Judas Country

by Gavin Lyall

  ‘Which d’you think they’ll do?’

  ‘Compromise – as usual. Get rid of the worst hotels individually, sell the rest as a unit. But to have time to decide, we have to keep everything running anyway. Or try.’

  ‘Welcome to the hotel business.’

  He smiled weakly and took a gulp of Scotch. ‘I can always remind myself of other accountants doing the same thing in the Rhodes Castle, the Malta Castle, the Corsican one, Elba, Lebanon I suppose, if they ever do open …’

  ‘Only they don’t have me and the aeroplane to worry about as well?’

  ‘Yes, exactly.’ We drank on.

  Around ten, the Sergeant said he fancied a couple of hours’ kip before coming back on duty at midnight – since there wasn’t a night clerk.

  Kapotas flapped the idea aside. ‘Tonight we’ll lock up as soon as the last guest is in. Not stay open. Have another drink.’ The Scotch was turning him auld-lang-syne.

  But Papa was horrified. ‘We do our best business after midnight. When the bars and nightclubs begin to shut.’

  ‘What?’

  The Sergeant spread his hands. ‘Of course. Here in Regina Street …’

  ‘I get it,’ I said. ‘When the other places shut, their guests need some place to take the girls they’ve picked up there. And we’re almost next door.’

  Kapotas poured himself another drink, quickly but shakily. ‘My God, I am running a … But what about our proper guests?’

  They are usually in before midnight. And we put our short-night guests only on the first floor. Never above our residents.’

  ‘What goes into the register?’ Kapotas asked.

  The Sergeant’s big shoulders lifted a fraction. Nothing, obviously.

  I asked: ‘More to the point, what goes into the till?’

  ‘The night clerk takes one-third; it is a tradition. Because, of course, he is to blame if the police raid us and find people whose names are not in the register.’

  ‘And I imagine the manager’s been taking the rest of it? Well, tonight do us a favour and give it to Castle International. And make the split after you’ve deducted for overheads, like clean sheets.’

  ‘Not many of them care about clean sheets.’

  ‘As from now, they’ll get ’em and pay for ’em regardless. Service with style, remember.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He stiffened into a mocking but still professional salute, about-turned, and marched out.

  Kapotas said soulfully: ‘You are much better at managing a hotel than I am.’ In a couple of drinks he’d discover I was his only real friend.

  ‘That’s the nastiest thing anybody’s said to me this week. But don’t believe it; it’s just that I’ve seen a lot more crummy hotels around the world than you have.’

  ‘But this should be a de luxe hotel, the highest category – and he talks of police raids!’

  I shrugged. ‘If there’d been an honest crook in charge here, it would’ve been like printing money. This place has got everything going for it.’

  Kapotas shuddered. A while later, he asked: ‘Didn’t you say you only took on the flight to get to Cyprus – was it?’

  ‘I wanted to meet a friend who’s been in Israel.’

  ‘Is he coming over here?’

  ‘I hope so. I booked him a room here before I started the flight.’ And I’d checked this evening and, surprise surprise, somebody had actually written it into the book.

  ‘But you are not sure?’ Kapotas persisted.

  ‘I’ll ring tomorrow. He can’t get away until then anyhow.’

  He opened his mouth to ask another question, then shovelled some Scotch in instead. I was glad the Sergeant had gone; his suspicious little mind wouldn’t have stopped there.

  Then the lobby phone rang. I remembered the Sergeant was in bed, decided Kapotas was too near a state of liquidation, and went out myself. Behind the desk was a small switchboard old enough to be steam-driven, and I almost lost the call finding the right plughole, but at last—

  ‘This is the Castle Hotel, good evening.’

  ‘I began to think you were closed.’ Female voice with a faint German? – East European? accent.

  ‘We almost are, but can I help?’

  ‘Do you have a room booked for Mr Kenneth Cavitt?’

  I paused. I didn’t need to look at the book about that one. But could I ask why she wanted to know? I decided not.

  ‘Ah yes – there seems to be a Mr Cavitt on the list.’

  ‘Thank God. I have asked at five other hotels. Now, please can you book me also two rooms, beginning tomorrow.’

  ‘Well … we’re in a bit of a mess here.’

  ‘Full up?’ She sounded incredulous.

  ‘Anything but. The trouble is, most of our staff’s scarpered and we can’t really cope with the guests we’ve got already …’

  ‘Never mind that.’ She brushed the problem aside impatiently. ‘So, two rooms please, and I want it also very secret, verstanden? If somebody rings up about us, then you say we are not staying there.’

  ‘Ummm … I suppose we might put you on the hourly rate and count you as five Swedish soldiers and friends.’

  ‘Bitte?’

  ‘Sorry. Just thinking aloud. Hold on.’ Sergeant Papa had just arrived in his best imitation of a hurry, looking puzzled and buttoning his uniform trousers.

  I put my hand over the receiver. ‘A girl – German or something – wants two rooms from tomorrow and no names on the register. Any views?’

  He blinked, frowned, scratched his gut and finally grunted: ‘It might be possible – at a special rate. We can say it was just a mistake in all this confusion if the police find out. But we must know the names.’ – ‘Sure. And see the passports.’

  ‘Naturally.’ He nodded approvingly.

  The phone was squawking: ‘Where are you? Hello? Hello? Ah, Scheisse!’

  I said smoothly: ‘Sorry, I’ve just been consulting the assistant manager. Yes, that will be quite all right; we can agree on the rate when you’ve chosen the rooms. But may I have the name, please? – just for us, not for the register.’

  Pause. Then: ‘Spohr.’ She spelt it out. ‘My father’s name.’

  Well, I’d believe what the passports said. I said: ‘Thank you, ma’am. Now, if you don’t want to appear conspicuous, would you be wanting all your meals in the rooms?’ Frightening how easily you become a bill-building little reservations clerk.

  ‘Perhaps. But I want you to have waiting for us some good champagne – good – and caviar. We shall arrive before Mr Cavitt, soon after lunch. Wiedersehn.’

  I wrote it all down as a note for Kapotas – or reminder for me – come the morning, then rang the operator and asked where the last call had come from. He footled around a bit, then told me Limassol, the main port down south.

  Then I went home to the bottle, leaving the Sergeant still standing there, trying to worry out what particular secret depravity needed two rooms and took longer than one day. It hurt him that he couldn’t spot it immediately.

  Back in the bar, Kapotas had reached the stage of having trouble sitting on a chair, let alone standing up. Apostolos the barman was watching him calmly.

  I jerked my head. ‘Get him a taxi, then you can shove off home. Leave the keys: I’ll lock up the liquor.’

  He didn’t much like that, of course, but we both knew it was what Kapotas would have wanted. Apostolos went out and I helped the accountant to, give or take, his feet. ‘Come on, the wife and three kiddies are wondering where you’ve got to.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ he said thickly. ‘I doubt it. You’re the only friend I’ve got, Case. You’re a damned good chap as you British say. Damned good. Damned good.’

  ‘There’s a taxi waiting for you.’ I helped him towards the door.

  ‘I gotta car,’ he remembered.

  ‘Leave it till tomorrow. Taxi’s easier. Don’t worry about a thing.’

  A taxi actually was waiting, but Regina Street would be their best huntin
g ground at this time, of course. Apostolos and I poured him in, got the address to the driver, and watched the tail-lights out of sight. I wondered if Mrs Kapotas understood the pressures of being a receiver.

  Apostolos said: ‘You need not worry, Captain, about the bar. I will—’

  ‘The keys, chum. The keys.’

  He handed them over.

  I spent twenty minutes and an extra drink roughly clearing up the dead glasses, counting the money in the till and finding the way to lock the grill down across the shelves. When I got out to the lobby again, the Sergeant was already on night duty.

  ‘It’s only half past eleven,’ I pointed out.

  ‘I could not sleep more. And you have had a long day, I think.’

  ‘Well, thanks.’ I looked through the glass doors at the shiny street. ‘I think I’ll take a stroll around the block. About twenty minutes.’

  Papa cleared his throat. ‘If you want a girl, I—’

  ‘Actually, I want a stroll.’

  He just nodded and I went.

  The night air was gentle, although the sky was clear and sparkling with a thousand stars you never see through Europe’s smoke-screen. I went out of the walled city and drifted along the wide bright street beside the dry moat and its little kebab stalls. It was pretty empty; just a taxi-driver leaning on his cab, a bunch of UN soldiers – Canadian, this time – staggering home leaning on each other, a cop loafing on a corner. A nice, unhurried Cyprus pace.

  It would still be there tomorrow. So I turned back into the city from Metaxas Square and along Regina Street from the Regina Palace. Narrower, jammed with parked cars, and darker: just a ribbon of starry sky above and the neon lights of bars and strip joints down below.

  I was almost at the Castle when a voice said: ‘Mr Case,’ and I turned towards the car parked beside me. Then a hand pulled my shoulder from behind and I turned my head back – just like sticking up a target. It’s easy to say that now.

  My vision smashed into a thousand coloured pieces, my jaw jumped sideways towards the car, dragging the rest of my head with it, and my knees just gave up and I started towards the gutter.

  I didn’t quite make it. Somebody caught me, hefted me, my face bounced on warm rough plastic, a door slammed and we were moving. This wasn’t quite unconsciousness, just instant Sunday morning; zig-zagging between sleep and wakefulness, time tearing past or unmoving. I felt hands rumple me, but wasn’t sure where my own hands were so I didn’t try to do anything. Voices muttered, the car droned. Then a something was wrapped around my head and eyes, we stopped, I was picked up and put down and the car whined distantly …

  I was alone in the dark. Carefully I levered myself up on one elbow, grinding it into the gravelly pavement. The world beyond my bandages was swinging in soggy orbits and my stomach swung in tune with it, so I stayed very still and thought of cool calm things … and slowly the feelings passed and I could sit up.

  I unwound the bandages slowly – the bastards had used wide sticky insulating tape and it ripped out half my scalp as it came free – and looked around. I was in a narrow street of derelict houses, sitting a few yards from a complete roadblock of concrete blocks, oil drums and sandbags. A little bit of no-man’s-land between Greek and Turkish areas.

  Forty yards the other way there were lights, the sound of cars passing. I staggered out on to Paphos Street, a few yards from the Paphos Gate and a quarter of a mile from the Castle. Using two feet and a wall, it took me just under ten minutes, and I used the rest of my strength shoving open the front doors.

  Sergeant Papa stared.

  I croaked: ‘Don’t just stand there: open the damn bar.’

  Five minutes later I was sitting at a table with the second Scotch in my hand and the Sergeant chewing his moustache and watching me – curiously more than anxiously. ‘Shall I call the police?’

  ‘Not for a minute.’ I was running my fingertips gently over my face. There were sticky bits that I knew must be black streaks, and a small hard lump half-way along the right side of my jaw. ‘I can’t think what to tell them, yet.’

  It’s funny how you can feel that way: not wanting to do the simplest things until you’re in charge of yourself again.

  ‘What did they steal?’ he asked.

  I hadn’t even thought to ask myself that. ‘Money, I suppose,’ and I started turning out my pockets.

  My wallet was still there – and the notes still inside it. And a handful of coins, and my keys – to the Queen Air, my boarding-house room, flight briefcase. And papers: passport, aeroplane insurance, the champagne cargo papers (a whole bunch of them) cheque book, vaccination certificate …

  ‘You know,’ I said slowly, ‘I don’t think they’ve taken a damn thing.’ Or had I been carrying something I’d forgotten about?

  The Sergeant frowned. ‘Perhaps they mistook you for somebody.’

  ‘One of them knew my name.’

  He shrugged helplessly. ‘Then you did not have what they hoped for. Shall I telephone the police now?’

  ‘What do I tell them? I can’t identify anybody, not even the car. Nothing stolen – so it’s just a simple assault, even if they believed me. The hell with it.’

  He nodded doubtfully. Then: ‘Somebody telephoned for you, after you went out.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘That you were out, but just for a walk and you would be back soon.’

  ‘They didn’t leave a name? Or ring back?’

  ‘No.’ After a while he added: ‘Do you think it was …?’

  ‘It sounds like it.’ I finished the Scotch and stood up. And swayed and grabbed for the table. ‘No, I’m all right.’

  But he stayed close, just in case. ‘I’m sorry, Captain.’

  I was about to say ‘Just Mister’ but then realised he’d meant it as a compliment. ‘Give me a ring about seven-thirty and I’ll start cooking eggs. Good night, Sergeant.’

  Chapter 3

  Next morning, Kapotas arrived at about half past ten looking in roughly the same state as the octopus in the kitchen only weaker. He was about the one man in Cyprus I wouldn’t have swapped heads with; my own was merely sore, with occasional shooting pains. I still had the lump on the jaw, but for some reason it hadn’t coloured up so I only looked a bit lopsided.

  To Kapotas I probably looked triplicated. ‘Oh God, I am so sorry,’ he croaked, clinging to the reception desk. ‘I will never drink whisky after dinner again. Never.’

  I diagnosed him. ‘Better have one now to seal off the nerve ends. Or a Bloody Mary—’ I lifted my own glass from under the desk top; ‘—the hair of the dog with food value.’

  ‘No, no, no.’ He shuddered. ‘What happened at breakfast? – I should have been here.’

  ‘They got a choice of boiled or fried egg and black or white coffee.’ The Castle only served Turkish or instant coffee anyway. ‘No mutinies yet. Next time, sleep here.’

  ‘My wife said the same thing only she took half an hour. What happened in the night?’

  ‘We sold six short-stay rooms and the hotel cut came to ten pounds, 300 mils. Four of them were still around by morning so I served ’em a compulsory breakfast at 500 mils each. Two families have checked out early, we’ve got three new guests coming in this afternoon. And an order for champagne and caviar. I’m damn sure there isn’t any caviar, what about champagne?’

  He shook his head very very carefully. ‘They took it all.’

  ‘Ah. I’d been wondering why they hadn’t nicked all the ordinary wine. Well, you’re the man with money: you’d better go shopping.’

  ‘Oh no,’ he said limply. ‘Please – it would be better if you … ‘I must think about our problems …’

  That did it. I swallowed my drink and stood up. ‘Listen, Jack—’

  ‘Loukis.’

  ‘Listen, Jack: yesterday I got up at six and flew nearly eight hours and two refuelling stops, solo, before I even got here. Then I find I probably won’t be paid for that, so I sit down and cook d
inner for twelve when I could have told you to stuff the whole kitchen sideways. As far as I recall, what you did was boil some eggs, pass some plates and get smashed on company whisky. Today … today go shopping, Jack.’

  By now he was standing up straight and looking a good quarter bottle less hungover. I sat again. I don’t know why I’d stood up, really, except these things don’t sound the same sitting down.

  He muttered: ‘Yes, of course … I … just a cup of coffee … will you stay here?’

  ‘Sure. I’m waiting for a call to Israel.’

  He tried a quick smile and tottered off towards the kitchen.

  Actually I was waiting for my third call to Israel. The first two hadn’t got me anywhere, though I’d been pretty thick to expect an Israeli airport to tell me if a certain person would be on a certain aeroplane. The way they feel about airport security, they wouldn’t tell me if there were wings on that aeroplane. So now I was trying the British consulate in Tel Aviv.

  Somebody came through on a rough line. I yelled: ‘Does anybody there know anything about Kenneth Cavitt?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s supposed to be coming out of Beit Oren today. Have you heard anything?’

  ‘The prison?’

  The Sergeant came downstairs, looking pink, clean and dignified. He nodded graciously to me, then planted himself out on the doorstep and studied the sky.

  I lowered my voice. ‘Yes, that’s right’

  ‘Are you a newspaper?’

  ‘No, no. I was his partner. Name’s Roy Case. I’m waiting for him in Nicosia.’

  ‘I see. Hold on.’

  The line went quiet except for the atmospherics. The Sergeant clasped his hands behind him and rocked gently on his heels, sniffing the warm coffee-flavoured air.

  A new voice came on. ‘You were asking about Mr Cavitt? We’ve been told he’ll be aboard the afternoon flight to Nicosia. That’s EL AL 363.’

  ‘Thanks very much.’ Then something about that phrase ‘we’ve been told …’ made me wonder. ‘Who told you about him?’