Passage by Night (v5) (6 page)

7
Beware of Greeks

It was just before noon on the following day when the
Grace Abounding
came into Harmon Springs. Seth was at the wheel with old man Saunders acting as deckhand and Manning stood at the rail wearing a panama hat and lightweight suit in tropical worsted.

As the boat rounded the curve promontory crowded with its white houses, a single-masted caique, sails bellying in the breeze, moved out to sea, passing so close that he could see the great eyes painted on each side of the prow to ward off evil spirits.

He raised his hand in greeting, but the man at the tiller ignored him completely and Saunders spat over the rail. 'Nasty bastards they are down here, Harry. Half of them still build their boats to suit themselves.'

The engines began to falter as they slowed to enter harbour. Several deep-sea launches were moored to the jetty, but on the white curve of sand, brightly painted caiques were beached and fishermen sat beside them mending their nets while naked children chased each other in the shallows.

It was like something from another world and by some trick of memory, Manning's mind went back through the years to the war and his time in the Aegean with the Special Boat Service.

He went into the cabin. A couple of cameras in leather cases were on the table and he slung them over his shoulder. He put on a pair of sunglasses, picked up a canvas grip and went up on deck.

They were already working alongside the wooden jetty. As he watched, the engine stopped, and everything seemed curiously still in the great heat. A couple of youths leaned against the rail smoking and three old men dozed in the sun, but no one made any attempt to catch the line that Saunders threw to them. He cursed and stepped over the rail, picked up the line and ran it round a stanchion.

'Lousy bastards!' he muttered.

As Manning joined him, Seth moved out of the wheelhouse. 'We'll hang around for an hour or two, Harry. Just to see what happens.'

Manning shook his head. 'I'll be in touch, Seth. Don't worry.'

He stood there waiting and Seth sighed and went back into the wheelhouse. A moment later, the engines rumbled into life again. Saunders unlooped the line and stepped over the rail.

Manning waited until the
Grace Abounding
was passing out of the harbour before picking up his canvas grip. The three old men were all sitting up straight eyeing him curiously and the two youths had stopped talking. He went past them, his footsteps booming hollowly on the wooden planking, and turned along the waterfront.

The little town seemed strangely still as if waiting for something to happen and, near at hand, someone started to sing. He followed the sound and came to a bar on the corner of a side street. Just inside the entrance, a youth sprawled in a chair against the wall and sang in a low voice, his fingers gently stroking the strings of a
bouzouki.

He made no effort to move. Manning stared down at him, anonymous in his dark glasses, and then stepped carefully over the outstretched legs and moved inside. The place was dark and cool with a marble-topped bar and three men sat at a small table drinking.

The man behind the bar was middle-aged, his wrinkled face the colour of mahogany, but his blue eyes were full of life and the mouth was shrewd and kindly. As Manning moved towards him, all conversation died.

He dropped his canvas grip and placed the cameras on the counter. 'I could do with a drink. Something long and cool.'

The man grinned, put a tall glass on the bar and spooned ice into it. 'Journalist?'

Manning nodded. 'I might be around here for a day or two. I could do with a room. Can you do anything for me?'

'Sure I can. It's nothing fancy, but the food's good.'

The
bouzouki
player struck a single angry chord and the men at the table laughed. One of them called across to the youth in Greek. 'Heh, Dimitri, don't you like the look of the fancy man? Maybe he'll beat your time with the girls. No more lolling on the beach after dark.'

'Why don't you shut up?' the boy replied angrily.

They were typical rough seaman of a kind to be found the world over. Men who worked hard and didn't accept strangers easily. Manning turned, removed his sunglasses and looked at them calmly. The smiles faded a little and they leaned together, muttering in low voices.

As he turned back to his drink, one of them said loudly in Greek, 'So Dimitri's just a bag of wind after all. A bag of wind dressed up in fancy clothes.'

The youth jumped to his feet. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate and then moved along the bar, deliberately jogging Manning's elbow as he raised his glass to his mouth.

As the rum spilled across the bar, Manning put down the glass and turned to face him. 'Now you can buy me another one.'

'Buy your own,' the boy said.

Manning slapped him backhanded across the face, sending him staggering against the wall. 'I shan't ask you again.'

The boy's hand moved to his hip pocket. As he flung himself forward, a six-inch blade honed like a razor seemed to jump out of his right fist. Manning stepped quickly to one side. He grabbed for the wrist and twisted it round and up into the small of the boy's back so that he screamed and dropped the knife. Almost in the same motion, Manning pushed him across the table, scattering the three occupants and their drinks.

'Never send a boy to do a man's work,' he said in Greek.

There was a moment of stunned silence. As they started to rise, the barman moved round the counter fast, a wooden truncheon in one hand. 'The first one to start, gets his skull cracked. You men tried to have a little fun, but you made a mistake. Let that be the end of it.'

They resumed their seats and the boy turned and ran from the entrance. The barman smiled up at Manning and held out his hand. 'Nikoli Aleko. You speak good Greek for an Englishman.'

'Spent three years in the Aegean during the war, but that was a long time ago. Manning's the name. Harry Manning.'

'Another drink, Mr Manning? On the house.'

'On me,' Manning said. 'For all of us.' He pulled forward a chair and sat down and the three men grinned.

'Anyone who can speak Greek as good as you is okay with me,' one of them said. 'Have a cigarette.'

Aleko brought the drinks and they solemnly toasted each other. As Manning put down his glass, one of them said, 'You here for the fishing?'

'I'm a photographer. A big American magazine's just commissioned me to do a feature for them.'

'On Harmon Springs?'

Manning shook his head. 'On Cuba. They want me to go to a place called San Juan. Take a few pictures. See how things have altered since the revolution.'

They looked at each other in surprise and then one of them raised his glass. 'Good luck, my friend. You're going to need it.'

'Any special reason?'

'Nobody goes to San Juan these days. It's the last place God made.'

'I was told differently in Nassau. I heard that boats from here often made the trip.'

'That was last year. Things have changed plenty since then.'

Manning took out his wallet. 'I'm on a pretty good expense account. I'd pay well.'

The man who had been doing most of the talking laughed harshly. 'My friend, we have a saying. If you want a man to risk his life for money, look for a poor man.'

The other two laughed uproariously and one of them said, 'He should try Papa Melos. The state he's in, he'd do anything.'

Manning got to his feet and moved across to the bar. 'Did you hear that?'

Aleko nodded. 'They're right in what they say. Before the crisis, many of our boats called at San Juan with tuna. The Cubans are forbidden to come north so the prices were high. Since the crisis, everything's changed.'

'You mean the Cubans have forbidden you to call?'

Aleko shook his head. 'Not exactly, but the atmosphere's bad. One can't tell which way they will jump. Nobody wants to lose his boat.'

'Who's this Papa Melos they mentioned?'

Aleko smiled. 'A wonderful old man. He runs a motor cruiser, the
Cretan Lover.
His only boy, Yanni, was drowned last year. He has a daughter, Anna, a bright girl. He sent her to America to be educated. A place called Vassar. Maybe you heard of it?'

Manning grinned. 'I've heard of it all right.'

'He squeezed himself dry to keep her there and after the boy was killed, he had difficulty in getting good catches. The girl turned up three months ago. When she found out what had happened, she refused to go back. She's been crewing for him ever since.'

'What do they go after - tuna?'

Aleko shook his head. 'Not any more. There's a reef about ten miles west near Blair Cay. The old man found mother of pearl there. He's been diving for it lately.'

'At his age?' Manning said incredulously. 'How deep?'

'Fifteen, maybe twenty fathoms, and the suit he's using must be all of forty years old.'

'He must be crazy.'

'He doesn't want to lose his boat, that's all. That and Anna are the only two things he's got left in the world.'

'Do you think he'd be interested in running me across to San Juan?'

Aleko shrugged. 'A desperate man is capable of anything.'

'You never said a truer word.' Manning picked up his grip and the cameras. 'I'll have a look at that room now, if you don't mind.'

As he followed Aleko along a whitewashed corridor, a sudden spark of excitement moved inside him as he realized, with complete certainty, that he had found the solution to his problem.

Aleko was the owner of a small twelve-foot launch which he was willing to hire out. Two hours later after a change of clothes and one of the best meals he'd had in a long time, Manning took her out of the harbour and turned west along the southern tip of the island.

The sea was like glass and the cloudless blue sky dipped away to the horizon. He lit a cigarette and sat back in the swing chair, one hand on the wheel, wondering about Papa Melos. What made a man keep on fighting when every card in the deck was stacked against him? There was no answer. Some men went under struggling to the last. Others sank without a cry.

He rounded Blair Cay within forty minutes and saw the boat anchored about a quarter of a mile out in the gulf. He slowed down and coasted in towards her, aware of the dull rhythmic throbbing of the mechanical pump that forced air down through the blue water to the man below.

It was difficult to believe that anyone could still use the old-fashioned canvas suit with all the paraphernalia of air and lifelines in this era of the frog-man with his compressed air cylinders. The aqualung was superior in every way and with it, the diver became a completely free agent.

He could see the girl as he drew nearer, rather small in a bright red shirt and canvas jeans, long hair twisted into a pigtail at the back. She was turning the handle of the lifeline crank, hauling her father in, and seemed completely unaware of Manning's approach.

Quite suddenly, the crank stopped revolving. She tugged at the handle, exerting all her strength and then went to the rail and looked over. She ran back to the crank and swung all her weight against the handle with no result. The next moment, she turned and dived over the rail.

Manning cut the engine and drifted alongside. He fastened the line quickly, ran across to the crank and threw all his strength against the handle. It refused to budge. As he moved back to the rail, the girl surfaced beside the wooden ladder gasping for breath. Somehow, her pigtail had come undone and long, blue-black hair floated around in the water. He reached down and pulled her over the rail.

'What's wrong down there?'

She was completely distraught. 'I couldn't reach him! I couldn't reach him!'

'How deep is he?'

'Ten fathoms, maybe more. I've got to try again.'

She scrambled to her feet, turning to the rail. At that moment, a great gout of air erupted to the surface. Manning sat down and pulled off his shoes and jacket.

'You stay with that crank. The line's probably snagged on a niggerhead. The moment I signal, start pulling him in.'

He scrambled onto the roof of the wheelhouse, poised on the edge for several seconds, forcing as much oxygen as possible into his lungs, and dived.

Once in the Caymans, he had free-dived just over a hundred feet, but that had been ten years before. Ten years of hard living. Of going downhill in every way.

As a diver descends, the deepening layer of water filters the sunlight, absorbing all red and orange rays. At fifty feet, as he descended the face of the great cliff, Manning found himself swimming into a neutral zone. Visibility was still excellent, but all colours were muted and autumnal.

At sixty feet the line had looped itself around a gnarled spike of coral, tightening into a crevasse. He freed it quickly and moved on.

He found the old man on a wide ledge on the face of the cliff. The ancient canvas suit had been slashed open against the razor-sharp coral as he struggled to free himself. Water had forced its way into the suit and only the continuing pressure of fresh air being pumped into the great bronze helmet kept it at chest level.