Levkas Man (41 page)

‘And—my father?' The words came slowly, little more than a whisper.

He shook his head. ‘Thomasis don't see anyone else. He says he called out many times, but there was no answer, so I guess he's dead, too. I'm sorry.' He glanced at Kotiadis. ‘A strange man, but we in Meganisi liked him.'

I stood there, hardly breathing, my hands trembling, while Zavelas explained how they'd widened the gap and got the Greek out, and then there had been another cave-in.

‘And what about Cartwright?' I asked. ‘Where is he now?'

‘Back at the camp by Tiglia, packing his gear.'

I turned to Gilmore. But he was staring at the floor, the Greek cigarette he had been smoking sending up an unheeded spiral of smoke from the ash tray beside him. He wasn't going to help me. And Sonia staring at me wild-eyed.

The police chief said something in Greek, looking pointedly at his watch. Kotiadis nodded. ‘Well, what you decide? Constantanidi says he has many important things requiring his attention at Levkas and in the islands. Do you take the boat to Levkas or not?'

‘Paul, you can't …' The words seemed wrung out of her, checked by the touch of Gilmore's hand on hers.

She knew. That was all I could think of in that moment. She'd got it out of him, and now there they sat, the two of them, both knowing the old man was still alive, both staring at me, waiting. And the terrible thing was, I knew what I was going to do. I just hadn't the guts to put it into words.

Sonia rose to her feet, coming to me slowly as though walking in her sleep, her eyes moist. ‘Do something,' she hissed. ‘For Christ's sake do something. You can't just leave him there.'

‘Why not?' I said harshly. ‘It's what he wanted—to be left there in that bloody charnel house of a cave.'

‘But you're his son.'

‘You think you know him better than I do? You weren't down there with him. You don't understand—' I laughed the way he'd laughed, that jeering sound.
You don't understand
. How many times had she said that to me? ‘There's no point,' I muttered. And Zavelas behind me said, ‘Is too dangerous, that cave. And I guess we can expect mobilization any time now.'

‘Hans and Alec,' she said, her eyes fixed on my face. ‘They'd try. You've only got to tell them—' Zavelas's big hand reached out and patted her arm. ‘Like this guy says, there's no point—just to bring his body out of one hole in the ground to bury it in another.'

‘Who said anything about a body? Dr Van der Voort is alive.'

His hand dropped, his blue eyes staring. ‘How can you say that? You don't know.'

‘But he does,' she said fiercely. And when Zavelas shook his head, bewildered, she cried out in a high-pitched hysterical voice, ‘Ask him. Ask him whether his father is alive.' Gilmore had risen. His hand was on her arm. She shook it off. ‘He was in that cave this morning, diving with an aqualung. Ask him.'

Zavelas turned to me. The room was silent. They were all watching. ‘Is that right? Is the Doctor alive?'

‘No,' I said. I heard the hiss of her breath, saw the appalled blaze in her eyes and knew that Gilmore hadn't told her the whole of it. My hands clenched and my voice was hard and angry as I told Kotiadis I'd like a word with my friends alone. ‘Then they can go and I'll take the coat up to Levkas for you.'

He nodded, said something to Constantanidi, and then the two officers left. ‘He is putting men on your ship to clear the bow line and lift the anchor. You have perhaps two or three minutes, then you will please start the engine.'

He left us men and Zavelas followed him. But at the foot of the companionway he paused, his big bulk filling the gap. ‘This country is not like America or England, you know. We are a small peoples with many difficulties, many enemies. I guess you know that. But remember, we are also very obstinate. If necessary we shall fight. Holerod is dead, and even if the Doctor were alive, you don't have a hope in hell of saving him now. I'm sorry.' He stared at us a moment and then he heaved himself up the companionway.

We were alone then and I turned to Gilmore. ‘You should have told her.'

He nodded, his head moving slowly without any of his usual alertness, his eyes sad. ‘But my dear fellow …' He reached for his cigarette, puffed at it briefly and then stubbed it out. ‘Yes, I suppose so. But it's not so easy. Miss Winters—Sonia is very fond of him and …' He shook his head unhappily.

‘All right,' I said angrily. ‘If you won't tell her, I'll have to.' She had been staring at me all the time, her breath coming in quick pants, her small breasts moving against the thin nylon of her shirt. Footsteps pounded on the deck, orders in Greek coming to us from above. Bluntly I told her the facts, how I'd found Holroyd, drowned in that cave, his head split open, probably by that Stone Age lamp, and the old man sitting there, alone, knowing it was the end, that for him there was no way out. But she didn't believe me. She didn't want to believe me. ‘It was an accident.' She breathed. ‘He fell—from the rope …'

‘Into a pool of water,' I said. ‘Water doesn't give a man a gash in the head.'

‘He might have slipped. Bert slipped and broke an arm. Or perhaps a piece of rock from the roof …' She was beginning to cry. She knew there was no way round it, that what I'd told her was the truth. Suddenly she wasn't fighting it any more. ‘So you'll just leave him there.'

‘He was very weak,' I said quietly.

‘To die—alone—in the dark.' She was sobbing wildly. ‘How can you be so cruel—your own father? And his discovery, that cave …'

‘It was what he wanted.' More orders and the sound of feet moving aft. ‘I have to go and start the engine now. They're about to heave the anchor in.'

She didn't say anything. There was nothing to say anyway. ‘You'd better get your things.'

She nodded dumbly. Gilmore followed her. ‘I'm so sorry,' he murmured ineffectually. ‘So terribly sorry.'

I went up to the wheelhouse and pressed the starter button. The deep throb of the diesel filled the ship with sound, the deck planking drumming at my feet. The patrol boat had been standing by to cast off. Kotiadis stepped back on board as the anchor came up. ‘Constantanidi is going first to Spiglia so I come with you.'

Behind me a voice said, ‘Paul. What happens to you now?'

I turned. She was dry-eyed, looking more of a waif than ever, with one of Gilmore's suitcases in her hand and a pile of her own things over the other arm.

‘If there's a war, then I'll be all right. It's in times of war they need people like me, isn't it?'

She didn't comment. Instead, she said, ‘I don't see why we have to go in the patrol boat.'

Gilmore had appeared, carrying his other case. ‘I tried to talk them out of it, but I expect they have their reasons.'

The anchor was on deck, the two boats drifting. Kotiadis looked at her. ‘Are you ready, Miss Winters?'

She nodded and then turned to me. ‘Is there nothing—?'

I shook my head. ‘He was very near the end, anyway. It's better like this.'

I don't know whether she believed me or not. I'm not even certain she understood. She stared at me a moment, standing very still, biting her lip, her eyes luminous with tears. But whether for him, or for what might have been between us, I will never know, for she got control of herself and went past me, moving towards the rail in a daze. Kotiadis took the suitcase and helped her over on to the patrol boat. Gilmore followed. ‘We'll see you in Levkas, I expect.'

I nodded. But I thought that very doubtful. The Greek sailors cast off and the patrol boat gathered way, heading north up the channel, a froth of white water at her stern. Sonia had not once looked back. I pushed the gear lever into forward, swung the wheel over and brought
Coromandel
round on to the line of the patrol boat's wake. I saw the flick of a lighter reflected in the glass of the windshield. Kotiadis was in the wheelhouse now, standing behind me, the smell of his cigarette rank in the hot air. Neither of us spoke, and abreast of the southern end of Tiglia I left the wheel and went out on to the starboard deck. Hans and Cartwright were busy dismantling the mess tent, Vassilios loading his boat. The orange sleeping tents were already struck. They didn't look up as we steamed past the southern opening to the cove, the water there a flat sheet of brilliant green, the rocks above pulsating in the heat.

I had set the engine revs fairly low, so that we were doing no more than four knots. The time by the wheelhouse clock was 16.10. Just over four hours before it was dark. I pushed past Kotiadis to the chart table and measured off the distance to Levkas port. It was exactly 11 miles—8½ to the entrance of the canal. Back at the wheel I steadied her on a course of 35°, which would take us just to the east of Skropio Island, and engaged the automatic pilot. ‘Can I get you anything?' I asked. ‘A drink, some coffee?'

‘Thank you—coffee.' His heavy-lidded eyes were screwed up against the sun-glare, the cigarette dangling from his lips. He was still wearing his jacket and I wondered whether that meant he was armed.

Down in the galley, I lit the gas ring and put the coffee percolator on. There was tinned ham in the fridge and I cut myself some sandwiches. By the time I had finished them, the coffee was made and I took it up to the wheelhouse. Skropio's wooded slopes stood like a dark hat floating above the milk calm of the water. Not a ripple anywhere and the boat thudding along as though we were on rails. ‘Black or white?' I asked him.

‘Black.'

He watched me as I poured it and I wondered whether he knew I was dangerous.

‘Sugar?'

‘Thank you.'

I handed him the cup and he took it with his left hand, his eyes on me all the time, his right hand free.

I pulled the flap-seat down and sat on it. The coffee was scalding hot and the sweat trickled down my body. ‘Well, what happens now?' I said. ‘When we get to Levkas.'

‘You will be sent on to England.'

‘I'm from Holland, not England.'

‘You have an English passport.'

‘Am I under arrest?'

He didn't say anything.

‘If you're at war, then you don't have to take any notice of Interpol.'

‘We are not at war. And the English are important to us.'

‘The man I killed was a Communist. You hate Communists. Doesn't that make any difference?'

He shrugged. ‘I have my instructions.'

‘And the boat?'

‘It will be searched. Probably impounded.'

‘Why?'

His eyes flicked open. ‘You ask me why? You are in Pythagorion on June 10. You leave that night. Our information is that you were in the Samos Straits and that you have a rendezvous with a Turkish fishing boat. Correct?'

I finished my coffee, the two of us watching each other. ‘Yes, quite correct,' I said.

‘Then explain, please.'

‘A smuggling job.'

I gave him some more coffee, and then, as we closed Skropio Island and motored close in along the shore, I told him the whole story, and by the time I had finished, Skropio was astern of us, and we were passing another wooded island, Sparti, our bows headed slightly east of north and the sun beginning to fall towards the dark rim of the Levkas mountains. Visibility had improved, and beyond the open roadstead of Port Drepano, I could just see the buoys marking the dredged channel into the canal. Four miles to go. One hour at our present speed. ‘You mentioned Byron to me once …' And for the next quarter of an hour I used every argument I could think of to persuade him that I could be of some service to his country if I were at liberty. After all, in the event of war they would need ships' officers. But it was no good. He had his instructions. ‘If it had not been for the accident to Dr Van der Voort, you would have been deported when you arrived back in Meganisi.'

We were off Mara Point then, close in to the Levkas shore, and I was relieved to see the patrol boat coming up astern. It passed within two or three cables of us doing about 12 knots. It would be in Levkas inside of half an hour. I looked at the clock. It was now 17.21 and the sun was already behind the towering bulk of the mountains. In forty minutes we should be in the dredged channel, with shallows all round us and darkness only two hours off. ‘Time for a drink,' I said. ‘Whisky or cognac? I'm afraid there's no ouzo.'

‘Cognac, thank you. But from the bottle, eh?' And he smiled at me thinly. He was taking no chances, and when I came back up to the Wheelhouse, I let him pour it himself. Then I asked him whether he'd any idea what we'd been smuggling out of Turkey.

‘You told me—antiquities from old tombs.'

‘Would you like to see them?'

‘When we get to Levkas.'

‘There are twenty-three packages. When we get to Levkas, will you ring Leonodipoulos for me?' If they were museum pieces, I thought perhaps I could do a deal. But he only laughed. ‘They are Turkish. Leonodipoulos is only interested in Greek antiquities.'

There was nothing for it then, and I sat there drinking my cognac, watching the cat's paws of an evening zephyr slip beneath our bows. The sky deepened in colour. The channel buoys grew larger beneath the solid bulk of Ayios Giorgios fort. And all the time Kotiadis stood there, leaning against the back wall of the wheelhouse, the glass in his hand, but hardly drinking. Astern of us, the sea was empty, not a sign of any other vessel right back to the dark shape of Skropio and the outline of Meganisi.

We entered the dredged channel at 18.06, chugging slowly between the first two buoys, the water suddenly a muddy brown on either side. To starboard was the small island of Volio, the fort above it on its hill, but all ahead of us it was a flat Dutch landscape. I was at the wheel now, a big trading caique coming south. We met her just after we had passed the second pair of buoys, the channel narrow and the ripple of her bow waves breaking where the shallows on either side were only six feet deep. The entrance to the canal proper was marked by the final pair of buoys and there was a red-roofed hut to port, on the extreme edge of the saltings, where cattle grazed in the shadow of the steeply rising hills beyond.