Brad put his glass down on the table and moved to the door.
“I may regret this,” he said. “I’m really very fond of bread and cheese.”
Katerina drove the small car to a restaurant guaranteed to serve fine steaks. It was almost nine o’clock but most of the tables were still occupied by visiting Americans and their Greek friends. They ordered dinner and wine and listened openly to the uninhibited conversation of the jovial, well-lubricated American businessmen at the next table, who were comparing notes on their shopping expeditions. Furs, they maintained, were a good buy in Athens. Katerina nodded vigorously. Diamonds were good in Amsterdam, hats and perfumes in Paris. It was obvious that all the acquisitions were for their wives. Katerina pouted.
“Is that really all American wives want of their husbands?” she asked. “Furs, diamonds and perfumes?”
“Don’t knock it,” Brad said.
“They must be very spoiled. I don’t think I would like to be an American wife.”
“Don’t you want furs and diamonds and perfume?”
“Of course! But from a husband a woman wants more. More of his time. More of his life.”
“You would look great in furs and diamonds,” Brad insisted.
“Looks aren’t everything! It’s more important to have a mind—to be able to think.”
“Sometimes,” Brad said, enjoying the way her nose wrinkled when she was emphatic, “it’s very difficult to think.”
They bandied words through dinner, getting acquainted and having an extraordinarily good time, when a late-comer entered the restaurant and diverted Katerina’s attention. Instantly, her mood changed. Laughter left her eyes. She sat back, rigid against her chair. Brad turned to see what caused this abrupt change and found himself staring at the dapper Konstantin Koumaris, as he paused to survey the room and then walked deliberately to their table. He was not a large man; it was the uniform he wore that gave him stature. His black eyes, quick but without humour, peered out from under heavy, black brows. A carefully groomed black moustache covered his upper lip and a small scar creased one high cheekbone. He noticed Brad but his words were for Katerina.
“Katerina Brisos,” he said, without warmth, “you look lovely this evening. Have you seen your brother tonight?”
“No,” Katerina answered. “He has a date with his girl.”
“A new girl? So? Well, the young are romantic, aren’t they? I’m happy for him. Still, that was an ugly business this evening. You heard about the explosion?”
Brad noisily shoved back his chair and came to his feet. The captain seemed tall and threatening standing beside a table of seated diners. Now he reached only slightly above Brad’s shoulder, and the effect was deliberately belittling.
“Katerina has been with me all evening,” Brad said. “We’ve heard nothing unusual.”
Captain Koumaris stepped back from the table. “Then you are fortunate,” he said. “A great deal of damage was done. No lives lost, fortunately, but we are investigating, of course. But please, sit down and finish your dinners. I have no wish to spoil a charming evening.” He bowed and touched his cap, and then continued to the back of the room.
Brad resumed his seat.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“A warning,” Katerina said. “He’s the worst of the lot from what I hear. Look, he’s joining another party. I think we should go.”
“Now—with Koumaris watching? We’re going nowhere until we’ve had our dessert and coffee. Relax now. Smile. Don’t wear your heart on your sleeve. That kind of man is like an animal. If he senses fear, he’ll never let up.”
She did her best and it came off well. It was almost twenty minutes before they left the restaurant. The captain was still with his party in the rear of the restaurant, and there was no sign of police in the street. Katerina drove the small car back to the Hilton but refused Brad’s invitation to come in for a nightcap. The night was already far spent, she insisted, for a working girl, and she must drive straight home now or she would be in no condition to be charming for the customers on the morning tour. She seemed to be over her fright and so he let her go, after promising to watch for her on the morning tour.
Foregoing a solitary nightcap, he took the elevator up to his room. The balcony window was still open and the glow from the street below was enough to light the way to the bed. He was just able to make it across the room before exhaustion drained the last ounce of energy from his body. He seemed to melt into the mattress and was asleep before he could remove his shoes or his tie.
It was much later when he was aroused by a noise in the room. He felt at his throat. His tie was gone and his shirt was open at the neck. He wriggled his feet. His shoes were gone. He raised up on one elbow and tried to locate the sound that had awakened him. There was movement at the balcony windows. They were being closed by a woman in a flesh-coloured chiffon negligée.
The window latch clicked. Rhona Avery turned about and walked through a path of window light to the bed. The negligée was worn loosely over a film-like transparent gown, and her body was as lovely as it had ever been.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered huskily. “I didn’t mean to awaken you. I was chilly. Make room?”
She climbed into the bed beside him and snuggled close for warmth. He could feel her body trembling against his own.
“Don’t send me away,” she said. “I’ve got to talk to you, or go mad.”
Chapter Five
BRAD REACHED OVER to the bedside table and turned on the lamp.
“Please, turn it off,” Rhona begged.
He left it on just long enough to look at her face. She was pale and had been crying. She brushed a wisp of silver hair from her eyes and the light danced on a wide, diamond bracelet on her wrist. He switched off the light and she stopped trembling.
“How did you get out of your suite?” he asked.
“Peter went to his room and David went to sleep,” she said.
“What happened to the guards in the hall?”
“Have you any idea how little Greek policemen are paid?”
“So you bribed them. How did you get into my room?”
“I bribed the hall porter.”
“Money buys everything, I guess.”
“Not quite,” she said huskily. “Not quite everything.”
Brad’s awakening mind was trying to re-establish mental order. He had gone to bed filled with the remembrance of Katerina and awakened to find Rhona climbing into his bed. It was as if five years had never happened. But they had. The Parisian nightgown and the diamond bracelet were real, and they reminded him that this was Harry Avery’s wife. He needed time to adjust. He found his cigarettes on the night table and lit two, passing one to Rhona. It was a thing they used to do while watching the late show on TV: a scene Rhona had picked up from an old movie.
“Thanks,” she said. “I can use that.”
“I tried to call you after Draper’s news conference,” Brad said. “I was frozen out.”
“David doesn’t like you. He thinks your motive for coming here is strictly mercenary.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t care. I know what Harry did to you. It wasn’t playing the game. He might make it good if you fight him, but he won’t give anything away without a fight.”
“I’ve got an I.O.U. for three thousand dollars.”
“I was smarter than you were. I gave Harry money, too. I gave him the proceeds from the sale of my apartments—that’s what he used to launch The Bandits. But I didn’t take an I.O.U. I took this—”
She held up her left hand and let the window light sparkle on a small diamond and a wedding band. They weren’t in the same category as the diamond bracelet. They were a cut rate jeweller’s item that only widened the five year gulf between them. And then Brad remembered Mikos Pallas’ story of Harry’s philandering and put his question into words.
“Has your deal worked out better than mine?”
She smo
ked in silence for a few minutes. “I live well,” she said at last. “I have a house on the Italian Riviera, a Rolls and a chauffeur, and Valentino does my lingerie. All I have to do in exchange for these niceties is be charming to Harry’s friends.”
“Both sexes?”
She laughed nervously. “It’s not the way it was with Charley, if that’s what you mean. I know Harry has fun on the side but he’s discreet about it. He never brings his women home to meet his wife. I’ve learned how Harry’s mind works. He thinks fast, makes decisions and never looks back. He once said that if all the psychiatrists in Hollywood were laid end to end they would have a jolly time. He works hard and has made a lot of money. There’s only one time around in life and he can afford the fringe benefits.”
“And it doesn’t matter who gets hurt?”
“Everybody hurts somebody. The world’s nothing but a big ladder, Harry says, and everybody’s climbing. One day you’re a rung for somebody else; the next day they’re a rung for you. There’s always room at the top if you never stop climbing. Harry, for instance, used me by taking my apartment money and I used him by getting this wedding ring. At least I did tell Harry that we couldn’t have children. He wasn’t cheated that way. And it’s not so bad being rich, Brad. It’s really quite nice—if you can keep it.”
She finished the cigarette and leaned across him to stub it out in the ashtray. There was perfume in her hair, and she hadn’t gone to all that trouble for Harry.
“They’re all frightened now,” she added, as if there had been no break in the discussion of Draper and Peter Lange. “I don’t like Peter’s domineering but I’m glad he’s here. Others are trying to reach me on that telephone all the time. A lot of footage has been shot on Aphrodite and the delay’s costing money. If the production’s cancelled it will be a total loss. That’s what the calls are about. Nobody seems concerned about Harry’s fate, except Brooks Martins.”
“Why Brooks Martins?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve heard that he’s C.I.A. or something similar like the State Department. Anyway, he’s awfully worried about the crash. I’ve been sworn to silence but I have to tell you about it. I mean, I have to trust somebody.” Suddenly, as if needing reassurance for the confidence she was about to give, she turned her face and stared into Brad’s eyes. “It was always good with us, wasn’t it? I mean for both of us. You weren’t just being kind.”
“It was good,” Brad admitted.
“That’s what I mean. A man and a woman can’t fake a thing like that. Everything else, maybe, but not intimacy. It’s never been that good with Harry.”
“Or anyone else?” Brad asked.
“I don’t sleep around,” Rhona said flatly. “When I’m married, that’s it.”
“Fidelity is good insurance,” Brad admitted.
“I keep my bargains,” Rhona said. “I’ll keep my bargain with you, if you’re interested.”
“What kind of bargain?”
“Money,” she said. “But first I have to tell you what David didn’t tell the press conference, because it’s been hushed up by the powers that be. The plane has been found and identified—that much is true. What Martins told us in private was that the rescue party did reach the wreckage. They found George—George Ankouris, the pilot. He was in the plane—dead. That’s all they found.”
“You mean that they found the pilot but didn’t find Harry?”
“They didn’t find Harry, Harry’s cameras or his film. It’s as if he hadn’t been in the plane at all. There aren’t even any bloodstains and the rescue party obliterated footprints if there were any.”
“What does Martins make of it?”
“He says Harry might have been thrown clear of the wreckage and then, when he was able, gone back to the plane and got his equipment. He would do that. Film was Harry’s life. He wouldn’t leave a reel of it behind.”
“Then he’s wandering somewhere in the mountains.”
“Or he might have been found by a goat-herd or someone, and be injured. According to Martins, the people in that area are very poor and would take anything convertible to cash. He’s got agents waiting in Kastoria and all the villages, for anyone who shows up with Harry’s equipment. He had David tell the reporters that the rescue party hadn’t reached the plane because he was afraid they would go searching for Harry themselves and spoil everything. He didn’t give any exact information about the location of the wreckage for the same reason. It may be days, even weeks, he says, before we know anything definite. I can’t wait that long, Brad. There are reasons. This is a cut throat business. Peter Lange is a brilliant lawyer, but the people who would like to take advantage of Harry’s absence have brilliant lawyers, too.”
“And of course you are worried about your husband.”
It was all right to lie if you were straightforward about it: that was Rhona’s credo. She wasn’t straightforward now. Seconds passed before she answered.
“Yes, I’m worried about my husband.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Look for him. Go to Kastoria. You have an advantage over the others, Brad. You know Harry. He hasn’t changed much. His hair is grey at the temples and he wears glasses when he reads. And he still has that awful old baseball cap. He was wearing it the last time I saw him, just before his take-off with George in the little plane.”
“But I don’t know the country.”
“You don’t have to. You’ve been in the army. You’re used to mountains and you’re rugged. You were reported missing once. That’s when Harry went on with the series without you.”
“He didn’t think I was dead when he got my letters.”
“That was much later. Anyway, it’s another matter. I can give you a lead that Martins doesn’t have, because I know what Harry was looking for on that flight. It was an old church. There are many old churches in that area, but he had a picture of one he wanted to use in the film. He always tried to find off-beat locales. He said everybody used the Acropolis. He wanted something different for Aphrodite. It’s possible that the crash left him in a state of shock and subconsciously he’s gone looking for that church.”
“That’s a little wild, don’t you think?” Harry protested.
“Brad, this whole week’s been wild. I don’t care where you look for him; I want Harry found. And if you find him alive, believe me, he’ll make up to you everything you missed by going to Vietnam. If you find him dead, I’ll sign over a piece of stock in Saga.”
He would go, she knew that. With or without the promise of stock, she knew it. But now he remembered more of Mikos Pallas’ gossip that might be important. “I’ve heard about the search for Aphrodite,” he said. “Rumour has it that it’s just a publicity stunt and Harry already has his Aphrodite waiting in the wings. Do you know who she is?”
“She could be me,” Rhona said.
“When Harry said he would never let his wife act again?”
“People say things and change their minds. I’ve taken care of myself. I’m thirty—that isn’t old for a woman any more. Do I look thirty, Brad?”
He had forgotten the cigarette in his hand. When it began to burn his fingers he stubbed it out in the tray. Turning back towards Rhona he could see her face clearly in the window light, anxious and waiting for his reassurance.
“You look almost the same as when I left you,” he said.
“Almost?”
“More poised—worldly.”
She found the right word. “I’m tougher,” she said, “and so are you. And I’m a better actress than I ever was. Brad, look. Do you see this bracelet I’m wearing? It’s worth at least five thousand dollars. I’m short of cash so I sneaked downstairs this afternoon and took it out of the hotel safe. I’m going to give it to you as a retainer. It’s yours whether or not you find Harry. There’s just one thing you must promise me. If you find him—dead or alive—you must call me, personally, and tell me about it before anyone else knows. And you must keep all of Harry’s things: his
cameras and films, his watch, his glasses—every single item of personal property that you can find—and return them to me. I don’t trust the police in these little countries, and I don’t want Brooks Martins messing around with Harry’s property. I want every single item—even a scrap of paper.”
The computer in Brad’s head was working fine now.
“What are you missing?” he asked. “What did Harry have on him that you need?”
“You’re very clever,” she said.
“Considering what I’ve been doing for the last few years, I had to have some intelligence to stay alive. It’s easier to find something if you know what you’re looking for. You want me to find Harry and what else?”
She averted her face. She was working on the catch of the bracelet. “I can’t tell you, Brad. It’s personal. You’ll have to trust me.” She removed the bracelet and held it up to the light. “I could give you our car,” she mused, “but David would miss it and get suspicious. I don’t want David to know what you’re doing. I don’t want anyone to know. You’ll have to rent a car.”
“I don’t know the roads.”
“Hire a chauffeur. I do have a little cash in my room. I’ll put it in an envelope with your name on it and send it down to the desk with the porter.”
“I don’t need the money,” Brad said, “and I don’t have time for this sort of thing. I should get back to London.”
She smiled knowingly. “You have time,” she said. “Anyway, I’ll send down the envelope and the picture of Harry’s old church. He’s in trouble, Brad. You were friends once, no matter what he’s done, or what you think he’s done to you. I told you that I had to trust someone.”
He leaned back against the pillow and closed his eyes. Finding Harry was what he had come so far to do; Rhona was just making the search easier for him. He would go, but he wanted to think without distraction. He feigned sleep. She stirred beside him and drew closer. One hand touched his cheek. “It was always good with us,” she whispered. “Remember, Brad?” He didn’t respond. It was better to let her think he was sleeping. Too much had happened too soon, and he was getting a peculiar gut feeling that something was wrong: the way a foot soldier feels, approaching a mined area.
Shot on Location Page 6