by James Munro
"That isn't what the girls say," said Craig, and Serafin chuckled, then almost at once began to snore, storing up sleep against the time when action would come.
Craig held the course, soaking in the darkness, the smell of the sea, and the feel of it pushing at the rudder. Here, on a boat, the chance of danger before him, he was at home. The ouzo, the raki, and the brandy he had taken had weakened him as he had no right to be weakened. Tessa should not be remembered like that. Her way was to help, as he would be helping: an old man he loved, a girl he did not know. But for that he needed his strength back, the steadiness of his hand, the speed of his reflexes. . . . He held the caique on course, and tried not to think how much he needed a drink. Except for Serafin's snores he was alone in the warm dark of the sea, fighting the misery of his memories that were too accurate, too intense for ease. And then he heard it, the whine of twin engines, high-powered and steady, and his hands grew moist as he sensed, for the thousandth time, the threat of danger. The old man stirred on the deck, and said, "Look for a light, my son. Red above green."
Craig looked out in the luminous dark, but it was the old man who spotted it, two points to port, and told him to steer towards her. As they moved closer, Serafin lit two lanterns, placed them in line on the deck, then told Craig to go into the cabin. It was not the time for him to be seen. Craig hesitated, then obeyed. Serafin knew his business.
The roar of engines quickened, and the boat came closer, a fast, sleek cruiser, beautifully handled, the engines throttled back at exactly the right moment, the fenders ready as it bumped alongside the high bows of the caique, then a rope was thrown into the old man's gnarled, deft hand. Craig heard voices talking softly in Greek, halting, unsure, then the old man's in cheerful greeting. The caique heeled as men climbed aboard, then he heard the hatch lifted off, the grunt of a man hauling, the thud of a carton on the deck. Cigarettes most likely. And Scotch. Watches from Switzerland. Copper wire. It made no difference. Smuggling was a habit with Serafin. He couldn't break it. And it paid better than fishing. In the war it had been men, men like Craig, quiet dangerous men who killed Germans. That for Serafin had been the highest payment of all.
Craig heard the hatch replaced, then the boat heeled again, as another one came up. Once more the soft voices spoke, and Serafin answered, angry, protesting. At last there was silence and Craig felt the sweat bathe his body, his hands and arms shake by his sides. Footsteps toward the cabin then, and he rolled under the bunk curtain, heard the door open, saw the gleam of a torch, before a man's voice called in German, 'There's nobody here. He's telling the truth." The cabin door slammed, then, not quite shut, bumped gently as the caique lifted and dipped. The boat heeled again, and Craig rolled from under the bunk, looked round for a weapon. There was nothing but a bottle of wine. He took it by the neck and moved to the cabin door,
heard the rope cast off, the roar of the cruiser's engines. Now there were three men aboard besides Serafin and himself.
He moved out of the cabin as the cruiser shot away, the caique bobbing in its wake. Noiseless on bare feet, he crawled to a pile of nets, easing round it to where he could see Serafin in the deck lamp's light. Two men faced him, and a third stood forward, watching the milky wake of the cruiser. One of the men had a gun.
He said: "Do as you're told, old man. This one goes to Menos. You have your orders. You will be paid."
Serafin said: "I never agreed to this. I won't—"
The other man's hand moved, fast and accurate, and struck Serafin across the face. Serafin tensed, and Craig sweated again, until he moved to the wheel.
"One of you start the engine," he said.
The man without the gun uncovered the hatch combing, and as he did so Craig moved out from the nets and hit the gunman on the back of the neck with the bottle. He dropped like a log, and the other man spun round, hurled the hatch cover at Craig. It crashed inches from his bare toes as Craig leaped back, vulnerable now to the third one for'ard, his hands shaking with weakness. The man who had so nearly crippled him moved in slowly, and Craig saw that he too was armed, with a knife, a lonj*, slightly curved blade. Craig moved warily, cursing his body s clumsiness, then the man sprang in and lunged with the knife as though it were an epee. Craig's hand grabbed for the wrist as his body swerved, but he was too slow, the blade scored and burned across his ribs, his fingers missed. The other man swerved and struck again, and again. Craig only just escaped. They circled slowly, and Craig felt the weakness mount inside him, knew he was good for one more pass, and no more than one.
Again it was the other who attacked, and Craig forced his body out of the way of the gleaming steel, struck at the man's throat with the edge of his hand. This time he was a little nearer, jarring the other's shoulder so that he gasped with pain as Craig swung the bottle. But he was quick enough to parry, and the glass shivered on the steel blade, the stump fell from Craig's hands as the other man lunged in a great, disemboweling sweep. Craig leaped inside it, his hands locked on the knife arm, and this time it was his body's weight that did the work as he pivoted from his hip, and held on. The man screamed as the pressure on his arm increased, threatening to break bone, and the knife dropped, then Craig's foot flicked out, found his throat, and he went limp. Craig grabbed the knife and swung round, facing the third one for'ard. Behind Craig's back, Serafin chuckled. He held the gun and his old hand did not tremble.
'This one will not hurt you," he said.
The gun moved toward the shadowy figure for'ard.
"Come here," he said.
There was no movement, then the gun lifted, pointed, and the figure moved into the light of the lamps. Black woollen sweater, black jeans, the dangerous grace of a cat. Serafin picked up a deck light and lifted it high.
Almond-shaped eyes, so brown as to look black; heavy hair, gleaming, glowing, oiled; a proud little beak of a nose, and a full, passionate mouth. The sweater and jeans were skintight and her figure was magnificent. Her skin was a glowing gold, her face a smooth, impassive mask that betrayed no emotion at all, as she looked into the gun's black barrel.
"What is your name?" Serafin asked.
No answer.
'Tour name," said Craig in Arabic. "Speak you."
"Selina bin Hussein," the girl said.
Craig said: "Go into the cabin. Fetch me the tin box which is on the shelf by the door." The girl made no move. "Go you," said Craig. "I will not speak three times." The girl looked into his eyes; cold, gray northern eyes, bloodshot and yet unblinking. She looked down at his hand, which was pressed tight to his side. Blood oozed slowly from his fingers, black in the lamplight. Without a word, she went down into the cabin.
"A Turk?" Serafin asked.
"An Arab," said Craig. "What's happening, you old robber?"
"These people are my suppliers," said Serafin, and nodded at the two men on the deck. "It's time you stopped drinking. You were very clumsy. I can remember—"
"So can I," said Craig. "But not now. These men will come round soon."
Serafin sighed, took a length of twine from his pocket, and stooped to tie them up. As he worked, the girl came up carrying the box. Craig told her to open it, and she did so, then took out a roll of adhesive bandage at his orders. The two men had clean, white handkerchiefs in their breast pockets, and Serafin passed them to him. Craig asked the old man for ouzo.
"Are you (irinking again?" Serafin asked.
"I wish I were," said Craig. "Oh, how I wish I were."
Serafin grinned and sat back on bis heels to watch as Craig rolled up his jersey and poured the spirit on to the wound. It ate into the raw cut like liquid fire, and Craig gasped aloud, then sprinkled more ouzo on to the handkerchiefs, pressed them over the wound, and gasped once more. Then Serafin heard him speak again in Arabic, saw the girl unwind the bandage, press it over the wound. He noticed how beautiful and sure her hands were, how deft her fingers. He noticed too, how Craig took it all without a word. Craig was his son, and he was proud of him. Methodically, with a
n old man's painstaking slowness, he tied his two suppliers together, then took the wheel again and thought about the girl. Beautiful, proud, lots of courage. The proper girl for his son, and she wasn't a Turk. He was glad about that. Serafin hated Turks.
The girl finished the bandaging, and Craig sat down, slowly, carefully, bis back propped up against the diesel housing.
"Selina bin Hussein," Craig said. She moved closer to him. She wore thick-soled yachting slippers, and she walked like a queen. "Sit," said Craig.
She knelt before him, within the circle of lamplight, then settled back on her neat, round haunches, her hands easy and motionless in her lap. There was no suggestion of fear in her eyes, and yet Craig had no doubt that she was terrified.
"Tell me who you are," said Craig, "and don't waste my time with lies."
'The Tuareg do not lie," said the girl.
Craig willed himself to sit impassive. The Tuareg live in the Hoggar district of the Sahara. They are a warrior nation with their own customs and their own language, and their women go unveiled. Some of them still carry the straight, cross-hilted swords their ancestors captured from
Crusaders nearly nine centuries ago. They are cruel, chivalrous, and brave, and abhor lying, even as a means of defense.
"Where are you from?" asked Craig.
"From the Haram in Zaarb," said the girl. "My Father is emir there."
"Zaarb?"
"Beyond Yemen," said the girl. 'The Haram is my father's country. He owns it all: the Arabs and the Negroes, the oasis and the desert—all except the rest of us, his kinsmen."
"The Tuareg live in the Sahara," said Craig. "Their town is Janet, their territory is beyond the Hoggar Mountains."
"My family went to help an Arab sheikh fight the Yemenis three hundred years ago," said the girl. "It was a good place. They beat the Yemenis and kept it for themselves. We have lived there ever since."
"But you left this good place?"
"I have business for my father," she said.
"With smugglers?"
"I have to go into Europe," the girl said. For Europe she used the old Arabic word—Frangistan—the country of the Franks.
"Which part of Frangistan?"
And incredibly, the place she named was England.
"You speak English?" asked Craig, and she nodded, gravely, slowly, with the pride of one who admits that, if forced, she could play the second violin part in Schubert's 'Trout" quintet.
"Speak it then," said Craig in English.
'You speak it too?" she asked, astonished.
"I am English," said Craig, and the dark, intense eyes looked for an instant hard into his, but the emotion they showed was hidden too quickly for him to read it.
"But how perfecdy extraordinary," she said at last.
Somehow Craig sat unmoved and at last she began to talk, her English fluent and easy with debutante overtones.
Her father had something to sell, something which, so he understood, all the Franks would wish to buy. He had also, in his country, an English adviser who had seen this thing and told her father how valuable it was. And yet, Craig thought, whatever the thing was, she hated and feared it. She had been chosen to negotiate the sale, because her brothers could not be spared, and in any case buying and selling were not a man's business.
"What is this thing?" asked Craig.
She said at once: "I'm awfully sorry. I promised my father I wouldn't tell anybody—anybody except the purchasers, I mean."
"And why are you coming into Europe like a thief?"
She flushed then, and her skin darkened to copper.
"My father lives in the old way," she said. "It isn't as if he had a country. The Haram is his—his private estate. I mean we don't have passports or Customs or anything like that. It would be jolly difficult for me trying to travel without a passport. Anyway that's what Bernard says."
"Bernard?"
"The Englishman."
"Bernard who?"
"I'm awfully sorry. I'm afraid I can't tell you." "You promised your father?" "No. It was Bernard actually." "Go on," said Craig.
Bernard had arranged everything. She had traveled by horseback, jeep, and helicopter, a winding secret journey across Asia Minor, ending at last in the Lebanon, and her first sight of the sea. She had gone aboard a big ship then— so big that she could find no way of conveying any idea of its size—and from there she had transferred to the cabin cruiser. It was the first time in her life that she had traveled in, or even seen, a jeep, a car or a helicopter, and the second that she had worn Western clothes.
'The men on the ship—what nationality were they?" asked Craig.
"They were Franks of course."
"But what land—English?"
"Oh no. I didn't know their language. They spoke to me in Arabic."
"And who paid them?"
"Bernard took care of everything. Of course my father paid."
"Of course. And where were you going next?"
"Menos," the girl said. The old bastard was supposed to take us there."
Craig noted that sometimes Bernard's English slipped. "And you'd be met?"
She nodded.
"Who by?" She shrugged. Her silence was grave and beautiful.
"You would have to pay, of course." "Bernard arranged that," said the girl. "And anyway—"
"You have money with you," said Craig. She sat very still.
"I won't take it," Craig said, and spoke rapidly in Greek to Serafin, who accepted it all as a matter of course. His son Craig always made things happen.
"Do we go to Menos?" he asked.
Craig shrugged. "Maybe."
He lowered a bucket over the side and threw water on the man with the gun. As he choked and gulped, Craig said to the girl: 'You will be silent." He spoke in Arabic, and his voice was harsh.
"But these men are my servants," said the girl. "I cannot permit you to harm them."
"They harmed me," said Craig, "and you have no choice."
The gunman tried to sit up, struggling with the ropes that bound him, not knowing what they were.
Slowly, in Greek, Craig said: "Your name?"
The man was silent, and Craig picked up the knife and let it move slowly, slowly to the man's throat, let it rest on the skin, a touch feather-soft, the merest hint of what a movement of his wrist could do.
"Gruber," said the gunman. "Heinrich Gruber."
"German?" asked Craig, and the gunman whispered,
"Yes."
Behind him, Craig heard Serafin sigh softly. He spoke quickly in German.
"The old man hates Germans. Your friend hit him. He's a very proud old man. He remembers what the Germans did in Andraki during the war—"
"I wasn't in the Wehrmacht," the gunman said. "I was thirteen when the war ended."
'Tell Serafin that," said Craig. "He won't listen."
He bent and hauled him up so that Gruber faced the old man. Serafin's face was iron-hard, pitiless; the old hands on the wheel like claws.
"Where were you taking the girl?"
"Menos," said the German. "We were to take her to the harbor—" "Go on."
"We'd be met there." "Who by?"
The gunman was silent, and Craig let the weight of the knife rest on his throat.
"I will count three," he said, "then I'll give you to the old man."
"An Englishman," said the German. "Mr. Dyton-Blease. A big man, a very big man. He owns the island. He will come up to us in the Cafe Aphrodite and ask us to drink wine. We say we prefer cognac and he brings out a bottle from his pocket. Courvoisier."
"And the girl?"
"I don't know anything about her. All we had to do was to hand her over."
'Two of you? He's expecting two?"
Gruber shrugged. "One of us watches the other. In our business—"
"Wine and then brandy," said Craig. "And he offers—"
"Courvoisier. His own bottle."
"Dummkopf!"
The word was like a scream, and Crai
g turned to look at the knifeman.
"Another German?" he asked. There was a silence.
"I owe you something," said Craig, and touched his
side.
Serafin said: "Take the wheel my son."
Craig said: "He wants me to take the wheel. If I do the old man will hurt you. Hurting Germans is something he knows all about."
"Bauer," said the man. "Franz Bauer—from Germany. Yes. All right. A messenger, that's all. We deliver parcels."
"You know a man called Bernard?"
"No."
"A man called Dvton-Blease?" "No."
Each "nein" came out as if Bauer already felt pain. "We don't want to know. All we do is deliver—and we're paid. You'll be paid too. I promise." "How much?"
"Five hundred pounds, British currency." "You have it with you?"
"In my pocket," said Bauer, and it was true. Five hundred pounds, a packet of Chesterfields and a lighter. Nothing else. No tabs on the clothes, no other currency, no letters, no papers. Just five hundred pounds.
Craig put it in the tin box and went aft to Serafin.
"Let's have a look at the chart," he said. "We'll make for Menos."
"What about the two Germans?"
Craig said, "We'll find some of your people on the way. They can take them to Andraki."
Serafin said, "It's a pity you let the German cut you. If you sleep with the girl you'll start to bleed again. She looks good to sleep with." Craig grunted and opened out the chart to the dim chart lamp, working out the course.
"Two points to starboard," he said, "and steer small."
"Very good, I should think," said Serafin, and took the new course.
"Much better than ouzo."
"You talk too much," said Craig and started the engine as he began to think of what he would do.
He had a girl with a secret, and money, and a most improbable ancestry. There was the possibility that she was lying of course, but no one sane would use such a story for a cover. It would be simplest to go to Menos and find out for himself. He lay down on the deck, and wondered what to do with the girl. Hand her over to Loomis, he supposed. Loomis would be interested, all right. There might be a trade agreement in it. Craig lay flat on his back, looking up at the big tender stars, hearing the soft creak of timbers and halyards, the even slap of water. He fell asleep.
