The Quest

by Christopher Nicole

“Well,” Julia said. “She is dead, and Harvey is history. And you and I . . .”

  “You don’t suppose that too is history?”

  “Not for me,” she said fiercely. “For God’s sake, Berkeley, when I remember those nights in Athens . . .”

  “I remember them too,” he said. Although, he supposed, for different reasons.

  “Can’t we re-create them?”

  “It would take some doing.”

  “Can’t we try, Berkeley?” She seized his hand, her face deeply flushed; this was not the behaviour of a well brought-up woman.

  “I am going away for what may be quite a while,” he said.

  “Looking for Anna.”

  “Yes, looking for Anna.”

  “But before you go . . . it would give you something to come back for.”

  “I have a great deal to come back for already, Julia.”

  She bit her lip. “I have had a proposal.”

  “That was quick.”

  “Oh, this man has been pestering me for some time. He is a colleague of Harvey’s, at the Foreign Office. I think he wanted to get together with me long ago, but I suppose I had other things on my mind. He’s very nice. Much more of a gentleman than Harvey ever was.”

  “Then go for it,” Berkeley recommended.

  “I wouldn’t, if . . .”

  “Like you, I have too many other things on my mind.”

  And, he thought, a past of which you have no suspicion.

  “I’m past forty,” she went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “I really don’t want to wind up on the shelf.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d wait for you to come back . . .”

  “Don’t do that, Julia,” Berkeley said. “It’ll be a long haul.”

  *

  In a month, Berkeley was ready. It had been a long month, as every aspect of his being was itching to be on the trail. But he had always practised the most severe self-discipline, which was one reason he had survived for so long, he supposed. Now he could have his photograph taken to attach to his false passport, even if, disconcertingly, his beard, neatly trimmed into a van dyke to match his moustache, was sufficiently flecked with grey to make him look much older than he was. But that was all to the good, he supposed.

  “I do like you with a beard, Daddy,” Little Alicia confided.

  “Doesn’t it tickle when I kiss you?”

  “Just a little. But I like that too.”

  He shook hands with Johnnie. “You’re in charge, with Harry, until I come back,” he told the boy.

  “Yes, sir.” Johnnie stood proudly to attention.

  “Oh, I wish you weren’t going,” his mother said.

  “You know I can’t stay here, Mother. Not until I know.”

  She sighed as she nodded. “Yes, I know that. Good luck. And come back soon.”

  *

  Despite his disguised appearance and false passport, Berkeley determined to avoid Serbia until and unless the trail led back into that country. So he went to Greece, and took the train up to Sofia.

  Once again, a police chief. “Mr Smith,” said Colonel Panov thoughtfully. “That is a very common name in England, is it not?”

  He was a big, burly man, whose uniform seemed to bulge.

  “I believe it is,” Berkeley agreed. “But it happens to be mine.”

  “Of course. And you are looking for someone?”

  Berkeley showed him the photograph.

  “A remarkably handsome child,” Panov commented. “Is she yours?”

  “No,” Berkeley said. “She is the daughter of a colonel in the British Army named Berkeley Townsend.”

  “Ah,” Panov said. “I have heard of this man. Was he not also a brigadier-general in the Serbian Army at one time?”

  “I believe so,” Berkeley agreed. “I know he lived in Serbia for some years.”

  “He was an utter scoundrel,” Panov said. “Who rode with the Black Hand, and was mixed up in God knows how many illegal activities. Frankly, it is my opinion that he was a British spy, throughout all of those years.”

  “That is possible,” Berkeley agreed. “But it is not Colonel Townsend for whom we are looking. It is his daughter.”

  “This Townsend has also been in the Balkans looking for his daughter,” Panov said. “Only a few months ago. As usual he caused a great deal of trouble which ended with several people dead.”

  “Good lord!” Berkeley commented. “Why wasn’t he arrested?”

  “Oh, he was protected by the Serbian police. That detestable fellow Savos. Have you ever met him?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I would have assumed you would start your search for this young woman in Serbia.”

  “I have fairly positive information that she was taken out of Serbia and into Bulgaria, by a man called Antonov. Do you know of him?”

  “Antonov,” Panov said thoughtfully. “No, I do not know him.”

  Berkeley reckoned he was lying, but he was not here to cause trouble, until he was ready to handle it.

  “And you have never seen that girl before,” he suggested.

  “Really, Mr Smith, I have more important things to do.”

  “Of course,” Berkeley agreed. “Well, then, thank you for your time, Colonel.”

  “What are you going to do next?”

  “Show that photograph everywhere it is possible she might have been taken. You have no objection to this?”

  “None at all. I will wish you good fortune.”

  Berkeley stood up, and then appeared to hesitate. “There was some suggestion that this man Antonov was a member of a terrorist organisation, known as the Internal Macedonian Revolutionary Organisation. Have you ever heard of this?”

  “Everyone in the Balkans has heard of IMRO,” Popov said.

  “Do you have any knowledge of its membership?”

  “It is not my concern,” Popov said. “They do not operate inside Bulgaria.”

  Only outside of it on your orders, Berkeley thought. But he was obviously going to get no further here. “Thanks for your assistance, Colonel,” he said.

  In his hotel, he hunted through the telephone book; there were an awful lot of Antonovs. But he had to start somewhere. Or rather, he supposed, continue from somewhere, and Antonov was his only lead. He began telephoning, using the same format in each case. His problem was that he did not speak Bulgarian. But he had no doubt that the man he wanted would speak English – he and his wife had gone to England to kidnap Anna.

  “Mr Antonov?” he asked. “Would you be the Mr Antonov whose wife died a few months ago?”

  There were a good many immediate hang-ups. Usually preceded by a splutter of Bulgarian. Berkeley had no success that day, but he continued the following morning, and was suddenly rewarded, on about his twentieth call, when the voice at the other end of the line asked, in English, “You are English?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am,” Berkeley agreed.

  “What do you wish with Mr Antonov?”

  “I have been commissioned to find the little girl he and his wife were travelling with,” Berkeley said.

  “You mean their daughter.”

  “My information indicates she was not their daughter, but an English girl they abducted.”

  “You can prove this?”

  “When I find the girl, yes.”

  There was a brief silence.

  “I do not believe you,” the voice said at last. “My brother would not do such a thing.”

  “Your brother,” Berkeley said thoughtfully. “You are aware that your sister-in-law is dead.”

  “I know this. She was murdered by the Serbian police.”

  “Actually, my information is that she committed suicide before the Serbian police could get to her.”

  “I do not believe this,” Antonov said again.

  “That’s up to you. But the Serbian police, as well as the child’s family in England, believe that the girl was kidnapped by your brother and his wife. Don�
��t ask me why. I have merely been given the task of finding her. Will it be possible to set up a meeting with your brother?”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “Simply so that we can solve this mystery right away. Your brother can take me to the girl, and if she is not the one I am looking for, then I will go elsewhere.”

  “How will you know if it is her or not?”

  “I have a photograph.”

  “And if it is her?”

  “Then, providing she has not been harmed, I will require your brother to place her in my safe keeping, to be returned to her family in England.”

  “And you will not bring charges against my brother?”

  “I will not bring charges against your brother,” Berkeley said, carefully.

  I shall merely blow out his brains, he thought.

  “I will arrange this meeting,” Antonov said. “Where are you staying?”

  “The Superior, Room Seventeen.”

  “You are alone?”

  “Yes,” Berkeley said. “I am alone.”

  He wondered if the Antonov brother had any idea who he really was, or if he would be able to persuade his brother to meet with him. He rather thought he would; Antonov would have to be both curious and alarmed at this relentless pursuit. As to whether he would decide to do something about it was another matter; Berkeley did not much care either way.

  But he locked his door and slept with his Browning beside his head. Next morning he went for a walk. It was his first visit to the city. Sofia lay in a hollow entirely surrounded by mountains, its history of mixed Turkish and Christian rule delineated by its mosques standing virtually side by side with its churches. It had been fought over, briefly, in the War, but had never been bombarded like Belgrade, and all traces of damage had already disappeared.

  The Bulgars themselves, he felt, were basically a contented people, even if their leaders still brooded on the successive defeats suffered, firstly in the Balkan War and then the greater conflict that had followed. And he had to suppose that the pleasant greetings he was offered on the street would be sharply reversed were anyone to discover that this bearded, middle-aged and dignified English gentleman had actually once led the Serbian cavalry into battle.

  And ridden with the Black Hand!

  He returned to the hotel for lunch.

  “There is a message for you, sir,” said the reception clerk, who spoke English.

  “Thank you.”

  Berkeley opened the envelope. The message was also in English: We can meet at the Orlando Tavern, tonight at nine. A.

  Berkeley folded the note and put it in his pocket. “Do you know the Orlando Tavern?” he asked the clerk.

  “I know of it, sir,” the clerk said, cautiously.

  “Can you tell me where it is? Or better yet, show me? Do you have a town plan?”

  “I have, sir.” The clerk spread the map on the counter. “Here, you see.”

  “How far is that from the hotel?”

  “A ten-minute walk. But . . . you are planning to go there?”

  “I thought I might. Why?”

  “Well, sir . . .” the clerk hesitated. “It is not a good place.”

  “Why isn’t it a good place?”

  “It is known as a place where criminals hang out. They deal in drugs. It is also a brothel.” He raised his eyes. “Or is that why you wish to go there? If you will stay in, sir, I can arrange . . .”

  “You’re a good fellow,” Berkeley told him. “I’m not actually looking for a woman, at this moment. There is a man I wish to meet, and he has suggested we do so at this tavern.”

  “Well, sir, would you like me to arrange for one of the hotel porters to accompany you?”

  “Is it that dangerous?”

  “It might be, sir.”

  Berkeley grinned. “I’ll chance my arm. But thanks for warning me.”

  He lunched, then went to his room, lay down, and went to sleep; he had the knack of being able to do this at any time. When he awoke it was getting on for dusk. He shaved, had a bath, and dressed. He pocketed his Browning in his topcoat, and also put his spare magazine in his other pocket, then checked his cane, which was actually a swordstick. The adrenalin was flowing, and he felt on a high. If Antonov wanted to play rough he was perfectly happy to accommodate him – and any of his friends or relations.

  He had dinner, and left the hotel; the friendly clerk was no longer on duty, but he must have shared his fears, as all three of the men at the desk, not to mention the door porter, gazed after him anxiously as he pulled on his gloves and went down the steps.

  He had studied the map and knew exactly where to go, and as the clerk had suggested, arrived at the tavern just ten minutes after leaving the hotel. It was down a side street, lit by a single lamp, but appeared as a very ordinary building. There were a couple of men lounging outside, and he gave them a pleasant smile as he passed them and opened the door, to check at the gust of noise and the smell of alcohol which greeted him. He estimated there were about thirty people in the bar. Several were women. They were drinking, and laughing, but all noise stopped at his entry, as every head turned to look at him. Clearly he did not look like any of the usual clientele, with his English topcoat and soft hat, and his cane.

  A middle-aged woman came up to him, and addressed him in Bulgarian, at the same time indicating two of the girls standing by the bar, who responded by swaying their hips.

  “Thank you, no,” Berkeley said. “I am looking for . . .”

  “I am here, Mr Smith,” a man said.

  Berkeley looked at a well-built man, only slightly shorter than himself. He had strong, somewhat sharp features, which were not at this moment hostile.

  “Mr Antonov?” he asked.

  “I am he.”

  “Senior, or junior?”

  “I am Georgiu Antonov,” the man said. “This is my brother Vladimir. You spoke with him on the telephone.”

  “Ah.” Berkeley shook hands.

  “Shall we sit over there.” Antonov pointed at a vacant table in the corner. As it was the only vacant table in the room, Berkeley assumed it had been selected earlier. It was also a corner from which there would be no immediate escape, if he decided to leave in a hurry and the clientele decided to block his way.

  “We can speak freely,” Antonov said. “No one else here understands English. Vladimir, drinks.”

  He led the way to the table, gestured Berkeley to a chair, sat himself. Berkeley studied him. He did not look either vicious or dangerous. But this was the man who had had Anna in his power for several months. It was impossible to believe that he had not during that time abused so beautiful a girl, but even if he had not, the mere fact that he had had her was sufficient to cause the killing instinct to grip his entire system.

  Vladimir placed three foaming tankards of beer on the table, and Georgiu raised his. “Your health.”

  Berkeley watched him drink, then pushed his own tankard across the table. “Do you mind if we change?”

  Antonov frowned at him for a moment, then gave a shout of laughter. “You think I have had it drugged?”

  “I’m a cautious man,” Berkeley said.

  “Ha ha. I have no reason to harm you, Mr Smith, at this moment.” He pushed his own tankard towards Berkeley, then drank from the second. “You see? I am not collapsing.”

  “I’m glad of that,” Berkeley said, and drank in turn.

  “Now tell me what you wish of me.”

  “I wish the girl, Anna Townsend.”

  “You are representing her family, Vladimir says.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Well, I am afraid I cannot help you. I would not help you even if I could. Her father is a murdering swine, and my enemy. As for the girl, I sold her.”

  “You sold my . . .” Berkeley checked. “You sold the girl? Just like that?”

  But Antonov had caught the slip. “By God,” he said. He pushed back his chair.

  “Don’t do anything rash,” Be
rkeley recommended.

  “You bastard!” Antonov rose to his feet and shouted something in Bulgarian. Again all the heads turned to look at them.

  But Berkeley was also on his feet, his Browning jammed into Antonov’s ribs while his left arm went round the man’s neck.

  The people, men and women, had been starting forward, now they checked. Vladimir reached for his pocket, and Berkeley moved his pistol just long enough to shoot the brother in the leg. The explosion filled the room, and brought a series of screams from the women. Vladimir went down with a thud, also screaming, with agony, as blood trailed across the floor.

  The barman reached beneath his counter, and Berkeley sent a shot in his direction as well, causing him to rear against the shelves behind him and bring down a cascade of shattering bottles. He kept his hands up.

  Georgiu Antonov had jerked himself free, but now he again looked down the barrel of Berkeley’s pistol.

  “Just stay put,” Berkeley said. “You,” he told Vladimir, “draw your weapon and give it to me.”

  Groaning and still clutching his leg, Vladimir obeyed.

  “Now, what you need is a doctor,” Berkeley said. He faced the throng, Antonov rigid at his side as the pistol barrel was again pressed into his ribs. “Nobody move,” Berkeley said. “Let’s go,” he told Antonov.

  “You think you can get away with this?” Antonov snarled. “You come here, and start shooting . . . the police will attend to you.”

  “Then it will be a good idea to leave before they get here,” Berkeley suggested. “I assume you know where the back door is. Move.”

  He pushed Antonov across the room. Once again the men surged forward. Berkeley fired into the floor at their feet. There was a burst of splinters and a shout of pain, and they retired again. The women continued to scream.

  The two men reached the door beside the bar, and Berkeley pushed Antonov through. There was a woman in the corridor, armed with a club, and this she swung at Berkeley’s head. He evaded the blow and swung his right hand, holding the pistol, into her midriff. She uttered a startled, explosive sound and fell to her knees.

  Once again Antonov made an effort to get away, but Berkeley’s left hand was holding his collar, and he was jerked back again.

  “Don’t make it hard on yourself,” Berkeley suggested. “That looks like the back door.”