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

'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 evening'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.

On the return journey, once back at the nets, they would carry on fishing. It had always worked perfectly until that night, when Maria switched on the great double sodium lamps in the prow of the boat whose light attracted the fish and saw, instead, a hand reaching out to her and then a bloodstained face.

'Mother of God, a sea-devil,' old George cried, and raised an oar to strike.

She pushed him away. 'Back, you old fool. Can't you tell a man when you see one? Help me get him in.'

*

Morgan lay in the bottom of the boat while she examined him.

'He's been shot,' her husband said.

'Can I not see this for myself? Twice. The flesh is torn across the shoulder and here, in the upper part of the left arm. A bullet has passed straight through.'

'What shall we do? Take him to Hydra town to the doctor?'

'To what end?' she said with contempt, for like many old Hydriot peasant women, herbal remedies and potions were a way of life to her. 'What can he do that I cannot do better? And there would be the police. It would be necessary to report the affair and the question of the cigarettes would arise.' Her leathery face creased in a smile. 'You, my George, are too old to go to jail.'

Morgan opened his eyes and said in Greek, 'No police, whatever you do.'

She turned and punched her husband in the shoulder. 'See, he has spoken, our man from the sea. Let's get him ashore before he dies on us.'

They were in a small horseshoe bay, he was aware of that, with a tiny fringe of beach, pine trees flooding down from the mountain above.

The jetty was built of massive stone blocks, stretching out into deep water. A strange thing to find in such a deserted spot. He didn't know then that it was over a hundred and fifty years old, dating from the Greek War of Independence when this bay had held up to twenty Hydriot armed schooners waiting to pounce on any vessel of the Turkish fleet unwary enough to approach that coast.

It had stopped raining, and in the moonlight Morgan was aware of several ruined buildings as the old man helped him ashore. He swayed a little, curiously lightheaded.

Maria put an arm about him, holding him with surprising strength. 'Now is not the time to fall down, boy. Now is time for strength.'

Someone laughed and Morgan realized, with a sense of surprise, that it was himself. 'Boy, mother?' he said. 'I have seen almost fifty years - fifty long, bloody years.'

'Then life should no longer surprise you.'

There was a movement in the shadows and old George appeared from one of the buildings leading a mule. It had no stirrups, only a blanket and a traditional pack saddle on its back made of wood and leather.

'And what do I do with that? Morgan asked.

'Mount, my son.' She pointed up through the pines. 'There on the mountain. There is safety, a warm bed.' She stroked his face with the back of one hand. 'You will do this for me, eh? This last thing with all your strength so that we may get thee home?'

For some reason he felt close to tears for the first time in years. 'Yes, Mam,' he found himself saying in Welsh. 'Take me home.'

The shock of a gunshot wound is such, that for most people, it temporarily freezes the nervous system. It is only later that the pain comes as it came to Morgan, holding on tightly to the wooden saddle as the mule started up the rocky path through the pine trees, old Geroge leading it, Maria walking on the left side, one hand grasping Morgan's belt.

'Are you all right?' she asked in Greek.

'Yes,' he said, light-headed now. 'I'm indestructible. Saving myself for that bastard Mikali.'

The pain was sharp and cruel, like a hot iron. Korea, Aden, Cyprus; old scars opening up instantly so that his body jerked in agony and his hands gripped the wooden pommel of the saddle as if he was hanging on to life itself.

And she knew, and her hand tightened in his belt and the old voice was deeper than anything he had ever known, more insistent, cutting through the pain.

'You will hold now,' she said. 'You will not let go till I tell thee to.'

It was the last thing he heard. When they arrived at the small farmhouse, high on the mountain, half an hour later and George tied the mule and turned to help him down, he was unconscious in the saddle, his hands locked on the pommel so tightly that they had to prise his fingers loose one by one.

Katherine Riley was totally exhausted after the night flight and four hours in an Athens hotel where she hadn't slept for a moment, tossing and turning in the heat, rising early to catch the taxi she had ordered to take her to the Piraeus.

Even the early-morning run to Hydra, the sheer beauty of it, had failed to rouse her in any way. She was afraid. What Morgan had suggested was stupid, wicked. Simply not possible. She had given her body to Mikali, he had given her a joy in life denied to her ever since her father's death. Awareness, understanding.

Words, only words. No comfort in any of it, she knew that as she disembarked from the
Flying Dolphin
at Hydra and Constantine came forward to take her suitcase.

She had never felt comfortable with him, had always imagined that he disapproved of her. He seldom spoke, pretending his English to be worse than it was as he did now when they turned out of harbour and she went into the wheelhouse.

'Nicky?' she said. 'Isn't he with you?'

He made no reply, simply boosted the controls. 'Is he in Athens with his mother?'

They moved out past the point and picked up speed. She gave up then and went and sat in the stern, turned her face up to the morning sun and closed her burning eyes.

When they moved in towards the jetty, Mikali was waiting beside old Anna and the boy. He wore dark sunglasses, a white sweatshirt and faded jeans and waved excitedly, his mouth opening in a smile, showing the good teeth.

She was more afraid than ever, not knowing what she was going to say as he reached out a hand to help her ashore. His smile changed to a look of concern.

'Katherine? What is it?'

She fought to hold back the tears. 'I'm so bloody tired. All that time hanging about at Heathrow and then the flight and that terrible little hotel in Athens.'

His arms were around her then, and he was smiling again. 'Remember what Scott Fitzgerald said? A hot bath and I can go on for hours. That's what you need.'

He picked up her suitcase and spoke to Constantine in Greek. As they started up the path to the villa, she said, 'What were you telling him?'

'To be back in Hydra for noon. I've got someone coming in from Paris. My French lawyer, Jean Paul Deville. You've heard me speak of him.'

'Will he be staying?'

'Probably only tonight. Business, that's all. Some important papers I have to sign.' His arm tightened and he kissed her cheek. 'But never mind that. Let's get you into that bath.'

*

In a way, it worked. She lay there, the hot water soaking away every ache, every pain and he brought her ice-cold champagne and brandy in a crystal goblet.

'It's beautiful,' she said. 'I've never seen it before.'

'Seventeenth-century Venetian. That great-great-great-grandfather of mine, the one who was Admiral of the Hydriot Fleet, took it off a Turkish ship at the battle of Navarino.' He grinned. 'Lie back - enjoy it while I make lunch.'

'You?' she said.

He turned in the doorway and smiled, spreading his arms wide in that inimitable gesture. 'And why not? Nothing is impossible to the great Mikali.'

The brandy and the champagne went straight to her head, yet in a way that was new to her. Instead of confusion, a dulling of the senses, there was a sharpening. She saw quite clearly now that this could not go on. This thing that was eating at her must be brought into the open.

She got out of the bath, pulled on a towelling robe, went into the bedroom and sat down in front of the dressing-table, combing her hair quickly. There was the softest of footfalls and he appeared in the mirror, standing in the doorway, anonymous in the dark glasses.

'Okay, angel, what is it?'

She sat there, staring at him in the mirror. Strange how easily the words came out.

'Remember my Welsh Colonel, Morgan; the one who came to see Lieselott Hoffmann?'

'Sure I do. The guy whose daughter was knocked down by the Cretan after the Cohen shooting.'

'How do you know that?'

'You told me.'

She remembered then and nodded slowly. 'Yes, I shouldn't have done. That was supposed to be confidential.'

He lit a cigarette and moved to the window beside her. 'Confidences? Between us?'

'He thinks you're the Cretan,' she said.

Mikali stared at her, bewildered. 'He what?'

'He says you were giving a concert at the Albert Hall the night the Cretan shot Cohen. That's on the other side of Kensington Gardens from where he dumped the car.'

'This is crazy.'

'He says you were at the Cannes Film Festival when Forlani was murdered.'

'So was half of Hollywood.'

'And at Frankfurt University when that East German minister, Klein, was shot.'

He turned her on the seat, his hands on her shoulders. 'I told you that myself. Don't you remember? The first time we met when I gave the Cambridge concert. We were discussing the Hoffmann girl and the circumstances of the killing and I told you I was in Frankfurt at the time.'

It all came flooding back then and she moaned in a kind of release. 'Oh, God, so you did. I remember now.'

His arms were around her. 'He must be out of his mind. Is he going round shooting his mouth off like this to everybody?'

'No,' she said. 'I asked him if he'd spoken to Baker, the Special Branch man, but he said no. He said it was his affair - nobody else's.'

'When did he tell you this?'

'Yesterday morning early - on the telephone.'

'And you haven't met him since?'

'No - he said he was going to do some more checking. That he'd keep me posted.' The tears came then. 'He's obsessed, don't you see? I'm so afraid.'

'Nothing to be afraid about, angel. Not a single thing.'

He led her across to the bed and pulled back the coverlet. 'What you need is sleep.'

She obeyed him like a child and lay there, her eyes closed, trembling. After a while, the coverlet was pulled back and he slipped in beside her.

She turned her head blindly into his shoulder as one arm went around her and the other hand unfastened her robe. And then his mouth was on hers and her arms were around him in a passion fiercer than she had ever known before.

Deville leaned on the balustrade of the terrace and looked out across the sea to where Dokos drifted in the afternoon heat haze.

Mikali came out through the french windows with a glass in each hand. 'You still prefer to ruin good Napoleon with ice cubes, I suppose?'

'But of course.' Deville took the glass from him and gestured out across the sea. 'This really is very beautiful. You're going to miss it.'

Mikali put his glass down on the balustrade and lit a cigarette. 'And what's that supposed to mean?'

'It's very simple. You've had it. We both have. If Morgan managed to discover your identity, then eventually so will someone else. Oh, I don't mean next month, or even next year. But certainly the year after.' He smiled and lifted his shoulders in a shrug. 'Or perhaps next Wednesday.'

'And if they got me, whoever it turned out to be,' Mikali said, 'you think I'd talk? Sell you down the river?'

'Rubber hoses went out with the Gestapo,' Deville told him. 'They'd stick a hypodermic in your arm and fill you full of succinylcholine, a rather unpleasant drug which takes you to about as close to dying as a human being can get. The experience is so awful that few people could stand the thought of a second helping.' He smiled gently. 'I'd sing like a bird, John, and so would the Cretan Lover.'

A mile out to sea the hydrofoil passed on its way to Spetsae. Mikali said, 'And what would you suggest?'

'Time to go home, my friend!'

'To dear old mother Russia?' Mikali laughed out loud. 'It may be home to you, old buddy, but it doesn't mean a damn thing to me. And if it comes to that, what about you? You've been away too long. They'll give you a VIP card to shop in the special section at GUM but it's hardly Gucci. And when you're queuing up in Red Square to get a look at Lenin in his mausoleum, you'll be thinking of Paris and the Champs-Elysees and the smell of damp chestnut trees along the boulevards after a shower.'