by Colin Forbes
'Which linked up beautifully with what I told Sarris, How did you cope, Marler?'
'I coped. Much the same story Nick told. Kept it simple. I only answered what I was asked. No elaborations. I must say I didn't care too much for your description of me as your assistant.'
'You'll get used to it.' He stared down. 'God, what a view.'
The huge eye of the sun was already glaring down on Athens. A city of white buildings crammed cheek by jowl, spreading out towards the horizon, merging with Piraeus, once a separate port. From that height the immensity oi the capital showed dramatically.
In the far distance Newman could pick out a shoehorn-shaped bowl which was the new stadium they had passed on their way into Piraeus. Beyond, the Mediterranean was already a shimmer of hazy blue. It was the sheer density of the city of three million inhabitants which astounded Newman.
'Where the devil is the Acropolis?' Marler asked.
'I show you…'
Nick ran back to the car, returned with binoculars, focused them. He pointed below into the middle of the endless congestion. 'There. Perched up with the Parthenon on top.'
'Incredible.' Marler gazed at the ancient temple through the glasses as Nick went on talking.
'Most people who first come to Athens think the highest point is the Acropolis. But Mount Lycabettus towers like an old volcano far above anything else. And we are not at the top.'
Newman looked up to where Nick pointed. The mountain soared up further. Perched on its summit was a church with a brown-coloured dome.
The Church of St George,' Nick explained. 'You can reach it by the funicular at the top of Kolonaki.'
'Kolonaki? I remember that from when I was here before. District for the people with big money?' Marler remarked, handing back the glasses.
'Christina Gavalas has an apartment in Kolonaki,' said Nick.
The key is somewhere down there,' Newman reflected, gazing down at the vast sprawl. The key to who killed Masterson.'
Nick drove them back down another equally hair-raising spiral road into the city. The streets were still quiet. Outside a few shops women were spraying water on the pavements with hosepipes. As soon as their backs were turned the water shrank into damp patches, then evaporated.
'Another hot day coming up,' Nick commented. 'So we all sweat again. Grande Bretagne?'
'You can sweat,' Newman said. 'I'm going to sleep.'
They approached Syntagma Square along Sofias Avenue, a street which Newman remembered ran straight from the Hilton to the square. They would visit the Hilton later.
Nick was stopped by red lights at the entrance to Syntagma and Newman leaned forward, staring through the windscreen. Nick nodded.
'It is the same car…'
'With the same registration number…'
The black Mercedes with amber-tinted windows was parked across the street from the main entrance to the Grande Bretagne. Behind the tinted glass Newman could see two men sitting in front, two more in the rear seats. Nick parked at the foot of the steps leading up to the hotel. Newman got out slowly, stood upright, stared at the car.
One of the front windows lowered slowly, moved by automatic control. A head leaned forward, looking direct across the street at Newman. He stood quite still, hands in his jacket pockets.
In real life he looked even more like an Old Testament prophet than in the photo Sarris had showed him. Aged and ageless. The curved beak of the cruel nose. The eyes intense beneath the bushy brows, the craggy forehead. Their eyes clashed over the width of the street. Newman sensed a look of pure hatred, venomous. The window closed slowly, shutting out the gaze of Petros Gavalas. The black Mercedes slid away from the kerb and was gone.
8
Petros Gavalas sat beside the driver, his grandson, in silence as the Mercedes headed down Syngrou Avenue. A very big man, he had pushed his seat back to its fullest extent to give comfortable leg room – so far back that the henchman sitting behind him had cramped knees. As they approached the point where the avenue forked, he spoke in his gravelly voice. 'Dimitrios, take the turn-off to Piraeus.' 'I thought we were returning to the farm…' 'Later. I have phone calls to make from the apartment at Zea. You are a fool,' he continued. 'I told you to shoot the driver of their car – to discourage Greeks from helping the English. You missed.'
'But we did not miss with Giorgos,' Dimitrios replied as he turned down the right fork. He chuckled unpleasantly. 'That one had his fill of wine forever.'
People should not ask for more money than has been agreed. And he was a Greek. He should have known better. He knows now.'
'We are going to kill those two Englishmen?' Dimitrios asked.
'Not yet, cretin.' Petros shifted his bulk: the heat was making him irritable. 'I have already given orders. They will be followed night and day. Let us first see what they are up to. They had better not come near the farm. And they would be most unwise to start asking questions about Andreas. I trust for their sakes they do not go anywhere near Siros.'
'Does it matter? If they do go to Siros?'
It was the wrong thing to say. Petros hit Dimitrios on the arm. He almost swerved off the road. Petros swore at him, turned to glare at his grandson.
'Any English who goes near Siros could be involved in the great betrayal over forty years ago on Siros. Someone will pay for that. With his life…'
Marler ran a bath as soon as he entered his room. He stripped off, donned a robe, waited for the bath to fill. He ached in every limb. They'd sat him in a hard-backed chair for the interrogation. Standard procedure…
The gentle tapping on the outer locked door startled him. All his mental alarm bells began ringing. He picked up the ebony-backed hairbrush he always packed, held it in his right hand. He opened the door suddenly, leaning against the side wall.
A woman stood in the opening, a woman with a mane of dark glossy hair, a woman in her early forties, a woman clad in tight denims emphasizing her long slim legs and a white blouse unbuttoned at the neck, which exposed the upper half of her full firm breasts. Christina Gavalas.
'Aren't you going to invite me in, Mr Marler?' she enquired with a slow smile. 'People may talk if they see us standing here together.'
'All right, come in. If you must.'
'Such a warm welcome,' she commented as he closed and locked the door. 'I thought it was time we talked.' She eyed the bed. 'I am a little tired. I don't mind where we talk.'
That makes two of us.'
Marler stood with his hands on his hips, his mind racing as she unlooped her shoulder bag, dropped it on the dressing table. She reached for the hairbrush he was holding. 'May I? I look a mess.'
She stood in front of the mirror, brushing her hair vigorously, watching him in the mirror. Putting the brush down, she turned, put her arms round his shoulders, clasped her hands behind his neck and kissed him on the mouth, pressing her strong body into his.
'To what do I owe this honour?' Marler enquired as she pulled her head away from his, still grasping his neck. He watched her greenish eyes, his expression bleak and showing no excitement. She arched her thick eyebrows, half-closed her eyes, presenting to him her open front. Marler remained still, without reacting. Let her make the running. Her right hand slid inside his robe, felt his naked chest, moved down.
'I took a fancy to you when I saw you at Zea. I thought that you'd taken a fancy to me. You did wave.'
Her English was perfect. Her technique for rousing a man was good. The roving hand took its time. She gave him her slow smile again. Then she removed the hand, used it to take off her earrings, tossing them on to the dressing table.
'We won't be needing those, will we?'
'If you say so.'
'The cool calm Englishman. I love them…'
Standing away from him, still facing him, she undid her blouse, threw it on the floor. She wore nothing underneath it. She watched for the effect she was creating as she undid her denims, slid them down her legs, threw them on top of the blouse. She kicked off her f
lat-heeled shoes, shoes fit for running in, for moving around with the least possible noise, Marler noted. He raised both hands, palms towards her, rested them on her bare shoulders and threw her back on the bed. Dropping his robe, he followed her, lying on top of her as she giggled and wriggled.
'My name is Christina,' she said ten minutes later as they lay side by side.
'Christina What?'
Marler lit a cigarette he didn't really want, stared at the ceiling as she pressed against him, the black mane spread over the pillow.
'Does it matter? Tell me something about the man I have just made love with.'
'I am training to be a newspaper reporter. I was in insurance before. Bored the hell out of me.'
'And what story are you working on at the moment?' She snuggled closer, her hand splayed on his flat hard stomach.
This and that.' He leaned on his elbow, stared down at her and his expression was grim. 'I like to know who I've played with. Christina What?' he repeated.
'Does it matter?' She pouted.
He jumped off the bed, told her to stand up. Puzzled, she got to her feet. She faced him, then gave the same slow smile.
'What is your relationship with Petros?' he demanded. 'Did he send you?'
'Petros? If I am going to be cross-questioned I can get that at police headquarters like you…'
She stooped to reach for her clothes. Marler grasped her by her strong pointed chin, stood her erect. 'I answered your question, now you answer mine.'
'I am going…'
Marler raised his right hand and hit her hard across the side of her face with the fiat of his hand. She reeled under the blow, fell back on the bed. Her eyes blazed. He saw now they were black with greenish flecks. She leapt to her feet. Before she could speak he hit her again on the other side of her face, the blow harder. She now had two red weals. She leapt up again, came for him with clawed hands. She had become a raging wildcat. He grasped both wrists before the fingers tore his face, forced them downwards. She aimed a knee at his groin. He turned sideways, took the thrust on his thigh, dropped both hands suddenly, then hit her with real force. She sagged on to the bed, glaring up at him.
'What is your relationship with Petros Gavalas? You're going to answer before you leave. I didn't invite you here…'
'Why don't you go and… yourself?'
She no longer spoke her perfect English. She had lapsed into Greek and he realized she was watching him closely. One tough cookie, this girl. She had taken quite a beating but still she was probing.
'I beg your pardon?'
'Nothing,' she replied in English.
She started to get up and he used one hand to push her down on the bed again, digging his fingers into her shoulder. Both their bodies were gleaming with sweat from what they had done together, from the later struggle. The heat was building up in the room and Marler felt parched.
'Can I have a drink?' she asked.
'No. What is your relationship with Petros Gavalas?' he said again.
'I am his granddaughter…'
'I know that. It isn't what I meant. 'And you know that. Did he send you here to extract information from me – by using any method?'
'He wouldn't do that! No Greek would do that to his own kith and kin…'
'So you came yourself? Why? Because you love Englishmen? I recall you said that.'
'I hate Englishmen,' she hissed, pulling her hair back from her face. 'I want to get dressed…'
'You couldn't wait to get your clothes off when you arrived. If you hate Englishmen why did you take up with Harry Masterson when he arrived?'
'Who?' She drew back as Marler broke loose. Grabbing her by her long hair, he twisted it, pulling her down on the bed as he sat on her stomach, his mouth tight, pinning her down. He jerked her hair and she opened her mouth to scream. His hand clamped flat over her lips, exerting so much pressure she couldn't use her teeth to bite him. Her dark eyes were full of hate.
'Harry Masterson,' he repeated. 'Stop lying. You were seen with him at the Hilton. Other places, too. Now, I'm going to remove my hand. Yell – try to – and I'll knock you out.'
He jumped up suddenly, walked to his jacket, took a cigarette from his pack and lit it. The unexpected change of tactics threw her off balance. She stood up warily, slowly reached for her denims, slid inside them, wriggled herself into them, watching him. Straightening up, she adjusted the slacks, still naked above the waist. She spoke quietly as she made the threat.
'I'm going to accuse you of rape. The Greek police don't like foreign men who rape Greek girls.'
'There's the phone. Call Chief Inspector Sarris. I'm sure he'd enjoy a session with us. That he'll be interested to hear how you gave the signal for a marksman down at Zea to try and kill me. The bullet missed me by inches.'
'What are you talking about? There was no shot. I would have heard it…'
Marler was certain that for the first time she was telling the truth. He kept the surprise out of his expression. She reached for her blouse and held it dangling from one hand.
'You might just have managed it,' Marler speculated.
'Managed what?'
'Driven Harry Masterson so crazy over you that he fell for it. When you lured him down to Cape Sounion so he could be killed.'
'No! No! That was something I didn't do. What do you think I am?'
That's easy to answer.' He pulled his wallet from his jacket. Taking out a sheaf of five-hundred-drachma notes, he looked at her. 'How much? What's your fee? For…' He gestured to the bed.
' You swine! You lousy bastard! '
'And I have diplomas to prove you're right,' Marler assured her.
She crammed her feet into her shoes, slipped on her blouse, hastily adjusted it. She glanced in the mirror. Her hair was a wild tangle. Marler handed her the brush he had picked up before opening the door earlier. As she used it, brushing her mane vigorously, she again stared at him in the mirror as he donned his bathrobe. This time she had a puzzled expression. His deliberate changes of mood were confusing her. He disappeared into the bathroom, returned holding a glass of water.
'You said you were thirsty. Next time I ask questions please give me answers, then we'll get on fine together.'
She drank the water in two long gulps, handed him the glass. 'I've never met a man like you before. Harry wasn't…' She stopped speaking.
'Harry wasn't like you',' Marler completed for her. 'Tell me – before you go – why did you take up with him?
She was asking dangerous questions. 'Such as?'
'About the Greek Key.' 'What's that?'
'Just pray to God you never find out. See you around, Marler.'
'It sounds as though you gave her a rough time. Just like you're giving me one,' Newman grumbled. 'I was fast asleep when you hammered on my door.'
Thought you'd want to know the latest developments,' Marler replied, unrepentant. 'That you'd rely on your assistant to keep you informed.'
Heavy-eyed, his hair tousled, Newman tied the cord of his dressing gown more tightly, drank some of the coffee Marler had ordered from room service. He pursed his lips as he replayed in his mind Marler's account of his adventure with Christina.
'You have been enjoying yourself,' he said eventually.
'All in the line of duty…'
'Don't say that to Tweed. Significant that remark she let slip – 'if I am going to be cross-questioned I can get that at police headquarters like you…' Like you. She knew we had been taken there by Sarris. No motorcyclist with an orange crash helmet followed us that I saw.'
'I thought I caught sight of that black Mercedes when I was taken in the police car,' Marler remarked.
'Did you now?' Newman drank more coffee. Then that would prove she is working under Petros' orders, that he told her about our visit. Which means she was lying – about acting under Petros' instructions.'
'Oh, she's a lovely little liar. Makes it a way of life.'
'Except on two points, you said. She didn't hear a rifle sh
ot at Zea – which is possible with those ships' sirens blaring. And she wasn't the one who led Masterson down to Cape Sounion. This business is full of twists. And what the blazes is the Greek Key?'
'Maybe it turns the lock to the whole mystery.'
'If we could ever find that key. I'm going back to bed.'
'And our next move is?'
'Keep Nick and his helpers looking for where Masterson stayed. We might start making enquiries about the Greek Key. Someone must know what it is. In short, keep stirring the pot until something rises to the surface. And maybe take a look at Cape Sounion. While we're there we could try to locate old Petros' headquarters in the mountains.'
Think I've already stirred one pot. It's called Christina Gavalas. I left her not liking us a lot. Which was the object of the exercise.'
'Exercise is the word for what you did.'
'Did you tell Newman everything about Giorgos, Chief?' asked his assistant, Kalos.
'What do you mean, everything?' Sarris demanded.
He stifled a yawn as he gazed down at the traffic jamming up Alexandras. Nine in the morning. It would get worse. He flexed aching hands. He wasn't up to these all-night sessions.
'The knife rammed into his back under the shoulder blade.'
'No, I didn't. We keep that quiet. I kept Newman away from the pathologist. That knife bothers me. Doesn't make sense.'
'The fact that he was drowned in the wine barrel first, then the knife was stuck in later? The lack of blood proves that.'
'Precisely. And it is an old British commando knife. The war museum has a specimen. I compared them. The knife in Giorgos is an exact replica. Macabre. Some kind of symbolic gesture?'
'Or something to put us off the real identity of the killer?'
'Could be. I just hope Newman doesn't go poking round in Devil's Valley. Petros Gavalas controls that area like some medieval baron.'