Shot on Location

by Nielsen, Helen

  “A familiar face might help,” Sam said.

  “That’s what I was thinking. Nobody could mistake me for an Albanian.”

  “Or a Russian,” Sam added. “Boris Popenko was seen at Central Airport this morning.”

  “The executioner?” Martins scowled and gnawed on the stem of his pipe. “That old war horse here?” he mused. “Do you know that he’s one of the last of the real thing—a genuine patriot? He’s a veteran of the nine hundred days of Stalingrad.”

  “You sound as if you admire him?”

  “And why not? We’ve locked horns before—and, believe me, that old bull has plenty of fight in him! Yes, I can admire an antagonist, even when he’s a top Russian agent. But, surely, you don’t think Popenko was the illusive Mr. Hussad!”

  “I didn’t say that. Anyway we lost him at the airport. He might have gone on to Cairo. I did think of that, yes, but it doesn’t fit. Popenko arrived only this morning. Now, suppose he didn’t go to Cairo or points east, but went to Kastoria, instead? That would mean the Russian side of the iron curtain is represented in this mess. I’ll lay it out for you. The Albanians certainly want to find Avery, if they have any inkling what he was doing on the wrong side of the border. The Russians would want him for the same reason we do: to get that micro-film report. Captain Koumaris wants him because he’s a paranoid, who thinks everybody is a threat to his share of the goodies—”

  “And Mrs. Avery wants him because he’s her husband,” Martins concluded.

  “Did you get a clearance on Smith?”

  Martins grinned reflectively. “Omar Bradley Smith,” he said. “Wouldn’t you know a man with a name like that would volunteer for service in Vietnam? If you want to know why he showed up at Avery’s suite, I can tell you. Mrs. Avery and Smith were lovers before he went into the service and she married Avery.”

  “So what’s he doing here? Trying to pick up where he left off?”

  “I don’t know—or care. Remember when you came out of the army, Sam? I do. I was too keyed up to settle down right away. I kept trying to find the pieces of what was there, before I went to Korea, but there wasn’t anything there any more. Then I met Lois in London and re-directed my energies into a pleasanter kind of aggression. Smith has that same searching look about him. The man I’m concerned about is Avery’s contact in Albania. If that plane was forced down, he could be in trouble.”

  “Not necessarily,” Sam said. “It could have been a routine border patrol. Anyway, he’s got cover. Our job is finding Avery, before either side of this schizophrenic iron curtain does.”

  “Can you get me a plane?” Martins asked.

  “I can get us a plane,” McKeough said.

  “And leave the embassy to cope with that swarm of tourists without you?”

  Sam swore softly. “As you say, Brooks, aggression has to go somewhere. I’m in a better mood to take on the Mao-ists, Popenko, and even that bastard, Koumaris, than face a delegation of visiting poultrymen. Can you dress in ten minutes?”

  “For a state dinner,” Martins said.

  Stephanos refuelled the Fiat at Larissa. The tank wasn’t empty but he warned that service stations might be scarce on the road ahead. “If you are hungry,” he said, “this is the last stop until we reach Kastoria. I want to make up time.”

  Brad found an outdoor coffee stall, across the street from the service station, where he could get hot lamb, broiled on a skewer, and a cold beer. Turning around to inquire of Stephanos what he wanted, he saw that he was alone. His driver had disappeared. The Fiat was still in plain view, and so Brad ate in silence and waited for Stephanos to return. When he came, he was impatient to get on the road again. He bought a roll and some cheese and took it back to the car with him. “Everything takes forever with these people!” he fumed. He shouted in Greek to the station attendant who glared at him and shouted back. “He wants money,” Stephanos said. Brad relinquished a handful of bills and let Stephanos complete the deal. “Now we can go,” Stephanos said.

  From this point on Stephanos would drive with one eye cocked on the rear-view mirror, as if expecting someone to overtake them. A few kilometres out of town he noticed a large truck, about sixty yards behind. The truck honked once, but made no attempt to pick up speed and pass. As the Fiat gained speed the truck maintained the distance between them. Noticing Brad’s concern, Stephanos said:

  “Don’t worry about the truck. I talked to the driver in Larissa. He’s going to Kastoria, too.”

  “Why should I be worried?” Brad asked.

  This time Stephanos didn’t explain. Driving with one hand on the wheel, he dug the cheese and the roll out of his pocket and began to eat as he drove. After a while, he said: “Sometimes it’s good to have someone following, in case of trouble with the car.”

  “Do you expect trouble?”

  “One always expects trouble in life. If not, it comes anyway. Besides, we have left the motorway behind us now. We will be gaining altitude most of the way. Mr. Smith, do you really expect to find Harry Avery alive?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “It’s possible also that he’s dead in the wreckage. What will you do then?”

  Brad caught himself in time to avoid explaining that Harry wasn’t in the wreckage. It was given to him as confidential information. “Then I will have made a long trip for nothing,” he said, “but it’s still better than sweating out the time in a hotel room.”

  “I think it would be better to sweat out the time with Rhona Avery.”

  “Nobody gets close to Rhona Avery. David Draper sees to that!”

  “Who is David Draper?”

  “Avery’s secretary. And aren’t you getting a little inquisitive for a driver, Stephanos? Why I go to Kastoria is my business, and what I do when I get there is my business!”

  “That’s true,” Stephanos admitted. “Still, it’s not often that I am so close to a rich man—”

  “I’m not rich!”

  “But you intend to be, and you know rich people. I don’t and so I’m curious. Are they happy, Mr. Smith?”

  “I don’t think they have time to think about it,” Brad said.

  Stephanos sighed. “Then it is the same with everyone.”

  Stephanos was right. The road did begin to climb upwards, as the hills rolled into mountains and the air grew cooler. Once they saw a small plane overhead that seemed to follow the road for a time before turning northward, but there was little traffic on the road itself. At no time did they lose sight of the truck following, at the measured distance, behind them. When, later in the afternoon, they left the main highway for a secondary road, Stephanos let out a shout:

  “The last leg of the journey, Mr. Smith. We’ll make Kastoria before dinner!”

  Brad glanced at the rear-view mirror. The truck still followed. Another twenty minutes passed and the road crossed a river, that now began roughly to parallel the artery.

  “At Kastoria I leave you,” Stephanos said.

  “Leave me? I hired a driver for a round trip!”

  “Because you didn’t know the way. Now you know. I’m sorry, Mr. Smith, but that is the way it must be—”

  Stephanos was interrupted by a loud, incessant honking from the truck behind them. Instantly, he tensed at the steering wheel.

  “What’s the matter with that fellow, is his horn stuck?” Brad shouted over the din.

  “Hang on,” Stephanos yelled back. “We have to manoeuvre now.”

  The small car shot forward, as he stomped on the accelerator. As the distance separating them from the truck increased, the volume of the honking decreased but didn’t stop. Yards ahead, almost hidden by the bland colouring of soil and rock, a narrow dirt road veered off from the wider road. Without slackening speed, Stephanos spun the steering wheel and bounced on to the unpaved surface. A cloud of dust rose up behind them and followed for the several kilometres they drove, before Stephanos found room in a clump of brush to park and conceal the small car. No sooner was the igniti
on turned off, than he leaped out of the front seat and raced back to open the boot. Brad extricated himself as best he could, and followed. The dust cloud was already settling. The road behind was starkly empty. He turned to face Stephanos, just in time to see him pull a knapsack from his back and swing it up on to his shoulders. He then withdrew a cartridge belt, tossed it about his neck like a scarf, took out an automatic rifle and slammed the boot shut.

  Brad’s facially registered shock didn’t disturb him. “Come on,” he said, “we can’t stay here. The dust might have been seen, when we turned off the main road.”

  “Seen by whom?” Brad demanded.

  “The police. The truck driver was to honk like that, if an official looking car came up behind him, and to keep honking and block the road so it couldn’t pass until I found cover. We go back to the river now. Hurry—”

  There was something very persuasive about the way Stephanos held the rifle. Together they began to make their way through the low brush that led to the river, Stephanos parting the more stubborn growth with the barrel of his rifle. “Don’t worry,” he said brightly, “we’re only about forty-five kilometres from Kastoria.”

  “Do you expect me to walk that far?”

  “Of course not.” Stephanos stopped and held up a hand for silence. “Listen,” he said. “The road is just ahead.”

  They spied the road simultaneously. The first sound was that of the big black Mercedes, which had finally overtaken the truck and was accelerating, to make up for lost time. As it passed, the labouring motor of the large truck approached in the distance.

  “Now we run!” Stephanos cried. “Follow me. There’s another bridge up ahead.”

  The truck was waiting when they reached the bridge. It had crossed over and pulled off on the shoulder. The driver had put up the hood and was peering at the motor. He looked back and saw them scrambling up the river bank and beckoned them to come on. He shouted something to Stephanos in Greek and slammed down the hood of the truck.

  “We’re to get in the back with the oil barrels,” Stephanos said. “Here, I’ll give you a boost.”

  “I can make it,” Brad answered.

  He ran forward and clambered up over the tail gate. Stephanos tossed in the rifle and cartridge belt and then, aided by a hand from Brad, climbed up into the truck even as it began to move forward. Inside the cab, the truck driver began to sing in a roaring baritone and Stephanos, dropping the knapsack to the floor of the truck, fell back against the oil drums and laughed.

  “So I return the favour, Mr. Smith,” he said. “You give Katerina a telephone number to call if she’s in trouble. I save you from being questioned by Captain Koumaris.”

  “Why would he want to question me?” Brad asked.

  “Because you ride with a dangerous revolutionary. Because he is so afraid that he looks in the mirror and sees a ghost. He is a dead man already. He has hurt too many people to get out of this mess alive. Now, relax if you can, Mr. Smith. There is no dusk in the mountains. The night comes quickly. Soon we are in Kastoria and I start learning to forget about Athens.”

  “What will you do?”

  “What better men than myself have done—hide. Hide in the hills, in the mountains. Wait. Some have been waiting for a decade. Think of us some time when you are enjoying your swimming pool in California. Remember what the tourist posters say: ‘You were born in Greece.’ Your mind, your soul, the very word: ‘democracy’. Remember sometime what has happened to your homeland.”

  Stephanos was silent the rest of the way. Only when the truck rumbled through the outskirts of the city, did he bestir himself and rap at the driver’s window. Sharp, commanding words were given in Greek. The driver nodded and turned off the main road. They were skirting the city, following the edge of the lake where the last departing glow of day mingled with the yellow lights of the night. Then the truck stopped. Stephanos tossed out the knapsack and cartridge belt. Holding the rifle high over his head, he leaped to the ground. Brad leaped out beside him and the truck moved on and was swallowed by shadows.

  Stephanos slung the cartridge belt over one shoulder and carried the pack by the straps. “I know a place where we can go now,” he said. “A small taverna where artists go. I will find someone to take you to the centre of town where you can get a hotel. You’ve forgotten your coat in the Fiat.”

  “I’m not cold,” Brad said.

  They had entered a narrow street bounded by the houses of the poor. There was the smell of cooking and the soft lights of simple houses. There were sounds of laughter and of wayward children being called to supper. A few steps ahead, the street opened on a small square where the lights of the taverna and a few shops beckoned them on. Stephanos stopped and scanned the area. There were dark spots—trees, shadows, the dark faces of unlighted shops. He listened and then moved forward across the square. Brad hesitated. Some old instinct of the jungle fighter, perhaps. Some reluctance to quit the safety of shadow. In that instant Stephanos took three or four steps forward and then, without warning, was caught in a double blaze of light. Two cars—Brad saw only the black Mercedes—moved towards him. Stephanos froze like a dancer in some grotesque ballet, then spun about and hurled the knapsack and rifle at Brad’s feet.

  “Find Petros!” he shouted. “Petros with one eye!”

  By this time the cars had stopped and uniformed men were racing towards him. Brad grasped the straps of the pack with one hand and scooped up the rifle with the other. There was no thought of helping Stephanos now. He saw a club swing and heard the sickening sound of splintering bones, as Stephanos fell to the ground.

  Brad turned and ran back into the shelter of darkness.

  Chapter Nine

  “FIND PETROS! PETROS with one eye.”

  Stephanos’ words were a command, and in this strange city, in the darkness, how was he to find this man? The rifle and knapsack were an added hindrance—one didn’t walk about the streets carrying an automatic rifle, without attracting attention. He propped the gun against the sheltering wall and directed his attention to the pack. It was possible that Stephanos might have something among his possessions that would give a clue to the whereabouts of Petros. He pulled out a few items of clothing: sweaters, socks, a shaving kit and then found a large canvas bag, of the type used by merchants to take cash receipts to the bank. It was tightly packed. He opened it and took out a package of bank notes, still held together by a bank wrapper. The notes were new and crisp to the touch. He found his cigarette lighter and flicked it on. What he was holding was a packet of Deutschmarks. He flicked through the pack: twenty notes in the denomination of one thousand Deutschmarks each. He checked the full contents of the bag. There were nineteen more packs. He was carrying one hundred thousand dollars.

  Brad switched off the lighter. There was enough light from the street to get the notes back into the canvas bag, and the bag back inside the knapsack. He left the other items, to lighten the load, and decided to keep the rifle for protection. This, then, was what he was to deliver to Petros and, since Stephanos was headed for the taverna on the square, it was logical to assume that it was a meeting place for his friends. If so, anyone waiting for Stephanos would have seen his capture. They would know where he was taken and soon, in all probability, would learn that he didn’t have the money on him. Where the money had come from and what purpose it was for, was something Brad couldn’t know. He did know that he would like to get rid of it. It would be difficult to explain away if he were picked up for questioning. Hadn’t Stephanos warned him about being caught with a criminal?

  But no one throws away a hundred thousand dollars—especially when another man, with his last desperate cry, has asked that it be delivered to its destination. Bargains can be made with a hundred thousand dollars. If Petros was one of the rebels who had taken refuge in the mountains, as Stephanos seemed to be trying to do, he might be of help in locating Harry Avery. Brad picked up the lightened pack by the straps and held the rifle close to his side. The street was d
imly lighted. He would make his way back towards the square. If it seemed deserted, he could try the taverna—the rifle could be chucked away at any time—or, perhaps, find a taxi that would take him to a hotel for the night. He could do nothing for Stephanos, but hope that the boy wouldn’t talk. He was strong, but Brad had seen stronger men broken.

  Slowly and erratically (it was easy to become confused in the dark, winding streets) he found his way back to the square. This time he waited long enough to examine all the shadows and make certain no police cars were waiting. There was nothing to indicate that an act of violence had occurred. Music was coming from the taverna, perhaps to drive away the fears of the night, and a group of young boys was loitering under a street light, as boys loiter on street corners everywhere in the world. Nothing had happened: one looked the other way and survived. This was life.

  A woman’s voice called from a window, somewhere beyond Brad’s vision. “Demetrios!” The rest of the words were Greek, but a mother’s call for her son to come home is universal. One of the boys on the street corner laughed and shoved a smaller boy away from the group. The call came again and Demetrios reluctantly sauntered across the street. Brad watched him approach. There was something unique about this boy. Perched on the back of his head was an old baseball cap, with the insignia of the Los Angeles Angels. Brad leaned the rifle against the wall and caught the boy’s arm as he came by.

  “Where did you get that cap?” he demanded.

  The boy was too startled to cry out. Brad dropped the knapsack and snatched the cap from his head.

  “This cap!” he persisted. “Where did you get it?”

  The boy seemed frozen to the spot. His eyes widened and Brad followed the direction of his gaze. He was staring at the automatic rifle. Brad grabbed the gun with his free hand and pointed it at the boy’s legs.

  “Do you understand English?” he demanded.