The Double Image

by Helen Macinnes

  “She certainly did.” Bannerman sounded relieved. “Didn’t waste a second. Good girl. If I felt in a better mood, I’d be laughing out loud.” He leaned both elbows on the table, cupped his chin in his hands so that his lips were guarded. “Bad news from Smyrna. You and Elias guessed right.”

  Craig bent his head over his cup of coffee, studying the heavy mass of thick muddy grounds. “They got our man?”

  “This morning.”

  This morning, thought Craig in dismay. If only I had known where to report last night, that Heinrich Berg was walking through Mykonos—if only I had tried to get hold of Elias—if only I had telephoned Bannerman in Athens. There would have been time to warn Smyrna, to have all precautions doubled. But I didn’t think, I didn’t know what was at stake. There I was, imagining that I was becoming ridiculous, taking too many precautions, having too many suspicions. And the truth was I didn’t have enough. He remembered Rosie telling him that the smallest things could be of the greatest importance... Do we always have to remember, too late? he wondered. “If only,” he said, “I had got in touch with you last night.”

  “You didn’t know—” began Bannerman.

  “I didn’t have to know. I ought to have reported one small fact, and let others do the evaluating.”

  “Look—it’s over, and nothing can change it. Stop those ‘if only’s.’ Don’t you think we each carry a pack of them around on our breaking backs?”

  “Okay.” Craig drew a deep breath. “So they got him this morning.”

  “And the news wasn’t known until late this afternoon. They used timing as part of their plan. It’s always a winner.”

  “Who was he?”

  “A volunteer. Only three people know his name, and I’m one of them. There was a fourth, but he’s dead.” Bannerman’s lips tightened as he thought of Duclos. Yes, only three now: Rosie, the Englishman Christopher Holland, and Partridge. “The fewer the better, of course. Or else Insarov might have learned he was abducting someone who didn’t know one thing about microphones and similar gadgets.”

  “Then he won’t get much out of your man.”

  “Nothing that is of any use to him. I suppose we could say that’s one success we had,” Bannerman said gloomily. And a grim one, thought Craig. “What now?”

  Bannerman dropped his hands, looked casually over his shoulder, glanced at the breakwater, surveyed the waterfront. “I’d like you to keep out of sight, until it’s worth-while showing yourself. Never spoil a surprise.” Only the front-row tables had their groups of men so far, all friends, all knowing each other. That was a safeguard in itself. No unaccountable fisherman, no inquisitive tourist. “We’re out of the main drag here. We might as well relax and have some coffee.”

  “We could move inside—it’s empty. Or is that more noticeable than sitting here like two normal people?”

  Bannerman nodded. “Besides, I want you to keep your eyes on the breakwater. I’ll watch the street. I don’t think pretty little Maritta stayed home from Delos just to play pinochle with her abominable house guests. What excuse did she give?” He signed to the waiter for coffee and angled his chair to look along the waterfront.

  Craig told him and raised the first smile of the evening. “Maritta as Florence Nightingale,” Bannerman said. “So far, there have been no reports that any doctor was sent for. But you didn’t expect that, did you?” He shook his head. “What will she think up next?”

  “That’s what I’m waiting to see. If she weren’t so dangerous, she’d be my choice for Comedy Queen.”

  The coffee came, and Bannerman began giving the rest of his news. The yacht Stefanie never entered Turkish waters,” he said quietly, his left hand holding a cigarette close to his lips. “Nor did she visit Chios, which is the Greek island nearest Smyrna—there’s even a small ferryboat that runs between Chios and Smyrna. So Chios seemed the logical place, but it wasn’t planned that way. Instead she docked at the island of Samos, farther to the south.”

  “That’s the closest Greek island to the Turkish coast. It’s less than two miles across the strait there.”

  “You know your geography.”

  Craig smiled. “Blame it on history. The ruins of Ephesus are near that strait.”

  “Yes,” said Bannerman very softly, “and Ephesus is just about fifty miles south from Smyrna... Get it?”

  So that was the route of operation: Smyrna, to Ephesus, to the coast, to Samos. And the Stefanie. “Alex made up a party for Ephesus,” Craig said thoughtfully. Clever bastard... It was a popular trip; anyone visiting Smyrna usually made it. He had been warned, back in New York, that if he ever went there he could expect busloads of tourists from the cruise ships docking at Smyrna. A man could easily go unnoticed in a polyglot crowd surrounded by miles of ruins. Ephesus was big. And yet—“Surely,” Craig added irritably, “our man was being guarded?”

  Bannerman nodded. “There was one of our agents with him constantly—pretended he was some kind of assistant and close friend. We couldn’t have a phalanx of guards around the pseudo expert; that would have looked too obvious, as if we were expecting trouble. We had plenty of checks on his movements around Smyrna, though. He had his instructions to stay there. He should never have accepted the idea of a jaunt to Ephesus—I don’t know what got into him.” Bannerman sighed deeply, frowning. “Seven people made up that party. Two cars. That was the way the kidnapping was worked.”

  “How?” pressed Craig. He could scarcely believe that two trained and experienced men could have been so easily trapped.

  “The group scattered, spent a couple of hours wandering around Ephesus. They planned to meet at the cars at a fixed time—they were returning to Smyrna for lunch. But one of the cars drove off just ahead of the other. Those who gathered at the second car found they were two short—the ‘expert’ and his assistant—but assumed they had got tired waiting and taken the first car.”

  “And those in the first car took it for granted that the two men were returning in the second car?”

  “So they say.”

  “But if they reached Smyrna by one o’clock or so, why didn’t Partridge get the news here before he left? Someone must have been dragging his feet.”

  Bannerman shook his head. “The first car decided to make a detour, visit a nomad encampment.” He looked at Craig. “Ever seen one? The Turks keep them well outside their towns. Black leather tents, beehive shape. Camels. Slit-eyed people. Straight Genghis Khan. Sounds good, doesn’t it? Good enough to keep that first car from returning to Smyrna until almost five o’clock this afternoon. Some detour.”

  And only then would the disappearance have been discovered. Clever Alex. “By that time, the Stefanie had left Samos?”

  “She left at three.”

  “Which means she could arrive here any time tonight,” Craig said softly.

  Bannerman said nothing. He was a worried man.

  “At least,” Craig added, “you’ve got Alex. He’s stuck in Smyrna until everyone is questioned, and he won’t have much choice in his answers, either. Which car was he in? The first, I bet.”

  There was a strange expression on Bannerman’s face.

  “Don’t tell me that both Wilshot and Bradley went on that trip to Ephesus!”

  Bannerman glanced up quickly. “Who gave you the names?” he asked sharply. “Partridge?”

  “As a kind of afterthought this morning.”

  “Just as well,” Bannerman said, alarm giving way to relief. Now he could talk more freely. If Craig knew as much as this, he could help. Every ounce of assistance was needed. “The situation is becoming high emergency,” he admitted.

  “Alex—”

  “He backed out of the trip to Ephesus early this morning.”

  “Both Bradley and Wilshot backed out?”

  “Both. They had a chance of a free ride on a plane to Rhodes today. They took it. Begged off Ephesus.”

  “They seem to be pretty close friends.”

  “They’ve become qui
te good friends in this last week. They reached Rhodes around nine this morning. We checked. They left before ten o’clock, hitching another ride—this time on one of those twin-diesel yachts that would give them a cruise through the Aegean en route to Athens. Bradley’s leave is just about up; he is heading back to Paris. We know that. Wilshot’s articles on the Turks’ new attitude towards America, because of this damned Cyprus trouble, are completed. Everyone knows that, too. So everything seems perfectly regular. Even the hitch-hiking. Anyone who visits this part of the world is always on the lookout for a free ride so he can see as much as possible. Just tell him he can sail with you here, or there, and his eyes start glinting. Have you noticed?”

  Craig nodded. He was still thinking of Alex. Careful and cautious, Partridge had called him. “Who actually arranged that trip to Ephesus?”

  “It was dreamed up, yesterday evening, at a cocktail party in Smyrna given by Bradley and Wilshot. It seemed one of those spontaneous-combustion ideas that come with the fourth Martini.”

  “Who first suggested it?”

  “That’s being investigated right now, you can bet all your traveller’s cheques. But does anyone remember exactly who said what and how and when at a cocktail party?” Bannerman smiled sourly. “Yes, even that was calculated.”

  They were silent for a full minute. Then Craig said, still puzzled, “That agent of yours—the one who was keeping an eye on your expert—did he sell out, you think?”

  “No. Not he. I’ve worked with him.”

  “But how—”

  “They’d deal with him first. Probably he is lying behind some ruined temple, his skull smashed in with a chunk of marble.” He fell silent again, his face cold and expressionless. “Three men dead, one captured for interrogation. The cost comes high.” He looked at Craig. “It may come higher. You could bow out now and no one would blame you.”

  “There’s a matter of identifying Alex.”

  “Yes, I admit I’d like your help with that. I know both Wilshot and Bradley from their photographs. Never met them. And there’s two of them.”

  “They’ll come ashore together?”

  “That’s my guess. Alex will make sure of a cover to the very end. They’ll separate, of course, when Alex is really getting down to business.”

  “I’ll take one, you take the other. How’s that?”

  There was a broad smile on Bannerman’s face. “Perfect.”

  “When do you expect them?”

  “Any time, frankly.”

  “And meanwhile, I just keep looking across the harbour?” Craig asked, and did. “So far, no twin-diesel job is anywhere on the horizon. There’s that cabin cruiser over at the anchorage, of course. It’s scarcely powerful enough, though, to get from Rhodes to here by five o’clock.”

  “The harbour master reports it came from Delos. Before that, Tinos. Wrong direction for Rhodes, anyway. It plans to spend the week-end at Mykonos. Two men and a woman. That’s the crew.”

  “Two men?” Craig was still hanging on to his doubts.

  “Look—” Bannerman raised an eyebrow. “Elias ’phoned Delos, and that cabin cruiser was there.”

  And did a more powerful boat, arriving from Rhodes, touch in at Delos just before the cabin cruiser left? Craig looked at Bannerman, one of the nicest guys he had met in a long, long time, and wished Partridge were here. “I believe you. It was there all right. But damned if I wouldn’t find some excuse for a visit over to that anchorage except that—” He shrugged in a good imitation of Elias.

  Bannerman noticed, and smiled. “Except what?” he asked. “Both Bradley and Wilshot would spot me and wonder why I was snooping around.”

  Bannerman’s amusement doubled. That was the way with those amateurs, he thought, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Let them have one or two small triumphs and they start teaching everyone his business. “I have a very good reason for not snooping around, too. I’ve got to stay here. Period. A matter of keeping in touch with the big outside world. We don’t work through the Greeks or anyone else. Stop raising your blood pressure.” And then he relented. “Elias made an excuse to have their passports checked: not one name we knew.”

  “And their faces matched the photographs?”

  “Exactly. Elias’ man even went into the cabin and glanced at one of the men, who was taking a nap. Okay, bud? And yes,” Bannerman added emphatically, “it was all handled tactfully, sort of offhand style, to raise no suspicions that they were being checked. Does that answer all objections?”

  “Meanwhile,” said Craig with a grin.

  At least he can take a reprimand well enough, Bannerman thought. “Now this is what we do. When that twin-diesel job arrives from Rhodes, I’m going to be heading around to that anchorage. Alex has never seen me... I’ll make sure—without going through the passport routine—who is on board. That gives us the warning, right? After that, we wait until they move ashore. I don’t think Alex will go up to the house on the hill to see Maritta, not right away.”

  Not ever, thought Craig. Alex, cautious and careful, wouldn’t be seen near that house. “Do you really think he might go there?” he asked very carefully. No criticism, Tim; no criticism implied at all.

  “When it’s dark, perhaps. Maritta has got rid of Veronica for the night. The house will be safe enough, even for Alex.” Now that’s what Bannerman would do, or I would do, if we were in Alex’s shoes. But will Alex?... Craig frowned, looked at the placid harbour. Outside the breakwater, the sunset was starting. And not a sign of a ship coming from any direction. “Maritta may have been making the house safe for the Stefanie’s arrival.”

  “It needs darkness to unload its cargo,” Bannerman said abruptly. “And it isn’t taking the direct route to Mykonos from Samos. That, we do know. They’ll make very sure that all is well before they touch land.”

  Craig agreed with that. In the art of caution, Insarov could give Alex some twenty years.

  “And it won’t arrive while Alex is here. He will make sure of that.”

  Craig could agree with that, too.

  “He is due first. He has to be. If he is Bradley, he has got to be back at his desk in Paris by Monday morning. If he is Wilshot, he has a final interview with Grivas near Athens on Sunday. Neither can hang around here, too long.”

  Craig nodded again.

  “We can only make some educated guesses about what Alex will do once he sails in here. We just have to be ready for anything. You stay and watch the town while I’m around near the anchorage. Any suggestions?”

  “I’d like to know how the hell I get in touch with you if necessary when you’re on the other side of the harbour. It’s a damned loud whistle from here to there.”

  “Relax, relax... That’s all set up. Why do you think I’ve been waiting here?” Bannerman glanced at his watch. “They should be passing any minute now.”

  “I hope they speak English. I know about four phrases in Greek: good day, thank you, please, where is the toilet?”

  Bannerman grinned. “They know more Greek than that. I’ll leave one of them with you and take the other with me. Adam is the name of the guy who will keep fairly close to you. Only get in touch—” He broke off. “See those two characters ambling down the street. The fair-haired guy with the sunburn is Adam: green sweater, medium height, round face—got him? The stocky dark-haired chap is Bill. Okay?”

  The two Americans, hands, in pockets, strolled slowly past the café.

  “Consider yourselves introduced,” said Bannerman. “Now I can leave you. Only get in touch with Adam if you really need a contact.”

  “Whistle a bar or two?”

  “Yes. Our little theme song.” Bannerman was in good humour again. He rose. “I’ll be with Elias for the next half-hour or so—just checking.” He sighed, but not too deeply. “This is the stage that kills me. All these damned decisions...”

  “And I stay here?”

  “Why not? You can admire the sunset and keep your eye on that street.” He gave a
n easy wave, and left.

  In spite of the low, carefree voice, there had been an edge of urgency in that last instruction. Keep your eye on the street... Whom did Bannerman expect to come walking down there—Maritta?

  If so, Alex won’t be far behind. Maritta’s actions are tied to his arrival. Of that, I’m convinced. Or at least, that’s what I think. Think? Or feel? Or am I wandering in outer space? I could be wrong, there’s always that doubt. He looked across the harbour at the anchorage—two placid boats lying close together, painted ships on a painted bay—all peace, all innocence. I could be wrong, he thought again, the doubt growing. All right, all right, he told himself irritably, let’s watch this blasted street.

  18

  The street was busy now, so busy that it was baffling. Faces and voices and footsteps; and no one recognisable. The cafés, too, were filling up with people who had come out to admire the sunset. Even this one, where Craig sat patiently (obedient but bored, he thought wryly), was showing life. Some of the more artistic visitors were wandering in with their girls. “This is really authentic!” one said in delight as her friends pulled two tables together and corralled every available chair. The fishermen paid little notice, but their talk paused heavily and philosophic gloom masked their faces as they stared out at the calm harbour, only seeing another refuge invaded and about to be permanently occupied. Craig’s lifeline, Adam, arrived, too, bringing three friends to sit only a couple of tables away. Craig felt cheerier, ordered coffee and another ouzo to keep the waiter happy, and returned his full attention to the street.

  Then he heard the steady grumble of an outboard motor, and looked quickly at the quiet waters of the harbour. A small boat was half-way across from the yacht anchorage, moving smoothly in towards the breakwater. Where had it come from? The sloop or the cabin cruiser? It was edging its way past the fishing boats and caïques, coming as far inshore as possible. There was a man and some luggage in the prow; a woman at the tiller. Craig looked quickly around the tables, but the men there didn’t seem to find it strange. They were more concerned with watching to see if the woman would make a mistake in steering, for, once she had nosed the boat into an opening between two fishing boats and brought it neatly against the jetty, they lost interest and found something else to talk about.