Shot on Location

by Nielsen, Helen

  “He will back the car around,” Koumaris shouted back, “and have it headed towards the main road.”

  Martins waved towards the caravan. “Who are they?” he asked.

  Koumaris shrugged. “Nothing to worry about. But the road is narrow. Animals can cause a delay. Can you walk faster, Mr. Martins?”

  “I can run if I have to.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  They scrambled the last few hundred yards down the path. At the bottom Zervios had already reached the car and climbed in behind the wheel. The motor started and the big car slid into reverse. There were no ditches on the road and he had completed the turning manoeuvre by the time they reached the bottom. The donkey caravan was just starting across the slope that levelled gently into the narrow road. Koumaris reached the car first and held open the rear door. Brad threw the rifle on the floor and helped Martins into the back seat. By the time he had followed him in and closed the door, Koumaris was already in the front seat and the Mercedes was in motion. It was less than two miles to the fork, just below the entrance to the monastery. When the cross and the chalk white walls came into view, there was nothing to be seen on the road behind them, but the veil of dust churned up by the wide tyres.

  Koumaris whipped out a handkerchief and mopped the perspiration from his face. “In Kastoria,” he said, “I will buy everybody a cold beer and we will be friends.”

  “I think it might be a better idea to get Martins to a doctor,” Brad said.

  “Oh, of course—”

  They were almost upon the main road by that time, and the captain was looking into the back seat as he talked. When Zervios, who seemed to have mistaken the narrow trail for the Grand Prix, suddenly slammed down on the disc brakes, Koumaris was forced to grasp the back of the seat to avoid being hurled against the windscreen. The car screamed to a halt, a few feet from the intersection. Brad held Martins’ good arm, lest he be thrown against the wounded hand and then looked up to see what had caused the sudden halt. He needed no translation to know that Koumaris was cursing in his best barracks Greek.

  At first it seemed to be some kind of religious procession on the road—a group of black-cloaked monks were moving slowly towards the monastery, followed by half a dozen peasants. They were strung out in a double row and it was impossible to turn on to the Kastoria road without hitting them. Koumaris reached across the steering wheel and pounded on the horn. The procession stopped.

  “Idiots!” he screamed. “I don’t want them to stop! I want them to hurry!” He shouted at them in Greek through the open window and it was then that Brad noticed how one of the monks towered above the others and, turning towards the car, revealed an unbearded face with a patch worn over one eye.

  “Petros!” he whispered hoarsely.

  The captain looked back angrily.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Idiots!” Koumaris repeated. “I’ll make them move. Zervios, drive on.”

  “What if they don’t move?”

  “Drive on anyway.”

  “Drive into the monks? I can’t do that. You know what that means.”

  “Then I’ll have to move them myself!”

  Koumaris opened the door and stepped out on the road. His hand went to his holster and brought out a pistol. Aiming it in the air, he fired. The procession had now come to a full halt. The shot seemed to paralyse them all, except the tall monk with the eye patch, who walked forward until everyone and everything inside the car was visible. When Koumaris saw why the face wasn’t bearded he cried:

  “You’re no monk! Who are you? Answer me or I’ll shoot again and not over your heads this time!”

  The gun came up but it was never fired. A shot came from somewhere and sent the gun spiralling into the air, before it finally landed on the earth, several feet away. Zervios reached out to drag the captain back into the car, but there would be no place to go now, because the donkey procession was trotting up behind them and each of the herders had drawn a rifle from under the furs.

  The woman who wore the eye-patch threw open her cloak and stood arms akimbo and hands clasping the wide leather belt.

  “You’re the one,” Koumaris said. “The leader of the men who took Brisos from the police station last night had one eye—so I was told. But you’re not a man.”

  “Captain Koumaris,” she answered, ignoring his reaction, “You have something in that car that belongs to Brisos. Tell your lieutenant to toss out the knapsack or I shall have him shot through the head.”

  “The money in that sack belongs to a cotton broker in Athens!” Koumaris protested.

  “A thief! A profiteer! A pig!” Petros said. “In any event, it doesn’t belong to him now. Yannos—”

  Instantly, a black-bearded Greek, one of the donkey herders, appeared at the window, where Zervios sat clutching the steering wheel. He aimed his rifle at the lieutenant’s head and grinned. It would be with the greatest pleasure, his grin was saying, that he would oblige his leader and blow off the head of Lieutenant Zervios, if he failed to relinquish the knapsack. And Zervios understood perfectly. Without waiting for a command from Koumaris, he handed the knapsack through the open window. The bearded Greek caught it with his free hand and waved it over his head. A howl of delight came from the watchers and then Petros spoke sharply in Greek. The herder slung the knapsack over his shoulder and ran back to his donkey. The light covering of furs was tossed into the wagon and the herder leaped into the saddle and took off for the mountains, at a gallop. Now the ambush was dispersing. Following the lead of the bearded herder, the other peasants mounted their donkeys. The wagon was reversed and started back up the trail, and the procession on the road dissolved as quickly as it had appeared. From the direction of the monastery now came three horses—one, riderless, was led by an armed horseman who rode directly towards Petros. Behind him, on the third horse, a man with bare arms, his torso covered only by a loose embroidered jerkin, sagged wearily in the saddle, swaying drunkenly as he approached. Petros was reaching for the reins of her mount, when she spied him. The colour drained from her face.

  “My God,” Brad said, “look, Martins! It’s Stephanos!”

  The woman cried out something to him in Greek. It was wasted breath. Stephanos, his face beaten almost beyond recognition, was coming towards Koumaris at a trot. Something bright flashed in the late afternoon sunlight. The captain ran towards the place where his gun had fallen and Zervios, yanking his own gun from the holster, leaped out of the car.

  “Stephanos!” the woman cried.

  He rushed past her at a gallop, with the long knife in his hand. Zervios fired and the horse pitched forward hurling the wild-eyed boy directly at the man he hated. The knife hit Koumaris first, and the full weight of Stephanos fell upon him, driving the blade through, until it pierced the hard earth beneath the captain’s body when he fell. The second shot Zervios fired shattered the boy’s head and then both men, Stephanos and Koumaris, lay together, one upon the other, with the blood from their dead bodies mingling with the dust of the earth.

  It had happened too quickly for anyone to have done anything other than what was done. Like a good general, Petros understood the moment. She swung up into the saddle and spurred her mount towards the hills. Her escort followed. Within seconds there was nothing at the crossroads except the Mercedes, three live witnesses to the ambush, and two dead men.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Some day I will kill him. Some day I will kill Koumaris—when it is the right time.”

  Now Brad knew what it meant for a Greek to make a promise. Perhaps it was madness. The torture could have been too much for the already agitated mind of Stephanos, and the sight of the man he hated, as he rode with the others towards a safe hiding place in the mountains, was too much. In any event, nothing whatever could have stopped him from charging at the captain. It was just a thing he had to do before he could die.

  Stephanos’ horse was running wild. Blood streaming from
the side of its neck, where Zervois’ first bullet had grazed the flesh. Zervios, himself a madman now, whirled and raised his pistol for the killing shot. Brad’s arm shot out and knocked the gun from his hand. Zervios swung towards Brad, cursing.

  “What good would it do to kill a horse?” Brad yelled. “There’s been enough killing here!”

  His shouting seemed to sober the lieutenant. Still muttering curses, he picked up his gun.

  “And where were you and that rifle of yours?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you do anything to save the captain?”

  “I didn’t have time. The rifle was on the floor of the car.”

  “Then you will have time to answer to the authorities about this—”

  He glared down at the two dead men who lay together, as if they had fallen in combat.

  They couldn’t be left that way. Reluctant to leave his fallen captain in dubious company, Zervios snatched the keys from the Mercedes and ran towards the monastery. The donkeys and horses had already disappeared in a trail of dust leading up to the mountains. It would be dark long before the ambulance from Kastoria arrived and freed the lieutenant for pursuit. Once they reached the mountains, the rebels would disappear as if by magic, leaving no one to pay for the captain’s death, except the next political prisoners unfortunate enough to come before the police.

  Martins found a car rug in the back seat of the Mercedes and draped it over the dead men.

  “You mentioned a name—‘Petros’—” he reminded Brad, “Who is Petros?”

  “The woman with the eye patch. The one who led the rebels.”

  “Then you’ve seen her before?”

  “Once. Last night at the monastery. The monks had fetched her to care for Avery. When she saw what a bad shape he was in, she went for a doctor. Avery died while she was gone.”

  “And you didn’t wait for her to return?”

  “I didn’t dare. I wasn’t sure she would return. Then, after Avery regained consciousness and told me where he cached his equipment, I didn’t want to waste time.”

  “Why did you think she wouldn’t return?”

  “Because she was Stephanos’ contact. When he was taken in Kastoria he threw the knapsack and rifle at me and yelled: ‘Find Petros with one eye’. Naturally, I was looking for a man.”

  “So would anyone else. That’s probably why she uses the name. Any idea who she really is?”

  “Only what she told me. Her father was an army surgeon—her husband an army officer, now dead.”

  “And she has no fear,” Martins added.

  “Like Stephanos.”

  “No. Tougher than Stephanos … She’s sane. The Greek boy had to be mad to charge Koumaris. He knew he would be killed.”

  “He didn’t care. His girl killed herself after being questioned by security police.”

  “Don’t mention that in front of Zervios. Keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking. Until we get back to Athens, you’re still under my protection. Do you know why I told you about Avery’s mission?”

  “So I could complete it, if you hadn’t made it down the mountain.”

  “That’s right. It’s a gamble I had to take. I don’t take many.”

  “Thanks,” Brad said.

  In due time Zervios returned with the monks and a cart drawn by an ageing donkey, destined to haul the bodies back to the monastery. That done, the Greek officer drove the Mercedes back to Kastoria.

  Kastoria was a resort town. Its lake, hotel and old churches formed a mecca for tourists and lovers of antiquities. But, in the twenty-four hours since Brad had passed briefly through the outskirts, it had become another kind of mecca. In addition to the influx of reporters had come, flown in by special plane, the long lost Dr. Rolf Johnson. Still attired in dungarees, sports shirt and canvas shoes, he had been taken from his fishing boat by helicopter to the Athens Airport and thence to the plane that took him to Harry Avery. It was Dr. Johnson who made the official identification of the body and the initial autopsy. The news of the recovery of both bodies of the men missing for five days, was more than enough to occupy the press. Only a few people knew that Captain Koumaris had come to Kastoria; not for many days would they learn how he had returned. Of the four bodies that awaited transportation to their final resting places, only one was important. Only one was Harry Avery. Dr. Johnson made a brief statement to the press and the word went out: Harry Avery had died of a coronary failure caused by shock, exposure and internal injuries.

  Brad followed Martins’ advice. As soon as possible he returned to the hotel. A shower and a shave (his raincoat and shaving kit were delivered from the police station by McKeough) was as good as a week of rest and relaxation. A couple of drinks and a good dinner would make him as good as new. Before going downstairs to the dining room, he laid out all of Harry’s personal effects on the top of the dresser: the baseball cap, the watch, wallet (containing more than three hundred dollars in United States currency), the cameras, the sunglasses and the leather case containing the hypodermic set. It was difficult to understand why the recovery of these things were worth a five thousand dollar bracelet to his widow. By the time Brad had arranged the items on display, his call to the Athens Hilton came through. He asked for Mrs. Avery’s suite and was connected with David Draper.

  “I want to speak to Mrs. Avery,” he insisted.

  “Mrs. Avery is incommunicado to the press.”

  “I’m not the press. I’m Brad Smith and Mrs. Avery is not only expecting this call, she’s paying for it … unless she’s no longer interested in what happened to her husband.”

  The ploy worked. Seconds later Rhona’s voice came on over an extension. “Brad?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Hold on a minute. David, please hang up. This is personal.”

  Brad waited until he heard the click of David Draper’s telephone in the cradle. “I suppose you’ve heard that Harry was found dead,” he said.

  “Everyone has heard. Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

  “Because there are no telephone booths in the mountains—and that’s where I spent last night. Listen, Rhona. Nobody knows this but Brooks Martins. I got to Harry just before he died. He told me where he cached his cameras. I got everything you wanted.”

  “Harry was alive? I don’t understand—”

  “I just told you. I found him just before he died. He was on a mission for Martins. It doesn’t matter if I tell you that now, because it’s been completed.”

  She was silent for several moments. “A mission?” she echoed. “I didn’t know.”

  “I didn’t think you did. Now forget that I told you. I don’t know why I did, unless it’s because I thought it might make you feel better about everything. He didn’t mind dying that way.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “He didn’t have to. It’s just something I could tell.”

  “And you recovered everything? Oh, that’s wonderful, Brad. I’m so grateful. When are you coming back?”

  “As soon as I can arrange transportation. The car I rented is in police custody. That’s a long story and I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. Are you all right?”

  “All right? Of course. I expected this. I had to.” He heard her sigh. “Thank you for asking about me. You’re the first one who has. I wanted to come up there as soon as we got the news last night. Peter called. He said it was better that I stay here because there was so much confusion.”

  “Good for Peter,” Brad said. Confusion. Yes, with Pattison Blair already on the premises, Rhona’s presence would have caused confusion. Obviously, Peter hadn’t mentioned that, and Brad wasn’t going to be the one to open a bad can of peas.

  “And you have all his things. Everything?” she asked again.

  “Right here in my room the hotel. I don’t think there’s any chance of leaving until tomorrow, so don’t look for me until tomorrow night at the earliest. Are the watchdogs still on duty in the hall?”

  “No watchdogs,” she sa
id. “There’s nobody here but David.”

  “Good. Take a sedative and get some sleep.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  It was a long time since he had heard that phrase. It was one of the things she used to say to him five years ago, when they were lovers.

  “And Brad—”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m hungry,” he said. “Take care.”

  He heard her hang up the phone and listened for a second click. There was none. Draper hadn’t caught them on another phone. He put down his own telephone, locked up the room and went downstairs. The unexpected rush to Kastoria had filled the dining room to capacity. He left word with the headwaiter and went into the bar to wait. He found a vacant stool, near the doorway, and ordered a bourbon on the rocks. As the bartender delivered the drink, a man’s flannel-clad arm emerged from the gloom and pushed a bill across the bar.

  “This man’s drink is on me,” Peter Lange said.

  “With what strings?” Brad asked.

  Lange was still wearing his yachting costume. His austere profile was etched sharply in the light from the lobby doorway. “Why strings?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m just not accustomed to having anyone buy my booze.”

  “All right, let’s say this one’s on Harry. You did find him, didn’t you?”

  “Who told you that? I heard that some Englishman found him. Buy him a drink.”

  “I don’t think you like me, Smith.”

  “Why should I? Weren’t you the legal eagle who advised Harry not to answer my letters, these past six months?”

  Lange was drinking Scotch. He ordered a re-fill and surveyed Brad with those bland, calculating eyes. “So that’s really why you came here,” he mused. “Rescuing Harry would have put you in a solid position for a monetary settlement.”

  “Considering that Harry’s fortune is based on my brain child, it was worth the try,” Brad said.

  “Harry’s fortune! Harry Avery was a genius in his field. You were incidental. He would have made it without you.”

  “I’m sure he would. Harry wasn’t particular whom he screwed.”