Die Rich Die Happy c-2

by James Munro

  * Chapter 4

  When he woke the girl was "I wish to know what

  standing over him once more, is happening," she said.

  "We are going to Menos," he said. "And my servants?"

  "They won't be harmed—unless they do something stupid," said Craig.

  "And they're not your servants."

  'They work for me," Selina said. "It is my business to protect them."

  Craig looked up; she was perfectly serious.

  "You haven't done all that well so far," he said.

  She looked down at him, her eyes blazing with anger.

  "Bernard told me that the English were always polite," she said. "Why don't you stand up when I speak to you?"

  "One of your servants stuck a knife into me," said Craig. "I'm tired."

  "I don't think you are behaving very well," said the girl. "I am a princess after all."

  "Oh, princess, live for ever," said Craig.

  The girl looked down at him, puzzled. The effect was delicious.

  "You are making a joke of me!" she said.

  Craig nodded. "It's an English custom."

  "To laugh at women? In my country women are taken seriously."

  'Tell me about it," said Craig.

  She began to talk then, eagerly, of a country ringed by mountains and desert, a country high and clean and fertile, with fast-running streams and great valleys of lush grass where herds of free-running horses roamed at will. She talked of the Naked Place too, the one menace in her Paradise, then turned quickly to the castles on the hills above the valleys, little square towers that Crusaders might have built, where blue-robed men practiced, with infinite care, the arts of riding and swordsmanship. The girl talked on and on, until at last her voice began to quiver a little.

  "I shouldn't speak like this," she said.

  "You're homesick," said Craig, and had to explain what that meant.

  At once the proud head came up, the eyes were cold and distant as a falcon's.

  'You must not mock me," she said.

  Gravely, Craig apologized.

  "I'm a little upset," he said. "Serafin and I—we're only fishermen—"

  "And smugglers," said the girl.

  "—and smugglers. We're not used to entertaining princesses. We came out tonight to do some business and ended up in a fight. It left us a bit bewildered."

  "You were wounded too," said the girl. "You took it

  well."

  "You've seen wounded men before?"

  "Of course," said Selina. "Although nowadays it's rather dull, really. So little happens. Not like my grandfather's time. The Arabs came in then, looking for slaves."

  "What happened?" asked Craig.

  "My grandfather killed them. The people belonged to him.'* Selina looked at him very seriously. "One must always fight to defend one's property."

  Craig thought that if only he had this girl to talk to he would never need ouzo again.

  "That is what I did tonight," he said, and Selina nodded.

  "You were absolutely right," she said. "After all, you know nothing about me."

  Slowly, with great care, Craig stood up, then salaamed before her.

  "Now you laugh at me again," she said. "You do not believe I'm a princess, do you?"

  She stormed over to a suitcase and flung it open, burrowing like a mole into it, hurling out stockings, dresses, panties, girdles, bras, shoes, until at last she drew out a whole series of robes, silk, linen, wool; blues and reds and greens, exquisitely, painfully embroidered, heavy with gold bullion and precious stones. Craig looked at diamonds, opals, topaz, pearls; a series of gold coins; American double eagles, napoleons, louis d'or, sovereigns from George Ill's time to George Vs.

  "You have a fortune here," he said. "You don't think I'll steal it?"

  "I know you won't," said the girl.

  "You're very kind," said Craig. "How old are you, Selina?"

  "Nineteen," she said. "I'm not a girl—any more than you are English."

  "Aren't I?"

  "Of course not," she said. "Bernard told me what swine they all were. You're much too nice, but you shouldn't tell lies."

  Craig said: "But surely Bernard is English?"

  The girl said: "I'm sorry. I can't talk about him," then asked at once: "What is your name?"

  "Petros," said Craig. "Serafin is my father."

  The girl nodded. "That is better," she said. "You must not tell lies, Petros."

  Before dawn, they found the Andraki fishing fleet, and Serafin made for two of its boats. One of them, skippered by his cousin, carried Gruber and Bauer, the other, skippered by his wife's brother, had Selina aboard, then took station with Serafin's boat as they set course again for Menos. Craig slept on as the sun came up, and picked out one by one, a spatter of islands. Serafin, tireless with age, held the course for Menos, made for its tiny harbor, then waved to his wife's brother, who sheered off to a friendly headland and settled down to wait. Serafin called softly to Craig, who groaned awake, then lurched to his feet to help Serafin bring the caique to port.

  He took the wheel as Serafin's hands went to the sheets, the heavy sails tumbled and Serafin reached forward to lash and stow. Craig coaxed the caique toward the harbor, watching the white town rising in terraces from the beach's glittering sand. It was a pretty little town, merging into its framework of pine trees, vines, and olives, the white walls offset by roofs of blue and scarlet tiles. The engine sputtered on, and the boat nudged its way carefully into the bay before the town. Craig put the engine into neutral and wished for the thousandth time that a caique diesel was equipped with reverse. Already a gaggle of its kind was tied up by the quay. There was no room to throw a rope ashore. The old man said: "I'll go. You'll only start to bleed again."

  He lowered the dinghy and rowed the mooring rope ashore. As he did so, wind and drift caught the caique, and drew her broadside on to the quay. Craig engaged the engine and gently gave it power, turning it to head out to sea as Serafin reached the shore, and a couple of longshoremen passed the mooring rope round a bollard and warped in the caique by sheer brute strength.

  Craig killed the engine, tied up alongside another caique, and went ashore to where Serafin and the two longshoremen negotiated like managing directors the precise sum so delicate an operation involved. They reached an agreement at last, and Craig and Serafin moved down through narrow, shadowed streets to a taverna, where they breakfasted on fresh coarse bread and coffee with goat's milk, sitting at ease, not talking, until it was time to walk through the town to the Caf6 Aphrodite, sit inside in its shade, and drink resinated wine.

  The thick walls, the low ceiling, were whitewashed and cool, and the two men looked out in content through the open door at the blinding whiteness of the street outside. The wine was good, and they enjoyed it in silence. They loved each other and they were content. They had faced danger together too often to be afraid, and so they waited. Serafin noticed that Craig drank only one cup of wine in an hour, and smoked not at all. His son was himself once more, fighting to regain the mastery of his body, to be again the strong and dangerous man that Serafin so happily remembered. Serafin's head lolled forward on to his chest, and he slept. Craig looked at him, and grinned. The old man was as tough as he had ever been, and likely, so it seemed, to live for ever. Cautiously, Craig moved in his seat. His wound still burned, and perhaps he should see a doctor, but that could wait until he met Dyton-Blease. He poured another cup of wine, sipped, and waited. Waiting had always been Craig's strength. He could wait for hours, for days, and still be as alert, as deadly, when action came, as if he had run straight to it. Loomis had told him to get himself fit. This way was as good as any.

  The gleaming whiteness of the door went suddenly dark, and Craig's hand reached out, shook Serafin awake. The man who came into the caf6 was enormous, six-foot-eight at least, and seventeen stone; a man who walked with a lightness amazing in one of his size, a handsome man with a long, straight nose, and dark contemptuous eyes. H
e wore fawn slacks and an olive-green shirt, and his skin was tanned to a golden brown. Serafin woke up, and stared, then spoke. There was horror in his voice, and awe.

  "Like a god come back to earth," he said. "A god without pity."

  Craig poured out wine.

  "You've been dreaming," he said. "This is only a

  man."

  "But so big—" said Serafin.

  "So vulnerable," said Craig. "He's an easy target."

  The big man looked around the cafe, and moved at once to Craig's table, his body looming above them, big, menacing, relaxed.

  "May I join you?" he asked.

  His Greek was accurate, with little trace of accent.

  Craig pushed back a chair with his foot, and the big man sat, cautiously, taking it for granted that under his weight chairs often broke.

  "Let me buy more wine," he said.

  "We prefer cognac," said Serafin.

  The big man produced a bottle of Courvoisier from one enormous pocket.

  "Perhaps you know my name," he said.

  "Mr. Dyton-Blease," said Craig.

  He said it slowly and badly, as if the combination of sounds were new to him, and difficult.

  The big man nodded.

  "You have something for me," he said.

  "Someone," said Craig. "I want a name, please."

  "Selina bin Hussein," Dyton-Blease said. "From the Haram."

  Craig nodded.

  "Where is she?" Dyton-Blease asked.

  "On our boat," said Craig. "When do you want her?"

  "Soon," the big man said.

  "Here?"

  "No. I have a house on the island. You can sail your boat round to it. Look, I'll show you." He produced a notebook and pencil, and drew a map. He drew with great clarity, and his writing was tiny and precise.

  Craig looked at the sketch and nodded.

  "What time?" he asked.

  "I'll tell you when," the big man said. "My people will be waiting for you. There'll be no trouble—from us."

  "Nor from us," said Craig. 'You promised us money for this. We want it."

  The big man produced from his pocket a great wad of American bills, and put a thousand dollars on the table.

  "For now," he said. "The rest when you produce the

  girl."

  "That is a lot of money for one man to carry," Serafin

  said.

  "No one would dare try to rob me," said Dyton-Blease. "Believe that."

  Serafin's hand reached out for the money and Dyton-Blease moved with a swift blur of speed, appalling for a man of his bulk. His own hand, shapely for all its size, slammed down to cover Serafin's, holding it still.

  "I hope you have the girl," he said.

  "Of course," said Craig. "Look."

  His hand scooped into his pocket, and he produced a louis d'or.

  "From a dress of hers," he said. "It's covered in them." Dyton-Blease reached for it, and Craig's hand became a fist.

  "Let the old man go," said Craig. "We are businessmen, not gangsters."

  Dyton-Blease did so, and Craig could see that Serafin's hand was limp and bloodless. He waited until Serafin had scrambled the bills together, then handed over the coin.

  "What is she like?" Dyton-Blease asked.

  "Like the coin," said Craig, "rounded, shining, golden," and the big man laughed.

  "I like you," he said. "If you try to trick me, I will hurt you. Remember that."

  He looked at Serafin. "It is easy for me to hurt people."

  Craig nodded. In his state Dyton-Blease could hurt him without even having to sweat.

  "No need for threats," he said. "This is purely a matter of business."

  He uncorked the brandy bottle, and poured a drink for Serafin, and for himself, then looked round for a glass for the big man.

  "Don't bother," said Dyton-Blease. "I don't drink."

  Craig lifted his glass to his lips.

  "You can finish that one," Dyton-Blease said. "Then fetch my merchandise for me." Craig shrugged, then swallowed the brandy, feeling its delicate fire touch life into his tired body. Serafin raised his glass.

  "Don't hurry," Dyton-Blease said. "You're staying with me. Your friend can have you back when he brings me the girl."

  He looked at Craig's face; read the wariness in it, and the rage he could not control, then he laughed so that the glasses rattled and sang on the table.

  "You didn't think I would just take your word for it, did you?" he asked.

  "Why shouldn't I just leave him?" asked Craig. "Aren't you afraid I might do that?"

  "Not in the least," Dyton-Blease said. "You're much too fond of him for that. And you made no effort to hide it."

  He looked at Serafin.

  "Why are you so fond of him? Is he your father?" Craig nodded.

  "That's good," said Dyton-Blease. 'That's very good. You'll have to have him back then, won't you? Whether you like him or not. Bring her to me and you'll get him." Craig didn't move. "Go now," Dyton-Blease continued. "Bring her to the bay I showed you—in two hours. Exactly two hours, mind. I hate unpunctuality."

  Craig got up slowly, gauging the big man's strength and the weakening effect of the knife wound. There was no help for it. He would have to do as Dyton-Blease said.

  "That's right," said the big man gaily. "No good starting anything here. I own the place and the people."

  Craig looked round him. The half dozen men in the caf6 were watching Dyton-Blease, ready to move in at his signal. Craig forced himself to smile humbly at the big man, and went from the cafe. He could not look at Serafin.

  Outside the cafe was a white Mercedes convertible, a 220 SE with the driving seat pushed so far back that it almost touched the rear seat. The big man's car; it had to be. No one else in the island could own anything so powerful, so elegant, and so expensive.

  Craig walked down to the harbor and worked the boat out to the headland, where Serafin's wife's brother was waiting with the girl he had to give to Dyton-Blease. There was no doubt in his mind about that. When he had to choose between her and the old man, there was no choice at all.

  The caique grumbled its way towards the bay, a great arc of sand that glittered like silver. Above it were pine trees, then olives and vines that looked dark and cooL in a series of plateaus cut into the hillside like gigantic steps, and capping it all a fortress, squatting on the top of the hill, massive as the hill itself: Moorish, Venetian, Turkish, or perhaps all three; its stonework glittering white as the sand in the bay.

  "Don't you think it's heavenly?" Selina asked.

  Craig said: "Oh yes. Beautiful."

  He watched two powerboats put out from a little cove at the south side of the bay. They were heading straight for him.

  "You're not very cheerful," said the girl. "I thought you'd have been pleased. Your work's almost done now, isn't it?"

  "Almost," said Craig. I'm sorry about all this."

  "Why on earth should you be?" she asked. "You've done exactly what I wanted."

  "The people here are dangerous," Craig said.

  "Naturally," said the girl. "But I can look after myself. Honestly. My father and my brothers have taught me exactly what to do. I'll be all right."

  Craig watched the powerboats alter course, so that they moved one on each side of the caique, and reminded himself yet again, that he had no choice. On each boat were two men with submachine guns; one for'ard, one aft. At the moment all four guns were trained on the caique. He cut the engine, then he and Selina stood up, showing themselves to be unarmed. He couldn't see Dyton-Blease or Serafin. Perhaps Serafin was dead. Perhaps it was his turn to die.

  One of the powerboats ran alongside, fenders out to protect its gleaming paintwork, two seamen fore and aft with boathooks, and two men came aboard, two men who moved neatly, swiftly, without fuss; who carried their Steyr .32 automatics with neither shyness nor bravado, treating them simply as tools of their trade. Craig watched them carefully. These were very good men indeed. One of
them spoke to Selina in English. His voice was high-pitched and slightly effeminate, the accent a blend of Los Angeles and Greece.

  "We're going now," he said. "You got any luggage?" Selina nodded at the pile of cases on the deck, and the other gunman lowered them into the powerboat.

  "Okay," said the gunman. "Let's go."

  "What about my father?" Craig asked in Greek.

  The gunman said: "You'll get him. Just stay quiet." Then to Selina: "Lady, we got to go."

  Selina turned to face Craig and spoke in Arabic.

  "You will not forget what I told you," she said. 'You are a man and a warrior. You have no need of lies. Goodbye."

  The Arabic words were grave, dignified, and not in the least out of place. She turned and went down into the powerboat.

  "What did she say?" the gunman asked.

  Craig tried to look bewildered.

  "I don't know," he said. "Good-bye, I suppose."

  "I hope you didn't get out of line," said the gunman.

  "She's pretty," said Craig. "Money's prettier."

  The gunman laughed.

  "Listen very carefully," he said. "You and I are going to leave here now—and you're never coming back. Start your motor."

  Craig obeyed, and the caique, escorted by the powerboats, sailed out into the Aegean until behind them Menos dwindled and faded into nothing.

  "You never come back," the gunman said, and walked up close to Craig, shook a cigarette from a pack, and held it out to him. Craig took it, and fumbled for a match. "I mean never," said the gunman, "or you'll get what your father got. And I wouldn't call him pretty."

  Craig looked up, and the barrel of the Steyr swung and glittered in the sunlight. Pain exploded on the side of his head, and then the sun went out; he dived into welcoming darkness.

  · « «

  The first thing he noticed was the noise; a choking, popping sound that was familiar, but wrong. His mind struggled to find an answer, but the effort was too much. Gratefully, he felt the blackness engulf him once more. The second time, all he knew was the pain, a searing agony in the pit of his stomach, a rhythmic throbbing on the left side of his head, that gradually synchronized with the popping noise he had heard before. The engine. There was something wrong with the engine. Craig groaned, and opened his eyes. He was lying on his stomach on the deck. Slowly, every inch an agony, he rolled over and sat up. He observed that there was blood from the knife wound seeping through his shirt. The fact neither frightened nor impressed him. It was simply a fact. Somehow Craig got to his feet and lurched toward the engine hold by the tiny bridge.