by Colin Forbes
The headquarters of so many shipping empires. Others have registered in Panama. Some of those big men have yachts which come in to Zea. Petros Gavalas has a small yacht there – what these people would call a rowboat. And still our friends are with us.'
That black Mercedes?' Newman enquired, careful not to look back.
'Yes. And we have made too many turns for it to be a coincidence. Let us see what he does when we turn down to Zea.'
They had left behind the big shipping company buildings. Now they were driving along a narrow street which twisted and turned, following the indentations of the coastline. On the landward side were small old apartment blocks. Freshly painted, they had pots and tubs holding decorative shrubs standing on their balconies.
'It would cost you a fortune to live at Zea,' Nick said. 'Only the very rich have an apartment here…'
Staring ahead beyond the windscreen Newman saw a signpost to the right as Nick slowed to a crawl. Zeas Port. He turned down a sloping track leading to the sea and along a platform below a high stone wall. The small harbour was crammed with ships moored hull to hull – and each worth hundreds of millions of drachmae. The million-dollar class.
Nick drove along the jetty which curved round the exclusive harbour, protecting it from the sea. Executing a three-point turn, he pointed the car the way they had come. He was parked by the stern of a small yacht, Venus III. Jumping out, he opened the rear door.
'This is Gavalas' yacht,' he remarked. 'A very small fish.'
'How could he afford even this?' Newman asked.
'He buys cheap. During the oil crisis he buys it for one tenth of its value from a man who needs cash. Petros is cunning.'
'What happened to the black Mercedes?' Marler enquired, standing by Newman on the jetty.
'It stopped by one of the apartments on the hill, one man got out, carrying a violin case. Then it drove off.'
'Odd that,' Marler observed and lit a cigarette.
'Please?' Nick was puzzled. 'I do not understand.'
The car follows us from Syntagma. He has no way of knowing where we are going. We arrive here and they drop off one man at an apartment. Some coincidence.'
Newman was running up a flight of steps to a narrow ledge beneath the wall which was now waist-high. The view out over the harbour hit him. The emerald sea, very calm, sparkled with dazzling reflections from the sun. On the far side and further out a fleet of freighters waited, stationary, bows pointed towards the harbour, smoke drifting lazily from their stacks.
Tor Christ's sake come down,' Marler called out.
Newman turned, leant his arms on the wall. It was so hot he could barely stand the heat. He stood looking down at the assembled craft. From one of the photographs taken by Masterson this was where he had stood when he took them. On the jetty just-about the point where Marler waited.
He recognized the huddle of old apartment blocks, the hills rising behind, bare, mushroom-coloured, flecked with scrub. There had to be something here which would give a clue as to why Masterson had come to Zea. He walked down the steps and spoke to Nick, who was polishing the bonnet of the car.
There's a whole queue of big ships, mostly freighters, waiting to come in.'
'The cargo docks on the other side,' Nick explained. They will be waiting for the signal from Marine Control to berth.'
Newman frowned as he saw Marler staring up at the bridge of the Venus III. He followed his gaze and sucked in his breath. Standing by the side of the bridge was a girl with a mane of black glossy hair, centre-parted. She had good bone structure and wore a polka-dot white dress with a thin belt hugging her slim waist. She held her right hand over her thick eyebrows, shielding herself against the sun. It was the girl in the 'photo Masterson had taken unawares.
Marler stared back with a dry smile. Then he raised his own hand and gave her a mocking little wave. Her mouth twitched. She waved back, then vanished. Nick also stood staring at where she had appeared, the cloth poised above the bonnet.
'Christina Gavalas,' he said in a low voice. 'That is very strange.'
'I want to have a word with her,' Newman said grimly.
A gangplank linked the vessel's stern with the jetty. Newman approached it, followed by Marler at a more leisurely pace. His movements were always slow and deliberate. Except in an emergency.
Newman reached the gangplank when three seamen came round the corner of the deck. They wore white sleeveless sweat shirts, blue pants. In their late twenties they were heavily built and two carried marlinspikes. One of them shouted at Newman in Greek, brandishing his marlinspike.
'What did he say?' Newman asked Nick, although he'd understood every word.
Nick laid a warning hand on Newman's arm. 'He says you are not allowed aboard. This is private property.'
'Tell him to get stuffed. I only wanted to invite the girl to join me for a drink.'
'I think we had better leave,' Nick warned again. He called out in Greek. 'We are just leaving. My passengers were admiring your beautiful boat.'
The Greek waved his marlinspike and the three crewmen walked out of sight. Marler was staring beyond the boats up at the apartment buildings above the small harbour. He saw the sun reflect off something, like one flash of a semaphore.
'Get into the car quick!' he ordered Newman. 'No bloody argument.' He pulled open the rear door and dived inside as Newman joined him. 'Nick,' Marler continued, 'move us out of here fast.'
Nick reacted instantly. For a large man he moved with surprising agility. He was behind the wheel when the shriek of several ships' sirens blasted over the wall. As the noise continued Nick started the engine. There was a heavy thud. At the same moment they heard a crackle of glass splintering behind them. The bullet passed between the heads of Marler and Newman, passed on through the open window of the front passenger seat beside Nick.
6
Nick accelerated along the narrow platform, braked, turned up the track leading to the main road. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. Newman and Marler both had their heads turned. The rear window had crazed, had a small hole in it.
'He fired from the top of one of those apartment buildings,' Marler remarked.
'We go up there, yes?' Nick enquired. 'We find the bastard before he can get away?'
'No!' replied Newman. 'Turn left. Head back for the town hall square. Find us somewhere we can talk. And somewhere you can hide the car.'
'I know a bar. Close to it is a bombed site. They will not find the car if I park there.'
'Do it,' said Newman. He turned to Marler. 'Is that why you tried to get me down off the wall?'
'Of course, my dear chap.' Marler was as calm as though he'd experienced an everyday happening. He adjusted the display handkerchief in his breast pocket. 'You normally catch on quicker. You had an absorbed look when you ran up those steps. Stood on that ledge like a target in a shooting gallery. Is it the heat, by any chance?'
His tone was mocking. He reached into his pocket and perched a pair of horn-rimmed glasses on his nose. They have seen me once. I don't think they'll recognize me so easily next time.'
'Those glasses make you look exactly like Michael Caine.'
'Flattery will get you nowhere. The lenses are plain glass.'
'You were expecting that shot?'
'Something like it. The black Mercedes follows us. Nick reports they drop one man carrying a violin case, then drive off. A violin case! Not much imagination there. Did they strike you as musical characters? A violin case,' he repeated. 'Just the thing for carrying a dismantled Armalite rifle. You are only alive because he had to assemble his weapon before he used it. I saw the sun flashing off his telescopic sight – which is when I told you to dive into the car. He was a better shot than I'd hoped. Very smart, too.'
'Why do you say that?' Nick asked.
'He had a bit of luck and used it. Those ships' sirens starting up muffled the sound of the shot.'
'They made one huge mistake though,' Newman said.
'Which was?' Marler enquired.
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'Firing that shot, of course. Now we know someone murdered Harry Masterson.'
The bar was small, located up a side street, was furnished with plastic-topped tables, a plastic-topped counter. Only the floor had a hint of luxury. It was laid from wall to wall with solid marble. Nick had ordered ouzo for everyone. Newman asked for a large bottle of mineral water.
'We can't afford to risk dehydration,' he remarked, wiping the back of his neck with a silk handkerchief. 'First things first. That bullet-hole in the rear window of your car could be embarrassing for all of us. Can anything be done about it?'
'You don't want to report the attack to the police?' Nick asked, his broad tanned arms resting on the table-top.
They could complicate life at this stage. Unless you insist?'
'I have many friends.' Nick drank half his glass of ouzo. 'I know a garage mechanic who will fix that overnight. A new window. No questions asked. OK?'
'OK,' agreed Newman. 'I pay the bill, of course. Next – when Christina Gavalas appeared on the deck of Venus III you said, 'That is very strange.' Why?'
Nick paused, refilled their glasses from the jug of ouzo. 'It is a bit… complex. Is that the word?'
Tell me, then I'll know.'
'Petros is eighty years old, a ferocious tyrant. Pray you do not meet him. Born in 1907, he married when he was seventeen. His first wife produced two sons – Andreas and Stephen. Twins, but not identical. Andreas and Stephen also married when very young – only eighteen. It was the war in their cases, I suppose. That was in 1943 or 1944. After Andreas was killed on Siros his wife gave birth to Christina – Petros' granddaughter. Do you understand so far?'
'Perfectly,' said Newman. 'Go on.'
'At that time Petros fought with the Communists – the ELAS party. Andreas hated them. He escaped to Cairo, joined the anti-Communist party, EDES. Petros was furious. Called him a traitor. But blood is thicker than water. Petros had a grudging admiration for Andreas. When Andreas was killed in the Siros raid he swore to hunt down his killer. Then came the second tragedy.'
'Which was?'
The other twin, Stephen, also hated his father and fled to Cairo to join the EDES forces. Then he, too, was murdered. Later his wife gave birth also to twins, Dimitrios and Constantine. Again, non-identical. But the strain had run out. They are peasants working on Petros' farm in Devil's Valley.'
'A whole lot of hatred,' Marler observed.
'It gets worse. After the end of the Civil War in Greece between EDES and ELAS – which nearly wrecked my country – in 1950 Petros married again when his first wife died. His second wife produced a son, Anton. Maybe because Petros was then forty-two and his new wife was twenty-eight Anton turned out to be very clever. You see the scope for bitterness in that family?'
'How did Christina react?' Marler asked.
'A magnificent woman now, she is torn between two moods. Greek loyalty to the family – and her detesting Petros who treated her badly. As I told you, it is complex. But that is why I thought it strange to see her on Venus III. Petros only keeps the boat so he can watch those millionaires – wait for another to become in desperate need of money. Then maybe he picks up yet another bargain. He owns farms. One near Cape Sounion.'
'So he is rich?' Newman pressed. 'What kind of farms?'
'The one in Devil's Valley is in a remote part of the interior of the peninsula between Athens and Sounion. A dangerous area to explore. He grows figs and olives. His headquarters is an old farmhouse in wild country – reached by a track off the main highway to Sounion. There are even rumours he has a working silver mine. That I don't know about – whether it is working.'
'Let me get this clear,' intervened Marler. 'Petros was a one-time Communist. His son, Andreas, was killed on Siros. OK so far?'
'OK,' Nick agreed.
'And,' Newman suggested, 'this fierce old Petros is a Communist although he's rich?'
'Not any more from what I hear. Petros was sickened of politics by the Civil War. It lasted from 1946 to 1949. A lot of blood was spilt. At the end of it Petros said all politicians could burn in hell. He devoted himself to farming, making money, but he has never forgotten the murder of his sons.'
'How and where was Stephen killed?' Newman asked.
'The rumour is it happened in a street brawl in a native quarter in Alexandria. There are other versions.'
'And Christina wavers between supporting Petros and hating him?'
'So it is told in Athens.'
Marler grunted. 'The only fact that comes out of all this is that Petros – and Christina – could still feel bitter about Andreas' death on Siros. After all, Andreas was her father.'
That is what I have heard,' Nick agreed. 'And now maybe we should drive back to Athens so I can have the window repaired.' He finished off his ouzo, glanced at Newman. 'We forget about Cape Sounion – after what happened at Zea? For today?'
'Back to Athens. Another day we could visit this Petros? I'd like to ask him some questions.'
Nick grinned. 'You have brought some good weapons with you?'
'No. Nothing.'
'You go in Devil's Valley, you go armed. All Petros' men have guns. I said it before. A very dangerous place. You want to come out alive. Back to Athens…'
Newman saw the diesel train perched up on an embankment as it headed into Piraeus. He caught glimpses of it between buildings as they left the harbour behind.
'That's the Metro line, is it, Nick?'
'Yes. It starts at the other side of the city. The last stop this way is Piraeus.'
Newman looked at Marler. 'Endstation?'
'Who knows?' Marler adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses, perched his head back and closed his eyes.
Newman stared out of the window as a motorcyclist drew level. The rider, wearing a crash helmet and tinted goggles, turned and stared straight into the car for a few seconds. Then the machine was gone, zooming ahead of them, weaving in and out along the traffic.
'If you don't mind,' Nick suggested as they turned on to Syngrou Avenue, 'I will drop you close to Syntagma Square. That window is conspicuous. I want to get the car inside the garage before a policeman sees it. Then I have another job. I wish to have a word with Giorgos. He will tell me who it is he is working for – who followed us in that black Mercedes.'
'He may not feel like telling you,' Marler suggested.
'I have my own methods of persuasion. I will get his home address from reception. Oh, while I was waiting to take you to Piraeus I contacted my two helpers. Each has a photograph of Masterson. They must have checked with twenty hotels by now. Soon we will know where Mr Masterson stayed. May I drop you here? Only a five-minute walk to Grande Bretagne.'
'That's fine.' Newman had taken out his wallet. 'Time I paid you – for the trip, the repair to the window, and fees for your helpers.'
'Later.' Nick jumped out of the car, opened the rear door. 'You are well organized. Changing your traveller's cheques so quickly.'
He was referring to the regulations which only allow any tourist to bring in three thousand drachmae. Newman had changed cheques for a large sum at the hotel. As they stood on the pavement, the heat still hammering them, he laid a hand on Nick's arm.
'We would like to be there when you question this Giorgos. I have a few questions to put to him myself.'
'Late in the evening would be best. He will be relaxed and not expecting a hard time. I call for you at ten o'clock? If I find the time is wrong, I call your room?'
Ten o'clock. See you then.'
They strolled along the street as Nick drove away. A park stretched away beyond iron railings to their right. Kiosks selling newspapers stood by the railings. People were queuing to buy plastic bottles of mineral water.
A motorcyclist cruised past. Newman frowned, watched the rider sliding in between the slow-moving traffic. The machine disappeared, heading for Syntagma Square.
Arriving at the main entrance to the Grande Bretagne, Newman handed Marler his room key. 'Wait upstairs in my
room. I'll be right with you…'
Newman followed Marler inside, paused, waited for a brief time, then pushed open the door and peered out into the square. Full of traffic. He scanned the area rapidly. He found what he was looking for further down the hill.
The motorcyclist had parked the machine by a meter, still sat astride it. The same motorcyclist with the orange-coloured crash helmet and tinted glasses who had passed them in Piraeus. Who had later skilfully guided the machine between cars when they were walking.
The rider removed the crash helmet, perched it between the handlebars. She reached up with both hands and draped her waterfall of black glossy hair over her shoulders. Christina Gavalas had arrived. Things were warming up, and not only the temperature. Newman closed the door, went up to his room.
Ten o'clock. On the dot. Nick led the way to his parked car. It had a new rear window. Newman and Marler had dined in the oak-panelled restaurant. It was still daylight as they sat in the back and the Mercedes took off down the hill which was almost traffic-free.
'He lives in the Plaka, this Giorgos,' Nick informed them. 'That is the old quarter of Athens. It spreads out at the foot of the Acropolis, climbs part of the way up the hill.'
'I know,' said Newman. 'Any news about where Masterson stayed?'
'No. It is strange. My helpers have checked all the main hotels. No luck. He must have stayed somewhere. Would he choose some cheap place?'
'Not our Harry,' Newman said positively. 'He liked a bit of luxury. Live high was his motto. Maybe the hotels don't like giving out information about their guests?'
'My helpers are clever. They take round an expensive wristwatch. Say they found it with a credit card in his name. They want to give it back. And they don't read the papers, so they don't know he's dead. They get a reply. No, he didn't stay with us.'
Dusk was falling. The sun had slid down behind the Acropolis. Nick had entered a maze of narrow, twisting streets. There was little space to spare if he met a vehicle coming the other way. Through the open window Newman heard the mournful strains of the bouzouki from the open doors of small restaurants and cafes. Sometimes it was Western pop music. Every second door seemed to lead to an eating place. The pavements were crowded with sightseers and customers.