David was learning how to count cents.
He looked around him. The village had receded into the distance and the light was going. Olive trees grew sporadically in expanses of dry, yellow grass beside the road. Houses were visible here and there, through the branches; all of them stood well back, secluded from the curiosity of strangers like himself. On the road he was too prominent. In this quiet place the phut-phutting engine of his moped invited attention like an icecream van’s bell.
David knew that Kleist’s villa lay off to the right, down a hill, perhaps a quarter of a mile, not more, from where he was now. So he struck off into the countryside to the left of the road, deliberately seeking cover in the opposite direction. Before long he came upon a huge pile of rotting straw, which someone had hollowed out to form a kind of igloo. It was an isolated spot. Hurriedly he stowed his moped deep inside the cavity, and set off on foot.
He kept the road in view wherever possible, anxious to avoid losing himself, even when this meant that sometimes he blundered through nettles or had to climb over barbed wire. At last he felt sure he must have arrived more or less opposite Kleist’s house, still on the other side of the road.
David was standing at the top of a slope. Cautiously he began to make his way down, hugging the treeline for as long as he could, until he reached the verge.
Damn! Emptiness yawned on either side of him. Not even so much as a gleam of white wall could be seen anywhere, this stretch was utterly deserted. He waited a moment, checking both ways, then ran across to the other side, where he again lost himself in the obscurity of the olive groves. Here he found a narrow path winding along the foot of an embankment, nothing like the stone driveway to the house that the storekeeper had described. David followed it for a few yards before stopping, certain that he had veered off course.
He flopped down beneath a tree and rested his head on his arms, suddenly tired. For the first time since quitting Corfu he let himself dwell on the case notes Albert had shown him. If they were genuine, every assumption he’d ever made about his wife, every lesson supposedly learned, was founded on falsehood.
Were these notes the real thing? Or were they clever forgeries, concocted by Albert for reasons David couldn’t even guess at?
There was only one way to find out. He must ask Anna.
Occasionally Kleist would record in his notes verbatim snatches of dialogue taken from the sessions. One of them had leapt off the page at David when he read it in the taxi.
“My mother always insisted she loved me, but if that was love …”
“You didn’t want it?”
“And that made me feel evil. Because what good person rejects love?”
“My mother …” Mrs. Elwell. She must have known about Kleist and the chain of events that had led her daughter to him in the first place. But when he’d asked her about those things, she had lied. Keeping up the front mattered more than Anna’s happiness, perhaps even more than her life.
David no longer knew what to think, what to believe. All he felt certain of was that he loved Anna and must keep on to the end of the path he had set himself. Then there would be time for reflection, and truth.
He raised his head. Something was wrong.
For the past few minutes he had been half aware of a curious noise, neither close nor remote. Pods snapping in the heat, perhaps, or rats; but the evening had turned cool and the noise was too loud to be caused by rats.
He stood up and looked around. What should he do? He resolved to push on in the direction he’d been taking before his rest. After a while the path sheered away from the wall and began to zigzag down the hill through dense undergrowth. From the breeze that now refreshed his skin he judged he must be near the sea. Ah, yes, a pale shimmer of molten gold cupped in the V made by two hills, off to his right.
He heard the noise again, louder this time, and looked over his shoulder. At first the dusk defeated his town-orientated eyes, but then his sight sharpened and involuntarily he let out a sharp breath. Twenty yards away, someone stood lighting a cigarette.
Fortunately the stranger was facing in the opposite direction or he could not have failed to see David, who now slowly edged around the nearest tree until its trunk screened him from the other man. He willed his heartbeat into a more regular pattern and tried to think. The person he’d just seen didn’t look Greek. He might be a tourist, well off the beaten track, but David didn’t think so; this island had yet to be ruined by the summer holiday crowd, tourists were scarce. Kleist, on the other hand, was said to be staying here with friends. Bodyguards, maybe. Watchers.
A twig broke, David heard a cough. The aroma of smoldering tobacco entered his nostrils, faintly at first, then more strongly. The man was moving toward him. David jerked his head back to its original position. Should he move? Stay put? He looked to left and right. Trees, nothing but trees … wrong!—up ahead he could see luminous pallor, a wall, maybe, some kind of building … Kleist’s villa? No, he was way off course. But perhaps he could hide there?
David began to map out a route. At least a dozen olive trees stood between him and the whiteness. If he dodged from tree to tree, moving quietly and fast, he might make it undetected.
He turned to either side, saw nothing suspicious. Then he pushed himself off the tree trunk and went forward at a brisk walk. He was lucky, the earth stayed silent beneath his feet. A few seconds later he had his back to another tree and was peering around its gnarled bole in an attempt to work out if he’d been spotted.
No one.
He took a deep breath and made for the next tree on his route. Now he could see that the whiteness belonged to a small church, its silhouette broken by two powder-blue blocks of sky framing a black bell It looked deserted. If only he could get inside …
The sunset was dissipating swiftly; it would be no easy task for anyone to catch sight of him in the dusk. The smell of tobacco smoke had faded. Not a sound disturbed the evening stillness. While he stood there, indecisive, a feeling of exposure swept over him. On impulse he ran forward to push against the church door. But as he did so, he heard that cough again, very close this time, and the unmistakable click of a cigarette lighter.
“Hey,” said a voice. “You!”
David fled into the church, closing the door behind him. He had expected to find the place in darkness, but to his surprise he saw a feeble yellow flame at the far end. He raced down the aisle toward it. The remains of a single large candle stood on the altar, nine-tenths burned away and drooping but still bright enough to show his position to an enemy. David made a lunge. The candle toppled to the floor and went out. As much by luck as judgment, the solid brass candlestick was left sitting snugly in his palm.
Outside the church he heard a voice say, “You! I know where you are. Come out!”
The speaker used stilted English, but he didn’t sound either English or Greek. David let his eyes stray to the windows, now glowing electric blue in the gathering dusk. Soon night would fall, but there was just enough light left to show him an opening, over which hung a curtain. A vestry …
“Who’s in there?” The church door rattled.
David’s throat had sealed up tighter than a fist. He sidled into the vestry, allowing the curtain to fall across the gap after him.
“You cannot hide!”
A prolonged creak, coupled with a warm breath of air, indicated that the outer door had opened. The stranger walked down the center of the church, disturbing leaves as he approached the altar. How much could he see?
“Aah!” The footsteps halted. David’s head seemed full of blood, he felt it would explode; surely the newcomer must hear the thudding of his heart? “Aah, show yourself, why don’t you? Nothing to be afraid of. I only want to talk.”
Another pause. David was standing with his back against the wall that partitioned the body of the church from the vestry, as close to the curtained doorway as he dared. He knew the man was mere yards away from him. How well did he know this church? How much could he
see?
More footsteps, going away this time. Another creak, followed by a slam. David was alone again. But what would the other man do—wait for him to emerge, or muster reinforcements? Why had he left the church without searching it?
By now the gloom had become all but impenetrable. The vestry lacked a window; David could scarcely see his own hand in front of his face.
He came off the wall and turned, preparing to twitch aside the curtain that hung across the doorway. Another second and he would have passed through the gap, into the church itself. But then many things happened at once: someone nearby moved, scattering leaves across the floor, David caught a glint of metal, in a flash he knew that the stranger hadn’t left the church, he’d opened the door and slammed it again to fool David and now was mere feet away, ready to strike.
The man growled in satisfaction. David felt the air move; he leapt backward. Hands punched his solar plexus, winding him. A head butted into David’s chest, slamming him back against the wall. For a second he merely let it happen, powerless to help himself. Then he remembered what he was holding.
His first blow landed across the other man’s shoulders, causing him to freeze with a grunt of mingled surprise and pain. Not much of a respite, but enough. David lifted the brass candlestick as high as he could and brought it down in a vertical stab, aiming just beyond the hands that had been pummeling him seconds ago. Someone groaned. David took the candlestick in a double-handed grip and began to flail it around like a sword, slashing the darkness on either side of him. His third swing made contact, another groan, this time near his feet.
David stepped back a pace, raised the candlestick above his head, and axed downward with all his might.
The sound of brass clanging on stone revealed his mistake. Too late: he was already toppling forward, unbalanced by the force of his own blow. A foot lashed out of the darkness, entangling his legs, and he fell.
Somewhere close he could hear panting. His opponent was still on the floor, it was a kick that had laid David low, not a punch. So don’t let him get up again. David rolled as far as he could, hugging the candlestick to his chest. The wall stopped him. He managed to stagger up to a kneeling position before hands met around his throat and began to squeeze.
The enemy was behind him, also kneeling. Not a good position, but he was as strong as an ox and clever, too: anticipating the likely reaction he kept his body arched left, away from David’s increasingly weakened blows with the weapon still clutched in his right hand.
David’s strength was going. Each breath became a nightmare. Purple blotches marred his vision; from the pain in his throat he felt his head must be coming off. Suddenly the right hand on his windpipe fell away and he sensed that the man had made a grab for the candlestick. He missed. Instead of trying again, he moved his left hand from David’s throat to his hair, and started to bang his head against the wall.
David cried out. His adversary immediately let go of David’s hair and clamped his left palm across his mouth instead. In the darkness, the move was clumsy; his forefinger landed between David’s teeth. With whatever strength he had left, David clenched his jaws together and shook his head from side to side.
Until then, the other man had been fighting in near silence—which made his roar of pain all the more gratifying. David managed a half turn, still keeping his teeth closed around his attacker’s finger. Through a blur of weakness he realized that his right hand was free. He stabbed to his left with the candlestick and made soft contact. He thrust again—but this time hands stronger than his own managed to grasp his makeshift club, and the next second David was defenseless.
A whoosh of air, frighteningly close, told him that his assailant was trying to duplicate his own move of a moment ago and lay him out cold. He ducked to one side. The next swing caught him on the shoulder, making him howl. That meant the end, his voice would have given away his position.
David fumbled desperately on the floor, seeking purchase. His fingers brushed something spiky and spasmodically closed around it. In the same instant, he heard a clang as the other man threw down the candlestick and launched himself downward. David found himself crouching with his back against the wall, those terrible hands once more around his throat.
This time his opponent was in front of him. Light going now, can’t breathe. Last chance. Go limp. Sink …
As the other man was pulled forward under the weight of the inert body he was holding, David tightened his grip on the spiky thing and drove it with all his force at the two glittering points of light in front of him.
He missed the eyes, but a squeal reassured David that his thrust had done good work. The vice around his throat relaxed, he was free, he was running. As he hurtled through the church’s outer door, something made him look down and see that he was holding Juliet’s corn dolly. He raised Miss Cuppidge to the light. His hands were shaking. Anna … Don’t think of that, don’t stop, to the right, trees, ahead, a path leading up the hill, on his left, a short drop, then rocks and the sea. A bay.
For a split second he found himself looking across the cove to a house on the hillside opposite. Light streamed out of its downstairs rooms to illuminate a terrace, where two men were standing with their backs to him. David had eyes only for a third figure, seated just inside, but nevertheless clearly visible through the open doorway. A woman. Her pale green V-neck dress with short, white-cuffed sleeves stood out boldly in the artificial light. The dress was Italian, made of cotton, and it zipped up the back. David knew these things because he had bought it for Anna last year on her thirty-eighth birthday, one of his rare and outrageously extravagant declarations of love.
His mission still had a long way to go; all he had done was find Anna, not rescue her. But as David raced up the path, into the trees, his heart sang for sheer joy.
CHAPTER
42
While Stange remained at the house, fitting up his radio set, the others moved fast through the night, Gerhard riding next to Yorgos, who drove, with Anna and Barzel in the back seat.
Yorgos was happy, he explained to anyone who would listen. The olive crop looked to be a good one, there was much to be done. His son would be coming home on Monday, early, thanks be to God.
Somehow Gerhard didn’t think so. He wasn’t expecting Iannis to show up again. Perhaps his expression hinted at more than Yorgos cared to know, for after a while he trailed off into silence. The atmosphere hardly encouraged social chitchat.
Gerhard knew why Barzel had chosen to ride in the back. That way he could more easily cover him and Anna, because by now both of them were prisoners.
He had tried to hypnotize Anna, with her consent, but his skill had dwindled almost to nothing. The best he could manage was a patient explanation of the arrangements, hoping that would calm her. They were going to a place called Avlaki, there a boat would be waiting to take them on to the small island where they had swum, they would be in the car for so many minutes, on the sea for so many minutes more—but it was useless. The first night on the island, he had told her that David wanted her to be here, so she must stay; now he could not unscramble those instructions. He was afraid to contemplate what the effect might be.
He turned his head slightly. At the start, Anna lay huddled against the door, as far away from Barzel as she could manage within the confines of the car. They had untied her legs but her hands were still bound. She was shivering, sometimes violently, sometimes a mere murmur of the body, reminding him of a very sick animal.
“The submarine,” she cried suddenly, and seemed on the point of speaking again but was silent.
“What about—”
“Steel trap. Don’t let them.” She raised her voice in desperation. “Don’t let them do it!”
Barzel shifted onto the edge of his seat. “Can’t you shut her up?” he snarled. When Gerhard snapped a refusal, he tossed his head like a man who doubts, but made no reply.
“Don’t deserve this. Leaving Juliet. Everyone. Poor David …”
&nbs
p; Gerhard leaned over to stroke her cheek. It felt wet beneath his palm.
Anna was silent for a long time; she seemed to have fallen asleep. Barzel’s short-wave handset crackled into life, making Gerhard jump. Stange’s voice emerged over the static. Barzel murmured a few words to test the hookup.
Anna stirred, evidently awakened by the interruption. She looked around, as if surprised to find herself inside a car.
“Herr Barzel,” she said suddenly. “You really must come around for dinner when we’re all living in Berlin. We’ll have a laugh about old times, a few drinks. Lots of drinks …”
No one said anything. Barzel continued to gaze through the windshield as if Anna had not spoken, but Gerhard’s professional intuition was already mapping the catastrophe before him.
“You must bring your gun. I want to see you shoot. Can you knock hearts out of playing cards, and things like that? Bet you can.”
She was sitting up now, taking interest in her surroundings. When Barzel still did not answer, she bent forward to rest her wrists on the top of the driver’s seat—“Sorry, Yorgos, did I bump you? It’s this rope”—and say, “Out-of-the-run jobs like yours can be so fascinating.”
Her giggle was childlike.
“Anna.” Gerhard reached out to touch her arm. “Anna, stop it.”
“Mm?” She glanced at him. “Something bothering you?”
“Anna!”
She swayed. Her eyes, so intent and alert a second ago, unfocused, and in the same instant her face underwent a subtle change. It was a question of millimeters, nothing more, a sagging of the chin, drooping eyelids, slack mouth … countless details emerged to suggest a change of personality, along with the outward show.
Krysalis: Krysalis Page 38