So he likes to lie on the beach . . . how do I arrange for a tidal wave? He likes shashlik for lunch ... do I stab him with a skewer? Setting this up the way they want me to do it would take weeks, and they expect me to find an angle in one day. It can't be done. Even if Eddie or Vasily were here it wouldn't work. They wouldn't see any more than I did.
He was wrong about that. Either Eddie or Vasily would have noticed the tiny strip of beach below the Andriakis house, the sailboat moored offshore, and a second boat that had been run up onto the beach under cover of darkness. They would have noticed the way Andriakis drove the hairpin turns of the hilly island roads, cutting corners so sharply that a blowout on a turn would mean disaster. They would have noticed the suntan oil that he spread on his body so liberally and would at once have started their chemical calculations. But Emerson saw none of that. He saw only a bland man in a bland routine, and he decided that he would have to shoot him.
I'll wait another hour, he thought miserably. If he doesn't come out, or if nothing else happens, I'll go home, and tomorrow I'll take him out with the gun. After that I'll just have to take my chances on getting off the island. It's the wrong way to do it, but what else can I do?
While Emerson asked himself these questions, Peter Andriakis sat across a heavy wooden table from a bulky man with a weatherbeaten face. Between them, on the table, rested a bottle of retsina and a bowl of olives, both of them untouched. The two men had been talking steadily for over an hour with no time for food or drink. The contrast between the two was notable. Andriakis, the Greek-American who was fifty and looked forty, was slim and elegant in white linen, his shirt open to the waist and a bronze medallion gleaming on his chest. Lex Enhora, an Albanian who was fifty and looked over sixty, was dressed in jeans cut down to shorts, a tattered cotton vest, and a pair of ancient sneakers. Despite the disparity of dress, the two men conversed as equals, Andriakis' job with the Agency was to run agents inside Communist Albania, and of those agents Enhora was the most important.
The proximity of the northeastern tip of Corfu to the Albanian mainland had been a problem for the Tirana government for years. Obsessed with internal security, more secretive than even the Russians, and very much aware of their anomalous position as China's only Communist ally in Europe, the Albanians had lined their borders with steel and their Adriatic coastline with patrol boats. The result had been a state hermetically sealed off from the rest of the world, save for the tender spot at Corfu. With only a mile and a half separating the Greek island from the Albanian mainland, it was impossible to maintain a truly integral border. Fishing boats from both countries "accidentally" fetched themselves up on the wrong side of the passage, other boats easily eluded the patrols at night, and strong swimmers were known to negotiate the strait without the benefit of any boat at all.
One of the Albanians who regularly made the surreptitious trip to Corfu was Lex Enhora. To his farmhouse outside of Buthroton on the mainland came intelligence reports from a network of agents throughout Albania, and once each week he slipped across the water to run his sailing dinghy up onto the beach below the house at Kalami and transmit this information to Peter Andriakis. On this particular occasion his report had been a long one dealing with the new construction at the port of Durres, and the hour was late when the two men finally rose from the table. Business over, Enhora then proceeded to the second reason for his trip to Corfu that night: to collect a priest for his daughter's wedding the next day.
"Where is this priest that you found for me?" he asked.
"He's waiting down at the beach," Andriakis told him. "He's a good man, Lex, but he's young and he's nervous. This is his first trip across, so take good care of him."
"As if he were my brother," Lex promised. "I'll have your priest back here safely two days from now. By God, but I wish you could be there for the wedding."
"We've gone over this before. It would be too risky."
"No, it wouldn't, I promise you. The only people there will be close family, people I can trust."
Andriakis shook his head. "I can't take the chance."
"A shame. My only daughter gets married, and my best friend won't be there for the wedding."
Like some 20 percent of his fellow countrymen, Enhora was a member of the Greek Orthdox faith living in a predominantly Muslim country. At least, he would have been a member of the faith and the country would have been Muslim had not the Tirana government closed down every church and mosque in Albania years before in a move to create what it called "the first atheist state in the world."
Ever since then religion had flourished only underground in Albania, which, for the Greek Orthodox community there, had meant the clandestine celebration of weddings, christenings, and the holy days - always at night, and always in some secluded spot away from the eyes of the police. It had also meant the secret importation of priests from Greece to preside over these rites, and Enhora had come to his good friend Andriakis for just that purpose.
The two men walked down to the tiny beach of sand and shale below the house where the priest was waiting. For this occasion he had discarded his cassock and stovepipe hat - they lay packed in the canvas bag at his feet - and only his full black beard indicated his calling. He was clearly nervous, and Andriakis knew he had reason to be. The three men pushed the sailing dinghy back into the water, and the priest climbed aboard. With wavelets curling around his knees, Enhora put a hand on his friend's arm.
"Are you sure you won't cross over tomorrow?" he asked plaintively. "It would mean a lot to all of us, especially Melina."
Andriakis hesitated, tempted. He knew what the next day would be like. In the afternoon Melina Enhora and her bridegroom would be married in a civil ceremony in the state office in Buthroton, but that night in the privacy of the Enhora barn, cleaned and decorated for the occasion, the marriage would be properly celebrated in the old-fashioned style. After the ceremony with the priest there would be feasting and drinking, the bouzoukis would play, and the men would dance. It was the sort of evening that Andriakis enjoyed more than any other, and he was tempted to say yes. He had stayed at the house before, but this would mean exposing himself to people who were strangers to him, close family or not. He shook his head again.
"I'm sorry, old friend, but it can't be done. Give Melina a kiss for me, and take good care of my priest. Watch out for the sharks on the other side."
Enhora showed his teeth in a grin to indicate what he thought of the Albanian patrol boats, and then he climbed aboard to hoist sail.
" Yussas, Peter," he called. "See you next week."
Andriakis watched until the dinghy, running under sail and without lights, merged with the darkness and was gone. He went back to the house, poured himself a tiny measure of retsina, and threw it down. The report had been a good one, and he was pleased with the evening's work. He looked at his watch. It was just past ten, plenty of time for him to hear the new bouzouki player at the taverne in Pyrgi. Other than his work, the music and the dancing of Greece were his twin passions, most particularly the music of the eight-string mandolin called the bouzouki. In Corfu the word "bouzouki" stood not only for the instrument, but also for the dance and for the way of life it engendered. To go "bouzouki-ing" meant to bounce from tavern to tavern drinking the wine and dancing the stately svtali, the wildly energetic naftikos, the butchers' chasapikos, and at the end of a long night, flushed with wine and joy, to dance alone in the zermebekikos to the admiration and applause of the onlookers. The appearance of a new bouzouki player of repute was an irresistible lure to Andriakis, and fifteen minutes after he had seen off Lex Enhora he was on his way to the taverne at Pyrgi.
The tavern was crowded; too many tourists, of course, but enough of the regulars to preserve the legitimacy of the occasion. The new player was a boy named Yanis, still in his teens but with impeccable technique and a born affinity to the music. He played Koritaski Mou, and the Greeks in the room nodded nostalgically. He played Frangosiriani, the dance from Piraeus, and
the tourists in the room murmured, "Never on Sunday." He played Samiotisa, and Froso and Yerakina, and the tempo of the dancing picked up, the tempo of the drinking kept pace, and wild yips of exultation echoed from the walls of the taverne.
Then, without a pause, he segued into the choppy rhythm of the zeimbekikos, and the women on the dance floor drew away and sat down, for this dance was for men only. One of the men was Andriakis, standing arrogant and straight, eyes and heels flashing, clearly the most impressive figure on the floor. The Greeks in the room recognized him, called his name, and applauded. The music grew faster and wilder, Yanis' finger flashing on the bouzouki, and one by one the other men dropped away to give Andriakis the floor to himself. He danced alone, seemingly indifferent to the cries of encouragement that came from the tables. From one of those tables a hand offered a glass of ouzo. Without breaking step or spilling a drop, he saluted the donor and gulped down the fiery stuff. He tossed the glass away casually; it crashed on the floor. As if on signal, someone else tossed an empty glass, and it also shattered. Another glass, another and then the plates began to fly and crash, Greek and tourist alike smashing crockery, hurling the dishes in a passionate frenzy as the music built to a climax with Andriakis dancing alone, accepting the tribute. From the back of the room the owner of the taveme looked on happily. The cost of the crockery was included in the price of the drinks, and he considered it a bad night for business when plates were left unbroken.
Emerson watched the scene in amazement from a table near the door. He had never seen anything like it, and it had taken a while for him to realize that the plate breaking was part of a local tradition. Now, with the zeimbekikos over, the owner of the tavern stood in the middle of the dance floor holding up his hands for silence. When he got it he made an announcement in Greek, then repeated it in English.
"Thass all for now, ever-body. You drink, you dance, but no more throwing. We got no more dishes."
The crowd groaned.
"You come back tomorrow. Tomorrow we got more dishes. Tomorrow Yanis plays bouzouki. Tomorrow my good fran, Mr. Andriakis, he comes back and dances."
The crowd cheered. The owner flushed happily.
Emerson got up abruptly and left the tavern, ignoring the rush around him for the free drinks. He drove back to the house in Ipsos as fast as he could. Once there, he took the statuette of the god Pan from his suitcase and filled the sink with water. He immersed the statuette in the water and left it there. Then he turned on the oven and sat down to wait.
It took twenty minutes, just as Eddie had said it would, for the clay-like substance of the statue to become pliable. Once he was able to mold it, Emerson set to work pressing and flattening the material until he had formed it into a thick disk about six inches in diameter. He made an indentation into the underside of the disk with his thumb, then began to shape it, running his fingers around the edges, working it into the form of a plate. He had to do it over several times before he had it right. Satisfied, he put it into the hot oven to dry and to bake. The baking process, again as Eddie had explained, took another thirty minutes, and when it was done he had an acceptable-looking dish, somewhat lumpy, slightly gray, but not too unlike the common crockery of the countryside.
"It's all I can give you," Eddie had said when he handed him the statuette. "Anything else would be too complicated. You'll have to pick your spot and use it when you can. Once you've found your angle."
The statuette, which was now a plate, was composed of a mixture known in the trade as Aunt Jemima, 25 percent ordinary baking flour and 75 percent cyclotrimethylenetrinitramine, or RDX. Together they made a potent explosive. The mixture could be baked, molded, pounded, even cooked into pancakes without exploding. For that a detonator was required. Emerson now fixed a number-six detonator into the indentation in the bottom of the plate and covered it over with a dab of Aunt Jemima. He now had a UKD that would explode on contact. It had taken all day, but he had finally found the weakness. Andriakis was a dancing fool.
"Dance, Andriakis," Emerson murmured. He caressed the plate lovingly. "Tomorrow when you dance I'll be there to show my appreciation."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Edwin Swan, like many men of his age, slept only for a few hours each night. Because of this he had developed the habit of working late in his suite at the Coolidge, but even this did not keep him from waking promptly at six thirty. On Wednesday he was up at the usual hour. He collected the newspaper from outside his door, and thirty minutes later was bathed, shaved, dressed for the day, and seated at the table by the window, ready for his breakfast. Breakfast for Swan was an ascetic meal: two three-minutes boiled eggs, whole-wheat toast, and tea; and it was served to him promptly at the same time every morning. While he awaited its arrival he made the first of his many telephone calls of the day, this one on the scrambler phone to Gerard Krause in Brissago.
"Pronto," Krause answered.
"Good morning, Gerard. Edwin here. Or rather, good afternoon."
"And a lovely one at that. Sunshine, blue water, and a bunch of silly birds singing their heads off just for the joy of it."
"How nice for you."
"You should see the Alps today, Edwin. Still a touch of snow on the peaks, as white as cream cheese, and when the sun comes up it turns them a delicate pink, just like a slab of smoked salmon."
Lox and cream cheese, thought Swan. Once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker. "It sounds enchanting."
"What's on the agenda today? Make it quick; I'm off to a luncheon date shortly. A magnificent redhead."
"I'm sorry to interfere with your social life," Swan said dryly, "but we have to make a decision about Emerson today."
"Still no word from Mexico?"
"Total silence. Nothing from Borgneff, nothing from his team, nothing from the Castelnuevo woman, and today is the last day for contact. I don't like it at all."
"How do you see it? Does the other side have him?"
"Emerson? That wouldn't account for the silence. Unless I hear something today, I'll have to assume that Borgneff either failed or he's switched sides."
Krause gave a low whistle. "If he's switched it may mean that he's extracted his entire team. Both men and both women."
"Let's not jump to conclusions ... we may hear something by the end of the day. But if we don't I'm afraid it means sending in someone else."
"Can we get away with that, Edwin?"
"Just barely," Swan admitted. "If Christianson gets wind of this. . ."
"It's your decision, Edwin."
"Yes, it always seems to work out that way, doesn't it? We'll speak again tonight."
He hung up and was about to call Wolfe in Barcelona when a knock on the door announced his breakfast. His eyes on the front page of the Washington Post, Swan said, "Come in."
The waiter smoothly wheeled in the serving trolley and placed the dishes on the table. Without looking up, Swan asked, "What's the weather like, Bernard?"
"Not bad," said the waiter. "Maybe a little rain later."
Swan looked up sharply at the sound of his voice. The waiter was a stranger to him. He asked, "Where's Bernard?"
"Called in sick. Can I get you anything else?"
"No, nothing," Swan waved him away testily. He was a man who treasured habit and convenience, and he was irritated by the sight of a stranger at that hour of the morning. He waited until the waiter was out of the room, then poured his tea and took an appreciative sip. He took away the metal shell that covered the soft-boiled eggs in their cups and reached for the silver clipper beside his plate. It was his custom to open his eggs as they lay in their cups.
Neatly incising the pointed tip. He picked up an egg and was about to clip the tip when his eyes narrowed. He set the clipper aside and looked closely at the egg. He opened his hand and let it rest in his palm, moving the hand up and down in a weighing motion. He frowned, rotated the egg, and weighed it again. He set it down and did the same with the other egg. Then, very gingerly, he put the egg back in its cup. Wit
h equal care, he pushed his chair back from the table and slowly stood up. There was a telephone on his desk, but he went into the bedroom and used the extension there. The number he dialed rang only once before someone answered.
"Weather Control," said the voice.
"This is the DD5," said Swan. "I'm in my suite at the Coolidge. I'm not sure, but I may have a thunderstorm here."
"Hold, please." Swan heard the voice say in an undertone to someone else, "I have the DD5 in a possible storm. Roll car number one to the Coolidge." The voice came back on the line. "Details, please."
"I was having my breakfast, two boiled eggs." Swan paused for a moment to gather his words.
"Sir?"
"The eggs . . . they don't feel right. They're much too light."
"Hold, please." Again in an undertone, the voice said, "That's a confirm on the storm at the Coolidge. Roll car number two with a chemkit and a crash box." To Swan, he said, "On the way, DD5. Please leave your rooms at once. Go directly to the office of the manager of the hotel and wait for us there. Move out now." There was a click as the phone went dead.
Swan laid the telephone down, and without undue haste he crossed through the sitting room and went out of the suite and into the corridor. He left the door open. He considered walking down the three flights of stairs but forced himself to wait for the elevator. Downstairs, he crossed the lobby to the manager's office and had himself admitted. He had known the manager for twenty years, and a favor was not out of line.
"I'll need your office for half an hour," he said. "Would that be asking too much?"
The manager had a fairly good dea of who Swan was and what he did for a living. Without hesitation he nodded, stood up, and made for the door. He stopped there and asked, "Have you had your breakfast? Can I get you anything?"
"Tea and toast would be fine, thank you."
He settled himself behind the manager's desk and waited. Within minutes there was a knock on the door and six quietly dressed and purposeful young men filed in. He recognized one of them as Frank Patricio from Weather Control.
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