“How are you? Vassili. Deputy Director KYP Implementation Group, Department Two.”
When he offered no surname, Albert began to feel comfortable. As he introduced Hayes he managed to take a good look at the Greek, liking what he saw.
Vassili was in his fifties, with more thick black hair than a man of that age had a right to, and a chubby, smiling face. He wore a short-sleeved khaki shirt and lightweight trousers of the same material, ringed with a gold-buckled belt. The resulting military air was slightly spoiled by the wide-holed vest visible at his open collar. He wore a diver’s Rolex on a metal strap, which puzzled Albert, because he knew how irritating that would be for someone with so much hair on his arms. Perhaps Vassili had scant regard for life’s niggles.
“There’s not a lot I can do,” he said in excellent English. “But you are welcome to what I have. I spoke to Jeremy Shorrocks as you were leaving London, so I am, you might say, ‘in the picture.’ Not a pretty one. Smoke?”
Albert and Hayes shook their heads. Vassili took out a black cigarette holder, inserted a Papastratos and lit up. “We cannot find your Russian submarine,” he went on. “And we cannot find your Mr. Kleist.”
“Well, shit,” said Hayes. “He’s resident here. Surely the police—”
“Greek law,” Albert broke in, “prohibits the ownership of land in frontier territories by foreigners. Am I right, Vassili?”
The Greek responded with a massive shrug, lifting his shoulders and hands together. His smile revealed a lot of gold and a lot more nicotine. “It’s so. Many foreigners get around it by using Greek friends, Greek companies, on their certificates of title. Down in Athens, they are hunting. But …” Again the theatrical shrug.
The fan siphoned smoke from his cigarette, wreathing it around their heads. Occasionally one of the radios would squawk a babble of Greek, which Vassili consistently ignored.
“But what about the police? They must know him. I mean, the guy has to register or something …?”
“Most foreigners never bother. Certainly no one called Kleist ever did.”
“But some cop has to have seen him, he’s been coming here for years.”
“Mr. Hayes …” Vassili stubbed out his cigarette in a tin lid and removed the filter tip from his holder, “there is a great film I once saw. In English, perhaps I should say in American. Its name is Witness. You saw it too, perhaps? A man loses himself inside the Amish community. The local police can’t find him, because it would mean searching maybe thousands of small farms and they don’t have the resources, a thing that the city police could not understand. But I understood, because the Greek islands are like that. Each summer, thousands of foreigners come and go. Policemen too come and go. Your inquiry was made very late. No doubt you had your reasons for that. And I can assure you we are looking.”
A long speech, really, his shrug said it all.
“I need to ask you a question,” Vassili went on. “Lescombe will soon apply to enter Greece. What do you want to do about that?”
“Let him in.” Albert spoke decisively, and Vassili nodded.
“I assumed that would be the case,” he said. “You want to tail him, see which of the ferries he catches.”
“Why a ferry?” Hayes asked. “Why shouldn’t his wife be right here, on Corfu?”
Vassili waved a hand, dismissing the proposition. “Our resources are limited, yes, but Corfu is a cosmopolitan place and the police are efficient. We can assure you, neither Kleist nor Anna Lescombe is on Corfu.”
“I’d rather you didn’t tail him,” Albert said. “I don’t want him scared. You needn’t worry, I’ll be looking after him. I want to talk to Lescombe.”
“You what?” Hayes was half out of his seat. “Now you just listen to me—”
“No,” Albert said. “You listen. I’ve made contact with this man. He trusts me—or at least, he did. I think he’ll talk to me. If I’m right, we can short-circuit this thing.”
“But the guy isn’t stupid! Once he sees you, he’ll know there’s bound to be others, that he’s being followed. Hell, look what happened in Washington!”
“Yes.” Albert flicked something off his knee. “Oh yes indeed.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“That you fluffed it, it’s our turn, and we’re prepared to back our judgment against yours.”
Hayes found himself looking through the palely tinted spectacles into a perfectly still pair of eyes.
“You’re wrong. You are as far out of line as it’s possible to be and stay in the ballpark. Lescombe is going to lead us straight to his wife, Kleist, and Krysalis in one neat bundle. And you—”
“Lescombe gave Washington’s finest the slip. So it’s time to add another string to the bow.” Seeing Hayes about to speak, Albert raised a hand. “Sorry.”
Vassili lowered the emotional temperature a few degrees by saying, “You still have an hour or so. Let’s go into town, get some lunch.”
“Thanks,” Albert said, “but I’d like to catch up on my reading.” He tapped the briefcase with Anna’s case notes inside. “You go,” he said to Hayes.
He was surprised when the American accepted the invitation. And then, as he watched him get into the front seat of Vassili’s car, he was suddenly overwhelmed by a conviction that letting Hayes out of his sight would turn out to be a crucial mistake. He waved, broke into a run … but the car was already at the car-park exit, heading for town.
Suddenly Albert knew in his gut why Hayes had come to Corfu. Redman didn’t intend to part with thirty thousand pounds, so he’d ordered his own hatchet man to kill David Lescombe. And maybe—Albert swore out loud—Anna as well.
CHAPTER
38
Anna was still asleep when Gerhard again began his shift just before dawn on Monday morning. Barzel, who’d kept the previous watch, stayed with him, obviously mistrustful of his former colleague. But Barzel’s face was haggard; he could scarcely keep his eyes open after so many hours of vigilance. Before long he had nodded off in a chair beside Anna’s bed.
Gerhard gave him twenty minutes to sink into deep slumber before tiptoeing out, to find Stange snoring away in the kitchen.
Anna awoke as the room started to turn gray. Someone was shaking her. “No,” she moaned, and a hand settled across her mouth. She opened her eyes to see Gerhard standing over her, his gun half-raised. After a second of immobility she began to struggle.
“Hush!” he hissed in her ear. “I’m going to help you. Please be quiet … please.” He pointed at the chair. Anna looked, saw Barzel, and understood.
She lay still while she analyzed the messages her brain was sending out. Her limbs were stiff and useless; a headache tortured the backs of her eyes, blurring vision. She tried counting up to ten, then simple multiplication sums. She functioned, not brilliantly, but well enough.
Then she remembered: David was dead.
“Don’t give up hope,” Gerhard whispered, as if reading her thoughts. “You can’t believe anything Barzel tells you. Trust me.”
Her mind was flashing a message, on and off, on and off, like a neon sign. Trust him … don’t trust him … trust him … if this really did represent a chance to escape, it would be her last. So she could not afford to make any mistakes. What should she do?
“Will you promise to be quiet?” he breathed in her ear, and Anna nodded.
“Get up,” he commanded in the same low voice.
Very cautiously, so as to avoid making the slightest sound, she tried to bend one knee. But her body, out of action for so long, did not find it easy to come back to life. Agonizing pins and needles shot through her leg from ankle to groin. It took her three attempts before the knee was straight. She looked at Gerhard. He nodded encouragement.
Now the other knee. This time it came easier, because she was expecting the pain before it could shock her. Both knees bent. Good! If she could only get them horizontal again….
When she was once again lying flat she slowly drew he
r hands up the bed until they would go no further. The circulation was restoring itself, every move she made seemed less of an effort than the previous one. Using her right hand she stuffed the sheet into her mouth, to stifle any cry she might make. Then she pushed down on the mattress and tried to sit up.
The room spun around her, nausea swamped her stomach, she bit on the sheet for all she was worth. Blood throbbed through her temples at a frightening rate; she felt the arteries must surely burst. But no, she was sitting up, both arms at full stretch, while Gerhard smiled enthusiastic encouragement.
Anna massaged her legs beneath the sheet until she felt she could move without falling over. Then she slipped her feet sideways onto the floor and, resting her weight on her hands, struggled to the vertical. For several minutes she stood still, waiting for her body to adjust. She took a tentative step forward, quickly followed by another. She could walk!
What next …? She looked at Gerhard, silently beseeching him to tell her what to do. He pointed at her dress, flung on the floor the previous day, and Anna picked it up.
“Can’t go out by the terrace,” he whispered, pointing to the windows. “Locked. The kitchen …”
Once in the passage she pulled on her dress. Gerhard took her by the hand. “Stange is in there,” he said softly. “Don’t worry, he’s asleep.”
“Gerhard,” she whispered, holding him back. “You have a gun. Can’t you shoot them? Or at least cosh them unconscious, so they won’t wake up for a long time?”
He stared at her. “Could you?”
Anna realized that she couldn’t. “Sorry.”
“But I can use the gun to hold them here, if they wake up before you’ve escaped.”
The kitchen door stood ajar. They glided through it. Stange sat at the table with his back to them. His head rested on his folded arms. He was fast asleep. Two enormous, battered suitcases were stashed either side of him. Anna had never seen them before, she wondered what they contained. But then everything else was drowned in the knowledge that if she kept her head and moved fast, she could get out.
She slipped through the kitchen door and was heading for the path to the front gate when Gerhard tugged her sleeve. “Not that way,” he cautioned her quietly. “No use going to the port, that’s the first place they’ll look.”
She gazed at him in confusion. “Where, then?”
“Come with me.”
He led her around to the back of the house. All the while it had steadily been growing lighter. When Gerhard halted at the top of the steps and pointed, at first her brain did not register what she saw as anything other than an illusion, a product of the drugged sleep from which she had woken. But the longer she stared, the more convinced she became that this was no mere dream.
A small yacht, one of those flotilla cruisers built for amateurs, had anchored opposite the house on the other side of the cove, beneath the church. Holiday makers who—God bless them!—had chosen this of all bays in which to rest up for the night …
The sight dazzled her. She swayed a little, then held on to Gerhard for support. Less than a quarter of a mile separated her from freedom and safety. All she had to do was reach the yacht.
How? Did she have enough strength to swim? Gerhard was a strong swimmer, he could help her.
“You must hurry,” Gerhard murmured.
He was right. The sun had risen halfway above the horizon. With every second that passed she stood to lose her chance, either her guards would awake, or the yacht would put to sea.
“Let’s go,” she said, taking his hand.
“No.”
She wheeled around, stunned. “What?”
“I’m not coming.”
“But—”
“Listen, Anna.” He took both her hands and held them fast. “There’s nowhere left for me to run, now. They’ve caught Iannis, I’m sure of it.”
“No!”
“I try to speak to him whenever he phones, but somebody cuts us off. Poor kid … anyway, I’m done for. After this, HVA will always find me.”
She continued to stare into his eyes, knowing in her heart if not yet in her brain that this was the first moment of disengagement. The first moment of a life without Gerhard.
“I’ll stay here, cover your escape,” he said.
“I won’t leave you!”
“Yes. You will. You must!”
“No!”
“Anna … get back to England as fast as you can, tell them everything. Tell them I’m sorry I couldn’t return the file. Barzel has it now.” He released her hands and stepped back, a smile creasing his haggard face. “Go.” His voice cracked. “I won’t … ever … forget you.”
Her gaze fell. “David. He’s …”
“Don’t despair. Barzel was in a rage when he said that. He doesn’t know anything, not really.”
“Gerhard …”
He held a finger to his lips. “No more words. Go!”
She stared at him for a moment longer, grief-stricken, impotent. He had used her, betrayed her … but somehow, deep down, he was still Gerhard. Her Gerhard.
“Go,” he repeated.
Instead she drew him to her and kissed him full on the lips, knowing it would be the last time. Her mind blanked out. “I—”
“Yes,” he interrupted quietly. “For me the same.”
Gently he held her away from him. She clutched both hands to her face in a vain attempt to stanch the tears, and ran down the path, through the garden. Once past the gate she followed the track until it petered out in the sand, and flopped down by the edge of the sea, sobbing out her anguish to the unresponsive morning.
She knew the one thing she must not do was think, especially about David or Gerhard. She had to reach the yacht. Nothing else mattered. After that there would be time to remember, and to grieve.
Somehow, she never afterward knew how, she managed to stagger to her feet. David perhaps dead, Gerhard above her, mere yards away, no, don’t think.
A stretch of tranquil water, clad in diamanté by the early sunshine, still separated her from refuge. She could not detect any sign of life aboard the boat opposite. So near yet so far, surely she hadn’t come this close only to be defeated?
She might swim. But she felt so weak. What if her strength deserted her halfway across? She would cry out, and no one would hear. The thought of drowning when on the very brink of salvation was too awful to contemplate. David, who loved the sea, Gerhard such a strong swimmer, no, don’t think.
If she shouted from the beach, without attempting to swim, perhaps the owners of the yacht would come to her rescue? No, long before then her cries would have roused Barzel and Stange.
She wanted to sob. The sight of that small, rather grubby, indescribably beautiful boat lying at anchor almost within hands’ reach was too much to be borne.
“Er … excuse me. Hello?”
Anna raised her head and looked around. No one was visible. Yet surely she hadn’t imagined that voice—male, educated, English! “Who’s there?” she called.
“Over here … behind the rocks.”
She swung around, jerking her head in all directions. At first she could see nothing, but then she noticed a tousled head and a pair of red, blistered shoulders emerging above some boulders to her right. “Ah …” said the head. “This is a bit embarrassing actually. I’m off that boat over there, see, and I thought I’d go for a skinny dip….”
“You’re English!”
“Yes. Tony Roberts. I’m a doctor, actually. You look upset.”
“Oh my God,” she cried. “Oh my God, help me! Help me!”
“What’s the trouble? I mean, I heard you coming so I …”
Anna stood up and stumbled toward Dr. Roberts as if to the savior of her soul. The head eyed her apprehensively. “Sorry,” it muttered. “You don’t have a towel or something—”
“Oh God, just shut up, please shut up. I’m desperate. My name’s Anna Lescombe, I’m being held a prisoner by the East Germans, they’re going to
kill me, I know they will, they’ve killed my husband, you have to help me. Take me on your boat. Please!”
The Englishman came out from behind his rock, no longer embarrassed. His eyes, now not quite so friendly, viewed her with professional detachment. Anna realized he was quite young and a little unsure of himself. “You’re ill,” he said. “What’s the trouble?”
Anna grasped his arms. “I’ll tell you everything, everything! Only please, please just call your friends on the yacht and take me away from here, get me to Corfu, to the British consul.”
“All right, all right.” His face had grown pink to match his shoulders. “Now calm down, do. Where have you just come from?”
“Up there.” She pointed. “They’re still asleep, but they’ll wake up soon and then they’ll come for me.” Part of her acknowledged that he must think her mad, perhaps she was mad, but she must make him see, make him believe her enough to take her away from Gerhard, no, don’t think.
“Okay. Okay, now, try to relax.” He disengaged himself and put two fingers to his lips. A long, loud whistle echoed out over the water. “Pete,” he shouted. “Show a leg!”
“Not so loud! They’ll hear you!”
“Got to get things moving somehow. Ah, good … Pete’s an early riser, like me.” He waved a hand, beckoning to someone aboard the yacht. Anna heard an engine cough into life. She swiveled around to look up at the house, then gazed across the cove. The boat was moving, but slowly, so slowly! “Hurry up,” she breathed. “Hurry up, for God’s sake …”
Footsteps on the path. Barzel’s voice, “Anna! Where are you?”
She froze. Terror held her immobile. Why hadn’t Gerhard stopped Barzel? Was he dead! She forced herself to act, racing behind the boulder that until a minute ago had concealed Tony Roberts. “Help me!” she cried. “Don’t let them take me!”
The yacht was about halfway across the strait. “What’s up, Tone?” she heard a woman’s voice shout.
Krysalis: Krysalis Page 35