed, then laughed.
"Yes, I see what you mean. Perhaps we should be sure to get back to our boat before dark, eh?"
"Won't make any difference; we can sink in daylight or night time."
"And we can always swim."
"Sure." Our knees were sort of interlocking, it couldn't be helped, and it seemed to me that she was exerting a little extra pressure. Maybe.
We took a long walk through the little town and a short way outside, playing tourist with a vengeance. The countryside was green and stony, rising abruptly from the sea like the top of a sunken mountain that most of the Greek islands actually were. From the dusty road we could look up and see a hillside dotted with chalky boulders, some as big as the cottages that stood among them, the dwellings distinguishable in some cases chiefly by the dark squares that marked their windows. A wheezing old car that looked like a pre-War Citroën labored past us, crammed with grownups and children. The local rich folks, I presumed; the others we saw on the road were either walking or driving horse-drawn carts. Mostly they paid no attention to us; the men short and stocky, many with great mustaches, the women in the peasant's standard dress of ankle-length black, usually with matching shawls that nearly hid their faces. It was something that had already puzzled me about Greece from the time I first began to read about it: why such a sunny land with its bracing air and sparkling waters should be populated by women, and many men, in perpetual mourning. If I'd been feeling philosophical I might have asked Christina about it, but I had other things on my mind. Sailing gives you an appetite that can turn the most finicky eater into a glutton, and I was starving.
