Solo (Aka the Cretan Lover) (v5) (19 page)

'Very poetic, but it doesn't alter the fact of the matter. My old grandmother used to get rheumatism and knew it would rain within twenty-four hours. I can smell trouble with equal facility. Time to go, believe me.'

'For you, maybe,' Mikali said stubbornly. 'Not for me.'

'But what will you do?' Deville was genuinely bewildered. 'I don't understand.'

'Live a day at a time.'

'And when that special day arrives, the day they come for you?'

Mikali was wearing a loose cashmere sweater which concealed a Burns and Martin spring holster clipped to the small of his back. His right hand came up holding a Walther.

'Remember my Ceska? That was my London gun. This is the Hydriot variety. As I told you, I'm always ready.'

At that moment the phone started to ring. He excused himself and went inside. Deville sat on the balustrade looking out towards Dokos, savouring his cognac. Mikali was right, of course. Paris was the only city, or London on a good day. Moscow meant nothing to him now. He thought of the winter there and shivered involuntarily. And there was no one - not really. A cousin or two. No other close relative. But what choice did he have?

Mikali came out through the french windows laughing, a glass in one hand, a bottle of Napoleon brandy in the other.

'Isn't life the damnedest thing.' His face was ablaze with excitement. 'That was Bruno - Bruno Fischer, my agent. Andre Previn's just been on to him. It's the last night of the Proms this Saturday. Mary Schroder was to play John Ireland's piano concerto. She's broken her wrist playing tennis, the silly bitch.'

'And they want you to take her place?'

'Previn's offered to change the programme. Let me play Rachmaninov's Fourth. We've done it together before so it wouldn't take too much rehearsing. Let's see. Today's Thursday. If I catch tonight's plane, I'll be in London tomorrow. That gives me two days to rehearse.'

Deville had never seen him so alive. 'No, John,' he said. 'To go back to London now would be the worst possible thing for you. I feel it my bones.'

'The Promenade Concerts, Jean Paul,' Mikali said. 'The most important series of concerts in the European musical scene. In the entire world, dammit. Do you know what it's like on the last night?'

'No, I've never been.'

'Then you've missed out on one of life's great experiences. Packed from floor to ceiling, every seat taken and in the arena in front of the stage, the kids who've queued to get in for three days, stand shoulder-to-shoulder. Can you imagine what it's like to be asked to play on such a night?'

'Yes,' Deville nodded slowly. 'I can imagine.'

'Oh, no, you can't, old buddy,' Mikali said. 'Oh, no, you can't.'

He emptied the brandy glass in one quick swallow and tossed it out into space. It flashed in the sunlight like flame descending, splintered on the rocks below.

Katherine Riley awoke, lay there for a moment trying to remember where she was. She was alone. When she checked her watch it was two-thirty in the afternoon.

She got up and dressed quickly in jeans and a simple white blouse, pulled on a pair of sandals and went in search of Mikali.

There was no sign of him in the living-room, but the sound of voices took her out to the terrace where she found him standing with Deville.

He came to meet her, put an arm about her waist and kissed her cheek. 'Feeling better?'

'I think so.'

'Jean Paul, this is the light of my life, Doctor Katherine Riley. Be careful what you say, I warn you. She'll psychoanalyse the hell out of you.'

'Doctor, a great pleasure.' Deville kissed her hand gallantly.

Mikali, unable to contain himself, took both her hands in his. 'I've just had Bruno on the phone. Previn wants me to substitute for Mary Schroder. The Rachmaninov.'

Which for him meant only one concerto, the one he had made especially his own - the Fourth - and she knew that

'When?' she said.

'Saturday - the last night of the Proms.'

'How absolutely marvellous.' She flung her arms about his neck in a gesture of spontaneous delight. 'But Saturday. That's the day after tomorrow.'

'I know. It means catching tonight's flight from Athens if I'm to have enough rehearsal time. Will you mind? After all, you've only just got off the plane.'

'Not at all.' She glanced at the Frenchman. 'And you, Monsieur Deville? Will you come also?'

Mikali said, 'No, Jean Paul has to get back to Paris. He only came to get me to sign some papers. He's handling the legal side of a trust that's been endowed by business interests in Paris and London to help young musicians of exceptional talent. They've bought a large country house near Paris. When it's ready, we plan to run master classes.'

'We?' she said.

'I've offered my services free. I'm hoping other notable musicians might do the same.'

All her earlier fears seemed like some stupid dream. She put an arm around his waist. 'I think it's a marvellous idea.'

'Fine - now how about something to eat?'

She shook her head. 'Actually, I could do with some air. I think I'll take a walk if you don't mind.'

'Sure, whatever you like.' He kissed her again. 'We'll see you later.'

He stood on the tiny veranda of the end window and watched her go down through the garden.

'Brilliant,' Deville said. 'What a performance. You almost had me believing you. How do you do it?'

'Oh, one learns,' Mikali said. 'Over the years, don't you find? The lies, the deceits. Practice - lots of practice, that's the secret.' He smiled. 'Now, how about a drink?'

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?'