by Peter Cave
Martin was suddenly evasive again. ‘I’d rather not go into any specifics just now. The point is, are you interested?’
Mallory made an impulsive decision, driven by the sense of adventure as much as the lure of the money. It was a decision that Martin had never doubted for a second, having had his man pegged from the very start.
The deal was clinched with nothing more than a faint nod from Mallory.
Martin smiled fleetingly. ‘Good,’ he said briskly, before gesturing down the beach to where the three hang-glider pilots were de-rigging their craft and furling up the wings. ‘This part of the beach is completely deserted at night. Be here at exactly ten o’clock tonight with enough luggage for two or three days. A boat will pick you up.’
On finishing his little speech, Martin turned away, as if to leave. Mallory gaped at him. ‘And that’s it?’ he muttered.
Martin nodded curtly. ‘That’s it for now, Mr Mallory. I have some other people to see back in Khania.’ He turned away again, pausing on an afterthought. ‘Oh, I almost forgot – sorry.’ He delved into the pocket of his linen jacket, pulled out a bulky brown envelope and handed it over. ‘Ten thousand dollars down payment, as agreed. Do count it if you wish.’
Mallory did count it. He was still flipping through the sheaf of $100 bills as Gerald Martin walked off the beach and disappeared as inobtrusively as he had arrived.
Mike Bright came out of the coastguard office at Khania harbour with a curse on his lips. Half an hour of frenzied gabbling in his limited Greek and a great deal of pidgin English had got him exactly nowhere.
The laid-back attitude of the local people which made the islands such a relaxing holiday venue became like a brick wall when it came to trying to get anything actually done. As a result, Bright had been totally unable to instil any sense of urgency in the authorities about Randy Havilland’s disappearance. Far from initiating any sort of search-and-rescue operation, they seemed to be unconvinced that there was any sort of problem, let alone danger. A series of careless shrugs and polite but meaningless smiles were the only response to his most urgent pleas.
Bright was left in no doubt that the authorities considered that any fool who ventured out into the open sea on nothing more than a contraption of fibre-glass, aluminium tubing and Dacron deserved everything he got. If any kind of a search was to be mounted, it was clearly up to Bright to organize it himself. With this thought heavy in his mind, he walked slowly round the harbour towards the nearest taverna, to sit down and think things out over a glass of ouzo.
‘Ah, Mr Bright,’ Gerald Martin said crisply, appearing from nowhere and falling into step beside him. ‘Please don’t worry yourself unduly about your friend. Mr Havilland is perfectly safe, I assure you.’
Bright stopped in his tracks. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ he snapped. ‘Who are you anyway?’
Saying nothing, Martin took his arm in a deceptively casual gesture, propelling him firmly towards the nearest table. He sat down, summoning the waiter with a click of his fingers. ‘What will it be, Mr Bright?’ he asked politely.
Bright sat down, glaring at him across the table. ‘Ouzo,’ he grunted. ‘And a jug of iced water.’ He waited until Martin had ordered himself a beer and dispatched the waiter before launching into the questions buzzing around in his head like summer flies.
‘What do you know about Randy? And where the hell is he? What’s going on around here?’ he blurted out.
Martin smiled reassuringly. ‘As I told you, he’s perfectly safe – you have my word for it. In fact, I have a message from him for you. Mr Havilland requests that you join him. “Tell Mike to get his arse here double quick,” I believe were his exact words.’
It sounded like Randy all right, Bright thought. He eyed Martin suspiciously. ‘Where is he?’ he repeated.
The waiter returned with the drinks and set them down on the table. Martin took a sip of his beer and wiped his lips before answering.
‘He’s on another island, with some colleagues of mine. If you’re prepared to cooperate with us, I’ll take you to him tonight.’
There was not the faintest trace of menace in Martin’s tone, but Bright’s guts tightened. There was only one possible conclusion, and he jumped to it. His eyes narrowed to slits.
‘What is this? Some sort of kidnap?’
For a second Martin looked genuinely shocked. Then his face cracked into a grin. ‘Good Lord, no,’ he protested. ‘Is that what you thought? I’m so sorry, Mr Bright – I must have given you a completely false impression.’
Bright was even more bewildered, and a little thrown. ‘You haven’t given me any sort of an impression yet,’ he complained with some feeling. ‘All you’ve given me is bits of some crazy bloody puzzle that doesn’t make any kind of sense.’
Martin was apologetic, even if he wasn’t yet prepared to be perfectly candid. ‘Look, all I can repeat is that your friend is perfectly safe and well,’ he said in a calm, matter-of-fact tone. ‘He is with us by choice, of his own free will – although at the specific request of his father, I do have to admit. There is absolutely no question of any kind of coercion, and certainly no attempt at extortion.’ Martin broke off to reach in his jacket pocket and draw out a buff envelope. ‘In fact, Mr Bright, I have some money to give to you, if you’ll be good enough to join us.’
He dropped the envelope on the table. ‘There’s £5000 in there. A ten per cent advance of the £50,000 we are willing to pay you if you decide to help us in a little design project. It’s right up your street, I assure you – and I honestly believe you’d enjoy the challenge.’
Still highly dubious, Bright picked up the envelope, tore it open and gently shook it to half expose the contents. He did not have to see the whole of the banknotes to realize they were genuine. He shook them back into the envelope, leaving it on the table to show Martin he was not playing ball.
A young woman was approaching their table. Martin stood up politely to greet her, pulling out a chair. ‘Miss Reece, I’m so glad you decided to accept my invitation.’ Martin glanced at Bright as Janice Reece sat herself down. ‘I invited Miss Reece to join us. I believe you already know each other.’
Bright simply nodded, giving little away. There might be some sort of psychological advantage to be gained by concealing the true extent of his relationship with Janice Reece for the moment. Martin appeared to be the man with all the secrets, so perhaps one of his own might not be a bad idea.
Not that it was much of a secret, Bright had to admit to himself. Half a dozen casual dates which had suggested that there might be something more than just physical attraction, but nothing really conclusive. Their busy lifestyles had ruled out sustained contact, although they bumped into each other from time to time in a business capacity. As a leading designer of wetsuits and possibly one of the best sailmakers in the business, Janice tended to move in similar circles to himself.
Perhaps sensing Bright’s reticence to greet her more openly, Janice was also cool. She smiled at him across the table. ‘Hallo, Mike,’ she said.
Martin seemed suddenly embarrassed, perhaps sensing that there was something more personal between the two young people. He pushed himself up from the table somewhat abruptly. ‘Look, I have a couple of telephone calls to make,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll leave you two to have a little chat for a couple of minutes. Please order yourselves whatever drinks you would like.’ He nodded down at the money in the envelope, still on the table. ‘I’ll leave that here, as a token of good intent,’ he said to Bright. Delving into his pocket again, he produced yet another envelope, which he dropped down in front of Janice. ‘And this is for you, Miss Reece.’
He walked away, leaving the couple in something of a vacuum. Neither spoke for several seconds.
Finally, Bright broke the silence. ‘Have you got the faintest idea what’s going on here?’
Janice shook her head, then picked up her envelope. ‘Not a clue, Mike – except that he wants us to work on some kind of joi
nt project, and there appears to be an almost unlimited amount of money available.’
Bright nodded at the envelope. ‘What did he offer you, if you don’t mind me asking?’
Janice shrugged. ‘Ten thousand,’ she said candidly. ‘How about you?’
Bright grinned briefly. ‘A little bit more,’ he admitted. ‘Who the hell is he, do you think?’
Another shrug. ‘God only knows. But I’ll take an evens bet that he’s connected with the military in some way.’
‘Woman’s intuition?’ Bright asked, smiling.
Janice shook her head. ‘Woman’s powers of observation. The way he moves, the way he holds himself – lots of things.’
Bright grinned. ‘I’d never have taken you for a forces sweetheart.’
Janice let it go. ‘Point is, what do we do about it?’
It was a good question. Stumped for a good answer, Bright could only speculate. ‘Maybe I have less choice than you do. He says he’s got Randy.’
Janice’s eyes widened. ‘You mean holding him hostage?’
It was Bright’s turn to shrug hopelessly. ‘That’s what I thought. But apparently not. It seems to be a bit more complicated than that. He claims Randy is cooperating at the request of his old man.’ Bright paused. ‘Whatever’s going on, it seems to have been thought out pretty carefully.’
‘So are you planning to go along with it, then?’ Janice wanted to know.
Bright smiled ruefully. ‘The way I see it, there’s not much else I can do. Randy might need my help, and I owe him at least that.’ He looked at Janice quizzically. ‘What about you?’
By way of an answer, she picked up the envelope on the table and slipped it into her handbag. ‘Let’s put it this way,’ she muttered. ‘I haven’t had a better offer this week.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Bright could see Martin returning. He reached quickly across the table, took Janice’s hand and gave it a quick and reassuring squeeze. ‘Just watch your back, that’s all,’ he hissed quietly. ‘At least until we have a better idea of what we’re getting into.’
4
As Martin had promised, the beach was quiet and deserted. Mallory paid the Greek taxi driver, who gave him a brief, vaguely pitying look before stuffing the bundle of banknotes into his pocket and driving off into the night. It was not his function to question the strange ways of tourists, just to take their money. Why anyone should want to transport a large holdall to a small and deserted cove in the middle of the night was none of his business. Anyway they were all crazy – the English, the Germans, the Swedes and particularly the Americans. There was only one good thing about them, and that was they never argued about the fare.
Mallory watched the lights of the battered taxi disappearing back up the rough dirt road with a faint sense of finality. He was committed now, to whatever little adventure he had managed to get himself into. Short of trudging back the eight miles to Khania in the dark, he had no choice but to wait for the promised pick-up.
He stepped off the road and on to the beach itself, his boots crunching against the fine shingle. Pausing at the water’s edge, he stared out across the black water, straining his eyes and ears. There was no sound, other than the faint lapping of the Aegean against the shoreline. A barely discernible crescent moon cast little light upon the surface of the sea and in the darkness the twinkling lights of Khania harbour were no more than a vague, flickering glow further up the coast. It was a night, and a place, staged for intrigue as surely as a Hollywood film set, Mallory reflected fancifully.
The faint sound of an approaching car engine came to his ears, and he whirled round to stare inland again. In the distance, a pair of dancing headlights announced another vehicle approaching the cove by the same dirt track the taxi had taken. It was too much of a coincidence to be unconnected. Mallory waited expectantly for the vehicle to draw nearer.
It was some sort of open, four-wheel-drive vehicle, possibly a jeep, Mallory realized as it finally pulled into the small lay-by overlooking the beach. Again, the vague suspicion that he had got himself involved in some kind of military operation stirred in the recesses of his brain. He waited on the beach as the jeep discharged four passengers and then drove off again.
Abruptly, the beam of a powerful torch snapped on, carving a path through the darkness towards him. Temporarily blinded by the unexpected glare, Mallory threw his hand up over his eyes as the party stepped down on to the beach and began scrunching their way towards him.
‘Ah, Mr Mallory. You’re here early, I see,’ came Martin’s precise, clipped voice. ‘Just as well. I’ll let our water taxi service know we’re all assembled.’
Martin held up the torch, pointed it out to sea and switched it off and on again five times. Finally, he set it down on the beach, to beam out over the dark water. Like a beacon, or a homing signal, Mallory thought.
His eyes had adjusted to the dark again, but he could now make out all four figures in the overspill of the torchlight. He recognized Martin immediately, and identified the rest of the party as two more men and a young woman. Martin stepped forward, making the introductions as casually as if they had all met for some impromptu beach party.
‘I suppose we’d all better get to know each other,’ he announced brightly. ‘We are going to be together for a while – not least of which will be a twelve-hour boat trip to our destination.’ He touched Mallory lightly on the shoulder. ‘Mr Jim Mallory – a cousin from across the big pond,’ he said warmly. He nodded towards Bright and Janice. ‘Mike Bright, Miss Janice Reece,’ he announced, before gesturing towards the fourth man. ‘And this is Sergei Pavlaski. You’ll all have to forgive him if he’s not terribly chatty. Mr Pavlaski is a Russian, and doesn’t speak very much English.’
Mallory reacted to this last introduction somewhat aggressively. Like many Americans, he had a deep-seated and instinctive distrust of the Russians.
‘What the hell is a goddamn Russki doing on this little picnic?’ he demanded of Martin. ‘And why the hell the need for all this cloak-and-dagger stuff anyway?’
It was a question which Martin once again chose to evade, glancing at Mallory with a look of feigned surprise on his face. ‘Cloak-and-dagger stuff, Mr Mallory? Aren’t we being a bit melodramatic?’
Mallory might well have made an angry response, but he was cut short by the sound of two powerful outboard motors rapidly approaching the beach.
‘Ah, our transport is here,’ said Martin, sounding slightly relieved. He bent down to pick up the torch again, and waved it slowly from side to side. In the sweeping beam, a low, flat, open craft could be seen heading in towards the beach, its engines dying back as it neared the shoreline.
Mike Bright appraised the boat carefully, taking a few seconds to identify its type. ‘Rigid Raider,’ he muttered, more for himself than for general information.
But the identification had not gone unnoticed by Martin. ‘You know your seacraft, Mr Mallory,’ he observed in a tone which suggested faint irritation.
Bright nodded. ‘Dell Quay Rigid Raider, modelled on the Dory 17 hull,’ he went on. ‘Length 5.2 metres, beam 2.2 metres, draught 0.25 metres. GRP construction, virtually unsinkable and capable of up to 35 knots when fitted with twin 140hp Johnson outboards.’
Despite his vague annoyance, Martin was impressed. ‘Yes, you do indeed know your craft,’ he said quietly. ‘Correct in every detail, in fact.’
Bright had taken in more information. Closer inspection of the craft had revealed that it was completely stripped out, with nothing more than a pair of rolled-out inflatable air-bags to provide the absolute basics of comfort for passengers. It was no pleasure craft, that was for sure.
He turned on Martin, his voice taking on a more suspicious edge. ‘These little beauties aren’t exactly common on the commercial scene,’ he pointed out heavily. ‘In fact, their most usual application is purely military.’ Bright broke off to draw a breath and glare at Martin accusingly. ‘Which puts this whole little ball game into the realm
s of the navy – or more specifically, the Royal Marines. Still correct in every detail, Mr Martin? Or should we start addressing you by your correct rank, whatever that is?’
Faced with a direct challenge, Martin could only sigh regretfully. He had little choice but to open up. ‘You’re a very observant man, Mr Bright,’ he conceded. ‘Yes, your assumption is correct. This project is under the auspices of the military, although your help is being sought in a purely civilian capacity. None of you will be involved any deeper than as advisers, should you choose to cooperate – which I sincerely hope you will, by the way.’ Martin paused to flash Bright a rueful smile. ‘And my rank, since you ask, is lieutenant-colonel. But a simple Mr Martin, or even Gerald, will perfectly suffice.’ He nodded towards the waiting Raider. ‘Well? May I at least still have a couple of days of your time? You will all be properly compensated, I assure you – whatever happens.’
There were several moments of silence as each member of the party reassessed his or her position in the light of Martin’s revelations. For Mallory, it merely continued his suspicions, and if anything had even heightened his sense of curiosity. Bright was having serious misgivings, but felt a sense of entrapment. His own position was not quite as clear-cut as that of the others, who had only themselves to consider. He had also to think of Randy, and what his involvement entailed. On balance, it seemed premature to back out.
Janice’s doubts were based purely on practical matters of comfort, and she voiced them. Nodding towards the Rigid Raider, she said to Martin: ‘You mentioned a twelve-hour voyage. I hope you’re not expecting us to make the trip in that?’
Martin shook his head, grinning faintly. ‘My dear Miss Reece, I wouldn’t dream of asking you to consider such deprivation. This craft is here merely to ferry us all to a large and extremely well-equipped six-berth motor cruiser moored in deeper water. The bulk of the voyage will be in great comfort, I assure you.’