by Tom Harper
He beckoned his sergeant over. 'You have the explosive charges?' A nod. 'Then open that door.'
* * *
Grant moved noiselessly through the water, careful to avoid the razor-sharp fragments from Jackson's floatplane that littered the waves. He could still hear the rattle of gunfire drifting down from the plateau, see the flashes rippling on the tower like fireworks. The Soviets must still be shooting at shadows, but that was all to the good. It distracted the guard on the jetty: he had turned to watch the lighthouse, so he never saw Grant rising out of the water behind him. Grant grabbed an iron mooring ring, then took the knife from his teeth and stabbed it hard into the back of the guard's heel. He screamed and doubled over, twisting round to see who had attacked him. That unbalanced him. Grant reached up, grabbed his belt and dragged him into the water. He struggled for a moment, splashing and screaming, before Grant's knife slicing across his throat finished him.
Grant looked up at the cliffs. The shooting had stopped for the moment, but there was no sign he had been heard. He waved to where he thought Marina was and beckoned her down. Then he turned and swam over to the flying boat. It was an extraordinary aircraft, like nothing he'd ever seen: a long, upturned nose stretched out in front of the cockpit, while the single engine was mounted amidships directly above the cabin, overshadowing the windscreen like some monstrous cockatoo.
'As long as it flies,' he muttered to himself.
He hauled himself up on the nose and slithered his way aft to the entry hatch.
* * *
Smoke billowed from the chaos of tangled metal that had once been the lighthouse door. Soloviev's ears were still ringing from the blast as his men stormed inside the tower. He waited; he was painfully aware of the colonel and his friend standing a few paces behind him, watching. He heard sporadic shots from within the lighthouse, muffled by the massive walls, and he hoped his kulak sergeant had had the brains to remember his orders. Had they surrendered?
The sergeant appeared in the doorway. His face was streaked with soot, and grim. 'Comrade Lieutenant, come and see.'
Soloviev followed him through the twisted door. He took off his cap and flapped it in front of his face, trying to wave away the smoke that filled the lighthouse. He strode up the spiral stairs to the first floor. Through an open door he saw half a dozen men cowering in a small room. Most of them seemed to be in their underwear. 'Are these the British?'
The sergeant shook his head. 'Our men. We found them locked in a storeroom. It was lucky we did not use grenades.'
'Then where are the British? Who was shooting at us from the tower?'
The sergeant didn't answer, but jerked his thumb up the next flight of stairs. As Soloviev climbed, he became aware of a strange rattling noise echoing down the stair shaft, like a tin can being kicked along a street.
He came out on the next floor — and stared in horror.
* * *
Grant guided the flying boat past the point, wrestling with the yoke against the brisk current that swirled round the island's tip. Even at low speed, the whole cabin seemed to shake with the vibration of the engine mounted over his head.
Behind him, Marina stood by the open hatch in the fuselage and scanned the dark shore. 'There.'
Grant saw them too, huddled together on a small finger of rock that dipped into the sea. He could only see two of them, but there was no time to look. A wave slapped against the hull and spilled into the cabin; it took all his concentration to hold the plane steady.
'I can't get any closer.' He had to shout to make himself heard over the roar of the engine. 'They'll have to swim for it.'
Through the darkness he saw two men tottering on the edge of the rocks. One hesitated; then the other pushed him and he fell flailing into the water. The second followed more gracefully. The first one must have been Reed; the next looked like Jackson. But if that was so, where was Muir?
The plane rocked as the two men reached it and grabbed on. Marina hauled them in, dripping and spluttering.
Grant glanced back. 'Where's Muir?'
Jackson picked himself up off the floor. Water streamed off him. 'Didn't he find you?'
'I left him with you.'
'He thought he saw another patrol boat coming in from the other side of the island. Said he was going to find you to warn you.'
'Well, he didn't.' Grant glanced out of the cockpit window. At the ridge at the top of the hill, he could see pinpoints of light waving in the darkness. 'Shall I go and look for him?'
'No time.' The lights on the hill seemed to be getting closer. 'He'd do the same if it was us out there.'
Without further argument Grant opened the throttle and turned the plane towards the open sea.
* * *
A metallic, metronomic beat filled the room, counting down the seconds of Soloviev's career. He was standing right underneath the lantern; above, he could see its beam reflected on the enclosing glass through an open trapdoor. In the middle of the room a slowly spinning axle descended through the ceiling and disappeared into the floor, no doubt to the engine room. It bulged in the middle where a long coil of rope had been wound tight round it. As the axle turned, it dragged the sub-machine gun tied to the rope end in slow circles on the floor. The trigger was still down and the gun ticked like a clock as the firing pin hammered against the empty chamber.
The sergeant pulled out his knife and cut the gun free. To Soloviev's relief, the clicking stopped. 'A slip knot. They must have jammed it in the window. When the axle wound the rope tight, it closed round the trigger and started firing at us.'
Soloviev staggered over to the open window and gulped in the night air. Outside, he could see the colonel and his companion standing by the bunk house, looking up. Their faces were in shadow, but he didn't need to imagine how they would look when he told them the awful news. But perhaps he could redeem the situation. The British must still be somewhere on the island.
Above him, the lighthouse lumbered on, revealing and hiding the world in passing phases like the moon. Soloviev stared out to sea, looking for solace in the still waves. Instead, to his utter and uncomprehending despair, he saw what looked like the colonel's flying boat gliding through the water — not in the harbour where it was supposed to be, but off the far north-eastern point of the island. His legs went weak; he sagged against the windowsill. A second revolution of the lantern revealed it struggling into the air, water streaming off its pontoons. On the third turn it was banking round to the west. By the fourth it had vanished.
* * *
The Soviet plane rose above the clouds. Grant eased back on the unfamiliar controls and relaxed into his seat. Jackson made his way forward and tapped him on the shoulder. With the engine mounted barely two feet over their heads, the noise inside the cabin was almost deafening. 'Where are we going?' Jackson shouted in his ear.
Grant shrugged and tapped the fuel gauge. 'We don't have enough fuel to make Athens.'
'Gotta be Istanbul, then. That's the nearest safe harbour.'
'Then what?' Grant glanced at the compass and nudged the yoke to correct his course.
'Then we find out what happened to the shield. And hope to hell the Commies didn't get Muir.'
Twenty-eight
Istanbul. Next morning
Grant was woken by a terrible cry. He sat up in bed, and had already thumbed off the Webley's safety catch before he realised what it was: the chant of the muezzin, dreamy and mysterious, drifting through the thin gauze curtains. The chorus echoed all over the city, from every minaret, like birdsong.
Curled beside him, Marina threw an arm across his chest and hugged herself against him. She was naked. Her tousled hair fanned out across the pillow; her eyes were closed; her bare leg wrapped round his. Grant reached across and stroked her shoulder, while she played with the hairs on his chest. He lay there for a few moments, soaking up the sounds, and the exotic smells of spice and dust that blew through the open window.
Marina's hand moved down. Her fingers drift
ed across the taut muscles of his abdomen, then lower. Grant tensed. Gently, he rolled her on to her back and slid on top of her. He pushed himself up on his arms so he could look down on her face, the sleepy eyes slowly opening with delight. He kissed her.
* * *
By the time Grant got out of the bathroom, Marina was already dressed. 'I'm going to go to the library. Sourcelles mentioned something that I want to investigate and I think they have a Suda here.'
Grant didn't bother to ask who or what a Suda might be. 'I'll come with you.'
'No. You stay with Reed — he needs protecting. I think he's on the verge of making a breakthrough.'
Grant looked doubtful. 'Really? All I've seen is scribbles. I thought he was getting nowhere.'
'You don't understand how he works. Imagine the language like a nut he's trying to crack open. All this time he's been holding it in his palm: examining it, turning it round, knocking it to hear the noises it makes. You think he's learning nothing. Then, all of a sudden, he'll tap it in exactly the right place and the shell will just fall open for him.'
'I still think you shouldn't go out on your own,' said Grant stubbornly.
She blew him a kiss. 'I'll be back by lunchtime.'
* * *
Grant found Jackson eating a late breakfast in the hotel restaurant. The breakfast was meagre — salty cheese, salty olives, salty bread and a hard-boiled egg — but the coffee was strong. Grant drank two cups.
'Sleep well?' enquired Jackson. He looked up from decapitating his egg and raised a suggestive eyebrow. He had raised it the same way when Grant and Marina checked into the same room the night before. Had he heard them through the thin walls that morning? Grant didn't care.
'Like the dead. Where's Reed?'
'In his room. He's been up since dawn. Seems to think he's on to something with the tablet. Which he'd better be. If they've got Muir, the Reds must have everything pretty much figured out. That tablet's our only ace and it's not much use if we can't read the damn thing.' He looked around the empty restaurant.
'Where's Marina?'
'Library.' Grant squeezed his olive so that the stone shot out of the end and bounced across the table. 'She wanted to look up something Sourcelles said.'
Jackson looked agitated. 'You let her go on her own?'
'She can take care of herself.'
'Jesus, Grant, that's not what I'm worried about. The Commies have been all over us since you stepped off the boat on Crete. And here in Istanbul…' He shook his head. 'Christ, there's more Soviet spooks here than guys selling carpets. Hell, half the guys selling carpets probably are spooks.'
'She can take care of herself,' Grant repeated.
'You know what I mean.'
'You're wrong.' Grant's voice was hard; his eyes dared Jackson to go on.
'I hope so. Meanwhile, we've got business to be getting on with. With Muir gone, we need to get some back-up. I'll cable Washington and see if they've got any troops in the neighbourhood we can borrow.'
'Aren't we going back to Athens?'
Jackson shook his head. 'No point — not until we know what the tablet says. The Black Sea still seems the most likely spot for finding the shield. Wherever it is, we're probably closer here than anywhere else.'
'What about Muir?'
'We gotta assume the worst. He knew the risks. If he was a pro, he'll have put a bullet in his brain before the Reds got him.' Jackson pushed back his chair and stood. 'I'm going to the consulate. You stay here and watch Reed. If he finds something — or if anything happens — call me there.'
Grant finished his breakfast, wandered out to buy an English-language newspaper from the kiosk across the street, then went back upstairs. Jackson and Reed were sharing the room opposite, and he rapped on the door to make sure the professor was all right. A muffled grunt suggested that he was and that any interruption would be unwelcome. With a sigh, Grant retreated to his room and flopped down on the bed. He could smell Marina's perfume on the sheets.
* * *
The taxi pulled away, leaving Marina alone on the quiet street. She walked up to a small wooden gate and rang the bell. Behind the whitewashed wall she could see the semi-domes of a church, hardly remarkable in this city of domes and towers, and a tall, apricot-coloured building like an inverted pyramid, each floor overhanging the one below. The paint on the door peeled away like skin, and crude political slogans were daubed on the wall, but inside the compound everything seemed peaceful.
A window in the door slid open. A suspicious eye surrounded by a wild sea of grey hair peered out. 'Yes?'
'My name is Marina Papagiannopoulou,' she said in Greek. 'I've come to use the library.'
The lines round the eye softened to hear the familiar language. The window closed, a lock turned, and a stooped priest in a black cassock and kamilafki hat admitted her.
Even Marina, who was used to scrabbling in the ruins of ancient civilisations, felt the age around her as she entered the courtyard. Not the age of Knossos, so remote that the gulf of history between them was unbridgeable, but the age of a grandparent or great-grandparent, a sense of faded glories, spent energy and endings, a life at peace with itself. She supposed it had been declining in this city for five hundred years.
To her surprise, the library turned out to be the church building she had seen from the street. She mentioned it to the priest, who gave a toothless smile.
'After the Ottoman invasion, the conquerors decreed it could no longer be used for religious purposes. His Holiness the Patriarch decided it would serve truth best to become a library.'
There was something unsettling about stepping inside, past the golden gazes of mosaic saints, into the dim space. Wooden shelves sagging with books lined the walls and filled the spaces between supporting columns, while lacquered desks in a cruciform arrangement sat in the middle of the chamber under the dome. Marina seated herself at the near end, as close to the door as possible, and pulled the copy of Sourcelles's monograph out of her bag. She leafed through it, not entirely sure what she was looking for, but certain she would recognise it when she saw it.
Like the Hero himself, the White Island presents a troubling duality to those who attempt to explain it. On the one hand is its benevolent aspect as a haven, a 'Sacred Harbour' in both the literal and metaphorical senses. In Arrian we find recorded the detail that Achilles would appear in dreams to passing sailors and guide them to the island, to the 'most advantageous places to put in, the safest anchorages'. On the island itself, Arrian and Philostratus both report the legend of the seabirds, of which there were very many, cleansing the temple through the brushing and flapping of their wings; though this is contradicted by the proverb quoted in Pliny (NH X.78) that 'no bird flies over Achilles' temple on the island of the Black Sea where he is buried'. In a similar vein, both authors repeat the idea that the livestock on the island offer themselves willingly to be sacrificed at the temple of Achilles, standing docilely before the temple and offering their necks to the knife (the idea of the 'willing victim' is, of course, of fundamental importance to religious eschatology throughout history). The whole picture created is one of order and harmony, an Edenic (or, more accurately, Hesperidean) paradise where man and nature and gods live in complete sympathy to each other's needs.
And yet, as befits its status as a liminal place on the strange outer edge of the world, there is a serpent in this garden (literally so, if we consult the narrative of Captain-Lieutenant N. D. Kritskii concerning his 1823 visit to Zmeiny Ostrov); an aura of danger pervades the White Island. On this aspect the oft-neglected Philostratus of Lemnos is particularly loquacious. He relates the strange sounds sailors heard from the island: great voices that could 'freeze the sailors with fright'; the sounds of battle, weapons and armour and horses. He states that no man was allowed to remain on the island past sunset. Most gruesomely, he tells the tale of the merchant whom Achilles commanded to bring him a slave girl. Thinking she was wanted merely for sexual gratification, imagine his horror when h
e heard her screams as the vengeful Hero tore her limb from limb and devoured her. Though the White Island may be a paradise of light for gods and heroes, for mortal men it is a place of savagery and darkness, not to be approached lightly.
Marina underlined a few words in pencil, then went to find the librarian — another priest. He took some convincing that her request was legitimate, but in the end gave in. He led her down a flight of stairs, along a dark corridor in the vaults of the old church, to a locked room whose shelves were filled not with books but with boxes. These were locked too; he took one down and opened it on the small round table in the corner of the room. A single book lay couched on tissue paper inside. It looked ancient: a silver plate inlaid with jewels and coloured stones formed the front cover, while its edges were black with age. Crumbs of the leather spine scattered the paper around it. Marina opened it reverentially.
The priest-librarian refused to leave her, but waited while she found what she wanted. The pages were brown and brittle, like spun sugar; each time she turned one she was terrified she would snap it. As soon as she had found what she wanted and copied it out, he took the book back and shut it safely away in its casket.
Back in the reading room, Marina pulled more books from the shelves and began reading. She worked diligently, glad of the solitude. She felt as though she could feel space and air around her after so many days in the stifling company of men. She knew what Muir and Jackson thought of her, what they suspected; she was tired of having to endure their sharp looks and sneers. There was something unpleasant, masculine, that inevitably went with them. Even Reed, of whom she was very fond, could be trying. And as for Grant… She crossed her legs under the table and turned back to her book. Grant was far too complicated to think about here.