Shot on Location (16 page)

“Some day I will kill him. Some day I will kill Koumaris—when it is the right time.”

Now Brad knew what it meant for a Greek to make a promise. Perhaps it was madness. The torture could have been too much for the already agitated mind of Stephanos, and the sight of the man he hated, as he rode with the others towards a safe hiding place in the mountains, was too much. In any event, nothing whatever could have stopped him from charging at the captain. It was just a thing he had to do before he could die.

Stephanos’ horse was running wild. Blood streaming from the side of its neck, where Zervois’ first bullet had grazed the flesh. Zervios, himself a madman now, whirled and raised his pistol for the killing shot. Brad’s arm shot out and knocked the gun from his hand. Zervios swung towards Brad, cursing.

“What good would it do to kill a horse?” Brad yelled. “There’s been enough killing here!”

His shouting seemed to sober the lieutenant. Still muttering curses, he picked up his gun.

“And where were you and that rifle of yours?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you do anything to save the captain?”

“I didn’t have time. The rifle was on the floor of the car.”

“Then you will have time to answer to the authorities about this—”

He glared down at the two dead men who lay together, as if they had fallen in combat.

They couldn’t be left that way. Reluctant to leave his fallen captain in dubious company, Zervios snatched the keys from the Mercedes and ran towards the monastery. The donkeys and horses had already disappeared in a trail of dust leading up to the mountains. It would be dark long before the ambulance from Kastoria arrived and freed the lieutenant for pursuit. Once they reached the mountains, the rebels would disappear as if by magic, leaving no one to pay for the captain’s death, except the next political prisoners unfortunate enough to come before the police.

Martins found a car rug in the back seat of the Mercedes and draped it over the dead men.

“You mentioned a name—‘Petros’—” he reminded Brad, “Who is Petros?”

“The woman with the eye patch. The one who led the rebels.”

“Then you’ve seen her before?”

“Once. Last night at the monastery. The monks had fetched her to care for Avery. When she saw what a bad shape he was in, she went for a doctor. Avery died while she was gone.”

“And you didn’t wait for her to return?”

“I didn’t dare. I wasn’t sure she would return. Then, after Avery regained consciousness and told me where he cached his equipment, I didn’t want to waste time.”

“Why did you think she wouldn’t return?”

“Because she was Stephanos’ contact. When he was taken in Kastoria he threw the knapsack and rifle at me and yelled: ‘Find Petros with one eye’. Naturally, I was looking for a man.”

“So would anyone else. That’s probably why she uses the name. Any idea who she really is?”

“Only what she told me. Her father was an army surgeon—her husband an army officer, now dead.”

“And she has no fear,” Martins added.

“Like Stephanos.”

“No. Tougher than Stephanos … She’s sane. The Greek boy had to be mad to charge Koumaris. He knew he would be killed.”

“He didn’t care. His girl killed herself after being questioned by security police.”

“Don’t mention that in front of Zervios. Keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking. Until we get back to Athens, you’re still under my protection. Do you know why I told you about Avery’s mission?”

“So I could complete it, if you hadn’t made it down the mountain.”

“That’s right. It’s a gamble I had to take. I don’t take many.”

“Thanks,” Brad said.

In due time Zervios returned with the monks and a cart drawn by an ageing donkey, destined to haul the bodies back to the monastery. That done, the Greek officer drove the Mercedes back to Kastoria.

Kastoria was a resort town. Its lake, hotel and old churches formed a mecca for tourists and lovers of antiquities. But, in the twenty-four hours since Brad had passed briefly through the outskirts, it had become another kind of mecca. In addition to the influx of reporters had come, flown in by special plane, the long lost Dr. Rolf Johnson. Still attired in dungarees, sports shirt and canvas shoes, he had been taken from his fishing boat by helicopter to the Athens Airport and thence to the plane that took him to Harry Avery. It was Dr. Johnson who made the official identification of the body and the initial autopsy. The news of the recovery of both bodies of the men missing for five days, was more than enough to occupy the press. Only a few people knew that Captain Koumaris had come to Kastoria; not for many days would they learn how he had returned. Of the four bodies that awaited transportation to their final resting places, only one was important. Only one was Harry Avery. Dr. Johnson made a brief statement to the press and the word went out: Harry Avery had died of a coronary failure caused by shock, exposure and internal injuries.

Brad followed Martins’ advice. As soon as possible he returned to the hotel. A shower and a shave (his raincoat and shaving kit were delivered from the police station by McKeough) was as good as a week of rest and relaxation. A couple of drinks and a good dinner would make him as good as new. Before going downstairs to the dining room, he laid out all of Harry’s personal effects on the top of the dresser: the baseball cap, the watch, wallet (containing more than three hundred dollars in United States currency), the cameras, the sunglasses and the leather case containing the hypodermic set. It was difficult to understand why the recovery of these things were worth a five thousand dollar bracelet to his widow. By the time Brad had arranged the items on display, his call to the Athens Hilton came through. He asked for Mrs. Avery’s suite and was connected with David Draper.

“I want to speak to Mrs. Avery,” he insisted.

“Mrs. Avery is incommunicado to the press.”

“I’m not the press. I’m Brad Smith and Mrs. Avery is not only expecting this call, she’s paying for it … unless she’s no longer interested in what happened to her husband.”

The ploy worked. Seconds later Rhona’s voice came on over an extension. “Brad?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Hold on a minute. David, please hang up. This is personal.”

Brad waited until he heard the click of David Draper’s telephone in the cradle. “I suppose you’ve heard that Harry was found dead,” he said.

“Everyone has heard. Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

“Because there are no telephone booths in the mountains—and that’s where I spent last night. Listen, Rhona. Nobody knows this but Brooks Martins. I got to Harry just before he died. He told me where he cached his cameras. I got everything you wanted.”

“Harry was alive? I don’t understand—”

“I just told you. I found him just before he died. He was on a mission for Martins. It doesn’t matter if I tell you that now, because it’s been completed.”

She was silent for several moments. “A mission?” she echoed. “I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t think you did. Now forget that I told you. I don’t know why I did, unless it’s because I thought it might make you feel better about everything. He didn’t mind dying that way.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“He didn’t have to. It’s just something I could tell.”

“And you recovered
everything
? Oh, that’s wonderful, Brad. I’m so grateful. When are you coming back?”

“As soon as I can arrange transportation. The car I rented is in police custody. That’s a long story and I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. Are you all right?”

“All right? Of course. I expected this. I had to.” He heard her sigh. “Thank you for asking about me. You’re the first one who has. I wanted to come up there as soon as we got the news last night. Peter called. He said it was better that I stay here because there was so much confusion.”

“Good for Peter,” Brad said. Confusion. Yes, with Pattison Blair already on the premises, Rhona’s presence would have caused confusion. Obviously, Peter hadn’t mentioned that, and Brad wasn’t going to be the one to open a bad can of peas.

“And you have all his things. Everything?” she asked again.

“Right here in my room the hotel. I don’t think there’s any chance of leaving until tomorrow, so don’t look for me until tomorrow night at the earliest. Are the watchdogs still on duty in the hall?”

“No watchdogs,” she said. “There’s nobody here but David.”

“Good. Take a sedative and get some sleep.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

It was a long time since he had heard that phrase. It was one of the things she used to say to him five years ago, when they were lovers.

“And Brad—”

“Yes.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m hungry,” he said. “Take care.”

He heard her hang up the phone and listened for a second click. There was none. Draper hadn’t caught them on another phone. He put down his own telephone, locked up the room and went downstairs. The unexpected rush to Kastoria had filled the dining room to capacity. He left word with the headwaiter and went into the bar to wait. He found a vacant stool, near the doorway, and ordered a bourbon on the rocks. As the bartender delivered the drink, a man’s flannel-clad arm emerged from the gloom and pushed a bill across the bar.

“This man’s drink is on me,” Peter Lange said.

“With what strings?” Brad asked.

Lange was still wearing his yachting costume. His austere profile was etched sharply in the light from the lobby doorway. “Why strings?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I’m just not accustomed to having anyone buy my booze.”

“All right, let’s say this one’s on Harry. You did find him, didn’t you?”

“Who told you that? I heard that some Englishman found him. Buy him a drink.”

“I don’t think you like me, Smith.”

“Why should I? Weren’t you the legal eagle who advised Harry not to answer my letters, these past six months?”

Lange was drinking Scotch. He ordered a re-fill and surveyed Brad with those bland, calculating eyes. “So that’s really why you came here,” he mused. “Rescuing Harry would have put you in a solid position for a monetary settlement.”

“Considering that Harry’s fortune is based on my brain child, it was worth the try,” Brad said.

“Harry’s fortune! Harry Avery was a genius in his field. You were incidental. He would have made it without you.”

“I’m sure he would. Harry wasn’t particular whom he screwed.”

“The loyalty of friends is always touching.”

“I wouldn’t know. I have no friends. But thanks, anyway. The bourbon’s good.”

Peter Lange wasn’t drinking. He toyed with the swizzle stick and watched Brad empty his glass. He nodded to the bartender and had the glass replenished. He glanced back at the doorway and then at his wristwatch, as if he were waiting for someone to join him. “Strange, isn’t it?” he said. “Harry was found dead, with nothing but his clothing. Even his wristwatch and his glasses are missing.”

“They tell me these mountains are full of desperate people, who think nothing of robbing corpses,” Brad said. “What did you expect?”

“Maybe you’re right. Smith, you just said that you had no friends. That can be a sad state of affairs. A friend never hurt anyone—especially a drifter in a foreign country. But such a man has to be extremely careful that he doesn’t make the wrong kind of friends.”

“If that’s advice, I know what it’s worth.”

“It could be worth a tidy sum. A plane ticket back to the States, for instance, and a stake of—say, ten thousand American dollars.”

“I knew there was a string somewhere,” Brad said. “What are you trying to buy, Mr. Lange?”

“Space. Lots of space between you and Mrs. Avery. She’s a widow now. Even without an audit, I can tell you that she’s easily worth five million. And a widow can be very vulnerable.”

“A widow is a free woman. She can choose her own companions.”

“Stay away from her, Smith.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’d rather talk about what happens if you do. It’s a more pleasant subject. Ten thousand and a ticket on the first available flight back to Los Angeles.”

Brad finished his drink and stepped away from the bar. He could see the headwaiter beckoning from the doorway, and then the man was pushed aside as Pattison Blair came into the bar. She looked different with clothes on, and now, as she came directly towards Lange, Brad could see that her face was different, too. If the jet-set wasn’t supposed to be above such normal reactions, he would have sworn that she had been crying.

“Peter—” she said hoarsely.

Seeing that he was with Brad, she hesitated.

“It’s all right, Miss Blair,” Brad remarked, “I was just leaving. The man in the yachting jacket is setting up drinks. Be nice to him. He’s very generous.”

She had been crying. He was sure of it, when she stared at him.

“Mr. Smith is an old friend of Harry’s,” Lange explained, “and of Harry’s wife. It’s too bad he can’t stay long in Greece. You might want to invite him out on the
Columbia
.”

But Pattison Blair wasn’t interested in conversation she didn’t understand. She turned to Lange. “Have you seen Dr. Johnson?” she asked. “I heard he was in the hotel. I’ve even had him paged.”

“Johnson?” Lange echoed. “Why do you want to see him? You can’t still have any suspicions about Harry’s death. Not this one, Miss Blair. Your father’s fine hand may have been raised a time or two before, but not this time.”

“Just the same, I want to talk to him. Oh, there’s Leslie—” She had turned back towards the doorway. The headwaiter had given up on Brad and now the way was clear to the registration desk, where an angular man, wearing a baggy sweater, was leaning across the desk in conversation with the clerk. “I have to go now,” she added.

“But we’re having dinner—”

“Later,” she said. “I have to go now.”

She left Lange no time for argument. She ran out of the room and caught the man at the desk by the arm, as he was turning away towards the exit to the street. They went out together and Lange gulped at his drink.

“This isn’t your night,” Brad said. “Unless you want to take me to dinner.”