Lost Temple

Seventeen

'Elias Molho. Dealer in Rare Antiquities.' Smoke curled on Grant's tongue as he said it. 'I thought you were dead.'

The grey-haired man smiled and spread his hands. 'I am… as you see me.'

'I heard the Nazis got you.'

Molho's mouth twitched with displeasure. 'Perhaps they did. Or perhaps it was convenient to me that people should think so. So many people vanished — even the Germans could not record them all. I chose to vanish on my own terms.' He reached in his trouser pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. Grant recognised it from the tailor's shop, the one he'd written the hotel address on. 'But now it seems you have been asking questions about me, Mr Grant.'

Before he could speak the waiter appeared again. He set two tumblers of whiskey on the table in front of Grant and Marina, and left without presenting a bill.

'From America,' Molho said. 'The first instalment of Truman's aid programme.'

Grant sipped his drink. He'd drunk enough cheap liquor, in underground bars from Cape Town to Moscow, to recognise the real thing when he tasted it. 'Is this what you deal in? The black market?'

'Is there any other in Greece? All our markets are black now.' Molho's face stayed still and courteous, but his eyes were hard. He nodded to the stage, where a full-breasted woman sheathed in a silver dress had taken over the microphone. 'Do you know our Rembetika music, Mr Grant? Before the war, it was a curiosity, music for addicts and thieves. The rembetes were a melancholy cult who thought that only their initiates understood the truth of misery. Now it is our national music.'

He swirled his drink in his glass. The big man beside him said nothing, but watched the singer and drummed his fingers on the table in time to the music.

'I'm looking for an artefact. A Minoan tablet.' Grant rushed out the words, almost stumbling over them. Everything since the phone had rung seemed like a dream and, as in a dream, he was frightened he would wake up before it finished. 'Just before the war an English archaeologist came into your shop. He bought a clay tablet, or half of one, with writing on one side and a painting on the other. You remember the piece?'

Molho took a drag from his silver cigarette holder. 'I sold many artefacts, before the Germans closed my shop.'

'Not many like this. It's unique — or was, until you split it in two.' Grant looked Molho in the eye.

The Greek nodded. 'Mr Grant, I am a businessman. Whatever I am selling — American whiskey, Russian cigarettes, pieces of clay — I need to get the best price. What people want most, they pay most for. If my customers want ten cigarettes at a time rather than twenty, or a half-litre of whiskey, or two pieces of stone instead of one, I sell it. Of course there is a risk. Sometimes instead of twice as much profit, I make twice as much problem for myself.' Molho leaned back in the booth. 'I must tell you, Mr Grant, you are not the first man to come to me asking about a clay tablet. Soon after the occupation a German came to my shop. A Dr Klaus Belzig.' His eyes narrowed. 'I see you know the name?'

'Never met him. But you told him Pemberton bought the tablet.'

'Dr Belzig was under the false impression that the tablet had been intact. I did not correct him; why should I? He asked me what happened to the tablet; I told him I sold it to a British archaeologist from Crete. I even showed him a copy of the receipt.'

'So Belzig went off to Crete. But Pemberton was already dead.'

'That was unfortunate for Dr Belzig. And perhaps lucky for Mr Pemberton. Dr Belzig's methods were… notorious.' Molho lifted his left arm from under the table. Marina gave a gasp of horror. A gold cufflink clasped the starched white shirt cuff- but there was no hand. Molho pulled up his sleeve a little to show off the grim stump, a rounded stub with scars like string round it.

Even Grant blanched. 'Belzig did that?'

'I was only a Jew.' He gave a grim laugh. 'He told me I was luckier than the man who stole the tablet from him. He took one hand — and I gave him one name. I knew Pemberton was English. I did not know he was dead, but I thought he would be out of Greece. Safe. Belzig would never learn I had only given him half the tablet, because he would never find any of it.'

'Christ.'

Molho pulled his sleeve back down. 'Perhaps Belzig did me a favour. Before, we heard rumours among the Jews. There was an uncle in Germany, or a cousin had a girlfriend in Warsaw. But no one really believed — how could you believe such a thing? After Belzig, I saw what the Nazis could do. So I disappeared.'

Applause pattered round the smoky room as the singer finished her song. She left the stage and slid into one of the booths, sucking hungrily on the proffered pipe. Her place was taken by a man, slim and foppish. His black hair was slicked flat against his scalp and with his narrow moustache he looked almost like a Nazi. Grant wondered if it was supposed to be ironic.

The singer stood stiffly in front of the band. The bouzouki player began a fast lick, his fingers flying over the frets. Grant leaned forward. 'And the second piece of the tablet? What happened to that?'

Molho held his gaze. 'How much is that information worth to you? Will you take another hand?'

An electric howl cut through the room, silencing all chatter and gossip. Up on stage, the singer was clutching the microphone stand like a drowning man. His body contorted round it; you would hardly have believed such a slight man capable of such a sound. The howl trembled, then rose a pitch.

Grant's face stayed perfectly still. 'I'm only asking. But there are other men who want it. Men like Belzig. If they find you…'

Molho drained his drink. 'Are you trying to intimidate me, Mr Grant?'

'Just giving you fair warning.'

'I believe you. But — you understand — I am a businessman. If somebody comes into my shop and offers to buy something — maybe a clay tablet — for one hundred drachmas, I wonder if he will really pay two. Or if there is another man who will pay three. And what about you? I have not asked you why you want it -1 am too polite. But I do not think you are an archaeologist, like Mr Pemberton, or a collector. Are you a treasure hunter? I have heard from my sources that you are with two Englishmen and an American — as well as your lovely companion. I wonder, who are you working for?'

Grant gave a tight-lipped smile. 'I sometimes wonder myself

'You cannot be frank with me, I understand. So I cannot be frank with you. You understand.' Molho smiled and stood. The heavy beside him stood too, just in case Grant had any ideas. 'I will think about your request, Mr Grant. Perhaps, when I have decided how much the information is worth, I will name my price. If so, I will contact you at your hotel.'

Grant leaned across the table, only to collide with the bodyguard's fat palm shoving against his chest. 'Don't take too long. There are too many people after this thing. Dangerous men.'

Molho lifted his left arm and waved it at Grant and Marina, a chilling goodbye. 'I know.'

The Mercedes sped them back to the hotel through empty streets. Grant and Marina sat in the back and said nothing. In the corridor outside their rooms, they paused. To anyone passing, they would have looked like two lovers returned from a late evening dancing. Grant had his jacket slung over his shoulder and his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow; Marina had slipped off her shoes and clutched them in her hand, her feet more used to work boots than heels. Her face shone with sweat and a kohl tear smudged the corner of her eye. One of the straps of her dress had slid down over her shoulder.

'Goodnight,' said Grant. In the silent corridor, deadened by the hotel carpet, it sounded more abrupt than he'd meant it. 'Unless…' He moved a step closer. Marina's hair was thick with the spices of night and music: smoke and sweat, liquor and perfume. Perhaps all the hashish in the club had left him dazed. He lifted his hand and stroked the side of her face, pushing back the lock of hair that had fallen over her eye. She didn't pull away. He let his hand slide down: over her cheek, her neck and on to her shoulder. Tenderly, he pulled the strap back up.

'I've got a bottle of brandy in my room.' He knew how false it sounded, but he needed the lie to cover him. It had been too long to take anything for granted.

'Just one drink,' said Marina. She sounded almost dazed, automatic. She let him take her arm and guide her to his door, nestling against his elbow as he fumbled for the key. He slid it into the lock — and stopped. Molho's whiskey was warm inside him, Marina's perfume almost overwhelming, but there were some instincts you never forgot.

She sensed him stiffen and tilted her head to look up at him. 'What is it?'

'Shh.' Grant was staring at the door frame. A tiny corner of yellow paper peeked out from the crack between the locked door and the frame, almost invisible unless you knew to look for it. He always put it there when he left the room. But it wasn't quite where he'd left it. They hadn't just gone in; they — whoever they were — had also spotted the trap and tried to reset it. That meant they knew what they were doing. And the Webley was inside the room.

Grant pulled the key back out of the lock, keeping his hand on the door handle. Marina edged away, watching him in confusion. 'Have you got your pistol?' he mouthed.

Without warning, the handle turned and the door flew inwards. Still holding on to the handle, Grant was dragged forward into the room. He stumbled, caught his foot on something and sprawled forward on the floor. Someone came after him, but Grant was too quick. He rolled over and sprang up, took one step back and jabbed his opponent in the solar plexus. There was a groan and a muffled 'Geez'.

Grant stopped his fist mid-swing and stepped back. The man in front of him was doubled over in pain, but there was no mistaking the tight crew-cut, the broad shoulders and the navy blazer. Further back, Muir was sitting on the end of the bed with a cigarette in his hand.

'Where the fuck have you been?'