The Double Image

by Helen Macinnes

  “There’s the Stefanie,” Chris murmured, looking at the lights of a yacht some distance out at sea. “She has made a little detour, bless her sweet heart. I suppose she’ll dock at Mykonos just as O’Malley is being brought to the house. Nice diversion.” He noticed Craig’s head turn at the mention of O’Malley. “That’s why I’m here, if you wondered. O’Malley happens to be a special—friend of mine.”

  “I had been wondering,” Craig admitted frankly. It had been easy to place the Greeks’ interest in this operation, easy to understand the French participation. So O’Malley was a British agent, was he? “I’ve also been wondering why the hell you don’t have that mule train intercepted right now. Unless, of course, you fellows like to do things the hard way.”

  “We would also like to catch the man behind it all,” Partridge said dryly. “Before we make one move to find out what’s in that sack, we had better be sure that we’ve picked up any of Insarov’s men who may be stationed around this bay. Otherwise, there could be some warning signal, and Insarov would be gone. He’s an expert in flight and concealment. He has had nineteen years of practice.”

  Craig looked down over the bleak flank of hillside, its shadows darkening as the clouds rolled in from the sea. “Who is picking up Insarov’s men? The Greeks?” And one hell of a job that would be.

  Partridge nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. He was no longer interested in the Stefanie. “They watched them take position an hour ago. It won’t be too difficult.”

  “Not if Elias’ men can move in as you did.” Craig was still smarting from the way Partridge had pinned him down so easily. Dammit, he thought, I was supposed to know something about hand-to-hand combat at one time in my life.

  “They’re the experts,” was all that Partridge said. “Chris, what about getting closer to the road?” He looked up at the sky. “Now’s the time. In ten minutes, that cloud patch will have passed over.”

  “The nearer we get, the better I’ll like it,” Chris said grimly. Partridge moved quietly towards the man who was concentrating on the radio. There was a low mumble of voices—no doubt, thought Craig, the change in position was being given out, perhaps some new reports from Elias added to complete the picture—and then Partridge slid back to him.

  “All set,” Partridge said, trying to hide his growing excitement. “Elias is giving Insarov’s men time to report that all is well as the mule enters the home stretch. Then he closes in. From their flank and rear. We intercept, down by that biggest group of rocks near the road. There’s a mule path that branches up this hill from there, Elias tells me. That’s the quickest way to the house. It’s his bet that they’ll take it. Ready?”

  Chris nodded. He signed to the radio man to come along. “Always make sure of your communications,” he told Craig. “Coming?” he added in his offhand way. “We could use you, if you felt like it.”

  That was obvious, thought Craig; there were a man and a boy with the mule, as well as the two men who had brought O’Malley ashore. He looked at Veronica.

  She had read his thoughts. “I’m all right,” she said miserably, and tried to smile. “I’d only get in the way down there.” And it’s no use trying to explain that I grew up fighting and wrestling with five brothers, she thought unhappily. “If I need you, I’ll pretend I’m a dove.” She smothered a small laugh.

  “Come on,” Partridge said to Craig, deciding for him. “She’s well hidden here.” The deep blue of her coat melted into the night. “Just stay exactly where you are,” he told her.

  “I won’t even breathe,” she assured him, and huddled still more against the rock.

  “God in heaven!” Chris said softly, staring down at the white ribbon of road. Craig looked, too. The mule and a cluster of dark shadows had just appeared in view. They were still about two hundred yards away, he calculated, little black shapes slowly moving, steadily drawing nearer. Over the mule’s back was a shapeless burden. It was one thing to talk of “cargo” and a sack being brought ashore; it was quite another to see it. Could O’Malley be alive? Craig looked at Chris, but the Englishman had already left, taking the most direct route to the road. Partridge had slipped away, too; so had the radio expert. Craig glanced round at Veronica.

  She was watching the road. “What’s the mule carrying?”

  “A man.”

  She drew a sharp, quick breath. “Go! Please go,” she told him. He moved off swiftly, making for the nearest stone wall, taking cover in every patch of available shadow. He is as good as they are at this, she thought with a touch of defensive pride; and they were very good indeed. She couldn’t actually be sure that she was seeing them, now: movements here and there, yes; but what or who was moving, no. She thought she saw one black shadow reach the cluster of rocks by the road, and possibly a second. She stopped searching for them, and looked along the road, watching the mule and its sagging load.

  I asked my first question, she thought, and perhaps I shan’t need to ask any more. That answer was enough. She felt chilled to her spine, and it wasn’t the night air that made her shudder.

  22

  Craig readied the boulders by the road. From above, they had looked fairly protective; down here, they seemed dangerously few, none higher than a man’s shoulder. Still, this was the only real cover for a silent ambush. The drifting clouds had swept over and away, just as Partridge had predicted, and the moon was beginning to swim clear of their last seaweed-like strands. Soon, the road would be brightly lit until the next cluster of clouds came blowing across the land. But if the strengthening light made Craig uneasy, how much more would the men on the road feel exposed? They were about a hundred yards away from where Partridge and Chris waited beside him—the radio man had chosen a niche between two boulders, where he was already in contact with Elias and pleased with what he heard, for his thin dark face split into a reassuring grin as Craig glanced at him curiously. And they were hurrying. Or trying to hurry. A mule took its own good time. Obviously, they were hoping to reach the path that Elias had mentioned before the moon was cleared of cloud and the road became too uncomfortable. It was possible, thought Craig, that their nerves were in a worse state than his.

  How was Veronica? He looked over his shoulder, up towards where he had left her. He could see nothing except the deep band of heavy shadow under the long ledge of rock. He could stop worrying about her. It was the safest spot on all that bleak slope of hillside.

  And where was Elias? Partridge had been talking in a whisper with the Greek at the radio. Now he edged back to Craig, noticed his eyes searching the hillside to the east of the road—to the west there was only a strip of land edging the restless sea—and nodded reassuringly. “They’re out there,” he whispered, just as Craig saw some shadows moving down the terraced fields from the north. “They’ve got their end well under control.” He was silent for a long moment, perhaps thinking that his end had better be under control, too. One mistake, and the whole effort could be ruined. “The idea is this: as the mule reaches the boulders, Chris and I slip around them to get the two men at the rear. You step out in front of the mule and stop the other man. The Greek will deal with the boy. He says Americans are too trusting, that you might hesitate, think he is only a kid of sixteen, and then we’d be in trouble. That boy could make a quick run for it. Any warning at this stage could cripple the whole operation.”

  “I get it. No firing. How do I stop the man? Wave this around?” Craig drew the automatic from his pocket. It was a neat little weapon, more for close defence than any real attack. If his visit to Insarov had gone wrong, he could have found it very useful. Here, with open ground around and a chance to dodge and run, he doubted if any man was going to find it intimidating.

  Partridge pulled a revolver and a silencer from a pocket, fitted them together, handed the complete weapon over, and took the automatic in exchange. “They’ll be heavily armed. Our best plan is complete surprise. Don’t let them have a chance to reach for a knife or a gun. All set? Remember—fast and silen
t, don’t give him time to yell a warning. A shout could carry back to the headland.” And there were two men near there, Craig remembered, guarding the approach to the house itself. Were they still searching for Veronica and him, or had they reported failure?

  “All set,” he told Partridge quietly, listening now to the plodding hoofs of the mule, the shuffle of quiet footsteps. Partridge and the grimly silent Chris moved past him, slowly, step by step around the boulders. Craig edged the other way, joining the Greek almost at the side of the road.

  They crouched low, shoulders pressed against a curve of rock. Five seconds to wait, perhaps less... Craig counted them off. At two seconds to go, he heard the crack of a stick against the flank of the mule, saw its head jerking sharply, its pace quickened for an instant. Then it slowed back to its own rhythm, almost stopped. The boy was at its side, tightening a loosened rope around the shapeless sack. The man had his stick raised for another encouraging blow. Suddenly they stood still, looked back as they heard the sound of scuffling. The boy was reaching for his knife as Craig and the Greek moved in.

  The man was quick, quicker than the boy. He whirled around on Craig, his stick aiming for the wrist that held the revolver, and then—as Craig side-stepped that blow—hit backhand at Craig’s throat. Craig dodged, came in to strike down the stick with the butt of his revolver, struck again at the man’s mouth opening in a shout. The man staggered, turned, tried to run. Craig struck for the third time, at the base of his neck. The man fell, lay motionless.

  Partridge, a little out of breath, came to stand beside Craig, made a quick check. “Well,” he said with cold satisfaction, “you didn’t do him one bit of good, did you?” Then he went over to the mule, where Chris and the Greek were already starting to unknot the ropes.

  Craig was still looking down at the man near his feet. I got mad, he thought, I got really mad there. He looked at the other two men and the boy, who were also stretched out on the road, and then at the obscene sack now being lowered gently from the mule’s back. He took a deep breath. I guess we all did, he thought as he went over to help.

  They carried the sack to the shelter of the boulders. In the moonlight, O’Malley’s face looked like death itself.

  “Alive?” Partridge asked.

  Chris, listening for a heartbeat, didn’t answer. Then he nodded. “Barely. Heavily drugged.” He searched in one of his pockets, found small wire cutters, started snipping the cruel strands that bound O’Malley’s wrists and ankles. He took off his jacket, covered O’Malley’s thin shirt. “Where’s Elias?” he asked irritably. “We’ll need help.”

  “The vanguard’s arriving,” Partridge reassured him. Craig counted four men, then a fifth, coming down to the road. They were coming fast, caution discarded for the present in the mounting sense of triumph. But everyone seemed to know what to do. They worked quickly and silently. The unconscious men were dragged to the side of the road, their jackets and rough sweaters removed, their mouths gagged with tape, their hands and feet tied. Two of the Greeks were improvising a sling to carry O’Malley down to the beach. “A boat will pick them up there,” Partridge told Craig. “Don’t worry, we’ve got it all planned out. We hope. So far, it has worked.” He pointed to the mule, then to the sack, now being partly filled with stones and spare clothing. “That’s how we get close to Insarov.”

  “You are going to walk in?” The idea was so simple that it staggered Craig.

  “Right into the dovecote. Four men, a mule, and a sack. That’s how we get Insarov to open that big front door. Like to make one of the four? I’m serious. You know the way. You’ve seen the layout.”

  Craig glanced up the hill.

  “She’ll be all right,” Partridge said, following his glance. “Elias is sending a couple of men to get her back into town. They’ll soon be joining her. Sorry I can’t spare any from here.”

  “Do they speak English?”

  “That’s the problem,” Partridge admitted.

  “Then I’ll cut up the hill and tell her to expect friends. I’ll join you on the mule path. Just point it out, will you?” Partridge didn’t look too pleased, but he pointed it out. “That’s the one. And take care. We’ve a long way to go yet.” He handed Craig a cap and a jacket. “You’ll need these to make you look authentic.”

  The cap was too big, the jacket too small, but possibly that was very authentic. Craig stuck the revolver securely in his belt, and started looking for patches of shadow on the hillside again. Thank God, the clouds were thickening once more. Behind him, the constant surge of sea seemed louder, more insistent. The wind from the north had freshened. There was a salt smell to the air. He hoped that the boat picking up O’Malley would get him safe to harbour before any squall started. Poor bastard, Craig thought, he didn’t even know he was with friends again.

  Half-way up the hill, with only about fifty yards to go before he reached the rock strata where Veronica sheltered, he stopped in the shadow of a rough stone wall. And looked back. If he hadn’t known about the activity and bustle down on the road behind those boulders, he would never have guessed just what was going on. He would have sensed something was happening, certainly. But what, exactly? It was difficult to judge. What had Veronica made of all this? She couldn’t have had as clear a view as he had expected. He could imagine the questions piling up inside that beautifully shaped head with its smooth dark hair. Blue eyes and a perfect profile. Would he ever be given a chance to sit down opposite her at a harmless café and admire? Like a normal human being?

  He had his breath back now after that wild crouching sprint up the hillside. He pulled himself up over the edge of the retaining wall, rolled over on to the next terraced field. He was thinking that some farmer was going to explode tomorrow when he saw his spring planting of barley. And at that moment, he heard a dove. It sounded again. It’s one of them, he thought at first, flattening himself on the green shoots, motionless. Then he remembered. It’s Veronica warning us. Veronica...

  * * *

  Veronica had been watching the road so intensely that she had not even noticed the man who had come over the hillside from the direction of the house. It was when he stopped abruptly, his feet scraping over a rough fragment of stone, that she knew he was there. And very near. She could hear his heavy breathing, as if he had been hurrying, before she caught sight of the crouching man. He was trying to find a place where he could see what was actually happening down on the road. He still wasn’t sure. He half-rose from his kneeling position, staring down at the boulders.

  So he has just got here, she thought thankfully, once her first attack of fright and panic subsided; and there isn’t so much to see down there at all, now. Five minutes earlier, and he would really have known what to worry about. He is so busy watching the road that he hasn’t noticed John—I know it must be John who started up the hill towards me. But he will see him as John leaves that wall. Oh, stay there, stay there, forget about me, don’t come! But he will come—oh, let me think, let me think...

  The stranger’s breathing was normal now. He moved a step forward, and she could mark his profile quite clearly. He hadn’t noticed her, possibly couldn’t see her as long as she kept quite still within the rock’s deep shadows. That was all she had to do. Keep still, stay safe. But solutions were never as simple as that. There was John, just about to come over that wall any time now. There were the men, three of them, following a loaded mule as it started forward. There were other figures, too, down there, melting away like silent ghosts. They had only been visible briefly, but that instant had been enough. She knew it, even before she glanced quickly back at the man.

  He stood absolutely still, completely astonished, unbelieving, staring down at the road. Then he swung the strap of his radio free from his shoulder with savage haste, and, as he pulled out its aerial, stepped towards the shelter of the rock.

  She came out of her feeling of helplessness. She called; called again. John had heard her at least. She saw him drop to the ground as her hand searc
hed for one of the heavier stones at her feet. She turned to face the man.

  He couldn’t see her clearly, even at this short distance. But he hadn’t yet made his radio warning. “Boris?” he asked, took a step forward, then halted abruptly. His free hand reached into his jacket. Veronica rose and threw the stone.

  It caught him sharply on his forehead, and he stumbled on to his knees, head sagging. His hand was still inside his jacket but the other arm had let the radio slip from its grasp. It lay beside him, its strap loose over his wrist. She reached for it, wrenched it free, hurled it aside. It didn’t go far enough, not as far as she had hoped. “Oh!” she said in despair, and started towards it.

  The man staggered erect, pulled his hand from his jacket and aimed. And in that split second between taking aim and pulling the trigger, a quick movement downhill caught his eyes. He glanced instinctively to his left even as he fired. Veronica felt the breeze of the bullet kiss her cheek, heard the soft sigh of the revolver. She did not risk his aim being spoiled a second time, but dropped flat on her face. She heard another shot fired, again with that gentle sigh. This time it was the man who fell, and moaned quietly, and then lay still.

  “Veronica!” It was John kneeling beside her, touching her gently, almost fearfully.

  She tried to rise, to be practical, to be nonchalant, and only half-succeeded. “He didn’t have time to send out a warning.” Her voice broke; she bit her lip.

  “Veronica—”

  “I’m all right. You spoiled his aim.” She tried to laugh and failed in that, completely.

  Craig lifted her and carried her out of the deep shadow to a softer patch of earth where he could see her more clearly. Again he knelt beside her. No, she hadn’t been wounded. Bruised and shaken; but no bullet graze, no rock splinters. She was all right.