by Brian Lumley
“Just call her Vavaaara,” Lardis growled the name out. “She was no Lady, that one. According to Szgany legends five hundred years old, Vavara scorned all such titles because she knew how false they were. She was Wamphyri, and proud of it. And she was Vavaaara! On Sunside she was feared as much as any Lord, and as much by the women as by the men.”
Manolis looked at him and frowned, glanced curiously at the precog and Liz, then returned his gaze to Lardis. “What is that you are saying? Legends five hundred years old? And Sunside … thee Sunside in a world of vampires? Is this what you are meaning when you say you have thee knowledge? But if so, then where does a man come by such knowledge? Thee way I understand it—”
“Manolis,” Goodly cut in. “E-Branch keeps its secrets. It’s how we survive. Everything on a need-to-know basis. It’s as Liz said before: if Ben Trask wants you to know certain things, you may be sure he’ll tell you.” And before the other could ask any further questions: “And now I have a few things to tell him … .”
Krassos town had been left behind; the view outside the bus had opened up into one of dramatic coastal countryside and blue expanses of ocean, the sparkling Aegean on the right and wooded slopes, spurs, and rocky foothills rising to the left. The precog took out a miniature phone, extended a tiny earpiece on its cord and plugged it into his ear, and tapped in Trask’s number.
Trask answered almost immediately. “Yes?” His anxious voice was distorted by interference, a lot of unusually heavy static, plus feedback from the vehicle’s amplifier system, which issued the occasional announcements of a young German tour hostess.
“A lady and her escorts are on their way,” the precog said.
“Good,” said the other. “When can I expect you?”
“In a little less than an hour.”
“Fine. Is all well?”
Then there was a lot more of the hissing and popping of static before Goodly could answer: “Yes, but … we made some new friends along the way. And I believe you and your companion know them. You’ve, er, holidayed out here in the Med with one of them once before …”
There was a long pause before Trask growled, “And just how many of these friends have you picked up along the way?”
“Three,” Goodly answered. “They seem very attached to us.”
Another long pause, and yet more static, before: “Then perhaps I should arrange some extra accommodation. Anything else?”
“We had to take a bit of a detour,” Goodly was careful how he phrased it, “because of a blaze in Krassos town. Apparently some kind of refrigeration plant has burned down. But they just about had it under control by the time we passed. Had you heard about that?”
“It was on the local TV,” Trask answered, trying to keep it light. “That and some other interesting stuff. It’s all down to this dreadful heat, I suspect.”
“Yes,” the precog answered. And with typical British phlegmatism: “There seems to be quite a lot of heat coming down. And a lot more to come, I fancy.”
Trask thought about that for a moment or two, then said, “I think we’d better wait and bring each other up to date when you get in. And by the way, how are you travelling?”
“Er, on a bratwurst special?”
“I know where it stops,” said Trask. “I can try to meet you there. It wouldn’t do to leave you standing around for too long getting all hot and bothered in the midday heat. Best if we get you off the street as soon as possible.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” said the precog. And: “Be seeing you soon, then.” He switched off …
The main traffic circuit through Krassos town was roughly circular. Vehicles from the east swept around the back of the town, swung south and then east onto the port’s service road and past the harbour, and so on out of town. Thus as the E-Branch party, including Manolis Papastamos and his men, had left the seafront in the bus for Limari, they had failed to notice the black limo that came gliding along the promenade behind them and parked in a lot west of the concourse. And more importantly, the two nuns in Vavara’s limo had failed to notice them.
Had their tracks crossed, however, Manolis would definitely have noticed. For this limo was a car he would remember for the rest of his life.
The nuns were only a few minutes late, but that was enough. A minor traffic accident had blocked the ring road north of the town, and so they’d been held up, which had caused them to miss the arrival of The Krassos. There would be, however, three more ferries from the mainland during the afternoon and evening, and the nuns had their instructions: to keep covert surveillance in the town’s harbour area, to watch for the arrival of any odd or suspiciousseeming strangers, and to report regularly to Vavara at the monastery east of Skala Astris. While their “mother superior” had made light of Malinari’s warnings to his face, still she wasn’t fool enough to ignore them completely.
As for today, however, the nuns where they sat in the shade of a taverna’s awnings directly opposite the deep-water harbour—sat there cowled, pale and silent, with their faces muffled, and their hagridden eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses—would have nothing to report …
Just before 1:00 P.M. local, Trask was there to meet his reinforcements on the main road through Skala Astris. There was no time for anything other than perfunctory greetings as he helped with their luggage and ushered them down a narrow, shaded alley toward wrought-iron gates that opened into a large and pleasant garden of flowering hibiscus, pomegranate, and fig trees.
A sign on the gates had named the place as Christos Studios, and the studios in question were pantile-roofed chalets, hidden away between the trees in a roughly circular pattern, each with its own pathway and outdoor patio area. The lavish use of varnished Mediterranean pine against recently whitewashed walls and blue painted window shutters and door panels gave these accommodations a very ethnic, welcoming look, and south of the garden a low wall formed a secondary horizon to that of the sea.
Beyond the wall, a hanging sign over the empty doorway of a bambooand raffia-roofed bar said, THE SHIPWRECK, which suited the place perfectly since its design gave it the look of having been washed up on the beach. From within, the sandpapered voice of Louis Armstrong sounded on an ancient vinyl rendition of “We Have All the Time in the World,” complete with all the jumps and scratches of ten thousand replays.
“This place is perfect,” said Liz, as Trask took her to the door of her chalet. And then, on second thought, “Or rather, it would be if we were here simply to enjoy it. The sun, the sand, and the sea. Perfect, yes.” And she went inside to unpack.
But as Trask walked Goodly and Lardis to another door, well out of Liz’s hearing, the precog glanced at him and said, “What was that she said? The three esses, sun, sand, and sea? But she missed out the most important S of all.”
“And what would that be?” Trask asked him.
“The screaming,” said Goodly, with a curt nod. “For I think there’ll be quite a bit of that, too.”
“You’ve seen it?” Trask gripped his elbow.
“Something of it,” the precog answered. “In my dreams, last night at the hotel where we stayed in Keramoti. Of course, it’s possible they were just dreams—which would be natural enough in the circumstances—but I’ve kept them to myself because of Liz.”
“First get yourselves sorted out inside,” said Trask. “Then we’ll talk about it. Let’s meet in say, fifteen minutes? In The Shipwreck there.”
“Fine,” said Goodly. And he and Lardis entered their chalet with their luggage.
Then it was Manolis Papastamos’s turn. He and his men had a slightly larger chalet, accommodation for all three, into which they tossed their bags with scarcely a glance inside. And again Trask said, “Fifteen minutes to unpack your stuff and settle in, and then a get-together and briefing in The Shipwreck.”
But his tone of voice had echoed his displeasure, and as he went to turn away, Manolis took his arm. “My friend,” the Greek policeman began, then checked himself and added: “I
take it you are still my friend?”
Trask looked at him, his moustache and stubble, the genuine anxiety in his eyes, and couldn’t help but grin, however wryly. “Always,” he said. And then he replaced his smile with a frown. “But still you’re a stubborn, pigheaded man. I wanted to keep you out of this—for your own good.”
“But why?” Manolis threw up his good right hand in protest. “Because this
… this vrykoulakas bitch knows me? I’ve thought about that, too. Just exactly how does this creature know me? I mean, where could she have seen me? Has she actually seen me—or is her dirty work performed by her minions?”
“Minions?” Trask stared at him.
“But don’t you remember?” (It was Manolis’s turn to frown.) “On Ródhos, Halki, Karpathos—that Janos Ferenczy business? He had his thralls, his watchers and spies; he even recruited some of your people—thee poor Ken Layard and Trevor Jordan! So why not this Vavara? Ben, if I have to I’ll leave both of thee big fishes to you and your people, but whoever it was pushed me off that cliff and killed Eleni Babouris: they’re mine! Now believe me, my men and I, we’ll do whatever you say. And you’ll be glad of our help.”
“Actually,” Trask answered, “I can probably use you. You’re not nearly as badly banged about as I thought you were—or if you are, you’re good at hiding it. That Fu Manchu moustache and the facial growth hides just about everything! As for your men: they’ll do well enough from what I’ve seen of them, and they’ll benefit from not being known by anyone, not even me! But that’s all right, introductions can wait until the briefing in fifteen minutes. Okay?”
“Okay,” said Manolis. “But just one thing: Where’s Chung?”
“He’s in the administration building through the trees over there,” Trask pointed. “He’s on the phone, exchanging situation reports with our HQ in London. By the way, Chung and I have the chalet next door to Liz’s should you need to know anything.”
And Manolis nodded. “See you in Thee Shipwreck,” he said, as Trask went back the way they had come …
The Shipwreck wasn’t nearly the wreck it appeared from outside. Within, its spacious floor was crazy-paved with polished marble, and it was level throughout—a rare thing on any Greek island, where it’s usually impossible to find a table that doesn’t tilt at least a little to one side. Under the cleverly arranged raffia and bamboo “camouflage” of the roof, there was a varnished pine ceiling where fishing nets festooned the high corners like vast cobwebs. Mediterranean conchs and fan shells decorated the nets, and some of these were wired to an electrical circuit and fitted internally with small tinted light bulbs. Of an evening, the subdued and intermittent glowing of the shells would add an almost submarine effect to the bar’s ambiance.
A row of sturdy bar stools stood empty at the well-stocked, pine-topped bar itself, while comfortable wicker armchairs were evenly spaced around its glass-topped, bamboo tables. The walls were painted with Aegean murals.
Thus the Christos Studios setup in its entirety—with its secluded, shaded accommodations, and The Shipwreck in its beachfront location—made for a very pleasant and satisfactory base of operations. So thought Trask as he and his esper colleagues rearranged the seating, moved three tables closer together, and sat down. The only absentee was Chung, who was still busy on the phone.
It was very pleasant, yes, Trask thought—in which respect Liz Merrick’s observation that the place was “perfect” had been acceptable and accurate …
… But then again, so were Ian Goodly’s presentient dreams accurate—probably. For Trask had a great deal of faith in the precog’s “wild talent,” and with every good reason. But however it worked out, there was a lot more to E-Branch being here than the sun, the sand, and the sea. This definitely wasn’t going to be any kind of beach party.
“Ah, civilisation!” said Manolis, as he and his two entered the bar precisely on time.
As Trask had noted, Manolis’s men looked very capable. The one who was built like a battering ram—short in the legs but broad-shouldered, and with a chest like a barret—was Andreas. He had close-cropped hair on a bullet head, a wicked smile with more than a hint of menace behind it, and eyes blue as the sea. His father was Greek but his mother had been an American; she’d died when Andreas was a child, since when he’d lived in Athens.
Andreas’s colleague, Stavros, was a few years his junior at perhaps twentyseven years of age. He was as Greek as they come and had shining black hair, brown eyes, and an athletic, almost Olympian figure. Liz found that she couldn’t help comparing him with Jake Cutter. It wasn’t his face (his too-straight nose and very Mediterranean looks put paid to that), so maybe it was the way he fitted his jeans. The silhouette was … reminiscent, to say the least. Or perhaps it was simply that Jake was constantly in her thoughts.
Close behind Manolis and his pair as they entered the bar, a man who was a stranger to all but Trask followed them in. He was a handsome, angular young Greek, who introduced himself as the proprietor’s son. “I’m Yiannis and I run the bar,” he told his guests in perfect English. “When I’m not here my wife will be. Katerina is currently taking her siesta but she’ll be here tonight.” And then, turning to Manolis, he said, “But what you said about ‘civilisation’ … no.” And still smiling, he shook his head. “Not The Shipwreck. Not my place.”
“No?” Manolis looked surprised.
Yiannis pointed out through a window in the shape of a porthole—pointed east along the sea wall to where Skala Astris’s hotels, shops, and tavernas made an untidy huddle that somehow marred the tranquility of the view—and said again, “No, that is civilisation! I remember when I was a boy and there was just a beach. But civilisation? It doesn’t come galloping down on us quite so fast these days, now that tourism is dying off, but if it ever starts up again … that’s when I’ll move The Shipwreck a little farther down the beach. I can’t say if it’s a blessing or a curse. I am making a living off the slow death of my home, my island. But I like to think the disease is not incurable and that it will stabilize eventually.”
“I see what you mean,” said Manolis. “Then take what I said as a compliment. You have a most, er, agreeable place here.”
Yiannis gave a little bow and went behind the bar. “And you may take this as a compliment,” he said. “The compliments of my bar, customary when new guests come to Christos Studios. Please allow me to take your orders and serve drinks on the house.”
“Bravo!” said Lardis at once, beaming his pleasure. “Metaxa for me, if you please.” His promise to familiarize himself with that drink was now well on course to being kept.
The rest of the E-Branch people took cooling fruit drinks; Manolis and his men ordered ouzo on the rocks in tall, frosted glasses. After serving the drinks, Yiannis excused himself and left his guests to their own devices. People were due to check out and he had duties to perform; he would return shortly.
Then Trask got down to it. “The place is just about empty,” he said. “Which suits our purpose ideally. There’s a handful of Germans staying in the other studios. Most of them have hired a car or cars, and Yiannis tells me they’re usually out from dawn till dusk; there are better resorts and beaches on Krassos than this one, and that’s where they’ll be. Which means we’re fairly private here.
“As for Yiannis: from what I can gather, he’s a bit down in the mouth because business has been very bad this year. You can blame this weird El Niño weather for that. Other than that he’s a pronounced Anglophile and will see to all our needs.
“Chung and I have been here since last night, and we’ve had time to do some thinking and planning. We’ve picked up a couple of maps—enough for everyone—that are far more detailed than the one you gave us, Manolis. They’re not quite Ordnance Survey standard, but they’re pretty good.” He handed out folded maps.
“Manolis, you’ll need to guide your men through this. It’s probably better that you do it later, for I don’t know how long Yiannis will leave us on our
own.
“Okay, we all know what this initial phase of the operation must be: to find Malinari and Vavara in their dens without them finding us, and to discover how far their vampire contamination has spread. Once we know that it might be possible to call down some firepower on them. I say ‘might’ because we don’t have the same degree of cooperation here as we had in Australia. Indeed, if the Greek authorities knew what we’re doing here they’d most likely kick us out! The last thing they need to hear—and the last thing we dare let them or anyone else hear—is that there are vampires on the loose in the Greek islands! That is, not if we want to retain some kind of sanity in the world.
“Very well, now open up your maps. This is Krassos. Densely wooded mountains built of the world’s finest marbles, farms and fishing villages, sparse foothills that climb to rearing cliffs and ledges fit only for goats, rocky bays, shallow harbors, and sandy beaches. Idyllic in its prime and an island paradise, now it poses a threat far worse than tourism and Yiannis’s ‘civilisation,’ creatures who would take it over—and the rest of the world with it—just as insidiously, but far more terribly and totally.
“So where, when, and how are we to look for our enemies?
“Well, the rules aren’t as simple as they may seem. Nor is the territory. We have here some three hundred square miles of island, composed as previously described, and Vavara and Malinari could be quite literally anywhere within its borders.
“Here’s what I want done with immediate effect.” He turned again to Manolis. “Get in contact with the island’s authorities and see if you can find out if anyone has been reported missing and where from. I think that—”
“Wait!” Manolis stopped him. “I checked this out when I was here dealing with thee woman with thee leech. There are no missing locals, tourists, nothing. And thee island is far too small a place for thee peoples to go absent without being noticed.”