Judas Country

2

In fact it wasn't that bad, except for the parts that were worse. There were only twenty guests, and only the dozen that were payingen pension rates and would lose by going out decided to stay and face our menu. And the menu itself was easy since the late staff hadn't been in such a hurry that they'd forgotten to pinch every bit of food that wasn't too heavy, like half a deep-frozen sheep, or too bulky, like the fresh vegetables, or too wet like several red mullet, a flayed octopus and three kilos of minced meat, family tree unknown. 'They must have hiredtaxis to take it all,' Kapotas said, looking into a larder that was empty of everything except a few sauce bottles and a dead mouse.

'They shared together and got a van,' the Sergeant said helpfully. Kapotas just looked at him.

It also turned out that Sergeant Papa wasn't the only one left. There was a small, dark, ugly chambermaid who was supposed to be his niece, and – surprisingly – the barman, Apostólos. I'd assumed he'd've been the first to go, plus the tools of his trade. But Sergeant Papa leant his big backside against the kitchen sink, lit an expensive cigar, and explained why not.

'He has brought in too many bottles so, naturally, he does not want to take them all out again.'

'Brought them in?'

'All barmen bring in bottles. They buy whisky for perhaps two pounds, then sell it in drinks for six pounds. Naturally they do not want to use hotel stocks and give the hotel the profit.'

'Naturally. But that being the case, hop out to the bar and bring back a bottle of Scotch for cooking purposes.'

'I am thehall porter.' I'd given him a corporal's job.

'If the pilots are doing the cooking, at least the sergeants can fetch them a drink.'

He looked me in the eyes, didn't quite smile, and went out at his own pace. Kapotas wiped his forehead with a shaky hand and said: 'You did say for cooking purposes?'

'For purposes of the cook; it comes to the same thing.'

'Can you really cook?'

'Can't you get your wife to come in?'

'With three children?'

'Oh well. Most unmarried men over forty can tell one end of an egg from ihe other. Have we got any eggs, by the way?"

'Yes. They must have been too difficult to carry.'

Tine. Hard-boil a dozen and some of the beans and we'll start with an egg salad. Then we make the mince into meatballs – what d'you call them? -keftedesl – and we'll do something to the fish. I'm buggered if I'm touchinghim.' I glared at the octopus and the octopus stared blankly back.

He sighed and got started. I looked around. 'You know, if I worked here for any time, I'd scarper whether I was paid or not.'

The repainting job had stopped at the service door; the kitchen looked like a Crimean War hospital before Florence Nightingale got into the game. The stone walls were decorated with fifty years of spilled sauces, the ceiling was black with oily grime, and there was fungus growing from the food scraps in the cracks in the floor. The only ventilation came from a couple of small barred windows, above head height over the blackened old cooking range.

Kapotas nodded gloomily. 'But we are lucky that Papadimi-triou stayed loyal.'

'Don't kid yourself. All the others'll get their usual jobs as waiters and cooks and things, particularly with the tourist season just starting. But he wouldn't get to be hall porter anywhere else. And I never heard of a hall porter living off his salary yet. I wonder how much he charges for that "niece" of his?'

'Oh God. Am I running a brothel as well?'

'You and every other hotel manager. Is this fennel or last week's spinach?'

Kapotas and the niece did the serving, the Sergeant found that his dignity allowed him to double as wine waiter, and I remembered that the real gourmets say red mullet should be grilled complete, not even with the scales scraped off. Ouren pension guests would live like kings and ruddy well like it.

Afterwards we settled in the 'bar', which was just the other end of the dining-room; a few tables, a short counter and a dark browndécor that might have driven you to drink but couldn't make you enjoy it. Kapotas and I got stuck into a bottle of Scotch while the Sergeant passed round a bunch of old photos. Each one showed him, younger and thinner but still neither young nor thin, wearing a wartime uniform and' standing proudly next to some general. Each a different general, but each a general; no brigadiers or colonels or suchlike.

We made impressed noises, then I asked Kapotas: 'How long d'you think we can keep it going like this?'

He shrugged. 'If London – or the bank here – would tell me I can spend some money, then I can look for new staff tomorrow. But myself, I am just a nightwatchman. And daywatchman. I check the inventories, the stocks, the books, make sure all the assets are insured – often they let the policies lapse as a last economy – and… Oh God! ' He looked at me, wide-eyed.

I said nothing. Just took out the Queen Air's insurance certificate and passed it over. He skimmed it, then relaxed. "Thank you.'

I began to pack a pipe. 'So the big decisions are taken in London?'

'Yes. A receiver acts as the agent of the debenture holder, whoever it was that lent the company money in the first place and now wants to move in and try to rescue some. Most of the time, like this, it's a bank.'

'Which d'you think they'll do?'

'Compromise – as usual. Get rid of the worst hotels individually, sell the rest as a unit. But to have time to decide, we have to keep everything running anyway. Or try.'

'Welcome to the hotel business.'

He smiled weakly and took a gulp of Scotch. 'I can always remind myself of other accountants doing the same thing in the Rhodes Castle, the Malta Castle, the Corsican one, Elba, Lebanon I suppose, if they everdo open…'

'Only they don't have me and the aeroplane to worry about as well?'

'Yes, exactly.' We drank on.

Around ten, the Sergeant said he fancied a couple of hours kip before coming back on duty at midnight – since there wasn't a night clerk.

Kapotas flapped the idea aside. Tonight we'll lock up as soon as the last guest is in. Not stay open. Have another drink.' The Scotch was turning him auld-lang-syne.

But Papa was horrified. 'We do our best business after midnight. When the bars and nightclubs begin to shut.'

'What?'

The Sergeant spread his hands. 'Of course. Here in Regina Street…'

'I get it,' I said. 'When the other places shut, their guests need some place to take the girls they've picked up there. And we're almost next door.'

Kapotas poured himself another drink, quickly but shakily. 'My God, Iam running a… But what about our proper guests?'

They are usually in before midnight. And we put our short-night guests-only on the first floor. Never above our residents.'

'What goes into the register?' Kapotas asked.

The Sergeant's big shoulders lifted a fraction. Nothing, obviously.

I asked: 'More to the point, what goes into the till?'

'The night clerk takes one-third; it is a tradition. Because, of course, he is to blame if the police raid us and find people whose names are not in the register.'

'And I imagine the manager's been taking the rest of it? Well, tonight do us a favour and give it to Castle International. And make the split after you've deducted for overheads, like clean sheets.'

'Not many of them care about clean sheets.'

'As from now, they'll get 'em and pay for ' em regardless. Service with style, remember.'

'Yes, sir.' He stiffened into a mocking but still professional salute, about-turned, and marched out.

Kapotas said soulfully: 'You are much better at managing a hotel than I am.' In a couple of drinks he'd discover I was his only real friend.

That's the nastiest thing anybody's said to me this week. But don't believe it; it's just that I've seen a lot more crummy hotels around the world than you have.'

'But this should bea de luxe hotel, the highest category – and he talks of police raids! '

I shrugged. 'If there'd been anhonest crook in charge here, it would've been like printing money. This place has got every-thing going for it.'

Kapotas shuddered. A while later, he asked: 'Didn't you say you only took on the flight to get to Cyprus – was it? '

'I wanted to meet a friend who's been in Israel.'

'Is he coming over here?'

'I hope so. I booked him a room here before I started the flight.' And I'd checked this evening and, surprise surprise, somebody had actually written it into the book.

'But you are not sure?' Kapotas persisted.

'Ill ring tomorrow. He can't get away until then anyhow.'

He opened his mouth to ask another question, then shovelled some Scotch in instead. I was glad the Sergeant had gone; his suspicious little mind wouldn't have stopped there.

Then the lobby phone rang. I remembered the Sergeant was in bed, decided Kapotas was too near a state of liquidation, and went out myself. Behind the desk was a small switchboard old enough to be steam-driven, and I almost lost the call finding the right plughole, but at last- This is the Castle Hotel, good evening.'

'I began to think you were closed.' Female voice with a faint German? – East European? accent.

'We almost are, but can I help? '

'Do you have a room booked for Mr Kenneth Caviti?'

I paused. I didn't need to look at the book about that one. But could I ask why she wanted to know? I decided not.

'Ah yes – there seems to be a Mr Caviti on the list.'

Thank God. I have asked at five other hotels. Now, please can you book me also two rooms, beginning tomorrow.'

'Well… we're in a bit of a mess here.'

'Full up?' She sounded incredulous.

'Anything but. The trouble is, most of our staff's scarpered and we can't really cope with the guests we've got already…'

'Never mind that.' She brushed the problem aside impatiently.

'So, two rooms please, and I want it also very secret,•verstanden! If somebody rings up aboutus, then you say we are not staying there.'

'Ummm… I suppose we might put you on the hourly rate and count you as five Swedish soldiers and friends.'

'Sitte?'

'Sorry. Just thinking aloud. Hold on.' Sergeant Papa had just arrived in his best imitation of a hurry, looking puzzled and buttoning his uniform trousers.

I put my hand over the receiver. 'A girl – German or something – wants two rooms from tomorrow and no names on the register. Any views?'

He blinked, frowned, scratched his gut and finally grunted: 'It might be possible – at a special rate. We can say it was just a mistake in all this confusion if the police find out. Butwe must know the names.'

'Sure. And see the passports.'

'Naturally.' He nodded approvingly.

The phone was squawking: 'Where are you? Hello? Hello? Ah, Scheisse! '

I said smoothly: 'Sorry, I've just been consulting the assistant manager. Yes, that will be quite all right; we can agree on the rate when you've chosen the rooms. But may I have the name, please? – just for us, not for the register.'

Pause. Then: 'Spohr.' She spelt it out. 'My father's name.'

Well, I'd believe what the passports said. I said: "Thank you, ma'am. Now, if you don't want to appear conspicuous, would you be wanting all your meals in the rooms?' Frightening how easily you become a bill-building little reservations clerk.

'Perhaps. But I want you to have waiting for us some good champagne – good – and caviar. We shall arrive before Mr Cavitt, soon after lunch. Wiedersehn.'

I wrote it all down as a note for Kapotas – or reminder for me – come the morning, then rang the operator and asked where the last call had come from. He footled around a bit, then told me Limassol, the main port down south.

Then I went home to the bottle, leaving the Sergeant still standing there, trying to worry out what particular secret depravity needed two rooms and took longer than one day. It hurt him that he couldn't spot it immediately.

Back in the bar, Kapotas had reached the stage of having trouble sitting on a chair, let alone standing up. Apostólos the barman was watching him calmly.

I jerked my head. 'Get him a taxi, then you can shove off home. Leave the keys: I'll lock up the liquor.'

He didn't much like that, of course, but we both knew it was what Kapotas would have wanted. Apostólos went out and I helped the accountant to, give or take, his feet. 'Come on, the wife and three kiddies are wondering where you've got to.'

'I doubt it,' he said thickly. 'I doubt it. You're the only friend I've got, Case. You're a damned good chap as you British say. Damned good. Damned good.'

'There's a taxi waiting for you.' I helped him towards the door.

'I gotta car,' he remembered.

'Leave it till tomorrow. Taxi's easier. Don't worry about a thing.'

A taxi actuallywas waiting, but Regina Street would be their best hunting ground at this time, of course. Apostólos and I poured him in, got the address to the driver, and watched the tail-lights out of sight. I wondered if Mrs Kapotas understood the pressures of being a receiver.

Apostólossaid: 'You need not worry, Captain, about the bar. I will-'

The keys, chum. The keys.'

He handed them over.

I spent twenty minutes and an extra drink roughly clearing up the dead glasses, counting the money in the till and finding the way to lock the grille down across the shelves. When I got out to the lobby again, the Sergeant was already on night duty.

'It's only half past eleven,' I pointed out.

'I could not sleep more. And you have had a long day, I think.'

'Well, thanks.' I looked through the glass doors at the shiny street. 'I think I'll take a stroll around the block. About twenty minutes.'

Papa cleared his throat. 'If you want a girl, I-'

'Actually, I want a stroll.'

He just nodded and I went.

The night air was gentle, although the sky was clear and sparkling with a thousand stars you never see through Europe 's smoke-screen. I went out of the walled city and drifted along the wide bright street beside the dry moat and its little kebab stalls. It was pretty empty; just a taxi-driver leaning on his cab, a bunch of UN soldiers – Canadian, this time – staggering home leaning on each other, a cop loafing on a corner. A nice, unhurried Cyprus pace.

It would still be there tomorrow. So I turned back into the city from Metaxas Square and along Regina Street from the Regina Palace. Narrower, jammed with parked cars, and darker: just a ribbon of starry sky above and the neon lights of bars and strip joints down below.

I was almost at the Castle when a voice said: 'Mr Case,' and I turned towards the car parked beside me. Then a hand pulled my shoulder from behind and I turned my head back – just like sticking up a target. It's easy to say that now.

My vision smashed into a thousand coloured pieces, my jaw jumped sideways towards the car, dragging the rest of my head with it, and my knees just gave up and I started towards the gutter.

I didn't quite make it. Somebody caught me, hefted me, my face bounced on warm rough plastic, a door slammed and we were moving. This wasn't quite unconsciousness, just instant Sunday morning; zig-zagging between sleep and wakefulness, time tearing past or unmoving. I felt hands rumple me, but wasn't sure where my own hands were so I didn't try to do anything. Voices muttered, the car droned. Then a something was wrapped around my head and eyes, we stopped, I was picked up and put down and the car whined distantly…

I was alone in the dark. Carefully I levered myself up on one elbow, grinding it into the gravelly pavement. The world beyond my bandages was swinging in soggy orbits and my stomach swung in tune with it, so I stayed very still and thought of cool calm things… and slowly the feelings passed and I could sit up.

I unwound the bandages slowly – the bastards had used wide sticky insulating tape and it ripped out half my scalp as it came free – and looked around. I was in a narrow street of derelict houses, sitting a few yards from a complete roadblock of concrete blocks, oil drums and sandbags. A little bit of no-man's-land between Greek and Turkish areas.

Forty yards the other way there were lights, the sound of cars passing. I staggered out on to Paphos Street, a few yards from the Paphos Gate and a quarter of a mile from the Castle. Using two feet and a wall, it took me just under ten minutes, and I used the rest of my strength shoving open the front doors.

Sergeant Papa stared.

I croaked: 'Don't just stand there: open the damn bar.'

Five minutes later I was sitting at a table with the second Scotch in my hand and the Sergeant chewing his moustache and watching me – curiously more than anxiously. 'Shall I call the police?'

'Not for a minute.' I was running my fingertips gently over my face. There were sticky bits that I knew must be black streaks, and a small hard lump half-way along the right side of my jaw. 'I can't think what to tell them, yet.'

It's funny how you can feel that way: not wanting to do the simplest things until you're in charge of yourself again.

'What did they steal?' he asked.

I hadn't even thought to ask myself that. 'Money, I suppose,' and I started turning out my pockets.

My wallet was still there – and the notes still inside it. And a handful of coins, and my keys – to the Queen Air, my boarding-house room, flight briefcase. And papers: passport, aeroplane insurance, the champagne cargo papers (a whole bunch of them) cheque book, vaccination certificate…

'You know,' I said slowly, 'I don't think they've taken a damn thing.' Or had I been carrying something I'd forgotten about?

The Sergeant frowned. 'Perhaps they mistook you for somebody.'

'One of them knew my name.'

He shrugged helplessly. 'Then you did not have what they hoped for. Shall I telephone the police now?'

'What do I tell them? I can't identify anybody, not even the car. Nothing stolen – so it's just a simple assault, even if they believed me. The hell with it.' He nodded doubtfully. Then: 'Somebody telephoned for you, after you went out.'

'What did you say?' That you were out, but just for a walk and you would be back soon.'

"They didn't leave a name? Or ring back?'

'No.' After a while he added: 'Do you think it was…?'

'It sounds like it.' I finished the Scotch and stood up. And swayed and grabbed for the table. 'No, I'm all right.' But he stayed close, just in case. 'I'm sorry, Captain.' I was about to say 'Just Mister' but then realised he'd meant it as a compliment. 'Give me a ring about seven-thirty and I'll start cooking eggs. Good night, Sergeant.'