“And the driver?”
Koumaris glared at the driver. “He’s a road hog. Have him charged with dangerous driving. He may even lose his licence—”
“Please, Captain,” the driver pleaded, “I’m a poor man—”
“A poor man doesn’t make one thousand drachmae in an afternoon,” Koumaris snapped. “But who knows. It may be enough to pay your fine.”
Koumaris left the transfer of Stephanos to his lieutenant. A spot of blood had got on to the sleeve of his uniform, and he hated slovenliness. He would sponge it off for the time being. In the morning he would find a tailor, to clean and press his tunic.
Chapter Ten
WHEN BRAD SMITH took off his uniform for the last time, and pocketed his discharge papers, he didn’t think he would ever find a civilian use for the combat lessons of the jungle. He was wrong. He had learned to walk silently, to hold a rifle low and close, to see lights and hear sounds that could never have been seen or heard by the unpractised. And he had learned patience. Now the instincts that preserved his life in Vietnam were mobilized again. One or two kilometres down the road, the boy had said, would take him to a church. The boy might have lied, but that was unlikely because he was so frightened. What Brad didn’t know was that this particular city had seventy-two churches, some of which dated from the eleventh century, and that he would pass several of them, dark and deserted, on his long walk.
He could turn back and find a taxi that would take him to a hotel for the night, but he had no way of knowing how recently the boy had found the cap. Harry Avery might be close by and in desperate need of help—not that Harry’s life meant that much to him, but a dead man pays no debts. And if he did turn back, he might never find the road again, for strange cities had a way of changing by daylight. Now he had the moon, nothing more, to light the way. The street had run out of city and become a country road. The fresh water smell of the lake receded behind him; the trees dwindled to scrub. His senses honed with excitement when he saw, in a bright patch of moonlight, a cross on a hill.
It was at least two kilometres from the square where he had encountered the boy with Harry’s cap. Just ahead was a crossroads, one arm of which narrowed to a path leading higher into the hills. The walls of the church grounds were white-washed and, within the gates, a sprinkling of soft yellow lights indicated everyday use and habitation. The gate to the forecourt was open. Fresh tyre prints marked the unpaved drive and Brad followed them, walking silently and watching for signs of life. Some kind of service was in progress within the church itself. He heard low chanting and glimpsed black-frocked figures entering the building. Harry’s cap was stuffed in the knapsack. If he could find anyone who understood and spoke English, the cap might lead him to Harry. Still unnoticed, he kept to the shadows and bided his time. There were other buildings within the grounds: a storehouse, a school, perhaps. He skirted the major buildings and came at last to a small structure that seemed no part of the religious compound: a late addition, later by several centuries, but in a lesser state of repair. An ageing Volkswagen was parked near the doorway, and the dull glow of yellow lamp light winked at the small windows.
He moved closer and peered inside. The room seemed to be a kitchen. Water was boiling in a kettle on the top of a rude stove, and the bare wooden table was set with a plate of home-baked bread, a roll of cheese and some sausages. There were no plates or utensils—only a knife laid alongside the bread and a bottle of wine. Brad shifted position so he could peer deeper into the room. Some garments were hanging on hooks on the wall: a homespun cape or cassock, a knitted shawl and a soft leather jacket with a dark brown stain on the sleeve. Brad stared at the jacket for several seconds, before he realized that it was a hand-made garment of very fine leather and craftsmanship; that it must have cost the owner several hundred dollars, and that the brown stain might very well be blood.
The important thing was that the room was empty. Brad tried the door and it opened. He stepped inside. Dropping the knapsack to the floor, he took the jacket from the wall hook and examined the lining. It had been made in Beverly Hills, and the owner’s name was stitched on the label in gold thread: Harry Avery.
When the lamp flickered wildly, Brad spun about and faced the door. It was opening and there was no place to hide. A narrow strip of light showed beneath the entrance to an adjoining room, but he had no time to reach it. He kicked the knapsack under the table and hung the jacket back on the hook. Now the door opened wide and a tall, cassocked figure stepped inside the room and closed the latch. Brad’s finger found the trigger of the rifle. With strange grace, the cassocked figure stepped to the table and deposited a jar of milk. Freed hands now found the hood of the cassock and swept it back. The profile of a face appeared in the lamplight: strong classic features, black hair swept back tightly, high cheekbones and a black patch covering the left eye.
Brad must have made a sound. Instantly, the figure faced him. Shock was mutual. The tall figure shrouded in black was a woman. She might have been forty; she might have been older. No artificial beauty aids coloured her skin and none were needed. In spite of the unexpected meeting, there was no fear in her face.
Quietly, she said: “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
She had sensed that he wasn’t Greek. Her English was Oxford, and her voice, soft as it was, projected with professional quality. Her calm was disarming, but Brad maintained his grip on the rifle.
“I’m looking for Harry Avery,” he said.
The one eye never left his face. She knew the name, of course. Any Greek who was not locked in a dungeon would know, after the days of publicity. “So? And why are you looking here?”
“Because his cap was found on the road near the church. Because that’s his leather jacket hanging on the wall.”
Now the woman glanced down at the table. She was staring at the bread knife. Brad stepped across the room and picked up the knife. Still holding the rifle in his right hand, he sawed off a wedge of bread from the loaf.
“Forgive my bad manners,” he said, “but I haven’t eaten since Larissa. I’ve come all the way from Athens.” He watched her eye. It seemed to react to something he had said. “Stephanos Brisos was my driver,” he added. He paused. The woman remained silent. “He thought someone would meet him at a taverna in Kastoria. He was right. Captain Koumaris met him with two cars, full of police.”
She couldn’t remain adamant forever. “You lie!” she said. “I know no Stephanos Brisos!”
“But he knows you—Petros with one eye. That’s the last thing he told me before he was beaten unconscious. ‘Find Petros with one eye!’ I expected a man.”
She was still suspicious. He gnawed on the bread and cut a wedge of cheese, while she mulled over his words. “Why did you come here?” she demanded.
“I told you. I found a boy wearing Harry Avery’s cap. He told me that he found it here.”
“And you’ve talked to no one else?”
“No one.”
She seemed to believe him then. She even smiled a little.
“Of course you expected a man,” she said. “They all do.”
“Who are they?” Brad asked.
“The hot-heads. The wild ones, like Stephanos, who must run to the hills for asylum. The others—the discredited and discarded heroes—are escorted into oblivion. But I waste time. How long ago was this, when Stephanos was taken?”
“An hour—maybe less.”
“An hour! I should have heard of this before! Is that all he told you? ‘Find Petros with one eye?’”
“That’s all he had time to tell me.”
Whipping off the cloak-like garment, she tossed it on to a rude bench that stood near the door. Underneath she wore a close-fitting blouse open at the throat and with the sleeves pushed up above her elbows, a wide leather belt and a long riding skirt. On her feet were short leather boots. There was nothing of the peasant about her: not her dress and not her manner. Her body looked surprisingly young, and it was easy to ima
gine the beauty she had been as a girl. The beauty was still there, subdued and yet strengthened by time.
“Petros—” he mused. “That’s a man’s name.”
“It was my husband’s name. I use it now. I have no more time to be a woman.”
“Where is Harry Avery?”
“Avery?” The thought seemed to shock her. She had been too intent on saving a life, apparently, to make the identification herself. “If the man who wore that jacket is Harry Avery,” she answered, “he is in the next room.”
“Alive?”
“When last I looked. The priests found him on the mountain path this afternoon. They brought him here and did what they could for him, but he’s been very badly hurt. They sent for me.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“No. My father was a doctor—an army surgeon. But no matter. That’s all past now. But from him I learned some things and so I sometimes help the sick. This one—Harry Avery—has a broken arm, a few broken ribs and, I’m afraid, internal injuries.”
“I want to see him.”
“What are you to him?”
“A friend. I represent his wife.”
“Very well. If you will lower the rifle so I can pass by—”
Brad lowered the gun and stepped aside. Silently, the woman moved across the floor and opened the narrow door into the bedroom. It was a small, cell-like enclosure with one tiny window. It contained a rude bed, a chair and a lighted lantern, hung on a peg above the bed. The woman took down the lantern and held it over a blanketed figure, and Brad tried to reconcile the gaunt, bewhiskered man on the bed with his memory of Harry Avery. Rhona was right; time had changed him little. It was the crash and exposure that made the difference.
“Has he been conscious at all?” Brad asked.
“The priests say he was—but they understand no English. He groaned a few times when I set—or tried to set—the arm. He’s made no rational sounds in my presence.”
“He needs a doctor.”
“Yes.”
“Is that your car outside?”
“It is.”
“Then why haven’t you gone for a doctor?”
“So I can keep Stephanos company? Yes, angry one, Captain Koumaris would be delighted to see me in Kastoria.”
Avery was barely breathing. Brad shifted the rifle to his left hand and pulled back the blanket. An expensive calendar watch was still on the wrist he tested for pulse beat. The priests, then, were honest. The pulse was there but faintly. Rising from the bed, Brad saw the intense concern in the one eye of Petros.
“There is the Englishman—” she mused.
“What Englishman?”
“He calls himself Parker. He claims not to be a doctor, but he is a doctor. I have been among these men all my life. I know. I saw him at the scene of an accident. Professional. I know why he calls himself Parker. But that’s not important.”
“Where is he?”
“He lives at the edge of the lake—about a fifteen minute drive one way.”
“Can you get him here?”
“If he’s at home. If he’s sober. If he will come.”
“Tell him the patient is Harry Avery.”
“It may make no difference. When a man closes a door behind him, he may not want it reopened. No, I shall tell him the priests have found a very sick man. But you must understand, angry one, that it may be too late. It may already have been too late when the priests found this man.”
“And it’s getting later all the time,” Brad said. “I’ll make a bargain with you. Go after this Parker, or whatever his name is, and I’ll forget I ever saw you.”
A wry smile crossed her face a second time. “And if I go, if you stop pointing that rifle at me and let me out of this house, how do you know I’ll come back at all?”
“I’ll show you how I know,” Brad said.
Nothing could be left to chance. He’d seen enough men die to know Harry was nearing the end of his strength. He motioned “Petros” back into the kitchen and dragged the knapsack from under the table. He took out Harry’s cap and tossed it on the floor, and then took out one package of Deutschmarks, and watched the excitement in her face at the sight of it.
“I think I was to bring these to you.”
“From Stephanos?”
“From Stephanos. I’m sure you know more about it than I do. But I do know one thing and that is that you’d better get that doctor back here, on the double, if you expect to ever get your hands on this money. Understand?”
She picked up the cloak from the bench and swung it over her shoulders. “You’ll stay with the sick man?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Good. I’ll tell one of the priests that I’m leaving to get Parker. You won’t be bothered. They want no part of this. Latch the door as I go out.”
She was gone. Brad locked the door behind her and listened until he heard the small motor start and the Volkswagen drive away. He didn’t like showing her the money. It was risky. She must have cohorts somewhere in the hills, who might get impatient. But it was a way to get her to go for the doctor, and that was the important thing now. He put the packet back inside the knapsack and kicked it under the table again. Now he could put down the rifle and revive his own strength, with more of the bread and some cheese. He tried the wine. It tasted of resin so he put it down and satisfied his thirst with the milk. When that was done, he returned to the bedroom and sat down on the chair near Harry Avery.
He was tired. How many nights now, since he’d slept in his own bed? One night on the plane to London, another on the flight to Athens. Last night in the hotel with Rhona beside him—that was raw irony. This man who had taken so much from him—how would he react if he knew that his wife had come to Brad’s bedroom, his for the taking if he wanted? Something about that was still out of focus. His mind grappled with it, but his mind was weary.
He slept for a little while. Minutes, perhaps. He was aware only of a startled awakening, as if he had heard his own name. He opened his eyes and looked at the man on the bed. Harry Avery was conscious. He was staring at Brad, with eyes embedded in circles of shadow. Then the words came again:
“Brad Smith! Sonovabitch!”
Speech exhausted him. He receded back into the bedding and closed his eyes. Brad left the chair and came to the bed.
“Harry,” he said. “Can you talk? Can you tell me what happened to you?”
“I got myself killed,” Avery muttered.
“No, you didn’t. The Greek priests found you—”
“Greek?” Avery’s eyes opened again. His mouth twisted in a pathetic smile. “So Georgie made it! He said we were over the border. I wasn’t sure. Those damn Commies—” Pain, sharp and visible, ironed out the smile on his face.
“There’s a doctor coming,” Brad said.
“Too late,” Avery answered. “And don’t argue with me. I don’t have time. I don’t know what you’re doing here. You don’t owe me anything. I used you—that’s business. Name of the game. But with some things it’s a different game. Now, listen, because I can only tell you once.”
Avery closed his eyes. Brad feared he had lost consciousness again until, eyes still closed, he started talking.
“There’s a man in Athens—Brooks Martins.”
“I’ve met him,” Brad said.
Harry opened his eyes.
“Good. Makes it easier for both of us. Tell him I did the job. Harry Avery, boy wonder. Screws his friends and marries the wrong woman, but one thing I did right. Like Korea. I still hold a commission—did you know that? Lieutenant Colonel Harry Avery—”
The pain was getting worse. Beads of perspiration stood out, like blisters, on Avery’s forehead.
“Some things—hey, don’t go away. I’m not finished.”
Brad hadn’t moved.
“I’m listening,” he said. “What happened to your plane?”
“Albanian patrol. Commies. Tried to force us down. Georgie—my pilot—outmanoeuvred
them, but cracked us up, coming out of a dive. Killed him.”
“I know. The wreckage was found yesterday.”
Avery didn’t seem to hear the interruption.
“Lucky me. The crash threw me out of the plane. Broke my arm—something inside. I blacked out. When I came to, there was Georgie sitting at the controls with his moustache on crooked, like somebody slapped him in the face with a lead shovel. I crawled back to the plane and got my gear—cameras, film.”
“Where are they now?” Brad asked.
“That’s what I’m telling you, baby. I didn’t know where I was—Greece or Albania. I took the gear and got away from the wreckage as soon as I could, in case that patrol plane came back. Stumbled around until dark and then found an old ruin—church, fortress, a goatshed maybe. One wall out. A piece of roof and the rest open sky. I slept there. All night, all day, maybe. Hell, I don’t know how long it was.”
“Take it slower,” Brad suggested.
“No time,” Avery said. “This is what I’ve got to tell you. The stuff’s all there. Martins’ stuff. Loose paving stones. I dug a hole with my hands and a piece of rock and buried it. It’s there—under the paving stones.”
“How far away?”
“Who knows? I found a spring in the mountains. Drank water, like it was ten parts gin and one part Vermouth. Hey, you don’t happen to have a Martini on you?”
“I can get you some fresh goat’s milk.”
“Forget it!”
“A cigarette?”
“Yes. You light it.”
Brad dug a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit one for Harry. He passed it to him and let him smoke in silence, until he was ready to go on.
“Not so far, I think,” he said, as if there had been no break in his story. “I started down the mountain one morning—yesterday, I think. Needed food. Help. Blacked out again and came to in this room, with a bunch of jabbering monks around me. Nobody understood anything I tried to say. But you understand. Tell Martins it’s all up there—everything he wanted. Mission completed.”
When the still smouldering cigarette fell from Avery’s fingers, Brad scooped it up from the blanket and crushed it out on the floor. Avery had started moaning.
Shot on Location Page 12