Shot on Location (3 page)

Brad awakened and looked out of the window. He had slept a long time. The wing of the giant jet was bathed in moonlight.

THE BE A NIGHT flight from London arrived at Athens Central Airport before dawn. It was a small but active terminal that was probably quiet at this hour on normal days, but a V.I.P. must have been tucked away, up in first class, because half a dozen reporters and a battery of photographers were waiting at the gate as the passengers passed through passport control. Brad had made good use of his time in London. His first act was to get the latest newspapers and read about the continued search for Harry Avery’s chartered plane. Then, after buying his ticket to Athens, he visited Regent Street and picked up a light-weight raincoat that made him feel and look the part of the travelling businessman. He wired for a room reservation at the Athens Hilton, because that seemed the logical hotel to find Harry Avery’s wife, and went sight-seeing until time to check in at the airport. But, in all his previous travels abroad, Brad’s transportation had been arranged by the United States Army, and so he neglected to request a limousine from the airport to the hotel. The folly of that error was apparent on arrival.

The press interrogation of the V.I.P. was brusquely terminated by the arrival of two swarthy civilians and a martinet in an officer’s uniform. As the few terse words of dismissal were spoken to the reporters, Brad had a good look at the target of interest. He was a tall man, about forty, conservatively dressed in expertly tailored British clothes. His rather longish face was relieved by a light blond moustache and shaggy blond eyebrows. He carried a black attaché case and an ebony cane and never once lost his bearing of bored composure. As the trio of Greeks whisked him out of the building and into a very long, black Mercedes, the correspondents broke for the taxi stand. By the time Brad had reclaimed his luggage, the sole remaining form of transportation was a Volkswagen van chauffeured by a Greek with a huge, comic-strip moustache, that was already in the hire of an agile young man wearing a green plaid sports jacket, flannels and a beret. Suitcases were being piled on to the luggage container as Brad approached, bag in hand. The man in the green plaid jacket looked up smartly and said:

“You have no car to meet you, yes? Please, be my guest.”

“I’m going into Athens,” Brad said.

“I, too, am going to Athens. So much room—why should it go to waste? It is impossible to get a cab at this hour. Our illustrious Mr. Lange has quite disrupted the service.”

The driver took Brad’s bag and tossed it into the front seat. Brad got into the van beside the man in the plaid jacket.

“Lange,” he echoed. “Do you know him?”

“Slightly. He is Mr. Peter Lange, the attorney of the missing American producer, Harry Avery. You have seen the newspapers.”

“I have,” Brad affirmed, “but I don’t recall reading anything about a Peter Lange.”

“You were in tourist class in the flight, yes? Well, I was in first class and I recognized Mr. Lange immediately, but that, you see, is because I know Harry Avery. Not that we are intimate friends. He was once a guest at my hotel.”

The van was under way now, headlights poking at the darkness as the unviewable terrain sped past the windows. Brad would have liked to watch the road, but his colourfully dressed companion was in a talkative mood.

“You are puzzled about my nationality, yes?” he said. “You have noticed that I am dark—dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin—” Brad had noticed none of these things. In the darkness of the van he had to take the man’s word for it. “You have noticed that I speak English with an English accent. I also speak French, Italian, a little Russian and—” He paused and leaned forward towards the driver. He spoke rapidly in a language Brad had never before heard. When he had finished, the little man leaned back in the seat and smiled. “—and Greek,” he added, “because, you see, I am Greek by birth. But now I am a citizen of South Africa. I have come from great poverty to become a man of means. You saw the Mercedes that met Mr. Lange? Well, I own one of those. Not so long and not so new, but I do own one and I own a small British roadster. I own a house and I own a hotel, in which Harry Avery and members of his staff stayed a year ago while on location in my adopted country. Have you been to South Africa, Mr. Smith?”

“I haven’t,” Brad admitted, “and I don’t remember telling you my name.”

“You didn’t. I heard it mentioned when you went through passport control. I was right behind you, in fact. You are an American.”

“Do you know my Social Security number?” Brad asked.

The little man in the plaid jacket laughed. “
Touché
, Mr. Smith. I am observing. That comes from being in the hotel business. Now that I can afford to travel, I come to Europe each year. I visit the hotels and see what they are doing that I should learn to do. I have a very small hotel near the water-front, but it is modern and clean. Very picturesque. That is where I met Mr. Lange, who prefers not to remember me on the plane. A very important man who is closer to Harry Avery, they say, than anyone—even his wife. And now this man, who has been in Rome, Paris and London, flies to Athens by night and is met by the police—not, as you Americans would say, the civil police, but, as you Americans would say, the military police. That is interesting, yes?”

Brad had no chance to reply. The van was entering the outskirts of the city now. Dark forms of buildings and scattered lights appeared on either side of the highway. The driver, without taking his eyes from the road, turned his head and asked a question in Greek. The little man listened and turned to Brad.

“He wants to know if you are for the same hotel I am for,” he said.

“Tell him that I’m for the Hilton,” Brad said.

The driver heard and nodded knowingly.

The man in the plaid jacket sighed and settled deeper in the seat. “The Hilton, of course,” he said. “American. The British still prefer the Grande Bretagne.”

Dawn overtook the city of Athens as the van crossed Omonia Square and nosed out a small tourist hotel on a narrow side street. It was surprisingly humble, after the little Greek’s self-proclaimed affluence, but it was immaculately clean and plate-glass modern. The driver alighted from the van and took down a set of matched luggage from the rack. The little Greek opened the door and stepped briskly to the kerb. He looked about him, smiled, and inhaled deeply. There was a scent of strong coffee coming from a small sidewalk bar across the street, and of some other spicy odour that tingled the nostrils. The Greek seemed to read Brad’s unspoken question.

“Sesame,” he said. “It is the fresh baked, sesame rolls that you smell, Mr. Smith. The scent of Athens. Blindfold me anywhere on earth and take me to Athens. Still blindfolded I will know her by the scents in the air. Welcome to Athenai, Mr. Smith! I leave you with my card.”

A small business card was proffered with a slight salute. The driver had disappeared inside the hotel lobby, laden with bags. The Greek overtook him on the return trip at the doorway, took his arm and spoke intently for a moment and then went into the hotel. The driver returned to the van and proceeded in silence. Leaning forward, Brad watched the streets for orientation. There was a special magic in an awakening city that late sleepers never knew. The thousand little tasks of daily renewal that seemed so mundane at noon. The van returned to Omonia Square and turned on to Stadiou. So intrigued was he, with the unfolding city, that he forgot the card in his hand until they had reached Constitution Square. He glanced at it as the van turned left. “Mikos Pallas” it read, in bold black letters, and underneath, in a smaller type, “Owner—Hotel Helias, Cape Town, South Africa.”

The van slid to a stop in front of the impressive Hilton. A few trucks were making deliveries and a window washer was polishing the hardware on the plate glass doors. A uniformed porter appeared, to take Brad’s bag from the van driver, and Brad reached for his wallet.

“What do I owe you?” he asked.

The driver wore the dour expression of cab drivers the world over. One hand scratched at the dark hair coiled beneath his leather cap. “Ten dollars—American,” he said. “The other passenger said that you would pay for both.”

“For both?” Brad flicked the business card of Mikos Pallas into the gutter. “Welcome to Athens, Mr. Smith!” he repeated bitterly. “Well, as they say, travel is broadening.”

He paid the driver and went inside to the lobby to register as Bradley Smith, representing Vance Properties of Los Angeles and London. There was virtually no activity in the lobby at this early hour, but the understated elegance of the decor made it clear that he must move fast before his bankroll disappeared. He asked for Mrs. Harry Avery and drew resistance. The regular desk clerk would come on duty at eight o’clock, he was told. He might get the information he desired at that time. It sounded like an evasive action. Brad took the key himself and left his bag to the porter. On the way to the elevator, he stopped at the flower shop where the door was open to allow delivery of a fresh supply. Oh, no, the shop was not yet open to the public, he was told, but money has a way of changing regulations. He ordered two dozen red roses sent immediately to Mrs. Harry Avery’s room—”I’ve forgotten the number. Get it from the room clerk.” He insisted on writing the enclosure card himself:

He had the flowers put on his bill and left a five dollar tip for the delivery boy. If Rhona was in the hotel this was a sure way of making contact.

The response came sooner than he expected. He was too wide awake to make use of the massive bed. As soon as the porter left the room, he called down for breakfast and ordered a pot of black coffee and sesame rolls. The coffee arrived as ordered—the rolls were an assortment that included nothing as tantalizing as the street vendor’s wares. He drank the coffee on the balcony of his room and then decided to shower and get a fresh start on the day. He was under the spray when the telephone rang. Grabbing a huge shower towel, Brad hurried into the bedroom and picked up the phone. The voice he heard was professionally trained and lower pitched than he remembered, but it was definitely the voice of Rhona Brent.

“Brad? Brad, is it really you?” she asked.

“It’s really me,” Brad said.

“What a wonderful surprise! When can I see you?”

“Where are you?” Brad asked.

“On the top floor—the whole of it, practically. Harry likes plenty of room when he’s working. Come up, now, just as you are.”

“I think not. I just stepped out of the shower.”

“Oh. Well, in that case—”

Now there were background noises—a masculine voice raised in anger. Rhona tried to muffle the mouthpiece but he heard her protest: “I have a right to make a call. I’m not a prisoner, am I? … Brad, are you still there? Listen, I can’t talk right now but come up as soon as you can anyway. I’ve got to see you—please.”

“I said any time,” Brad reminded.

A half an hour passed before he finished showering, shaving and dressing in one of the light-weight lounge suits purchased with that first commission from Estelle Vance. Time enough, he hoped, for that heated discussion in the background to have cooled. He wanted no part of private fights. He took the elevator up to the Avery suites and found the entrance guarded by the same two swarthy men who had escorted Lange out of the airport earlier in the morning. It took vocal persuasion to get inside.

“I’m a friend of Mrs. Avery’s,” he said. “I was invited.”

“No one is to enter,” the larger guard said.

“Mrs. Avery called me on the telephone. My name is Smith. Go in and ask her.”

“No one is to enter. That is the order.”

“You must have a larger vocabulary than that,” Brad said. “Put it to music and you could dance to it on a table.” He pushed forward and began to pound on the door with both fists. “Rhona! It’s Brad! Call off the watchdogs—Hey!”

The carpeting suddenly disappeared from under Brad’s feet as he was flanked by the guards and hoisted backwards from the door. They held him firmly, with his feet kicking at the air, and only the sudden opening of the door spared him the humiliation of learning what might come next. But the door did open and he found himself facing Peter Lange, the man with the bored expression.

“What’s going on out here?” he demanded. “Put the man down!”

With solidity under his feet again, Brad regained composure.

“I’m Bradley Smith,” he said. “I was asked—”

“Of course. Mr. Smith, come in.”

Lange stepped away from the door and then closed it as Brad entered the suite. “In the next room,” he said. “Sorry about that out in the hall, but they do have orders. Rhona—your Mr. Smith is here.”

The next room was a bedroom—Brad glimpsed a bit of it when Rhona came through the door. He was shocked. She had sounded a little different on the telephone; she looked entirely different. She was older, of course, but that wasn’t against her. She had improved—lost baby fat and gained poise. Her hair was worn in a fashionable cut and her dress was so starkly simple it must have cost a fortune. But she had lost something. She smiled and it came off badly. The child in her smile was gone.

“Brad—it
is
you!” she cried. “You haven’t changed.” She came forward and placed her hands on his shoulders, holding him at arms length. “But you have changed,” she said quickly. “You’re harder.”

“Muscle,” Brad said.

“Oh, yes. You were a soldier for so long. Darling, have you met Peter? This is Peter Lange, Harry’s attorney. He flew in from London this morning—but so did you.”

“How did you know that?” Brad asked.

Rhona looked confused. “Why, I didn’t really. I assumed. I did get your flowers right after Peter arrived. See, I have them in a vase … Peter, Brad Smith is one of my oldest and dearest friends—and Harry’s, too. He read about Harry’s plane and sent a note offering to help in any way.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Lange said bluntly. As Rhona’s hands slid from Brad’s shoulder, her right arm linked in his and guided him towards a buffet on the far side of the room. “Have you had breakfast?” she asked. “I remember how you used to love a good breakfast. Here’s scrambled eggs and sausages and a pot of black coffee—” Her fingers locked about Brad’s and held tight. He knew now what was so different about Rhona: she was afraid. She was clinging to him, as she had the first night they spent together back in Hollywood.