The Hijack

by Duncan Falconer

  Stratton stared at Cristos as he considered something. ‘You probably know the Mediterranean pretty well.’

  ‘I am second-generation travel shop. My father and mother had this place forty-eight years ago. There’s not much I don’t know about this part of the world.’

  ‘If I were to describe a town that had a horseshoe-shaped harbour, that once had a large population - several thousand people, a thousand houses say - but only a few people now lived in it, where would you think I was talking about?’

  Cristos grinned.‘Kastellorizo,’ he said without hesitation. ‘Have you been there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well you have just described it as if you have seen it for yourself.’

  ‘Kasta . . .?’

  ‘Kastellorizo. It’s an island. Kastellorizo means red castle.’

  ‘It has a castle too?’

  ‘Yes. The same knights who built this place built it. The soil is red so they called it château roux, which in bad Greek means Kastellorizo.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Off the coast of Turkey, about seven hours from here by boat and forty minutes by plane.’

  ‘And this place is practically deserted?’

  ‘Before the First World War it had seventeen thousand people on it. It was . . . how you say . . . when people are taken from a sinking ship?’

  ‘Rescued?’ Stratton offered.

  ‘Yes, but . . . evak . . .’

  ‘Evacuated.’

  ‘Yes. It was evacuated during the Second World War by the British Navy before the Germans came. Then it was mostly burned down. Some say it was the Germans who looted it, some say the British. Who knows? Someone does, I suppose.Then, after the war, everyone was happy in their new countries, and so only a few people went back there. There was not much to go back to. There’s a ferry every few days and not many people go or come from there.’ Cristos smelt the potential business. ‘You want me to check on flights or ferries for you?’ he asked.

  Stratton looked around at Gabriel who was staring at Cristos.

  ‘Could you?’ Stratton asked, looking back at Cristos.

  ‘That’s what I do for a living,’ Cristos said, pulling a book from a stack on his desk and flicking through the pages. ‘When do you want to go?’

  ‘Today, if we can,’ Stratton said, always preferring movement to stagnation.

  Cristos paused to look at the two men, shrugged and carried on thumbing through the book. ‘We will do our best,’ he said.

  Half an hour later, Stratton and Gabriel were heading out of the old city and along the waterfront towards the harbour. There were no flights scheduled from Rhodes to Kastellorizo for the next five days and even then there was no certainty it wouldn’t be cancelled, but there happened to be a ferry leaving for the island late that morning.The boat’s advertised departure and arrival times were not to be taken seriously, Cristos had advised, listing several factors that included unreliable engines and machinery as well as captain and crew lethargy. If all went well, bearing in mind the likely storm, it was expected to arrive at around seven in the evening, give or take an hour, which posed one other problem for them. Accommodation. The phone cable from the mainland was over eighty years old and for unexplained reasons foul weather affected transmissions, which was why, according to Cristos, he could not contact any one of the handful of faxes or phones on the island to book rooms for them, although he promised to continue trying.

  As they approached the harbour and identified their ferry, the only large boat in the harbour, Stratton phoned Sumners to tell him about their move and to set in motion his idea about getting as many photographs of similar harbours for Gabriel to take a look at if Kastellorizo was a dead end. As they rounded the corner of the mole, the poor condition of their boat became apparent. Rusty streaks from the rails on the main deck covered it from front to back, a stream of hot, dirty water spurted from a hole just above the waterline and the hum and rattle of the ancient engines grew louder the closer they got.

  As Stratton and Gabriel approached the rear ramp, a crewman appeared - an older man with a roll-up stuck to his bottom lip - took their tickets, said something unintelligible while indicating inside the boat and walked away. They took it as an invitation to board and entered the ship, which smelt of a mixture of gasoline and sewage. On the other side of the vehicle deck they climbed a stairway that led to the upper deck, then pushed through a door into a large room filled with what looked like old aircraft seats. There were a hundred or so, all bolted to the floor in neat rows as in a cinema, except in this case they faced a long, grey, drab, metal bulkhead.

  ‘The passenger lounge I would guess,’ Stratton said as he dumped his bag on the floor.

  Gabriel wearily took a seat as Stratton went back into the hallway and found a door that led out on to the deck.

  The crew were preparing to cast the lines although no one appeared to be in any kind of a rush. Half an hour later, a tug arrived to pull the ship into the middle of the harbour after which it slowly made its own way out to sea.

  Stratton remained on deck until Rhodes disappeared behind a dark-grey sky which descended like a curtain around the ship. The storm that had threatened to hit all day had finally arrived, and the rain began to fall in heavy sheets.

  Stratton moved inside before he got soaked and went back into the lounge, which was empty except for Gabriel who was asleep in his chair. Stratton took off his wet jacket, sat a few seats away, dug his Knights Templar book out of his bag and settled in.

  The journey took longer than expected, no doubt due to the storm. They were served a pot of coffee and a pair of suspicious-looking pies a couple of hours after leaving, which Gabriel avoided and Stratton ate after inspecting carefully. At around nine o’clock there was a distinct change in the engine revs. Stratton had been dozing easily with his book on his lap and opened his eyes. Either the ship was breaking down or they were slowing to approach a port.

  He grabbed his jacket and went out on deck to find the sea on the starboard side replaced by a mass of land. Mountains loomed high in the background, cupping the town as if in the palms of a pair of hands. There were lights inside the houses near the water; the rest, creeping up the hillside, although in darkness were just about discernible. The harbour was as horseshoe-shaped as it could be and at one of its points were several official-looking buildings, a minaret and a medieval castle, not huge but large enough to hold a company of men, positioned to defend the entrance to the harbour.

  The ferry began a slow, graceful turn to position its aft end facing the quay. The engines accelerated in reverse stopping all headway and the boat began to move slowly backwards, reducing speed to an absolute crawl until the back end bumped gently against the quay.

  Gabriel came out to join Stratton and look at the island. Stratton waited for any sign that might suggest Gabriel thought this was the place, but he was to be disappointed.

  ‘It’s very pretty,’ Gabriel said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Stratton agreed, suddenly wondering what the hell they were doing coming all the way here.

  A loud metallic squeal came from the back of the boat as the ramp was lowered, followed by a thump as it hit the concrete quay.

  A minute later they were walking down the ramp along with a handful of islanders who had been shopping in Rhodes for essentials, then stepped on to the gravel-covered quay.

  Both men walked to the water’s edge to look out over the harbour where lights twinkled in many of the houses that were packed tightly shoulder-to-shoulder all around it. The night was chilly but with barely a cloud in the sky, all sign of the storm had gone and the water rippled gently, lapping the stone quay several feet below the lip.

  ‘I suggest we look for somewhere to get a bite to eat, which might also be a good place to ask about a hotel,’ Stratton said.

  Gabriel was staring out across the water and did not appear to hear him.

  ‘Gabriel?’

  Gabriel slipped out of his reverie an
d looked at Stratton tiredly. ‘I could eat something, I s’pose,’ he said.

  Stratton wondered if Gabriel might ‘recognise’ this was the place come daylight and then sighed to himself. He was acting as if he had no doubts about Gabriel when in all honesty he did. His hope was only a response to the game of it all. He felt that even if Gabriel did announce that this was the island he had seen in his viewing, it would be like winning a stage of a board game: it meant nothing. The incident in Thetford Forest was already beginning to seem to him like little more than a strange coincidence.

  Moments later they were alone on the quay; the people who had come off the ferry had disappeared into the town, and the crew had gone inside the boat where they were no doubt settling down for the night before their departure in the morning.

  The two men set off along the quay, Stratton looking for any sign of a restaurant and Gabriel walking alongside him like a pet with little interest in anything.

  Up ahead, where the quay began to bend away to the right, there was what appeared to be a restaurant. A candlelit table was set out in the open, taking up practically the entire width of the narrow quay, and several people sat around it. Two barbecues were on the go with fish and chunks of lamb sizzling on the grills, and the table was adorned with various dishes as well as bottles of wine. Several men and a woman were drinking while conversing but as Stratton and Gabriel approached, they all stopped to look at them.

  As Stratton and Gabriel tried to identify the appropriate person to ask about dinner, one of the men, a portly, gypsy-like character with every year of his long life etched into his craggy face, said something to them in Greek.

  ‘Anyone speak English?’ Stratton asked.

  ‘English,’ the same man said, appearing surprised but oozing confidence. ‘You just come off the ferry?’

  ‘Yes,’ Stratton said.‘We were wondering if we could get a meal here.’

  The man looked at one of the others across the table as if to refer the question to him, then looked back at Stratton and produced a smile. ‘There are no restaurants open tonight, but you can join us if you like.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ Stratton said. ‘But we wouldn’t want to intrude.’

  ‘No intrusion,’ the man said, looking around at the other men for their opinions, neither of whom appeared to have any. ‘You will be our guests. I am the Mayor of Kastellorizo,’ he continued, not getting up or offering a hand. He then said something to one of the staff tending the barbecue who immediately went into the building and returned with two chairs.

  ‘This is my wife,’ the mayor said, introducing the short, ample woman at his side. ‘She does not speak English, although she understands it.’

  As Stratton and Gabriel nodded hello, the next person was introduced as the island’s lawyer who lived most of the time in Athens and happened to be on one of his frequent business trips to the island. Beside him was a Greek Orthodox priest who did not speak English and looked quite trashed unless he had some kind of debilitating illness that caused slow blinking and a lack of co-ordination when bringing his glass to his mouth. The man across the table, who the mayor had first sought approval from for inviting the surprise visitors, introduced himself as the restaurant owner, which was becoming obvious since he was directing the staff in a familiar and harsh manner.

  The remaining two men were in uniform, one the island’s immigrations and customs officer who did not speak very much English, the other a Greek army captain who commanded the island’s small garrison, which turned out to be no more than a dozen men. He appeared feminine in his deportment whereas the others were brusque and rural, except the lawyer who had a modicum of refinement. His uniform was immaculate as was his hair and moustache and he sat cross-legged most of the time, smoking a cigarette from a silver cigarette holder.

  Gabriel was seated beside the mayor’s wife with the customs officer on his other side who was stuck in conversation with the drunken priest. Stratton’s chair was placed between the army captain and the lawyer and, when asked, introduced himself as Gabriel’s assistant who in turn explained briefly that he was a geology lecturer from Stanford University. None of the others appeared to be interested in geology, certainly not enough to question them further although the lawyer said something in Greek that Stratton had the feeling was about him.

  The early small talk covered the weather, fishing and the poor tourist trade, with the locals taking the opportunity to vent their disappointment at the drop in visitors the past few years, some of the blame being heaped on the Turks’ apparent ambitions for the island. As the barbecued fish was served, Stratton asked why the island had so many homes and so few people, a question he expected would have a simple explanation. He was not prepared for the can of worms he opened.

  ‘We are the cowards,’ the mayor announced as if it were their group title. ‘All of us.’

  No one verbally disagreed with him although there were some looks that suggested there was more to the comment.

  ‘We are the ones who ran away,’ he elaborated.

  ‘Forgive me, Captain, I did not mean to include you. The captain is an honoured guest from the army and not from the island.’

  The captain smiled slightly, nodding forgiveness, then delicately brushed an imaginary piece of dust from his sleeve and cleared his throat.

  Gabriel was staring at the mayor, which the Greek took for inquisitiveness.

  ‘Before the war . . .’ the mayor said, pausing to drain a glass of wine, ‘the last one, the Second World’s War. Before that war this island was seventeen thousand people.’

  ‘Less,’ the lawyer interrupted with the perfunctory certainty of someone who has the answer to everything. ‘The First World War there was seventeen thousand people perhaps, but there was less by the Second World War.’

  ‘Okay,’ the mayor shrugged, indifferent to the actual figures. ‘Fifteen thousand then.’

  ‘Maybe less,’ the lawyer interrupted again, much to the irritation of the mayor who tried not to let it show.

  ‘It doesn’t really matter,’ the mayor went on. ‘My point is there were thousands,’ he said, pausing to look at the lawyer in case he had another comment to make. ‘The Germans were coming and so the British sent some ships to take the people away. Everyone left the island. Every member of every family carrying what they could.’

  ‘And then there was the fire,’ the restaurant owner said.

  ‘I was getting to that,’ the mayor said. ‘A fire spread through the town destroying almost all of it.’

  ‘A fire started by the British,’ the lawyer added.

  ‘No one knows that for sure,’ the mayor corrected, smiling at Stratton, his defence of the British a little obvious.

  ‘They robbed the island first, don’t forget,’ the lawyer said.

  ‘Rumours,’ the mayor scoffed. ‘There is no proof . . . Anyway, the point I am trying to make is everyone left the island.’ The mayor refilled his glass.

  ‘The entire island was evacuated?’ Gabriel asked. ‘Even the farmers and shepherds?’

  ‘All of them,’ the mayor said. ‘It was completely deserted. Everyone vowed to return as soon as the Germans were defeated.’

  ‘But since no one at the time believed they would be defeated, no one in fact said that,’ the lawyer added.

  ‘So what happened?’ Stratton asked.

  ‘Nothing happened,’ the lawyer said.

  ‘Everyone was comfortable where they were,’ the mayor said. ‘In America, Australia, England, wherever they ran away to.’

  ‘This was an island with occasional electricity, occasional water shortages, occasional fresh food and half a mile from the Turks who say it is theirs and one day they will come and take it,’ the lawyer expanded. ‘And nothing has changed.’

  ‘The Turks will never take it,’ said the restaurant owner. ‘Not while the army is here,’ he said, indicating the captain, who nodded appreciatively.

  ‘They will come if the population drops below one
hundred and fifty people,’ the lawyer said. ‘That’s the agreement.’

  ‘It’s already below that figure,’ the restaurant owner argued. ‘One hundred and five is all we have.’

  ‘Then the Turks will come,’ the lawyer said, unconvincingly.

  ‘Never,’ said the restaurant owner. ‘All we have to do is bring more people back to claim their homes.’

  ‘Huh,’ grunted the lawyer. ‘Big chance of that. It will be the same problem. How can they prove which home belongs to whom?’

  ‘The land registry was burned down in the fire,’ the mayor informed Gabriel. ‘Inside was all documentation of who owned what house on the island. People have come back to try to claim their house but have no proof.’

  ‘There are even cases of more than one family claiming they own the same house,’ said the lawyer.

  ‘No one knows whose house is whose,’ the mayor added.

  ‘Which suits you and our fine lawyer here,’ the restaurant owner mumbled.

  ‘Not in front of our guests, please,’ the mayor said.

  ‘Why not? It doesn’t matter if the whole world knows. No one can meddle in your affairs.You have it all tied up like a neat package.’

  ‘It doesn’t concern anyone,’ the lawyer said.

  ‘What are you afraid of?’ the restaurant owner continued defiantly. ‘No one can touch you or the mayor. You have the support of Athens, as long as you don’t get too greedy.You already own a quarter of the island and you will own the rest before long.’

  ‘And you have done okay by it, I might add,’ the lawyer snapped, getting heated. ‘I wonder who really owned your restaurant and your vineyard before you claimed them.’

  The restaurant owner felt the sting of that attack; however, he was not to be silenced yet. ‘Everyone at this table has done okay, and they might not all say it in the open but behind your back they all agree you have been too greedy.’

  ‘We’ve all done okay,’ the mayor said, trying to calm things. ‘Don’t ruin it for yourself.’

  ‘Is that some kind of threat?’ the restaurant owner asked.

  ‘You’re getting paranoid,’ the lawyer said.