Authors: Helen Nielsen
“The site is north-east of Kastoria, in a rugged mountain area which affords no place for the search plane to land. A rescue party has already been dispatched, but it will be some time before actual contact can be made with the wreckage.”
Several voices from the assembled reporters shouted a question.
“Are there survivors?”
“There is no indication of survivors on the photos taken from the search plane,” Draper answered. “These photos will be released at the conclusion of this conference.”
“Do the authorities think survival is possible?”
“No one can answer that question. No bodies can be seen in the photos, but they may be inside the plane. It is hoped that they escaped from the plane and are somewhere in the heavy brush that surrounds the area.”
“But the search plane discovered the wreckage unassisted. I mean, there were no signals given from the ground.”
“That is right. You have answered your own questions. I’m afraid there is nothing more to report at this time. It may be hours—even days—before the rescue party can reach the wreckage and get a report back to us. I have told you all that any of us know, to this hour. The wreckage of a small plane has been found and identified as that owned by Mr. George Ankouris of Corfu and chartered by Mr. Harry Avery last Monday.”
Draper stepped back, relinquishing the dais to the uniformed officer, whom he introduced as Captain Koumaris, and the Greek translation of his announcement began. Brad threaded his way to the doorway and returned to the lobby. He hadn’t made a solitary exodus. Most of the public telephones were already tied up by correspondents. Somebody was fighting with the house phone, under the impression that it was an outside line, and so Brad took the elevator up to his room and put in a call to Rhona’s suite. The switchboard was under heavy bombardment and it took a bit of time. Finally the call went through and Peter Lange’s cool voice answered.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Smith,” he said, “but you can’t speak to Mrs. Avery at this time. She’s still under sedation.”
“Did you reach Dr. Johnson?” Brad asked.
“Not yet. The hotel physician was sufficient.”
“Well, if there’s anything I can do—”
“Nothing. Thank you, Mr. Smith.”
Get lost, Mr. Smith
. That was what Lange really meant.
Brad put down the telephone and walked out to the balcony. His room overlooked the cab entrance, where the mobile television unit was now pulling away, followed by taxis, and official cars no longer sounding klaxons. He saw Captain Koumaris step out briskly and enter the last official car, and now the klaxon did send its monotonous two-note warning echoing up from the canyon of the street below. Brad waited on the balcony until the last note had faded in the distance and only normal traffic moved in the entrance area. It was as if nothing had happened. Excitement was followed by depression as he began to realize the significance of what Draper had said. There was no signal of any kind from the plane wreckage. No flares, gunshots or flashing mirrors. He had seen enough silent wreckage in the war to know what this desolation usually meant. Not always, of course, but Harry Avery wasn’t a husky nineteen or twenty-year-old kid, with his body trained to peak strength and able to fight for the life within it. He was at least forty by this time, a human nerve centre, who drove himself as if there were no tomorrow. Now it might be true. Brad felt lonely. What he needed was a drink. It was still a little early for the cocktail hour, but he had caught sight of an inviting bar, just across the lobby from the ballroom where Draper met the press.
He had had two, perhaps three, Scotches and as many light flirtations at the bar, when he looked round to see Mikos Pallas climbing on to the next stool. He had exchanged the plaid sports coat for a white dinner jacket and black trousers. His shirt was ruffled, his black tie flowing. Without the beret on his head, a slight bald spot was barely visible under the hair brushed protectively forward. He saw Brad staring at him and smiled.
“So we meet again, Mr. Smith. You see, as I told you, I am a hotel man and so I visit other hotels to see what the competition is offering.”
“Thinking of going into competition with Hilton, are you?”
Mikos laughed thinly. “You have a sense of humour, Mr. Smith.”
“So have you. That joke with the taxi driver this morning really broke me up.”
“Joke? What do you mean?”
“You told that driver I would pay both fares.”
Now the little Greek looked truly horrified. “No! That swine! I paid him my share, of course. But that’s the way with taxi drivers the world over, isn’t that so, Mr. Smith? Now you must let me buy you a drink, at least, to make up for such scandalous treatment. What are you drinking, please?”
“Scotch,” Brad said.
“Good! I, too, will take Scotch.” He beckoned the bartender and ordered in Greek. “I like to keep in practice,” he explained. “But now, to be serious, have you heard of this news about Harry Avery’s plane? What do you think the rescue party will find?”
“I wouldn’t care to guess,” Brad said.
“Nor would I. I know this country where the wreckage was discovered. It is very rugged. Also, it is near the Albanian border. If the pilot and Mr. Avery survived the crash and wandered off over the border, they may never be found.”
“Why do you say that?”
“There are very poor people in Albania. Mr. Avery always wore good clothes and carried a large amount of cash. Life is cheap among some people.”
“You think he would be robbed and murdered.”
“It is possible. Of course, if someone found him who knew who he was, he might be held for ransom. Or—if officials of the government found him, he might be held as a spy. I can’t understand why he had himself flown in that direction. There are no beautiful women there to play his Aphrodite.”
“Aphrodite?” Brad echoed.
“The title of his new film—the one he came to Greece to make. He has been conducting a publicity campaign: ‘The Search for Aphrodite.’ The idea is to find local girls to test for the leading role. I know this from Greek newspapers which I get at home. It’s the same technique he used when he filmed in Cape Town. All publicity, naturally. All the time he had the star picked and kept out of sight until the date chosen to announce her identity. In Cape Town it was his paramour.”
Brad stared at him quizzically. Pallas looked embarrassed.
“Is that an old-fashioned term? His mistress? His girl?”
“There’s nothing wrong with the term,” Brad said. “I was just wondering what Mrs. Avery was doing all this time.”
“Oh, come, Mr. Smith. We are a sophisticated people. It’s nothing much if an impressionable young actress thinks she’s in love with a glamorous producer. A wife understands this. After all, even the glamorous producer is human.”
“But this wife is an actress. I wonder why Harry never starred her in any of his films.”
“You must have been out of circulation, Mr. Smith.”
“I have been,” Brad admitted.
“Yes. Otherwise you would know that Harry Avery destroyed Rhona Brent’s career some years ago. It’s common knowledge that he vowed she would never work before the cameras again, while she was his wife. Mark my words, if Harry Avery died in that plane crash Monday, there is somewhere nearby a very unhappy young actress, who was scheduled to become a star as soon as the Search for Aphrodite nonsense was over.”
Pallas punctuated his observation by raising the drink to his lips. He sipped it carefully while studying a new arrival at the end of the bar. A smirk of disdain tightened his face. Brad looked where Pallas was looking and saw Brooks Martins ordering a martini.
Pallas sighed and put down his glass. “I must be getting provincial,” he said. “I react to things I’m not accustomed to seeing or expecting.”
“Apartheid?” Brad asked.
“Yes, I suppose that’s it. It’s generally misunderstood, but let’s face it. There are differences between races—mores, morals, even body odours vary.”
“So I’ve noticed,” Brad said. Taking his drink with him, he moved down the bar to join Martins.
Martins saw him coming and smiled a greeting. “Just the man I wanted to see,” he announced. “I have something of yours you will be happy to see.” He set down his glass and reached into an inside coat pocket. What he withdrew from the pocket was Brad’s passport.
“So that’s where it went,” Brad said. “Didn’t you think it was genuine?”
“It’s genuine,” Martins said, “and I only received it through channels. You interest me, Smith. Your registration card states that you represent Vance Properties of Los Angeles and London. Just where is that London office located?”
“It isn’t located yet,” Brad improvised. “I’d just flown to London to see about leasing office space when the story on Avery’s plane crash broke. There was some delay with the leasing arrangements, so I hopped down here to see if I could be of help.”
“You must be very close to Avery.”
“We were almost related.”
“How’s that?”
“He married my girl, while I was in Vietnam.”
“Rhona Brent?” Martins whistled softly under his breath. “Was the marriage with or without your blessing.”
“Neither. I had no options.”
“Then you came to Athens because of a woman. I like that. I’m a romantic man myself.” Martins looked down the length of the bar, to where Brad had been seated with Mikos Pallas. The little Greek was leaving now, moving in the direction of the lobby. “Is that man a friend of yours?” he asked.
“Pallas? I never saw him in my life until this morning. We came in from the airport in the same taxi. He’s a hotel man.”
Martins chuckled softly. “Yes, so I’ve heard. Do you know, Mr. Smith, I think you may be a babe in arms. There are things in this world more dangerous than the Vietcong—and as difficult to identify.”
“Is Mikos Pallas dangerous?”
“That depends on who you are and what you are doing that he might find profitable. Now, please take that as a friendly warning. I have no more to say on the subject. Ah, here comes my date—” Martins rose, smiling. Approaching him at the bar was a handsome, smartly groomed, Negro woman, with a lovely glow in her eyes. She held out her hands and Martins took them in his own. “Mr. Smith,” he said, “I want you to meet my wife. Lois, Mr. Smith is a fellow countryman and a stranger in Athens. I think we should have him to the house for dinner some night. Not tonight, I’m afraid, because now we’re both off to meet our son, who has invited us to dine with his brand new fiancée.”
“Congratulations,” Brad said.
“Thank you. Remember now, we have to get together some evening.”
The Martins made their goodbyes and left the bar. People were gravitating towards the dining rooms. Brad put his glass on the bar and started to move away. The bartender called to him and placed a bill beside his glass.
“The other gentlemen said you were a guest of the hotel and would sign for this.”
“Beautiful!” Brad said and signed.
When Brad left the bar his intention was to dine in the hotel, but just inside the doorway to the dining room he saw Mikos Pallas waiting to be seated and he wasn’t inclined to pick up the man’s dinner bill as well. He remembered having seen several attractive restaurants on his morning excursion. It was a balmy evening and the air would do him good. But an unfamiliar city at night is quite different from the same city by daylight. After walking a dozen blocks he realized that he was lost. He paused to get his bearings and again heard the church bells that had intrigued him so, early in the day. He followed the sound and soon found himself on the identical street where he had been standing when the chorus of klaxons sent him speeding back to the hotel. Unless the city had shifted ground sometime during the day, the square should be waiting at the end of the narrow street. He quickened his pace. He was directly opposite the spot where the truck-load of young construction workers had been parked, when a deafening roar and its repercussion hurled him backwards into an open garageway. Clinging to the walls for support, he had a perfect view of the uncompleted structure, which was now crumbling like a house of children’s building-blocks before his eyes.
THE EXPLOSION FILLED the street with dust and debris, and almost instantly the building burst into flame. Brad heard running footsteps. Starkly outlined against the fire was the figure of a man running fast and low like a football player heading for the goal line. He was coming straight towards Brad, and then, from the garage behind him, moving without lights, roared a small car that screeched to a halt at the entrance to the street. Brad clung to the wall for safety. It wasn’t the car that hit him when something collided against his jaw and sent him sagging to the pavement; it was the fist of the running man, who had stopped in front of the car, had seen Brad in the light of the fire, and attacked without warning. He fought for consciousness as he fell to his knees. He tried to rise and was pulled up bodily by a pair of arms that seemed as strong as a vice. Stunned, he tried to focus on the face in front of him. Sweaty, excited, bright alert eyes—small, neatly trimmed beard.
“Stephanos, get in the car!” cried a woman, from inside the car.
He saw the door swing open. The woman was sitting behind the steering wheel.
“Who is that?” she called.
Brad expected another blow. He ducked his head, involuntarily.
“I don’t know,” the man gasped, “but I can’t leave him here. We’ll have to take him with us.”
“Hurry then—”
He was forced into the front seat beside the girl. He could taste blood on his lips but he had no opportunity to fight back. The man squeezed into the seat beside him and slammed the door. Gears shifted and the car swung into the street—turning away from the direction of the lighted square. Still without lights, proceeding only by the light of the burning building, the woman drove at top speed. One block, two blocks—the firelight faded behind them as she turned into a small cross street and switched on the lights. Now the speed slackened. She drove carefully for two blocks and cut back towards the square. They reached a broader avenue, fully lighted and continued at a normal speed, as the familiar sound of the klaxons began a wailing chorus in the distance. Now they were just another vehicle driving in regular traffic.
Brad turned his head and looked at the woman. It was the tour guide, Katerina. At almost the same instant she recognized him.
“You—?” she gasped.
“Do you know this man?” Stephanos demanded.
Brad turned his head and looked at the man. He was young—no more than a boy. The brother. Brief, basic thoughts arranged themselves neatly in Brad’s confused mind.
“Yes,” Katerina said. “I mean, no. I don’t know him but I have seen him. This morning at the Hilton.”
“I saw him this morning too. He was standing just about where he was standing when I hit him. Who are you, Mister? Who are you working for?”
“Stephanos!” Katerina scolded.
“He must be working for somebody, to be hanging around that corner all the time.”
Brad wiped the corner of his mouth with his hand and drew blood. Shock was giving place to anger. He had been slugged without provocation and he wanted to slug back. It was impossible in that crowded front seat.
“I’m a tourist,” he said. “I’m an American tourist and I can stand on any damn corner I please. Who the hell are you?”
He expected to get hit again—Stephanos had a more advantageous position. Instead, the boy laughed.
“You’re a cocky one,” he said.
“You stop this car and get out on the sidewalk with me and I’ll show you how cocky I am.”
“And you like to fight. I, too, like to fight.”
“Stephanos!” Katerina cried.
“Stop the car at the next corner.”
“I will not!”
“Stop it. I’m not going to fight anyone. I don’t have time. Until we know who this American is I can’t have the others coming to the apartment. I have to warn them.”
Reluctantly, Katerina slowed the car to a stop.
“Be careful, Stephanos.”
“I’m always careful. Go home and wait. You’ll hear from me within an hour for sure.”
Stephanos opened the door to get out. Then he swung around and slapped his hands quickly over Brad’s pockets.
“No pistol,” he said. “He may be telling the truth. Take him with you and keep him with you until you hear from me. And Mister, if you are just an American tourist, I apologize and advise you not to walk about the streets at night alone.”
Stephanos leaped out of the car and slammed the door behind him. Instantly, he faded back into the shadows. Katerina put the car in gear and moved forward.
“The missing brother?” Brad asked.
“Yes.”
“What was that all about, back there?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to know.”
“You must have known something. You were waiting in the garage with the car.”
“Because I had word from Stephanos to meet him there in that way. He is my brother. He is all the family I have left and I am trying hard not to lose him, too.”
“Too.”
“My father and mother are dead.”
“I see.”
They drove the rest of the way in silence, turning, circling, cutting through narrow streets barely able to afford clearance for the small car. At last they came to a two storey apartment building where Katerina parked in the street and led him inside and up the stairway to her rooms. It was a tiny apartment: three small rooms and a bath. The furnishings were starkly modern. The walls were white and generously lined with bookshelves, colourful abstract paintings and one very prominent portrait of Martin Luther King. Katerina locked the door when they were inside and tossed her shoulder bag on the couch. She looked at him in the light and sighed.
“Men! Always fighting over something. Your lip is cut. Sit down somewhere and rest. I’ll get a Band-Aid.”
“All I need is a wash up.” Brad nodded at the open bathroom door. “May I?”
“Help yourself. Do you have a name?”
“Smith. Brad Smith.”
“I am called Katerina, Mr. Smith. Would you like a drink?”
“I could use one.”
He left the door open while he washed the blood off his face and hands and brushed the dirt off his knees. He could hear her fussing about in the kitchen—opening, closing the refrigerator door.
“I have no hard liquor,” she called out. “I have some wine—but no, it’s Greek wine and Americans don’t like Greek wine. How about some German beer?”
“Great!” Brad said.
He finished in the bathroom and came back to the living room, where she was carefully pouring the beer into a tall glass. “Run it along the side of the glass and it’ll have a good head of foam,” he said.
“How long have you been in Athens, Mr. Smith?” she asked.
“Since early this morning.”
“Really?” She handed him the beer. “You must think we’re a very strange people.”
“I don’t know. Once you’ve driven the Hollywood Freeway nothing seems strange.”
“And your name is really Smith?”
“I can prove it. Here’s my passport.”
He pulled the passport out of his pocket and opened it to the identification page. He was about to hand it to the girl when he noticed a small card tucked between the pages. Brooks Martins’ calling card. At the bottom of the card he had lettered in what must have been his personal telephone number. It seemed a strange thing to find and it certainly wouldn’t reassure Katerina that he had no official connections. He managed to palm it out of sight when she took the passport for examination.
“I’m a businessman,” he said. “I was in London and came down to see a friend who is in trouble.”
She returned the passport. “Private trouble?” she asked.
“Hardly. It’s in all the newspapers around the world. My friend is Rhona Brent.”
“Oh—”
She was impressed. She walked to the windows and looked out at the silent street.
“Then you are a V.I.P.,” she said. “And I offered you a cigarette.”
“A very good cigarette. Do you have another?”
“Of course.”
She was more relaxed when she came back from the window. She got the cigarettes from her bag and handed him the packet. “I feel foolish,” she said. “Stephanos said that I must keep you here for an hour.”
“I’m not fighting it.”
“But your friends—”
“Not friends. Friend. One friend. A long time ago. And I’m not a V.I.P. Until about six months ago I was just a very ordinary G.I. stationed in Vietnam. Explosions don’t frighten me—I’m used to them. I just don’t like getting hit in the face without hitting back.”
“Stephanos apologized. He’s not a violent person, really. He was frightened for me. You weren’t expected.”
“I gathered that. Do you still say you don’t know what the explosion was about?”
“I must say that. Even if the police came and took me to Bouboulinas Street I would say that I know nothing—I hope.”
“Is it really that bad here?”
“It’s worse. But that’s not a problem for an American, is it?” There was a note of sarcasm in her voice. Then she smiled quickly. “Shall we talk of something more pleasant? Is she really so beautiful—this Rhona Brent?”
“She is very beautiful.”
“And did you know her well?”
“I once knew her as well as a man can know a woman.”
“You loved her then.”
“I think so. There’s nothing so unusual about that, is there? Don’t you have a lover?”
Katerina was a beautiful woman, too. She had to know that. “Not now,” she answered. “There are other things to think of. I work. I study languages. There’s always some use for intellectuals. We’re needed to show tourists the crumbling glories of Greece.”
“And the tourists are pretty rough on you, I suppose.”
“Sometimes. One gets used to it.”
“Are Americans the worst?”
“Americans? Oh, no. Americans tip well and are very friendly. Some of them are too friendly at times, but one learns to cope.”
Brad shivered. “I think I just felt a draught,” he said.
Katerina laughed. “No, please, I didn’t mean you.”
“Wait until you know me better,” Brad said.
“I should offer you something to eat but I’m afraid I have nothing but some cheese and bread. Americans like steak.”
“That gives me an idea. I was on my way to dinner when I got lost tonight. That’s why I was standing where I was, when Stephanos ran into me. Trying to get my bearings and find a restaurant. When you hear from Stephanos let’s go out to dinner together.”
“I shouldn’t—”
“You should! You’re supposed to be nice to tourists, aren’t you?”
“Then I suppose it’s all right. Yes, I would like to go with you. When I hear from Stephanos.”
She was nervous. She walked back to the window and looked out at the street again, and then she walked about the room, straightening ashtrays and magazines. She saw him staring at the photograph of King and asked bluntly:
“Why was he murdered, Mr. Smith?”
“I don’t know,” Brad said. “I suppose because he made us think and thinking is painful to some people.”
“He wasn’t a Communist?”
“No, but that doesn’t matter. Frightened people will call anyone a Communist. They would call Jesus Christ a Communist if he came back wearing that beard.”
She laughed bitterly. “A Communist or a homosexual.”
“You sound like the mayor of Los Angeles running for reelection,” Brad said.
“And you fought Communists.”
“I was a soldier. I fought the enemy. I’d do it again.”
“If they were Communists.”
“Especially if they were Communists.”
She shook her head impatiently. “Politics is so confusing. My father died fighting Communists. We were—we are Royalists. Now my brother is hiding in the dark. Why can’t they leave us alone? Why can’t the Generals and the politicians let people work and live and be happy? Stephanos is studying law at the university. I am very proud of him. I study languages and art. I would like to be a painter. These are good things to be and to want—”
The knock came at the door. There was quick fear in her face and then she regained her composure and crossed the room. She opened the door cautiously—then wider as she recognized the caller. It was a boy of about thirteen who spoke rapidly in Greek. She smiled and patted him on the shoulder. Then she scolded in Greek and he answered haughtily. She laughed and looked back at Brad.
“I said that he shouldn’t have come out without a jacket and he said that I’m not his mother. How do you like that? No respect!”
“What do you expect of young people these days?” Brad said.
She laughed and spoke to the boy in Greek again as he departed. She was radiant when she closed the door and turned to Brad. “It’s all right,” she said. “Stephanos is with his friends and everybody is safe. Shall we go now, Mr. Smith?”
Brad put his glass down on the table and moved to the door.
“I may regret this,” he said. “I’m really very fond of bread and cheese.”
Katerina drove the small car to a restaurant guaranteed to serve fine steaks. It was almost nine o’clock but most of the tables were still occupied by visiting Americans and their Greek friends. They ordered dinner and wine and listened openly to the uninhibited conversation of the jovial, well-lubricated American businessmen at the next table, who were comparing notes on their shopping expeditions. Furs, they maintained, were a good buy in Athens. Katerina nodded vigorously. Diamonds were good in Amsterdam, hats and perfumes in Paris. It was obvious that all the acquisitions were for their wives. Katerina pouted.
“Is that really all American wives want of their husbands?” she asked. “Furs, diamonds and perfumes?”
“Don’t knock it,” Brad said.
“They must be very spoiled. I don’t think I would like to be an American wife.”
“Don’t you want furs and diamonds and perfume?”
“Of course! But from a husband a woman wants more. More of his time. More of his life.”
“You would look great in furs and diamonds,” Brad insisted.
“Looks aren’t everything! It’s more important to have a mind—to be able to think.”
“Sometimes,” Brad said, enjoying the way her nose wrinkled when she was emphatic, “it’s very difficult to think.”
They bandied words through dinner, getting acquainted and having an extraordinarily good time, when a late-comer entered the restaurant and diverted Katerina’s attention. Instantly, her mood changed. Laughter left her eyes. She sat back, rigid against her chair. Brad turned to see what caused this abrupt change and found himself staring at the dapper Konstantin Koumaris, as he paused to survey the room and then walked deliberately to their table. He was not a large man; it was the uniform he wore that gave him stature. His black eyes, quick but without humour, peered out from under heavy, black brows. A carefully groomed black moustache covered his upper lip and a small scar creased one high cheekbone. He noticed Brad but his words were for Katerina.