by Jack Higgins
On the return journey, once back at the nets, they would carry on fishing. It had always worked perfectly until that night, when Maria switched on the great double sodium lamps in the prow of the boat whose light attracted the fish and saw, instead, a hand reaching out to her and then a bloodstained face.
'Mother of God, a sea-devil,' old George cried, and raised an oar to strike.
She pushed him away. 'Back, you old fool. Can't you tell a man when you see one? Help me get him in.'
*
Morgan lay in the bottom of the boat while she examined him.
'He's been shot,' her husband said.
'Can I not see this for myself? Twice. The flesh is torn across the shoulder and here, in the upper part of the left arm. A bullet has passed straight through.'
'What shall we do? Take him to Hydra town to the doctor?'
'To what end?' she said with contempt, for like many old Hydriot peasant women, herbal remedies and potions were a way of life to her. 'What can he do that I cannot do better? And there would be the police. It would be necessary to report the affair and the question of the cigarettes would arise.' Her leathery face creased in a smile. 'You, my George, are too old to go to jail.'
Morgan opened his eyes and said in Greek, 'No police, whatever you do.'
She turned and punched her husband in the shoulder. 'See, he has spoken, our man from the sea. Let's get him ashore before he dies on us.'
They were in a small horseshoe bay, he was aware of that, with a tiny fringe of beach, pine trees flooding down from the mountain above.
The jetty was built of massive stone blocks, stretching out into deep water. A strange thing to find in such a deserted spot. He didn't know then that it was over a hundred and fifty years old, dating from the Greek War of Independence when this bay had held up to twenty Hydriot armed schooners waiting to pounce on any vessel of the Turkish fleet unwary enough to approach that coast.
It had stopped raining, and in the moonlight Morgan was aware of several ruined buildings as the old man helped him ashore. He swayed a little, curiously lightheaded.
Maria put an arm about him, holding him with surprising strength. 'Now is not the time to fall down, boy. Now is time for strength.'
Someone laughed and Morgan realized, with a sense of surprise, that it was himself. 'Boy, mother?' he said. 'I have seen almost fifty years - fifty long, bloody years.'
'Then life should no longer surprise you.'
There was a movement in the shadows and old George appeared from one of the buildings leading a mule. It had no stirrups, only a blanket and a traditional pack saddle on its back made of wood and leather.
'And what do I do with that? Morgan asked.
'Mount, my son.' She pointed up through the pines. 'There on the mountain. There is safety, a warm bed.' She stroked his face with the back of one hand. 'You will do this for me, eh? This last thing with all your strength so that we may get thee home?'
For some reason he felt close to tears for the first time in years. 'Yes, Mam,' he found himself saying in Welsh. 'Take me home.'
The shock of a gunshot wound is such, that for most people, it temporarily freezes the nervous system. It is only later that the pain comes as it came to Morgan, holding on tightly to the wooden saddle as the mule started up the rocky path through the pine trees, old Geroge leading it, Maria walking on the left side, one hand grasping Morgan's belt.
'Are you all right?' she asked in Greek.
'Yes,' he said, light-headed now. 'I'm indestructible. Saving myself for that bastard Mikali.'
The pain was sharp and cruel, like a hot iron. Korea, Aden, Cyprus; old scars opening up instantly so that his body jerked in agony and his hands gripped the wooden pommel of the saddle as if he was hanging on to life itself.
And she knew, and her hand tightened in his belt and the old voice was deeper than anything he had ever known, more insistent, cutting through the pain.
'You will hold now,' she said. 'You will not let go till I tell thee to.'
It was the last thing he heard. When they arrived at the small farmhouse, high on the mountain, half an hour later and George tied the mule and turned to help him down, he was unconscious in the saddle, his hands locked on the pommel so tightly that they had to prise his fingers loose one by one.
Katherine Riley was totally exhausted after the night flight and four hours in an Athens hotel where she hadn't slept for a moment, tossing and turning in the heat, rising early to catch the taxi she had ordered to take her to the Piraeus.
Even the early-morning run to Hydra, the sheer beauty of it, had failed to rouse her in any way. She was afraid. What Morgan had suggested was stupid, wicked. Simply not possible. She had given her body to Mikali, he had given her a joy in life denied to her ever since her father's death. Awareness, understanding.
Words, only words. No comfort in any of it, she knew that as she disembarked from the Flying Dolphin at Hydra and Constantine came forward to take her suitcase.
She had never felt comfortable with him, had always imagined that he disapproved of her. He seldom spoke, pretending his English to be worse than it was as he did now when they turned out of harbour and she went into the wheelhouse.
'Nicky?' she said. 'Isn't he with you?'
He made no reply, simply boosted the controls. 'Is he in Athens with his mother?'
They moved out past the point and picked up speed. She gave up then and went and sat in the stern, turned her face up to the morning sun and closed her burning eyes.
When they moved in towards the jetty, Mikali was waiting beside old Anna and the boy. He wore dark sunglasses, a white sweatshirt and faded jeans and waved excitedly, his mouth opening in a smile, showing the good teeth.
She was more afraid than ever, not knowing what she was going to say as he reached out a hand to help her ashore. His smile changed to a look of concern.
'Katherine? What is it?'
She fought to hold back the tears. 'I'm so bloody tired. All that time hanging about at Heathrow and then the flight and that terrible little hotel in Athens.'
His arms were around her then, and he was smiling again. 'Remember what Scott Fitzgerald said? A hot bath and I can go on for hours. That's what you need.'
He picked up her suitcase and spoke to Constantine in Greek. As they started up the path to the villa, she said, 'What were you telling him?'
'To be back in Hydra for noon. I've got someone coming in from Paris. My French lawyer, Jean Paul Deville. You've heard me speak of him.'
'Will he be staying?'
'Probably only tonight. Business, that's all. Some important papers I have to sign.' His arm tightened and he kissed her cheek. 'But never mind that. Let's get you into that bath.'
*
In a way, it worked. She lay there, the hot water soaking away every ache, every pain and he brought her ice-cold champagne and brandy in a crystal goblet.
'It's beautiful,' she said. 'I've never seen it before.'
'Seventeenth-century Venetian. That great-great-great-grandfather of mine, the one who was Admiral of the Hydriot Fleet, took it off a Turkish ship at the battle of Navarino.' He grinned. 'Lie back - enjoy it while I make lunch.'
'You?' she said.
He turned in the doorway and smiled, spreading his arms wide in that inimitable gesture. 'And why not? Nothing is impossible to the great Mikali.'
The brandy and the champagne went straight to her head, yet in a way that was new to her. Instead of confusion, a dulling of the senses, there was a sharpening. She saw quite clearly now that this could not go on. This thing that was eating at her must be brought into the open.
She got out of the bath, pulled on a towelling robe, went into the bedroom and sat down in front of the dressing-table, combing her hair quickly. There was the softest of footfalls and he appeared in the mirror, standing in the doorway, anonymous in the dark glasses.
'Okay, angel, what is it?'
She sat there, staring at him in the mirror. Stran
ge how easily the words came out.
'Remember my Welsh Colonel, Morgan; the one who came to see Lieselott Hoffmann?'
'Sure I do. The guy whose daughter was knocked down by the Cretan after the Cohen shooting.'
'How do you know that?'
'You told me.'
She remembered then and nodded slowly. 'Yes, I shouldn't have done. That was supposed to be confidential.'
He lit a cigarette and moved to the window beside her. 'Confidences? Between us?'
'He thinks you're the Cretan,' she said.
Mikali stared at her, bewildered. 'He what?'
'He says you were giving a concert at the Albert Hall the night the Cretan shot Cohen. That's on the other side of Kensington Gardens from where he dumped the car.'
'This is crazy.'
'He says you were at the Cannes Film Festival when Forlani was murdered.'
'So was half of Hollywood.'
'And at Frankfurt University when that East German minister, Klein, was shot.'
He turned her on the seat, his hands on her shoulders. 'I told you that myself. Don't you remember? The first time we met when I gave the Cambridge concert. We were discussing the Hoffmann girl and the circumstances of the killing and I told you I was in Frankfurt at the time.'
It all came flooding back then and she moaned in a kind of release. 'Oh, God, so you did. I remember now.'
His arms were around her. 'He must be out of his mind. Is he going round shooting his mouth off like this to everybody?'
'No,' she said. 'I asked him if he'd spoken to Baker, the Special Branch man, but he said no. He said it was his affair - nobody else's.'
'When did he tell you this?'
'Yesterday morning early - on the telephone.'
'And you haven't met him since?'
'No - he said he was going to do some more checking. That he'd keep me posted.' The tears came then. 'He's obsessed, don't you see? I'm so afraid.'
'Nothing to be afraid about, angel. Not a single thing.'
He led her across to the bed and pulled back the coverlet. 'What you need is sleep.'
She obeyed him like a child and lay there, her eyes closed, trembling. After a while, the coverlet was pulled back and he slipped in beside her.
She turned her head blindly into his shoulder as one arm went around her and the other hand unfastened her robe. And then his mouth was on hers and her arms were around him in a passion fiercer than she had ever known before.
Deville leaned on the balustrade of the terrace and looked out across the sea to where Dokos drifted in the afternoon heat haze.
Mikali came out through the french windows with a glass in each hand. 'You still prefer to ruin good Napoleon with ice cubes, I suppose?'
'But of course.' Deville took the glass from him and gestured out across the sea. 'This really is very beautiful. You're going to miss it.'
Mikali put his glass down on the balustrade and lit a cigarette. 'And what's that supposed to mean?'
'It's very simple. You've had it. We both have. If Morgan managed to discover your identity, then eventually so will someone else. Oh, I don't mean next month, or even next year. But certainly the year after.' He smiled and lifted his shoulders in a shrug. 'Or perhaps next Wednesday.'
'And if they got me, whoever it turned out to be,' Mikali said, 'you think I'd talk? Sell you down the river?'
'Rubber hoses went out with the Gestapo,' Deville told him. 'They'd stick a hypodermic in your arm and fill you full of succinylcholine, a rather unpleasant drug which takes you to about as close to dying as a human being can get. The experience is so awful that few people could stand the thought of a second helping.' He smiled gently. 'I'd sing like a bird, John, and so would the Cretan Lover.'
A mile out to sea the hydrofoil passed on its way to Spetsae. Mikali said, 'And what would you suggest?'
'Time to go home, my friend!'
'To dear old mother Russia?' Mikali laughed out loud. 'It may be home to you, old buddy, but it doesn't mean a damn thing to me. And if it comes to that, what about you? You've been away too long. They'll give you a VIP card to shop in the special section at GUM but it's hardly Gucci. And when you're queuing up in Red Square to get a look at Lenin in his mausoleum, you'll be thinking of Paris and the Champs-Elysees and the smell of damp chestnut trees along the boulevards after a shower.'
'Very poetic, but it doesn't alter the fact of the matter. My old grandmother used to get rheumatism and knew it would rain within twenty-four hours. I can smell trouble with equal facility. Time to go, believe me.'
'For you, maybe,' Mikali said stubbornly. 'Not for me.'
'But what will you do?' Deville was genuinely bewildered. 'I don't understand.'
'Live a day at a time.'
'And when that special day arrives, the day they come for you?'
Mikali was wearing a loose cashmere sweater which concealed a Burns and Martin spring holster clipped to the small of his back. His right hand came up holding a Walther.
'Remember my Ceska? That was my London gun. This is the Hydriot variety. As I told you, I'm always ready.'
At that moment the phone started to ring. He excused himself and went inside. Deville sat on the balustrade looking out towards Dokos, savouring his cognac. Mikali was right, of course. Paris was the only city, or London on a good day. Moscow meant nothing to him now. He thought of the winter there and shivered involuntarily. And there was no one - not really. A cousin or two. No other close relative. But what choice did he have?
Mikali came out through the french windows laughing, a glass in one hand, a bottle of Napoleon brandy in the other.
'Isn't life the damnedest thing.' His face was ablaze with excitement. 'That was Bruno - Bruno Fischer, my agent. Andre Previn's just been on to him. It's the last night of the Proms this Saturday. Mary Schroder was to play John Ireland's piano concerto. She's broken her wrist playing tennis, the silly bitch.'
'And they want you to take her place?'
'Previn's offered to change the programme. Let me play Rachmaninov's Fourth. We've done it together before so it wouldn't take too much rehearsing. Let's see. Today's Thursday. If I catch tonight's plane, I'll be in London tomorrow. That gives me two days to rehearse.'
Deville had never seen him so alive. 'No, John,' he said. 'To go back to London now would be the worst possible thing for you. I feel it my bones.'
'The Promenade Concerts, Jean Paul,' Mikali said. 'The most important series of concerts in the European musical scene. In the entire world, dammit. Do you know what it's like on the last night?'
'No, I've never been.'
'Then you've missed out on one of life's great experiences. Packed from floor to ceiling, every seat taken and in the arena in front of the stage, the kids who've queued to get in for three days, stand shoulder-to-shoulder. Can you imagine what it's like to be asked to play on such a night?'
'Yes,' Deville nodded slowly. 'I can imagine.'
'Oh, no, you can't, old buddy,' Mikali said. 'Oh, no, you can't.'
He emptied the brandy glass in one quick swallow and tossed it out into space. It flashed in the sunlight like flame descending, splintered on the rocks below.
Katherine Riley awoke, lay there for a moment trying to remember where she was. She was alone. When she checked her watch it was two-thirty in the afternoon.
She got up and dressed quickly in jeans and a simple white blouse, pulled on a pair of sandals and went in search of Mikali.
There was no sign of him in the living-room, but the sound of voices took her out to the terrace where she found him standing with Deville.
He came to meet her, put an arm about her waist and kissed her cheek. 'Feeling better?'
'I think so.'
'Jean Paul, this is the light of my life, Doctor Katherine Riley. Be careful what you say, I warn you. She'll psychoanalyse the hell out of you.'
'Doctor, a great pleasure.' Deville kissed her hand gallantly.
Mikali, unable to contain himself,
took both her hands in his. 'I've just had Bruno on the phone. Previn wants me to substitute for Mary Schroder. The Rachmaninov.'
Which for him meant only one concerto, the one he had made especially his own - the Fourth - and she knew that
'When?' she said.
'Saturday - the last night of the Proms.'
'How absolutely marvellous.' She flung her arms about his neck in a gesture of spontaneous delight. 'But Saturday. That's the day after tomorrow.'
'I know. It means catching tonight's flight from Athens if I'm to have enough rehearsal time. Will you mind? After all, you've only just got off the plane.'
'Not at all.' She glanced at the Frenchman. 'And you, Monsieur Deville? Will you come also?'
Mikali said, 'No, Jean Paul has to get back to Paris. He only came to get me to sign some papers. He's handling the legal side of a trust that's been endowed by business interests in Paris and London to help young musicians of exceptional talent. They've bought a large country house near Paris. When it's ready, we plan to run master classes.'
'We?' she said.
'I've offered my services free. I'm hoping other notable musicians might do the same.'
All her earlier fears seemed like some stupid dream. She put an arm around his waist. 'I think it's a marvellous idea.'
'Fine - now how about something to eat?'
She shook her head. 'Actually, I could do with some air. I think I'll take a walk if you don't mind.'
'Sure, whatever you like.' He kissed her again. 'We'll see you later.'
He stood on the tiny veranda of the end window and watched her go down through the garden.
'Brilliant,' Deville said. 'What a performance. You almost had me believing you. How do you do it?'
'Oh, one learns,' Mikali said. 'Over the years, don't you find? The lies, the deceits. Practice - lots of practice, that's the secret.' He smiled. 'Now, how about a drink?'
