Krysalis: Krysalis (51 page)

“What will happen if you don’t?”

“Life on the submarine will become …” Kleist raised a hand from the table and examined the back of it with a frown,” … tiresome.”

“Will she let you hypnotize her again?”

“She might. I can promise not to sedate her if only she’ll allow me to put her into a trance.”

“Would she buy it?”

“She might. She’s terrified of drugs. In fact, I don’t have any more medication, but she won’t realize that.”

Barzel sat back, rubbing his tired eyes. He couldn’t
think straight. He didn’t trust either Kleist or Anna one inch, but that scarcely mattered now. What mattered was whether that damned Soviet submarine would make the rendezvous. Because if it didn’t …

His gaze lighted on the sideboard, where his paperback edition of Nabokov’s
Ada
stood propped up against the bread box. He’d bought that in New York, back in ‘78, it was still banned in Berlin….

“Try it,” he said.

CHAPTER
41

Robyn Melkiovicz’s memory proved accurate, there was a place called Avlaki on the west coast of the island where Kleist had his villa, and Avlaki did have a landing stage. As David disembarked a thought struck him: if by some remote chance he survived, he would need an escape route. He turned back to Amos, his boatman, and asked, “What are your plans now—will you return to Corfu?”

“No. Mr. Kleist has arranged for me to meet him here later.”

David’s pulse quickened. “You’re expecting him tonight?”

“Yes.” The Greek was young, high in his own self-esteem. He did not look inclined to waste time answering importunate questions, but David needed to know.

“Ah, I suppose that means we’ll be going for a barbecue. Like last year.”

“Perhaps.” Amos hesitated, then the desire to manifest superior knowledge won out. “Although Mr. Kleist
does not have barbecues on Antipaxos anymore. Not after the fire.”

“Oh, so it’s Antipaxos tonight, is it?”

The man nodded. David paid him off and walked inland for a few miles before coming to a hamlet. There he had no trouble in persuading someone to rent him a moped. After that he did not stop until he reached the outskirts of the larger village, where Robyn had told him she used to buy bread. He bought a box of matches from the main store, at the same time inquiring the whereabouts of the Little House. David was a friend of Mr. Kleist? Indeed yes, was he in residence? He was, together with a few friends. Directions were forthcoming. David thanked the shopkeeper and went on his way.

Who were the “friends”? Anna, maybe, but the shopkeeper had plainly spoken in the plural:
filoi.
More than one friend. Be careful.
Count cents!

He stopped, wiping his brow. Somehow he hadn’t expected to be allowed to get this far. What could he possibly hope to achieve, alone and unaided? Nothing. But the only alternative was Albert.

David still didn’t know if he’d done the right thing by dunking Albert in the sea. He mopped his forehead again, trying to stifle the fear that hovered never very far from his consciousness. “Cagey” was Broadway’s description of Albert, and David never had managed to find out what he really did, or why he always operated alone. But he might have gone on trusting him if it hadn’t been for Burroughs’ murder attempt. After that, David trusted nobody. Especially nobody who showed as much interest in finding Anna as Albert did.

David was learning how to count cents.

He looked around him. The village had receded into
the distance and the light was going. Olive trees grew sporadically in expanses of dry, yellow grass beside the road. Houses were visible here and there, through the branches; all of them stood well back, secluded from the curiosity of strangers like himself. On the road he was too prominent. In this quiet place the phut-phutting engine of his moped invited attention like an icecream van’s bell.

David knew that Kleist’s villa lay off to the right, down a hill, perhaps a quarter of a mile, not more, from where he was now. So he struck off into the countryside to the left of the road, deliberately seeking cover in the opposite direction. Before long he came upon a huge pile of rotting straw, which someone had hollowed out to form a kind of igloo. It was an isolated spot. Hurriedly he stowed his moped deep inside the cavity, and set off on foot.

He kept the road in view wherever possible, anxious to avoid losing himself, even when this meant that sometimes he blundered through nettles or had to climb over barbed wire. At last he felt sure he must have arrived more or less opposite Kleist’s house, still on the other side of the road.

David was standing at the top of a slope. Cautiously he began to make his way down, hugging the treeline for as long as he could, until he reached the verge.

Damn!
Emptiness yawned on either side of him. Not even so much as a gleam of white wall could be seen anywhere, this stretch was utterly deserted. He waited a moment, checking both ways, then ran across to the other side, where he again lost himself in the obscurity of the olive groves. Here he found a narrow path winding along the foot of an embankment, nothing like the stone driveway to the house that the storekeeper had
described. David followed it for a few yards before stopping, certain that he had veered off course.

He flopped down beneath a tree and rested his head on his arms, suddenly tired. For the first time since quitting Corfu he let himself dwell on the case notes Albert had shown him. If they were genuine, every assumption he’d ever made about his wife, every lesson supposedly learned, was founded on falsehood.

Were these notes the real thing? Or were they clever forgeries, concocted by Albert for reasons David couldn’t even guess at?

There was only one way to find out. He must ask Anna.

Occasionally Kleist would record in his notes verbatim snatches of dialogue taken from the sessions. One of them had leapt off the page at David when he read it in the taxi.

“My mother always insisted she loved me, but if that was love …”

“You didn’t want
it?”

“And that made me feel evil. Because what good person rejects love?”

“My mother …” Mrs. Elwell. She must have known about Kleist and the chain of events that had led her daughter to him in the first place. But when he’d asked her about those things, she had lied. Keeping up the front mattered more than Anna’s happiness, perhaps even more than her life.

David no longer knew what to think, what to believe. All he felt certain of was that he loved Anna and must keep on to the end of the path he had set himself. Then there would be time for reflection, and truth.

He raised his head. Something was wrong.

For the past few minutes he had been half aware of
a curious noise, neither close nor remote. Pods snapping in the heat, perhaps, or rats; but the evening had turned cool and the noise was too loud to be caused by rats.

He stood up and looked around. What should he do? He resolved to push on in the direction he’d been taking before his rest. After a while the path sheered away from the wall and began to zigzag down the hill through dense undergrowth. From the breeze that now refreshed his skin he judged he must be near the sea. Ah, yes, a pale shimmer of molten gold cupped in the V made by two hills, off to his right.

He heard the noise again, louder this time, and looked over his shoulder. At first the dusk defeated his town-orientated eyes, but then his sight sharpened and involuntarily he let out a sharp breath. Twenty yards away, someone stood lighting a cigarette.

Fortunately the stranger was facing in the opposite direction or he could not have failed to see David, who now slowly edged around the nearest tree until its trunk screened him from the other man. He willed his heartbeat into a more regular pattern and tried to think. The person he’d just seen didn’t look Greek. He might be a tourist, well off the beaten track, but David didn’t think so; this island had yet to be ruined by the summer holiday crowd, tourists were scarce. Kleist, on the other hand, was said to be staying here with
friends.
Bodyguards, maybe. Watchers.

A twig broke, David heard a cough. The aroma of smoldering tobacco entered his nostrils, faintly at first, then more strongly. The man was moving toward him. David jerked his head back to its original position. Should he move? Stay put? He looked to left and right. Trees, nothing but trees … wrong!—up ahead he could
see luminous pallor, a wall, maybe, some kind of building … Kleist’s villa? No, he was way off course. But perhaps he could hide there?

David began to map out a route. At least a dozen olive trees stood between him and the whiteness. If he dodged from tree to tree, moving quietly and fast, he might make it undetected.

He turned to either side, saw nothing suspicious. Then he pushed himself off the tree trunk and went forward at a brisk walk. He was lucky, the earth stayed silent beneath his feet. A few seconds later he had his back to another tree and was peering around its gnarled bole in an attempt to work out if he’d been spotted.

No one.

He took a deep breath and made for the next tree on his route. Now he could see that the whiteness belonged to a small church, its silhouette broken by two powder-blue blocks of sky framing a black bell It looked deserted. If only he could get inside …

The sunset was dissipating swiftly; it would be no easy task for anyone to catch sight of him in the dusk. The smell of tobacco smoke had faded. Not a sound disturbed the evening stillness. While he stood there, indecisive, a feeling of exposure swept over him. On impulse he ran forward to push against the church door. But as he did so, he heard that cough again, very close this time, and the unmistakable click of a cigarette lighter.

“Hey,” said a voice. “You!”

David fled into the church, closing the door behind him. He had expected to find the place in darkness, but to his surprise he saw a feeble yellow flame at the far end. He raced down the aisle toward it. The remains of a single large candle stood on the altar, nine-tenths
burned away and drooping but still bright enough to show his position to an enemy. David made a lunge. The candle toppled to the floor and went out. As much by luck as judgment, the solid brass candlestick was left sitting snugly in his palm.

Outside the church he heard a voice say, “You! I know where you are. Come out!”

The speaker used stilted English, but he didn’t sound either English or Greek. David let his eyes stray to the windows, now glowing electric blue in the gathering dusk. Soon night would fall, but there was just enough light left to show him an opening, over which hung a curtain. A vestry …

“Who’s in there?” The church door rattled.

David’s throat had sealed up tighter than a fist. He sidled into the vestry, allowing the curtain to fall across the gap after him.

“You cannot hide!”

A prolonged creak, coupled with a warm breath of air, indicated that the outer door had opened. The stranger walked down the center of the church, disturbing leaves as he approached the altar.
How much could he see?

“Aah!” The footsteps halted. David’s head seemed full of blood, he felt it would explode; surely the newcomer must hear the thudding of his heart? “Aah, show yourself, why don’t you? Nothing to be afraid of. I only want to talk.”

Another pause. David was standing with his back against the wall that partitioned the body of the church from the vestry, as close to the curtained doorway as he dared. He knew the man was mere yards away from him. How well did he know this church?
How much could he see?

More footsteps, going away this time. Another creak, followed by a slam. David was alone again. But what would the other man do—wait for him to emerge, or muster reinforcements?
Why had he left the church without searching
it?

By now the gloom had become all but impenetrable. The vestry lacked a window; David could scarcely see his own hand in front of his face.

He came off the wall and turned, preparing to twitch aside the curtain that hung across the doorway. Another second and he would have passed through the gap, into the church itself. But then many things happened at once: someone nearby moved, scattering leaves across the floor, David caught a glint of metal, in a flash he knew that the stranger hadn’t left the church, he’d opened the door and slammed it again to fool David and now was mere feet away, ready to strike.

The man growled in satisfaction. David felt the air move; he leapt backward. Hands punched his solar plexus, winding him. A head butted into David’s chest, slamming him back against the wall. For a second he merely let it happen, powerless to help himself. Then he remembered what he was holding.

His first blow landed across the other man’s shoulders, causing him to freeze with a grunt of mingled surprise and pain. Not much of a respite, but enough. David lifted the brass candlestick as high as he could and brought it down in a vertical stab, aiming just beyond the hands that had been pummeling him seconds ago. Someone groaned. David took the candlestick in a double-handed grip and began to flail it around like a sword, slashing the darkness on either side of him. His third swing made contact, another groan, this time near his feet.