The Age of Olympus

by Gavin Scott

  “I can’t see much way round that,” said Sophie, but just before the headland, on the outer coast of the island, Forrester spotted a tiny cove not more than fifty yards wide.

  “Can you take us in there, Yanni,” he said, “and put me ashore?”

  “Put us ashore,” said Sophie.

  “Sure, boss,” said Yanni, “but what’s the idea?”

  “I want to take your binoculars up to the top and have a look at the village before you go around the headland,” said Forrester. “Before there’s any chance of him knowing we’re coming.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later Forrester and Sophie were squirming upwards through the thyme-scented brush that covered the promontory, and the caïque, hundreds of feet below them in the cove, looked like a child’s toy. Once they had reached the top they wormed themselves into a position where they could look down the length of the inlet towards the village. Forrester took out the binoculars and, making sure the lenses didn’t catch the glare of the sun, concentrated his gaze on the tiny settlement at the head of the inlet. He began to note people moving about, fishermen tending to their boats on the shore and smoke rising from chimneys.

  “Totally different from yesterday,” he whispered to Sophie. “It looks back to normal.”

  “Does that mean he’s already gone?” asked Sophie. Forrester let the binoculars move steadily over the hills to the left of the village, and then the right.

  And then back again. For a long moment he remained still, staring at one particular spot.

  “What?” asked Sophie. “Have you seen something?”

  “It had to be there,” said Forrester softly. “Of course, it had to be there.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Sophie, but Forrester motioned her to silence and shifted the binoculars slightly. After a long moment he handed them to her.

  Sophie adjusted the eyepiece and concentrated as the tiny, distant little world swam into focus. An old woman was loading two panniers of fruit onto a donkey. An old man sat smoking on a rock. A small child walked up a hill path leading away from the village.

  A small child.

  “Do you see the basket that the little girl is carrying?” asked Forrester.

  “Yes. Perhaps she’s taking some shepherd his lunch.”

  Forrester said nothing.

  “What?”

  “Move the binoculars ahead of her and then to the right.”

  Sophie did as he asked.

  “Can you see the shadow at the top of the cliff?”

  Sophie concentrated. “And?”

  “The Germans had to have a gun emplacement to defend a landing place like this,” said Forrester. “I think that’s where she’s going.”

  Sophie looked through the binoculars again. “You think she’s taking food to Kretzmer?”

  “The emplacement would be the ideal place to hole up if he’s shifted out of the village but stayed in the area,” said Forrester. “The perfect defensible vantage point.”

  “But surely as soon as he wasn’t an immediate threat the villagers would have sent word over to Drakonaris?”

  “Unless Kretzmer’s still got a hostage with him. Which would also explain why the child is taking him food.”

  Sophie considered this. “And as soon as we sail into the bay he’ll know we’re coming and threaten to kill the hostage unless we back off.”

  “Yes,” said Forrester, “I think that’s exactly what he’ll do.”

  * * *

  Before he had left the caïque, Forrester had already sketched out a plan of attack if the view from the headland confirmed his theory. He had discussed the options with Yanni and arranged to signal by mirror. This he now did, and as soon as Yanni had acknowledged his signal, Forrester and Sophie began to make their way around the bay from the headland towards the village – making sure, as they walked, that they were always hidden from the sightlines of the gun emplacement by the folds of the landscape.

  Once they disturbed a flock of sheep guarded by a sleeping shepherd boy, and hid themselves as the animals ran from them, bleating. They watched nervously, expecting the boy to wake up at any moment and seek the source of the disturbance, but in the event he slept on and the sheep gradually calmed down and resumed grazing.

  When they reached the outskirts of the village they climbed higher into the hills, circling around the houses to avoid being seen. They came to the path leading down to the waterfront, made sure no one was coming up or down it, crossed it swiftly and disappeared once more into the brush. As Forrester looked out over the bay he saw, as scheduled, Yanni’s caïque coming around the headland and puttering into the bay, leaving a long white wake behind it in the deep blue of the water. Around them they heard the murmur of bees methodically looting the nectar from the flowers.

  “What if he tries to leave?” asked Sophie. “Once he sees the caïque?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m hoping,” said Forrester.

  But as the caïque came closer and closer to Limani Sangri, there was no sign of anyone attempting to leave the gun emplacement. For perhaps five minutes, as they toiled up the same hill up which the child had hauled the basket, they were in a blind spot where the emplacement was out of their field of vision, but then suddenly they were pushing through a half-collapsed perimeter fence and into a concrete trench. Forrester took out the Luger and gestured to Sophie to stay behind him.

  There was a rusted metal door hanging crookedly where the trench led into the gun complex itself, but fortunately the child who had been bringing the food must have left it half open and they were able to squeeze around it without setting off the telltale squeak of its hinges. Then they were in the semi-darkness of a dank concrete tunnel, with doorways leading off to abandoned ammunition bunkers and guard rooms. Swiftly Forrester ducked into the first, gun in hand in case Kretzmer was waiting for them, but it was empty, and though he performed the same exercise at every door, the result was the same every time.

  Then they were in the final stretch, with the gun turret itself dead ahead of them, the light coming in through the slit through which the barrels of the German artillery pieces had once protruded. Once again, thought Forrester, he was about to face the Minotaur in his lair. But this time, he knew the Minotaur already had a victim with him.

  “Kretzmer,” called Forrester, his voice echoing from the concrete. “It’s Forrester. Come out with your hands up.”

  There was no reply. Then he heard a child cry out.

  “If you hurt her, Kretzmer, you’re a dead man,” he said, and the child cried out again. His bluff had been called: he had no option now.

  He stepped into the turret and flung himself to the left, simultaneously ranging the Luger across the dark space to find Kretzmer.

  There was no Kretzmer – just two frightened children roped to a stanchion. The basket the child had brought was on the floor, empty, as if the German, having eaten as much as he could, had stuffed the rest in his pockets before making his escape.

  “Damn,” said Forrester. “He must have slipped out while we were on the blind spot.” Then Sophie was in the turret with him, untying the knots that held the children, and then Forrester was racing outside to look for any sign of his quarry. And sure enough, silhouetted against the sky at the top of the hill was the figure of a man, and Forrester began to race up the slope, his heart pounding, the sweat running into his eyes so that at first he thought that was the reason there were suddenly two Kretzmers on the skyline.

  And then three.

  And four.

  But as he reached the crest he realised it wasn’t Kretzmer at all; it was Lawrence Durrell, and with him were Charles Runcorn, David Venables, Helena Spetsos, Ariadne Patrou, Prince Constantine Atreides and Keith Beamish.

  “Hello, old chap,” said Durrell. “So you want to have a look at Runcorn’s castle too? I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

  19

  THE LEGEND OF COUNT BOHEMOND

  As they waited for Sophie to join t
hem, Forrester explained about Kretzmer. “I don’t suppose any of you saw someone heading in this direction while I was coming up?”

  “Actually I think I did,” said Keith Beamish. “Not necessarily your chap but someone carrying something and moving oddly, as if he was limping. But it might just have been one of the islanders.”

  “I saw him too,” said Ariadne, “over Keith’s shoulder.” She smiled at Forrester. “We were talking about vanishing points,” she added, and Forrester noted the dark look that flashed across Helena Spetsos’s face. “In paintings.” She turned to Helena. “You never told me about them, did you?”

  “Only about a dozen times,” said Helena, “but you never listened.”

  “Which way was he going?” Forrester cut in, and when Beamish and Ariadne pointed westward Runcorn looked oddly gratified.

  “So it seems as if he wants to visit Bohemond’s castle too. Perhaps he’s interested in the Crusaders as well as the Minoans.”

  “I have to warn you Kretzmer is very dangerous,” said Forrester. “He’s armed and he’s desperate. In fact if he’s going to your castle I’d advise you all to give up the idea of an expedition there right now.”

  “You think I am afraid of the Germans?” asked Helena. “After what Ari and I went through together?”

  “I must say, old chap,” said Beamish, “I appreciate the warning, but I don’t think we should let one fugitive Hun frighten us off. Does anybody else?” he said, turning to the rest of the party.

  “And if Keith is not afraid,” said Ariadne, “neither am I.” Keith looked slightly embarrassed: it was clear Ariadne had decided this was her morning to make Helena jealous.

  “Everybody else can do what they like,” said Runcorn, “but I have no intention of letting some fugitive Teuton stop me visiting one of the most interesting sites in the Aegean.”

  Constantine Atreides looked doubtful, but there was a murmur of agreement from everyone else. “Well, whoever sees him first,” said Forrester, “don’t try anything on your own, call the rest of us. And keep your eyes peeled as we walk: he could well be waiting in ambush.” There were no dissenting voices, and they set off again across the plateau, heading northwest.

  Durrell fell into step beside Forrester. “What about your other quest, Duncan,” he said conversationally, “to find out who brought down that shrine on the gallant colonel?”

  “Still working on it,” said Forrester briefly. “All I’ve established so far is that whoever did it used Nobel 808 and a ten-minute timer, which suggests he was pretty much in the vicinity when it happened.”

  “Was it the almond smell?” said Durrell. “Was that how you identified it?”

  Forrester nodded.

  “Almond smell?” said Keith Beamish. “What almond smell?”

  “From the explosive that was used up at the grove,” said Durrell. “You can always recognise plastique 808 by that particular odour, and Duncan here apparently got a good whiff of it on the pillars that were brought down.”

  “Does that help identify the culprit?” said Runcorn.

  “Not really,” said Forrester, “but it narrows things down a bit. The shepherd boy brought the decoy message to Alexandros at about three – the one asking him to meet me at the shrine. The rendezvous itself was for one hour later, at four, but according to Ari, the shepherd boy came from the far side of the island, which meant that whoever told him to deliver the message had to have left the kastello around noon, to give him time to find the boy, tell him what to do, and then get back to the grove to plant the explosive before Alexandros got there.”

  “He could have planted the explosive earlier,” said Venables.

  “He could have planted the explosive, but he couldn’t have set the timer. So whoever committed the crime left kastello around noon yesterday and didn’t return until some time after four, probably four-thirty. What I want to do this evening is to sit down with everybody and see if we can identify anybody that applies to.”

  “The problem is, old chap, we were all going about our own business,” said Venables. “I for one wasn’t keeping track of other people’s movements.”

  “Me neither,” said Atreides, “and I was down at the harbour for some of the time you speak of.”

  “Of course,” said Forrester. “It’s just a way of eliminating people who couldn’t possibly have done it. But let’s put it aside for now. Runcorn wants to concentrate on Count Bohemond, and I want to concentrate on Oberleutnant Kretzmer. Alright?”

  Sophie caught up with Helena as they were passing a small cairn. “I was impressed by your reflexes,” she said, “last night. I’m not sure I’d have ducked as quickly as you did.”

  “The woman is mad,” said Helena. “I know how to deal with madwomen.”

  “Although the island’s history would suggest they are dangerous to ignore,” said Durrell, mischievously. “The maenads, you know.”

  “And to be fair, old girl,” said Venables, “Mrs. Alexandros has every reason to be thoroughly annoyed with you. You came to this island to steal her husband. What did you expect her to do? Welcome you with open arms? Especially after you made such a fiasco of the reconciliation ceremony.”

  “I did not intend to damage the ikons,” said Helena Spetsos. “I merely became unexpectedly unconscious.”

  Forrester kept a straight face.

  “I wonder whether they’ll attempt the ceremony again while we’re here?” said Charles Runcorn. “It promised to be quite fascinating.”

  “They would be very foolish to try again,” said Helena darkly. “The accident was a bad omen.”

  “I don’t believe in omens,” said Ariadne. “There is no reason why they shouldn’t try again, provided somebody keeps tight hold of Helena. The General has come back to his wife and now they can live happily ever after.”

  Helena shot her a look that would have felled a horse. “You know nothing about it,” she said. “Once something is broken it cannot be mended. The marriage is finished and all the ikons in the world won’t change that.”

  “Particularly if they’re broken,” said Beamish.

  “Well, there it is,” said Runcorn, and the party stopped.

  A mile away across the central plateau was the brooding bulk of the Crusader castle.

  “Magnificent,” said Atreides.

  “Very impressive,” said Venables.

  “Who was this Bohemond, exactly?” asked Helena. “I have never heard of him.”

  “Well, this is a splendid opportunity for you then, because his story is one of the most intriguing mysteries of the entire Crusades.”

  “I thought Crusaders just killed Muslims,” said Helena. “That is not very mysterious to me.”

  “Killing Muslims was what Count Bohemond went to the Holy Land for, dear lady,” said Atreides. “It was his religious duty.”

  “And a pleasure, I’m sure,” said Helena.

  “Like you and the Germans,” said Ariadne.

  “It’s true he played a fairly heroic role in the capture of Jerusalem,” said Charles Runcorn before Helena could respond. “It seems that as a result of single-handedly dispatching eight Mohammedans when he fought his way over the walls of the city, he was elected a founding member of the Holy Order of the Knights of St. James.”

  “I haven’t heard of them,” said Beamish.

  “Were they like the Templars?” asked Venables.

  “In a way,” said Runcorn, “but whereas the Templars were dedicated to protecting pilgrims on their way to the Holy Land, the Knights of St. James were sworn to find and preserve its holiest places, which meant they did as much archaeology as fighting. For example they were one of the earliest groups to search for the room in which the Last Supper had taken place.”

  “The Cenacle,” said Forrester, despite himself.

  “Exactly. Most members of the Order concentrated on the sites linked with Jesus’s time in the city, but Bohemond had a personal cleric named Michael of Cahors, who was reputed to be
a mystic. He persuaded Bohemond to seek out relics mentioned in the Old Testament.”

  “Don’t tell me he went after the Ark of the Covenant?” said Durrell.

  “I believe he did actually,” said Runcorn, “but as far as I know that search only led him to some caves above the Jordan Valley, which proved to be empty. But they struck lucky in another quest – for the Urim and the Thummim.”

  They were climbing an undulating patch of land now, and for a moment the castle was hidden from view. There was the scent of lavender on the breeze.

  “What on earth were the Urim and the Thummim?” demanded Helena. “I have never heard of them, either.”

  “They’re almost as fascinating as the Ark itself,” said Lawrence Durrell quickly. “You’ll forgive me for jumping in here, Runcorn, but I’ve just been reading up on them and it’s an extraordinary story.”

  “My dear chap,” said Runcorn, waving his acquiescence with a slightly forced smile. Lawrence Durrell, it had to be said, knew how to hold an audience.

  There was a little chapel ahead of them and to their right, and Forrester’s attention was split between Durrell’s narrative and the possibility that Kretzmer was hiding there. He was beginning to worry that despite his words of warning the party still regarded the expedition to the castle as a holiday jaunt.

  “The Urim and the Thummim appear in the Bible during the Exodus from Egypt,” Durrell was saying, “around the same time as the Ark does.”

  Forrester sped up so he reached the chapel before them, stepped into its tiny porch and thrust open the creaking door. He remained motionless and at an oblique angle until his eyes accustomed themselves to the light, but when they did there was nothing there except a faded painting of a round-eyed Virgin slumbering in the cool, incense-scented darkness.

  He rejoined the group as they walked on. Durrell was still in full flow and Forrester detected a slight grimace of annoyance on Runcorn’s face. “The Urim and the Thummim,” Durrell was saying, “seem to have been some kind of device used by the Jewish high priest to communicate with God. You’ll remember at this point in Exodus the Israelites were only surviving because the Lord was providing them with manna. They had to keep in close touch with him to make sure he continued to supply what they needed.”