The Double Image

by Helen Macinnes

  She shook her head, picked up her coat and bag from the bunk, brushed past him, her face now calm, determined. Head erect, she climbed the steps, vanished out of sight.

  13

  They came to Mykonos in a blaze of pink and vermilion sky, with feathered sweeps of cirrus clouds so high that they had already shaded into grey, leaving the last golden glow to the threatening mass of cumulus on the north horizon. The island was a spreading slope of hard rock moulded into small hills, barely green, its contours carved so near the bone that the occasional farm scattered over the rising land must have its richest harvest in stones. Down below was a curve of bay, with the little town at one side—flat-roofed houses of brilliant white, their square outlines broken by blue- or red-domed churches, clustering in a tight mass at the water’s edge—and there the long jetty formed a breakwater to harbour small craft, fishing boats, masted caïques. Across the bay, at the other tip of its crescent, there was a mooring quay in the shelter of a rocky headland for a few yachts. Anything larger had to anchor outside.

  Craig stood on the rising and falling ship with the rest of the passengers who were going ashore, looking over the rail at the motorboats and light launches coming out from the shelter of the breakwater, dipping and rolling as they met the heavy waves of the rising sea. There was a marked silence around him, ship friendships forgotten, the rough squalls that had sent them all retreating to their cabins or huddling in joint misery in the bar now merely minor interludes. A loose gangway had been rigged against the side of the ship. “You just grip hard, and don’t look down,” one of the American women began telling her companion. “I remember arriving here from Rhodes at one in the morning during a real storm. Yes, thought Craig, that kind of traveller was always remembering, and bringing less comfort than she intended. He waved down to the upturned brown faces, far below, of the thin agile Greeks who were manoeuvring their small boats near the bottom step of the gangway, calculating pitch and toss with expectant grins. Now, there are people who are really enjoying themselves. If that fat lady falls into the water, they’ll have the best laugh of the week.

  The French redhead was a practical woman, Craig noted. She had tied her head securely in a large scarf, bundled herself against wind and spray in a tightly belted coat, put her high-heeled shoes in her pockets, and was leading the way down the swaying stairs in her nylons as if she had been doing this every morning for setting-up exercises. He followed her, carrying the fat lady’s handbag, with Elias steadily coaxing them onwards from the rear. The operation, from something a little tricky and outside of most experience, turned into a comedy routine. Craig, safe in the steadily swaying launch, waited for it to be filled—to the gunwales, naturally; Greeks never did things by half—and found he was watching the slow procession downwards with a relaxed smile. It was all a matter of perspective. From here, the gangway looked solid, the ship enormous, and only the hesitant feet were dangerous. The Greeks laughed, pushed, pulled, and yelled encouragements. The confusion was complete and yet under control.

  “I think,” said the French girl, as she put on her shoes and stood up beside him, “that the worst is yet to come.” She looked at the darkening stretch of open sea between them and the breakwater. “You are John Craig? Yes, Jim told me... I am Marie Aubernon. Mimi for short. I am staying at the Leto, around the bay. And you?”

  “At the Triton—it’s in the town itself.” Could she hear that, he wondered, with all those shouts around us?

  She nodded, looked away, studied the little boat alongside that was being loaded with luggage. “Yves Duclos was to have introduced us,” she said very quietly. “But—” She shrugged her shoulders, her face impassive, only her eyes troubled. “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She bent her head, tightened the belt of her coat. “We’ll meet on shore,” she said, moving away to the shelter of the small cabin.

  The boat was packed at last, and started its homeward voyage. Mimi had been right about the stretch of rough sea, but once they were inside the breakwater the violence of wave and wind abruptly ended. Dusk had fallen and the lights of the front-street cafés welcomed the passengers as they began their long walk up the jetty. “Tomorrow night,” Elias said cheerfully at Craig’s elbow, “we’ll be sitting at one of those tables, watching the new arrivals. We’ll meet, of course. Everyone meets in Mykonos.”

  “Any sign of the man whose friend left him in such a hurry?” Craig asked quietly.

  “Got off the boat at Syros, more than three hours ago.”

  “Good. That’s one less to worry about.”

  Elias only smiled. He increased his pace, drew well ahead, and was lost among the straggle of arrivals.

  Craig followed the porter who had picked up his bags and taken the lead. As they reached the front street, he pulled off his raincoat—it was now too warm, away from the sea wind—and began to relax completely. Everyone meets on Mykonos, Elias had said. At this hour, certainly, it looked as if the entire population of three thousand-odd had flocked to the waterfront for the main event of the day. The broad street ran level with the shore, was in fact part of it. On one side were beached rowboats and fishing nets; on the other, arcades and café tables. Brown faces everywhere, bare arms, bare legs, sun-bleached hair, and curious eyes. Ahead of him, Craig saw Mimi with her coat and scarf over her arm. Judging from the prolonged, swivel-headed stares that followed her slow, even stride, Mimi was going to be quite a success on Mykonos.

  Purposely, he had avoided returning the cool appraisal from the café tables. This was a night to slip into Mykonos quietly, not a time to be noticeably curious. Besides, he preferred watching Mimi and her triumphal progress: her skirt was just tight enough to give it full advantage. Then he heard his name clearly called, and was forced to look to his right. It was Maritta Maas, waving gaily. Beside her was Veronica Clark. He ignored the two handsome long-haired types in mock fishermen’s jerseys and tight red pants who sat with them. Nor did he stop. He called back laughingly, pointed to the porter waiting now at the corner of a small street, waved, and went on his way. He was glad to get out of sight, worrying now whether he had sounded natural enough, whether he had hurried too much, whether he had succeeded in seeming just a casual kind of character; and he couldn’t even remember what he had called to them, not exactly—but thank heavens they had found it funny. At least, he had left Veronica laughing.

  You’ll have to get used to this, he told himself as he followed the porter along the narrow twisting street, so narrow that he could touch the whitewashed walls of the houses on either side. And all the little wandering streets were the same, their paving stones whitewashed to match the houses with the balconies and narrow stone staircases that led to the upper floors. You’ll have to get used to coming around a corner and meeting Veronica face to face. You won’t even see her until she’s twenty feet away from you. And the hell of it is, your heart will leap every time you catch sight of her, just as it did back there.

  In a few minutes, they had walked through five of those quiet criss-crossing streets, the porter always a little ahead, for there was no room for two to walk abreast in comfort unless closely arm in arm. A town with possibilities, thought Craig. No worry about getting lost, either. You only had to head towards the sea breeze and you’d be back at the bay. The street-lighting system was simple, too: single bulbs in brackets attached to house walls; not too many, just enough to show the way through the white maze. By moonlight, street lights wouldn’t even be necessary.

  The porter halted and looked back, a sign perhaps that they had reached the hotel. It was at the end of this fifth small street, on the edge of what seemed to be a wider stretch of flagstones. In fact it was a square, a miniature one, with a very small church and a couple of dark spiky trees—cypress? cedar? something like that—and two other narrow streets leading out of it.

  “The Triton?” Craig asked. The place looked like any of the larger houses around the square.

  His guide
nodded, spread a white smile over his wrinkled brown face, and pointed to the stone staircase that hugged the side wall. Craig climbed up its steps, narrow and high, avoiding the pots of flowers on each tread, and stood on the entrance balcony under a pergola of vine leaves. From here, he could see part of the street along which he had come, half of the ghostlike square, and about ten yards into the streets on its other side. Where was everybody? Down at the bay, or eating supper, or already in bed? Suddenly, he heard footsteps; two men walking into the square, crossing it. One was speaking in German, a quiet continuous stream of words. He was small and fat, wearing shorts and a bulky sweater. The other, tall and powerfully built, dressed in white trousers and dark blue blazer with a scarf folded at his neck, looked up instinctively at the open belfry of the church as if something there had caught his eye—a gentle swing of the bell’s tongue, perhaps, or the stirring of a bird. It was Heinrich Berg.

  Craig moved against the wall, out of the lighted threshold, stood motionless. But Berg had heard Craig’s brief, careful step. Quickly, his eyes glanced up at the hotel balcony and saw the Greek porter standing in the doorway. His friend was pointing at the vine on the pergola—it seemed, for a moment, to Craig that the finger was aimed straight at him—and then burst into explanation. In the autumn, that vine was covered with huge clusters of grapes, unbelievable, most useful as well as decorative, the wine in Mykonos was quite passable... The footsteps passed on, the voice died into a murmur, a door somewhere around the corner—in the square, perhaps, or in one of the small streets leading off from that corner—closed heavily, and there was silence again.

  The porter was gesticulating politely. Enter, he was saying, and welcome, and there are the bags which I have carried with the greatest care and brought safely to your destination. Craig couldn’t understand a word of the dialect, but he offered the man his choice of money from a handful of coins in his hand. It was a system that worked well. The man clattered down the steps happily, with more good wishes for a long and healthful stay, and Craig stepped into the small low-ceilinged room that had been turned into a reception lobby. There was a grey-haired woman, brisk and formidable, waiting behind a desk; a smiling but silent young man in a very correct dark suit, who came hurrying at the clang of Madame’s bell; two young maids, with shining cheeks and nervous giggles, to seize the luggage and bear it away down a small dark corridor. Reservation, passport... It was the usual routine. Madame made it protocol. He floundered through a Greek phrase, trying to ease the extreme formality, and was corrected firmly. So he fell silent.

  She studied him as he signed the register. “You admired our view,” she told him severely in halting but determined English, which might be another way of reminding him that he had kept her waiting for at least five minutes before deigning to put a foot across her threshold. Or was she curious about what he had seen out there? She was frowning heavily, gathering strength for another attack on the English language. “It is beautiful?”

  “Beautiful,” he assured her. “The flowers are beautiful also,” he added most politely. Now can I leave? he wondered.

  She bowed in agreement rather than dismissal. Her voice became less harsh, although it would never be called mellifluous. “Herr Ludwig admires the vine. He always admires the vine.”

  Craig decided not to leave, not quite so hurriedly at least. “Herr Ludwig?”

  “You hear his words tonight? He admires very much.”

  “Perhaps Herr Ludwig would like to have a few bottles of its wine.” But he had gone too quickly for her, there, so he slowed down and said, “Herr Ludwig also admires the wine.” There was a bright gleam of laughter in her sharp brown eyes. “For three years, he admires. He does not get.”

  “Poor Herr Ludwig,” he said, and friend of Heinrich Berg at that. But this wasn’t the time for any direct questions; better to follow the silent man who was waiting for him at the door. Ludwig was a three-year-old institution here, at least; and Heinrich Berg was visiting him, judging by the guided tour he had been given through the square.

  “Dinner is nine o’clock,” Madame called after him. He bowed again, smiling amiably, but his thoughts on Berg were now passing into light shock. Berg—here, on Mykonos? It was Berg, all right. The black hair was the same, although the grey at the temples hadn’t been noticeable—either it was a trick of the lighting in the square or it had been darkened. And the handsome face was Berg’s, too. So was its calm, almost benign look. Even when he had glanced upwards, alert, watchful, Berg had not dropped that expression. By God, thought Craig, I’d like to be around when he loses that mask.

  When did he get here anyway?

  * * *

  The yacht Stefanie had arrived with the sunset at Mykonos and moored under the headland on the quiet end of the bay. She was one of the newest craft that were being built to capture the tourist trade, a hundred and fifty tons of compact pleasure for five passengers and three crew—one to steer and chart, one to fuss around, one to cook and clean up. She had two 120 hp diesels capable of driving her along at twelve knots, and two masts mostly for decoration or romantic moods, although—when necessary—they could be rigged for silent approaches and departures. They were rigged, now, as if the Stefanie was just a pleasure schooner with no real power within her neat white hull.

  The Stefanie was slightly different in other ways from the usual yachts hired to sail through the Aegean. The crew had been replaced by three excellent sailors who were not Greek. This had happened when the yacht had begun its present charter, in Corfu, an Ionian island just a short haul from the Albanian coast. There was rather an original turn in the chartering, too. An attractive woman of fifty, no less, with a French passport in the name of Jeanne Saverne, a slight hint of German in her accent, residence in Milan, had paid a handsome fee to have the Stefanie delivered to her at Corfu. Not to her, exactly. To some friends who would use the yacht until she was able, later in May, to enjoy the Greek Islands herself. (Bless all insurance companies, Jim Partridge had thought, when he came across this piece of information in the careful records of the agent who was responsible for the Stefanie’s safe handling. The insurance agent had only made one mistake: he had assumed, since the yacht had been sent especially to Corfu, that the “Greek Islands “would be those in the Ionian Sea. But after a quick call at Brindisi, the Stefanie had quietly abandoned the Ionian and headed for the waters around Athens. Which was, after all, half-way to the Aegean.)

  It was such a neat operation, beautifully calculated, simple and innocent in appearance and yet—once questions started being asked—as complicated and peculiar as an artichoke being peeled leaf by leaf, that Partridge and his friends would have felt considerable satisfaction if they had seen the small red boat that drifted gently over the bay when the Stefanie sailed into the harbour. And they deserved some congratulations. Partridge had raised the first questions. (If Insarov is renting a house on Mykonos, what will he need for transportation—something safe, discreet, non-remarkable? The usual Greek yacht? What yachts have been chartered this season? Where? By whom?) His friends went out searching for the answers. Within one week they had peeled the artichoke nicely. The four previous months helped, too, of course. Four months of facts dredged up, examined, correlated, remembered—even such small details as the various names used by Heinrich Berg’s mistress of twenty-five years ago. Jeanne Saverne, there it was, the name she adopted along with a new identity when she had slipped into France after the war; the name she was still using in Milan, where she had been living for the last few months, quietly, discreetly, with no overt political connections whatsoever but enough spending money to charter a yacht. So Partridge had hired a fishing boat. Or, rather, he had suggested his idea to Elias (in charge of the Greek end of this counter-operation), who had the right contacts on Mykonos. And there, floating around so innocently, were the small red boat and a couple of thin-faced Greeks with dark eyes and black moustaches, caps tilted over their tanned foreheads, patched trousers and work-stained jerseys. It h
ad been very simple, indeed, once the Stefanie had been noted in Phaleron Bay last Tuesday, to track her by each port of call, arrival and departure, as she sailed nearer and nearer Mykonos.

  “Here she comes,” said one of the fishermen, and rearranged the fish they hadn’t caught in the bottom of their boat. “She made good time from Paros. I can count three passengers.” Taking it easy, they were, lounging on deck chairs, looking back at the sunset.

  “Three,” agreed the man at the oars. He dipped them slowly, gently. “Shall we draw closer?”

  “We’re near enough. They are using binoculars.”

  “Admiring the town across the bay?” The rower had that Greek sardonic smile on his intelligent face.

  “But of course. Just normal tourists...” The fish-arranger looked over the side of the small boat and studied the water. “Better ease us in towards the shore, near the Leto. That’s a good half-way point between the town and them.” And the road to town passed that way, too, if anyone should set off from the Stefanie on foot. Most people would use the dinghies from their yachts to ferry them across the bay; but these strangers might plan the opposite—the road at this time of day was deserted. “They’ve timed their arrival well. There’s the mail boat from Athens, standing in.” Everyone would be gathering on the front street to watch the new arrivals. Dusk would soon be here, too. “Start rowing. Stand up and face the way you’re going. I’ll keep watch on the yacht now.” He began playing around with the folded net coiled in the prow of the boat, his back to the land, as if he were trying to straighten some tangle. The yacht was moored by one rope only. She had dropped anchor, too, to prevent swinging. She was secure, yet not so tied up that departure would be complicated.

  “There’s a storm coming up.” Even inside the bay, there was a difference in the bobbing waves, still small but now sharply chopped, with even a few miniature whitecaps beginning to show. “I’m going closer to the shore.”