"Rest well, brother," he said quietly. "You have a solid six hours of sleep ahead of you. You probably can use it."
Ten minutes later, with the echoes of the Angelus still settling over the valley, he entered the monastery of Saint Vincent of Ferrer through the Almoners' gate, the cowl of his habit pulled closely round his face. Keeping his head down and his body bent forward as he walked, he passed through an open cobbled courtyard, down a dank alleyway, and out into the quiet of a cloister carpeted with velvety grass, wall- hung with ivy, and bordered by square-cut hedges. Conical fir trees and leafy planes gave shade, and on all four sides a mass of fragrant oleander tinted the walls with purples and blues. He slowed his step in the cloister as his path crossed those of other monks' on their way to the evening meal. Some of them were cowled, others were not. Some saluted him with a nod or a word, others only hurried by. To all his only response was an inclination of his head as he passed in the other direction. The temptation was to hurry, but he kept his pace slow. He knew exactly what he was looking for and how to find it, but he knew that he hadn't much time.
Spiro Dodonis was a mainland Greek who lived in Corfu, both loathing and loving the island. The island was easy to love. The white beaches, the blue Ionian sea, the tranquil olive groves in the uplands . . . who could help but be at ease in such a place? But the people of the island were something else. Spiro had lived among them now for almost five years while working for Peter Andriakis, and he still had not accustomed himself to the Corfiotes. They were, he felt, a foolish people. Spiro himself was from Piraeus, that fast-dealing, tough-talking port of Athens, where a man turned a drachma in any way he could and an instinct for hustling a profit had been bred into him early. Not so the Corfiotes, those amiable people who seemed to think more of their pleasures than of filling their pockets.
They were also ridiculously honest. Not that Spiro was not an honest man. He would fight to the knife anyone who said otherwise. But these Corfiotes carried it to an extreme. There was more than one case, he knew, of a tourist losing his wallet in the street only to have some inanely grinning islander find it and come running up to return it intact. He himself had seen automobiles parked in the public streets without fear of theft, the windows wide open and the seats loaded with luggage, radios, typewriters, and other such temptations. This may have been honesty to the Corfiotes, but to Spiro it was an indication of a lack of fiber in this island race and an almost sacrilegious indifference to the gifts that the gods bestow. He estimated that the average Corfiote would last about three hours on the streets of Piraeus.
For all of his dual feelings about Corfu, however, Spiro counted his five years on the island as profitable ones if only because of his connection with Peter Andriakis. As general factotum of the household and informal skipper of the forty-foot motor sloop Athena, Spiro found his work enjoyable and his pay more than adequate; but most important, he worshipped the man he worked for. Andriakis was, to him, the ultimate symbol of Hellenic aspirations, a Greek-American who had made good and had returned to the old country. And then there was his dancing. When Andriakis danced, Spiro was in heaven; nobody danced in the Greek style the way his boss did. Spiro had his own bouzouki and could play well enough, and often a moonlight sail on the Athena with a couple of tourist girls for guests would end with Spiro playing and Andriakis dancing the zeimbekikos in the early hours of the morning.
Because of this affection for his employer, Spiro was neither annoyed nor surprised when he was told on Wednesday afternoon that they would be making a crossing that night, and making it secretly. It was not the first time he had received such orders, and he rather enjoyed the secrecy of the preparations, the standard decoy of sending the houseboy off in the Lancia, and the zigzag run across the gulf, avoiding the Albanian patrols. Such nights were the spice of his ordinary life; they gave meaning to his days, and so he was calm, but alert, at the helm when he heard the splash. They had just cleared the small harbor formed by the double jetties, he had just laid the boat on a course due east, when over the chugging of the engine he heard the sound of what might have been a large fish breaking the surface of the water. His head came up, and he looked around. Andriakis stood at the mast, his eyes on the opposite shore. Astern, the dinghy bobbed along in the wake. Spiro hesitated. It could have been a large fish. It could have been a piece of driftwood slapping alongside. It could have been a lot of other things, but you don't survive in Piraeus by wondering. He gave a low whistle that brought Andriakis astern on the run.
"Take the wheel and circle back," Spiro said. Neither of them thought it incongruous that he was giving orders. "I think I got a fish on the line."
He plucked a wrench from the toolbox by the wheel and shoved it through his belt; then he kicked off his sandals and went over the side. He kept his head up as he hit the water, ignoring the engine noise and the foul exhaust, his eyes on the dinghy. Staying still in the water, he let it come up to him, let it slide by. As the transom of the small boat passed he grabbed for it and held, and found himself staring into Emerson's eyes.
Both men reacted in the same moment and in the same way. They each let go of the dinghy and reached for the other, grappling. Emerson's hands went for Spiro's throat and gripped hard. Spiro's hand went to his belt and grabbed the wrench while his knee came up into Emerson's groin. It was a blow that should have broken the grip on his throat, but it didn't. Those hands were firm, the fingers pressing to crush small bones. He saw Emerson's contorted face only inches away from his own, and he knew that those hands would never let go, not while there was strength left to squeeze. Those hands were part of his neck now, flesh bonded to flesh, and squeezing the light from his eyes. His right arm came up out of the water gripping the wrench. He swung it alongside Emerson's head, and the fingers at his throat went limp. The man went limp as well. Gasping for air, Spiro shoved the wrench back in his belt; it was too good a tool to lose. Then he grabbed the other man's shirt and held his head up out of the water.
"Over here, boss," he called to the circling sloop. "I got me a fish."
Minutes later they were back on course, due east across the gulf, with Spiro again at the wheel, Emerson unconscious on the deck, and Andriakis squatting beside him, staring at his face.
"You know who he is?" Spiro asked. His throat hurt badly and it was difficult for him to talk.
"Yes," said Andriakis, shaking his head in amazement. Ever since the Fun House call from Edwin Swan that afternoon he had wondered who would be coming after him. He had never expected it to be Emerson himself.
Give the son of a bitch credit, he thought. He was doing all right for a man his age. He just made too much noise.
Spiro reached into the toolbox and came up with a long, thin knife. He held it delicately by the point, flipped it in the air, and caught it by the hilt. He looked at Andriakis meaningly.
Andriakis said, "Why the hell didn't you take that with you when you went after him?"
Spiro shrugged. "I was going fishing, not hunting." He spat over the side. "Deep water here. Plenty deep enough."
Andriakis nodded. "Yes, but not yet. There are some questions he has to answer first."
"Six thousand lira for a chicken," said the woman named Anna. "A thousand for milk, eight hundred for bread, a thousand here, a thousand there, and God forbid the baby gets sick . . . you know what a doctor costs? I could buy a new Fiat with my doctor bills." She threw up her hands in the timeless gesture of abandonment. "Holy Mother in heaven, how can you bring up a family these days with those prices?"
It was past eight o'clock, and the bar in the House of Felluci was filled with well-dressed men and barely dressed women. The atmosphere was calm and correct. Katerina's customers did not come to her house to whoop it up. They came to relax in the sort of atmosphere to which they were accustomed, an atmosphere that went well with boardrooms and corporate jets, Kashan carpets, triple-A bond ratings, a villa in Cannes and a ski lodge in Aspen. The girls of the house were well aware of this, and thei
r demeanor was as correct as that of the men. No coarse language, no ribald jokes, only quiet conversation over a glass of wine until the gentleman was ready to go upstairs.
Off in one corner, Ginger sat talking to the plainly dressed, thick-waisted woman who looked more like a farmer's wife than a big-city hustler. Her conversation was as prosaic as her appearance, her one apparent concern being the high cost of living in Italy today. The conversation did not flow easily. Anna's English was about on the level of Ginger's Italian, but Sofia was there on a break between customers to help in translation.
"What is she saying now?" Ginger asked Sofia as Anna went off in a string of Italian that was meaningless to her.
"The same old crap," said Sofia, looking unutterably bored. "All about how she wouldn't be working in a place like this if it wasn't for the new bambino, and the big bambino, and the in-betweensy one and the husband out on strike and no money in the house . . . it's like a record with her; it never changes."
Ginger said sympathetically, "Well, after all, it must be tough for her with a new baby and everything."
"Come on, sweetie, she's lucky to be working at all. Just look at her. It's just her pure dumb luck that she's got what Krause wants."
And just what I want, too, thought Ginger, her eyes on
Anna's drink. The woman had been sipping Coca-Cola all evening.
She felt fingers on her shoulder and looked up to see Katerina standing there. The older woman smiled down at her and asked, "What do you think of our operation? Are you ready to go to work?"
"It's really . . ."Ginger hesitated, searching for a word to fit the persona. "It's really super, but I was hoping to talk to Gerard about it first."
Katerina shook her head. "He's unavailable now; nobody sees him. You'll have to make your own decision." She fixed Sofia with an icy look. "Where were you when I was talking about turnaround time before?"
Sofia made a face. She looked as if she wanted to stick out her tongue, but she got up without a word and went over to join a table of men.
"I never push a girl to work for me," Katerina told Ginger. "I don't have to. Take your time and make up your mind. If you decide that you want to work there's plenty of business tonight. One of the girls will show you where to change your clothes."
"And me?" Anna asked softly.
"You, cara? Of course you'll work." She touched the woman's cheek with a gentle finger. "He's eating his dinner now, but he'll want you later tonight. About eleven o'clock. What's that you're drinking?"
"Coca-Cola, signora."
"Good. Make sure you stick to it."
When Katerina had gone, Anna looked down at her glass and said softly but passionately, "Oh, how I'd love a whiskey."
"But you can't," Ginger said with understanding.
"No, it wouldn't be proper. Not now."
"Well, at least I can get you a fresh Coke." Ginger stood up and took her glass before Anna could object. "I want another drink myself."
At the bar, Ginger ordered a Coke and a glass of wine, and while she waited for the drinks she slipped the plastic bag of penicillin from her purse and palmed it.
It can't be right to mess around with someone's body that way, she thought, but it's the only way I can get to him. I don't even know if it will work, but I have to try it. It won't hurt her, I'm sure it won't. Maybe it's even good for her. . . and I'm tired of figuring right and wrong, I just want to get it over with.
The drinks came then, and she dumped the full load of penicillin into the tall, bubbling glass of Coca-Cola. She took the two glasses back to the table and handed the tall one to Anna.
"Here you go," she said. "Bottoms up."
"Grazie, Geen-ger," said Anna. "I got such a big thirst. All the time I got a big thirst. It's always the same thing with me after I have the baby."
Then she lifted the glass and emptied it in three convulsive swallows.
Jim darling,
I am writing this with a gun at my head. Literally. The writing is mine, but the words are being dictated to me by a man who does not want his name mentioned. He says to tell you that the last time you saw him he was lying on our living room floor with a head wound. That should serve to identify him.
Jim, they are taking my away from here. I don't know where they are taking me, but they tell me it is someplace outside of Mexico. The point of the exercise seems to be that if you want to see me alive again you are going to have to conform to your original orders and return to the Soviet Union. (The man with the gun prefers the phrase "your homeland.") I'm afraid that there is no room for compromise in this. The man is very definite. Either you follow orders, or I've had it.
The man says that the orders will come to you in the following manner. He is taking me from here tonight and will leave this letter for you with the manager. Starting tomorrow, he will call you here at the Princesa every evening at seven o'clock. When he makes contact with you he will tell you where we are and how to meet us. From that point on he has made arrangements for our transportation to the Soviet Union. He makes it very clear that you are to tell no one where you are going. No one. He has made some rather ugly threats about what will happen to me if you don't show up alone.
So there it is, my darling. I can't tell you how sad I am that things have worked out this way. I know how much you wanted to stay in the country of your choice. But then, I wonder how many of us today are truly free agents, able to afford the luxury of choice. We, you and I, certainly seem to have lost that luxury long ago.
I am being urged to finish this now. Kiss Ginger for me; tell her not to despair. I hope and pray that we will be together again soon.
All my love,
Rusty
She put the pen down and rubbed her stockinged feet. Her arches hurt from a day of shopping, and her shoes were off. Sasha, who had been reading over her shoulder as she wrote, picked up the thick, embossed stationery of the Hotel Princesa and read the letter once again. He nodded his approval.
"Excellent. This should do it nicely."
"It should," Rusty agreed. "My husband is very devoted to me." She paused, frowning, and added, "As I am to him. That must be understood."
"It is," Sasha assured her.
"I have a very good marriage," she said defensively. "I don't want you to think that it's just a part of my job."
"Believe me I don't. Which is why I must ask you a personal question."
She nodded.
"You say that your husband has no idea that you are also a sleeper. How sure are you of that?"
"Totally."
"Not even a suspicion, not even a random thought that you might be connected to the service?" He rattled the letter in his hand. "Because if he has even the slightest doubt, then this approach becomes worthless."
She shook her head firmly. "I'm sure it's never even crossed his mind."
"Forgive me, but how can you be that sure?"
She permitted herself a smile. "It's a trite phrase, but it applies. A woman always knows. I've been married to Jim for twenty-five years. There's nothing about him that I don't know. You can rest assured of that. He has no idea that I'm a sleeper."
"I'll accept your judgment." Sasha slipped the letter into an envelope and looked at her curiously. "Tell me, during all those years, weren't you ever tempted to tell him?"
"Certainly not. I had my orders."
"And yet he toldjow."
She shrugged. "Jim is a man. The finest man I know, but he's still a man. It wasn't the kind of burden he could carry alone."
"And a woman could?"
It was Rusty's turn to look curious. "How much do you know about women?"
"Apparently not as much as I thought I did." He looked at his watch. "The car will be waiting. Time to go. Comrade."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The cells provided by the Order of Saint Vincent for visiting lay brothers were larger and airier than those of the resident monks, and they were also located in a lovelier part of the abbey. The monks' cells, for
ty of them, occupied a low, mean, barracks-like structure set hard against the southern wall of the monastery. On one side of the barracks was the cemetery, and on the other side were the ancient latrines. Generations of novices had sought to find some philosophical justification for this placement, but with little success.
The visitors' cells, however, were located next to the graceful scriptorium, directly over the cool wine cellar, and their windows opened onto the cloister and the masses of oleander that grew along the walls. There were only two such cells, for visitors to the abbey were rare, and both were occupied at the moment: one by Joseph Wolfe and the other by the two young Spaniards who had escorted him out of the chess club and up to the abbey.
Vasily stood in the doorway of Wolfe's cell. It was a clean but simple room, freshly whitewashed, and furnished with a narrow bed, a washstand with pitcher and basin, and a table and chair. A crucifix hung on one wall, and on another a sepia-toned print of Saint Vincent of Ferrer. On a third wall, as if in a position of honor, hung a wooden scourge - actually only a bundle of sharpened twigs bound with a leather thong - for use in the order's ritual of flagellation.
Vasily moved quickly into the room. The window onto the cloister was open, and from across the way came the sounds of the brothers at their evening meal, the clashing of crockery and the low rumble of conversation carrying from the refectory. He calculated that he had ten minutes and he would need only five. He lifted the scourge from the wall and laid it on the table, then dug under the monk's robe into his own pockets and came up with a small brown bottle and a fine-pointed brush. Working carefully but quickly, he brushed the colorless liquid from the bottle onto the sharpened tips of the twigs. He held the scourge up to admire his work with his one eye, imagining the scene that evening at compline with the circle of chanting monks swinging the scourges up and over their shoulders and down their arms, lacerating their flesh.
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