“He sounds almost convincing.” Partridge was more interested in the revolver, the flat silver case with two bogus cork-tipped cigarettes inserted among the regular ones, the metal lighter, the heavy fountain pen, which were being taken from Insarov’s well-cut blue blazer and crisply pressed grey trousers.
“He’s a bloody arsenal,” Holland was saying, examining the cyanide-gas pen very gingerly, and then the one-bullet lighter, and the poison cork-tips, before he laid them all out in a neat row on the card table. “I’d give this chap a body search. He’s a really comic character. If he thought our pistols were stupid, God knows what he has taped under his armpit. You amuse me, Insarov.”
There was the first sign of anger on Insarov’s face. “My name is Pavel Ulinov. I have diplomatic immunity,” he repeated, his voice harsh with controlled rage. “You will regret—”
“And now you are beginning to disappoint me,” Partridge said. “You should know better than to try that gag on us. Diplomatic immunity does not extend to officials who operate outside the jurisdiction which grants that immunity. So cut out the double talk.”
“I demand—”
“You demand nothing. Since when did the Soviet Union give diplomatic protection to a Nazi war criminal?”
There was complete silence.
“If you insist on claiming the protection of the Soviet Union,” Partridge went on, “we shall give the full details of your Nazi career to the newspapers. In fact, there is a journalist in Mykonos, right now, who might think this was the biggest story of his career. Ed Wilshot.”
“I believe you know his name at least,” Holland said. His voice was becoming more and more gentle. He had been examining Insarov’s revolver with respect. “Special job,” he told Elias, “no expense spared.” He laid it back in place on the card table to take the cuff links from one of Elias’ men. “Really, my dear fellow, you fascinate me,” he said to Insarov, as he found a hinge in one of the cuff links and sniffed at the powder inside. “You have a Borgia complex a mile wide.”
“And once the Wilshot story was spread all over the front pages of the world,” Partridge said with a grin, “what government, however much it has owned you, would even admit it knew you? No, you would be branded traitor at once, Insarov. Or should I say, Heinrich Berg?”
“I have never been a traitor. Heinrich Berg means nothing. To me, to anyone.” The voice was tight, clipped; the words were spoken with dignity.
“Heinrich Berg is of no importance?” Holland asked too gently.
“None.” The clever eyes were measuring the watching faces again, trying to gauge what they actually knew.
“Not even to the Israeli Vengeance Squad?” asked Holland, leaving the card table, sitting on the arm of a chair. “You know,” he said almost conversationally to Partridge and Elias, “we might possibly make a telephone call right now to their man in Athens. That could be the quickest solution. It would spare the courts at Frankfurt a lot of trouble and expense.”
The clever eyes flickered. The lips tightened. “I have been a trusted Communist agent for twenty-seven years. I saved many lives in the concentration camps—”
“Communists’ lives. What about the others you sent to their deaths? Or don’t they count?”
“There is no proof, no evidence, that such things happened. I did not look at a man’s politics—”
“You didn’t?” Partridge asked softly. “Professor Sussman thought otherwise. That was why you had him murdered, wasn’t it?”
Berg looked at Partridge in bland astonishment. “Sussman? And who is he? I never knew anyone called Sussman. Your charges are a mockery, based on completely false assumptions. You have turned your opinions into facts. No court of law would listen to them, not even a Western court ready to believe any lies—”
Partridge signalled to Craig. “Would you step over here for a minute?” To the others beside Craig, he said, “Wait outside on the porch.” Elias made certain of that by adding a quick phrase in Greek.
“Sure,” said Craig and left the doorway and came forward. “That’s Heinrich Berg. Sussman knew him. And he knew Sussman.” He looked at Berg. “That is not an opinion,” he told him. “That’s solid fact.”
Berg stared at Craig. The mask of confidence slipped. For at least ten seconds, he stared at Craig, desperately searching for an evasion, another plausible defence, a subterfuge. His lips tightened, his eyes narrowed, his voice rose. “And you are prepared to stand in court and swear to it? You are prepared to face the retribution of my comrades? You think I am the only one who pretended to serve the Nazis for the sake of a greater—” He had revealed too much. He caught his breath, forced back his anger. His voice almost returned to normal. “I say Sussman was lying. You say he is dead. I know nothing of that, either.” His eyes looked vaguely around the room, noticed that the hall had indeed been cleared. The policemen beside him, now that they had searched him, were no longer holding him by force. They were waiting for further instructions, trying not to look baffled—as they must be—by the flood of foreign words they didn’t understand. The older American was consulting quietly with the Greek; the Englishman was studying the ceiling with folded arms and bored insolence. Berg looked at Craig, the one man who was still watching him intently, and measured the distance to the card table as he pulled down the disarranged sleeve of his jacket. “My one mistake,” he said, half to himself. The mask was back in place. “Is that how you like to imagine yourself?” He smiled tolerantly. Craig was empty-handed, his revolver stuck back in his belt.
“You made several,” Craig said, trying to control his temper.
“Indeed? Name them.” Berg took a few nonchalant steps away from the fireplace, clearing his path to the card table, and halted to face his accuser. The policemen had followed, but his arms were still free. “Name them,” he repeated, almost conversationally, and could feel the policemen’s suspicion subsiding at his quiet voice.
“Duclos.”
“Duclos? And who was he?”
A man to whom I owe my life, thought Craig. He said nothing.
“Do go on, Mr. Craig. You interest me.” The voice was friendly, the eyes aloof. He was thinking in quick complete jumps: the revolver, first—it’s at the edge of the table; then Craig as a shield; then out of this room, into the hall; a farewell bullet for my one mistake; the door under the staircase—they haven’t found it, there has been no alarm, Jeanne did not have time to use it—yes, surprise is the most powerful weapon of all. He glanced again at the Englishman’s folded arms. Too casual... So not that way, Insarov told himself, and checked his move to the card table.
“Disappointing?” he asked the Englishman, and turned his back on the table. “You can remove that tempting revolver. I am not one of your wild Americans who shoots his way free. Why should I? I am innocent of all your charges.” He addressed himself to Elias. “If you persist in this folly of having me arrested, I demand you take me at once to Athens where I can meet representatives of my government and prove my innocence. I am not, I repeat I am not Insarov. I am only here in this house as a guest. My real mistake, Mr. Craig—” he studied the younger American with cold eyes—“was to trust Insarov when I accepted his invitation to dinner and a game of cards. And—” he turned on Partridge now—“if I lied to protect my host—a foolish story about his escape on the Stefanie, I admit—it was only because he went to the dovecote and I thought I could give him a chance to escape. Or did you kill him? No doubt. Washington won’t care for that, will they? They have this strange idea that a captured man will talk, give them information in exchange for a cigarette and a few kind words. I do know one thing about Insarov. He would not have been what you call a—a singing canary.”
“So Insarov is dead, is he?” Holland asked softly. “And you only carry that little arsenal around with you for fun?”
“My life has been threatened twice in the last ten days. I am only protecting myself.”
“Of course.”
“Judging fr
om your performance tonight, my precautions were thoroughly justified,” Insarov flashed back. There, he thought. I’ve silenced the Englishman’s sneering laugh. In better humour, he added calmly, “I know nothing of Sussman or Duclos. The men you have already arrested for their murders will not involve me in any confession you force out of them. You have no evidence against me at all.”
“I have a list,” Partridge said very quietly, “of three hundred and four men condemned to torture and death in a Nazi extermination camp. They were selected by Heinrich Berg.”
“Fascists. Who weeps for them?”
“Fascists?” Partridge’s anger came to the surface. “They never were Fascists. Never! They were future leaders of a democratic Europe, men who’d oppose any totalitarian—”
“Berg was acting under orders, risking his life to defeat the Nazis. He will take his chances in a fair trial. World opinion will not judge him as you have done.”
“World opinion? Or do you mean arranged demonstrations, carefully rigged picketing?”
Holland said, “I can see the placards right now. SAVE HEINRICH BERG! BERG WAS OUR ALLY, HAVE WE FORGOTTEN? BERG, SI; YANKEE, NO.” He paused, added, “You know, Insarov, you have almost talked me into a telephone call to my Israeli friends.”
“And tell them—if they abduct or kill me—they will lose three of their leaders! Two can play at their game!”
“Get him out of here,” Partridge said tensely.
Insarov started walking slowly to the door of his own accord. “I know,” he sympathised, “you must feel completely frustrated. Such a brilliant operation to end with the capture of the wrong man. What will Washington say?” He turned to the two Greeks, who were taking their place on either side of him. “Coming?” he asked genially. He was passing Craig now, ignoring him completely. “Are these really necessary?” he was saying to one of the Greeks, who had produced handcuffs. “I assure you I am more eager to get safely to Athens than even you are.” He halted as if to let the handcuffs be snapped over his freely extended wrists. He brought his hands up in a violent blow against one Greek’s throat and the other’s jaw, lunged for Craig, caught him from behind with a tightly hooked left arm, reached with his right hand to pull Craig’s revolver free from his belt, jabbed it against Craig’s spine. “Don’t shoot!” he warned. “Or Mr. Craig will regret it.” He moved the revolver to the nape of Craig’s neck. He felt Craig’s resistance ebb. “That’s wise. Now we back out. Into the hall. Steady pace.” He unlocked his arm, gripped Craig’s left shoulder, began his retreat to the door with Craig shielding him perfectly.
Craig took the first steps backward, forced his body to relax. Desperately, he looked at Holland’s watching eyes. One more step... He swung fast to the left, pivoting on the ball of his foot, dropping his weight to the floor. Christopher Holland fired from under the cover of his folded arm.
* * *
“My one worry was that I’d get you, too,” Holland said to Craig as he walked over to look down at Heinrich Berg. He helped Craig to his feet. He waved aside Craig’s word of thanks. “Just concentrate on getting your breath back again.”
Craig looked down, too, and regretted the movement. He must have jerked his neck when he had made that quick lunge away from Berg. Partridge was saying nothing as he joined them.
Craig rubbed the nape of his neck, had three questions at least on the tip of his tongue, decided this wasn’t the time. Then Elias asked one of them. “But where was he going?” He crossed quickly to the door, staring into the hall as if he could find his answer there. He waved impatiently to the two other Greeks to follow—one was still nursing his jaw as they clattered after him to the rear of the house.
Partridge came out of his thoughts, glanced quickly at the door. Bill and two of his friends had run in from the garden and were standing there, revolvers ready. “All over,” he told them. “Bill, give Bannerman the signal to start sending. He knows what. And you can add the news: the big boy is dead. Details will follow.” Once Bill and the Greeks had left, he added quietly, “I suggest that we keep Craig’s name out of our reports about tonight. Much safer for him. No one heard him identify Berg, except us and the two detectives. Elias assures me they don’t understand English.”
“Much safer,” Holland agreed.
Craig looked at them both. That answered another of his questions. “He actually has friends who’d—”
“You heard him, John,” Partridge said. “That threat against you wasn’t part of his bluster.”
“Ex-Nazis who are Communis—” Craig began.
“Take our word for it,” Holland said grimly. “They exist.” He glanced at Partridge, lightened his voice. “Stop worrying about Washington. Tell them that if a dead man gives no information, he also commits no more murders. Frankly, I wouldn’t have laid one shilling on his staying in jail. He would have weaselled his way out, or his friends would have pried him loose—probably just as well he forced the solution. He was a—”
Elias entered alone. “Yes, he could have managed it! He could have escaped.” His face was tight with anger. “There was a door under the staircase; it has been blocked for four years, but no longer. It was made ready for use.”
“Leading where?” Partridge asked sharply.
“Into a clump of bushes, planted there when the door was sealed up. The garden wall is only a few yards away at that point.”
“It’s still a ten-foot wall.” Surely any ladder must have been discovered when the grounds were searched just after entry; not every man had crowded into the hall.
“There was a gardener’s barrow filled with hard-packed earth against the wall.”
“That would give him one step. He’d need at least two others.”
“He had them. There were two wooden pegs, painted white, driven into the wall, one above the other. All he had to do was reach the top, roll over, drop down on to the hillside.” Elias looked bitterly at the body of Berg-Insarov. “This was the only solution, my friends.” He glanced up at Craig, added sombrely, “You were almost a dead man.”
Which answers my third question, Craig thought.
Partridge rested his hand on Craig’s shoulder. “The Greeks always have a phrase ready. All I do is tell you to get back to your hotel. There’s no need for you to hang around here.” He grinned and added, “Look out for the traffic, will you?”
“I’ll do that.” Craig glanced at Berg for the last time and left.
He came slowly out on to the porch. There were several men there, two of them bandaged, talking quietly, keeping guard over three firmly tied prisoners and a body in a sack. The woman called Saverne had already been taken away. The moon was high now, and in the cool night air there was the faint fragrance of a flowering vine. Craig took off his cap and tossed it away. There was a sympathetic laugh from the men around him; they were tired, they were hungry, they were filthy, but soon they, too, would be throwing off their rough clothes. He dropped his borrowed jacket over the mule’s back, down by the gate. Someone had set it free, shooed it home, but it had just remained standing there, dozing in the moonlight.
That was the last picture he had of the house on the hill; a mule nosing into a white wall, a torn grey jacket warming its sprung back, its ears twitching spasmodically as it dreamed of a life where there were bushes in abundance and no more burdens to be carried. Which reminded him. He stopped at the bushes and found Veronica’s case.
The doves had been silenced, he noted grimly as he rounded the corner with its sparse trees and took the main road for Mykonos. The little bay seemed placid, sheltered from the rough sea by the long breakwater. The lights around the harbour were bright and welcoming. It was twenty-five minutes to twelve. In the big hotel, people had just finished dinner.
24
Craig was exhausted, but he never walked a quicker mile than the one that brought him around the bay into town. He came down the narrow ill-lit lane almost at a run, into the wide empty square with its Heroine of the Turkish Repulsion gaz
ing out to sea from her central pedestal. Tony was lounging against her, hands in pockets, still dressed for the aborted picnic on Delos.
“Welcome back,” he said, drifting over the square to join Craig. “Did you have enough exercise for one night?”
“Just about.”
“We’ve heard the news. Don’t rupture yourself trying to tell me all about it.” He grinned widely. “If I sound slightly miffed, I am. And Tim Bannerman, in his own phrase, is fit to be tied. We missed out on this show completely.”
“You had your share,” Craig said. “You were promoted, I guess.”
“Kicked upstairs to communications. I did get a little breath of salt air for a while—brought O’Malley back in a howling squall, and frankly, I was sicker than he was.”
“Where is Bannerman now?”
“Still talking with Paris and points west. He’s on the upper floor of that windmill just above the breakwater with a couple of other hard-working types. Don’t tell him I know.” He stopped, listening, his head cocked to one side. From a café along the waterfront came the music of a mandolin, a guitar and a zither. They were playing, in the strange halftone scale of Greek folk songs, a brave attempt at “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”
Craig halted, making sure; and mustered a smile.
“Much too good a tune to let die away unsung.” Tony addressed the distant café impatiently in his low voice, “Come on, boys, come on. You finished the introduction six bars ago. Must do better than that for the party tomorrow night. That’s the way!” Men’s voices had begun to sing. In Greek. “I’ve only had time to get them as far as the sixth night,” Tony said, “but we’ll manage the rest tomorrow. Catchy little thing, isn’t it?” He smiled delightedly as Craig began to laugh.
“Old Partridge is going to be fit to be tied, too,” Craig predicted, recovering himself. But he felt better, much better, for that fit of laughter.
“See you tomorrow,” Tony said vaguely, leaving Craig to cut up the little street towards the Triton. He wandered down the front street towards the music, joining with the hoarse Greek voices in his flat tenor:
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