Solo (Aka the Cretan Lover) (v5) (20 page)

He got up, sat beside her and put an arm about her shoulders. 'Couple of bloody fools, the pair of us, I dare say.'

'Oh, Asa Morgan, I like you.' She leaned her head on his shoulder and his good arm tightened around her.

'Ah, well, that's my Welsh good looks for you, only I'm about twenty years too late, so no nonsense. Now let's go over a few things again. Deville, you said? Jean Paul Deville.'

'That's right.'

'I bet there's more to him than meets the bloody eye.'

He was shaking a little now, his eyes wild, his face wet with sweat.

'What will you do now?' she said.

'I'm not sure. In other circumstances, I'd like to go down there and settle with him only the state I'm in at the moment, I feel I might fall down if I breathe too deeply. At least I know where the bastard will be Saturday night. On stage at the Albert Hall.'

He was in real pain now, she could see that. She said, 'You should be in bed, Asa.'

'You say he leaves for Athens this evening, to catch the night flight to London?'

'That's right.'

'You'll be going with him, of course.'

She sat there, staring at him blankly, hands folded in her lap. 'To continue to share his bed, Asa as if nothing had happened? To keep him warm for you till you get there?' She got to her feet, her face still unnaturally calm. 'I should feel sorry for you, I suppose, but I don't. You're as possessed as he is. You deserve each other.'

She walked away. When he tried to get up, he found that his legs refused to support him and called hoarsely, 'Kate, for God's sake!'

'And what on earth could he possibly have to do with it, Asa?' she said without turning round and disappeared into the pine trees.

There was a clatter of hooves behind him and George appeared with the mule, Maria following. The old woman was very angry. She put a hand on Morgan's forehead.

'Fool, there is a fever on thee already. Do you seek death?'

But he had nothing to say now - nothing at all, for it was like being under water, everything happening in slow motion. Between them, Maria and George got him into the saddle and started back up through the pine trees.

By the time they got him to the bed he had been using he was shaking. George pulled blankets on and Maria went to the kitchen and came back with a cup.

'Drink, boy,' she ordered.

It tasted foul and Morgan gagged but got it down, thinking of Katherine Riley.

'A great pity that, Mam,' he said in Welsh. 'A nice girl. But you know how it is?'

And then the darkness swallowed him up.

Mikali and Deville were at the far end of the rear terrace talking when she went in. She watched them for a while from behind a window in the sitting-room then went to the sideboard and poured herself a large gin and tonic. There was a slight movement and Mikali slipped his arms around her waist.

'A little early for you, isn't it?'

'I'm tired,' she said. 'That's all.'

He kissed her neck and turned her round and there was concern on his face. 'I hate to say it, angel, but you look awful.'

'I know,' she said. 'I've been working like a dog and then the plane trip and last night in Athens.' She paused and what came out next was somehow in spite of herself, but once said could not be taken back. 'I was thinking. Would you mind very much if I hung on here for a couple of days?'

For a moment he hesitated and then smiled. 'Why not? The rest would do you good. But I want you in London, Saturday, without fail. There'll be a seat in a box as close to me as I can get you. I need you there, angel. Something to share. Something to remember.'

He held her close and kissed her. Amazing how easy it was, yet after all, he was the same man, this man she had given her body to so many times. The Cretan Lover from the beginning. The only difference was that now she knew it.

'If you don't mind, I think I'll go and lie down. I've got a splitting headache.'

'Of course.'

She went out and Deville moved in through the french window.

'I think you should kill her.'

'Why?' Mikali said calmly. 'She knows nothing.'

'You love her?'

'I don't know what that word means. I like her - yes. Her presence, her company. She pleases me in these things more than any other woman I've ever known.'

'The seeds of doubt have been planted in her. Who knows when they may germinate?'

'A particularly purple passage, even for you.'

He sat down at the Bluthner and his fingers started to play 'Le Pastour' entirely of their own volition.

13

Morgan was tramping over the mountain on his way home from the pit again, half-running to beat the thunderstorm that threatened in the black, anvil-shaped clouds that filled the horizon.

The rains came, a downpour of such force that he was soaked to the skin in a moment. And the cold of it seemed to reach inside his brain so that he cried aloud in agony as he went down the hillside to the village below.

She had the door of the little cottage open as he stumbled along the path, her head draped in a black knitted shawl so that he couldn't see her face.

Her arms enfolded him, drawing him into the warmth. 'Mam,' he said. 'I'm so cold. So bloody cold.'

He was on his back, head against the pillow, only when she leaned over and the shawl slipped back, it was Katherine Riley who gazed down at him.

'It's all right, Asa. I'm here. Sleep now.'

'Yes, Mam,' he said, closed his eyes and did as he was told.

Morgan came awake from a dreamless sleep and lay staring up at the wattle and plaster ceiling over his head. He was himself again, his skin cool, the dull persistent ache in his arm and shoulder the only reminder of what he'd been through. It was daylight, sun streaming in through the window.

He could hear singing close at hand, the dull rhythmic chopping of an axe against wood; he flung back his blankets and got to his feet. He was no longer lightheaded. Now, there was only the pain and that was good. That would keep him sharp.

George was splitting logs for firewood, Maria was sitting on the bench in the sun, sewing a rent in Morgan's salt-stained jacket. His wallet was on the bench beside her, drying in the sun along with his passport and a row of drachma notes.

She put up a hand and touched his forehead. 'So - the fever is gone?' She called to George. 'See, old fool, who knows better than the doctor now?'

George leaned on his axe. 'She is a witch,' he said, 'and all the women of her clan before her. This is a known fact.'

'So, you feel better?' she asked.

'Much.'

'Good. Many hours have you slept. It was a necessary thing, the potion I gave thee.'

He glanced at his Rolex and saw that it was eight o'clock. He felt curiously light-headed as he walked through the pine trees to the ridge. He shaded his eyes, looking down to Mikali's villa in the bay below. Old George appeared at his side.

'They have gone?'

'All of them!'

'And the woman?'

The old man pointed. 'See, she comes now.'

She emerged from the trees into the clearing two hundred feet below, following the track that zigzagged between the old overgrown terraces. She was wearing sunglasses, tee-shirt and an old cotton skirt and carried a shoulder bag.

'She has concern for thee, this one, I think,' the old man told him in Greek. 'Many hours she sat beside thy bed.'

Morgan sat down carefully on a log, his eyes never leaving her and the old man placed a pack of Greek cigarettes and some matches beside him.

'I will tell Maria to make coffee,' he said and walked away.

She emerged from the pine trees ten minutes later to find him sitting there on the log smoking. She paused for a moment to look at him, strangely anonymous in the dark glasses.

'So, you're back with us again?'

'That's what they tell me.'

She sat down on the grass facing him, her back against a tree and put the shoulder bag on the ground.

'What have you got in there?' he asked.

'Sandwiches, a bottle of wine. Constantine thinks I like to go walking in the mountains each day.'

'And the old woman and the boy?'

'Oh, they're in Hydra at the Mikali town house. This time of the year they sometimes let tourists have a look round. It's something of a museum. Full of relics from the Turkish wars - that sort of thing.'

There was an awkwardness between them that this kind of conversation couldn't bridge. He said, 'Why did you stay?'

'In spite of myself,' she said and removed her sunglasses. Her face was very pale, the eyes haunted. 'I told him I was tired. Asked if he minded if I stayed on for a day or two.'

'And he agreed?'

'On the understanding that I was in my seat on time at the Albert Hall.'

'I see. So, he caught last night's plane? And Deville went with him.'

'Last night?' She shook her head slowly. 'You've lost a a day somewhere, Asa. This is Saturday - Saturday morning. They left the night before last.'

He sat there staring at her, thunderstruck, unable to take it in. 'Are you trying to tell me I've been out for the past thirty hours?'

'Something like that. Oh, you tossed and turned rather a lot, but Maria certainly knew what she was doing. Those herbs of hers are really quite something.'

'But that means the concert's tonight.' He jumped to his feet and stood there, hand clenched. 'Don't you see! The bastard could be on his way again tomorrow.'

'He phoned me last night,' she said. 'Told me he'd been with Previn at the Albert Hall and that's where he'll be for most of today. Rehearsal for tonight's concert. It's really very simple. All you have to do is ring Baker at Scotland Yard.'

There was a lengthy silence. Morgan said, 'Yes, I could do that.'

'But you won't, will you?'

He sat down on the log again and lit a cigarette.

'Look, let me explain. There's a section of DI5 called Group Four with new powers direct from the Prime Minister himself to coordinate the handling of terrorism, subversion and so on. It's run by a man called Ferguson. Baker works for him. We go back a long way, Ferguson and me. He's quite a character. Would it surprise you to know he encouraged me in this thing from the beginning? Used me as a blunt instrument. Hoped I might succeed where they'd failed because I had that little extra something working for me - hate!'

'He was certainly right there.'

'Yes, only now that I've found him, I want Mikali for myself.'

'An eye for an eye. Is that the only way you see it? Blood for blood?'

'And why not? If I accuse him in Greece, they'll laugh at me. He's a national hero. If I let them arrest him in England, they'll give him fifteen years for shooting Cohen and that's only if they can prove it. All his other killings have been elsewhere, remember. The Germans - the French. They'll all have to wait their turn.'

'So?'

'After a while, Black September or the Red Brigade, or whatever, will hijack a British Airways plane one fine morning. The price for the return of the passengers and crew intact will be Mikali free and on his way to Libya or Cuba or somewhere similar.'

'And you want to see him dead?'

'When I'm ready.'

'I could get in touch with Baker myself.'

He shook his head. 'But you won't.'

'Why not?'

'Because you owe me, girl.' He touched his arm, then his shoulder and winced. 'I should be dead. That I'm not, is no thanks to you. And don't throw Jago at me. That was different and you know it.'

She stood up instantly. 'All right, Asa. You go to hell in your own way.'

'And you?'

'I'll go back to London today. I'll carry on to Cambridge from there. I've had it. You and John Mikali, Asa. You deserve each other.'

'And you won't phone Baker?'

'No,' she said. 'Just go and play your bloody violent little games as far away from me as possible.'

She walked away very rapidly. Morgan got up and watched her go, then he turned and went back to the farmhouse. Old George, still splitting logs, paused.

'She has gone?'

'Yes. What time is the next hydrofoil to the Piraeus?'

'Ten-thirty. Impossible to catch it now in my boat.'

'And the next?'

'An hour after noon.'

'Will you take me in?'

'If that is what you want'

Morgan walked to the farmhouse where Maria still sat sewing his jacket.

'My shirt?'

'On the line, drying in the sun. I have washed it for thee.' Her eyes squinted up at him from the leathery old face. 'But this, even my magic cannot put right.'

She gave him his passport. Soaked by its immersion in the sea, it had buckled and twisted in the heat of the sun. When he tried to open it, it came apart in his hands.

'Christ Jesus!' he said in Welsh. 'That's all I needed.'

'Is this bad, boy?' she asked.

'It could be, mother. It could alter everything. I'll just have to see.'

At the villa, Katherine Riley had just finished packing when the phone rang. When she picked it up, Mikali's voice sounded in her ear.

'Heh, you're still there. You should be here already.'

'No problem,' she said. 'I'm leaving with Constantine now. We're using the speedboat. That means I'll catch the ten-thirty hydrofoil to the Piraeus. With any luck I should catch the one-thirty flight, our time.' Amazing how calm she felt. 'How are things going?'

'Marvellous.' His enthusiasm was overflowing now. 'Previn's a genius - the best damned conductor I've ever worked with, but it's going to take most of today to get it right, angel. So, if I'm not around when you get in, don't worry. You've got your key. Just make sure you're in that box tonight.'

The line went dead. She stood there for a moment, holding the receiver, then replaced it. When she turned Constantine stood just inside the door watching her. There was something in the face, in the dark eyes, as if he could see right through her. Knew everything. But that was nonsense.

She indicated her two suitcases and picked up her raincoat. 'All right,' she said, 'I'm ready,' and went out of the door ahead of him.

Deville, sheltering from the rain under a tree on the edge of Hyde Park beside Park Lane, watched Mikali running very fast from the direction of the Serpentine. He wore a black tracksuit, a single scarlet stripe down each leg. He came to a halt a few yards away and stood hands on hips, breathing easily.

Deville said, 'You never let up, do you?'

'You know what they say,' Mikali told him. 'Old habits and all that kind of rubbish.' He fell in beside him and they walked towards the road. 'So, you couldn't stay away after all? A good thing I reserved an additional seat in Katherine's box.'

'She is here?' Deville asked.

'On her way. I spoke to her in Hydra this morning. She was just leaving.'

'So?' Deville nodded and went on calmly, 'Well, then, so that we may understand each other. I have not come to attend your concert, John. I have come for you.'

Mikali paused, turning to face him, his hand sliding round to the butt of the Ceska in the Burns and Martin holder under his tracksuit tunic at the rear.

Deville raised a hand defensively. 'No, my dear, dear friend, you mistake me.' He produced an envelope. 'Tickets for both of us. I've arranged an air-taxi to Paris, leaving Gatwick at eleven-fifteen. Ample time for you to make your appearance at the Albert Hall. I understand on the last night of the Proms, the concerto is played during the first half of the concert anyway.'

'And afterwards?'

'We arrive in Paris in time to make connections with an Aeroflot flight to Moscow. All taken care of. There was an item in
Paris Soir
today announcing that you intend to give a series of master classes to the Moscow Conservatoire.'

Mikali stood, gazing out across Park Lane, then turned and looked down towards the Serpentine. He took a deep breath, lifted his face to the rain.

'Marvellous,' he said. 'Early morning in London. Nothing quite like it. Unless you prefer the smell of those damp chestnut trees in Paris.' He put a hand on Deville's shoulder. 'Sorry, old buddy, but that's the way it is.'

Deville shrugged. 'You have a whole day in which to change your mind.'

'An entire day of rehearsals,' Mikali said. 'So I've got to get moving. If Previn's there before me he'll insist on making the tea. He always does and it's lousy.'

'You don't mind if I use the apartment?'

'Of course not. I doubt whether I'll have time to get back before the concert, though. If you change your mind about coming, there'll be a ticket waiting at the box office.'

They stood at the pavement's edge waiting for the light to change and he clapped Deville on the shoulder.

'A great night, Jean Paul. The greatest of my life, I think.'

*

As the Tristar started its descent to Heathrow in the late afternoon sun, Katherine Riley obeyed the request to fasten her seat belt, then leaned back in her seat.

She was tired - more tired than she had ever been in her life before. Tired, angry and frustrated. She knew the syndrome well as a practising psychologist should. Like being in a dark wood in some childhood dream, undecided on which path to take and some nameless evil coming up fast.

She closed her eyes and saw not John Mikali, but Asa Morgan's dark, ravaged face, the pain in the eyes and suddenly knew, with total clarity, that she was wrong.