The American Broker

by Andrew Hill

  "John," he sighed, as if very tired of life generally, "You're pretty sick of this, like the rest of us, I know, but can you think what has made you worse than the rest of us? I'll tell you. Women. Look what happened to Sally. OK, so that was Harry's fault and may have nothing directly to do with Chris, Bob or anyone else, but it happened and it's relevant. Your wife getting hurt really brought out the anger in you. Before that you were pretty annoyed but it was a sort of predictable annoyance. I wouldn't mind betting that the news about her hit you a bloody sight harder than going to jail for a few hours."

  "True." Tyler nodded in agreement.

  "It's when women get hurt we react most. Look at Evelyn at Collette's place. I wasn't there but from what I can gather - and just looking at him - he didn't exactly hold himself back, did he? Why? Two young girls - one probably pretty close to his heart if he'd admit it - in danger. Chris has got the news now - he was pretty hurt by whatever happened to that other girl, what was her name? June. That's right..."

  "She was one of the trustees of the pension fund. He tried to keep her out of it when everything went wrong but, you know, she'd been working with him for a long time. He hated the idea of any of the girls getting involved," interrupted Evelyn.

  "Now it's Gill. God knows what he'll do. Now what I'm trying to get at is this: we're all human beings inside. Some of us don't show it maybe but even mystery guy Paul here's got a heart. Break that or..." Brian spoke deliberately slowly. ".. or threaten to break it," emphasising the word 'threaten', "threaten to break it and you'll get a reaction. I want Bob here." He stabbed at the table with a finger. "One way might be to bring Violet over here..."

  Tyler leant forward now and listened intently.

  "If we could bring the woman to England I'm pretty damn sure Bob would head straight here - courts and all. It's his one weak spot, in my view. There's no way we can get a repeat performance of the Swiss meeting, that's for sure, and there's not much point being nice and sweet to him. I say get Violet, bring her here, let Bob know what's going on and why and then we've got some chance of seeing some action."

  Tyler jumped in enthusiastically.

  "I go for that. It's something we thought about ages ago when she was here in the old days. Pour a pint of bourbon down the old bat and she'll follow us anywhere! But we'd have to make sure of a couple of things. First, I'm not that sure Chris won't have already half-killed Bob - as Brian just said - he's not going to be all that happy at the moment and he can be pretty unpredictable at the best of times. I just don't think we can rely on him - either to act for or against Bob - and he shouldn't be told. Second, we started all this to get some money back from Bob but since then all hell's been let loose and we're going to be in big trouble."

  "We need to be very careful," said Evelyn. "For a start, we haven't really broken any laws so far. Kidnapping's a bit different. Someone's also got to take on the job of looking after her and keeping her in booze until hubby comes to collect her. It's not my bag, I'm afraid, fellas. She can be a great little lady on occasions but... well, let's just say... my wife would never take it and we've already got the mother-in-law on our hands!"

  Paul shook his head. He just wasn't interested but could see the sense. Basically he had had about enough of the group' antics over the last week or two and had not been terribly impressed. His own preference was for a quick, tough solution. Unfortunately, he had to agree that there was not an obvious one at the moment.

  The discussion went on and the evening began to draw in, the light from the open windows bathing the garden outside in an eerie glow. Tyler became more convinced that it made sense to get Violet sooner rather than later as a sort of guarantee that Bob wouldn't disappear if nothing else. He had not forgotten that phone call, the still unexplained deaths. He had told the police the truth about that night and that he believed that someone was slowly picking off young men in some crazy game of hit and miss attempts to get Chris. If Bob told the truth about the lost funds then maybe they'd stop - and Tyler would be in the clear, too. For now, though, he had had to surrender his passport whilst the police investigations continued and the others had to accept that the chances of his being able to make the trip to the States were pretty slim.

  "If necessary, I'll go myself," said Brian, "but I need someone to help - I'm not much cop when it comes to the physical stuff!" he laughed, nervously.

  Tyler shook his head. "Sorry. Not me. I have a feeling I'll be needed here. Chris did say he'd call and I still think he will. Maybe I can handle the communication side."

  "I'm game," said Evelyn, "but I reckon Paul's the better bet. Vi knows him well and used to like him. Well, she may be passionately in love with me, for all I know! But you're prettier than me, Paul..."

  Eyes turned to the moody Pole. Paul sat at the table, his thick-set body dwarfing the neat dining-room chair bearing his weight. He was not over-enthusiastic but still wanted to see justice done and, in the absence of any better ideas, agreed.

  "OK," he said, after a pause. "But I'm not a gentle talker. If that bitch starts messing about then she gets here in bits in a carrier bag or two and Bob can pick up the pieces. You guys wouldn't be able to handle the 'importation papers', either. I can handle that. Yeah, OK, Brian, I'll go but I want to take Evelyn with me, not you. Reckon I can trust you, Evelyn. Let's go and get her."

  "Thanks, Paul," said Brian, clearly relieved.

  "Yeah, thanks Paul," said Evelyn, more ruefully than out of gratitude.

  "Good luck, mate," said Tyler, genuinely. "Wish I could join you, in a way."

  "Paul - I appreciate that. Thank you," said Brian. "I'll check out the flights and arrange a room at my place. Vi's been there before so she'll be familiar with the surroundings and, when Bob does eventually get the news - which has got to be your job, you know - " he pointed a fat finger at Tyler, "he might just be more inclined to think she's OK than if she's stuck with any of you heartless buggers!"

  Appreciating the humour, the group almost jointly breathed a sigh of relief and, as the laughter began, Evelyn couldn't resist naming the venture, writing in large scrawl at the top of a sheet of white A4: 'The Bourbon Run', underlining the words twice.

  Chapter XLI The Chase

  Chris ran out of the apartment and went into Kardamena again. Practically bowling over his friend Stavros he clasped the Greek's arm and asked whether he'd seen Bob. Stavros seldom missed anything. It was, anyway, difficult to get away from the coast without going past the café bar and, sure enough, he had seen the American, carrying his case, quickly walking by about twenty minutes earlier. He could hardly have missed him, he had joked, wearing the dark suit on such a dry, hot day, at ten thirty in the morning.

  Chris had to think quickly. Fortunately, he kept a small brown suitcase stocked with the essentials of travelling. Passport, black leather wallet containing credit cards, driving licence and sterling. A brown envelope marked "D" contained deutschmarks, "B" Belgian francs, "CH" Swiss francs and another bundle of colourful maps and pictures of Greece, the islands and parts of Yugoslavia. Monsieur Givenchy cologne, apres-rasage and soap packed in a neat foldaway case with a flannel and a towel. A toothbrush and large crumpled tube of Aquafresh lay oddly in the left side of a pair of shoes strapped inside the top of the case, the bottom half also packed well with half a dozen white shirts, pants, socks and three pairs of trousers.

  "Pou ine Giorgo?" asked Chris. Giorgos the taxi driver usually knew the movement of anyone in or out of Kardamena and, if Bob hadn't already availed himself of his services, Chris would think of no better assistant to track down the man.

  Stavros waved a hand in the general direction of the parking area near the village square. Chris cursed as Kos suddenly seemed a lot larger than before when he started to consider all the places he could search and the variety of ways Bob could, if he wanted, get off the island. He wished he'd chosen somewhere small - Skiathos, perhaps, with its single eight kilometre stretch of road - but it could have been worse as he remembered
getting lost on Mytillini once when he had fallen asleep on the road from the north to the south of the island, and found himself on a bumpy track miles from anywhere.

  *If Bob had wanted to get lost there he would have had little trouble" he said to himself.

  He affectionately hugged the swarthy Greek waiter and left with a cry of "I'll be back - you can be sure!" Stavros watched him go with his one free hand held aloft in silent but grinning farewell and the other balancing a tray of cocktails on splayed fingers. A classic pose.

  Giorgos was standing against his new grey Mercedes smoking a Marlboro cigarette and tapping his foot to the disco neat emanating from within the car. Chris asked him if he had seen Bob.

  "Ne". A simple affirmative gesture with his head confirmed that he had. But no, he didn't know where he had gone. "Rent-a-car. He go with rent-a-car. Tourists." In slow bursts Chris learned that a Datsun Cherry, dark blue, hired from Avis in town had taken Bob away from town about a quarter of an hour before. The tourists were Scandinavian, youngish people.

  "OK, let's check the airport. C'mon Giorgo!" shouted Chris as he climbed into the passenger seat. "Quick! He must not get away!" he cried through the open window. Giorgo seldom moved quickly. Chris was grateful that at least Giorgos didn't have anything which he considered more pressing at the time. The car clattered noisily into life, the diesel engine only marginally quieter than the older models around. Music still blasting forth from the expensive Japanese cassette player they roared out of Kardamena and followed the dusty grey tarmac up and away towards the hills.

  As Giorgos drove as quickly as he reasonable could, Chris gazed across the lumpy green countryside. Dark green poplars stood erect in contrast with the light green grass and splashes of yellow and pink flowers and the arid browns of rocky outcrops. The sky was that clear, deep blue that seemed somehow special to the islands with little more than a wisp of cloud, very, very gradually changing shape, stretching until the myriad tiny droplets of which it was formed parted and two smaller swirls replaced the first. The tall, pink flowers edging the road were brushed aside as the car sped by but an old man sat astride a donkey seemed hardly to notice. Maybe sixty, maybe seventy, it was hard to tell, his leathery complexion was made darker by a few days' stubble and the dust of his work. His black hair had receded leaving tufts above his eyes, an old white beret covering his baldness. He sat sideways on the saddle, legs dangling together and swaying with the slow forward movement. The animal's grey-brown coat was patchy and practically worn away where the various leather attachments made contact. Its ears, though, were pricked up alert and its large, dark eyes sparkled.

  The airport came into view and within minutes Chris was in the Olympic Airways office. An engine oar and a glimpse of the Boeing 737 rising off the runway and into flight answered Chris's question. The young girl explained that an unusual foreign gentleman had rushed in and asked for a seat on the next plane out. She thought it was crazy that he didn't mind where it went but he had paid the 1820 drachmae fare to Thessaloniki and even left here a 180 tip.

  "Yes." she confirmed, "he only just made it!"

  "When's the next flight out?" asked Chris.

  "Athini twelve o'clock. There is room."

  "When's the next flight to Thessaloniki?"

  "Tomorrow, sir. There is only the Athini flight and another to Rodos at fourteen thirty today."

  "OK." sighed Chris. "Give me the Athens flight at twelve, please."

  The girl wrote out his ticket and folded the familiar blue booklet, handing it to him in exchange for the assortment of notes and coins Chris placed on the counter. He checked it and put it in his pocket, then tuned to his friend.

  "Thanks for the ride, Giorgos," he said, shaking him by the hand. "Can you arrange to get my car back please. Here's six thousand - that should cover it and your own expenses."

  The Greek took the money and they both walked lazily back to the taxi. Chris lifted his case out of the back and waved goodbye. Turning to face the grim two-storey airport building he smiled to himself at the throng of anxious tourists gathering around a pile of luggage atop a blue cart being towed outside. He wondered what they were thinking on probably their first visit. His own, three years ago now, seemed so far away.

  The uniformed reps marshalled their respective groups towards a waiting fleet of modern, air-conditioned coaches which would, in due course, hustle them off to deposit them at the modern, air-conditioned hotels built in otherwise inaccessible corners of the island.

  Inside the building, Chris took a seat in the departure lounge, the dark red plastic covered, thin seats offering little comfort but he had not long to wait. A plastic cup of frappe quenched his thirst and a futile attempt to read his horoscope in a luridly coloured daily newspaper occupied the time.

  From Thessaloniki, Bob could take one or two Olympic Airways flights out but these were infrequent and Chris was gambling on none being available or of interest to Bob that day. There were only three reasonable ways of leaving Greece. Plane, road and water. If Bob were in Thessaloniki the only ferries would take him to Turkey, other than a very lengthy trip to another Greek port. Chris thought that an unlikely option. That left air and road. Bob didn't like cars much but he had already hitched one ride successfully and may be fortunate enough to get another going north across the Yugoslav border.

  There were also several flights to Athens from where he could practically choose any destination he wanted.

  Chris gambled on Bob's return to Athens. He would arrive at the airport well in advance of the American and have plenty of chance to check the flights and position himself somewhere with a good view of arrivals. He could also check the possibility of any departures from Thessaloniki. Lastly, if Bob didn't show up, there was time for him to get to the main Yugoslavia-Greece border post where he could track any movement by car with a bit of help from Michaelis' influence on the slow, but nonetheless methodical, authorities' records. There was a chance that Bob may be lucky enough in that case to put a considerable distance between himself and Chris in Yugoslavia but that was a risk Chris couldn't avoid. Anyway, for now the most likely option seemed to be Athens.

  As the plane hung in the sky, thousands of feet above the still blue sea, it seemed motionless yet actually travelling at some five hundred miles per hour. Chris found some time to relax and he pictured Gill lying in hospital. His vision was, if only he could have known, remarkably accurate.

  To the young girl, the morning sunrise probably seemed no different to the evening sunset. No sign of recognition, no flutter of long eyelashes, no movement. Just a strange and motionless peace across the tanned countenance of her face. Black hair flowed over the crisp white pillow in sharp contrast, tinted gold as the new sun's rays caught it where she lay.

  A similar image faded mistily in Chris's mind as the plane began the descent to Athens.

  The plane brushed the tops of the Glyfada hotels south of Athens as it came into land at the domestic airport. Inside the building there was the usual hubbub. Dark-haired men and almost as many women rushing hither and thither across the large but poorly laid-out terminal. Hand-painted signs on yellow background indicated the way out and Chris marched quickly across the shiny black floor. Along the narrow corridor between arrivals and departures he had to push his way through a crowd waiting to exchange money at the ill-placed banking counters. Often Greeks travelling abroad found themselves having to wait a long time for a tourist to supply the office with the currency so that they could change their drachmae for deutschmarks, sterling or whatever. Chris wondered whether he would be asked to make a black market exchange as he passed through, and spent some few moments considering his response should it have occurred. It didn't. He passed the stands of postcards, cheap gifts and a selection of paperbacks in Greek, German and English. "Poor French and Italians," he murmured to himself.

  Through the opening automatic sliding glass doors he immediately felt the dry heat of Athens. Not a breath of wind but cars everywhere. Parking
at the airport was a widely-recognised farce. The smart traffic police in their dark green uniforms with white braid managed to move on the obvious culprit and several cars displayed the square white parking tickets they issued. A grey and blue Olympic Airways bus struggled through to the entrance, stopping in the midst of a cacophony of horn blowing, whistling and shouting, its few passengers clambering off whilst the traffic ground to a halt behind. Bright yellow taxi cabs raced their engines and tyres screeched as they found another temporary route to the collection point over the road. Chris headed across to this point and then turned into the café - the only source of refreshment in the entire terminal and, although bearing the title 'Olympic Catering' emblazoned in blue across the top of the building of which it formed part, it was a totally inadequate place. Inside there were twenty or so tables in a drab atmosphere and, except in inclement weather, they were seldom used. Outside were about thirty metal tables with four blue-cushioned seats around each one. The back of each seat was set back at a very relaxed angle which tended to make the occupants unwilling to move. Move one would have to though it was virtually impossible to get along the narrow gaps between the tables otherwise. It was a constantly moving environment. People would come and go. All in transit. Cases of all colours and sizes would block the aisles and lie on empty chairs. A multitude of languages buzzed left and right. German in front and American behind. One waiter, an oldish man with thinning hair, large stomach and high eyebrows, coped with everyone, assisted by the fact that the majority of fare was on a self-service basis.