by James Munro
ture was dark and old; the whitewashed walls showed only one picture: an ikon. The room smelled, very faintly, of chypre. Craig moved over to the sleeping man, searched the room, found more weapons, put the weapons down, and considered how best to wake him. A man hauled suddenly from a deep and secure sleep is vulnerable and afraid, and apt to tell what he knows. Craig pulled the sheet from him. He was naked, and the more vulnerable. Craig slapped him hard across the mouth. The man shot up in bed, and Craig hit him again, a backhanded blow that slammed him back on to the bedstead. The man lay still for a moment, then squirmed to one side and leaped at Craig, his hands grabbing for Craig's neck. Craig grabbed the other's hair, fell backward and threw him, still holding his hair. The man screamed and screamed again as Craig hauled him to his feet by the hair, and hit him on the nose, twice. The man wanted to fall, but the hand in his hair kept him up, stretched him on to his toes. His hands fell, his body went limp, and Craig let him fall.
Craig asked: "What's your name?" He spoke in Greek. The man on the floor shuddered, and said nothing. Craig stopped, and hauled him up by the hair.
At once the man screamed out. "Spiro. Georgios Spiro." Craig pushed him back against the wall, and looked at him.
"You're going to tell me things," he said. "Sooner or later, you're going to tell. The choice is yours."
Spiro leaped at him again, and again Craig threw him, dragged him to his feet, and hit him on the nose. This time Spiro fell and lay still. Craig found a water jug, slopped water over him, then, as he came round, dragged him over to a mirror.
"Look at yourself," he said. "You won't be pretty much longer. Next time I hit your nose I'll break it, and nobody's going to love you then."
Spiro looked in silence, and turned away. Craig's hand dug under his chin, forcing him to look into the hard eyes, to watch the fist clench, draw back.
"I can't tell you anything," said Spiro.
"That's a start, anyway," said Craig. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking after the place for Mr. Dyton-Blease."
"With a .32?"
"Mr. Dyton-Blease has a lot of enemies." "Me for one," said Craig. "What is it he does?" "He does nothing," said Spiro. "He's just a very rich man."
Craig moved in, and his fist unclenched, he tapped Spiro's nose with one finger. It was a very red, puffy nose.
"Tell me about the girl," he said.
Spiro had strong views on women. He expressed them then. She had obsessed Dyton-Blease; he spent all day and every day with her, teaching her how to walk, how to sit, how to eat: the little savage wasn't happy unless she could eat with her hands, and Dyton-Blease had been so patient, so gentle. He'd even made Spiro try to teach her how to arrange flowers—as if an animal like that could do anything artistic, God knows he'd done his best—
"Why?" Craig asked.
"She has to be a lady," Spiro said.
"Why?" Craig asked again.
"Because Mr. Dyton-Blease said so."
Always Spiro used the English "mister," not the Greek.
"Do you want me to break your nose?" Craig asked.
"I swear to God, that's all I know," Spiro said. "Ji he knew I'd told you that much, he'd kill me."
"He almost killed my father," said Craig. "He turned him into an idiot."
Spiro stayed very still.
"You think a lot of Mr. Dyton-Blease?"
"He pays well," Spiro said. "I'm afraid of him too."
"Why?"
"I told you. He'll Mil me." "You could run away."
"Not from him. Nobody can. You should remember that. He'll kill you too, when he finds out—"
"If he does," said Craig, and again Spiro was still.
Craig began more questioning, and at last Spiro opened up the floodgates, the words spilling out as if they would never stop; a pentup release of what had been held back too long. Craig discovered that Dyton-Blease had lived there for three months, and that Spiro and his partner had been sent to him from Los Angeles, on loan from their Greek-American boss, a narcotics peddler who was as afraid of Dyton-Blease as Spiro himself. He learned that in three months with the big man the two Greeks had done nothing
except guard the castle, terrorize the island population—who were already in mortal terror—and beat up Craig. For this they were paid $500 a week. They hated it.
They hated the tiny island, the islanders, and the castle; they lived in an agony of homesickness for Los Angeles, and they hadn't the nerve to ask for their release. When Dyton-Blease was there, they walked in terror, and they didn't know why. They had dealt before with big men, tough men; they were used to waiting in ignorance of what was to happen. The setup they were in was familiar—and yet there was always this fear. Even before Craig's father. As soon as he spoke of it, Spiro stopped, the stream dammed, one fear blocking another.
'Tell me," said Craig. "You didn't do it."
"It was done in the dungeons," Spiro said. "Your old man was tough all right. He stuck it out until Mr. Dyton-Blease lost his temper. And then it was too late."
"How long did it take?" Craig asked.
"About five seconds," Spiro said. "Then he was cool again, like ice. Five seconds—·
"Let's see the dungeons," said Craig.
"There's nothing there."
"I want to see them." He took out Bauer's knife. "All right," said Spiro. "I'll put some clothes on." "No," said Craig. A naked man is cautious and ashamed. Spiro hesitated, then looked into Craig's eyes. "All right," he said.
They went down stairs cut into the rock, opened a great door of olive wood studded with wrought-iron nails, and entered what had once been storerooms as well as dungeons. The whole place was lit with stark, unshielded bulbs. A great, vaulted room carved out of the rock, and on one side of it, hutchlike caves shut in with iron bars. It was like a museum, except that it was still in use. No guides, no pamphlets, no souvenirs. The robber baron who lived here was still in business. Craig pushed Spiro before him, and looked around. Empty packing cases, one with the name of a Paris couturier. Selina's gowns? Empty wine barrels, empty oil jars, and every cell empty. There had to be something.
"I told you," said Spiro.
Craig shoved him away, and looked around once more.
The rock walls were smooth and gray, but in one corner a square patch gleamed, smoother, paler than the rest. It was the door of a safe. Craig pushed Spiro over to it, and examined it carefully. No combination lock, just a key.
"Open it," said Craig.
"It isn't locked," Spiro said. "Ill show you."
He hauled at the door, exerting all his strength, and it swung open slowly. Then suddenly, his body flowing like quicksilver, Spiro reached into the safe. Inside it was a knife. He grabbed it, and leaped at Craig. Craig swerved so that the upper knife arm brushed his shoulder, then struck out, slamming Spiro's naked body into the rock wall. Spiro whimpered, and hesitated, then Craig met the rush as Stavros had taught him, swerving to narrow the target he presented, swaying to make him miss, his left hand striking at Spiro's wrist. Spiro screamed and his knife clattered on the stone floor. Then, still screaming, he swung round to Craig and the knife Craig held, point up, as he crouched, waiting. Craig's arm shook at the impact of Spiro's body, the fist clenched round the knife hilt that now touched the Greek's chest. He let the hilt go, and Spiro fell, his eyes already glazing.
"He'll kill you too," said Spiro, and died.
Craig pulled the knife free, wiped it on some rubbish, put it away, then went to look at the safe. Its steel door had an additional covering of lead; the rock cavity behind was lead-lined. Craig realized why Spiro had pulled so hard. There was nothing else inside but an old-fashioned metal hatbox. Craig reached out a hand for it, and found it wouldn't move. He braced himself, and lowered it two-handed to the floor. It, too, was lead-lined. Inside was nothing but a tiny fragment of pottery, old stuff, with what looked like geometric decoration. Craig put the lid back on and humped the hatbox out of the dungeon. Getting it down the
cliff was a wearisome, nerve-racking business, even with the aid of a rope. When he reached the beach he looked at his watch. Only half an hour before he rejoined Elias. He still had a lot to do.
Forty minutes later he was back on board the caique, its diesel popping madly as it scuttled for safety. Craig and Elias watched in the darkness, waiting. Suddenly, there
was a great throb of red in the blackness, followed by the woomph of exploding petrol and a rattling noise like firecrackers.
"Ammunition," said Craig, and waited. Another great red exclamation mark stained the blackness.
"Both boats?" Elias asked. Craig nodded. "It's beautiful," remarked Elias.
"The way revenge should be."
"What revenge?" asked Craig. "I was too late. Dyton-Blease had gone, and Spiro killed himself. I mean that. He tried to kill me, and when he failed, he was too scared to live. He threw himself on my knife."
"So you got nothing," said Elias. "Except a lead
box."
"That's all," said Craig.
Elias asked no more; Craig was very British about secrets. Ten miles farther on, they began to fish.
When they came in next morning, Stavros was waiting by the harbor. Another Andraki boat had seen the explosion, and Stavros wanted an answer. "How should I know?" Craig asked. "Probably somebody got drunk because Dyton-Blease was away. They might have gone aboard one of the power-boats and started smoking too near the fuel tank."
"And died?" asked Stavros.
"It's likely," Craig said. "You say yourself it was a big bang. Mind you, I'm only guessing. Elias and I were fishing all night."
"Red mullet," said Elias. 'The best catch this season. Craig brings his luck with him, eh, Stavros?"
On the hydroplane that took them back to Piraeus, Stavros said veiy little. A part of him despised his cousin, and his brother Craig, for what they had done, but another part held a fierce delight that the Kouprassi family had hit back. And behind the delight was resentment, because he had not been asked to go along too. Stavros examined his emotions, and was silent. The only way out of his dilemma was a blazing row, and he couldn't fight with Craig. So he said nothing.
His car met them at Athens, and he drove Craig to the hotel on the Piraeus where his clothes were stored. Craig turned to him then, and spoke softly in English so that the chauffeur wouldn't understand. "I'm sorry I couldn't ask you along," he said. "I mean that, Stavros."
"I believe you," Stavros said, and smiled. "Sometimes I think you're more Greek than I am."
Graig left him then, for a bath and a shave, and clean, expensive clothes. The kind you ought to wear when you go to meet your boss.
* Chapter 7 *
I told you to get yourself fit, not start a private war," Loomis said.
"It looked as if it might be your sort of show," said Craig. "I thought I'd better look around."
"Look around," Loomis snarled. "You knifed a man." "He knifed himself."
"Don't rationalize at me," said Loomis. "I'm not your analyst." He began to dismember a broiled lobster, a revolting performance.
'There's Dyton-Blease and the bit of pottery," said
Craig.
"Giants went out with the brothers Grimm. He's just a biggish feller who thinks he's found Achilles' thunder jar," said Loomis.
"In a lead canister?"
"Chap's a loony," said Loomis. "They get very nervy sometimes, loonies. I'll let the technical lads have a look —but you're wasting their time."
*· Craig went back to his own lobster, and for a while there was no sound except Loomis's grunts and the crackle of the lobster's shell as it tried to defy him, without success.
"Mind you, the girl sounded interesting," said Loomis. "Pity you lost her. We could do with some chums in the Haram."
"I could find her," said Craig.
"Not now. I want you watching Naxos." "What about the big man?"
Loomis said: "His turn will come." His voice was utterly certain.
Craig said: "That bit of pottery had a pattern on it. Selina's dresses had the same kind of design."
"So?" asked Loomis.
"She told me a lot about the Haram," Craig answered. "She loved every inch of it—you could tell that—all except the mountain. She was afraid of that. The Naked Place, she called it."
"Hussy," said Loomis.
"Nothing grows there," Craig said. "It's just a mass of sandstone, with some outcrops of blue stuff. Soft. Easily worked. Looks very pretty. At one time her people used to use it for making water jars, that sort of thing. Not any more."
"They turn the tap on like everybody else," Loomis snarled.
"It's lethal. You handle it for too long—and you die. Like leprosy, she said, only worse."
"You been at the horror comics again," said Loomis.
Yet Craig knew the fat man was taking in every word. All right. Let somebody else sweat after it. He'd go for a cruise on a yacht.
"You want me to leave it then?" he asked.
"Leave what? You haven't started anything," Loomis said. "I want you to go and keep Naxos alive."
Craig looked round the restaurant. There was nobody behind them, and the nearest customer on either side was ten feet away. Before them was nothing but the Aegean, gleaming blue as if another sun lay on its bed. Loomis didn't have to lower his voice, but he might at least wipe his mouth.
'Tell me about Mrs. Naxos," he said.
"Her name's Philippa—known as Flip. A blonde. Good legs. Fat just enough and thin just enough. What they call a dish." Loomis produced the word with sly triumph, like an inept conjurer who really has got a rabbit this time.
"Used to be a drug addict. Naxos got her cured. Then he married her. He'd stick his hand in the fire for her. If you don't do your stuff he may have to."
"Who am I watching for?"
"Ah!" said Loomis. "A bit tricky, that. Zaarb's got a new security chief—a feller called Schiebel. Used to work for the Russians. They thought his work was a bit too crude, so they got rid of him."
"Any description?" Craig asked.
T got this," said Loomis.
He handed Craig a photograph. A thin man with blond, close-cropped hair and pale, narrow eyes. He wore choice, urbane casual clothes and he looked as hard as nails.
"Got a series of burn scars on his right shoulder," said Loomis.
"Speaks perfect English. He worked in London for a bit. Trained in their Executive Division—you know what that means."
"He's a Idller," said Craig.
"That's right. It also means he's good, bloody good. All the same, you should be able to handle him." He smiled expansively. "We got his fingerprints too."
"My God you've been working," said Craig, and Loomis beamed.
"Where did you get them?"
"From the comrades."
"The Russians gave you his dossier?"
"All pals now," said Loomis. "Live and let live. All that. Zaarb's a Stalinist sort of place, d'you see. They've gone off Russia. They brought the Chinese in. Schiebel asked for asylum there. Oh yes, the Russians gave us his dossier. Matter of fact if you knock him off they'll give us a few other bits and pieces as well. Chinese stuff. We could use some Chinese stuff."
"He must know a hell of a lot," said Craig.
"He does. Mind you he was blown last year. Grierson got on to his girl friend before he went to Zaarb. She told us the lot. Only the Russians don't know that."
"What happened to her?"
"He killed her," said Loomis. 'Took his time about it. He's nasty, Craig." Craig looked at the photograph again.
"He looks German," Craig said.
"He is," said Loomis. "Hitler Youth leader. The Russians picked him up in Leipzig in '45. He killed three of 'em first. He was sixteen years old then."
"They took him alive?"
"He was good. They did a conversion fob on him— made him a Stalinist. Trouble is he's stuck there. Couldn't adjust to Khrushchev."
"Neither could the Russians," said Craig,
and went back to the photograph.
"Well he's yours now," said Loomis, and flipped an imperious flipper for Turkish Delight. When it came he ate in silence, savoring the rose-petal sweetness of it to the end, then demanded brandy. He watched Craig drink it, delighted. The brandy was an Armagnac, and very special. He'd chosen it himself, and he knew it was good, but Craig drank it out of pleasure, not for need. Loomis looked positively benign.
"You can keep the photograph," he said, "and I'll let you have a copy of his dossier. There's just one snag. He may have gone to Zurich recently. For a facelift. Probably got the burn scars fixed too. They do you a very good plastic surgery job in Zurich."
"You bastard," said Craig, then threw back his head and laughed aloud. "No wonder you wanted me for this job, Loomis. I'm the only one daft enough to take it."
Loomis looked coy, and summoned more brandy.
» » »
Naxos's yacht, the Philippa, put into Piraeus two days later. It was a converted destroyer, built on the Tyne and transformed on the Clyde into the kind of floating pleasure dome that perhaps twelve men in the world can afford to own, and three of them are Greek. It was painted the obligatory, dazzling white, its brasswork glittered like sunbeams, its ropework was pipe-clayed to the snowy virginity of a detergent ad. It carried a helicopter, a swimming pool, three powerboats, a five-piece band, a cordon bleu chef, three Canalettos, nine Picassos, a Memling, a third-century B.C. statue of Aphrodite, a doctor, and a scaled-down version of a Cunarder's catering staff. Its officers were Englishmen and a Scot, who had left the service of a famous passenger line because Naxos offered them more money. All the rest of the crew were relatives of the bosun, a gigantic Hydriote Islander who preserved a discipline that would have terrified Captain Bligh. It cost Naxos a fortune, and he loved it. It belonged to his wife.
Craig sat outside a waterfront cafe watching the
Philippa come into harbor, her whiteness so pure in the sunlight that the eye ached to see it. The Philippa was beautiful, the swift elegance of her fighting ship's fines miraculously preserved, though she was now no more than the most expensive toy ever built. Good for thirty knots at least, and strong enough to face a North Atlantic gale in February. As she came to rest at last and the anchor cable roared through the hawseholes, Craig remembered that the Philippa had been built five miles from where he was born, and the thought gave him pleasure.
