Solo (Aka the Cretan Lover) (v5) Page 18

  The farmstead of George and Maria Ghika was in a slight depression above the rim of the mountain surrounded by pine trees. To one side a wild and beautiful ravine dropped steeply, still terraced from ancient times, olive trees everywhere.

  The farm was a single-storeyed building with a roof of red pantiles, the walls whitewashed. There was a living-room and kitchen combined and two bedrooms. The floors were stone-flagged, the walls crudely plastered, but inside it was cool and dark in the summer heat as it was intended to be.

  When Morgan went out, he found the old couple sitting on a bench in the sun. Maria was gutting fish while George looked on, smoking his pipe.

  'You should not be on your feet,' she said in mild reproof.

  Morgan was stripped to the waist. His right shoulder and left arm were expertly bandaged with strips of clean linen. He felt old - tired and all used up in a way he hadn't for years.

  'Here, sit,' George patted the bench beside him. 'How do you feel?'

  'I'm fifty next month,' Morgan said, 'and for the first time, I really know it.'

  Maria laughed out loud. 'The old one there can give you twenty-five years, and still tries to get me into bed Saturdays.'

  George offered him a Greek cigarette and gave him a light. 'Last night you said something interesting. You mentioned Mikali. Was he the one who did this to you?'

  'Is he a friend of yours?' Morgan asked.

  The old man spat and stood up. 'Wait here.' He went into the house and came back with a pair of Zeiss field-glasses.

  'Where in the hell did you get those?' Morgan demanded.

  'Off a Nazi stormtrooper in Crete during the war when I was with EOK. Come, I show you.'

  He went some little way through the pine trees and Morgan followed. The old man stopped and pointed, 'See!'

  Below, the ravine spilled down through the pine woods to the bay above which the Mikali villa stood. George focused the field-glasses and handed them to Morgan.

  'Look, all the way down. The terraces - every stone carried by mule. Built with the sweat of my own ancestors. All stolen by Mikali.'

  The lines of the ancient terraces jumped sharply into life as Morgan examined them. In spite of the olive trees, the ground was overgrown and obviously not tilled.

  He glanced at old George. 'John Mikali?'

  'His great-grandfather. Is there a difference? A Mikali is a Mikali. Once we of the Ghika clan were substantial people. Once we had respect. But now...'

  Morgan raised the field-glasses to his eyes again and the garden below the villa came into view, Kate Riley walking down the path to the jetty where young Nicky was fishing with a handline.

  'Dear God!' Morgan said.

  The old man took the glasses from him and looked for himself. 'Ah, yes, I have seen her there before. The American lady.'

  'Before?' Morgan asked.

  'Oh, yes. You know her?'

  'I thought I did,' Morgan said hoarsely. 'Now, I'm not so sure,' and before George could stop him he turned and stumbled away down the slope through the pine trees.

  It was very hot as Kate moved through the terraces to the garden. The small black dog barked at her as she went past the cottage. Old Anna waved from the kitchen and then she reached the broad concrete steps and found Nicky fishing.

  The water was crystal clear, the motor launch perfectly reflected in it. Nicky turned with a smile and she ran her fingers through his hair.

  'Yassou!' she said in greeting, using one of the few Greek words she knew.

  He pulled in the line, smiling eagerly. He was already twelve, old enough to have left school. His mother, a widow, worked in an Athens hotel and he lived with Constantine and his wife for the moment, helping with the boat, learning how to fish. Kate was his special favourite. Whenever she came, he dogged her footsteps everywhere.

  He took a grimy packet from the pocket of his jeans and offered her a piece of his grandmother's Turkish delight. It was so sweet as usually to make her feel slightly sick, but to refuse would have been an insult. She took the smallest piece, popped it into her mouth and got it down as fast as she could.

  She sat on one of the concrete steps. He crouched beside her and produced several Polaroid pictures from his shirt pocket.

  'Oh, you're still taking those things, are you?' she said.

  He passed them over one by one. There was old Constantine, his grandmother, one of Mikali on the terrace.

  One of herself sitting in the stern of the boat.

  'Good?' he said.

  'Very good.'

  Then he passed her the photo of Asa Morgan he had taken in the saloon the previous night.

  She sat there staring at it and it took several moments for the fact of it to sink in.

  'Where did you get this?' she whispered. And then she turned and grabbed him by the arm. 'When?' she demanded. 'When was he here?' He stared at her uncomprehendingly and she pointed at the boat and then at the photo. 'When?'

  His face cleared. 'Last night. From Hydra.' He turned and pointed to the villa. 'To house.'

  'But that isn't possible. It isn't possible.' Her fingers tightened on his arm. 'Where is he?' She waved the photograph at him again. 'Where is he?'

  'Gone,' the boy said. 'Gone.'

  He was a little afraid now, pulled away and picked up his photos. When he tried to take the one of Morgan from her hand, she reacted in instant rage, pushing him away from her violently.

  She turned and hurried down the steps, still clutching the photo and ran along the tiny strip of beach. On the other side of the bay, a track climbed steeply through the pine trees. She followed it without the slightest idea of where she was going, aware of only one thing. Mikali had lied to her.

  The track was steep and rocky, difficult in the light sandals she wore, fit only for mules. But she kept on climbing blindly, unaware of where she was going. Finally, she breasted the ridge and came out on a small plateau.

  She sank down on a log, exhausted for the moment. She was still clutching the Polaroid photo of Morgan. She stared at it blankly then buried her face in her hands.

  There was a movement close by. She looked up and Morgan stepped out of the trees.

  For a moment, she actually thought she was going out of her mind. 'Asa?' she said. 'It is you, isn't it?'

  He came at her in a rush, had her over the log, a hand on her throat. She felt herself choking, helpless against his strength and then was aware of George Ghika looming over them. He had Morgan by the hair and jerked back his head so sharply that Morgan cried out in pain, releasing his hold on her and fell back.

  Blood began to stain the bandage on his arm. He just lay there looking at her. 'You knew all along. You warned him, didn't you? That's why he was expecting me last night.'

  'What happened?' she said dully.

  'Oh, he put a bullet through me and I went off the cliff into the sea. I'd be fish bait right now if it hadn't been for this old man and his wife.'

  'So, he is the Cretan. You were right.'

  'Are you trying to tell me you didn't know?'

  She sat down on the log again, picked up the crumpled Polaroid photo and passed it to him. 'Have a look at that and let me explain about me and John Mikali.'

  Old George had vanished from the scene, turning and walking away when she began to talk. When she was finished, Morgan sat there in silence for a while and she noticed there was sweat on his forehead. 'Do you believe me?'

  He got up, sat beside her and put an arm about her shoulders. 'Couple of bloody fools, the pair of us, I dare say.'

  'Oh, Asa Morgan, I like you.' She leaned her head on his shoulder and his good arm tightened around her.

  'Ah, well, that's my Welsh good looks for you, only I'm about twenty years too late, so no nonsense. Now let's go over a few things again. Deville, you said? Jean Paul Deville.'

  'That's right.'

  'I bet there's more to him than meets the bloody eye.'

  He was shaking a little now, his eyes wild, his face wet with sweat
.

  'What will you do now?' she said.

  'I'm not sure. In other circumstances, I'd like to go down there and settle with him only the state I'm in at the moment, I feel I might fall down if I breathe too deeply. At least I know where the bastard will be Saturday night. On stage at the Albert Hall.'

  He was in real pain now, she could see that. She said, 'You should be in bed, Asa.'

  'You say he leaves for Athens this evening, to catch the night flight to London?'

  'That's right.'

  'You'll be going with him, of course.'

  She sat there, staring at him blankly, hands folded in her lap. 'To continue to share his bed, Asa as if nothing had happened? To keep him warm for you till you get there?' She got to her feet, her face still unnaturally calm. 'I should feel sorry for you, I suppose, but I don't. You're as possessed as he is. You deserve each other.'

  She walked away. When he tried to get up, he found that his legs refused to support him and called hoarsely, 'Kate, for God's sake!'

  'And what on earth could he possibly have to do with it, Asa?' she said without turning round and disappeared into the pine trees.

  There was a clatter of hooves behind him and George appeared with the mule, Maria following. The old woman was very angry. She put a hand on Morgan's forehead.

  'Fool, there is a fever on thee already. Do you seek death?'

  But he had nothing to say now - nothing at all, for it was like being under water, everything happening in slow motion. Between them, Maria and George got him into the saddle and started back up through the pine trees.

  By the time they got him to the bed he had been using he was shaking. George pulled blankets on and Maria went to the kitchen and came back with a cup.

  'Drink, boy,' she ordered.

  It tasted foul and Morgan gagged but got it down, thinking of Katherine Riley.

  'A great pity that, Mam,' he said in Welsh. 'A nice girl. But you know how it is?'

  And then the darkness swallowed him up.

  Mikali and Deville were at the far end of the rear terrace talking when she went in. She watched them for a while from behind a window in the sitting-room then went to the sideboard and poured herself a large gin and tonic. There was a slight movement and Mikali slipped his arms around her waist.

  'A little early for you, isn't it?'

  'I'm tired,' she said. 'That's all.'

  He kissed her neck and turned her round and there was concern on his face. 'I hate to say it, angel, but you look awful.'

  'I know,' she said. 'I've been working like a dog and then the plane trip and last night in Athens.' She paused and what came out next was somehow in spite of herself, but once said could not be taken back. 'I was thinking. Would you mind very much if I hung on here for a couple of days?'

  For a moment he hesitated and then smiled. 'Why not? The rest would do you good. But I want you in London, Saturday, without fail. There'll be a seat in a box as close to me as I can get you. I need you there, angel. Something to share. Something to remember.'

  He held her close and kissed her. Amazing how easy it was, yet after all, he was the same man, this man she had given her body to so many times. The Cretan Lover from the beginning. The only difference was that now she knew it.

  'If you don't mind, I think I'll go and lie down. I've got a splitting headache.'

  'Of course.'

  She went out and Deville moved in through the french window.

  'I think you should kill her.'

  'Why?' Mikali said calmly. 'She knows nothing.'

  'You love her?'

  'I don't know what that word means. I like her - yes. Her presence, her company. She pleases me in these things more than any other woman I've ever known.'

  'The seeds of doubt have been planted in her. Who knows when they may germinate?'

  'A particularly purple passage, even for you.'

  He sat down at the Bluthner and his fingers started to play 'Le Pastour' entirely of their own volition.

  13

  Morgan was tramping over the mountain on his way home from the pit again, half-running to beat the thunderstorm that threatened in the black, anvil-shaped clouds that filled the horizon.

  The rains came, a downpour of such force that he was soaked to the skin in a moment. And the cold of it seemed to reach inside his brain so that he cried aloud in agony as he went down the hillside to the village below.

  She had the door of the little cottage open as he stumbled along the path, her head draped in a black knitted shawl so that he couldn't see her face.

  Her arms enfolded him, drawing him into the warmth. 'Mam,' he said. 'I'm so cold. So bloody cold.'

  He was on his back, head against the pillow, only when she leaned over and the shawl slipped back, it was Katherine Riley who gazed down at him.

  'It's all right, Asa. I'm here. Sleep now.'

  'Yes, Mam,' he said, closed his eyes and did as he was told.

  Morgan came awake from a dreamless sleep and lay staring up at the wattle and plaster ceiling over his head. He was himself again, his skin cool, the dull persistent ache in his arm and shoulder the only reminder of what he'd been through. It was daylight, sun streaming in through the window.

  He could hear singing close at hand, the dull rhythmic chopping of an axe against wood; he flung back his blankets and got to his feet. He was no longer lightheaded. Now, there was only the pain and that was good. That would keep him sharp.

  George was splitting logs for firewood, Maria was sitting on the bench in the sun, sewing a rent in Morgan's salt-stained jacket. His wallet was on the bench beside her, drying in the sun along with his passport and a row of drachma notes.

  She put up a hand and touched his forehead. 'So - the fever is gone?' She called to George. 'See, old fool, who knows better than the doctor now?'

  George leaned on his axe. 'She is a witch,' he said, 'and all the women of her clan before her. This is a known fact.'

  'So, you feel better?' she asked.

  'Much.'

  'Good. Many hours have you slept. It was a necessary thing, the potion I gave thee.'

  He glanced at his Rolex and saw that it was eight o'clock. He felt curiously light-headed as he walked through the pine trees to the ridge. He shaded his eyes, looking down to Mikali's villa in the bay below. Old George appeared at his side.

  'They have gone?'

  'All of them!'

  'And the woman?'

  The old man pointed. 'See, she comes now.'

  She emerged from the trees into the clearing two hundred feet below, following the track that zigzagged between the old overgrown terraces. She was wearing sunglasses, tee-shirt and an old cotton skirt and carried a shoulder bag.

  'She has concern for thee, this one, I think,' the old man told him in Greek. 'Many hours she sat beside thy bed.'

  Morgan sat down carefully on a log, his eyes never leaving her and the old man placed a pack of Greek cigarettes and some matches beside him.

  'I will tell Maria to make coffee,' he said and walked away.

  She emerged from the pine trees ten minutes later to find him sitting there on the log smoking. She paused for a moment to look at him, strangely anonymous in the dark glasses.

  'So, you're back with us again?'

  'That's what they tell me.'

  She sat down on the grass facing him, her back against a tree and put the shoulder bag on the ground.

  'What have you got in there?' he asked.

  'Sandwiches, a bottle of wine. Constantine thinks I like to go walking in the mountains each day.'

  'And the old woman and the boy?'

  'Oh, they're in Hydra at the Mikali town house. This time of the year they sometimes let tourists have a look round. It's something of a museum. Full of relics from the Turkish wars - that sort of thing.'

  There was an awkwardness between them that this kind of conversation couldn't bridge. He said, 'Why did you stay?'

  'In spite of myself,' she said and removed her
sunglasses. Her face was very pale, the eyes haunted. 'I told him I was tired. Asked if he minded if I stayed on for a day or two.'

  'And he agreed?'

  'On the understanding that I was in my seat on time at the Albert Hall.'

  'I see. So, he caught last night's plane? And Deville went with him.'

  'Last night?' She shook her head slowly. 'You've lost a a day somewhere, Asa. This is Saturday - Saturday morning. They left the night before last.'

  He sat there staring at her, thunderstruck, unable to take it in. 'Are you trying to tell me I've been out for the past thirty hours?'

  'Something like that. Oh, you tossed and turned rather a lot, but Maria certainly knew what she was doing. Those herbs of hers are really quite something.'

  'But that means the concert's tonight.' He jumped to his feet and stood there, hand clenched. 'Don't you see! The bastard could be on his way again tomorrow.'

  'He phoned me last night,' she said. 'Told me he'd been with Previn at the Albert Hall and that's where he'll be for most of today. Rehearsal for tonight's concert. It's really very simple. All you have to do is ring Baker at Scotland Yard.'

  There was a lengthy silence. Morgan said, 'Yes, I could do that.'

  'But you won't, will you?'

  He sat down on the log again and lit a cigarette.

  'Look, let me explain. There's a section of DI5 called Group Four with new powers direct from the Prime Minister himself to coordinate the handling of terrorism, subversion and so on. It's run by a man called Ferguson. Baker works for him. We go back a long way, Ferguson and me. He's quite a character. Would it surprise you to know he encouraged me in this thing from the beginning? Used me as a blunt instrument. Hoped I might succeed where they'd failed because I had that little extra something working for me - hate!'

  'He was certainly right there.'

  'Yes, only now that I've found him, I want Mikali for myself.'

  'An eye for an eye. Is that the only way you see it? Blood for blood?'

  'And why not? If I accuse him in Greece, they'll laugh at me. He's a national hero. If I let them arrest him in England, they'll give him fifteen years for shooting Cohen and that's only if they can prove it. All his other killings have been elsewhere, remember. The Germans - the French. They'll all have to wait their turn.'