“Compiled by someone you described as a rogue therapist.”
“Not at the start. He had no motive to mistreat her, then. And you might be surprised to learn how many women come within an ace of damaging either themselves or their babies, in the postnatal state.”
“But she’s a banister, damnit!”
“Isn’t the real point that she’s a strong, courageous woman?” Albert lowered his voice and curbed his delivery, radiating total conviction. “Against all the odds, she made it. Every single day of her life was a grueling, uphill battle with guilt, and feelings of rejection, and the fear of losing you, which is why she never told you about the stew she’d been in. A battle that she won, until right at the end. Until now. And now …” He leaned forward, resting on his elbows, until David could no longer avoid his gaze. “We’ve got to save her.”
Albert modestly felt that it would have been difficult to improve on his performance. But—inwardly he trembled—that didn’t mean Lescombe had swallowed it.
David broke the long silence that followed by saying, “How do you know all these things? You talk like a—”
“I was trained to know them. It’s part of my job.”
“Which is what, for Christ’s sake?”
“Cleaning up messes.”
“You see only a security ‘mess.’ I’m looking at my wife. I love Anna. She’s my whole life, all I’ve got.” David seemed on the verge of panic. “I don’t know your real name, I don’t know who you are, what you do…. You say you’re an army officer but you talk like a psychiatrist….”
“If you comb the army thoroughly enough you’ll always find someone with certain skills.” Albert grimaced. “‘In my father’s house are many mansions.’ Do you know anything about the vampire legend?”
“What kind of a question is that?”
“According to the myth, once the vampire has tasted your blood, you die. But it takes a long time. You exist in a twilight world, and with each passing day you slip further from the light, while the vampire continues to prey on you. That’s how it is with Anna. Kleist’s her vampire.”
“Ridiculous.”
“David, there’s a possibility, a real possibility, that they’re sending a submarine to take her off tonight. That’ll be the end of it. No more twilight world. Anna will have gone.” He grasped the other man’s wrist. “Is that what you want?”
When David made no reply Albert sat back, releasing his grip, and waited. There was nothing more he could do, he realized dully. Either Lescombe took the bait, or …
“Can you help her?” David’s voice was low. “She’ll go to prison, won’t she?”
“Not in the light of these case notes. I doubt if it would even get as far as a prosecution.”
What, Albert wondered, was the nature of the struggle going on behind those flickering eyes, that moist forehead?
“Vampires … they drove stakes through their hearts, didn’t they? Superstitious peasants hounding the village wise woman … stakes and silver bullets. All right. All right. I’ll trust you, God knows why.”
Albert’s sigh of relief seeped through his lips without a sound. It took him a moment to recover his powers of speech. “You said you were going to see a travel agent….”
“I lied. There’s no one.”
“Who did you phone at the airport?”
David’s head jerked up; his stare had become dangerous. “I see. One-way traffic, is that it? I have to trust you but tails I lose, my God, what kind of man are you?”
“The airport?” Albert said gently.
“I was phoning first the operator, then directory inquiries. I wanted to find out if they had a number for Kleist in Parga. It’s a port on the mainland. Kleist’s villa is five miles inland and it doesn’t seem to have a telephone. That’s where I’m going. Where we’re going, I guess.”
Albert remembered something about David’s calls that had struck him as odd at the time: he didn’t appear to have the first number written down anywhere. That tallied. He’d kept his body close to the telephone, so there was no way of knowing how many digits he had dialed. And it sounded like the truth. Or would have, but for one thing.
“Robyn Melkiovicz told the Americans that Kleist’s house was on an island,” he said.
“She lied.”
“Why should she do that?”
“Because I asked her to. I wanted a head start.”
It could be true; Hayes had remarked earlier on how uncooperative Melkiovicz was. “All right,” Albert said. “But we’re going there together.”
As they got up, David pointed to the low, white roll-on roll-off car ferries waiting beside the jetty. “We get to the mainland that way. I don’t know which one, we’ll have to ask.”
Albert, keeping a few steps behind David, noticed how as the Englishman scanned the busy harbor some object caught his eye. He glanced in the same direction, but nothing stood out, fishing smacks, a tug, several motorboats, including one fearsome red-and-white monster with its engine whisking the waters of the harbor into froth.
They were halfway along the pier. David stopped a passing Greek and spoke to him. The man pointed to the furthest ferry. David turned to Albert. “That one.”
David’s face looked terrible, all the muscles were working as if any minute he might have a convulsion.
“Are you okay? You look green.”
“Been traveling too much. Jet lag. Feel a bit sick.”
Suddenly he reeled to the side of the pier, holding his stomach. After a second’s hesitation, Albert, who abhorred being close to water, reluctantly went to help. But the hands clutched to David’s stomach turned out to form one big fist. As Albert came alongside him, he stood upright and the fist swung into Albert’s abdomen; before the officer could regain his balance, one hand took his collar, another landed in the small of his back, there was water rushing up to meet him….
Albert shrieked. His skin turned icy cold. Water. The sea. Where lived whatever was worse than death.
Something black, cruel, terrible assembled itself from the slime in his subconscious and rose up to overshadow him, up and up it went, towering, blotting out first the sun, then the sky…. Then the steel grip he normally kept on his phobia reasserted itself. He switched off thought, concentrated only on the physical activity needed to get himself back to land, fast. He struck out for the nearest wooden pillar as if pursued by sharks.
Albert climbed up the ladder that was nailed to the pillar, rolled over on his stomach and was violently sick.
The unbearable trauma of entry, salt in his eyes, forks of agony sparking through his injured hand and stomach, all conspired to lose him valuable minutes. By the time he had finished vomiting and cleared his vision, there was nothing for him to see but the red-and-white speedboat creaming out of the harbor with David at its stem.
CHAPTER
40
Tony Roberts and his companions waited until lunchtime on Monday before putting to sea. They sailed clumsily, with self-mocking laughter that echoed dully across the narrow stretch of water between them and the house on the hillside. Barzel stood at Gerhard’s bedroom window, watching through binoculars. Only when they rounded the cape did he lower the glasses.
“They’ve gone,” he said in a conversational voice that held no warning of what was to happen next. He approached Gerhard, standing by the door, and, using all his strength, punched him in the solar plexus.
The blow was strong enough to send its victim reeling against the opposite wall of the passage. He slid to the floor, breath escaping from his lips in an odd, high-pitched whistle. Stange looked at Barzel as if for orders, read confirmation in his eyes, and kicked Gerhard below the rib cage.
They worked on him for five minutes. When they finally left him alone, his eyes were closed and a trickle of blood was oozing from his mouth to stain the pine floor.
Barzel went to Anna’s room. The first thing he and Stange had done on returning to the villa was truss her up, with rags stuffed into her mouth
and thick adhesive tape sealing her lips. She lay on the bed, staring at them through terrified, reddened eyes.
Barzel closed the door and turned to Stange. “What now?” he asked wearily.
Stange shook his head.
“Any problems with the radio?”
“None.”
“It’s going to be tough on you tomorrow.”
“Not so bad. Once you’re away, I can leave any time. They’re not looking for me.”
Barzel regarded him sullenly. “How come you’re so relaxed?”
“Mine’s the easy part. Once the sub surfaces, my equipment can pick up their signals without any difficulty. We’re using compressed codes, so there won’t be much for the opposition to monitor. Then all I’ve got to do is contact you via the short-range set, guide you to the landing point … and quietly disappear into the night.”
Stange clapped Barzel on the shoulder. “You worry too much.”
Barzel shook him off. “Can you set up the equipment now?” he asked brusquely.
“If you insist. But every second I’m on the air increases the danger. Who do you want me to call, and for what?”
Barzel leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes.
Stange had a point. Somewhere out there, NATO would be closing in on their quarry and they would have radio-monitoring equipment; it was a toss-up who arrived first, the West or the Soviet submarine. So there was no mileage in trying to change their escape plan. All they could do was await the cover of night and hope for the best, showing themselves in daylight would be madness.
Take a chance and radio Berlin?
Why? Barzel knew his orders by heart: Get the file back to base; bring the woman if possible.
What was possible, in these circumstances?
Kill Kleist, kill the woman, lock the house, and leave it.
Kill Kleist, stuff the woman in the trunk of the car, hope nobody saw them go on board the submarine.
Kill the woman, take Kleist back to Berlin for trial and punishment.
Kill yourself …
“Damn!” Barzel’s fist thudded into the wall behind him. “How long have we got?”
Stange looked at his watch. “Another thirteen hours and twenty minutes to rendezvous. Twelve hours before we’re due to leave the house.”
Barzel said nothing for a while. “I’m starving,” he muttered at last. “Let’s eat.”
Stange fried eggs while Barzel made the coffee. They were just sitting down when Gerhard limped into the kitchen.
He did not look at either of them at first. He went across to the sink to rinse his mouth out, before swallowing a lot of water. When he’d done that he slumped into a chair, pouring coffee for himself.
“Why did you beat me up?” he asked Barzel. His lips were puffy, his voice ragged.
“Do you mean that as a serious question?”
“You really thought I was helping her escape?”
“Weren’t you?”
“Why didn’t I go with her, then?”
Barzel continued to eat without replying. The question was one he had asked himself many times already, without coming any closer to an answer.
“You don’t understand shit, Barzel.” Gerhard sounded weary, his inflection that of a professor compelled to tutor a dense student for political reasons.
“Why did you encourage those people to take her away on their yacht, then?” Barzel retorted.
“Because if I hadn’t, they’d have become even more suspicious than they were already. It would have been a complete confirmation of all that Anna said.”
“What if she had gone?”
“She wouldn’t.”
“But—”
“I knew you were both armed. Your plan was obvious enough: once you showed her the gun, it was a foregone conclusion what she’d do.”
“How could you be sure?”
“Because I treated her at intervals spanning sixteen years,” Kleist jeered. “The reason you came to me in the first place, remember? Give me the sugar.”
Stange slid the bowl toward him without a word.
“Will you kill her?” Gerhard asked.
Barzel finished his eggs, mopped up the remains of the yolk with a piece of bread, and said, “Probably.”
“Typical response of a stupid man.”
“I did warn you, Gerhard. One more chance and then she’s dead, that’s what I told you, remember?”
“Yes.”
“No pleas?” Barzel scoffed. “No begging for mercy?”
“What’s the point? You’re in command. You can do the killing, no one will hear the shot, not here. Then you can bury her, or you can leave her in the house for Yorgos to find later.”
Barzel twitched. Kleist’s mind and his seemed to run on parallel tracks. The options were unattractive indeed.
“We’ll be away tonight,” Gerhard went on. “As soon as the submarine comes, we’re safe. Aren’t we?”
Barzel looked at Stange, who could not meet his eyes. He knew what the other man was thinking, because he’d been thinking the same thing himself. Suppose the submarine doesn’t come …?
It was a Russian sub. The Soviets were helping out a Warsaw Pact ally. Correction: the Soviets said they were prepared to help out a Warsaw Pact ally.
If the submarine didn’t appear, they would be left bobbing about on the surface in an open boat with nowhere to go except straight into the arms of the NATO forces that even now were homing in on Paxos.
They would be caught.
“Häftlingsfreikauf,” Gerhard murmured, and Barzel jumped.
“The buying-free-of-prisoners,” Gerhard continued quietly. “Swapping one of ours for one of theirs, on the Glienicker Bridge. Or through the Wartha-Herleshausen border point.”
“What about it?” Barzel’s voice was unsteady.
Kleist considered him in silence for a long time. “It works better for agents who haven’t killed anyone,” he said.
“The submarine will come,” Stange shouted, half rising from his chair. “Stop this crap.”
Barzel and Gerhard stared at him with identical expressions. Stange, reading their contempt, sat down again.
For a long moment no one spoke.
“I see why you became a psychologist, Gerhard.” Barzel’s tone had become businesslike. “Let’s get down to specifics, shall we? What are your chances of resuming control over her?”
“It depends on a lot of factors.”
“So suppose we hear them, mm?”
“First, whether she trusts me.”
“I don’t.”
“But your state of mind isn’t at issue, is it?” Gerhard’s face resembled that of a marble statue, his eyes gave nothing away. “Everything I did on the beach was consistent with my being on her side, yes?”
Barzel reluctantly nodded.
“She’ll remember that, a point in my favor. But there are adverse considerations as well.”
“Such as?”
“When I brought her here, I implanted a hypnotic suggestion in her mind. I told her not to try to leave this place. Somehow, I have got to dig that out of her system.”
“What will happen if you don’t?”
“Life on the submarine will become …” Kleist raised a hand from the table and examined the back of it with a frown,” … tiresome.”
“Will she let you hypnotize her again?”
“She might. I can promise not to sedate her if only she’ll allow me to put her into a trance.”
“Would she buy it?”
“She might. She’s terrified of drugs. In fact, I don’t have any more medication, but she won’t realize that.”
Barzel sat back, rubbing his tired eyes. He couldn’t think straight. He didn’t trust either Kleist or Anna one inch, but that scarcely mattered now. What mattered was whether that damned Soviet submarine would make the rendezvous. Because if it didn’t …
His gaze lighted on the sideboard, where his paperback edition of Nabokov’s Ada stood prop
ped up against the bread box. He’d bought that in New York, back in ‘78, it was still banned in Berlin….
“Try it,” he said.
CHAPTER
41
Robyn Melkiovicz’s memory proved accurate, there was a place called Avlaki on the west coast of the island where Kleist had his villa, and Avlaki did have a landing stage. As David disembarked a thought struck him: if by some remote chance he survived, he would need an escape route. He turned back to Amos, his boatman, and asked, “What are your plans now—will you return to Corfu?”
“No. Mr. Kleist has arranged for me to meet him here later.”
David’s pulse quickened. “You’re expecting him tonight?”
“Yes.” The Greek was young, high in his own self-esteem. He did not look inclined to waste time answering importunate questions, but David needed to know.
“Ah, I suppose that means we’ll be going for a barbecue. Like last year.”
“Perhaps.” Amos hesitated, then the desire to manifest superior knowledge won out. “Although Mr. Kleist does not have barbecues on Antipaxos anymore. Not after the fire.”
“Oh, so it’s Antipaxos tonight, is it?”
The man nodded. David paid him off and walked inland for a few miles before coming to a hamlet. There he had no trouble in persuading someone to rent him a moped. After that he did not stop until he reached the outskirts of the larger village, where Robyn had told him she used to buy bread. He bought a box of matches from the main store, at the same time inquiring the whereabouts of the Little House. David was a friend of Mr. Kleist? Indeed yes, was he in residence? He was, together with a few friends. Directions were forthcoming. David thanked the shopkeeper and went on his way.
Who were the “friends”? Anna, maybe, but the shopkeeper had plainly spoken in the plural: filoi. More than one friend. Be careful. Count cents!
He stopped, wiping his brow. Somehow he hadn’t expected to be allowed to get this far. What could he possibly hope to achieve, alone and unaided? Nothing. But the only alternative was Albert.
David still didn’t know if he’d done the right thing by dunking Albert in the sea. He mopped his forehead again, trying to stifle the fear that hovered never very far from his consciousness. “Cagey” was Broadway’s description of Albert, and David never had managed to find out what he really did, or why he always operated alone. But he might have gone on trusting him if it hadn’t been for Burroughs’ murder attempt. After that, David trusted nobody. Especially nobody who showed as much interest in finding Anna as Albert did.
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