Solo (Aka the Cretan Lover) (v5) Page 16

  'That's cutting it too fine, mister,' the driver said. 'I don't think we can make it.'

  'Five hundred drachmas says we can,' Asa Morgan told him. He reached for the handstrap as the driver grinned, gunned his motor and shot out into the stream of traffic.

  11

  At Heathrow, it was just three-thirty as Katherine Riley hurried up to the British Airways check-in desk followed by a porter with her luggage.

  The young clerk examined her ticket. 'Sorry, madam, they're boarding now. Too late to pass you through. Would you like me to see if I can put you on our seven o'clock flight?'

  'Yes,' she said. 'Please do. I must get to Athens tonight.'

  He checked and came back. 'Yes, we can do that for you. You get in rather late, I'm afraid. Half an hour past midnight, Greek time.'

  'That doesn't matter,' she said. 'I'm going on to the islands. It means I'll get an early start in the morning.'

  'Fine, madam. Now if I could have your baggage, I'll check it through for you.'

  It was Ferguson who phoned Baker this time, with the bad news from Athens.

  'I've just had Rourke on the line. Asa gave him the slip, and rather easily, from the sound of it.'

  'Jesus Christ,' Baker said, for once totally unable to contain himself. 'Where in the hell do you find these idiots?'

  'A special dispensation from the Almighty, Superintendent. Who are we poor mortals to question his ways?'

  'So - what do we do now, sir?'

  'Like Mr Micawber, sit tight and hope for something to turn up,' Ferguson said and put down the phone.

  Morgan made it to the hydrofoil quay at the Piraeus with ten minutes to spare. It wasn't particularly crowded and he paid for his ticket on board and found a seat by the window.

  It was a calm evening and the Flying Dolphin was able to operate at maximum speed, straining high out of the water on her stilt-like legs. And the scenery was spectacular enough. Salamis with the blue waters of the Saronic Gulf, the great bulk of the islands of Aegina and Paros, glowing with brilliant colours in the evening light.

  None of it meant anything to Morgan, even when he went out to the well deck and leaned on the rail, staring blindly into space, thinking of only one thing. John Mikali. And when they met, what then? He had no weapon. Impossible to risk being caught trying to bring one in by the security checks at the airport. There was always his hands, of course. It wouldn't be the first time. When he looked down at them, they trembled slightly.

  Finally, there was Hydra, bare and austere in the evening light like some great stone basilisk, curiously disappointing until the Flying Dolphin moved into harbour and the enchantment of Hydra town itself was revealed.

  The houses rose in tiers, back into the hills, reached by a network of twisting cobbled alleys. The evening was just getting going, cheerful crowds moving into the tavernas.

  Morgan took a seat at one of the open air tables close to the Monastery of the Dormiton on the waterfront. The waiter who came spoke fair English so Morgan kept his Greek to himself and ordered a beer.

  'You American?' the waiter asked.

  'No, Welsh.'

  'I've never been to Wales. London, yes. I worked in a restaurant on the King's Road, Chelsea, for one year.'

  'And that was enough?'

  'Too cold,' the waiter smiled. 'Nice here in the season. Nice and warm.' He kissed his fingers. 'Plenty of girls. Lots of tourists. You here for a holiday, eh?'

  'No,' Morgan said. 'I'm a journalist. Hoping to interview John Mikali, the concert pianist. He has a villa here, I understand?'

  'Sure, down the coast beyond Molos.'

  'How do I get there?' Morgan asked. 'Is there a local bus?'

  The waiter smiled. 'No cars or trucks on Hydra. It's against the law. The only way you get anywhere is on a mule or your own two feet. A mule is better. In the interior of the island, it's rough, mountainous country and the people there still live like the old days.'

  'And Mikali?'

  'His villa is about seven kilometres down the coast from here on a promontory in the pine trees opposite to Dokos. Very beautiful. He uses a motor launch to ferry his supplies and so on.'

  'Can I hire a boat to take me there?'

  The waiter shook his head. 'Not if he hasn't invited you.'

  Morgan tried to look dismayed. 'Then what do I do? I'd hate to have come all this way for nothing.' He took a one-hundred-drachma note from his wallet and laid it carefully down on the table. 'If you could help in any way, I'd be very grateful.'

  The waiter picked up the note calmly and slipped it casually into his top pocket. 'I tell you what. I do you a favour. I get him on the telephone. If he wants to see you, then that's up to him. Okay?'

  'That's fine.'

  'What's your name?'

  'Lewis.'

  'Okay. You stay here. I'll be back in a couple of minutes.'

  The waiter went inside the taverna to the desk and checked in a small directory, then he lifted the receiver from the wall phone and dialled a number. Mikali answered himself.

  'Heh, Mr Mikali, this is Andrew, the waiter at Niko's,' he said in Greek.

  'And what can I do for you?'

  'There's a man here come in on the hydrofoil from Athens asking how to get to your place. A journalist. He says he was hoping for an interview.'

  'What is he, an American?'

  'No, Welsh, he says. His name is Lewis.'

  'Welsh?' Mikali sounded faintly amused. 'That certainly makes a change. Okay, Andrew, I'm in a good mood, but only for an hour, mind you, that's all he's got. I'll send Constantine in for him. You point him to the boat when it comes in.'

  'Okay, Mr Mikali.'

  The waiter returned to Morgan. 'You're in luck. He says he'll see you, but only for an hour. He's sending his boatman for you, old Constantine. I'll tell you when they get here.'

  'That's marvellous,' Morgan said. 'How long?'

  'Long enough for you to have something to eat.' The waiter grinned. 'The fish I can especially recommend. Fresh in tonight.'

  Morgan ate well, mainly to fill the time and found himself enjoying it. He was just finishing when the waiter tapped him on the shoulder and pointed and Morgan saw a white motor launch coming round the point.

  'Come on,' the waiter said. 'I'll take you down and introduce you.'

  The launch bumped against the harbour wall and a young boy of eleven or twelve jumped to the wharf with a line. He wore a patched jersey and jeans. The waiter tousled his hair and the boy gave him a flashing smile.

  'This is Nicky, Constantine's grandson and here is Constantine himself.'

  Constantine Melos was a small, powerful-looking man with a face tanned to a deep mahogany shade by a lifetime at sea. He wore a seaman's cap, check shirt, patched trousers and sea boots.

  'Don't be misled by appearances,' the waiter whispered. 'The old bastard owns two good houses in town.' He raised his voice. 'This is Mr Lewis.'

  Constantine didn't manage a smile. He said in broken English, 'We go now, mister.'

  He turned and went back into the wheelhouse. 'Probably thinks the Devil will get him if he's out after dark,' the waiter said. 'They're all the same, these old ones. Half the women think they're witches. I'll see you again, Mr Lewis.'

  Morgan stepped on board, the boy moved after him, coiling the line and the motor launch moved out of harbour past the once heavily fortified battery with its Venetian guns pointing out to sea as if they still expected the Turks to come.

  It was a fine evening although the coast of the Peloponnese about four miles away was already fading into a kind of purple twilight and on the Hydriot shore, lights gleamed in the windows. The boat surged forward as Constantine boosted power and Morgan went into the wheelhouse and offered him a cigarette. 'How long?'

  'Fifteen - twenty minutes.'

  Morgan looked out across the evening sea, black as ink as the sun slipped out of sight beyond the bulk of Dokos on the far horizon.

  'Nice,' he said.

&nbs
p; The old man didn't bother to reply and, after a while, Morgan gave up and went below to the saloon where he found the boy seated at the table reading a sports paper. Morgan looked over his shoulder. The front page featured the famous Liverpool soccer team.

  'You like football?' Morgan asked.

  The boy smiled delightedly and pointed at the picture. 'Liverpool - you like?' His English seemed very limited.

  'Well, I'd rather spend the afternoon at Cardiff Arms Park myself, but yes, you have to admit that there must be something in the water in Liverpool.'

  The boy grinned again, then went to a cupboard, opened it and produced an expensive Polaroid camera. He pointed it at Morgan, there was a flash and then the print was ejected at the front.

  Morgan said, 'There's an expensive toy. Who gave you that?'

  'Mr Mikali,' Nicky said. 'He nice man.'

  Morgan picked up the print and stared down as it automatically developed itself, his face peering darkly out at him, the colours deepening. 'Yes,' he said slowly. 'I suppose he is.'

  The photo was ready now. Nicky took it from him and held it up. 'Good?'

  'Yes.' Morgan patted him on the head. 'Very good.'

  The phone rang. When Mikali answered it, it was Katherine Riley again.

  'I'm still in the international departure lounge at Heathrow,' she said. 'There's been a delay.'

  'My poor darling.'

  'That sounds rather extravagant for you,' she said.

  'I feel in an extravagant mood.'

  'Anyway, I'll still be on the first hydrofoil in the morning.'

  'I'll have Constantine waiting for you. Don't talk to any strange men.'

  He hung up as he heard the sound of the engine approaching. He picked up a pair of binoculars, opened the french windows and moved out across the wide terrace. There was still enough light for him to see the launch turn into the bay and move towards the small jetty where Constantine's old wife, Anna, was waiting.

  There was a light on the end of the jetty. As the boy tossed the line to his grandmother, Morgan followed him over the rail: Mikali focused the binoculars on him briefly. It was enough.

  He returned to the living-room where a pine-log fire burned brightly on the hearth. He poured himself a large Courvoisier and ice, then opened a drawer in the desk, took out a Walther and quickly fitted a silencer to the muzzle.

  He pushed the weapon into his belt and went round the room, glass in one hand, opening all the french windows, pushing back and securing the shutters so that the night wind filled the house with the scent of flowers from the garden.

  Then he turned off all the lights except a reading lamp on a coffee table by the piano, went and sat down at the Bluthner and started to play.

  Fifty or sixty feet up the steep path from the jetty they came to a small, rather primitive cottage. A dog started to bark at Morgan from the porch. The old woman hushed it and she and the boy went in. Constantine continued up the path without a word and Morgan followed him.

  The garden was terraced, he was aware of that, fringed with olive trees and there were pots of camellia, gardenia, hibiscus and the warm night air was perfumed with the scent of jasmine.

  He could hear the piano now, a strange, haunting piece. For a brief moment, he stopped dead in his tracks. Constantine paused, half-turning, his face showing no emotion, and Morgan started forward again.

  They went up the steps to the villa. It was a large, sprawling, one-storeyed building, constructed of local stone with green-painted shutters and a pantile roof. Bougainvillaea grew in profusion everywhere.

  There was a double door of iron-bound oak. Constantine opened it without ceremony and led the way in. The inner hall seemed to join two sections of the house together and was in darkness. A faint light showed through a door which stood open at the far end from where the music sounded clearly. Constantine led the way down to it, motioned Morgan inside, put down his holdall and left without a word, closing the front door behind him.

  'Come in, Mr Lewis,' Mikali called.

  Morgan stepped into the room. It was very long, simply furnished, white-painted walls, a floor of polished brick, the fire burning cheerfully in the hearth and Mikali at the Bluthner concert grand.

  'Take your coat off, please.'

  Morgan tossed his trenchcoat on to the nearest chair and moved forward slowly, like a man in a dream, throat dry, breathing constricted. The music seemed to touch the very core of his being.

  'You know this piece, Mr Lewis?'

  'Yes,' Morgan said thickly. It's called Le Pastour by Gabriel Grovlez.'

  Mikali managed to look surprised. 'A man of taste and discernment.'

  'Not really,' Morgan said. 'As it happens, it was one of the pieces my daughter had to learn for her grade five piano certificate at the Royal College of Music.'

  'Yes, I was sorry about that,' Mikali said. 'I did try to miss her, Colonel.'

  Morgan was past any kind of surprise now. He said, 'Yes, I can imagine that. When you murdered Stephanakis in Paris, you let the chauffeur live, the chambermaid at the Hilton in Berlin and the chauffeur again in Rio when you killed General Falcao. Who do you think you are - God?'

  'Rules of the game. They weren't the target.'

  'The game?' Morgan said. 'And what game would that be?'

  'You should know. You've been playing it long enough. The most exciting game in the world with your own life as the ultimate stake. Can you honestly tell me anything else you've ever done that has offered quite the same kick?'

  'You're mad,' Morgan said.

  Mikali looked faintly surprised. 'Why? I used to do the same things in uniform and they gave me medals for it. Your own position exactly. When you look in the mirror it's me you see.'

  The music changed, some concerto or other now, full of life and strength.

  He said, 'The interesting thing is your being here on your own. What happened to DI5 and the Special Branch?'

  'I wanted you for myself.'

  The music swelled to a crescendo as Morgan went forward flexing his hands. Mikali said, 'Do you like this? It's Prokofiev's Fourth Piano Concerto in B-flat Major - for the left hand.'

  His right hand came up over the top of the piano holding the Walther and Morgan swerved to one side as the bullet ploughed a furrow across the top of his left shoulder.

  He tore the reading lamp on the coffee table from its socket, plunging the room into shadow. The Walther coughed again, twice, but Morgan was already out through the nearest french window. He ran across the terrace and vaulted ten feet into the garden below, landing heavily.

  The dog was barking again down in the cottage as he ran towards the cliff edge, through the olive trees, swerving from side to side. Mikali, who had followed him over the terrace without hesitation, went after him.

  It was almost totally dark now, the horizon streaked with orange fire as Morgan reached the edge of the cliffs and hesitated, realizing there was nowhere left to run.

  For an instant, he was a perfect silhouette against the orange and gold of the evening sky and Mikali fired while still running. Morgan cried out as the bullet pushed him backwards into space and then he was gone.

  Mikali peered down into the gloom below. There was a footstep behind him and Constantine appeared, a shotgun in one hand, a spot lamp in the other.

  Mikali took the lamp from him, switched it on and played it on the dark swirling waters amongst the rocks.

  'The boy is in bed?' he asked.

  'Yes,' the old man nodded.

  'Good. Doctor Riley will be on the first hydrofoil from Athens in the morning. She'll be expecting you.'

  Mikali walked back to the terrace. The old man looked down to the dark waters, crossed himself, then turned away and retraced his steps to the cottage.

  *

  It was about an hour later that Jean Paul Deville let himself into his Paris apartment. He'd been to dinner, an annual affair attended mainly by colleagues at the criminal bar. Most of the others had elected to continue the eve
ning's entertainment at an establishment in Montmartre much frequented by middle-aged gentlemen in search of excitement. Deville had managed to make his escape gracefully enough.

  As he took off his coat, the telephone rang. It was Mikali. He said, 'I've been trying for an hour.'

  'I was out to dinner. Trouble?'

  'Our Welsh friend appeared. Knew all about me.'

  'Good God. How?'

  'I haven't the slightest idea. I did establish that be hadn't passed the information on. He was too anxious to have me for himself.'

  'You've taken care of him?'

  'Permanently.'

  Deville frowned, thinking about it, then made his decision. 'Under the circumstances, I think we should get together. If I catch the breakfast plane to Athens, I could be in Hydra by one o'clock, your time. Will that be all right?'

  'Fine,' Mikali said. 'Katherine Riley's arriving in the morning, but no sweat about that.'

  'Of course not,' Deville said. 'Let's keep things as normal as possible. I'll be seeing you.'

  Mikali poured himself another brandy, crossed to the desk and opened Morgan's file. He found the photo and stared down into the dark, ravaged face for a long moment, then he took it and the rest of the file and threw it on the fire.

  He sat down at the piano, flexed his fingers then started to play 'Le Pastour' with enormous feeling and delicacy.

  12

  For most of his seventy-two years George Ghika had been a fisherman by profession, living in the same small farm he had been born in, high up in the pine woods above Mikali's place.

  All of his four sons had emigrated to America in turn over the years, leaving him only his wife, Maria, to help him work the boat. Not that it mattered. Whatever he liked to pretend, she was as tough as him any day of the week and could handle the boat as well.

  Twice a week, for the excitement and a little extra money, they would set out to lay their nets as usual at night, then turn out the lights and make the four-mile run across the strait to a taverna on the coast of the Peloponnese where they would take on a cargo of untaxed cigarettes, a commodity for which there was considerable demand on Hydra.