He had just poured the remains of a bottle of Soave around the browned meat and was turning his attention to chicken broth for the risotto alla Milanese when the entry phone buzzed. He glanced up at the clock. Fox was early, no doubt a ploy designed to throw Albert off balance. Why did even the best MI5 staffers suffer from simple-mindedness?
“Visitors, Montgomery,” he murmured. “And get your filthy nose out of that carcass….”
As he went to the front door his mind was busily reviewing the pitch. This interview would be critical, he knew, and he experienced an unusual tingling in his stomach. A lot had come to ride on the Lescombe case. This morning there was an axe to grind as well as a kitchen knife.
Today Fox managed to look more than ever like an operator of risqué nightclubs. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of Albert wearing a plastic apron. “Do Lea & Perrins pay people to advertise their sauce like that?”
“You live in a fantasy world. I can see you’ve never bought an apron.”
“Never worn one, either. Did I interrupt anything?” Fox sounded arch, as if he suspected Albert might be wearing lacy underwear beneath the laminate.
“No. Come in. Wait …” Albert went back into the kitchen, where he put a lid over the dish and stuck it in the fridge.
“Entertain a lot, do you?” Fox had followed him and was watching with scarcely disguised admiration.
“No.” Albert took off his apron. “But I like food and I don’t have the necessary physical coordination to cope with a tin opener.”
They went back to the living room. “Nice place,” Fox said as he sat down. “Watercolors … nice. What’s that one?”
“It’s a Callow. John, unfortunately, not William. Nineteenth-century seascape.”
“And the one next to it? Very striking.”
“I did that. Hobby. I see you’re allergic to cats.”
Montgomery had entered the room, sniffed and made a beeline for Fox, who now was viewing him without enthusiasm.
“Well …”
Albert made no attempt to remove Montgomery, who had put his front paw on Fox’s trouser leg in preparation for a leap onto his unwelcoming lap. “Have you read my Cornish notes?”
Fox was wearing a two-piece suit today, but habit still sent his hands to nonexistent waistcoat points. Albert monitored the nervous tic with interest. A man who could not change his ways was a marked man. Never mind that, Fox has the power to change your life, he reminded himself. Watch your manners, Albert.
“We’ve all read them.”
“The Yanks as well, I trust?”
“Oh yes. There’s a daily copy command out.” Fox hesitated. “They’re not best pleased with our failure to recover the file,” he admitted at last.
Good, thought Albert. Progress …
“What do you make of this man Lescombe?”
“He’s well-meaning.”
“Well-meaning …” Fox gave the word some consideration. “I gather you trust him, from that. Do I? Look, would you mind if I put this cat …?”
Montgomery curled his claws into Fox’s trousers and began to purr contentedly. Dots of fat, products of the recent frying, had settled on Albert’s spectacles. Now he tore a square of wafer-thin lens tissue from a booklet on the dresser and cleaned them, in no hurry to answer. “It’s unlikely that Lescombe’s a traitor, or involved with his wife in this,” he said at last. “She’s rotten to the core, of course. But the problem with him’s different: he can’t be trusted not to get in the way. Do put Montgomery down, if you’re worried about your suit.”
Fox lifted the cat as if he feared it might be radioactive and lowered him to the carpet. “Do you want us to clear you a path?” he asked.
“Not necessary. Yet. Anyway, it looks as though the opposition may save us the trouble.”
“Mm? Oh, the man in the Audi, you mean?”
Now we’re coming to it, Albert thought. Softly, softly.
“You made a mistake there,” Fox said, with some satisfaction. “You’re not in favor. I warned you, keep a low profile.”
“What was I supposed to do—let that bandit highjack Lescombe?”
“No, but shooting—”
“I fired in the air, to avoid hitting our man. The guy returned fire, then he took off. Where’s the risk?”
“The risk is that by drawing attention to Lescombe you’ll succeed in turning him into a target. We don’t want that. We want him to run and keep on running.”
“So? He’s still on two legs this morning, isn’t he?”
“All right, you were lucky. You may not be lucky a second time. We’re providing him with discreet cover from now on. Just in case. Down, puss.”
“Good idea. I approve. Listen, this is getting out of hand.”
“Yes, I’m sorry, I don’t really like cats….”
“The case is getting out of hand. I don’t have a role. A function. Use me or lose me.”
“You’re still on hold.”
“Then it’s time I came off it.” When Fox looked away, Albert pressed home his advantage. “Give me a commitment. Anna Lescombe has to be neutralized, you know it, I know it. So do you want me or not? If yes, let’s agree on a price.”
Fox was silent. Albert interpreted this favorably and felt another twinge of excitement. “What about it?” he said.
“Not everybody’s keen on the idea of making use of your services for this one.”
“Don’t kid me! The Americans are bursting to see some action.”
“Then let them arrange it.”
“On your turf? I don’t think so.”
“Mm.”
“Well, it’s up to you.” Albert affected not to care, although he knew he was being undervalued. No SAS officer was obliged to accept a nonterrorist contract to kill. Few would do so. Albert was by far and away the best of the few.
“They’d like to see me back down in Hereford,” he said smoothly. “I was talking to the adjutant only this morning.”
“Don’t … go back just yet.”
“Price?”
Fox’s hands strayed to the imaginary waistcoat, withdrew. “I’m authorized to agree on your price, but on a purely theoretical basis.”
Albert fought to keep his face expressionless. “Meaning?”
“Meaning that you’re not authorized to act independently and we don’t want you playing Cowboys and Indians in country lanes. Any more of that and the deal’s off. Got it?”
Albert nodded. Fox, seeing his host on the point of speaking again, continued quickly, “I had a session with the lady’s G.P. yesterday, while you were shooting up Cornwall.”
Despite his disappointment, Albert was interested. “And?”
“He prescribed the pills in the bottle. He said she’d only asked for sleeping tablets once, more than a year ago.”
“Before that?”
“Nothing. Anna Lescombe’s been his patient for approximately nine years, since moving to the Islington address. She changed doctors when she married.”
“But this new doctor must have her previous records?”
“He doesn’t. He filled in the forms, but somehow they never turned up. Happens all the time, apparently. At least, that’s his version.” Fox sniffed. “Did you know doctors come high on the list of alcoholics?”
“That kind of doctor?”
Fox nodded. “You don’t look surprised.”
“I’m not.” Albert’s voice was cold, Fox had touched on one of his bugbears. “We used to be able to trust professionals in this country. Now they’re like everyone else.”
“The ‘going to the dogs’ syndrome? Funny, I thought you took a more positive view of things.”
“What are you doing about this sot of a doctor?”
“We’ll catch up with the records eventually.” Fox heaved a sigh. “But it won’t be tomorrow or the next day. Matchups with national insurance numbers, that kind of thing.”
“Seems to me I can stand down, then?” Albert could not keep the s
ulkiness out of his voice. Agreeing on a price was one thing, but if they weren’t going to let him get on with the job that didn’t amount to a row of beans.
“No. You’re working well. Apparently Mr. Hayes likes your literary style.” Fox’s expression was withering. “On the ball, that’s how he described you.”
Albert felt a fresh glimmer of hope, but this was no time to let Fox see that. “On what ball? Lescombe screwed up any prospect we might ever have had of learning something from his stepdaughter, the lady pulled the wool over the eyes of her lawyerly colleagues … this case is crying out for someone to get after that bloody woman.”
“Even if Five and Six both agreed, where would you look for her?”
“Why don’t you let me go to Athens, sniff around?”
“Because there are already plenty of people working on the Greek lead.”
“What brief has Six sent to Athens station?”
“Find out who’s going in to ask about faxes every day, follow him, get us a name. Oh, of course—you haven’t heard.”
“Heard what?”
“Athens-Six came up with something. There was someone who fitted the description. Young Greek chap, very interested in this fax office.”
Albert leaned forward. “Well?”
“They lost him. But they’ll find him again.”
“I’ll bet! What a waste of time.”
“So how fortunate it is that we have something much more important for you to do.”
“Which is?”
“Lunch.” Fox stood up, evidently glad to have an excuse for moving down range of Montgomery’s haughty stare. “Sorry to spoil your culinary arrangements”—he nodded in the direction of the kitchen—“but the department would like you to eat lunch today. It being Thursday. Oh, and whatever you may have heard, there is such a thing as a free one.”
CHAPTER
20
Anna knew she had to escape.
She set her wristwatch alarm to wake her very early on Thursday morning, when she felt sure that Gerhard would still be asleep. The previous evening she had made herself be agreeable, pretending that she forgave him for his insulting behavior on the beach, and they had caroused together until late. Her head still ached from all the retsina they had drunk, those artful glass containers, like beer bottles, with no need for a corkscrew …
Cautiously she peered into the passage. No sign of Gerhard. She tiptoed to the front door, silently turned the handle, and eased her way out. If he caught her now, she could pretend she was just going for a walk. Down the path … careful with the gate …
She was on the track, running. Left at the road, through the village. Don’t look back.
Although the sun shone down from a cloudless sky, Anna scarcely felt it. What she did feel was the first stirrings of nausea, a sickness far beyond any alcoholic hangover. She only fell ill when she resolved to go away from Gerhard, the same thing had happened the day before yesterday. Something evil implanted inside her brain …
She wiped her face. The back of her hand came away wet, sweat or tears, she could not tell. She was her own last resource, beyond help.
The walk was a long one. When she had been on the move for over an hour, the sound of a car distracted her. She looked back hopefully. But soon she realized that the engine noise came from a section of road above and parallel to the one she was on. Anna caught a glimpse of red paintwork. The Fiat belonging to Yorgos was that color. Gerhard, on his way in search of her …
She ran down the bank and hid behind a tree, gulping in deep breaths. She heard a noisy gear change, then the car was on the strip of road she had just left, passing over her head before disappearing toward the harbor. Anna slid further down the slope to rejoin the road. She continued to descend through the olive groves, traversing the road twice more before it became straight and ran through the outskirts of the port. She could see the quay, beyond that, a thin line of choppy cobalt-blue water and, in the distance, a green and mauve hill.
But Gerhard was ahead of her.
Anna sank down at the side of the road, afraid she might faint. What would he do when he failed to find her?
The answer to her question came almost at once. She heard a car’s engine start. Anna ran off the road, hugging a boundary wall, to conceal herself behind someone’s house. She peered around the wall in time to catch sight of the Fiat as it roared along the road and disappeared up the hill. She waited for the silence to resume sway before emerging from her hiding place.
Dimly she began to perceive the beginnings of a strategy. The ferry left at five, Gerhard had told her that. Wait under cover until ten to, then make a dash for it.
You can meet the ferry, but so will he.
He can’t use his gun in front of other people.
Thoughts of Gerhard served only to confuse her. Who was he? What did he intend to do with her? Why had he brought her to this place—to seduce her, as he had tried to do the day before? To rape her, was that the purpose of the gun? Gerhard the psychotherapist, suddenly transformed into the rapist …
No. All that could have been stage-managed in London. She was on the wrong track. But why …?
Anna wanted to get well away from the road. As she looked around anxiously, three old Greek women came down the hill. They wore what Anna had come to think of as “the uniform”: two all in black, right down to their stockings, the other in dark blue. They did not walk so much as hump, or limp; each had her own distinctive way of moving, but there was nothing fluid about any of them.
These women carried plastic shopping bags; from the top of one of them peeped a towel. They were going for a swim! One of the trio treated Anna to a sharp-eyed, inquisitive glance from gleaming black eyes, and nodded. “Kalimera!” she rasped in a throaty voice.
“Kalimera.”
The other two women sang out the word, but not in unison, each treating it differently, “Kal-ee-mai-rah! … Kalim’ra.” Then the first woman beckoned her. “Swim,” she declared throatily. “You! Come!” She beckoned again, this time with a smile, but as imperiously as ever. Anna took a step forward. “Thank you,” she said. “Ef haristo.”
The Greek women cackled and walked on. They knew of a side road that skirted the main square. Before long, to Anna’s unspeakable relief, she found herself following a winding footpath up the side of the hill opposite the port, protected from curious eyes by the olive trees that seemed to cover every square inch of this island. After a while the path petered out, so that by herself she would not have had the faintest idea which direction to take, although her guides seemed unperturbed. The going was rough, but just when she thought she couldn’t manage another step, they breasted the hill and started to slip and slide their way down the seaward slope. The port had been left well behind them. For the first time since leaving the villa, Anna almost felt safe.
At the bottom of the hill they came upon a shingly beach. The old ladies found a patch of shade for their things, then disappeared, each behind a separate olive tree, only to emerge a moment later clad in surprisingly garish bathing suits and sunhats. One by one they ploughed into the sea, still wearing their floral bonnets. The eldest waved vigorously at Anna, who shook her head, indicating with the help of sign language that she had no swim things. She sat under a tree and watched them wallow, three genteel Greek hippos.
Despite her anxiety, Anna found herself fantasizing about what it was like to be old on this island, without ever having known an alternative world: born here, courted, married, and one day buried, all within the same enclosed society. Maybe their husbands had given them fine, lusty sons to look after them when they were old; they looked like mothers.
Somewhere, perhaps, her own mother still walked the earth. Now, as she watched the three old ladies, Anna felt stir within her the familiar longing, to seek her out, take her by the hands, ask her: Why? Why did you abandon me, you whose task it was to love me most? What had I done?
The law would help her do it. But there was something the law co
uld not do: provide the necessary courage, and that was lacking.
The ladies floated into shore, where finally they beached. They offered Anna fruit, which she declined, accepting only a drink of water. There was much banter directed at her, which she bore in good part, not understanding a word of it. After a while, however, the trio fell silent and, as if at a prearranged signal, dropped off to sleep.
Anna stayed awake, too frightened to relax. Sometimes the day seemed to pass slowly, sometimes fast. Why didn’t the ferry come? She had to escape, but Gerhard would be waiting….
Suddenly one of the women stretched, yawned, and rolled up into a sitting position. She murmured a few words, looking out to sea. Anna scanned the horizon. A dark smudge had appeared far out on the strait, a smudge trailing smoke.
She looked at her watch. Four-fifteen.
The ladies were packing up, thank God! That meant she would be able to stay with them until the last moment. Anna followed them homeward. At the brow of the hill she paused, surveying the port that lay spread out below like a model village. No sign of the red Fiat.
She walked quickly, soon outstripping her companions, who clucked and muttered pleasant-sounding good-byes as she passed. Anna arrived back in the port to find it coming to life after the siesta. Two noisy motorbikes, driven by youthful, unshaven Zorbas, dusted the quay. The owner of the one small boutique was setting out her wares. Earlier that day Anna had noticed a travel agent located in the same building that housed this boutique; on a blackboard outside were chalked fares to the mainland and other tidbits of information designed to appeal to seemingly nonexistent tourists.
Anna slowly made her way around the boutique’s scarf rack and past a revolving stand for paperbacks, until she was on the threshold of the travel agent’s office. The agent himself, one of those middle-aged men who like to keep themselves fit, pulled in his gut at the sight of her and smiled.
“Do you speak English?”
“Off coss.”
“I have to get back to England. Today. Can you help?”
“Cer-tin-lee. Yiss.” He stood aside, extending his right arm in what was meant to be a gesture of welcome, but he overdid it and succeeded only in looking like a policeman on traffic duty. He started to say something about ferries and flights, how they didn’t connect. Anna tried hard to make sense of his fractured English. “So what I want is a … a boat ticket to Corfu, then a taxi to the airport, right?”
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