The Liquidator

Eleven

The morning came up blustery, with dark clouds scudding low overhead. By daylight there was a heavy chop working, and the heavy, broad-beamed boat rocked and dipped like a runaway hobby horse. Christina had gone below to sleep, but in a short while she emerged on deck again, pale and anxious.

“Are we all right?” she asked, looking at the clouds with alarm.

“Nothing to worry about.” I had to yell above the rising shriek of the wind and the rattle and creak of the rigging. An abrupt shift in the wind started the big mainsail flapping like a tethered, frantic eagle; I fought the helm until we were on a heading that filled the canvas again.

Christina steadied herself with a hand on the cabin top and looked all around, slightly wild-eyed. “Where are we? I don’t see any land.”

“Oh, it’s over there somewhere.” I waved vaguely to starboard.

“But don’t you know?” There was a tiny edge of panic in her voice.

“Don’t worry.” I checked my watch; it was close to six in the morning. Once during the night I’d estimated our speed, and figured we were roughly opposite Preveza, but that was very roughly. I didn’t tell the girl. “If it looks like we’re getting into trouble, all I have to do is head east and we’ll strike land.” Not, at the moment, an inviting prospect, since the wind was from that direction now, and it would have meant a laborious series of long tacks to buck it. I knew enough, thanks to Nathaniel, to realize that the underpowered auxiliary engine wouldn’t be of much help in this kind of sea; without the stabilizing effect of the wind in the sails, Scylla would go more up and down than forward.

“But... can’t we find out exactly where we are? With that... what do you call it? Trident?”

I chuckled. “Sextant.” I glanced overhead. “And until there’s some sun to take a fix on, the answer is no.”

She frowned, clearly worried, took her bracing hand away from the cabin top and immediately staggered backward, nearly falling through the open companionway behind her.

“Watch it!” I shouted. “Let’s not have any broken legs on this little pleasure cruise. Come over here and sit down.”

She did as she was told, lurching across the open cockpit and almost crashing into the compass binnacle. I grabbed her arm, pulled her down beside me.

“Stay put. For God’s sake don’t break the compass, because then even I’d start to worry.”

She smiled fleetingly and pushed her hair back from her face. Her skin was damp, and it wasn’t from the spray that was occasionally breaking over the side. I knew the look.

“Feeling a little queasy?”

“Queasy? I don’t know the word.”

“Sickish.”

“A... a little. It is so stuffy down there, and the boat jumping around so much.”

“Uh-huh. Well, stay up here until we’re out of this. Take the wheel.”

“Me?” She pulled her hands away as though afraid to touch it.

“Why not? Best seasick cure in the world, keeping busy up on deck.”

“I am not seasick!”

“Whatever you want to call it. Either way, I guarantee in a few minutes you’ll feel fine. Take it. I have work to do.”

She did as she was told, sliding over to the spot I vacated as I stood up. For a moment she looked dubiously at me, then took a deep breath and gripped the wheel with both hands. I went below to the head.

When I returned a few minutes later she was smiling faintly, lifting her head to catch the breeze and the salt spray. The treatment had worked quicker than I’d thought it would.

“Feel like talking?”

“Talking?”

“Uh-huh. You know.”

“Oh yes.” She lifted herself out of the seat to get a better look at the compass face. “A little later, eh McKee? I’m a little busy right now.”

I let it go at that.

By noon the day was calm and sunny again; I took a fix with the sextant and a silent prayer that my rudimentary navigation would be at least reasonably accurate. I was surprised to find we had come further than I expected; Preveza should lie almost due east of us. It was a small island, no more than four or five miles long, and wouldn’t be hard to miss. The wind was still blowing from the east, and though the sea was calmer there was still a nasty little chop. With a sigh I set to work on the first of our tacks. This was not going to be a day for pleasure, or even the business at hand.

I went below, set up the chart for our area on the broad table in the main cabin and marked our present position. From here on in I’d have to mark our deviations precisely as we tacked back and forth against the wind, keep track of the precise time spent on each tack and hope my estimations of distance covered were reasonably accurate. It wouldn’t have been easy even with an experienced hand at the helm, but with Christina spelling me there it made things much more complicated and uncertain; after all, she’d never sailed out of sight of land before. On the other hand, I wasn’t exactly an old-timer at deepwater sailing myself.

We hit the little island on the nose, late in the afternoon. The day had turned golden as we powered our way into the lovely little harbor of Porto Gayo. At first glance it seemed like a primitive, undeveloped place; all we could see was the silver-green of olive groves that stretched in all directions as far as we could see. Then as we drew nearer we could make out the low buildings, white and brown and pink, with bare masts of moored boats bobbing in the harbor.

The town was small but busy; most of the houses stretched along the waterfront. A stone quay bordered the harbor; on the shoreward side was a row of small shops, tavernas, and a couple of tiny hotels. Without discussing it, Christina agreed to spend the night aboard Scylla; the harbormaster assigned us a mooring well away from shore, which suited me fine. Our boat, carried a tiny dinghy slung in davits at the stern, and getting into the bathtub-sized little boat was a major feat of balance and timing. With the two of us crammed in it, we rode so low in the water I expected us to be swamped before we could make the couple of hundred yards to the quayside.

“Lucky there aren’t any water-skiers here,” I commented.

“Oh?” Christina seemed cheerful now, the worries of the morning and the fear of the night before completely forgotten.

I shifted my weight just a little; the dinghy rocked and shipped some water over one side. The girl looked alarmed, then laughed.

“Yes, I see what you mean. Perhaps we should be sure to get back to our boat before dark, eh?”

“Won’t make any difference; we can sink in daylight or night time.”

“And we can always swim.”

“Sure.” Our knees were sort of interlocking, it couldn’t be helped, and it seemed to me that she was exerting a little extra pressure. Maybe.

We took a long walk through the little town and a short way outside, playing tourist with a vengeance. The countryside was green and stony, rising abruptly from the sea like the top of a sunken mountain that most of the Greek islands actually were. From the dusty road we could look up and see a hillside dotted with chalky boulders, some as big as the cottages that stood among them, the dwellings distinguishable in some cases chiefly by the dark squares that marked their windows. A wheezing old car that looked like a pre-War Citroën labored past us, crammed with grownups and children. The local rich folks, I presumed; the others we saw on the road were either walking or driving horse-drawn carts. Mostly they paid no attention to us; the men short and stocky, many with great mustaches, the women in the peasant’s standard dress of ankle-length black, usually with matching shawls that nearly hid their faces. It was something that had already puzzled me about Greece from the time I first began to read about it: why such a sunny land with its bracing air and sparkling waters should be populated by women, and many men, in perpetual mourning. If I’d been feeling philosophical I might have asked Christina about it, but I had other things on my mind. Sailing gives you an appetite that can turn the most finicky eater into a glutton, and I was starving.

We found a taverna overlooking the quay, and the dinner was so surprisingly good that we lingered over it until well after dark. The place was obviously designed for touring yachtsmen; the menu was partly in English, decorated with crudely drawn anchors and seashells. In the beginning we were the only ones in the place, but shortly afterward a group of men and women clattered in, their sunburned faces and well-pressed nautical clothes branding them plainly. From the snatches of talk I heard it seemed to be a mixed group of Americans and British, with an Italian woman and two apparent Frenchmen included. Nothing out of the way, I told myself, and glanced at Christina.

She was staring straight ahead, as though at something beyond my left shoulder, but I could tell by the set of her chin and the shallowness of her breathing that she was tense.

“What is it?” I asked, leaning forward so we couldn’t be heard.

“I... it is nothing.” She smiled briefly. “I seem to suspect everyone. I will be glad when this is all over.”

“Will you?”

“Yes.”

I reached for her hand across the table. “I’m not sure I’ll be.”

She looked at me for a long moment. “No,” she said finally. “Perhaps I won’t be either.”

No one spoke to us until we were having coffee, but then one of the Frenchmen across the room got up and made his way deliberately to our table. He was a slight man with a mop of sandy hair and a shy smile that was full of confidence.

“Excuse me,” he said, looking mostly at Christina. “You are Americans?”

“I am,” I said. “She’s not.”

“My friends and I were wondering if you would care to join us for a drink.” He was still looking at Christina; I couldn’t blame him. I queried her with my eyebrows.

She shook her head firmly. “I am terribly sorry,” she said with cool politeness. “But we must go to bed early; it has been a long day.” She stood up with the fluid grace of a princess dismissing an unworthy admirer. “Will you pay the check, Daniel? We must be going. I shall return in a moment.”

The Frenchman retreated, with a visible effort to retain his nonchalant composure. I smiled to myself as I laid out the drachmas; the girl was still surprising me. Watching her move toward the rest room, I enjoyed the view, even from the rear, of nicely filled white slacks with a loose blue shirt over them. The simple costume made it clear what she wasn’t wearing underneath, and suddenly, recalling the previous night, I wasn’t looking forward to this one.

The waiter came, took my money, and gave it to the plump, mustached woman behind the cash register. He was taking a long time about it, and I was starting to get impatient. When he finally returned I was already on my feet, but as he departed I sat down again. Christina still hadn’t come back.

“It must be my impatience,” I told myself, and deliberately didn’t look at my watch. I checked the table across the room; they were looking in my direction, and the young Frenchman was grinning.

I made myself sit still, sipping at the dregs of my coffee while my gut tightened as the minutes ticked by. I was recalling her alarm when she saw the man at the restaurant in Argostilion and was starting to get as jumpy as she had been.

The woman behind the register was looking at me questioningly. I looked back, finally got up and approached her.

“I hope you speak English.”

“But of course,” she replied.

“The young lady.” I gestured toward the rest room — or at least the corridor leading to it. “We’ve had a long day of sailing and maybe she’s not well...”

“But of course,” she repeated and heaved her black-clad bulk off the high stool to waddle toward the ladies’ room. A moment later she returned, shrugging. “No one there,” she declared.

“Where the hell...?”

“Rear door, perhaps.” She glanced toward the table where the Frenchman was looking suspiciously smug, like a man who has everything sorted out and is in no hurry to put. the pieces together.

Except that I didn’t believe it for a minute. No one had left that table, and it seemed damned unlikely that Christina would have ditched me for an evening with a casual pickup. Not now, anyway. I ignored him.

“Thank you,” I said to the woman and hurried out of the taverna. When I came to the spot where we’d left the dinghy, I wasn’t surprised to find it there; she certainly wouldn’t have gone back to the boat alone. But as I looked out over the darkened harbor, I could make out a dark shape drifting close to Scylla. It was a small outboard boat, its prow nudging the hull of the sloop, and from the way it bobbed and dipped, I got the impression it had been left there only moments ago. As I watched, a light gleamed through the ports of the main cabin, and there were no doubts left.

I got into the dinghy, cast off, and rowed as quickly as possible across the crowded harbor. The thumping of the oars in the oarlocks seemed like thunder in my ears, but just as I paused to figure a way to muffle the sound, a motorboat roared by. Its wake nearly swamped me, but I kept control and used the noise to stroke the rest of the distance to Scylla.

I tied up at the bow, then eased up onto the forward deck. The surface was damp with dew, and as I lay there, I could feel the moisture soaking through my shirt. It didn’t bother me; I was more concerned with the fact that no light came through the plexiglas hatch cover right in front of my nose. That meant the doorway between the cabins was closed.

I eased the hatch open, thankful I hadn’t dogged it down from the inside earlier. It swung up silently, and I let myself down between the two narrow bunks below. The hatch swung closed again, slowed by my hand until it snugged shut. I moved toward the doorway, checking Hugo in its forearm sheath as I put my ear to the thin wooden panel.

If my Greek had been better, I might have been able to tell what they were saying, but the man’s words spewed out too rapidly for me to take in more than a few fragments of the conversation. But his voice made it clear that he was threatening someone, and when I heard Christina reply, there was no question who. I heard the sound of a hard slap and a muffled cry. I started to slip my knife into my hand when a ton of bricks dropped on me from above.

He had come through the hatch I’d just closed and again hadn’t dogged. In the darkness I couldn’t see a thing except a bulky shadow pressing down on me; in the cramped space between the bunks I couldn’t even roll over to get at the man. A blast of garlic-laden breath almost suffocated me, and that gave me the strength of desperation. I heaved up, like a mustang with a burr under its saddle, trying to shake the foul-smelling man loose from my back. His head thumped against the low ceiling; he grunted heavily while his hands still sought a grip around my throat. I bucked him again, started to slam him over onto one of the bunks when the door swung open.

The light in the main cabin was dim, but after the total darkness, I was blinded for a moment. All I saw was a silhouette and the gleam of metal in his hand. I lashed out with my feet but couldn’t quite reach him. There was the chilling click of a hammer being drawn back; I wrenched my body around, trying to get the man on my back between me and the gun, but I knew it was too late.

The shot was like a thunder clap in the cramped little space. For a moment I froze, waiting to feel where I had been hit. But there was no pain, not even the early numbness that precedes the agony of a serious hit. As I looked again at the silhouette in the doorway, I saw him stagger back. The man who had jumped me relaxed his grip, and I tore free, intent on the gunman.

I kicked the pistol from his hand and shoved him backward. In the dim light beyond I saw Christina, her hand twined in his hair, tugging at it with all her might. But in the struggle her free arm flailed out behind her and hit the kerosene light, knocking it loose from its gimbals.

Flaming liquid spilled over the table, then to the deck, licking along the planking toward us in the sudden darkness. I pushed the man aside, heedless now even of Christina. Fire aboard a boat is maybe the most terrifying thing there is, especially when you’re trapped below and the fire is headed straight for the gas tanks.

I grabbed blankets from the bunks and threw them over the biggest burning areas; as they smoldered, I turned on the water in the galley sink, then dove into the big hanging locker and hauled out the foul-weather gear to toss over other burning spots. The whole business couldn’t have taken more than a minute and a half — otherwise we’d have lost the boat and probably our lives — but when I finally had the fire out, our visitors were gone. I heard the outboard start, tried to get up to the cockpit, but crashed into Christina.

“McKee!” she shrieked, throwing her arms around my neck. “Oh God! McKee!”

“Yeah, yeah.” I patted her absently, listening to the fading sound of the motor. “What happened here?”

“I... they took me away from the taverna. The man had a gun and...”

“Okay.” I pushed her away, just a little, so I could bend down and check the deck underfoot. “Get me a flashlight, huh?”

For all the fire and confusion, there wasn’t much damage to speak of. Luckily the table that had taken the first wave of burning kerosene was formica-topped; a few swipes with a rag would clear away the smudges. The planking in the deck that ran through the middle of the cabin was always damp from bilgewater sloshing just below, and only the paint was scorched. When I was satisfied there was nothing left smoldering anywhere on board I turned the light on Christina.

“Sorry,” I said curtly. “Since the bully boys have gone, I figured it would be better to make sure we don’t explode before getting around to questions.”

The girl nodded heavily, head slumped between her shoulders as she sat on the portside bunk. “I understand.”

“Want to help me now?”

“Help you?”

“We’re not going to stay here tonight, sweetheart. Let’s go pick up some other mooring — unless you want to sail all night again.”

“Oh, God no, McKeel.” She buried her face in her hands. “So much...”

“Well don’t cave in now. Come on. Bring the dinghy around from the bow and tie it at the stern while I get the engine started.”

In a way, it would have made better sense to take off that night, but I was beginning to get some more crazy feelings about this operation. If they wanted us, they could get us. Especially out on the open sea. So maybe a different location for the rest of the night would be just as safe. Anyway, I was tired, too.

We found a mooring at the outer fringe of the harbor, tied on to it and finished cleaning up. We put another lantern in the bracket, and while Christina scrubbed the table top, I made a thorough check of the rest of the cabin, clearing away the last of the broken glass and other debris. I found the gun I’d kicked from the man’s hand, an old .32 revolver with only one other cartridge in the cylinder. Not much use, but I stuck it on a shelf in the galley, just in case.

“You don’t ask any questions,” Christina said quietly.

“I was waiting for you.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Maybe what the hell happened.”

“It seems so... silly.”

“Silly?”

“Yes. You see, the man, the one with the gun, grabbed me back at the taverna. A coarse man, no better than a hoodlum, do you know? He and his companion forced me to come back to the boat...”

“Why? And why here?”

“That is what is so silly. They thought you were a rich American, cruising around to find boats to buy. They thought you had much money hidden aboard here, and they were trying to force me to tell when... well... you came along.”

I looked at her skeptically. She looked as delicious as ever, and with her hair drooping beside her face, she invited sympathy and reassuring caresses. When I didn’t say anything, she looked up at me. “What is it, McKee?”

“Nothing,” I said, almost convincing myself. It could have been true, after all. And what reason would the sister of Alex Zenopolis have to be playing such an elaborate game with me? I managed a sympathetic smile. “Well, it’s over now. One of those things, I guess. How do you feel?”

Slowly her head came up, and she tossed the hair back from her face. It would have taken most women hours in a beauty parlor to achieve the same change in appearance.

“Like a nightcap,” she said, and grinned.

There was brandy aboard, and a bottle of bourbon I’d located in Athens. It seemed like a good time to break it out.

“Which will it be?” I asked, holding up both bottles.

“Ah! You have bourbon!” Her eyes danced in the dim light.

“Don’t tell me you learned other things from that American ensign.”

“We learn many things from the Americans.” She sank down on the narrow bunk opposite the table, looking up at me. My throat went dry, and I needed that drink.

After I poured a couple of healthy jolts, she patted the bunk beside her. “Sit down, McKee.”

I did. Her hand came to rest casually on my thigh and the cool warmth of her seemed to radiate through the thin dark blouse she wore. I cleared my throat.

“Here’s to... Paxos.”

“Yes,” she murmured, and took a long, slow swallow.

“Now,” I said.

She turned to me in mock surprise. “Right away?”

“Yes. You promised. About your contact with Alex.”

For a moment she stared, then slowly shook her head. “Must we? Now?”

“What better time?”

“Oh... later?” She moved closer, and somehow a couple of the buttons at the top of her blouse had managed to work loose. There was a delicious swelling of flesh at the opening, and my left hand lifted of its own accord to gently cup the breast that pressed against my chest. “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes...”

I moved away. “What is it with you?” I snapped. “Last night you were playing virgin; tonight you’re a whore again.”

She didn’t react as I’d expected; her eyes stayed at half-mast as she took my hand and replaced it on her breast. “Do not try to understand me all at once, McKee. Trust me. Trust my instincts.”

“Your instincts?”

“Later, McKee. But now...” Another button opened, then another; at the same time she leaned forward to press her lips softly against mine. For the moment my questions were forgotten.

Her tongue darted against mine, probing, reaching. My hand slipped inside the open blouse, felt the nipple growing and hardening under my fingers. She gasped, then slid her hand up my thigh. There was no mistaking my interest, and she chuckled deep in her throat.

Peeling back the blouse, I kissed her shoulder, the deep, shadowed cleft, one breast, then the other. Then I pulled back to look and admire; the nipples stood stiff and erect, tilting up slightly as though reaching for my mouth. Christina’s hips were moving slowly while her hand crept inside the waistband of my trousers. I sucked in my belly to give her a little more room, and she took full advantage of it...

Don’t ask how I managed to turn out the cabin lamps — boating people are so damned casual about just dropping by — and turning that table and benches into a bed, but in a few moments we were lying naked together, her body clamped against mine from toes to shoulders. We explored each other with growing hunger, and her tongue was busy and deft; and then when it seemed as though we would both burst with the urgent wanting she opened herself to me.

She gasped as I thrust, taking it slow; she said something I didn’t understand and tried to pull me deeper inside. I resisted just enough to show who was boss, then began the long, slow movements that probed ever deeper with each stroke. She raised her legs, clasped them around my back, jerking her hips upward to meet my deepening thrusts. She began to moan, pulling me down to kiss me with growing fierceness as her movements became quicker, more frantic.

When it happened she threw her head back, eyes and mouth wide open, hands clawing at my shoulders, her hips pumping like pistons. It seemed to go on forever, our mutual gasps blending as I exploded inside her, and when at last we were both drained I lay helplessly across her, aware of that delicious weakness and the slipperiness of sweat-soaked bodies. It was a long time before she spoke.

“McKee?” she said, her voice husky.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

I chuckled. “Thank you.”

“No. You can’t understand.” There was an odd note of resignation in her voice.

“Try me.”

She shook her head. “No. I cannot say.”

“Say what?”

“What I wish to.”

She was going around in circles again, but I resisted my exasperation. I rolled partly off her, but she clung with astonishing strength.

“No! Do not leave me!”

“I’m not going anywhere. The night has a long way to go, Christina.” I reached over the side of the bed and found a glass on the floor, picked it up and took a long swallow of bourbon. As the liquid burned its way down my throat to my stomach I could already feel my strength returning...

“Yes,” the girl breathed, reaching for the glass and raising her head to sip. “It is our night, and I fear it will be the only one, McKee.”

She was right, as I found out too damned quickly, but even Christina didn’t know how right she was.