Partridge shook his head. “He’ll use the Stefanie—the yacht that brought him here. It has twin diesels. Say around twelve knots. We’re about eighty miles at most from that part of the Turkish coast. The Stefanie could make it in six to eight hours of straight sailing.”
“Then she could be back here tonight.”
“No, she’ll wait for darkness off the Turkish coast before she can risk her pickup. And she will need darkness here, again to deliver it. If she can’t reach Mykonos before dawn, and I doubt that, then she’ll have to wait and sail in at sunset tomorrow. Yes, sunset tomorrow is the more likely hour.”
“That seems a pretty complicated manoeuvre for a Soviet agent to deliver a strip of microfilm.”
“Not just microfilm. It has to be something more than that. Two hours and a yacht are hardly necessary for passing information, disguised in a lipstick or cuff link, over a café table on the waterfront. No, this information is more important than any microfilmed report could be. That’s how we reason it.”
Craig thought that over. What would be the most important kind of information that could be discovered? It would have to be as full as possible, quantity as well as quality, rich in details, completely authentic. And that, he thought with a shake of his head and a wry smile, would be any foreign agent’s dream. To get all that and get it quickly—not just in one stolen document here, a report there, and weeks of fitting all the fragments of information together... “So they are going to abduct an expert, are they?” he asked quietly. He had startled Partridge, but it wasn’t such a brash assumption. It had happened before, or almost. The American expert on electronics whom he had met at the Meurice party—Antonini, wasn’t it?—had nearly been kidnapped right into a hospital bed in Moscow.
“That’s what they think,” Partridge said, recovering.
“Then you’d better guard your expert.”
“We have. For the last ten days we have been doing our best to steer their attention on to the wrong man. Let’s hope we have succeeded.”
“And all this is going on at the base near Smyrna?”
Partridge nodded.
Craig whistled softly. “Not something to do with electronics again?” He had meant it as light relief, but Partridge’s narrowed eyes looked at him sharply. “I did meet Antonini,” Craig reminded him.
Partridge relaxed. “You’re too damn quick,” he said. And you’re forcing my hand, he thought. One could tell a stupid man very little, and not worry about his safety. But one couldn’t stop an intelligent man from thinking his way through a puzzle. The trouble was, even a man with bright brains could go off on a tangent if he weren’t given some basic facts. Tangents could be dangerous. “You were right,” he said, weighing his words. “It’s that old devil electronics again. The Communists never give up, do they? It’s obvious that our real expert would be invaluable to them. As well as the recent alterations he has been making in their wiring system at our HQ, he also remembers the alterations he made in our Moscow Embassy. You see—” he was about to explain carefully.
“Yes, I remember thinking in Paris—on my first night there, at my sister’s party—just how important it would be for the Russians to know which of their listening gadgets were still functioning reliably.” He looked at Partridge’s blank face. Possibly he wasn’t accustomed to being interrupted. “Sorry,” Craig said. “Perhaps I’m jumping off on the wrong foot.”
A smile flickered at the back of Partridge’s eyes. “You’ve saved me a lot of time,” he said blandly. “Any further ideas?”
“Just one question. Back in Paris, you told me an American was bringing information to Maritta. Is he involved in this?” Craig’s voice was a mixture of distaste and doubt. The man was a traitor, but would he aid and abet a political abduction that could only mean torture and eventual murder?
“He could very well be.”
“You aren’t sure?”
“You can’t be sure of anything, not at this stage. But I do know one thing. He couldn’t refuse, or else he’d be ditched. He’s ambitious as well as dedicated. That type can persuade himself into accepting any order. He may not enjoy this extension of his duties. But he is being tested by this additional assignment, and he knows that.”
“You mean they chose him just to test him?”
“If you work for men like Insarov, there’s always a test of complete obedience. But also—he happens to be one man who could entice our expert, or his stand-in, on board the Stefanie. You see, he is a friend of both of them.”
Craig drew a deep, slow breath. His lips tightened. “Who is he?”
“If we knew that, it would simplify everything. We still only know him as Alex.” Partridge hesitated briefly. Better warn him, he decided. Something may go wrong. Alex may slip through our fingers, turn up here. “We do know one thing about him. Alex is one of two men. He could be either Bradley or Wilshot.”
“Then both Bradley and Wilshot are in the Smyrna area?”
Partridge nodded. “One of them is being used, obviously, to cover the other. A very clever and cautious man is Alex. He will go far, if he succeeds in this assignment.”
If he succeeds... “You are putting your substitute expert in a pretty nasty position,” Craig said frankly, and didn’t disguise his aversion. He didn’t like the idea one bit. Was Partridge only one of those damned calculating machines after all?
“Not if he follows instructions. We don’t intend to have him abducted. We only want him to discover who Alex is. Whoever invites him for a quick and pleasant trip on the Stefanie—that’s the American we’re looking for. We’ll have Alex quietly arrested, right then and there, in Smyrna. And we’ll pick up the rest of his friends, simultaneously, here and in Athens and in Milan and in Paris. That’s how we’ve planned it.”
“And if it doesn’t work that way?”
“We’ll board the Stefanie the minute she docks in Mykonos,” Partridge said grimly. His worry was deep and real.
“Why not before then?”
“At sea, they might have time to send a radio warning to Insarov when they saw us approaching. They could even kill our agent, and dump him overboard. But—” Partridge took a deep breath—“we won’t have any of those problems if he follows instructions.”
That’s the second time Partridge had said that. He’s worried about it, really worried, thought Craig. “Is your man one of these heroic types who thinks he can solve everything by himself?”
Partridge shook his head.
“Perhaps you haven’t told him enough.”
Partridge raised an eyebrow.
“Then he might not realise how important your instructions were. Knowledge is sobering. A kind of restraint on bright impulses.”
“You make me relieved that I’ve told you too much,” Partridge said dryly.
“Much safer,” Craig assured him. Although, he thought with amusement, he didn’t go as far as telling me the name of either the real or substitute expert. There’s a lot he hasn’t told me, probably never will. All he has done, really, is to give me full warning on what’s at stake. “Much safer for everyone. I’ll keep my head down, well down.”
“And if they were to start questioning you?”
“You thought about that before you even started talking with me. When they are on the point of hooking the really big fish, you know they aren’t going to waste time or run any unnecessary risks with a minnow.”
“I wouldn’t rate you quite as small as a minnow,” Partridge said with a smile.
“It’s how they rate me that’s important. And to them I’m just an annoying coincidence, perhaps not even that.” Craig paused. “What do you want me to do?”
“As little as possible.”
“I ought to make some contact with Maritta, find out quietly when she is expecting new guests. That’s what you brought me here for, wasn’t it? To identify this Alex if he slips through to Mykonos in spite of your plan. You know—I have a feeling that he has become just as important to you as
Berg.”
“He is as important now, as Berg was twenty years ago.”
“You think he could become another Insarov?”
Partridge nodded. “And for that reason, he is one of our main targets in this counter-operation. Because, in terms of the future, we’re responsible. When we deal with men like Alex, we are really like doctors practising preventive medicine. In twenty years, even less, Alex could become the most dangerous man in America.” Alex, tested by this assignment, adopted by Insarov as his bright young man, trained and guided, pushed and helped... “He is trusted now, by a lot of reliable people. He has their confidence. He could infiltrate higher and higher. He could go very far, indeed.”
Craig said nothing.
Partridge, looking at his watch, had his own grim thoughts. How did he get back to Smyrna? There was no ship arriving here until the evening, and it was travelling in the wrong direction. So, now that he had given Craig an over-all warning, he had better start sending a message to Smyrna. Relay it through Athens, utmost urgency. Tell them to double the watch on O’Malley. Even more important, make sure he follows his instructions to the very last letter—and no more.
For that was the real joker in the pack, thought Partridge. O’Malley and Duclos were friends. At least, they met in Berlin two years ago, and liked each other. And O’Malley has heard about Duclos by this time. He might just have one of those wild attacks of stubborn Australian courage, decide to go all the way with Alex in order to make sure of leading us to Insarov. Because he doesn’t know we’ve found Insarov, that we’ve got him if only we keep our heads and don’t spread that piece of news around. But how do I get this information through to O’Malley without warning Insarov? For he has his ear close to the ground, that’s certain. How else could he have heard, except through some leak in security, that our chief expert’s part of the job in Smyrna was just about ending? He must have several agents around; Alex, alone, couldn’t find that out. Let’s hope to God that Insarov hasn’t discovered the real expert is Val Sutherland. Let’s hope Insarov isn’t having a very big laugh right now, over O’Malley.
“You look,” said Craig, “like a man on a high wire working without safety nets.”
“That’s how I feel,” agreed Partridge, and tried to smile. No, he couldn’t risk getting news through to Smyrna that Insarov was actually here. All he could do was to warn O’Malley to stick with his instructions, to do no more than that on any account. If only he could have seen O’Malley, spoken with him—He looked at his watch again. “Involved, isn’t it, getting in and out of this island?”
“Hire a submarine,” said Craig with a wide smile.
“Damned if I wouldn’t—if there wasn’t so much daylight around. That sea out there seems lonely until you start counting the fishing boats or the caïques. And there’s one thing about sailors, they have long eyesight. No, I think I had best start sending messages to Aunt Matilda in Athens.” He rose, and then stopped as if a new idea had struck him. He considered it for a full half-minute. “Look, if Madame Iphigenia wonders why I don’t turn up for dinner this evening, tell her I went over to Delos this afternoon and probably am staying at the tourist pavilion over there for the night. Will you?”
Craig nodded. Had Partridge really thought of a way to get back to Smyrna? But why the rush? “Half a second!” he said, reaching for the map in his guide-book. “Just where,” he asked very quietly, “is Maritta’s house?”
Partridge hesitated.
“I’ll do nothing rash,” Craig said irritably.
“It stands by itself on the hillside above the bay. Here, in this direction.” Partridge pointed to the map. “Don’t mark it. Memorise. But that’s not much of a map, is it? I can get you a better one. I’ll leave it in one of your suitcases. Or are they locked?”
“No.”
Partridge seemed amused by that. He was about to add something more, but decided footsteps were marching through the dining-room. He only said, “Give me five minutes. Then look. And lock.” He signalled goodbye, and left, almost bumping into Madame at the dining-room door. “Just leaving,” he told her cheerfully. “Your nephew is going to take me out to Megali Ammos for a swim.”
“Such a nice man,” Madame Iphigenia told Craig, looking at Partridge’s retreating back. “So gentle. So well behaved.” She looked now, severely, at the tray of dirty breakfast dishes.
Craig repressed a smile, gathered his map and books as Madame picked up the tray to remove such an eyesore from her garden. He rose to open the dining-room door still more for Madame’s wide-spread elbows.
“You swim also?” she asked. “Our visitors admire our beaches.”
“I think I’ll walk around the town and admire the windmills.”
That mollified her slightly. He wasn’t just someone who sat around a garden all day, dirtying dishes. “There is much to do in Mykonos,” she assured him, and hurried on.
“Let me help,” he suggested, but she resisted. So he crossed the dining-room and opened that door for her, too. It led into a winding corridor which made communication with the kitchen, a full-throated shout away, a fine example of modern labour-saving ingenuity.
“You admire this house?” she asked.
“Very much.” Sharp eyes, had Madame Iphigenia. He had been looking for any outside doors—surely a wandering place like this must have more than one entrance. “I’m interested in architecture,” he added to excuse his curiosity. That was true enough, anyway.
“Americans admire old houses?” she asked now, in obvious unbelief.
Why, yes.” Where had Madame got her ideas about Americans?
Madame stared, shouted towards the kitchen, brought a maid running along the corridor, delivered over the tray with a burst of instructions, and then looked at Craig. “Come!” she told him, and led the way.
It was a quick and complete tour through corridors, under arches that supported ceilings, up and down narrow staircases, past corners of rooms jutting at odd angles. It left Craig a little dazed, almost breathless. But he did discover he had been right in his guess. There were three separate exits to the hotel, one of them on the church square. That was the one to be avoided.
Before he set out for his stroll through the town, he went up to his room. Partridge had already been there. In the smaller bag, under his camera, there was a neat pistol. Loaded. There was also the promised maps, binoculars, and a pocket-knife which, startlingly, turned into a switchblade. He decided to carry it. And the map. He put the binoculars into his camera case and decided to carry that, too. He buried the pistol inside a pair of socks, replaced them in the bag. He locked it securely, shoved it on the top shelf of the wardrobe.
Two weeks ago, he thought, I’d have been laughing fit to crack my ribs, making bright remarks about what the best-dressed agent is wearing this season; yesterday, I might have produced a grin, felt a touch of embarrassment when I next met Partridge. But today? Well, I’ve learned about Duclos; about a lot of things. The more you know, the less you scoff... If I came to Europe to fill in some gaps in my education, I’ve certainly succeeded.
He picked up his sunglasses—he’d need them for that strong light and those brilliant walls—combed his hair roughly to give him the right tourist look. From a distance, he wouldn’t appear much like the man in the neatly tailored jacket, correct collar and tie, who had stepped on shore last night. He slung the camera case over his shoulder, checked map and knife in his pocket, and left. Much to do on Mykonos, Madame had said. She could be right, but not in the way she meant it.
15
In half an hour, Craig had walked through and around the town. It was a place of patterns, imposed, interposed. Cubes, arches, horizontals of steps, vertical balustrades, curves of domed churches, cylindrical windmills each with twelve triangular sails in clocklike precision. Bright sunlight cast black sharp-edged shadow. Houses, stairways, pavement were a blazing white. Colour was left to the domes, to the fishing boats drawn up along the front street, to the potted flow
ers on the stone staircases, to the twisted dark green trees with their sculptural trunks, to the carved doors, to the inside shutters of the windows that stared out in bare rectangles from their whitewashed walls. People had their patterns, too: slender girls, stout women, headcloths and cotton dresses gathered around the wells; thin boys on small mules; men in caps, with creased brown faces and dark moustaches, some working in bare feet with trousers rolled up modestly only to mid-leg, others already gathered around their own tables at their special cafés; and the tourists—those who kept themselves covered like the Mykoniots, those who bared thigh and arm as much as possible—wandering aimlessly.
But among all those faces, all those walkers and talkers, there was no one he recognised. And then, just as he was looking at some of the arts and crafts in a shop window on one of the narrow streets, Mimi came strolling along in green trousers and a white silk shirt patterned to match.
“I followed you for three streets,” she said in triumph. Her face was pale, there were deep shadows under her dark grey eyes as she lifted her sunglasses to look at him more clearly, but her voice sounded normal and she was even producing a small smile. A girl who hadn’t slept much, he decided, but who was determined to face the day.
“I never even saw you,” he admitted, annoyed with himself.
“You weren’t meant to.”
“Not even in those tight pants?”
“That makes it a greater triumph.” She looked down at her thighs. “Too tight?”
“Not on you, Mimi.”
“Now look at that darling little horrible skirt in the window, and we shall pretend to be discussing its hideous stripes.”
“A skirt? I thought it was a tent.”
“Keep looking at the window as we talk. Your friend in that little shop just three houses away. She is alone.”
Veronica? “Thank you for the warning.”
“But it isn’t a warning. I want to meet her. Shall we go and look at its window?”
“Look, Mimi—I don’t think this is a good idea.”