by Gavin Scott
“So what do we do?” asked Sophie.
“Well, first of all we give this information to Evangelous, and contact the authorities on Antikythera. I think it’s governed from Piraeus, but there should be some local official. And then we head there ourselves.”
“By ferry?”
“Ferries in this part of the world are a bit unreliable. I think we might need our own personal transport.”
“Yanni?”
“If he’s come back, Yanni would be ideal.”
* * *
To Forrester’s great relief, when they returned to Chania, they found Yanni on his boat beside the dock, fish spilling through his hands like silver, extolling the virtues of his catch to the merchants. As he listened Forrester knew what it must have been like to have been in the presence of Homer as he recited the Odyssey. Yanni saw him, but did not pause in either his spiel or the frenzied haggling that followed it, in which he acted in rapid succession the parts of an insulted lover, exhausted sailor and lordly, generous sea-god, until the deals had been done to everyone’s satisfaction and the fish taken off by its new owners in large wheelbarrows.
Only when the last merchant had gone did Yanni step towards them, arms widespread, though to Sophie’s relief, in view of the generous layer of fish scales that now clung to him, he did not actually embrace them.
“Thou art both in mourning,” he said shrewdly. “And yet full of strange energy. What has happened? No! Do not tell me now. Tell me at the Sign of Aphrodite, for I have a thirst that cannot be denied.”
And over plate after plate of stuffed vines and hummus, washed down with retsina, they told Yanni their story. By the time the bill had been paid, Yanni was already making arrangements for his caïque to be refuelled and provisioned so they could set out at first light the next morning.
“Never fear, my friend,” he said to Forrester. “We will get the stone back for thee, and for the people of Crete.”
10
CYCLOPS
They motored out of Chania harbour into a still, white morning. As Forrester cast off, the sun came up, lighting up the milky haze that covered the sea. At the wheel, Yanni’s pose reminded Sophie of the statue of the sea god Poseidon at Cape Sounion, and Forrester suspected that Yanni had adopted the stance to produce exactly this effect. As Crete slipped below the horizon behind them he could still smell the island’s herb-filled scent on the breeze.
Despite what he knew to be the diminishingly small chances of overtaking Kretzmer before he left Greek waters, Forrester felt his spirits lift as the caïque slid away across the glassy Aegean. For a while there was nothing ahead but its vast calmness, and then, gradually, distant islands appeared ahead, their peaks floating above the morning haze like immense airships.
As the mist burned off, these islands became clearer, some dark, mysterious humps, some forbidding, waterless rock fortresses, others green and tree-clad, inviting them to bring their boat to shore and enter their locust-eater domains. It was easy to imagine the temptations that had led Odysseus astray as he struggled home to Ithaca. On one headland they could see the dazzling crystal whiteness of a ruined Doric temple; the next was crowned with the ramparts of a massive castle once used by the Knights of St. John. Even the tiniest islet with its deserted coves seemed like the haunt of some god from the dawn of time.
But by lunchtime the breeze had died, the sun was beating down on them, forcing them into the shelter of the canvas awning, and the sea had turned to the colour of golden honey. Somnolent with heat, Forrester took a spell at the wheel while Yanni and Sophie served the octopus stew that had been simmering all morning in onions, tomatoes, garlic and its own juices.
“I can see why you like being out here instead of on shore, Yanni,” said Sophie. “It feels like freedom.”
“Greeks invented freedom,” said Yanni, “because they live by the sea. Look at all these islands – every one a world unto itself.” He pointed to a distant speck. “From that isle came a pirate fleet that spread fear throughout the Aegean.” He glanced to starboard. “There they built the ships that destroyed the navy of Xerxes the Great. And yonder the lord of the island sank wells, and dug ditches, and brought water to the parched earth. Even today his orchards grow the best lemons in the world. Breathe in – you can smell their scent from here.”
“The lord of the island?” said Forrester. “So were his peasants free too? The ones who sank the wells and dug the ditches?”
“Who knows?” said Yanni. “Some would have been free however much they were told to do, others were slaves no matter how little they laboured. A man’s freedom is inside his own head, or nowhere at all. This, I think thou knowest, Duncan, truly.”
Forrester grinned. He knew there was no besting Yanni in an argument.
Not long after their course brought them alongside a lateen-rigged boat, perilously low in the water, its passengers squeezed in among crates of chickens, tins of cooking oil, tethered goats and huge pottery jars. Old women gossiped with one another, children played, and the crew dodged in and out among them, hauling on ropes and shifting sails to catch the cat’s-paws of breeze. Yanni hailed the captain, whom he knew, and Forrester translated their conversation for Sophie.
“He’s asking him if he’s seen Laskaris’s caïque,” he said, “or a man with some kind of mask on his face. Not very likely but…” then Forrester stopped talking and listened hard. Moments later the other boat was past and Yanni was clenching his fists in satisfaction.
“They saw Laskaris’s boat yesterday. He had engine trouble – big black clouds of smoke coming from the exhaust. Instead of heading for Antikythera he changed course to Koros, because there is a repair yard there.”
“How far is Koros from here?”
“Two or three hours,” said Yanni. “We should be there by this evening.”
“He might have finished his repairs today and already have left,” said Sophie, but Yanni shook his head.
“This is Greece, my lady,” he said. “Nothing happens that fast.” He thought for a moment. “Except death.”
* * *
They reached Koros that evening. It was one of the more fertile islands, and the brightly coloured houses of the port seemed to explode up the hill like fireworks from the waterfront, their windows catching the light of the sinking sun as the lamps came on in the cafés and tavernas below. A gleaming white gin palace of a boat, pompously named Notre Futur, sat directly in front of the squat lighthouse that also housed the harbourmaster’s office, and Yanni spat contemptuously into the water when he saw it.
High above the town was the massive bulk of the Monastery of Saint John, turning rose-pink in the last light of the evening. Forrester knew that the evangelist had written some of Revelations in a clifftop eyrie here before retiring to a presumably more attractive cave on Patmos. He could imagine him, wild haired, wild eyed, his mind quite possibly disordered by some hallucinogenic plant, looking out over the wine-dark sea and seeing the Beast with Seven Heads and the Whore of Babylon rising from the waves.
Yanni took a berth as far from the main part of the waterfront as he could, to at least slow news of their arrival reaching Kretzmer. And because Kretzmer knew Forrester and Sophie by sight but not Yanni, it was Yanni who went to see the harbourmaster and make discreet enquiries as to the whereabouts of Laskaris’s caïque.
Forrester used the time to scan the harbour with the binoculars, and by the time Yanni returned, he was fairly certain that Laskaris’s boat was one of three berthed beside a wharf on the other side of the harbour. The wharf seemed to be piled with significant quantities of discarded maritime equipment, some of it housed under a corrugated tin roof covering.
From what Yanni had learned it seemed he was right: the local boat builder had been at the taverna, and it was he who was repairing Laskaris’s caïque. But Yanni had better news still: Kretzmer was staying at the monastery on the top of the cliff until the repairs were completed, which would not be at least until noon tomorrow. Forreste
r glanced up at the brooding bulk, and knew that in all probability Kretzmer, rather than take the stone all the way up there, might have left it hidden on Laskaris’s boat.
“We should at least look,” he said, and the others agreed. Yanni would keep watch at the taverna so he could warn them if Kretzmer returned to the waterfront, and helped them work out a route through the winding alleys of the town that would allow Forrester and Sophie to make their way around to the repair dock without being seen.
As darkness fell, they set off.
What had seemed like the simplest part of the operation, detouring behind the waterfront along the back streets, turned out to be much more difficult than they had imagined: the narrow cobbled streets twisted around each other like so many snakes, and from the lamp-lit interiors curious eyes glanced out at them through open doors. As they found themselves at the end of yet another blind alley or treading gingerly down a set of worn, unlit steps, Forrester was increasingly certain that at any moment Kretzmer would step out from the shadows to confront them.
But finally they were back by the water, the lights and noise of the tavernas to their left now, the cluttered darkness of the boat repairers ahead. The owner had clearly taken advantage of the vast number of wartime wrecks of British, Greek and Italian craft that were now scattered around the islands, and had been bringing engines, propeller shafts, pumps, navigation equipment and anything else he could lay his hands on to his quayside lair, where they lay in glorious profusion waiting for a new berth. Forrester and Sophie made their way carefully through the tangled mass, but the first caïque they came to was obviously not Laskaris’s: it looked as if its repairs had been started shortly before the Italian invasion and postponed on a weekly basis ever since. The second boat had no engine, which removed it from the equation. The third exactly fitted the description Laskaris’s wife had given them.
It was in a considerable state of disrepair. The decking had been pulled up to reveal the engine, and the damaged exhaust stripped out. An array of potential replacements for the damaged parts had been laid out on the worn planks of the wharf beside it. Forrester contemplated the tangle, and then glanced along the quay to the taverna where Yanni was keeping lookout. They had arranged that if Kretzmer appeared and seemed to be coming in their direction, Yanni would step out into the light of the sodium lamp by the harbourmaster’s office. But there was no sign of him, so Sophie stayed on the wharf to watch out for that signal while Forrester climbed down onto the caïque and made his way along the cluttered deck until he reached the boat’s cabin.
It was dark and stuffy in there, but Forrester had a flashlight, and being careful to keep it from being visible beyond the boat, began a methodical search. He started with the obvious places like lockers and under bunks, then went on to the ceiling panels to see if any of them were movable, and finally got down on his hands and knees to find out if any of the floor planking had been shifted. As far as he could tell, none of it had. Then he left the cabin and crawled into the exposed engine compartment to examine every possible place that might be big enough to take the stone.
It was while he was jammed between the engine block and the side of the caïque that he heard a scuffle of footsteps.
And then silence.
By the time he had extricated himself from the engine housing and risen to his feet, Kretzmer was on the wharf, one arm around Sophie’s shoulder, the other holding a Luger to her temple. Forrester felt the weight of the gun in his own pocket, and knew there was no possibility of using it.
As Forrester rose, Kretzmer tilted his head, producing the effect of the smile without a smile. “The monastery of der heilige Johann,” he said, “is not just a refuge: it is a lookout. Did you not think of that? Did you not imagine that I would examine every vessel that came into harbour while I am here, and every movement of their passengers? Did you not imagine I would have anticipated exactly what you are trying to do now?”
“Touché,” said Forrester. Inside, he felt sick: Kretzmer was right – he should have thought ahead. But he had been too eager to find the stone. So eager his mistake might cost Sophie her life.
“Touché indeed,” said Kretzmer. “And how pleasant it is to be in such intimate contact with your Norwegian friend.” He turned to Sophie. “I like your perfume, Countess. Balenciaga, I believe?”
Sophie glanced at him for a moment before she spoke. “If you think knowing about women’s perfumes makes you a civilised man, Herr Kretzmer, you are mistaken.”
“Really? We will discuss that in more detail later,” said Kretzmer, “when I have more leisure.” He turned back to Forrester. “But it is in fact useful you are here, English. Reach beneath the engine.”
Forrester stared at him and did nothing.
“When I give a command, I expect it to be obeyed immediately,” said Kretzmer, and Forrester heard Sophie’s grunt of pain as he jammed the gun harder into her temple. “Kneel down again and reach beneath the engine.”
A beat, and Forrester did as he was told. As he searched, he was aware, out of the corner of his eye, that Kretzmer was kicking at one of the bollards on the wharf, and then another, but he was too low down to see exactly what he was doing, and too preoccupied with the task before him to figure out why. Suddenly, as his fingers felt through a mass of oil and metal shavings, he felt the outline of something hard beneath a thick layer of sacking.
“Well done,” said Kretzmer, “you have found it. Now pull it out.”
Forrester did as he was told, and felt an involuntary surge of excitement run through him: there was no doubt it was the stone. “Now, bring it over to the wharf, reach up and put it down on the planks.”
A dozen scenarios ran through Forrester’s mind as he heaved the stone up and took careful steps across the dismembered decking, but none of them ended with Sophie still alive. He looked up at her frightened eyes and knew that, vast though the stone’s value was to him, it was nothing compared to her. Reaching up, he slid the bundle of oil-soaked sacking onto the wharf.
“Very good,” said Kretzmer. Then, to Sophie, “Pick it up.”
“I’m not sure I’m strong enough,” said Sophie.
“You will be strong enough,” said Kretzmer, “if you want to live.”
Sophie drew in a long breath, and then bent down to retrieve the filthy object, her breath growing shallower with the effort. As Kretzmer watched her Forrester slid his own gun from his pocket and thumbed the safety off, knowing perfectly well as he did so that there was no way he could use the gun while Kretzmer’s weapon was so close to Sophie. He heard her grunt of effort as she stood upright, cradling the stone in both hands.
“Stay where you are, Captain Forrester,” said Kretzmer, “and I promise she will come to no harm. If you make any move against me, she will die. You know enough of me now not to doubt my will, I think.”
“I don’t doubt your will, Kretzmer, but face facts. We’ve caught up with you. The authorities all over Greece know what you’ve done. They’re going to catch up with you too. If you give this thing up now we can come to some arrangement. If you carry on you’re an outlaw.”
“I’ve been an outlaw for a long time,” said Kretzmer. “You made me one.”
Then he kicked at the bollards again and Forrester understood what the man had been doing while he was extracting the stone. The loosened ropes slid free and the caïque slid away from the wharf into the dark water.
“Bon voyage,” said Kretzmer, and then, to Sophie, “Come.” And together, they disappeared into the darkness of the wharf.
As the caïque drifted away into the dark waters of the harbour, Forrester sought desperately for a way to bring it back to the shore. What Kretzmer had done was crude but efficient: he had effectively prevented Forrester from following him. The crippled caïque was gliding further from the wharf with every second; soon the only way back to shore would be by swimming. Desperately, he flashed the torch around the debris of the dismantled engine – and found, half buried in the mess, t
he boat hook. He hauled it out, saw the rusted engine block of a German E-boat on the wharf, and lunged.
The rusted metal began to disintegrate almost as soon as the hook caught in the block, but the hold was just enough to check the forward momentum of Laskaris’s boat, and with just five feet between the two vessels, Forrester leapt, crashed onto the rotting deck of the first caïque.
Then he was back on his feet and racing along the deck to make the leap back to the wharf. Gun in hand, he peered into the darkness towards the sodium lamp by the lighthouse, half expecting to see Yanni silhouetted in its glare – and then realised what lay between him and the taverna.
Notre Futur.
Notre Futur, with two figures aboard it.
As he sprinted he saw Kretzmer behind Sophie, forcing her to climb from the deck of the motor yacht up to the bridge, and he knew the German had already cast off the ropes. Then Futur’s engines roared throatily into life and Forrester jammed the gun back in his waistband and made his third leap of the night.
He made it, just. As his fingers closed over the stern rail, the boat bucked under him like an angry horse and began to accelerate towards the harbour mouth. Behind him, on the waterfront, he could hear the shouts of surprise and dismay – doubtless from the boat’s owner as he saw it being stolen from under his nose.
Fighting gravity and the boat’s acceleration, Forrester hauled himself over the rail, hit the deck and began to run at a crouch towards the companionway leading up to the bridge. But before he had reached it Sophie suddenly burst out of the wheelhouse door, grasped the stairway rail and swung herself over it.
Kretzmer, still at the wheel, fired blindly after her, assuming she had gone down the steps. Then he glanced to one side, saw her hand still clinging to the stair rail and aimed right at her – as Forrester opened fire and the wheelhouse windows exploded into fragments. He had no idea whether he had hit Kretzmer, but it didn’t matter: the diversion had given Sophie time to drop down to the deck. Seconds later he was by her side and as the bridge door swung open and as Kretzmer leaned out with the gun, Forrester grasped her hand and pulled her with him to the rail.
