Krysalis: Krysalis (50 page)

“If you comb the army thoroughly enough you’ll
always find someone with certain skills.” Albert grimaced. “‘In my father’s house are many mansions.’ Do you know anything about the vampire legend?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“According to the myth, once the vampire has tasted your blood, you die. But it takes a long time. You exist in a twilight world, and with each passing day you slip further from the light, while the vampire continues to prey on you. That’s how it is with Anna. Kleist’s her vampire.”

“Ridiculous.”

“David, there’s a possibility, a real possibility, that they’re sending a submarine to take her off tonight. That’ll be the end of it. No more twilight world. Anna will have gone.” He grasped the other man’s wrist. “Is that what you want?”

When David made no reply Albert sat back, releasing his grip, and waited. There was nothing more he could do, he realized dully. Either Lescombe took the bait, or …

“Can you help her?” David’s voice was low. “She’ll go to prison, won’t she?”

“Not in the light of these case notes. I doubt if it would even get as far as a prosecution.”

What, Albert wondered, was the nature of the struggle going on behind those flickering eyes, that moist forehead?

“Vampires … they drove stakes through their hearts, didn’t they? Superstitious peasants hounding the village wise woman … stakes and silver bullets. All right. All right. I’ll trust you, God knows why.”

Albert’s sigh of relief seeped through his lips without a sound. It took him a moment to recover his powers of
speech. “You said you were going to see a travel agent….”

“I lied. There’s no one.”

“Who did you phone at the airport?”

David’s head jerked up; his stare had become dangerous. “I see. One-way traffic, is that it? I have to trust you but tails I lose, my God, what kind of man are you?”

“The airport?” Albert said gently.

“I was phoning first the operator, then directory inquiries. I wanted to find out if they had a number for Kleist in Parga. It’s a port on the mainland. Kleist’s villa is five miles inland and it doesn’t seem to have a telephone. That’s where I’m going. Where we’re going, I guess.”

Albert remembered something about David’s calls that had struck him as odd at the time: he didn’t appear to have the first number written down anywhere. That tallied. He’d kept his body close to the telephone, so there was no way of knowing how many digits he had dialed. And it sounded like the truth. Or would have, but for one thing.

“Robyn Melkiovicz told the Americans that Kleist’s house was on an island,” he said.

“She lied.”

“Why should she do that?”

“Because I asked her to. I wanted a head start.”

It could be true; Hayes had remarked earlier on how uncooperative Melkiovicz was. “All right,” Albert said. “But we’re going there together.”

As they got up, David pointed to the low, white roll-on roll-off car ferries waiting beside the jetty. “We get to the mainland that way. I don’t know which one, we’ll have to ask.”

Albert, keeping a few steps behind David, noticed how as the Englishman scanned the busy harbor some object caught his eye. He glanced in the same direction, but nothing stood out, fishing smacks, a tug, several motorboats, including one fearsome red-and-white monster with its engine whisking the waters of the harbor into froth.

They were halfway along the pier. David stopped a passing Greek and spoke to him. The man pointed to the furthest ferry. David turned to Albert. “That one.”

David’s face looked terrible, all the muscles were working as if any minute he might have a convulsion.

“Are you okay? You look green.”

“Been traveling too much. Jet lag. Feel a bit sick.”

Suddenly he reeled to the side of the pier, holding his stomach. After a second’s hesitation, Albert, who abhorred being close to water, reluctantly went to help. But the hands clutched to David’s stomach turned out to form one big fist. As Albert came alongside him, he stood upright and the fist swung into Albert’s abdomen; before the officer could regain his balance, one hand took his collar, another landed in the small of his back, there was water rushing up to meet him….

Albert shrieked. His skin turned icy cold. Water. The sea. Where lived whatever was worse than
death.

Something black, cruel, terrible assembled itself from the slime in his subconscious and rose up to overshadow him, up and up it went, towering, blotting out first the sun, then the sky…. Then the steel grip he normally kept on his phobia reasserted itself. He switched off thought, concentrated only on the physical activity needed to get himself back to land, fast. He struck out for the nearest wooden pillar as if pursued by sharks.

Albert climbed up the ladder that was nailed to the pillar, rolled over on his stomach and was violently sick.

The unbearable trauma of entry, salt in his eyes, forks of agony sparking through his injured hand and stomach, all conspired to lose him valuable minutes. By the time he had finished vomiting and cleared his vision, there was nothing for him to see but the red-and-white speedboat creaming out of the harbor with David at its stem.

CHAPTER
40

Tony Roberts and his companions waited until lunchtime on Monday before putting to sea. They sailed clumsily, with self-mocking laughter that echoed dully across the narrow stretch of water between them and the house on the hillside. Barzel stood at Gerhard’s bedroom window, watching through binoculars. Only when they rounded the cape did he lower the glasses.

“They’ve gone,” he said in a conversational voice that held no warning of what was to happen next. He approached Gerhard, standing by the door, and, using all his strength, punched him in the solar plexus.

The blow was strong enough to send its victim reeling against the opposite wall of the passage. He slid to the floor, breath escaping from his lips in an odd, high-pitched whistle. Stange looked at Barzel as if for orders, read confirmation in his eyes, and kicked Gerhard below the rib cage.

They worked on him for five minutes. When they finally left him alone, his eyes were closed and a trickle
of blood was oozing from his mouth to stain the pine floor.

Barzel went to Anna’s room. The first thing he and Stange had done on returning to the villa was truss her up, with rags stuffed into her mouth and thick adhesive tape sealing her lips. She lay on the bed, staring at them through terrified, reddened eyes.

Barzel closed the door and turned to Stange. “What now?” he asked wearily.

Stange shook his head.

“Any problems with the radio?”

“None.”

“It’s going to be tough on you tomorrow.”

“Not so bad. Once you’re away, I can leave any time. They’re not looking for me.”

Barzel regarded him sullenly. “How come you’re so relaxed?”

“Mine’s the easy part. Once the sub surfaces, my equipment can pick up their signals without any difficulty. We’re using compressed codes, so there won’t be much for the opposition to monitor. Then all I’ve got to do is contact you via the short-range set, guide you to the landing point … and quietly disappear into the night.”

Stange clapped Barzel on the shoulder. “You worry too much.”

Barzel shook him off. “Can you set up the equipment now?” he asked brusquely.

“If you insist. But every second I’m on the air increases the danger. Who do you want me to call, and for what?”

Barzel leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes.

Stange had a point. Somewhere out there, NATO would be closing in on their quarry and they would
have radio-monitoring equipment; it was a toss-up who arrived first, the West or the Soviet submarine. So there was no mileage in trying to change their escape plan. All they could do was await the cover of night and hope for the best, showing themselves in daylight would be madness.

Take a chance and radio Berlin?

Why? Barzel knew his orders by heart: Get the file back to base; bring the woman
if possible.

What was possible, in these circumstances?

Kill Kleist, kill the woman, lock the house, and leave it.

Kill Kleist, stuff the woman in the trunk of the car, hope nobody saw them go on board the submarine.

Kill the woman, take Kleist back to Berlin for trial and punishment.

Kill yourself …

“Damn!”
Barzel’s fist thudded into the wall behind him. “How long have we got?”

Stange looked at his watch. “Another thirteen hours and twenty minutes to rendezvous. Twelve hours before we’re due to leave the house.”

Barzel said nothing for a while. “I’m starving,” he muttered at last. “Let’s eat.”

Stange fried eggs while Barzel made the coffee. They were just sitting down when Gerhard limped into the kitchen.

He did not look at either of them at first. He went across to the sink to rinse his mouth out, before swallowing a lot of water. When he’d done that he slumped into a chair, pouring coffee for himself.

“Why did you beat me up?” he asked Barzel. His lips were puffy, his voice ragged.

“Do you mean that as a serious question?”

“You really thought I was helping her escape?”

“Weren’t you?”

“Why didn’t I go with her, then?”

Barzel continued to eat without replying. The question was one he had asked himself many times already, without coming any closer to an answer.

“You don’t understand shit, Barzel.” Gerhard sounded weary, his inflection that of a professor compelled to tutor a dense student for political reasons.

“Why did you encourage those people to take her away on their yacht, then?” Barzel retorted.

“Because if I hadn’t, they’d have become even more suspicious than they were already. It would have been a complete confirmation of all that Anna said.”

“What if she
had
gone?”

“She wouldn’t.”

“But—”

“I knew you were both armed. Your plan was obvious enough: once you showed her the gun, it was a foregone conclusion what she’d do.”

“How could you be sure?”

“Because I treated her at intervals spanning sixteen years,” Kleist jeered. “The reason you came to me in the first place, remember? Give me the sugar.”

Stange slid the bowl toward him without a word.

“Will you kill her?” Gerhard asked.

Barzel finished his eggs, mopped up the remains of the yolk with a piece of bread, and said, “Probably.”

“Typical response of a stupid man.”

“I did warn you, Gerhard. One more chance and then she’s dead, that’s what I told you, remember?”

“Yes.”

“No pleas?” Barzel scoffed. “No begging for mercy?”

“What’s the point? You’re in command. You can do
the killing, no one will hear the shot, not here. Then you can bury her, or you can leave her in the house for Yorgos to find later.”

Barzel twitched. Kleist’s mind and his seemed to run on parallel tracks. The options were unattractive indeed.

“We’ll be away tonight,” Gerhard went on. “As soon as the submarine comes, we’re safe. Aren’t we?”

Barzel looked at Stange, who could not meet his eyes. He knew what the other man was thinking, because he’d been thinking the same thing himself. Suppose the submarine doesn’t come …?

It was a Russian sub. The Soviets were helping out a Warsaw Pact ally. Correction: the Soviets
said
they were prepared to help out a Warsaw Pact ally.

If the submarine didn’t appear, they would be left bobbing about on the surface in an open boat with nowhere to go except straight into the arms of the NATO forces that even now were homing in on Paxos.

They would be caught.

“Häftlingsfreikauf,”
Gerhard murmured, and Barzel jumped.

“The buying-free-of-prisoners,” Gerhard continued quietly. “Swapping one of ours for one of theirs, on the Glienicker Bridge. Or through the Wartha-Herleshausen border point.”

“What about it?” Barzel’s voice was unsteady.

Kleist considered him in silence for a long time. “It works better for agents who haven’t killed anyone,” he said.

“The submarine will come,” Stange shouted, half rising from his chair. “Stop this crap.”

Barzel and Gerhard stared at him with identical expressions.
Stange, reading their contempt, sat down again.

For a long moment no one spoke.

“I see why you became a psychologist, Gerhard.” Barzel’s tone had become businesslike. “Let’s get down to specifics, shall we? What are your chances of resuming control over her?”

“It depends on a lot of factors.”

“So suppose we hear them, mm?”

“First, whether she trusts me.”

“I don’t.”

“But your state of mind isn’t at issue, is it?” Gerhard’s face resembled that of a marble statue, his eyes gave nothing away. “Everything I did on the beach was consistent with my being on her side, yes?”

Barzel reluctantly nodded.

“She’ll remember that, a point in my favor. But there are adverse considerations as well.”

“Such as?”

“When I brought her here, I implanted a hypnotic suggestion in her mind. I told her not to try to leave this place. Somehow, I have
got
to dig that out of her system.”