by Andrew Hill
"That's the last bloody thing I was going to do." muttered Chris. "Who the hell is that?" he whispered as he turned and followed her, then mumbled "Sorry" in response to the fierce look of reproach.
"The white Fiesta." hissed the girl. Chris could make out the underside of the small Ford from beneath the parked car he had rolled under. He squeezed through to the front end, heading away from the bar, where another single shot rang out followed by shouts of angry protest from the packed inside room and the sound of a glass window shattering. An engine roared and a car screamed away. The girl had already started the Fiesta's engine and the car was moving off as Chris grasped the open door and hauled himself in. "Keep down!" she ordered. Chris tucked his head between his knees then found the seat adjuster, shoved back the brown cloth-trimmed front seat and crouched awkwardly in the footwell, facing backwards. The car lurched to the left and Chris watched roofs fly by and a blur of faces as they made their hectic way up a narrow side street, leading away from the sea. He was then pushed back as the slender, dark stocking-covered leg of the driver stretched and pushed hard on the brake pedal. Long fingers twisted the gear lever, selecting reverse and then first to accelerate in a new direction. For what seemed an age she said nothing, concentrating grimly on the road ahead, her legs straightening then bending, calf muscles tensing then relaxing, as they moved sharply from pedal to pedal.
"OK, you can get up now." she said. "You were lucky. I did not expect this yet. My name is Maria. Maria Ziparis. I am Michaelis' sister."
Chris gingerly manoeuvred into the seat while she spoke and brushed the dust from his clothes. He turned to look back and saw his case lying on the back seat. "Michaelis heard that you had left Kos and that Mr Lindon had come here. I have flown from Athens too - I live there - but I think we have both missed him."
"Who's taking shots at us?" asked Chris.
"At me." corrected the girl. "That's another matter. Do not concern yourself with that . . . "
"For God's sake!" exclaimed Chris. "If I'm being ferried about by someone on someone else's hit list I'd like to know why!"
"Let me just say that your American friend made promises to others - not just you. We all have our dreams and would like to know whether they can be reality."
"Surely after all that went on you can't believe that Bob's still going to pull off a deal? I mean, he's running scared now - here, somewhere - and, anyway, why should someone want you out of the way?"
"I do not know all the answers. All I can say is that Michaelis says it is important that we find the American and keep him safely. Away from the others."
"Which others?"
"I don't know for sure. You told Michaelis something a few days ago, which he said made everything different. Before, my brother was very angry and felt strongly about what the American did but it has changed. I was to follow the American but not to get involved with you. He said you were very close to the American and would stay with him until he was somewhere we could take him. If Bob Lindon saw you and me together he may run from you and fall into the hands of those who are against us. But now we have lost him and we must work together. I am sorry if it puts you at risk but it is the only way. Weren't people after you anyway? What's the difference." The girl was getting agitated. Her words came out impatiently, almost bitterly. Chris tried to remember what he had said to Michaelis.
"Bob's son. It's got something to do with his son. In England."
"I do not know. Michaelis did not say. You know him. He is straight . . . er . . . direct. He makes a plan and that is what happens. Now he will be angry that it has had to be changed - but he is not here . . . "
"Anyway, thanks for getting me out of there." said Chris, deciding not to press her further at the time. They had taken a wide circle around the airport and were now driving along the road at the far edge of the airfield. It was nearly time for the departure Chris had expected Bob to be on. He mentioned this to Maria.
"OK, it is possible. I thought you had arranged to meet him there but if that is not so then he could have already left Thessaloniki. It can be checked soon."
She parked the car alongside an ancient airport bus that was covered in fine dust and disabled by two flat tyres. It looked as if it had been there for years.
"No one must see us together," she said. "You must go in and look. If he is not there we shall have little time so be quick!"
Chris hesitated. He reached back for his case but Maria shouted again. "Please! I will stay here for a few minutes only. Those people are not going to give up and will look for me inside. I am booked on the next Athens flight. If they check they will see. But if I don't turn up . . . "
"There's nothing valuable in the case but I don't want to go shopping for pants if you do decide to disappear." Chris insisted, grabbing the case and roughly jerking it past Maria. Her eyes caught his sharply and he saw her nostrils flare as she was about to shout again. "I'll be back but if Bob's there I can't promise it'll be five minutes. Are those people going to take pot shots at him in there?"
"Probably not," said Maria, with a sigh. "It's too obvious. But they will follow him and hope he'll lead them to me. Remember it is me they're looking for at the moment - not him. I doubt if they will be interested in you. If anything happens, do not get involved. Come and tell me. But don't get followed. Be careful!"
Chris walked from the car, round the back of the old bus and along the side of the terminal building. As he came towards the front entrance he felt vulnerable again. Maria had confused him. He was scared of another attack and was glad to get inside the relative security of the building, now busy with people waiting for the next flight.
The blue and white 737 had landed and Chris was able to watch the passengers file towards the terminal. Below him was a group of people waiting to leave. Another few were passing through the temporary security control point. None even vaguely resembled Bob Lindon. Chris waited. A few late arrivals dashed breathlessly through the building. Chris could see the whole of the departure area from where he stood but he nevertheless checked again every other part within sight. He decided that he could not risk moving in case the departures were allowed to join the plane as he was moving from one point to another. He had to be absolutely positive that Bob was not on the plane.
He waited and watched, now peering more closely at the features and luggage that he could make out. Slowly he was able to exclude most from second enquiry. Not even disguise or change of clothes would have cause a five foot nine white haired man to become a four eleven attractive young girl or, for that matter, any one of the seven or eight large chattering women huddles in a corner.
After what seemed an age they started to go out onto the tarmac, handing green cards to the smart male steward at the doorway. After the last was collected he closed the doors, counted the cards and spoke into a handset. Chris expected a hurried patter of feet across the floor as a panting American arrived at the last minute but it didn't happen. He watched each person climb the steps to disappear inside the plane's body and after the door closed he realised finally that Bob Lindon was not going to Athens that evening.
Back at the car Maria was appreciably more nervous. She drove off before Chris had shut he door. "Could be waiting until tomorrow." he said, making no remark about her mood. Instead of heading back towards the main building, Maria made a sharp U-turn in the road and went alongside the barrier fence surrounding the runway.
"Where . . . " started Chris.
"We must check the border. If he was lucky to find a car going that way then he could have crossed into Yugoslavia by now."
Greece becomes Yugoslavia in the middle of nowhere about four kilometres south of Gergelija, some ninety kilometres north of Thessaloniki. A traveller had little option but to head towards Skopje, some two hundred and fifty kilometres from the airport. It was a new and well-surfaced motorway so only between two and three hours away. Chris had made these calculations whilst killing time earlier. It was highly unlikely that Bob would have pi
cked up a lift quickly and would almost certainly have had to take public transport to the motorway. He would have arrived from Kos at about 1230 that afternoon. Allowing half an hour to get himself orientated and assuming he took the airport service to Thessaloniki it would have been 1400 or 1430 at the earliest when he would have started trying to get away.
Hitchhikers were not at all common on the motorways. The dry heat and pounding traffic represented one hell of a climate and Bob, whilst a stayer, would not have stood that for long. If he was lucky, he may have found a ride quickly by, say, 1500 and, as Maria correctly stated, could have crossed the border. The border itself had, on all his own previous crossings, been an extraordinary example of delay and inefficiency - particularly for foreign cars. The earliest reasonable time by which he could have reached Yugoslavia was, therefore, getting on for five o'clock. It was now just past six thirty.
The Fiesta suddenly lurched to the right and dived through a small gateway onto a corner of the airfield. A concrete building, flat-roofed, stood alone on the scrubby grass next to a stretch of grey tarmac. A pretty, light blue and white-striped plane sat on its three pairs of wheels nearby, a single propeller resting at an angle. Chris guessed that it would carry four or five people, plus two in the front. He also guessed, correctly, that he would be one of the two. "Michaelis." said Maria, nodding towards the plane to confirm that it had been supplied through an arrangement with her brother. "I can use it from time to time when necessary for . . . " She hesitated imperceptibly. " . . . my work. We can make the border in forty minutes."
"I didn't know there was a runway there . . . " queried Chris.
"There isn't - I'll put this down on the road. It's no problem - they build a large motorway and nobody uses the old road any more. There is also room on the side of the motorway but they do not like that so much . . . "
Maria spoke as if she was accustomed to such trips. Chris mentioned the point but got no more than an impatient wave of her hand in return. The car stopped and Maria dashed into the building. A mean-looking fellow came out with her a few minutes later and looked suspiciously in Chris's direction. He shrugged his shoulders at some question posed by Maria then handed her a couple of files of papers. Chris collected his case; Maria took a couple of black leather cases out of the back of the car and tossed the keys across to her associate. He acknowledged Chris with a short nod and made a brief inspection of the plane. Maria strapped herself in and handed Chris a clipboard.
"Read me the list, please, and write down what I say or tick if I say OK." she instructed, then, shouting in Greek at the man outside she checked a series of items herself on a separate list. The plane was clean and neat, its equipment mostly digital and modern.
The initial checks were completed and the engine buzzed smoothly then became a muted whine as Chris felt the structure strain slightly to move against the brakes retaining it. A few moments later, after a crackling exchange of Greek and English across the intercom, the plane headed off down the runway. In a remarkably short time the wheels lifted off the ground and Maria had control in the air. She manoeuvred the controls easily to head round and back, climbing steadily as the coastline appeared below. A ribbon of yellow brown separated the greens and greys from the clear blue of the sea. Minutes later they were flying north with the port of Thessaloniki easing past them on their right.
Navigation was a simple affair as the followed the grey motorway, speeding over the tiny, toy-like vehicles below. Maria visibly relaxed as their flight settled into a straight course. "Nice to feel safe." she said quietly to Chris. Until then her few words had been a selection of instructions, nervous comments and little else.
"It would be nice to know a bit more about you," said Chris. He loved flying and never really thought about being at risk. The most troubling to him in that respect were actually the huge three hundred plus seaters, where one seemed to have little conception of height, speed or direction.
"My name is Maria Ziparis. I'm 32, part-time air steward with Olympic, part-time model, part-time journalist, full-time revolutionary!" She turned to face Chris at the last remark to judge his reaction. "You know my brother's devotion to the King. Well, I share that feeling. One day our time will come again. Until then, we must keep the fires of passion burning both within Greece and abroad.
"I knew Michaelis had sympathy with the Royalist cause, and, of course, sees the family a lot in London, but I didn't know he was actually doing anything to bring about change."
"No. None of us are doing anything dramatic. We are not terrorists. Revolution can take many forms. Look at your own country. You have had a revolution without even knowing it. Twenty years ago an observer from abroad would never have predicted the practical disintegration of the British socialist base or the amazingly tacit acceptance of the fact that a person cannot expect to be employed from college to old age. Look too at the influence of those of our age group. Our music, our rebellious traits, our new-formed principles - clashing so strongly with those of our parents and yet already deemed the norm - that is more than revolution. It is an unalterable step. Our wish is much less in comparison. We merely wish to have back a King whom we loved dearly and to get rid of the mediocrity of our present government. Greece is a beautiful country of unparalleled historic importance and influence. She deserves to be respected today for more than tourist attractions and to be famous for more that her stupid Customs delays and dilatory Civil Service."
"Maybe that will prove to our advantage just now," said Chris, pointing ahead and hoping that Bob would experience such a delay if, indeed, he were on this route out of Greece.
Maria grinned and became less serious. She was clearly practised in the argument but had still given little away. Chris had noticed this and pushed her further. "But, Maria, why so much interest in Bob? What did he promise you?"
"The money to fund change," she replied, simply.
"But can you really take that seriously? I mean, he promised a lot to a lot of people. I know of no-one he didn't agree to back in some shape, form or another . . ."
Maria interrupted, her voice harsher again, as if impatient with a pupil who would not see the obvious. "But he'll keep his promise to you." she said.
"Me? Why me?" asked Chris, surprised by the remark. "And, anyway, why should he now be running away from me?"
"You represent reality - and he doesn't want to face up to that. It's Ok whilst you’re bright and gay and tumbling along like you do so often. That's his lifestyle. It's how he likes things. Not too serious or thought provoking. When you've got a conscience the size of his and it's lain silent for so many years you don't want to give it half a chance of getting through. Once you start the heavy stuff it scares him."
"But why me?"
"God knows."
"Wish he'd tell me."
"He probably will - when you meet him!"
"And that may not be all that long away at this pace! OK Maria, where are we?"
"That's Polikastron below, so we're almost there."
The little plane seemed to hover momentarily and almost flutter its wings like a kestrel before descending onto the old road beside the motorway on the Greek side of the border just north of Evzoni. Still warm but beginning to darken, there were few vehicles waiting. The noisy cicadas in the trees around them replaced the rumble of rubber on tarmac and the whirr of the engines. Maria unfastened her safety harness and climbed out. Chris followed her rather clumsily. They strolled across the scrubby grass and on to the motorway. Its rough concrete surface was a yellowish grey, cracked with weeds peeping through. It showed no sign of wear, being a virtually stretch running through a half-finished gantry where bare brick shelters stood guard at a toll station that had yet to take its first drachma or dinar. Built in some more prosperous time and left when funds ran out, traffic continued to accumulate as it filtered through the dirty greys and blues of the old Customs post.
A '62 Citroen DS model slumped nearby, tyres flat and body covered with dust and grime. B
ehind it a tired Volkswagen beetle perched on a trailer behind an old Datsun pick-up. These, and dozens like them, were all the victims of the tight controls on vehicle import and export. The best would have been auctioned long ago or purchased by one of the officers' friends or family. A family of French tourists sat glumly waiting for their turn to be checked, watching the car in front being virtually stripped a s two hapless travellers were made to prove they were not carrying anything they shouldn't be.
A Greek driver shouted impatiently at someone. He received a one-fingered reply and sat back silent. Strangely, huge lorries of questionable vintage lumbered through almost unnoticed. Maria went straight into the corridor-like offices of the Customs Control and approached the desk of the officer in charge. A man of about thirty-five, he wore a short-sleeved, white cotton shirt with a buttoned pocket on the right. His desk was covered in papers - a shambles of forms in triplicate and more, loosely clipped or held in ragged, brown card files. A variety of rubber stamps lay on their sides near his right hand. Two packets of Papistratos cigarettes rested on another set of papers. He stubbed out a cigarette as she reached the desk.
Continuing to scrawl untidily across sheet after sheet, and almost automatically moving passports and assorted documents from one side of a small counter to another, he nodded in response to her first enquiry. Looking pensive for a few seconds, he called a colleague over as she spoke again, gesturing determinedly in Maria's direction. A rapid flow of Greek came in response and Maria tuned sharply to the other man. His response was to shout harshly at her, waving a hand dismissively. Maria shouted back and pulled out two passports, dark blue British passports, pointing back at her associate as she placed them on the counter. There was a moment's silence as the two officers each picked one off the counter. With no more than a cursory glance and, resuming a loud a rapid exchange of words with both Maria and each other, they stamped each passport twice, tossed them back on the counter and indicated to Maria to go.
