Behind me a voice said, ‘Paul. What happens to you now?’
I turned. She was dry-eyed, looking more of a waif than ever, with one of Gilmore’s suitcases in her hand and a pile of her own things over the other arm.
‘If there’s a war, then I’ll be all right. It’s in times of war they need people like me, isn’t it?’
She didn’t comment. Instead, she said, ‘I don’t see why we have to go in the patrol boat.’
Gilmore had appeared, carrying his other case. ‘I tried to talk them out of it, but I expect they have their reasons.’
The anchor was on deck, the two boats drifting. Kotiadis looked at her. ‘Are you ready, Miss Winters?’
She nodded and then turned to me. ‘Is there nothing—?’
I shook my head. ‘He was very near the end, anyway. It’s better like this.’
I don’t know whether she believed me or not. I’m not even certain she understood. She stared at me a moment, standing very still, biting her lip, her eyes luminous with tears. But whether for him, or for what might have been between us, I will never know, for she got control of herself and went past me, moving towards the rail in a daze. Kotiadis took the suitcase and helped her over on to the patrol boat. Gilmore followed. ‘We’ll see you in Levkas, I expect.’
I nodded. But I thought that very doubtful. The Greek sailors cast off and the patrol boat gathered way, heading north up the channel, a froth of white water at her stern. Sonia had not once looked back. I pushed the gear lever into forward, swung the wheel over and brought Coromandel round on to the line of the patrol boat’s wake. I saw the flick of a lighter reflected in the glass of the windshield. Kotiadis was in the wheelhouse now, standing behind me, the smell of his cigarette rank in the hot air. Neither of us spoke, and abreast of the southern end of Tiglia I left the wheel and went out on to the starboard deck. Hans and Cartwright were busy dismantling the mess tent, Vassilios loading his boat. The orange sleeping tents were already struck. They didn’t look up as we steamed past the southern opening to the cove, the water there a flat sheet of brilliant green, the rocks above pulsating in the heat.
I had set the engine revs fairly low, so that we were doing no more than four knots. The time by the wheelhouse clock was 16.10. Just over four hours before it was dark. I pushed past Kotiadis to the chart table and measured off the distance to Levkas port. It was exactly 11 miles—8½ to the entrance of the canal. Back at the wheel I steadied her on a course of 35°, which would take us just to the east of Skropio Island, and engaged the automatic pilot. ‘Can I get you anything?’ I asked. ‘A drink, some coffee?’
‘Thank you—coffee.’ His heavy-lidded eyes were screwed up against the sun-glare, the cigarette dangling from his lips. He was still wearing his jacket and I wondered whether that meant he was armed.
Down in the galley, I lit the gas ring and put the coffee percolator on. There was tinned ham in the fridge and I cut myself some sandwiches. By the time I had finished them, the coffee was made and I took it up to the wheelhouse. Skropio’s wooded slopes stood like a dark hat floating above the milk calm of the water. Not a ripple anywhere and the boat thudding along as though we were on rails. ‘Black or white?’ I asked him.
‘Black.’
He watched me as I poured it and I wondered whether he knew I was dangerous.
‘Sugar?’
‘Thank you.’
I handed him the cup and he took it with his left hand, his eyes on me all the time, his right hand free.
I pulled the flap-seat down and sat on it. The coffee was scalding hot and the sweat trickled down my body. ‘Well, what happens now?’ I said. ‘When we get to Levkas.’
‘You will be sent on to England.’
‘I’m from Holland, not England.’
‘You have an English passport.’
‘Am I under arrest?’
He didn’t say anything.
‘If you’re at war, then you don’t have to take any notice of Interpol.’
‘We are not at war. And the English are important to us.’
‘The man I killed was a Communist. You hate Communists. Doesn’t that make any difference?’
He shrugged. ‘I have my instructions.’
‘And the boat?’
‘It will be searched. Probably impounded.’
‘Why?’
His eyes flicked open. ‘You ask me why? You are in Pythagorion on June 10. You leave that night. Our information is that you were in the Samos Straits and that you have a rendezvous with a Turkish fishing boat. Correct?’
I finished my coffee, the two of us watching each other. ‘Yes, quite correct,’ I said.
‘Then explain, please.’
‘A smuggling job.’
I gave him some more coffee, and then, as we closed Skropio Island and motored close in along the shore, I told him the whole story, and by the time I had finished, Skropio was astern of us, and we were passing another wooded island, Sparti, our bows headed slightly east of north and the sun beginning to fall towards the dark rim of the Levkas mountains. Visibility had improved, and beyond the open roadstead of Port Drepano, I could just see the buoys marking the dredged channel into the canal. Four miles to go. One hour at our present speed. ‘You mentioned Byron to me once …’ And for the next quarter of an hour I used every argument I could think of to persuade him that I could be of some service to his country if I were at liberty. After all, in the event of war they would need ships’ officers. But it was no good. He had his instructions. ‘If it had not been for the accident to Dr Van der Voort, you would have been deported when you arrived back in Meganisi.’
We were off Mara Point then, close in to the Levkas shore, and I was relieved to see the patrol boat coming up astern. It passed within two or three cables of us doing about 12 knots. It would be in Levkas inside of half an hour. I looked at the clock. It was now 17.21 and the sun was already behind the towering bulk of the mountains. In forty minutes we should be in the dredged channel, with shallows all round us and darkness only two hours off. ‘Time for a drink,’ I said. ‘Whisky or cognac? I’m afraid there’s no ouzo.’
‘Cognac, thank you. But from the bottle, eh?’ And he smiled at me thinly. He was taking no chances, and when I came back up to the Wheelhouse, I let him pour it himself. Then I asked him whether he’d any idea what we’d been smuggling out of Turkey.
‘You told me—antiquities from old tombs.’
‘Would you like to see them?’
‘When we get to Levkas.’
‘There are twenty-three packages. When we get to Levkas, will you ring Leonodipoulos for me?’ If they were museum pieces, I thought perhaps I could do a deal. But he only laughed. ‘They are Turkish. Leonodipoulos is only interested in Greek antiquities.’
There was nothing for it then, and I sat there drinking my cognac, watching the cat’s paws of an evening zephyr slip beneath our bows. The sky deepened in colour. The channel buoys grew larger beneath the solid bulk of Ayios Giorgios fort. And all the time Kotiadis stood there, leaning against the back wall of the wheelhouse, the glass in his hand, but hardly drinking. Astern of us, the sea was empty, not a sign of any other vessel right back to the dark shape of Skropio and the outline of Meganisi.
We entered the dredged channel at 18.06, chugging slowly between the first two buoys, the water suddenly a muddy brown on either side. To starboard was the small island of Volio, the fort above it on its hill, but all ahead of us it was a flat Dutch landscape. I was at the wheel now, a big trading caique coming south. We met her just after we had passed the second pair of buoys, the channel narrow and the ripple of her bow waves breaking where the shallows on either side were only six feet deep. The entrance to the canal proper was marked by the final pair of buoys and there was a red-roofed hut to port, on the extreme edge of the saltings, where cattle grazed in the shadow of the steeply rising hills beyond.
I reached back to the chart table, picked up Chart 1609, folded it to the large scale plan of the
canal and propped it in front of the wheel. Just over a quarter of a mile beyond the entrance a green-flashing buoy marked the fairway, where the channel made a slight dog-leg to the west and was crossed by the curving line of an older canal. And, just before it, there was an unlit buoy marking shallows with a depth of only one foot to starboard. This was the spot I chose, and as we slipped between the last pair of buoys, I took the glasses down from their hook and searched the whole line of the canal ahead. I could see the fairway buoy quite distinctly, with the mound of Paleo Khalia to the right of it, and beyond was a great sheet of shallow water stretching all the way to limáni Levkas, and not a sign of a mast, no caique to pull us off before it got dark.
In the last stretch before the buoy, there was a line of stones to port and the low island of solid ground to starboard was topped by the crumbling remains of a small redoubt. I looked round at Kotiadis. He had put his glass down and had just taken out his packet of cigarettes. I set a course of north-west on the automatic pilot, a course that would take us diagonally across the canal and into the shallows on our port side. His lighter flicked, as we came to the end of the flat little island. The canal was eighteen yards wide, the unlit buoy less than a hundred yards ahead, and the saltings falling back, the shallows opening out. The moment had come, and I engaged the automatic pilot. ‘Quick!’ I shouted. ‘Grab it!’ and I flung myself out of the wheelhouse door, running aft along the deck. Kotiadis followed me. ‘What is it?’ he asked as he joined me.
‘The jib preventor,’ I said, leaning over the stern. ‘It must have shaken loose.’
He didn’t know anything about boats and for a moment he stood there, watching the wake for a non-existent piece of equipment. And then he suddenly remembered that we were in the canal and nobody at the wheel. He turned, and in that moment we grounded, right opposite the unlit buoy. There was no sudden jolt, just a slow coming to a halt and the white of our wake turning to a useless churning of muddy water.
He stared at me. ‘Cretin!’ But that was all he said. No doubt he had his suspicions, but he didn’t voice them, and after an ineffectual attempt to get off under power, he was fully occupied helping me to get the dinghy over the side and a kedge run out astern. It all took time, and because the nylon warp was fixed direct to the anchor, with no intermediary length of chain to weight the stock down, it did not dig in as the strain came on it, but ploughed through the mud bottom. Clouds hung over the mainland hills and for a brief period they were rimmed with pink, while the clear sky overhead turned to a cold duck’s egg green and the darkening mass of the Levkas heights changed from purple to black.
By the time we had made three attempts to winch ourselves clear, it was dark enough to see the lights of the port two miles away, with the red and green lights of the channel buoys to the south and the fairway buoy winking green, its flashes so close you felt you could reach out and touch it. ‘It’s no good,’ I said. ‘We’ll have to wait for a caique to tow us off in the morning.’ He followed me down into the saloon and I gave him another cognac. And since we were there for the night, I repeated my suggestion that he might like to have a look at what we’d smuggled out of Turkey. I was curious myself, and I hoped that, with his interest in Greek antiquities, they would prove exciting enough to tempt him.
The first package I brought up from the bilges was one of the smallest and proved to contain a short necklace of thin gold beaten into the form of tiny shells. I saw his eyes gleam as he handled it, but when I said he could have it if he’d give me the opportunity of getting clear of Greek waters, he put it down as though it were too hot to hold. ‘And what do I say to Constantanidi?’ He smiled and shook his head. ‘Tomorrow, when we are in Levkas, the Customs take charge of this.’
‘On behalf of the government,’ I said. ‘You won’t get it.’
‘No. But I have my job.’ He was still staring at it. ‘Oréo,’ he murmured softly. ‘Is very beautiful.’
‘Then take it,’ I said. ‘Whilst you have the chance.’
But he shook his head again, ‘It is of no importance to me. And if there is war—what good is it then?’
I was watching his face, sitting across the table from him, my nerves tense. ‘Okay.’ I got to my feet. ‘Then I’ll throw it overboard. And all the rest of the packages.’ And I picked it up and turned towards the companionway.
‘No.’ He had risen, too. ‘It is all the property of the Greek Government.’
‘Balls!’ I said. ‘It belongs to a man called Borg, who’s a crook anyway.’ I tossed the necklace on to the table in front of him and then I went for’ard, to where I had pulled up part of the cabin sole, and brought up two more packages, putting them on the table in front of him. ‘You open those, while I get the rest.’ I could hear him removing the polythene covering as I went for’ard again. When I came back into the saloon, he was carefully unwrapping a drinking cup of the same beaten gold from its cocoon of cottonwool. His eyes were bright, the cigarette in his mouth burning unheeded, and as he pulled the last of the cottonwool away and the goblet-shaped cup lay gleaming, he picked it up in both his hands. That was when I hit him—in the belly first, and then a short jab to the jaw. He sagged, his eyes wide and surprised, his long face looking longer and blood welling where his lip was cut.
He slumped across the table and I pushed him back on to the settee berth. He sprawled there slackly, and he hadn’t got a gun. I fetched a morphine ampoule from the medicine chest and injected him in the arm the way I had injected Bert, and then I went on deck for some rope. He was still out when I returned. I put a clove hitch round his wrists and ankles, tied the rope round his waist and then slipped the little gold necklace into his pocket. At least it would be something.
After that there was a lot to do and I worked fast, coiling the long nylon anchor line into the dinghy and rowing with it across to the unlit buoy. It was night now, the sky studded with stars, the water black. I tied the end of the line to the eye on top of the buoy and hauled myself back to the boat. I tried winching her off without the engine first. I was scared of getting the line wrapped round the prop. But she wouldn’t come. Even with the engine astern on full revs she didn’t budge, and I stood there, sweating, the deck pounding under the soles of my feet and the line to the buoy stretched so taut it was like a thread. I thought for a moment I’d have to lighten her by pumping fresh water over the side, but then suddenly, the flashing light of the fairway buoy was swinging towards the bows and I slammed the gear lever into neutral, running aft and hauling in the slack as she drifted stern-on towards the buoy. Then I snubbed the line on a cleat, made fast and left her to ride there by the stern while I dealt with Kotiadis.
He was heavier than I thought, and I had trouble lowering him into the dinghy. It seemed a long row to the low island with the redoubt, and the mud and the slimy stones of the bank made it difficult to get him ashore. I slipped the rope free of him and left him there, rowing wearily for the buoy. And then I found the knot had been drawn so tight I couldn’t undo it. I seemed to be struggling with it for hours, the sweat drying cold on my body and my knees trembling with exhaustion. But at last I managed to free it and then it was only a matter of a few yards to the stern of the boat.
I clambered back on board, made the dinghy fast and stood for a moment in the wheelhouse, alone at last and trembling. The quickest way to clear Greek territorial waters was to head up the Canal past the port of Levkas and out by the northern entrance. West from there it was all open sea. But the Canal was unlit, and though I had been down it once in daylight, I didn’t dare risk it, and there was always the chance, with an emergency on, that they would be checking all boats. Reluctantly I turned Coromandel’s bows south and headed for the double line of red and green lights that marked the dredged channel.
It was 21.38 when I passed between the last set of lights. I was shivering by then and I switched to automatic pilot and went below to put on shirt and trousers and a sweater. Until that moment I had been too concerned with getting rid of Ko
tiadis to think about what I should do when I had the boat to myself. I went back up to the wheelhouse and got out Chart 203. Going south round the island of Levkas meant passing back through the Meganisi Channel. It was 12 miles to the point where we had been anchored and I had made that dive, another 10 miles to Cape Dukato, the south-western tip of Levkas. Say three hours if I could maintain maximum speed of 8 knots in unlit waters. And then I was measuring off the distance to Cape Aterra, the north-westernmost point of Cephalonia. From the Meganisi Channel, it was 23 miles on a course of 225°. I could be there by 02.30 with almost two hours of darkness to spare, and I should then be that much further on my way to Africa.
I checked the course and went below to get myself a meal. By the time I had finished it, Point Kephali was astern and I could just see the 8-second double flash of the light on Meganisi’s Elia Point fine on the port bow. I made some coffee then, put it in a flask and took it up to the wheelhouse. And after that I had no time for anything but navigation, for there was no moon, only starlight, and I was dependent on exact courses to clear the islands and shoals to the north of the Meganisi Channel. Shortly after 22.00 navigation lights passed me steaming north and I wondered whether Kotiadis would be conscious enough by the time that caique entered the canal to attract its attention. By then I could see the dark outline of Sparti through the glasses, and a quarter of an hour later I was passing Skropio, thinking of the Barretts, wondering how they would feel if they knew their beloved boat was thundering past them, out of their lives.
But I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t help any of the things that had happened. It was all part of the pattern that had started way back in the house in Amsterdam. I could only bless them that they had a boat with fuel tanks that gave a range of over 3,000 miles, and those tanks three-quarters full. And then I was in to the Meganisi Channel, the bulk of Tiglia just visible and the sound of the engine beating back from the rocks on either side. I was thinking of the old man then, our two lives meeting for the last time in the dreadful interior of that cave—the red bull and Holroyd’s body floating up through that blow hole. My hands were shaking, the palms wet with sweat, and I prayed. Prayed that he had died quietly, that he was at peace now.
Levkas Man Page 32