Jack Higgins (2 page)

Greek he might be, but his voice was pure American. I scrambled over the rail and as I turned, he took the speedboat away fast. The girl didn't even wave. She sat in the stern and lit a cigarette and never looked back once.

“You were a fool, Jack, every kind of a fool.” Morgan's voice was sick and angry. “I told you not to go.”

I ignored him and said to Hakim, “Is that the shipping- line Aleko?”

“Amongst other things. His firm has only recently invested ten million dollars in a new oil installation com
plex in Alexandria. He is a good friend to Egypt. He arrived from Crete this morning in his yacht the
Firebird
. A short holiday, or so I understand.”

“And the girl?”

“His sister-in-law, Lady Sara Hamilton. His wife was killed in a car crash at Antibes last year. She is English,” he added rather unnecessarily.

“A harlot,” Major Ibrahim said, his voice shaking. “A shameless harlot exposing her body to the eyes of men like that.”

“So you fancy her, too?” I said.

For a moment, I thought he might take a punch at me, which would have been unfortunate as I'd have almost certainly broken his jaw in reply, which wouldn't have done me much good in the long run.

I don't know why, but something obviously made him think better of it, perhaps the knowledge that he was going to have his say later. In any case, he turned and went back over the rail to the M.T.B.

“I'm sorry,” Hakim said in a low voice, “but don't treat him lightly. He has considerable power.”

I shrugged it off and looked down at the pilot. A couple of sailors had lifted him on to a stretcher.

“He looks very young.”

“He will receive a military funeral according to the rights of his religion, Mr. Savage,” Hakim said as if in answer to some unspoken question of my own. “We are not savages.”

We shook hands, he smiled gently and followed the stretcher bearers over the rail to the deck of the M.T.B. It moved away with a burst of speed and Morgan brought me a towel and produced that half-bottle of Irish again.

I took a swallow and he said, “I don't like it, Jack.”

“What don't you like?”

“That guy Ibrahim and the way he was going on about Guyon. He means trouble.”

“You worry too much.” I gave him the bottle. “Have another drink and take us into harbour.”

Perhaps if I'd listened to him, given it some thought, things might have turned out differently, but her perfume was heavy in my nostrils, the sound of the voice sharp and clear, the eyes grey as mist on an Irish morning. She had me by the throat and I could not, would not shake free of her.

Only the Egyptians, with their curious love-hate relationship where the English are concerned, could have allowed the continued existence, especially after Suez, of a hotel with a name like Saunder's.

But then the entire establishment was something of an anachronism. A throwback to the great days of Victorian Imperialism and it consistently refused to move with the times. No air conditioning for Saunder's. Enormous electric fans turned monotonously in each room except when there was a power failure which was often.

It was run by a man called Yanni Kytros, Greek by nationality, but with an Egyptian mother, which was useful. He had another place on Kyros in the Aegean, north of Crete through the Kasos Strait, and seemed to split his time between the two.

He was the kind of man who had his fingers into everything. An operator in capital letters. Women, guns, cigarettes. You name it, he could supply it. The one thing he wouldn't touch was drugs. Something to do
with a sister who'd got hooked on heroin years before and had died unpleasantly. He told me a little about her on one memorable night of women and drink when we were both three parts cut. He had never mentioned it since.

He was about fifty, which I always understood was a pure estimate as he didn't seem to be able to lay his hands on a birth certificate. Bearded, genial, badly overweight and constantly smiling, one of the wittiest men I've ever known, and underneath it all, utterly unscrupulous and hard as nails.

Although I ran my main operation out of Alexandria, I liked Bir el Gafani so much that I'd been living there on a semi-permanent basis for almost two years. I had a room on the ground floor at Saunder's with a terrace to the garden which suited me perfectly and a regular mooring for the
Gentle Jane
in the old harbour. Morgan usually slept on board when he wasn't sweating it off in the corner of some bar or other.

 

I couldn't remember actually getting into bed, but in it I was or rather, on it and mother-naked. The room was a place of shadows, white muslin curtains billowing palely at the windows open to the terrace. It was evening and very quiet. It was several moments before I realised that the fan had stopped.

I pushed myself up on one elbow, reaching for a cigarette on the wickerwork table beside the bed, and there was a stirring in the shadows on the other side of the room, the chink of a bottle.

“You okay, Jack?”

Morgan got off the divan by the far window and
moved out of the shadows, stowing the bottle furtively away in the pocket of his old reefer.

“Fine, Morg,” I said. “What happened?”

“You passed out, Jack, fainted clean away, just like you done before. Remember?”

I nodded slowly. It wasn't something that happened often, but when it did, was complete enough to be alarming. I'd gone into the whole matter thoroughly with a specialist some years previously who had told me it was some kind of stress ailment, but chemical rather than psychological. It seemed I had unusual reserves of vitality, could keep going full-blast for longer periods than the average man, but when I reached a certain point I keeled straight over, burned out.

“When did all this happen?”

“Coming in through the garden. I left the Land Rover at the side gate. You had an arm round my shoulders. Just as we reached the fountain you went down so hard you took me with you.”

“How did you get me inside?”

He grinned wickedly. “The girl, Jack, the girl on the speedboat. That feller Aleko's sister-in-law or whatever. She was sitting on the terrace. She gave me a hand with you.” He wiped sweat from his eyes with the back of one hand. “By God, Jack, there's a woman for you. Worth any ten I ever seed.”

“And who undressed me?”

“Why, she did, Jack, who else? They had to come off. You were soaked. Shivering like a baby and that's a woman's work. They got the touch.” He cackled. “Anyway, my hands was dirty.”

What a woman indeed
. I got up and went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, the Saunder's only
concession to modern living. It was lukewarm, but refreshing. I started to live again.

Morgan leaned in the doorway and filled his old pipe. “Guyon came by to see you.”

“How was he?”

“Fine. He said the doctor told him to lay off diving for a week. I was thinking that might be convenient.” He hesitated. “Maybe I could help out.”

I came out of the shower towelling myself briskly and shook my head. “Thanks, Morg, that's good of you, but we'll see how things work out.”

It was a game we played, something to bolster up his self-esteem. He would never dive again. Once was all it would take and he was a dead man or insane for whatever span was left to him. He knew that and so did I, but the game kept him happy along with the drink.

“Guyon was real excited about the Mirage, Jack,” he went on. “You could make a real killing there. Those Gypos should pay plenty for that baby. And I told him about that Ibrahim guy asking all those questions.”

I pulled on a clean shirt and started to button it up. “What did he say?”

“Nothing much.” Morgan scratched his unshaven chin. “Hell, Jack, you know how Guyon is. He's a funny guy to figure. He sure went off in a hurry, though.”

I felt that coldness in my belly again and for the second time that day pushed it away, refused to acknowledge that something was wrong. The truth was that Sara Hamilton had filled my mind to the exclusion of all else, a disturbing sensation at my age. Not that I was against women. I was all for them in regular doses, but in their proper place which meant not intruding into the more important aspects of life.

“You going down to the bar now, Jack?” Morgan demanded eagerly.

“I owe the man a drink, remember?”

“And the girl.”

He wiped a hand across his mouth, eyes bright, and I punched him in the shoulder gently. “All right, you old soak. You can come down.”

He grinned like a schoolboy and scurried to get the door open for me. We went along the passage, still dark because of the power failure, and down a dozen broad marble steps into the hotel foyer.

Kytros was behind the reception desk talking to his clerk. He waved. “I hear you tried to commit suicide again today.”

“It all depends on your point of view, Yanni,” I said. “But I'm alive and well and living in Bir el Gafani. You can buy me a drink on the strength of it.”

“In a little while,” he said. “Business—always business.”

The bar was a large square room with french windows to one side giving a view over the harbour. There was gaming in the next room, but not until later, and to one side was the eighth wonder of the world, the famous Saunder's long bar, about a mile of Victorian mahogany presided over by three of the most immaculate barmen I have ever seen anywhere, eager and able to serve you with any drink known to man or woman, however esoteric.

It was early and the place was deserted except for Lady Sara Hamilton who sat at a beautiful old Schied-mayer square piano, another relic of Empire. It was Yanni's especial pride, mainly because it said in faded gold lettering inside
Specially made for the climate of
India
, whatever that was supposed to mean.

She was working her way through
A Foggy Day in London Town
and she knew what she was doing. The phrasing was perfect and the chords echoed inside you.

“Hello, Savage,” she said. “Any special favourites?”

“You're playing it right now. Rain through the trees, mist on the river, a hooter droning down there in the Pool of London. All we need is Big Ben and perhaps a siren or two. I'm burning up with nostalgia.”

“That's going back some, even for you, isn't it?”

“A couple of hundred thousand Irishmen came across to fight for England during the last unpleasantness,” I reminded her. “My turn came in July 1943 on my sixteenth birthday. I added a couple of years and joined the Marines.”

“For love of dear old England?”

“For love of eating, ma'am,” I told her and gave her my best Abbey Theatre accent. “God save us, seven to feed on one cow and three goats. And then we have a tradition down south. We always fight England's wars for her.”

The laughter bubbled out of her. “Give me a cigarette.”

She leaned across for a light and I caught that perfume again and for some reason my hands trembled slightly. She held my wrist, her fingers cool to the touch, but made no comment.

“Care for a drink?” I asked.

“Why not? Long and cool and non-alcoholic. Iced tonic water for preference.”

“You're sure?”

“You put away enough for both of us, don't you?”

I let that one ride and crossed to the bar. I had in
tended my usual large whiskey to start the evening right, but for some reason hesitated. She had me rattled, that was for certain. I finally settled for a cold beer.

She had left the piano and was standing by one of the open french windows looking out over the harbour. The sky was orange and flame, the land dark and very still and there was a new moon. She turned as I approached and stood, legs slightly apart, the right hip jutting out to one side, one arm across her stomach supporting the elbow of the other.

She was wearing the kind of deceptively simple little summer dress that had probably been created by Balmain. It was short even for that year and buttoned down the front, the bottom two being left undone, though whether by accident or design was uncertain. You could never be sure of anything where she was concerned, as I was to discover.

One thing I did know. She looked bloody marvellous and she excited me physically in a way no woman had in years. Certainly not since the departure of my dear wife.

I handed her the tall, frosted glass. The ice tinkled as she took a sip. “Sixteen in 1943? That makes you forty-two.”

“And too old for you,” I said. “Way, way over the hill. Isn't life hell?”

“Every day of the week if that's the way you see it. I wasn't even around in forty-three so I wouldn't know.”

Which was direct enough and for some reason about as brutal as a boot in the side of the head. And she knew it and instantly regretted the fact.

“One thing you might as well get straight about me
right from the start. I don't like having my mind made up for me. All right?”

She sat down on the window seat, crossing those magnificent legs of hers, and Morgan arrived. Poor devil, I'd forgotten all about him. He actually removed his cap and bobbed his head.

“Evening, Miss, I mean Lady, Hamilton.”

She smiled, really smiled, gold all the way through, reached up and brushed his chin with her knuckles. “It's Sara to you, Morgan. From now on it's Sara. We've been through a lot together.”

He cackled and scratched his chin nervously. “Hell, you sure seemed to know what you was doing, I'll say that.”

“I had three younger brothers,” she told him. “It has its uses.”

“What was wrong with the hired help?” I demanded sourly. “Or was the castle roof leaking?”

She glanced up at me sharply. “As I said, I had three younger brothers, so it isn't the first time I've seen what you've got.”

She touched me on the raw there and I swung back. “I bet it isn't, angel. Did I come up to scratch?”

She shrugged. “I don't know whether 1943 was a good year.”

I reeled back on the ropes from that one and turned to Morgan who was tugging at my sleeve.

“Okay,” I said. “Tell Ali, the usual, then get into the back of the Land Rover and sleep it off. I'll drop you at the jetty later.”

He moved away eagerly, lurching slightly from side-to-side, and went to the bar.

“What would the usual be?” Sara Hamilton enquired.

“A large Irish whiskey every ten minutes for an hour. Jameson if they have it which they usually do. They pride themselves on being able to provide every drink ever heard of here.”

“He looks half drunk now,” she commented and there was an edge to her voice as if she disapproved and somehow blamed me.

I shook my head. “It gets him like that sometimes. What divers call the staggers. How old would you say he is?”

“I don't know.” She shrugged. “Sixty-five or so I suppose.”

“He's forty-nine. Seven years older than me. That's what can happen to a man who goes down too deep and too often, fails to decompress properly. A dead man walking.” I said that last bit to myself.

“And you blame Jack Savage, don't you? Why?”

I turned, looked at her for a long moment, trying to see her face, but it was by this time too dark and in any case, the moment was lost for Aleko appeared on the terrace behind her. A second later, the lights went on and the fans started to revolve again.

“Ah, there you are.” He smiled and held out his hand. “I've come to claim that drink you promised me. A China Clipper would do admirably. Let's see if we can catch Kytros out.”