The boy nodded vigorously.
“Did you see what happened here in this square tonight? Did you see the police take that young man?”
The nod was even more vigorous.
“If you don’t want them to do the same thing to you, you tell me where you got this cap. That’s an order!”
If the boy started to cry, it was all over. He looked longingly towards the row of windows from whence his mother’s call had come, but there was no reassurance. The tall man was still holding a rifle and his face was as ugly as the police. Desperately, the boy swung about and pointed off down the road beyond the taverna.
“Far,” he cried.
“How far?” Brad demanded.
The boy was groping for English words. “One—two kilometres,” he said.
“Who gave you the cap?”
“Nobody gave. I found on road.”
“That road?”
Brad gestured with the rifle and the boy nodded.
“What’s down that road?” he asked.
The terrible struggle with language began again. The boy scowled, twisted his body then blurted out: “Christos!”
“Christos? Do you mean a church?”
He had guessed right. The boy nodded again. Brad let go of his arm.
“All right,” he said. “Get along home. No, wait—” He shifted the rifle to the hand holding the cap and pulled a hundred drachmae note from his pocket. “This is for the cap,” he said.
The bargain seemed satisfactory, “Okay!” shouted the boy and ran off into the darkness.
It was Harry Avery’s cap. He might have had one or a dozen for all Brad knew, but a cap went with him everywhere he travelled. It was the thing that was Harry’s, as Rhona had reminded him last night in the hotel. It didn’t mean that he was alive, but it did mean that, even if he were dead, someone had found his body and it wasn’t far away.
Seated on an eminence overlooking the lake of the same name, the small city of Kastoria merged into the darkness. At his hotel, Brooks Martins completed a call to his wife from a lobby telephone. Lois was upset. There had been a call on the private wire late in the afternoon from a girl named Katerina Brisos. She claimed that an American, Bradley Smith, had given her the number with instructions to request protection, if she was threatened by the political police. The girl had been harassed on her afternoon tour—she was a tour guide, Lois explained. She was worried—not about herself, but about her brother and the man, Smith. They were bound for Kastoria. Had they arrived? Martins, whose pontoon-equipped plane was now moored on the lake, couldn’t answer. He promised to keep an eye out for Smith. He told Lois to authorize a watch on the Brisos girl’s apartment, if she called again.
“I don’t know her,” he said, “but I’ve met Smith. You remember, the man at the Hilton bar last night?”
“Of course,” Lois said. “That Smith. He seemed such a nice young man.”
“He seemed a determined young man,” Martins said. “If he gave a girl my number, he must have thought there was a good reason. I may be up here a few days. McKeough went out to look at the plane wreckage and I’m waiting for him now so we can have dinner. Nothing on Avery yet. Take care.”
They said their goodnights and Martins started into the dining room. On the way he was distracted by an unexpected arrival in the lobby. Through the glass doors, he saw a steel-grey Ferrari nose into the driveway and park at the kerb. A tall young woman, with patrician features, got out from behind the wheel and tossed the keys to the man seated beside her.
“The bags are in the boot,” she said. “Can you manage?”
The man got out of the car and Martins recognized him immediately. It was Avery’s lawyer: Peter Lange. But the woman wasn’t Mrs. Avery and he was grateful for that. Mrs. Avery seemed too emotional, when he last saw her, to risk having her underfoot here. The woman entered the lobby—a striking figure anywhere. Simply dressed in a close fitting, powder-blue suit, her silvered, cropped hair uncovered, her stride long and confident, she walked directly to the registration desk.
“I called from Athens,” she said. “I reserved two rooms. Pattison Blair and Peter Lange.”
Pattison Blair. Now Martins remembered. They had met once at a semi-official dinner party and he had had great difficulty reconciling the mad-cap Pattison Blair of the sensational press, with the quiet young lady, who spent most of the evening discussing finance with the better economic brains at the gathering. This was before Harry Avery had come to Athens, but even then there had been rumours of their romance. Avery was a man he had never met. Again the preconception confused him. Avery was fifteen years her senior, already married, neither handsome nor polished. But the inner needs of a man or a woman could never be understood. Viva il mistero! Martins smiled inwardly. Lois would have accused him of being a busybody. So he was. It was a part of his training to try to read people. By the time Peter Lange entered the lobby, followed by a porter carrying two small bags, Pattison Blair had registered and was ready to go to her room. Then she spied Martins watching her from across the lobby. Directly, as was her style, she came towards him, whipping off the owl-like driving glasses as she came.
“Mr. Brooks Martins,” she said. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“And I’m surprised to see you here,” Martins said.
“Have you found Harry?”
“No, not yet.”
“But the pilot, I understand, is dead.”
Lange joined them, waiting. Martins caught his eye.
“That was confidential information,” he said. “You seem to have been included.”
“I have a right to be included. Where is the pilot?”
“At the local mortuary.”
“Can I see his body?”
“That’s a strange request, Miss Blair. Were you acquainted?”
“No. We never met.”
“Then I think it unlikely that you can see him—especially tonight. Why did you ask?”
“I’m curious about how he died.”
“Quite suddenly, I’m told. In the crash. Broken neck.”
“Has there been an autopsy?”
“Not yet.”
“There must be one. Peter, you know Brooks Martins, of course.”
“We met yesterday,” Lange said.
“He’s quite handsome, isn’t he?”
The question embarrassed both Lange and Martins. She was aware of that. She smiled. “I’m not really being irrelevant,” she said. “That’s what it’s really all about, isn’t it? The black-white struggle, I mean. We all fear competition just a bit. It’s more comfortable to think one race is less beautiful or less intelligent or less sexually attractive. Now, don’t get uptight, Mr. Martins. Your marriage is notoriously successful—old-fashioned and quaint, but I like it. Peter, tell the man why we’re here.”
Peter Lange remained outwardly icy. “Miss Blair is interested in learning the cause of the crash,” he said.
“You sound too much like a lawyer,” Pattison interrupted. “Miss Blair, Mr. Martins, wants to know if there’s any chance that plane was sabotaged. Deliberately wrecked. You see, I have uncommonly bad luck with my men friends getting themselves killed, by one means or another. It’s become a kind of plague.”
“Do you suspect anyone?” Martins asked.
“That’s not important now. I just want to know what happened.”
“Then you want to know just what I want to know,” Martins answered. “At this point I know nothing except that there’s a mess of wreckage, in a canyon accessible only by mule. It hasn’t been examined by experts, so nothing factual is known.”
“Was Harry doing something for the government?” she asked.
“Do you think I would tell you if he was?” Martins said.
“Perhaps you just have,” she said. “I’m going up to my room now. If you have time, maybe we can have a drink together, later.”
“I won’t tell you anything.”
“No matter. You can fix it f
or me to see the pilot’s body. You can let me know if you learn anything about that plane. I’m a big girl now. Shall I tell you something? I think Harry’s dead.”
She left Martins to absorb this shock. She turned and marched towards the elevator and Peter Lange followed, like an obedient puppy who has recently and reluctantly been broken to the leash.
Brooks Martins was at the bar when McKeough returned.
“Do you know who’s here?” McKeough asked.
“Pattison Blair and Avery’s attorney, Lange,” Martins said.
McKeough looked surprised. “No kidding? Why?”
“Aren’t you up on the society gossip?”
“Hell, no. Why should I be? Waiter, wring out the driest Martini you’ve got. And never mind the explanation, Brooks. What I started to tell you is that Koumaris is here.”
“Now it’s my turn. Why?” Martins asked.
“He’s chasing a suspect in the bombing-robbery mess of last night. Worse than that, he’s caught him.”
Martins was drinking Scotch. He lowered his glass thoughtfully.
“Who?”
“Some young Greek fire-brand named Brisos. I just came from the local police station. Stopped off to see what I could learn, on my way back from questioning the men who brought in the pilot’s body. No chance of getting down to that wreckage until daylight, incidentally. They tell me it’s pretty well splattered all over the mountainside—that’s why it took so long to find it.”
“Brisos,” Martins repeated. “Where was he caught?”
“At some little taverna at the edge of town, where the rebels hang out. Ambushed, I hear.”
“Was he alone?”
“That’s what the captain is trying to find out. Knowing his methods, it shouldn’t take long.”
“But he was taken alone?”
“Yes, if it’s that important.”
“It’s that important. He didn’t come here alone. He came driving a car rented by Brad Smith.”
“Your American? The one you’re so sure of?”
Martins downed the rest of his Scotch in one swallow.
“The same. How many hotels are there in this place?”
“I don’t know. I can find out but not before dinner. Who do you want? Smith?”
“Yes. It seems my confidential information that I gave to Mrs. Avery and her friends isn’t so confidential any more. I want to know why.”
They finished their drinks and went into the dining room. Notoriety hadn’t left Kastoria untouched. There were people at the tables who didn’t have the tourist look: some reporters, some of Koumaris’ men. Near the windows, seated alone at a table facing the moonlit lake below, was a stocky, lantern-jawed man with Slavic cheekbones, huge shoulders accented by an ill-fitted suit and an air of complete indifference to everything about him, except a large plate of lamb wrapped in grape leaves.
McKeough saw him first.
“Popenko!” he whispered. “Brooks, I hit it right. He’s here and he’s not being shy about it.”
“Good,” Martins said. “At least we know the Russians haven’t found Harry Avery. Popenko’s going to let us do it for him.”
In the garage behind police headquarters, a thick-set chauffeur raised the hood of the big black Mercedes and began to race the motor. The engines of two other vehicles in the garage were already throbbing. The combined din would annoy the residents of the street and bring angry faces to the lighted windows of their apartments, but the sound was less painful to the ears than the screams of the man upstairs.
Above the garage, in a small room containing only two chairs and a wooden table, Stephanos Brisos prepared himself for the next blow. Strapped on his back to the table, he could no longer see or hear his tormentors. He could no longer apprehend the terse questions, but was grateful for them. A question brought cessation to the beating. Already the seams of his heavy walking boots had split to make room for the swelling flesh of his bleeding feet. At the foot of the table stood Lieutenant Zervios, with an iron bar in his hand. At Stephanos’s head stood Captain Koumaris with his hands clasped behind his back. Stephanos opened his eyes. The featureless face of the captain swam above him, like an unrestored mosaic in an ancient church. He heard the indistinguishable words once more and the mosaic disappeared.
“Get some water,” Koumaris ordered. “He’s fainted.”
Zervios went to the door and passed on the order to a uniformed man in the hall.
“Lay off the falanga for a while,” Koumaris added. “When he comes around I’ll try another method.”
Minutes passed. Stephanos’ head was turning slowly from side to side, when Zervios returned with a pail of water and a towel. He dipped the towel in the water and slapped it across the boy’s face. Stephanos groaned.
“Once more,” Koumaris ordered.
The towel was too slow. Zervios drew back and tossed half of the water over Stephanos’ head. He spluttered, coughed and opened his eyes. He was conscious again, and the world was nothing but pain.
“Stephanos Brisos,” Captain Koumaris announced clearly. He watched the boy’s eyes. They were alert. He was listening. “Stephanos Brisos has a sister, Katerina. Isn’t that so, Zervios?”
Before Zervios could respond, open terror was in the boy’s eyes.
“Katerina!” he gasped. “Where—is Katerina?”
Koumaris nodded and Zervios tossed the rest of the water over the boy’s head. He glared at them now, with dripping black hair plastered to his forehead and streams of water running down his face.
“Katerina is a guide. This morning she took a group of tourists to Epidauros,” the captain continued. “At the theatre she gave a splendid speech. My men tell me that it’s true, the acoustics are so perfect the lowest voice carries to the uppermost seats.”
“Where is Katerina?” Stephanos cried. “She’s done nothing! She knows nothing!”
“But you do know something, don’t you, Stephanos? And you wouldn’t want us to bring Katerina here and let you watch while she’s put in your place.”
“She’s done nothing!” Stephanos screamed.
“She’s the sister of a traitor!”
“I am no traitor! You are the traitor!”
“That’s enough! Who were you going to meet at the taverna? Tell us the truth and no one will touch your sister.”
Stephanos closed his eyes as if going faint again. Zervios swung the wet towel and slapped him awake.
“Who?” Koumaris roared. “And what have you done with the money taken from the Kolinos brokerage?”
Katerina. He would concentrate on Katerina. He would remember everything about her: how she walked with her head so high, how she smiled, how she laughed and made her nose wrinkle. He would remain conscious because he must listen to this animal and make sure he hadn’t taken Katerina. He must never do to her what had been done to Anna. Stephanos clung to awareness and waited for the next blow. Instead, there was a sharp knock at the door. Irritated, Koumaris turned to Zervios.
“See who that is. I said no one was to come upstairs!”
Zervios dropped the towel and empty bucket, and went to the door. In the hall stood a policeman with a handcuffed man at his side.
“The driver of the truck,” the policeman said. “We found him, Lieutenant. He admits that he drove the truck from Larissa this afternoon.”
“The truck that blocked the road for us?” Koumaris shouted. “Bring him inside and let him see what happens to hoodlums!”
The man was pushed roughly into the room. He was a large-boned, awkward man dressed in a loose fitting jacket, unmatched trousers and a leather cap. He stared at Stephanos, still strapped to the table, and then at the bloody lumps that were his feet. His mouth opened but he could speak no words. Horrified, he tried to turn away. Zervios blocked the exit.
“Have you seen this man before?” Zervios demanded.
Tearing his gaze from the stumps, the man concentrated on Stephanos’ face. He needed no other prompting for his
memory processes.
“Yes, I have seen him.”
“Where did you first see him?”
“Today at a garage in Larissa. I was putting water in the radiator of my truck. It’s an old truck. The motor overheats. This man approached me and asked if I would follow him to Kastoria. He promised to pay me one thousand drachmae.”
“And you agreed?”
“One thousand drachmae,” the driver repeated. “I am a very poor man. I have children. He gave me five hundred in advance.”
“And were you to honk the horn and block the roadway if anyone approached from behind?”
“Anyone I didn’t know—or anyone who didn’t look like tourists.”
“Did you ask why he wanted you to do this?”
“For that kind of money—no. I was coming to Kastoria anyway.”
“Was this man alone?”
“When I talked to him, yes. When he drove away, another man was in the car with him.”
“Did you know that man?”
“No, sir. He wore a very fine suit. I think he was American.”
“Smith!” Zervios cried.
“I will draw the conclusions,” the captain said, coldly. “Now then, my friend, you see your great benefactor in agony. You say you are a poor man with children, so you don’t want to get yourself in this kind of mess, do you? Were you paid the other five hundred drachmae?”
The driver was trembling. With difficulty he answered: “In Kastoria,” he said. “That was after I picked up this man and the American when they got rid of the car.”
“Got rid of the car? Where?”
“There’s a side road about forty or fifty kilometres outside Kastoria—near the bridges. It’s there yet, for all I know.”
“The rented Fiat,” Koumaris recalled. “Zervios, send someone out there to find it. There may be some evidence inside.”
“Maybe the money,” Zervios said.
“No, I hardly think this one would leave that behind. Would you Stephanos? Stephanos!”
It was useless. Stephanos was unconscious again. There was so much to do now and so few trusted hands to do it. With a gesture of contempt, Koumaris turned away from the table. “Have him put in a cell for the night. He’ll feel more like talking when we get back to him.”
Shot on Location Page 11
