Mike listened to the ringing tone. He was in the ’phone box on the quay below Bill the Ram’s, Lois leaning beside him and propping the door open to let some air into the glass oven. He was calling Christina Cavalieratos’ house, wanting to talk to Monsford, tell him about Vassilis – because if his identification of the hospital as the new location of the Aphrodite cargo was not a bum steer – as it might be, of course – then it was distinctly possible he’d sold the same information elsewhere. The guess – and a sense of alarm and urgency – was triggered off by what Stephanos had said last night: all over, people asking questions…
Nobody was answering this telephone, anyway.
Mike hung up. It was a relief to get out of the hot box. He said, ‘Have to try again later.’
Monsford wasn’t on his caïque, and his Mercedes wasn’t on the jetty; they’d assumed he’d be up at the house, so they’d come back here by dinghy, to the telephone.
‘Might she have gone up to the hospital as early as this?’
‘Suppose she might. I don’t know. But he wouldn’t have.’
He got to the telephone just as it stopped ringing. He’d been on the terrace, reading a paperback, and he’d let it ring for a long time before he’d moved. He was alone here, Christina having gone up to Oros Moni for a meal with the others before their annual general meeting or whatever it was; in her absence he tended not to answer the telephone, because his Greek wasn’t able to cope with fast chatter and also because his frequent presence in this house wasn’t anything to be advertised.
Everyone over three years of age on Nisos Aphros knew about his relationship with Christina, but they wouldn’t want to have to acknowledge their own tolerance of it.
On his way back to the terrace he paused at the drinks trolley, thought about pouring himself a Scotch, and decided against it. She’d said she didn’t expect to be late, and they’d naturally have a drink or two together when she returned. He went back to his chair in the fig tree’s shade. Sitting, reaching for his book, he was aware there was something to be pleased about, some recent cause for satisfaction… He got it then: departure of the Exocet. He’d been down in the caïque when the fast motor-cruiser had gone creaming out of harbour: and he’d been delighted to see her go, thinking that with any luck it could mark the beginning of a general evacuation.
He hoped to God this was what it was. Christina had said this afternoon, ‘I can’t leave with you while there’s still any danger, Jack. Katerina needs to have me in calling distance, you know, and Phaedon – well, he’s a rock, but…’
They’d both smiled, Phaedon Dimitropolis, who’d failed for the priesthood, might be rated among the saints but he wouldn’t get there on his IQ.
Monsford had asked her, ‘Suppose there was some danger, my darling: what could you do about it?’
‘If I had evidence of any real threat to us, Tony Pipinelis would be on the wire to Athens in a flash. I’d see to that! Meanwhile, by staying here I can make sure they keep their mouths shut, don’t invite trouble – or fail to recognize it if it did come.’
It was Christina he cared about, and to a lesser extent Katerina, not the hospital as such. Of course, there were also the Sisters and the children in their care, kids from all over the Aegean: but no one, surely, not even that crowd, would want to harm sick children.
Mike asked her, ‘Notice anything missing?’
She glanced at him, then around them in the little dinghy. She was leaving it to him to handle the motor this trip. She shook her head. ‘I give up.’
He pointed: past moored fishing boats and the police launch to the empty quayside near the Odysseus. ‘Exocet’s left us again.’
‘Why, you’re right!’
He pushed the tiller-bar over to swing the pram round the end of the jetty. ‘All we need now is forth the Pasiphae to shove off too. And for all we know there could be a load of them on the ferry.’
The ferry would be on its way out at any minute now. Then there wouldn’t be another until Monday.
Lois murmured, ‘May the whole bloody shower of them be on the point of buggering off!’
He cut the motor, turned the little eight-foot craft to run in alongside the caïque. Lois grabbed the dangling ladder and went up it, taking the painter with her; she suggested, when he joined her in the caïque’s stern, ‘Beer?’
‘Great idea.’ Looking at her, thinking, Count your blessings… ‘You’re fantastic, Lois.’
‘With a bottle-opener, I’m reasonably competent.’ She asked him, ‘Snack supper on board suit you?’
‘If that’s what you’d like. I did have one other idea.’
She passed him a Fix. ‘Not Stephanos’?’
‘Uh-huh. The Ram’s. He owes me. I’m entitled to a meal a day, as well as breakfast, and I haven’t eaten there at all yet. I’ll claim rations for two tonight – if you can stand the crush?’
‘Long as it’s not all you-know-who.’
‘Oh, sure.’
‘Free banquet last night, free supper tonight. Perhaps it’s true that two can live as cheaply as one.’
‘It’s called free-loading. Cheers.’
He watched the Kimi ferry pull out. And on that jetty the empty berth where the Ariadne had lain was like a gap left by a tooth. She’d been part of the scenery, dominating her surroundings. He’d done a good job, he hoped, for Helga Kriewet. Whether it would be as good for Theo Chorofas didn’t seem so important. Chorofas used his money to use people, and it might be only fair that he should be made use of in return. That was one success chalked up. As for himself and Lois – well, it was out of this world, unbelievable… So forget the other thing, accept the fact that nobody ever won all the prizes. And – he remembered – see Harrison, in London… Lois was leaning back against him with her head on his shoulder; the long shadows that had been spreading across the island’s eastern half had joined up, possessed the landscape, and the first stars were showing. Once darkness came, it came fast enough to take you by surprise.
‘I suppose we ought to get changed.’
‘Yeah.’ He had his change of clothes here in the caïque. ‘And when we land, I have that call to make.’
‘Unless this is him coming now…’
A car – but its sound wasn’t anything like the noise the Mercedes made. Its headlights were making the surroundings darker than they’d seemed even a minute ago, down near the inshore end of the jetty. He stood up, shielding his eyes against the glare: then it cut out, the engine noise dying too.
It was one of those open-topped Suzukis, and it had stopped near the Pasiphae’s gangplank. Its jeep-like shape was clear enough to make out against a vestigial radiance in the western sky.
‘Our neighbours having a party?’
‘Farewell party, let’s hope.’
English voices, and a lot of movement around the motor-sailer. But they were leaving the yacht, packing into the car.
‘Party must be someplace else. Let’s hope not at the Ram’s.’
‘If it is, we’ll come back here for eggs and bacon.’
‘I’ll buy that…’
The Suzuki’s engine revved, the headlights came up, swung around and started away towards the quayside: scything to the right now.
‘Hot time in the old town tonight, I guess.’
Lights still showed through the motor-sailer’s ports, however, they hadn’t all landed. A match flared in the cockpit: a dark bulk in silhouette hunched to it… Lois suggested, ‘Let’s change quickly now?’
Monsford paid, and pushed the packet of cheroots into his pocket. He’d forgotten to bring a fresh box ashore with him from the caïque, so he’d had to come down to the shops to get some. He murmured, ‘What on earth, Madame, would we do without you?’
The woman smiled. His remark was a reference to the fact that she seemed to be behind this counter, and with a smile for every customer who walked in, twenty-four hours a day. She said, surprising him, ‘Or we without you, Commander. Forty years ago?’
He pushed out through the beaded curtain, into the crowded street. At least this concentration of shops localised the crowds. Only about a hundred and fifty yards uphill, around Christina’s house, nights were as quiet as in some country hamlet. He strolled to the end of the street, and turned right.
Heavier traffic than usual. Saturday, of course… Two Suzukis passed him, full of people, heading up out of the village. Behind them came another open-topped car, also with a heavy load. Having moved to the roadside – the curving wall of a house, an extremely narrow pavement, a lot of other pedestrians doing the same so that for a while the cobbled street was congested – he hadn’t seen much of those vehicles or their occupants as they’d snarled by. They’d gone now, tail-lights vanishing over the hump.
‘Still nobody there.’
‘He might be visiting other friends.’ Lois added, ‘Or at Stephanos’. That’s his local – and he does drop in there sometimes.’
It really might not be all that urgent, Mike thought. It had seemed so, earlier, but in fact he wondered if they weren’t crazy, to be reacting in this way to a halfwit’s extremely dirty, pointing finger.
‘I suppose we might drop in there ourselves, on the off-chance.’
‘Stephanos’?’ Lois shook her head. ‘No, we could not.’ She started up the steps. ‘We’d get stuck there, and you’d be broke even sooner than you’re going to be anyway.’
As far as one could see, having reached the top of the steps, the Ram’s taverna had not been invaded by the enemy tonight. The terrace was crowded, but the crowd didn’t have any of those types in it. He was still looking round, confirming this, when Kevin O’Shea yelled ‘Hi! Come and join us?’
Mike put his mouth down to her ear. ‘Like to?’
She waved to the little Irishman. ‘Don’t mind, really.’
‘I can’t see anyplace else to sit.’
‘All right, then…’
They ordered pastizio – maccaroni baked with meat and cheese – which was recommended by Jan Marais as one of the dishes Mrs Bill excelled at. The Ram took that order happily enough, but declared that half-board couldn’t be used to cover guests; half-board meals had to be eaten on the day they were provided, and if you missed one, you’d missed it. Mike told him to charge one pastizio to his account, and bring another bottle of retsina.
Four miles offshore, the Exocet had stopped engines. She still had some forward motion, though, in a flat-calm sea. Her inflatable was in the water astern, in tow, and of the three men in it two were in wetsuits and scuba gear. The Exocet had no lights showing. In the wheelhouse the French skipper was simultaneously watching the gyro repeater – he had his boat approaching the island on a line-of-bearing on Oros Moni – and the depthmeter, which whirred softly as it painted a profile of the seabed.
He glanced out of the side window. ‘OK.’
A crewman on the strip of deck outside called to a group on the stern, ‘Al says stand by!’
Alain Perault asked Angelucci, who looked like an Arab but had a French passport, ‘Does it check out, there?’
‘Pretty good.’ He nodded. He was stooping over the electronic navigational display: electronics being his speciality. ‘You’re on the spot.’
‘Slow astern both sides.’
The coxswain, a young Frenchman with burn scars on his face, put the outer screws astern, and Perault watched the picture on the read-out of the depthmeter as the boat was brought to stop exactly over the undersea ridge.
‘Stop engines.’ He glanced out of the window again, and jerked a thumb: ‘Allez!’
Among the tools the divers were taking down with them was a power saw operated by compressed air. The telephone cable linking Nisos Aphros with Skyros and thence Evvia and the mainland crossed the ridge here with only forty metres of water over it. It would take these boys less than ten minutes to get down there, locate the cable and cut through it. This being a Saturday night, nobody at the mainland end was going to do anything more than grouse about it, between now and Monday.
Perault asked Angelucci, ‘Time?’
‘Zero plus one point five.’
A shrug: ‘Ça va…’
In rehearsals, during the past two days, the job had been done in as little as seven minutes, diving in this same depth of water on a section of the same type of cable dropped overboard for the purpose of the exercise. Once it was cut, of course, there was no hurry; the Exocet would lie here, silent and blacked-out, while the divers rose slowly through their decompression stages. At her stern now the inflatable rocked in a circle of disturbed water where the two men had flopped over.
Monsford stubbed out a cheroot, checked the time again. Got up, paced across the terrace.
He didn’t want to intrude, stick his nose into Christina’s business, into any area of her life where he didn’t belong and where contact with him might embarrass her in sight or sound of her Greek friends or colleagues; but it was now more than an hour since he’d have expected to hear her car door slam, the house door open and her voice call ‘Jack, are you there?’
All so familiar that he could just about hear it in his head. By this time, it was very much like being married, and among lesser virtues which he’d have listed as Christina’s if he’d been required to, punctuality would certainly have figured.
He walked in through the french windows, and stood looking at the telephone. Glancing at his watch for approximately the sixtieth time this evening.
It wasn’t evening, though, it was night. And how long could one wait around without doing some damn thing? Mightn’t she have called him by now, to give some reason for the hold-up?
Possibly not. Up there, her reputation would be immaculate, even by Victorian standards. Gossip of the kind that abounded in more populated parts wouldn’t reach the ears of either Katerina or old Dimmy. Guertz and the other doctor, Stavros whatsit, much more worldly creatures, would come into a different category, but those two – the old woman who’d called herself Christina’s aunt for so long that by now she’d grown into believing it, and the failed priest who was too thick (quite apart from being intensely, unquestionably good) to suspect any lack of morals in a person whom he so adored and admired – well, if anything derogatory about her was said in their presence their ears simply would not receive it.
Monsford picked up the receiver, and dialled.
Ringing tone.
Still ringing… Christ Almighty, he thought, if on top of everything else this bloody thing was out of order…
Click. And fumbling noises: then snuffly breathing… He asked in Greek, ‘Who’s there? Who is that, please?’
A gasp. It was a female at that end: this was all he knew, so far. Which meant that all he knew was it was not old Dimmy who’d lost his voice. Monsford said again, ‘Hello. Who’s there?’
‘I – can’t speak here.’ The voice was shaky, frightened-sounding. He heard what he thought was a sob. Then the whisper: ‘I can’t. They’ll kill me! They’ve already – oh, dear God—’
Click. A dead line for a moment, then the dialling tone.
Monsford shouted aloud, ‘Jesus Christ!’ Slamming it down: then running. Out of the front door, flinging it shut behind him, tumbling into the Mercedes and stabbing the key into the ignition. The engine coughed twice, and at the third attempt it clattered into action. He pushed the old tourer into gear, and started up the hill. Destination Oros Moni. Thinking now that maybe he should have called Tony Pipinelis: but he’d lost enough time already. Hearing that voice sobbing in his brain: They’ll kill me! They’ve already—
Already what?
The one in the wetsuit let himself down over the Pasiphae’s bow, hung for a moment by his arms before he dropped into the black water. The other man, leaning over, watched until he saw the snorkel tube poke up and the guff of spray as the swimmer cleared it. Then it was moving away, with the silent anonymity of a shark’s fin cutting the dark surface: a few yards, and it was invisible. The man on the yacht’s bow straightened, pushing himself up with his hands on the pulpit rail. He walked aft, his rubber-soled shoes soundless on the timber deck.
‘He’s gone. I’ll go along there now. Gimme a whistle if you need to.’
‘Check.’ The man in the cockpit was smoking a cigar. The other one crossed the plank to the jetty and turned right, breaking into a trot. He was wearing a grey track-suit which merged instantly into the darkness.
The swimmer had passed Monsford’s caïque, and the other, smaller one, and rounded the T-end of the jetty; he was finning into the inner basin by the time his colleague had boarded the caïque and started work on the wheelhouse doors. That job wasn’t at all difficult: about twenty seconds’ fiddling, and the lock clicked back. Meanwhile the swimmer was approaching the police launch, which lay at its moorings close to the northern part of the quay. He’d swum this course before, by night and timing it carefully; the difference this time was that instead of simply waiting at the launch’s side for the two minutes he expected the job to take here, he reached up, got a hold on the gunwale, hauled himself up and into the open stern in one swift slither of wet rubber. The launch rolled a bit on its chain tether, and the man crouched, listening and watching. But there were no lights, shouts or other interruptions to the quiet night, and the star-reflective surface was smooth again now. He took a heavy wrench off his belt, and crawled into the engine-space. When he came out again, fifty-five seconds later by his diver’s watch, the boat had already begun to fill. He went over the side as smoothly as a seal, showing virtually no profile as he slid over: and this launch would very soon have no profile either, would be noticeable only by having vanished. To sink it, complete with its short-wave radio, had been a matter of principle: the radio would have had to have been wrecked anyway, and while you were at it, someone had said in recent conference, why leave the local cops something to float around in, a possible means of interference? Even though there were only three of them, and the head one wet behind the ears, and this thing not capable of more than fifteen knots flat out… It was almost gone, looked more like a raft than a boat, when he got to the steps and climbed them – cautiously, pausing with his eyes at quay-level before continuing up.
Deserted quayside – except for some cats, a pack of them skittering away as he crossed it. The door to the Harbour Master’s office was in an alley of broad stone steps which climbed from the quay to the first east-west lane behind the harbour: there were more steps up to the doorway, and a wrought-iron handrail. He had a key to the door: the original had been borrowed and taken on board the Exocet where a mould had been made from it. The original had been returned, having never been missed, and a copy rough-cast and then filed up and later tried out, in broad daylight and under the Harbour Master’s nose, to make sure it fitted. As it did now, of course, turning smoothly in a well-oiled lock. He shut the door quietly behind him, passed through the general office – which he knew well, having hung around in here chatting about weather, anchorages and routes for hours on end – and climbed narrow stairs to the room above where the radio was installed. Removing its vital parts was child’s play – a quick and soundless job which he completed nearly two minutes ahead of schedule. He shut the door, and went down the concrete stairs: he was halfway down when he realised he had trouble on his hands.
A torch-beam’s flash had alerted him to it: and now the creak of the street door as it gave way to a shove from the outside. A voice muttered surprise in Greek. The man on the stairs stooped slowly, carefully, to draw his diver’s knife from the sheath on his right leg. He inched down the stairs, then – keeping close to one wall, and with the knife reversed in his hand so that its blade was behind his forearm and wouldn’t reflect light to catch an idiot policeman’s eye. The knife had a solid rubber haft and a nine-inch blade with a saw-edge on one side, razor-edge on the other.
The torch-beam probed the darkness at the bottom. Shuffling steps, then, as whoever this was – he felt sure it would be one of the policemen, doing his night rounds of the harbour area – moved across the ground-floor office, which was used by the island’s Excise officer as well as the Harbour Master for their routine chores. The torch-beam stopped on the safe – a large, antique affair behind the counter on which transit logs were stamped and signed, crew and passenger lists certified, cargo manifests and bills of lading scrutinised. The policeman walked round the end of the counter and checked the safe – just as he must have tried the street door on his way past it – to see whether the Harbour Master might have been daft enough to leave this open too.
He must have heard a sound behind him: a stealthy movement, too quiet to identify and too late to save him. As he began to turn he’d have smelt salt water, rubber – actually, neoprene – and garlic: in that order, probably, but so briefly and in such fast sequence that it would have been only an amalgam of horror as one wet rubber-clad arm clamped vice-like on his neck and the other drove the knife in on an upward slant from the front, starting below his rib-cage and its tip thrusting into the region of his heart.
Marais said, ‘You’re right. Haven’t seen one all evening.’
Londoners, he was talking about. Mike had pointed out, with satisfaction, that although the taverna was crowded now, and had been well up its standard decibel levels since dancing had started, there had not been a single disruptive element in it. Now, things were quietening; quite a few customers had left, and Johnny and the waitresses were starting to clear tables.
‘Could be they’ve sugared off?’
O’Shea said, ‘The Exocet left, all right.’
‘Some might have been on the ferry, too.’
‘Ask the Ram.’ Marais said, ‘They’re his buddies.’
The Irishman yawned. ‘All that’d mean is they have money in their pockets.’
‘Anyway, we still have the Pasiphae on our jetty.’ Lois told them, ‘And some of her crew went off in a Suzuki earlier on. Might be having a shindig at the camp-site, I suppose. Or in that taverna at Sgourades.’ She looked at Mike. ‘Time we went?’
He nodded. ‘See you guys later. We have a date with her uncle.’
The gentle art of bullshit. Wondering whether they’d believe it, how long before they caught on. He didn’t want Bill the Ram talking about Lois the way he gossiped about everyone else… Marais said, ‘Not much later, you won’t. In a matter of minutes, I’m hitting the sack.’
Bill the Ram was out on the terrace, telling people the music would have to stop now. Mike had expected things to go on later than this, on a Saturday. But it was late, they’d arrived late and the meal had been a long time coming. Now, he had to get that call through to Jack Monsford: after which, he thought, a swim in the dark might have its attractions… Lois said as they went down the steps, ‘I like those two.’
‘Sure. Wouldn’t want their jobs though…’ He stopped. ‘Oh, shit…’
‘There was someone in the call box: a young Greek, leaning back against the glass wall with his eyes half shut, smirking as he chatted-up some girl. That kind of call could take an hour.
‘We could go up to the house. Only take – what, ten or twelve minutes?’
‘I don’t think so, Mike.’
‘Why not?’
‘For one thing, they’re likely to be in bed by now. He’d be embarrassed. But – really, d’you think there’s much point now, this time of night?’
Monsford swung his Mercedes right, taking the fork for Oros Moni. Blazing headlights flooded the dusty, pot-holed road, which at this point swung further right, circling along the contour before sweeping round left-handed for the straight climb northwards along the ridge. Below now, to his right, was the village and the harbour – peaceful and quiet as ever, a visual rebuttal of that anguished voice still ringing in his ears: They’ll kill me…
Like a nightmare. But he’d heard it. Another part of the nightmare was the fact Christina was up there.
Stupid bastard Pipinelis.
Should have called him, though. To get a message out, even if thanks to him it was too bloody late. Alert Mike too – might have brought him along, if there’d been time. Should have called Pipinelis.
The road curved left, there at the full range of the headlights’ beams. Rock outcrops on the left overhung the road here, and to the right, during the long bend, olive groves stretched down all the way to the road above Ormos Platis. After the curve, round it and heading north, the drop to the right became sheer, near-vertical for several hundred feet. The car’s wheels juddered, sliding in loose dirt as he dragged her into the bend with his foot hard down on the gas, demanding all the old bus had to offer: engine labouring, lights licking yellowish over rock and stunted bushes. Straightening out now, uphill all the way from here and getting steeper all the time.
So change up. Give the old girl a chance…
A headlight went, in an explosion of flying glass. The crack of the rifle-shot came after it – explanation, as the windscreen starred and shattered. He thought he’d had a glimpse of men up there, on the roadside up ahead, and the sparking flash of one rifle’s discharge. But he’d been taken by surprise, for the moment he’d been dazed and the shadowy figures could have been in his imagination. Now, as he took his foot off the accelerator and hit the brake and the big car skidded in loose dirt and stones, there were more shots, five or six he thought: one bullet ricocheted off the forepart, scattering more glass as it whined through the screen and away, and another slammed into Monsford’s shoulder, throwing him back against the seat, the car slowing, slewing, skidding to a stop, and sudden clarity of mind telling him he’d be no use to her if he let them kill him. A bullet creased his arm – the same arm – like a burn that plucked some shirt away. He’d crashed the gears into reverse: hoping to turn her, on this narrow roadway with a drop on one side, dirt-and-rock bank on the other. But there was some slope on that high side, if she could be induced to make use of it, if tyres would grip, run up on the reverse lunge… Some of the radiator grille sprang away, and more shots whipped over: he was concentrating on the business of getting her round – one-handed, the right arm useless by this time. Crouching low on the wheel: a shot plunked in somewhere to his right, and he thought, Tyres or tank would serve their purpose: or me, my head for instance… Reversing again, dragging down on the wheel, all his weight on it and the feeling that the old car was gritting her teeth like he was gritting his, getting her arse halfway up the bank before he lugged the wheel the other way and let her run forward, stopping her short of the edge – praying she wouldn’t glide over, taking the road’s loose surface with her – which was distinctly possible… And next time – this very next time, please God… Another ricochet. Reversing – tyres slipping as they hit the rise: and getting his elbow to the light switch, dousing the surviving headlight and the sidelights, all of them, making it less easy for the bastards. More glass shattering – a rear side window – and voices yelling from just up the road: within shouting distance, surely they could finish it? One sitting duck to at least two rifles? Turning the car would have been a lot easier if he’d had two hands, two arms. He’d have been away by now. A shot cracked past his ear: the sound was reminiscent of ancient days, sounds of one’s lurid and not unglorious youth. Pity to end it here. A double-take on that: inconceivable to end it here, because Christina was up there! Now this run forward would have to do it: there was a torch on the road behind, and running feet, loud shouting. Out of ammo? If the turning-circle didn’t make it this time-well, too bad, you’d be over the bloody edge… Crouched right down, left arm clamped to the wheel and doing all the work, right arm limp, wet… Now!
The car lurched forward, tilted as the left-front wheel rose to the incline of the last two feet before the long, sheer drop. A bullet went into the dashboard and splinters flew. Wheel thumping down – and he was struggling to reverse the angle on the wheels, stop her cavorting clear across to the other side and ploughing into the rock bank… Weaving, loose earth spraying as the old Mercedes picked up downhill speed: steadying the wheel for a second with his forearm he got a finger to the light- switch: and let her rip, at least seeing his way now as she thundered down with the long curve coming up ahead…
‘Not a bad little motor, this.’
Talking about the outboard. The end of the old jetty lay ahead. Mike hoped the pop-popping of the motor wasn’t waking the whole village as it puttered out across the empty stillness of the inner basin. Actually it wasn’t all that noisy, but it seemed loud in the surrounding silence when you were sitting right beside it.
‘Look out, Mike – stop her!’
He’d seen it too. He’d already moved his hand towards the throttle: he pushed it shut. A dark bulk was separating itself from the end of the jetty: he heard it now, too, the motor-sailer’s engine chugging her out stern-first. There was no mistaking, even in the dark, what Monsford had referred to as her ‘boxy’ silhouette.
Lois pressed closer. ‘Funny time to be leaving harbour.’ Without the crewmen who’d gone off in the Suzuki, he wondered? But they’d have had plenty of time to get a meal ashore and return on board… The dinghy drifted, close to the T-end of the jetty and in shadow. The yacht was leaving harbour: she’d backed out, and now she was turning to point at the exit.
Lois murmured, ‘No lights…’
The departure was undoubtedly clandestine. It gave him a feeling that they should not have given up trying to contact Monsford: a hunch that something was starting – had started… He got the motor going again, drove the pram around the end of the jetty and turned it in alongside Monsford’s caïque. Lois did her usual act with the painter, clambering up the ladder and calling to him as she climbed it ‘Home, sweet home!’ He joined her in the sternsheets. ‘Think I ought to jog round to that telephone and try to get Pipinelis? And try your uncle too?’
He’d thought, earlier on, that they might have a midnight swim. With no need for modesty, her body striped white where the bikini would not be. Now, worry was a constriction.
‘I don’t know. I suppose…’ She was at the wheelhouse doors, with her key. ‘Here, Mike! The doors aren’t locked!’
‘Are you sure you locked them?’
‘Yes I am.’ She’d pushed one door back: reaching in, found the light switch. ‘My God, look at that.’
The radio transmitter: a lot of it wasn’t there. It had been wrenched off the bulkhead. Wires trailed, bits and pieces littered the deck-space. Lois, who’d seen it first, recovered first: she said, ‘Back in the dinghy. Telephone. Come on…’
Pipinelis climbed out of bed, groped for his dressing-gown. His wife asked from the bed’s warmth, ‘Close the net, will you?’ Telephone still ringing… He swore as he jerked the mosquito netting together. The telephone was down in the hall. Could be whichever of his men had the night duty: Sergeant Exindaris, he guessed. But Exindaris wasn’t the sort of man to waken his superior officer in the middle of the night… ‘Yes?’
‘That – finally – is Captain Pipinelis?’
‘Of course it is. Who’s speaking?’
Whoever it was, he was Greek but not an islander. Athenian, Pipinelis guessed: and an offensive one, at that…
‘You don’t need to know my name. All you need do is listen. I’m speaking from the children’s hospital. Got it, so far?’
‘I insist on knowing—’
‘Shit in it, Captain… There are women and children here, d’you want them hurt?’
‘Of course – not!’
‘So shut up – listen…’
Pipinelis let himself down on to a chair. He had the feeling this was a nightmare, not really happening… ‘I’m listening.’
‘Good. Now: we have a force of well-armed men, here and also at other points on Nisos Aphros. We have no wish to shed blood, but if you fail to obey these instructions you’ll have a bath in it… This clear?’
‘Your words I understand, but—’
‘Shut up… We control this place, and because we have the women and the children here we have control of you. It’s important you should grasp this point. We will be here all day, until shortly before sunset. We will then leave, with a certain cargo. You had better know also that you have no communications with the mainland: the cable that runs to Skyros has been cut, and we’ve put out of action all the radio transmitters we know of. If others exist I advise you not to permit their use: if we hear of such attempts we’ll take a life up here for every word that goes out. In case you imagine we might be squeamish about such things, you’ll find a sample – one of your policemen – on the premises of the Harbour Master… By the way, it seemed sensible to sink that old launch of yours.’
‘You won’t get away with it. You’re crazy, if you imagine—’
‘You would be crazy to try to stop us. Or to interfere with the Exocet when she docks. If you tried to block her in, for instance – children will die. We’ll be leaving on her, and we’ll be taking the women with us – the Sisters, and the others too, the old one and this smart piece, Cavalieratos. Believe me – any disobedience, they’ll be shot. Before that, if you interfere it’ll be the kids. Now do you have a clear understanding of your position – Captain?’
‘Where—’ Pipinelis stammered – ‘where do you intend to take them?’
‘When we’re well clear, they’ll be released.’
‘And the children?’
‘They’ll be left here. Alive, unharmed – or – well, that’s in your hands… Final point now: there’s no need for your tourists or others to know anything of this. When we come to embark, we want no tourists shot either. Let this be a quiet, ordinary Sunday. And you remember – all day, remember – the children, and the women…’
The Mercedes came to a halt with its nose against the high wall surrounding Christina’s garden. Monsford half-fell out of the car, blundered into the house, leaving a spatter-trail of blood. Telephone… He collapsed on to the sofa beside it. Christina’s book of telephone numbers was in the table drawer: he got it out one-handed, leafed through to ‘P’ for Pipinelis.
Pipinelis, Tony… He dropped the book, pushed the receiver up between his ear and the undamaged shoulder, dialled. Blood on the book and now on the dial as he pushed it round: words in his mind in a growl of pain, Useless sod – at least he can get on the blower to the fucking mainland now…
Engaged tone. He swore, dialled again. Still engaged.
Concentrating, trying to make the brain work, when all it wanted to do was scream. Every minute counted. Bloody fool could’ve left it off the hook: and Christina up there, with those murderers… Monsford got up: on his way out to the car, blundering to it and falling in. First essential – back her off the wall. Shattered screen, a lot of other damage, bullet holes all over… Backing off. Then into neutral and grasping the wheel one-handed, getting it round just in time to avoid slamming into the wall. Downhill: out of gear, gathering speed, telling himself, Get Mike and Lois, then pin down bloody Pipinelis…
Almost out of control. Steady – God’s sake, man… This car was used to a driver with both arms functioning and not dizzy from shock or loss of blood. Not doing badly so far, but it was getting tricky, she wanted to go her own way. Christ Almighty… At the bottom, travelling fast and failing to get the wheel round in time, he wiped off a mudguard on the wall – hideous screech and clatter following the impact, and it was dragging along beside him. Got her round, though – and not too near the edge of the—
Oh, Jesus… He’d realised, suddenly, how close to the edge of the quay he’d let her swerve: wrenching the wheel hard over, and the car going into a skid now, travelling more or less sideways on stone paving wet with seadew: she hit the Ram’s steps glancingly, side-on, and slid on, wheels locking as he stamped hard on the brake – not recommended, he knew that, but what the hell was there to do – and then hit the wall head-on, a jarring, thunderous crash that stove-in the old car’s front end and sent him over the wheel head-first through the already smashed screen, sprawling through with new gashes in his face, head, shoulders, arms. The car was at rest, but now it began to roll slowly backwards towards the edge of the quay. Mike and Lois, who’d tied the dinghy up at the steps and had been climbing them when the heavy old car with its one remaining headlight had swerved on to the quay in that explosion of ripping metal and immediately gone into a screaming skid, reached Monsford as he was trying to lift his blood-covered, lacerated face from the bonnet. Mike reached in, pushing a leg out of the way to get the handbrake and jerk it on: Monsford gasped, ‘Get Pipinelis. Tell him Christina’s – oh, Christ…’