“Today,” Berkeley said. “Or at least, tomorrow. No later.”
“My dear sir, that is quite impossible. A week.”
“I would like to send a telegram to General Gorman at the War Office,” Berkeley said. “My commanding officer,” he explained.
A form was produced, and he wrote out the message: Mission accomplished. Forced by unforeseen circumstances to return Greece. Require all possible assistance from Embassy. Please confirm. Townsend.
“Well, I say,” the secretary commented. “Friends in high places, eh?”
“You should get a reply to that by tomorrow morning,” Berkeley said.
“I’m sure we shall. Very good, Captain Townsend, if it is a matter of national importance, your wife’s passport will be waiting for you tomorrow morning.”
*
“I have been a naughty girl,” Caterina confessed. “I have spent so much money.”
Berkeley surveyed the several dresses laid out on the bed, the underwear, the boots and shoes, the hats. “I am sure they will all suit you very well.”
“I have never seen such lovely shops,” she said.
Hopefully, he thought, she would find those in London even lovelier, even if it might be expensive for a while. “I don’t suppose you thought to buy an extra bag to put this stuff in?”
“Ah . . .” she looked at Lockwood, eyebrows arched.
“I’ll attend to it in the morning, sir,” Lockwood promised.
“And tomorrow afternoon I thought we’d go down to Piraeus,” Berkeley said brightly.
“What is there at Piraeus?” Caterina asked.
“The sea. Ships. Have you ever seen the sea?”
“No, I have not,” Caterina said. “Is it so wonderful?”
“Let’s say, there’s more of it than anything else.”
*
He had worked out his schedule with great care. He collected Caterina’s passport in the morning, as arranged, while she and Lockwood were buying the extra suitcase. They lunched at the hotel, and afterwards took the train down to the seaport; naturally they left all their luggage behind – as far as the hotel, and more important, Caterina was concerned, they would be returning that night.
Caterina was, predictably, fascinated by the ships and the sea. They strolled along the various piers, looking at the big vessels moored out in the roads.
“Why, Captain, sir,” Lockwood suddenly said. “There is our old friend Pathenikos.”
The dragoman was effusive in his greeting, but then he had been well paid. “Mr Jones! And your so beautiful bride. I saw you, madame, when I was in Sabac with Mr Jones. But I do not suppose you remember me.”
“I remember you very well,” Caterina said.
“And what are you doing here?” Berkeley asked. “Waiting for a client?”
“Oh, indeed, sir. Actually, I am on my way out to speak with him now, make arrangements for his trip into the interior. Would you like to accompany me?”
“Eh?” Berkeley simulated astonishment.
“Well, sir, it would be a feather in my cap if I were able to introduce you as a previous client, one who was entirely satisfied with my services.”
“Well . . .” Berkeley looked doubtful. “Would you like actually to go on board a ship, Caterina?”
“Could we? I have never been on a ship.”
“I have a boat waiting,” Pathenikos said. He was very nervous, but Caterina did not seem to notice; she was very nervous herself at the thought of getting into the waiting rowing boat.
“You wait here, Harry,” Berkeley said.
“Of course, sir.” Lockwood agreed. It was his business, as soon as they were far enough away, to return to Athens with all haste, pay the hotel bill and bring their luggage to the dock.
Berkeley assisted his wife down the steps and into the boat; she gave a little shriek as it moved beneath her feet, but then she was seated on the transom with him alongside her, and the oarsmen were pushing off.
“Oh,” she said. “The feeling . . . it is so strange. This water . . . how deep is it?”
“Here? About twenty feet, I would say. It gets much deeper out at sea.”
She shuddered.
Ten minutes later they were pulling into the side of the rather battered-looking tramp steamer; her sides were streaked with rust. Fortunately, as she knew nothing about ships it did not occur to Caterina that this was a strange sort of vessel on which to find an important visitor. A torn and stained Red Ensign drooped from her stern, and the accommodation ladder was down. Caterina gave another little shriek as she was assisted on to the platform with the sea now surging gently only inches beneath her.
“Just hang on to the lines,” Berkeley told her. “And go straight up.”
She obeyed, pausing every now and then as the ladder swayed; the breeze fluttered her skirt and petticoat and revealed her boots.
“I will leave you now, sir,” Pathenikos said.
“No. Stay here until the matter is completed,” Berkeley said. “We do not want her to become suspicious.”
“I hope you know what you do, sir,” the Greek remarked.
Berkeley looked up to the gangway, where Caterina was having her hand kissed by the waiting captain. “There is nothing for you to concern yourself about, Pathenikos,” he said. “It is not possible for a man to kidnap his own wife.”
The Voyage
Pathenikos looked doubtful, as well he might, Berkeley supposed; he himself had no idea of the actual legality of what he was doing. He was relying on the journey for a reconciliation.
He went up the ladder to join Caterina.
“Captain Lukeman?”
“That’s me. You’ll be Mr Jones. And Mrs Jones, to be sure. You’ll come up to the cabin deck.” He spoke English.
“Berkeley,” Caterina asked in German, “what is happening?”
“There’s this man wishes to see us,” Berkeley explained. “Just up here.”
The captain led the way, while his mate touched his cap. The crew watched with interest, but Berkeley did not think any of them were English, or, for that matter, German; he reckoned they were mostly Egyptian.
Caterina was slightly out of breath by the time they reached the accommodation deck. Here they were shown into a somewhat grubby saloon, presided over by an even more grubby steward, whose white jacket had definitely not seen a laundry for several weeks.
“The cabin’s along here,” Captain Lukeman said. “We don’t carry passengers as a rule, but your man said there’d be another hundred when we dock at Marseilles.”
“That’s right,” Berkeley agreed.
“You’ve the money with you?”
Which confirmed Berkeley’s suspicion that this character might not be above a bit of kidnapping himself, or at least piracy.
“My man will bring the money when he joins us this evening.”
He had no intention of having Captain Lukeman leave earlier than arranged, thus losing Lockwood, his back-up.
“Aye, well,” Lukeman said. “I hope he’s on time. I’ve a tide to catch.”
Berkeley grinned at him. “Come now, Captain, there are no tides in the Mediterranean.”
The captain glared at him, then went down the corridor and opened a cabin. “In here.”
“And my man?”
“He’ll be opposite. This is all there is.”
“Let’s have a look.”
He held Caterina’s arm and escorted her down the corridor.
“Berkeley,” she said, “I do not understand what is happening. And I do not like this man.”
“Join the club,” he said. “But he’ll have to do.”
They reached the cabin, which was actually cleaner than he had hoped. Although the bunks were an upper and lower, and neither was very wide, there was a hanging locker and it even had its own washbasin, dating perhaps to the days when the ship had had a more salubrious existence – and a more salubrious crew.
“Berkeley,” Caterina said. “Please tel
l me what is going on?”
“You can leave us, and close the door, Captain,” Berkeley said. “My man will be here in a couple of hours.”
Lukeman grunted and closed the door.
“I feel as if I am being kidnapped,” Caterina complained.
“Come and sit beside me,” Berkeley said, sitting on the lower bunk.
Caterina hesitated, then obeyed, frowning.
“Now listen carefully,” Berkeley said. “This ship is going to take us to Marseilles. From Marseilles we will take a train across France to Calais, and at Calais we will catch the cross-Channel ferry to Dover, and be in England in time for Christmas. Won’t that be fun?”
Her eyes were enormous. “Marseilles? France? Calais? Dover? England?”
“You are going to see a bit of the world.”
“But . . . aren’t we going back to Sabac?”
“No.”
“But . . . you were going to take field command of the Hand?”
“I’m afraid I lied about that,” he admitted. “I’m simply not cut out to be an anarchist.”
“You promised! You told Gregory . . .” Her voice had risen an octave.
“I know I did. But that was all a lie, too.” He held her hands. “Listen to me. I do not want ever to have you involved in anarchy. I do not want ever to have to watch you bleed to death in agony as did your mother. I want you to live a normal and happy life, with me, as my wife.”
Now her eyes were blazing. “You have no right to do this! You swore an oath!”
“To honour you, and cherish you. I am endeavouring to do that.”
She pulled her hands free, leapt up, and ran for the door. He caught her shoulder, spun her round, and she fell across the bunk, on her face. When she tried to rise, he put his hand on her back to force her down again. She threw back her head and screamed, but the porthole was closed and he did not suppose Lukeman or any of his crew would interfere.
“You are going to make me angry,” he warned her.
She panted. “You have no right . . .”
“I have every right. You are my wife.”
“I will kill you,” she gasped.
“No you will not. You will sit up and behave yourself.” He moved his hand.
“Never,” she spat. “Never. I will . . .” But she did push herself up.
“One day you will thank me for what I have done,” he told her.
“Thank you? You are a crawling thing, a creature from the gutter, a—”
Berkeley slapped her face. She had got to her feet, now she sat down again with a bump.
“You are being hysterical,” he told her. “Now, behave yourself, or I shall have to tie you up.”
She licked blood from her cut lip. “I shall kill you,” she said again. “No matter how long it takes. I will watch you die.”
While she was in this mood he didn’t think he could leave her alone, and free.
“Lie down,” he told her.
“I will not have sex with you,” she said. “Not now, not ever again.”
“Right now, nothing could be further from my mind,” he assured her. “Lie down; and if you attempt to fight me, I will hit you again.”
She lay on the bunk. He unlaced her boots and took them off, then threw up her dress and petticoat and pulled down her stockings. These he also took off, using one to bind her ankles together, and the other for her wrists. This last he left with a tail, which he secured to the stanchion by the bedhead; her arms were extended, but he reckoned she would be quite comfortable, at least for a while. She stared at him with hate-filled eyes, but made no effort to resist him.
He placed a pillow under her head. “Now,” he said. “If you have any sense you will lie there and think about what I have said. If you throw yourself off the bed you will be most uncomfortable, so I advise against it. If you wish to scream, go ahead; but if you make too much noise I will have to gag you. Please be sensible, Caterina. Please try to understand that I have only your safety in mind. Your life itself.”
Caterina spat at him.
Berkeley went on deck, locking the cabin door behind him. He climbed the ladder to the bridge where Lukeman was walking up and down.
“Your wife is not happy, eh?”
“I’m afraid not, at the moment,” Berkeley said. “She’ll get over it.”
“But she is your wife?” Lukeman asked.
“Would you like to see the marriage certificate?”
“No, no, sir. Who am I to doubt the word of a fine gentleman like yourself? A rich gentleman. But you understand, Mr Jones, that if this is an abduction, it could turn out very badly for me.”
“A man cannot abduct his own wife, Captain.”
“Of course, sir. Of course. The young lady is not Greek.”
“No, she is not.”
“And definitely not English,” Lukeman mused. He was plotting his course.
“No, she is not English, Captain,” Berkeley said. “And what she is, and who she is, is absolutely no business of yours.”
“Of course, sir. Of course.”
*
Lockwood was back on time with the luggage, and was ferried out by the same boat as they had used earlier.
“Am I glad to see you,” Berkeley said. “Where the devil did Pathenikos find this one?”
“Well, sir, you’ll agree the situation is a bit difficult. He had to find a captain who is more interested in money than ethics.”
“And he has certainly done that,” Berkeley agreed. “I think we are going to have to keep a fairly close eye on things until we reach Marseilles.”
“And how is Mrs Townsend?”
“Mrs Townsend is currently below.”
“Went off all right, then, did it, sir?”
“No, Harry,” Berkeley said. “It did not go off all right. Mrs Townsend is presently tied to her bunk.”
Lockwood gulped. “Well then, sir . . .”
“We just have to see what the next few days will bring.”
“If it’s all right with you, Mr Jones, I’d like to raise anchor now,” Lukeman said. “I have clearance from the port authority.”
“Whenever you’re ready, Captain,” Berkeley assented, and went below.
Caterina had not moved very much in his absence. Nor had her eyes in any way softened.
“We shall be at sea in an hour,” he told her. “Is there any chance of your agreeing to come up to watch? And perhaps have some supper afterwards?”
“I will come up,” she said.
That was too easy.
“Thank you,” he said.
He released her, and she sat up to rub her wrists and ankles.
“Am I allowed to put on my stockings?”
“Of course.”
He waited while she dressed herself, then summoned Lockwood from across the corridor. “She’s in your charge.”
“You’ll excuse me, madame,” Lockwood said. He threaded his own belt through that of her skirt, retaining the end in his hand.
“Is this necessary?” she asked.
“I’m afraid it is,” Berkeley said.
She snorted. “I am not going to commit suicide, husband.”
“I am very glad to hear it.”
“I am going to stay alive to kill you,” she said.
Lockwood swallowed.
They stood together on the bridge, behind Lukeman and his mate whose name was Arnold, while the anchor was raised and the engine began to rumble. Then the Wanderer slowly made her way through the outer shipping and into the Aegean Sea.
“How many days to Marseilles?” Berkeley asked.
“Much depends on the weather, sir,” Lukeman said. “At this time of the year it is not good. But if all goes well, about a week.”
Berkeley looked at the sky. “Doesn’t seem too bad at the moment.”
“Ah, sir, who can tell? It can come on to blow with hardly a cloud in sight.” He glanced at Berkeley. “You have people meeting you in Marseilles.”
Still l
aying plans, Berkeley thought.
“Of course,” he said.
Lukeman smiled.
*
Caterina joined them for dinner in the saloon. She was behaving in a most civilised manner, although there was no indication that she had at all softened her resolve; indeed, her icy politeness was as disturbing as her earlier anger.
After the meal, with the night already dark and cold – the breeze was not strong but it was from the north – they walked the deck together, Lockwood as always in attendance although he remained out of earshot.
“I should like to ask for your cooperation,” Berkeley said. “Look at things rationally. You feel you are duty-bound to avenge your parents, by remaining in Serbia and working with the Black Hand. I feel I am duty-bound to preserve your life, as the alternative is to die like your mother. That is a matter which can, and must, be resolved between us. I do not think I am being irrational in asking you to return to England with me, as my wife, to meet my parents to whom I am as strongly attached as you are to yours. When we have done that and you have sampled the life I can offer you, if you are still determined to return to the Balkans and resume the fight against the Austrians, then I give you my word that I shall not stand in your way.”
She glanced at him. “But you will not come with me.”
“I may well do that. But I think you should give my way a trial first.”
She stared back at the dwindling lights of the Piraeus.
“However,” he said sensing victory, at least in the short term, “our first business is to reach Marseilles. I’m afraid, as I knew you would not willingly leave Sabac, I had to trick you, and that meant taking whatever ship Pathenikos could provide. He didn’t do us very well. This captain is a thug, and I am quite sure his crew are too. They reckon I’m a wealthy man, and I have an idea their idea is that some accident should befall us, and that we should never reach Marseilles at all. I have no doubt that Lockwood and I can deal with them. We are professionals and they are amateurs, when it comes to killing. But obviously it would be a handicap to have you in the opposite camp, or even a camp of your own, as it were. And you do need to remember that if anything were to happen to us and you be left to the mercy of this lot, well . . . it would be the Austrian police all over again.”
To All Eternity Page 12
