With the sharpening of his senses came the return of pain and it seemed that his whole body was just one merging mass of bruises, blending together in a thousand throbs and aches. His left hip was again stiff and immovable and he wondered whether he was capable of standing up and walking. He felt very sick and the sopping state of his shirt front made him believe for a moment that he had already retched, but then he remembered again those conveniently-placed bottles that Valedri had emptied over him and realized that it was only wine.

  Slowly his thoughts took shape and he began to wonder what they meant to do with him now. The fact that he was at sea provided one possible answer, and it seemed most likely that he was to be simply dropped over the side.

  At the moment the thought did not disturb him for his brain was still foggy and he was unable to think straight. In fact it was several minutes before he noticed that he was not even tied up and that he was free to move around. However, before he could think any farther and take advantage of his freedom, the cabin door opened and Bruno ducked under the low deckhead.

  Valedri’s chief lieutenant no longer wore his smart tuxedo but had changed into faded jeans and an old sweatshirt, a more businesslike rig-out for sailing. He stood with both hands on his hips and regarded Larren coldly with his stone-grey eyes.

  Then he said flatly, “You’re a lucky guy, Larren. Angelo is pretty sure that you’re just another crummy crook trying to muscle in on our present business — but there is a small element of doubt, and for Carla’s sake he’s gone soft on killing you.”

  Bruno sounded slightly disgusted with his own words and went on. “In the old days Angelo would have cut your liver out for far less reason than he has to suspect you now, but he doesn’t want to take a chance on upsetting his daughter. She means a hell of a lot to him, and he’s afraid of how she might react if you did prove to be on the level and she discovered that he had put a bullet in your guts.”

  He paused, but Larren was incapable of answering, so he began again. “But he still isn’t taking any chances, Larren. He’s sending you back to the mainland where you can’t possibly interfere. We left Kyros while it was still dark and Carla was sleeping, and she’ll be told that you left of your own free will when you heard that I was making an early trip into Athens. She’ll be mad that you didn’t say goodbye, but Antonella will have a sympathetic woman-to-woman talk with her and convince her that you probably did come to the island for your own motives but that you were unable to face her after you chickened out.”

  Larren’s brain was gathering speed, and that and instinct warned him that Bruno might be setting some kind of trap. Grimly he returned to the part he had adopted and snapped tartly,

  “I still don’t know what all this was about, but you most certainly haven’t heard the last of it. As soon as I reach Athens I shall go straight to the police!”

  Bruno laughed. “If you’re the man we think you are you won’t dare go near a police station, because they’ll want proof of your cock-and-bull story too. And in the unlikely chance of that story being true you’ll find that you’ll have to explain more fully about the dead man you claim was left behind at that beach-front villa. Your delay in reporting that will make things look bad for you, so either way you can only stir up more trouble for yourself. And Angelo pays you the compliment of believing that you have more sense than to do that.”

  Larren hoped that he looked as subdued and beaten as he felt.

  Bruno turned to go and ended quietly, “We’ll be reaching Athens in about an hour, and if you’ll take my advice you’ll catch the next plane back to England. Angelo may be giving you the benefit of the doubt, but if I ever see you again I’ll probably kill you.”

  And with that parting gesture he went back on deck and slammed the cabin door behind him.

  The sun had climbed higher above the eastern horizon and the sky had gradually changed to a pale, cloudless blue when Valedri’s launch drew into Tourkolimano harbour at Athens. The glittering reflection from the pure azure waters made Bruno screw up his eyes as he steered through the maze of small watercraft; there were boats and yachts of all shapes and sizes, and even a magnificent, three-masted schooner with an ebony-black hull that lay gracefully near the harbour mouth. Bruno cut the throttle of the launch and drifted into the quay between two more large motorboats. He had two of Valedri’s men with him and he ordered one ashore to take the launch’s mooring rope. The second man he sent to bring Larren up on deck.

  A few moments later Larren stumbled out of the cabin and stood blinking in the strong sunlight. He looked around the harbour with its army of slanting masts and gleaming white hulls, and then his gaze turned towards Bruno.

  Bruno said grimly, “As I said before, you’re a very lucky man, Larren. Get going, and don’t play with the big boys any more. They’re too rough for you.”

  Larren killed the burning urge to send his fist smashing into that hard, taunting face and turned away towards the quay. Even if he had felt capable of another fight there were still three of them to contend with. It would be nothing short of madness to ask for another beating up.

  A hundred yards away along the quay a tall, young-looking man with the slim, graceful figure of a ballet dancer sat at one of the pavement tables outside a small taverna. He was sipping slowly at a small cup of black, Turkish coffee, but he lowered the cup and a start of recognition flickered in his soft brown eyes as he observed Larren on the deck of the launch. He stared at the scene and noted the obvious signs of the beating that Larren had taken, and then he squinted his eyes to read the name on the launch’s bow.

  He recognized the boat as Angelo Valedri’s and his face hardened as he watched Larren propelled ashore. He swore then, very foully and very angrily in precise, Oxford-accented English.

  CHAPTER 11: BACK INTO THE STORM

  Larren called a taxi to take him back to the Hotel Sparta, and again he was almost goaded into violence when the driver promptly demanded his money in advance. He controlled himself with an effort and conceded sourly that the man had a perfect right to take such precautions with a passenger who looked as though he had just journeyed face first through a mincing machine. He paid up, but as he did so the expression in his grey-green eyes at least ensured him a conversation-free ride. The killer streak in Larren’s make-up was showing very clearly in that moment, and even a man who could not recognize it could detect its hidden menace.

  When he reached the hotel Larren went straight up to his room before any of the staff had the opportunity to notice or comment upon his appearance. He was glad now that he had paid two weeks’ rent in advance to reserve the room before leaving, for although he had had to explain to the desk clerk that he might be absent for a few days he had been allowed to retain his key. Once in the room he made straight for the whisky bottle and poured a stiff shot into the nearest glass; then he drained it in one long slow movement and waited for the glow to hit his stomach. When it came he felt slightly better, and he poured himself another before sitting down on the bed. It was early for drinking, but right now he didn’t give a damn what time of day it was.

  For a few moments he simply sat there, incapable of doing anything except absorbing the luxury of the warming glow as the neat spirit circulated through his stomach. Then at last he threw back the second glass and reluctantly stood up. Wincing slightly he began to pull off his clothes and drop them on to the floor, his wine-sodden shirt he hurled angrily into the far corner. He stripped naked and then regarded his body grimly in the tall mirror inside the door of his wardrobe. It didn’t look quite as bad as it felt, but it was still a very unpretty mess. He grimaced painfully as he touched the blue-black outline of his left hip bone, and then he turned and limped into the shower.

  The hot water had a soothing effect that helped to ease the dull throbbing that nagged at every nerve and muscle in his body, but it also had the effect of washing away the small amount of energy that he still retained and left him feeling as weak as a kitten. He knew that cold water would revive him, but at the moment he did not want reviving and so he let the shower continue to run hot. When he finally came out he patted himself dry with tentative dabs of the big towel and then returned to the bedroom.

  Still naked he crossed over to a large framed picture that hung against the wall and reached up to take it down. He laid it face down on the bed and his unsmiling mouth relaxed a little as he saw that his automatic and his sheath knife were still where he had left them, taped carefully to the back of the picture. The heavy, gilt frame was much thicker than the glass and the hardboard backing behind the picture, and that had enabled it to hang flat against the wall with Larren’s armoury completely hidden. Larren removed both weapons and then replaced the picture on the wall.

  Returning to the bedside he picked up the room service telephone, and when the desk clerk in the foyer answered he instructed that he was to be called at four p.m. He waited for the clerk to acknowledge the time and then rang off.

  Wearily he dropped down on the bed, still naked but not bothering to crawl between the sheets. He placed both his automatic and his knife beneath the pillow within easy reach of his hand and then glanced at his watch. It was now eight fifteen and that gave him almost eight hours of sleep before he intended to do any thinking about his next move. He closed his eyes and was unconscious almost immediately.

  As the first knock sounded on his door Larren’s hand closed firmly over his automatic, then the knocking continued and he heard the lift boy calling his name. He relaxed and sat up slowly. It seemed impossible that eight hours could have passed so quickly, but a glance at his wristwatch soon confirmed the fact and he got reluctantly to his feet. The lift boy called his name again and this time he answered.

  There was a scratching movement at the foot of the door and then a folded newspaper appeared. In rehearsed, but clumsy, English the boy called out that this was the English paper and all part of the service. Larren thanked him and then heard his footsteps retreating down the corridor.

  Larren was now feeling stiffer than ever and as he moved towards the shower he found that the limp in his left leg had become more pronounced. He entered the cubicle and turned the water fully on to cold, and flinched when the spray hit him. After a few moments he felt freshly invigorated and decided that he was almost fit to start living again.

  He stayed under the shower for another ten to fifteen minutes and then carefully dried and dressed in clean slacks and an open-necked shirt. The bedroom was hot and stuffy even with the window open and he again decided to forego wearing a tie. His hip hurt as he stooped to tie his shoes but at last he was ready. He crossed to the door and felt another twinge from his hip as he bent down to pick up the newspaper.

  The paper was a day old and headlined twenty-seven more victims to the red death; four had died in Italy, eight in France, and fifteen in Great Britain.

  Larren stared at the headline without reading any further, and then slowly his fist clenched and crumpled the glaring black letters. He dropped the paper on the floor and turned to put on his jacket. Then he went back to the bed.

  He took the automatic and the knife from under the pillow and slipped the gun into his right-hand jacket pocket; the knife went into the inside pocket of his jacket and fitted into an undetectable sheath that hung inside the lining. That inside pocket was an unexpected place from which to produce a knife, and the hiding place would also fool an amateur searcher looking for the more conventional shoulder holster.

  Larren felt far more capable now with the automatic lying heavy in his pocket and the slight weight of the knife against his breast; almost capable enough to completely ignore the aching bruises that covered his body. And that grim headline had told him exactly what his next move must now be.

  He had wasted far too much time on the subtle approach and all he had received for his pains were two severe beatings that he had been forced to take to maintain his part. Well, he was acting a part no longer. He was Simon Larren, a trained killer and an expert with a knife, a gun, or his bare hands; and from now on he didn’t give a damn who realized it. Too many people had died while he had fooled around in Carla Valedri’s bed and now the time for winning confidences was past. His brief trip to Kyros had at least enabled him to size up the layout of the villa and the island’s defences, and now he was going to take advantage of that knowledge. He was going to obtain a launch and make a quick silent murder raid under the cover of darkness, and anyone who got in his way was going to die.

  Grimly he opened up his suitcase and took out a small, flat box that was roughly the size and shape of a cigar box. The contents of that box had been purchased before he left London and had been very difficult to obtain; but they were also very necessary, for they were the items that were going to make Angelo Valedri talk before he died. Larren slipped the box into his left-hand jacket pocket and then straightened his coat and left the hotel room. He went down to the hotel car park and found his hired Renault still standing where he had left it. Climbing in he started the engine and headed back to the small boat harbour where he had been pushed ashore that same morning.

  There was a sharp glitter in his grey-green eyes as he drove through the fast Athens traffic.

  As Larren drove away from the Hotel Sparta another car started up and began to follow him from a discreet distance. The second car was a large, imported Vauxhall and was also hired. Its driver was the tall, slim young man with the ballet-dancer figure who had watched as Larren had been forcibly ejected from Valedri’s launch. His name was Adrian Cleyton, and his eyes, although a soft brown, were also hard and glittering. He made sure that Larren did not spot him as he kept the Renault in sight.

  It was exactly four-thirty as Larren turned his car into the fast traffic stream that swirled round Omonia Square like a sea of ugly glass and chromium goldfish in a waterless bowl. The shops that had been closed during the full heat of early afternoon were now raising their shutters, and the swarms of shoeshine boys and lottery ticket sellers were once more trying to drum up trade. The attendants in the little pavement kiosks that sold everything from postcards to shaving brushes and never seemed to close were again sitting up and paying attention. The dozing street-corner vendors who sat over their braziers of hot chestnuts or roasted corncobs were looking more alert as they scanned the thickening crowds for prospective customers, and the rich smell of roasting meat came from the large joints turning on the spits in the open doorways of the tavernas. Larren ignored it all as he speeded up the wide road past the Athens Academy and the University, and then nipped smartly through the traffic lights before the Parliament building at the top of Syntagma Square.

  He turned again towards the sea some eight kilometres away, passing the now familiar sight of Hadrian’s Arch and then the sixteen majestic columns of the Jupiter temple on his left. Again he barely noticed them as he drove by, for his thoughts left no room for any conscious admiration of either Athens or its ancient glory.

  He simmered impatiently with every red light that caught him as he drove out of the city centre and it was another ten minutes before he finally saw the dancing blue of the Aegean ahead. He turned right on the Piraeus road and roared past the crowded beaches that faced the sea. A few minutes later he slowed down as the road curved inland to swing round the beautiful bay of Tourkolimano harbour.

  Larren eased his foot almost off the accelerator and drove very slowly as his gaze searched the jaunty miscellany of colourful boats with their sun-bleached decks and shining paint and brass work. The berth where Valedri’s launch had tied up that morning was empty, but Larren did not relax until he had assured himself that the boat had not merely moved to another part of the harbour. He felt that he would be quite happy to tangle with Bruno again at some future date, but right now he wanted to avoid any clash that might jeopardize the job at hand.

  When he was fully satisfied that the launch was nowhere in sight he turned the Renault off the main road and drove a few yards down a side street where he felt that he could safely park. A Greek policeman watched him draw to a stop and something in the man’s abrupt stare caused Larren to continue to watch him in his driving mirror. The policeman was frowning as he looked towards the car, and after a moment’s hesitation he began to walk slowly towards it.

  For a moment Larren failed to understand the reason behind the policeman’s interest, and he wondered whether he was violating the parking laws. He was just about to pull away in case he was in a no parking area when a glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror provided the true answer. The battered state of his face was enough to make any policeman suspicious.

  He swore angrily, for if he drove off now it would make the man doubly suspicious, and as he had to return to the harbour to find a boat he might easily bump into the man again. The only safe course of action was to brazen the issue out, and that thought made him realize that the gun in his pocket made a somewhat large bulge. The last thing he could afford now was for the Greek police to become interested in his activities and reluctantly but swiftly he removed his armoury and the flat packet from his jacket pocket and slipped them under the driving seat out of sight. Then he got out of the car and carefully locked it behind him.

  The Greek policeman stopped by his shoulder but Larren paused to pocket his car keys before turning round. He let an expression of surprise cross his face as though noticing the man for the first time.

  The policeman said something curtly in Greek.

  “I’m sorry,” Larren apologized. “But I only speak English.”

  “You are English?” He sounded as though he doubted the fact.

  Larren assured him that he was English.

  The policeman still looked doubtful. “Tourist?” he said at last.

 

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