The Liquidator

Twelve

They were waiting for us in Korfu, right down to the tan Mercedes parked conspicuously by the principal docks. Two men, indistinguishable in dark suits with hats hiding most of their faces, sat gazing impassively as Christina and I walked along the harborside promenade, a couple of seagoing tourists pleasantly exhausted from the night of love and the long, slow day of sailing to what some call the most beautiful of all the Greek islands.

We had picked a mooring place at the northernmost part of the harbor, away from the bustling activity at the center. Out on the water, everywhere we looked, there were boats of all sizes and types, from tiny daysailers to native fishing craft to huge ocean-going yachts. The late afternoon sun was casting long shadows as we strolled past the rows of stalls offering native clothing, jewelry, art objects, food of all kinds whose smells mingled with the salt air and the indefinable odors of the mountainous countryside that loomed behind the town. There was the steady racket of motor scooters, cries of the stall vendors and music coming from the open doors of every other eating establishment. We were almost beginning to be caught up in the festive atmosphere ourselves when I spotted the Mercedes.

I gripped Christina’s arm warningly, urging to keep moving without breaking stride. At first she didn’t understand, but when she saw the car she stiffened; I dragged her forward.

“Don’t look at them. Keep moving.”

“But... how did they get here? With that car?”

“There are ferries, aren’t there?”

“Oh. Yes. But why do they just... sit there?”

“More important, how did they know we’d be here?” We were almost opposite the car. The men inside slowly turned their heads as we passed by, but there was no change in their expressions.

Christina shrugged resignedly. “Everyone comes to Korfu. Or... did you tell that man where you rented the boat?”

I thought for a moment. “Probably. At least I said I’d probably be heading north.”

“Did you have to tell him?”

“Couldn’t avoid it. He wanted to know where I planned to go, and if I’d said I wanted to cruise the Cyclades he’d have thought it was strange.”

“Why is that?”

“Look at a map. Pirgos is a long way from the Aegean; it would have made more sense to charter a boat at Piraeus if that was where I planned to go.”

“Of course. And those men... could they have been the ones who tried to rent this one?”

“Uh-huh. And probably damaged the one I was Originally going to take. Only that doesn’t make so much sense either.” It didn’t. If they wanted Alex, and by now I was convinced that no matter what Hawk had told me, there must have been a leak somewhere, why would they have tried to delay us back at Pirgos? The only answer I could think of was that if we stuck to travel by car it would be easier to follow us. It wasn’t a very satisfactory answer.

When we were well beyond the Mercedes I steered the girl toward a little stall that featured a mind-numbing display of multi-colored scarves. “Buy one,” I said. “Buy two, but take your time.”

While she picked over the merchandise, to the smiling delight of the wrinkled old woman proprietor, I looked casually up and down the promenade. The men in the Mercedes hadn’t moved, but I wasn’t that much concerned about them; they had made themselves so conspicuous that I was certain there had to be others. But there was such a busy, constantly moving crowd it was just about impossible to pick out anyone who looked remotely suspicious; there were as many dark-suited European types as gaily dressed tourists, and my chances of finding the man who’d killed his partner in my room were damned slim.

And all day Christina had evaded my questions about her contact with Alex.

When she had picked out a couple of scarves we walked on. As I held her arm lightly the girl was trembling.

“What is it?”

“It... it is becoming chilly, I think.”

“And...?”

“It is time, I think.” She took my hand, turned over the wrist and looked at my watch. “Yes. We must go.”

“I thought it wasn’t until tomorrow.”

“Today I am to... make the contact.”

“But we weren’t even supposed to be here today.”

“But we are.” Her smile was genuine, and a little too smug to suit me.

“Well you tricky little bitch.” I laughed. “Do we walk?”

“No. We take a cab.” She pointed ahead, toward a busy corner where a broad street ran back into the town from the promenade. “There should be one waiting there.”

Once again she surprised me; I’d been expecting more evasion, but now she was evidently taking me along after all. I didn’t say anything, but I pressed my free left arm against my side; Hugo nestled reassuringly in his sheath.

There were half a dozen cabs at the corner, parked in front of a big, sprawling old hotel that looked like the restored ruins of a Greek temple, its marble facade dingy with age. “Any particular one?” I asked as we approached the corner.

“Oh...” Christina stopped, closed her eyes and waved her forefinger in a little circle, then pointed. “That one,” she said, opening her eyes again.

That one was a dusty old Ford, manned by a bored-looking driver who was busily picking his teeth and ignoring the passersby. Several of the other drivers stood on the curb beside their cabs, bowing and gesturing, but Christina sailed past them to open the rear door of her choice. The burly man behind the wheel looked up reluctantly; he didn’t seem at all eager to take on any passengers. Must have been a New York taxi driver, I reflected, as I followed Christina into the musty rear of the cab.

The driver didn’t look around, but sighed and shifted heavily in his seat. Christina leaned forward and said something in rapid Greek. He nodded reluctantly, started the engine and put the car in gear.

After a U-turn we made our way through the heavy traffic along the wide street; soon it narrowed, and the rows of elegant shops were succeeded by a district of block-like houses, built side by side with hints of cool courtyards behind the solid array of blank facades. A black-clad woman riding a burdened donkey came toward us, unconcerned by the traffic backed up behind her. As we passed her, the driver spat out the window and muttered something; I didn’t have to know the language to understand what he said.

The street began to climb steeply; the houses became farther apart and we saw children playing in dusty yards, chickens pecking at the ground, nondescript dogs too indifferent to do more than lift their heads and stare at the passing cab. Soon the town was behind us, and the paved street gave way to a smooth dirt road that began to wind back and forth up the steep, tree-covered hill.

We drove in silence until we reached a crest. The driver slowed as we approached a small grove clustered around what appeared to be a temple of some sort, or possibly a tomb. Either way, it was of white marble, with columns in front flanked by sculptures with a basin in front that looked like a bird bath. The cab driver passed it, then made an abrupt left and came to a stop on a little turnout.

“Oh, what a superb view!” Christina cried.

From where we were parked we could see the entire town and the harbor below us, like a picture post card in the golden light, but I wasn’t interested in gorgeous views at this point. I leaned over to whisper to Christina. “Does he speak English?”

She shrugged. “I do not know.”

I took a chance. “Is this... the place?” I was annoyed; it was a hell of a place to make any kind of contact. The road wasn’t exactly busy, but there was a fairly steady stream of traffic going back and forth.

As I spoke to the girl I was aware that the taxi driver was slowly turning to look back at us. The toothpick still in his mouth, he began a long, slow smile.

“So,” he said. “It was you they sent. You don’t look one little bit different, all these years, Nick Carter.”