The Liquidator

by Nick Carter

  "Obviously," I said.

  He pulled a flat, worn wallet from his hip pocket and flipped it open. I saw a blurred picture and an official-looking card under badly scratched and yellowed plastic, and then he put it all away again.

  "You are seeking some sort of business connection, Mr. McKee?" the man asked. His partner, standing against the squat wooden dresser near the foot of the bed, never said a word or moved a muscle.

  "Not exactly."

  "You are… a yacht broker." It wasn't a question.

  "That's right."

  "You seek to buy or sell boats in Greece?"

  "No," I replied cautiously. "I was just looking things over. A sort of vacation, you know, combined with a little business."

  "You find much of interest in our boating industry?"

  "Sure. Doesn't everybody?"

  The man guffawed, mouth wide; for a moment, when I saw the gap between his front teeth, I was forcibly reminded of Alex Zenopolis. But Alex, I told myself, was a good six inches taller…

  "You will be in this country for long?" the man went on after he'd had his laugh.

  "I don't know. A few more days, maybe; I don't have any special plans."

  "Yes, of course. Our country is a land of leisure… for visitors." His dark eyes turned stormy as he said the last couple of words, and I kept a wary eye on the pistol he still held leveled at my middle.

  "What was it you wanted, exactly?" I asked, trying to sound more nervous than demanding.

  He gestured with the gun hand, but it didn't give me any ideas about trying to take him; his partner was positioned well away from him and there was no way I could take them both without adding at least another scar to my hide. Besides, there didn't seem any reason to. Not so far.

  The man with the mustache shrugged. "To find out more about you, Mr. McKee. When any foreigner, pardon me, American, comes to this country and begins making inquiries, it naturally stirs the curiosity of my government."

  "You could have found out by just asking," I pointed out.

  "Oh, perhaps. But my country… please understand, Mr. McKee, we are in a highly precarious position, beset by forces on every side which are not friendly to us. So we are forced to be suspicious of everyone, and believe me, sir, we regret it much more than you do. So we use the most direct, even crude, means to learn what we feel we must know. Do you understand?"

  "Sure," I said sourly. "And I guess you've found out enough, haven't you?"

  "Well… perhaps." To show his good faith, he put his gun away in a belt holster. "There's only one more thing."

  "Oh?" I noted that his partner still held his automatic, though it wasn't exactly pointed at me.

  "If you wouldn't mind…" He held his hands wide, showing his good will as he moved around the bed toward me. "A small search? Of your person?"

  Christ! This was all I needed, with Hugo sheathed on my left forearm. I backed up a step. "I don't see why that's necessary," I said, in my best imitation of a mildly outraged American tourist. "God knows, I'm not smuggling any boats out of your country!"

  "Of course not. Nevertheless." He was still walking toward me. "It would satisfy all of us, no?"

  "I don't see why…?"

  The partner had his gun up again, pointing it in my direction.

  "Please, Mr. McKee," the mart with the mustache was saying. "We do not wish to insist."

  He was stepping around the foot of the bed, arms out placatingly and looking about as friendly as a rhinoceros.

  "Hold on!" I cracked.

  "Yes?" Mustache stopped, but he didn't seem to be taken aback in any sense.

  "You say you're police, or whatever. Can I have a closer look at that card you showed me?"

  That stopped him. He glanced quickly at his partner, then started to move in my direction. His mistake. I took a half-step to my right, putting him between me and the one with the drawn gun. Before either of them knew what was happening, I had a grip on Mustache's wrist, turned him and held him against my chest. He was solid and heavy, but the hold I had turned him limp.

  "Mr. McKee…" he gasped.

  I was glad to hear that; whatever was going on, he evidently didn't know who I really was.

  "The wallet," I rasped in his ear.

  He started to dig in his hip pocket for it. I was so intent on keeping my hold on him that I didn't notice what the other man was doing. Not at first. Then I saw him calmly fitting a silencer to the muzzle of his pistol. Before I could react, he took careful aim and plunked two shots into the bulky chest of the man I held. I'm ashamed to say that my first reaction was relief that neither bullet went through the body and hit me.

  Mustache sagged, his weight suddenly doubled, in my arms. I let him drop; obviously he was no good to me as a shield any more.

  The other man waved me back. "I take him. You don't worry… Mr. McKee."

  I didn't like the way he grinned at me, especially when I caught a glimpse of metal teeth framed by rubbery lips. "What the hell," I said, trying to get back into my role as businessman-tourist. It was clear he didn't intend to shoot me.

  "Fonny things happen sometimes, Mr. McKee," he was saying as he bent over the lifeless body at my feet. Some blood was leaking out of the neat punctures in Mustache's chest, but it was all being absorbed by the material of dark suit jacket.

  "Uh-huh," I responded, holding my left arm out a little in case I needed Hugo in a flash. It was then that I wanted Wilhelmina so badly I could taste her. "What the hell are you going to do?"

  The gunman looked up, his little eyes dead as a snake's. "You want to know, Mr. McKee?"

  I didn't say anything.

  He heaved the dead man to his feet, ducked his thick body and took Mustache over his shoulder. "There is fire escape," he announced, as though I didn't know it, and headed toward the window overlooking the little square below. After only a moment's pause he stepped over the sill and out on the iron grating. The body on his shoulder thumped painfully against the raised window sash, but Mustache couldn't have minded.

  The gunman paused for a second after he had his burden outside, and when he looked at me his smile was almost friendly.

  "We see you again some time, eh Mr. McKee?" He patted Mustache's body on the rump. "And next time, we don't make stupid mistakes, eh?"

  Seven

  I went to the window and watched the stocky gunman clamber down the fire escape like an ape, apparently heedless of the burden he carried. If I'd had Wilhelmina… but no, I told myself, what good would that have done? The last thing I wanted to do here was attract attention to myself in any way. Especially the attention of the authorities.

  And of course I knew that the two jokers who'd been searching my room had nothing to do with the Government; legitimate agents working in their own country don't go around shooting their partners when they get in a jam.

  I checked through my luggage and the rest of the room, the adjoining primitive bath. Nothing seemed to be missing, and since I was carrying nothing incriminating I wasn't about to do too much worrying about that. Except that I had to wonder who that pair were, and why they had been here. I wished I'd had a good look at the card Mustache showed me, but it was too late for that now. And it probably didn't make any difference. Somebody, some organization, was interested in Daniel McKee, yacht broker, and that was enough, all by itself, to make me worry. More than ever, as I undressed and got ready for bed, I missed Wilhelmina.

  The rendezvous was set for the next day, and I was up early in the morning for the easy three-hour drive across the Peloponnessos. The huge, mountainous peninsula was all green and white, lush green hillsides and clusters of chalky dwellings; the road was good, and I wished I had some time to linger and be an honest-to-God tourist. But I was too impatient, too eager to reach my destination; the memory of what had happened in my room the night before wouldn't let go, and I felt it was somehow damned important that I make contact with Christina. Then we could get, as they say, the show on the road.

  Pirg
os is a shabbily sparkling town, with a splendid natural harbor. Before I did anything else, I prowled the docks until I found a place where I might rent a sailboat for a week or two. Elgon Xefrates was the genial owner of the establishment, a fireplug of a little man with tombstone teeth that he showed all the time in a dazzling smile.

  We didn't make a deal right away; I still had to play it cool, but I wanted to be damned sure I could get what I needed on short notice. Elgon assured me that he would have a seaworthy craft for me whenever I wanted to take it out. That was one matter out of the way.

  Another hotel, not much different from the one in Piraeus, except that there was one big, lumpy bed in it and the bath was down the hall. Well, I was only staying for one night, and maybe not even that.

  It was late afternoon, and I'd done my tourist routine for as long as I could stand it when I finally approached the Taverna Zakinthos. A big, open-air establishment, it had a splendid view of the harbor and the big, mountainous island a few miles offshore. I sat down at a tippy metal table on the terrace, took off my battered yachting cap and put it on the seat next to me. The late sun was slanting across the Ionian Sea, falling down behind the boot of Italy which would be my destination a couple of days later. I waited for Christina with as much patience as I could muster, hoping she wouldn't keep me waiting too long. It was damned uncomfortable, having some unknown girl to deal with who knew more about the details of this mission than I did. Especially after that run-in with the two pros in my hotel room the night before.

  From the taverna I could see the late afternoon water traffic moving in the harbor. It wasn't crowded, but there was a constant coming and going of boats of all descriptions. A black-hulled outboard runabout appeared, towing a girl on water-skis. They zoomed close to the row of fishing boats tied up along the quay, the girl with one arm raised above her head, dark hair streaming behind her and a look of ecstasy on her spray-flecked face. In the runabout both the driver and the other man watching the skier from the stern were grinning encouragingly at her. Some of the fishermen on the dockside boats looked up from their chores; a few stood in automatic appreciation at the sight of the bronzed, bikini-clad body swooping past them, and some ragged cheers went up.

  Then a grizzled, stumpy man wearing a cap with impressive gold insignia on it rushed to the quayside, gesturing violently. The man at the wheel of the runabout didn't see him at first, but some instinct made him turn to pay attention to where he was going; he swerved sharply, slowing at the same time, as he saw he was approaching the end of the harbor.

  "Damned fools," I muttered to myself. They should know better than to water-ski in a harbor anyway.

  The girl was trying to shorten up on her towrope; she seemed the only one of the jolly trio who knew what she was doing, and in spite of the boat's change of speed and direction she appeared to be in control.

  And then, for no reason I could see, she just fell. Down she went into the water, automatically kicking free of the skis as she released the tow rope. The cheering stopped, but the harbor official kept up his fist-shaking at the men in the runabout. It came to a near stop, its engine muttering, made a slow circle and approached the girl.

  She was treading water easily, clinging to the skis, but as the boat approached I could hear her voice lifted in anger. I knew a little Greek, but I was pretty sure what she was saying wouldn't be found in any of the standard texts. She shoved the water skis at the man in the stern; he took them with a look of bewilderment on his face. But when he extended a hand to help her aboard she shrugged, turned and swam toward a crude wooden stairway along the quay.

  The driver maneuvered the runabout cautiously after her, both men pleading openly. She ignored them, her face mirroring her lofty contempt. As she reached the stairway and began to climb out of the water, the man in the stern again reached for her; she shook off his hand, flipped water from her streaming hair so that he was spattered thoroughly, then went up a few more steps until she was well above them. At that point she turned and said something, snapping it out like a sergeant giving orders to the most inept recruit in his platoon. Both men looked crestfallen, then sullen; between them they handed the girl a garment of some sort and a big, bulging straw bag. When she had them, she turned away without so much as a farewell glance and climbed quickly to the top of the quay.

  Like most of the other customers at the Taverna, I had gotten up from my table for a better look after the girl fell. From where I stood I had a pretty good view of all the action, and I was standing close by when she reached the top of the broad stone quay. She paused for a moment, deliberately not looking back, until she heard the sudden roar of the outboard as her two disconsolate escorts hot-rodded back out of the harbor in search of their lost egos. Then she put the straw bag down at her feet, raised her arms and dropped the terrycloth shift over her head, wriggled only as much as necessary until the garment was settled just south of her hips. She thumbed her sleek wet hair free of the shift's collar, reached down into the bag and took out a monster pair of dark glasses. It was only after she put them on that she looked at the handful of us who stood watching her.

  There was neither phony modesty nor haughty indifference in her attitude; she simply smiled faintly, gave a suggestion of a shrug and picked up the bag. As she passed me, so close I could smell the mixture of salt water and suntan lotion that beaded her skin, she hesitated for a fraction of a beat, then kept going, straight for the Taverna.

  I watched her — I'd have blown my cover for sure if I hadn't, because everyone else certainly was — as she mounted the couple of wide, shallow steps to the stone terrace and took a table with no umbrella to protect it from the sun. A waiter was there before she sat down, and as he returned to the gloomy interior of the taverna to fetch her order I walked slowly back to my own table. I felt a certain amount of sophomoric regret that she hadn't chosen a table next to mine, but common sense reminded me that I wasn't there just to admire the local water goddess.

  She had a glass of the region's wine, a potent squeezing of the grape that I'd already sampled, and decided to stick to ouzo; at least the pale, milky stuff sent out its own warning signals before you swallowed it. We were seated so that it was possible to look at each other without making a big deal out of it, and after a while it became obvious that she was flicking her eyes in my direction frequently. Okay, I could accept that; the only other customers in the place at the moment were a handful of tourist couples and a few locals, businessmen, to judge by their sober clothes, none of whom would interest the girl, or who would have the guts to approach her after that performance in the water a few moments earlier.

  One of her long, bare legs was twitching impatiently. Every few seconds she fluffed out her wet hair, drying it in the sun; from where I sat I could see copper highlights appearing in the black velvet, and each time she raised her hands her breasts were outlined starkly against the clinging fabric of her shift. I looked away; the last thing I needed was that kind of distraction. Besides, I told myself, she was probably a high-class call girl on an afternoon off, looking for reassurance. I checked the rest of the taverna more closely and concluded with no immodesty that I was the best prospect in sight.

  I checked my watch, then the rapidly falling sun out over the sea. Both told me it was getting late, and I wondered when my contact was going to show up.

  She was getting to her feet, a gold-tipped cigarette dangling from her lips. For a moment she stood, surveying the quayside street as though she were looking for something, then turned and walked, still barefoot, into the dim interior of the taverna. As she passed my table she smiled vaguely, not quite looking at me.

  I raised a hand to adjust my sunglasses, and the waiter hovering nearby mistook the gesture for an order; in a moment he had another ouzo in front of me. He was a young man, barely out of his teens, and as he set the drink down he glanced toward the girl's table, then into the back of the taverna, his eyebrows working furiously as though he were doing an imitation of Groucho Marx at
his most lascivious. Before I realized what he was doing, he also put down a glass of the wine the girl was drinking, then hustled away before I could object.

  She was back almost as soon as he had left, sliding into the seat opposite me. Before saying a word she took a sip of the wine, gave a low, gusty sigh of appreciation and leaned back in the chair. It was only then that she looked at me.

  "You are the one who has the car?" she asked. Her accent was emphatic, but she seemed to be comfortable with the English language.

  "I have one," I agreed. The Volkswagen was parked close by, in plain sight of our table.

  "I thought it must be yours," she said matter-of-factly. "The rental plates, and the fact that you are an American."

  "Does it show that much?"

  She shrugged, making a show of indifference. "Oh, one learns to tell." She looked around at the other nearby tables. "Those over there, they come from England." She nodded slightly to indicate a middle-aged couple sipping vermouths at a shaded table. "He has retired and devotes himself to whiskey; look at those ruby cheeks! And any woman who looks like that, with a face like a hatchet and that fantastic tweed suit here in the sunlight of Pirgos! Could one imagine they come from…" She waved a frustrated hand in the air. "Argentina?"

  I had to smile. "Not likely."

  She put her elbows on the table and leaned toward me, giving me all the wattage of her smile as though she had just discovered something totally enchanting. "So you have the car?" She glanced toward the VW.

  "Yes. That's mine."

  "Then perhaps you wouldn't mind… I lost my ride."

  "So I noticed."

  "It is just a little public beach, not far away. Those fellows in the boat, they invited me to come water-skiing with them and I said why not." Her shoulders were going up and down now like pistons on a bunch of locomotive wheels. "But they don't know how to run that boat, you know? Fools! Coming right into the harbor like that… you saw?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "So I left them; I do not trust them even to take me back to the little hotel on the beach where I am staying. So I am… what do you call it? Forlorn?"