Shot on Location (20 page)

“You don’t know anything!” she protested. “You’re trying to trick me.”

“But I do know. I forgot to tell you—I used only half the injection. I wasn’t sure what it was.”

He waited to see how she would play it, and then she stopped acting. She didn’t move or change her position in any way, but she seemed to crumble inside. “You don’t understand,” she said.

“Try me.”

“You’ve got everything figured out. Do you think I was in love with that pilot?”

“No. I think you needed the pilot to make sure Harry took his shot like a good boy and that the syringe was then broken or lost. Dropped over the side of the plane, probably. In any event, got rid of, just in case Dr. Johnson or anyone was curious. That’s what terrified you when you heard about the crash. Even if Harry was dead, he might have that damaging evidence of intended murder on his person. The police might get to it before you could. Murder is a frightening business for an amateur. I’ve heard that most murderers give themselves away one way or another. You gave yourself away to me and I didn’t know it until this morning in Kastoria.”

Brad waited for her to say something. She would protest, plead or break into tears. She didn’t. She just stood waiting for the complete story, as if she were sitting in a court of law and judgment was about to be pronounced.

“Did you call Peter Lange last night after I called you?” he asked.

She shook her head. “He called me,” she said.

“But you did tell him that you had talked to me. I know because he said this morning that you were expecting me back. He’s clever, Rhona.”

“What has Peter to do with this?”

Brad’s glass was empty. He poured himself another two ounces. “Before I tell you that,” he said, “you have to let me know if I’m warm. Was I right about George? Was he your insurance that Harry wouldn’t come back?”

She nodded dumbly.

“That was risky. You left yourself open to blackmail.”

“It didn’t matter. Harry had to die.”

“Why?”

“Because he was divorcing me. He framed me, Brad. He asked for a divorce the first time, when we had been married just a year. I refused. That was when he had me written out of The Bandits. It was also when he locked me out of his bedroom. He hired detectives. He had me watched. He waited for me to make just one mistake, but I didn’t. I lived like a nun until eight months ago. Then everything changed. No more detectives. No more watching. I thought he’d abandoned the idea of divorce.”

“Eight months ago,” Brad repeated. It had a familiar ring.

“When he hired David. Harry saw to it that we were together constantly, and David is kind. After Harry’s cruelty and sarcasm it was wonderful to be treated like a human being. Then we got careless. I knew Harry was seeing Pattison Blair, but I didn’t know how far he would go to be free to marry her.”

“David Draper,” Brad reflected. “Your lover! No wonder he panicked when I came back to Athens. An old beau could spoil everything.”

“But he’s not my lover any more,” Rhona insisted.

“Five million dollar widows are hard to come by,” Brad mused. “No wonder he wanted to run me down.”

“You aren’t listening to me!”

“I’m listening better than you know. Was David in on the scheme to kill Harry?”

“Of course not! Don’t you understand? Harry used David to strike at me. He threw us together deliberately. When he sensed I was attracted, he left us alone in the house in Rome for two weeks. When he came back everything we had said and done was on tape and on film. The house was bugged. It was horrible. I trusted David and all the time he was working for Harry.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“Of course not. He denied it. Just the same, Harry had everything he needed to get a divorce on his own terms—and they weren’t generous. I’m thirty years old, Brad. I can’t start over, in my profession, at my age—not without money! I earned Harry’s money! Believe me, I earned it! If you knew the way he belittled me before others—the way he put me down. He was trying to make me leave him, but I didn’t. I stuck it out and I won. Harry’s dead. I didn’t kill him and you didn’t kill him, but he’s dead. Nobody ever need know about the syringe. Brad, why did you have to dig so deep? Why did you put this between us? If you knew how I felt last Monday when I got your note! When I heard your voice—saw you walk into this suite! I made a mistake, Brad. I should have married you.”

Brad finished his drink. He didn’t know if she was lying or not, but it no longer mattered. There was a five million dollar wall between them now, and he didn’t have Draper’s instincts.

“You didn’t make a mistake,” he said. “I’ll never be rich.”

“I don’t care about that!”

“Oh, but you do, baby. You do. Like you said, you’ve earned those millions. If you haven’t, you will.”

“Don’t be vindictive, Brad. Give me the syringe.”

“I don’t have it.”

“But you do! You said last night on the telephone that you had everything.”

“Last night I did have everything. When I got up this morning, the leather case containing the syringe was gone. That’s how I knew it was the one thing you had sent me to get.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said. “You’re just trying to frighten me because you’re angry.”

“You’re not that lucky,” Brad said. “You’ll learn soon enough who has it. Only one person in the Kastoria Hotel had a reason to enter my room. Peter Lange. He knew when I went in to dinner with Dr. Johnson. He must have broken in then, to search for anything I might have to back my claim against Harry. All of Harry’s things were laid out on the dresser. Lange would recognize everything but the syringe because that, Johnson said, was Harry’s secret.”

“But why would he take it? He didn’t know what I planned.”

“He might have suspected. He was on Corfu with the rest of the party last week. He could have followed you to George’s apartment. In any event, he had to know about the divorce plans because he was in charge of drawing up the settlement. It doesn’t take much imagination for anyone to know who—besides Harry and his doctor—knew about his vitamin shots. By this time I’m sure Peter’s had the contents of that syringe analysed. He can cause a big scandal if he demands an autopsy, but I don’t think he will. He doesn’t want to destroy Saga. He wants to marry it. I advise you to accept. He doesn’t have David’s charm, but he’ll double your five million and won’t give a damn how much fun you have on the side. Just don’t marry David. He’s emotionally unstable. You’ll wind up back in Arizona waiting on tables, while he looks for another rich widow.”

Brad concluded his speech and placed his empty glass on the bar. He saw understanding forming behind the shock in Rhona’s eyes, followed by panic as one hand groped aimlessly at her throat. He turned and walked to the door.

“Brad! Don’t leave me!”

He unlatched the door, before looking back.

“You couldn’t have cared about Harry,” she cried. “He cheated you. You know that.”

“I’ll get more ideas,” Brad said. “Next time I’ll be wiser.”

“But I promised you a half interest in Saga. I meant it.”

“I don’t want it. I wouldn’t feel comfortable with my partner.”

“And I gave you the bracelet.”

“It doesn’t fit.”

“Where are you going? What are you going to do?”

“Get some sleep. I’ve earned that.”

Brad walked out of the suite and closed the door behind him. He took the elevator down to his own room. The telephone was ringing when he stepped inside but he ignored it. He dropped down on the bed, but sleep wouldn’t come. He had travelled a long way on an impulse he still couldn’t define. He knew now that it wasn’t the money he had hoped to get from Harry, because losing it left no pain. It might have been Rhona after all. The Rhona he had loved and remembered and wanted to come back to, the way every soldier wants to come back to something after a war. Well, like the man said: you can’t go home again. He thought it all out and then looked at his watch. It was almost midnight. He picked up the telephone and placed a person to person call to Estelle Vance in Beverly Hills, where it must be early afternoon. He waited until it was completed and her earthy, no nonsense voice brought him back to reality.

“This is Brad Smith,” he said.

“Well, it’s about time you called in,” she responded. “Where are you?”

“In Athens.”

“Athens? What are you doing in Georgia? You get right back here. I’ve got a cheque on my desk for you. The Wittenbergs closed the deal on that apartment complex and now they want to buy a little beach house you showed them, for a hundred and twenty-five thousand. They won’t sign another thing, until that nice Mr. Smith comes back to make the sale. Brad, are you listening to me?”

“As if I were at my mother’s knee,” Brad said. “I just called to see if I still had a job.”

“Of course you’ve got a job. You’re a natural born salesman. I do wish you would get married so I can know where to find you. Georgia! Whoever heard of going to Georgia for malaria!”

BRAD PUT DOWN the telephone before Estelle could ask more questions. When it started to ring, he took it off the cradle. He couldn’t sleep now. Estelle had inadvertently reminded him of something he had to do and morning was too far away. He left his room and took the elevator to the ground floor. It was after midnight. There was still plenty of activity at the bars, but the lobby was almost deserted. He stepped outside and looked for a cab, but before a driver could respond to his shout a saloon, with American insignia on the door, pulled up to the kerb before him. Brooks Martins was at the wheel.

“Can I drop you anywhere, Smith?” he called.

Brad opened the door and got inside. “I want to see Katerina Brisos,” he said. “I don’t know the address.”

“Then you’re in the right car, because I do. You’re a hard man to reach. I’ve been trying to call you for several hours.”

“I wasn’t answering my telephone. I thought it was someone I’m trying to forget.”

“A woman?”

“Naturally.”

“Will it be difficult?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Work helps in a situation like that. I can use a good man if you’re interested.”

“I want to leave Athens.”

“I don’t blame you. But that’s no problem. The whole Middle East is a powder keg now. There are Russian guns all over the Arab Union—most of them pointed at Isreal. There are Russian guns in Africa. Nobody knows if the split with the Mao-ists will last, or if it’s just another phase of the revolution. It’s a dirty job for a nice fellow but somebody has to mind the store.”

“And end up like Harry Avery?”

“Well, there’s always that possibility. He left a letter with me before he went on that last mission. I opened it today. He requested, in the event of his death, that he be buried in his uniform.”

So Harry Avery would end up a hero. That was all right. Omar Bradley Smith would be the last man on earth to challenge that picture. But he was still disturbed about Stephanos. “I’ve been wondering ever since I got back from Vietnam,” he said, “how do we tell the black hats from the white hats any more? Brisos said he wasn’t a Communist, but he didn’t think much of American policy. When I saw what was done to him at Kastoria, I knew he wasn’t lying about the torture. Are we responsible for that?”

“In a sense, I suppose we are,” Martins answered. “You can’t pour a hundred million dollars a year into a country, to create a buffer against Communism, without some people taking advantage of the situation. I try to do my job the best way I know how, but I do wish the people back home cared a little more about how their tax money is spent. It doesn’t make sense to underwrite something as bad as the alternative you’re trying to forestall. I guess that’s what happens to people when they have more fear of what they call evil than confidence in what they call good.”

“But you stay on.”

“I have to. I have a lifelong love affair with something called The American Dream. It’s a real marriage, Smith. A man doesn’t walk out on a marriage when things get rough. The Greeks are a wonderful, passionate people. They’ve had twenty-five years of confusion and it’s only natural they want a little order in their society. But they’re not going to get it by silencing dissent. Bananas don’t grow well in Greece, and banana republics are going out of style anyway. I hope we’re learning that, because we’re in big trouble if we aren’t. In the meantime, I’m not about to throw out the baby with the bathwater—not when it’s the most promising baby the world has ever known. Sure, there were Sherman tanks in the streets of Athens in sixty-seven, but there were Russian tanks in Prague in sixty-eight. I know that’s a negative approach, but it’s the situation we’re facing.”

“You make a good speech,” Brad said.

“Because I believe it. Change is in the air all over the world. When the air clears, I don’t want to see a Koumaris enforcing his version of law and order with a club, any more than I want to see Popenko’s society, with every man subservient to the state.”

By this time they had reached a street that looked familiar. Martins slackened speed as the artery narrowed.

“What about the woman called Petros? Is she a Communist?” Brad asked.

Martins laughed. “She’s as bourgeoise as they come! Daughter of an army surgeon, wife of a diplomat. She’s fighting for her place in the sun, just like a lot of others. Coups are messy. Calling anyone who stands in your way a Communist, is an old trick. We once had a senator in the States who made a career of it and we’re still suffering the consequences. Life is change. When social reforms are blocked too long, only the Communists profit. No government on earth can enforce yesterday. Stephanos Brisos was no Communist, but he did fall in love with the daughter of a left wing leader in the last Greek civil war and the security police worked her over. The old man, her father, is still alive—holed up somewhere in the mountains. I suppose that’s where Brisos was headed when he was caught. Petros led the party that freed him. They couldn’t drive a car up into the mountains, so they staged that procession to get him out of the area. Crippled as he was, he could still ride a horse. The cart we saw coming down from the mountains was probably meant to carry him, if he couldn’t stay on the horse. But seeing Koumaris was too much for him. I told you the Greeks are a passionate people.”

“And now the rebels have the money,” Brad reflected.

“So it seems. I hear that none of it’s been recovered. I suppose it was divided among the men who took part in the burglary. But that doesn’t concern us. It’s a family fight. Of course Brisos was bitter because, by our silence, we indirectly support the Junta. So are a lot of people in Washington. But our competitor—let’s put ideologies on a business level, where they belong—does business with people who still cut the hands off surplus children, so they can become professional beggars, so I don’t think we have to develop a guilt complex. Once you get over reacting to carefully staged, ‘spontaneous’, anti-American riots and flag burnings, it’s not such a bad job. We’ve had the potential to wipe out mankind for almost a generation now, and nobody’s pushed the button yet. That’s a hopeful thought. I like to think that one reason for it is that guys like McKeough and me have been doing our dirty little jobs. I’d still rather be hated for being strong, than pitied for being impotent.”

Martins steered the car to the kerb and parked in front of a white apartment building where Katerina had taken Brad, on his first night in Athens. A light was showing at her windows. There would be little sleep for her now.

“Is she all right?” Brad asked. “I mean, has she been bothered by the security police?”

“Did you notice that young fellow back at the corner?” Martins asked. “He’s got a lot of combs spread out over the sidewalk, like an ordinary peddlar. He isn’t. He’s one of Stephanos’ friends from the university. There’s another one posted at the far end of the street at a newspaper kiosk. The older generation, the one that lived through the Nazi occupation, is teaching the young how to look after their own. Katerina’s all right. I talked to her this afternoon and told her everything that happened at Kastoria. Go on in, Smith. She’ll be happy to see you.”

Brad got out of the car. “Thanks for the offer of a job,” he said, “but I’ve already got one.”

He ran to the door of the apartment. Katerina must have been watching at the window because the door opened before he could knock. He saw the tragedy in her pale face. Without preliminary, he took her in his arms. She began to cry softly on his shoulder, which was the first step back to sanity, and he sat with her on the divan until she finally slept. After a time he, too, fell asleep. The windows were showing light when he awakened. Katerina was gone. Stretching himself awake, he got up from the divan and followed the sound of running water to the bedroom door. Katerina was under the shower and the stall had no curtain. Brad lingered for a moment. She was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. When she turned off the shower, he scurried back to the divan and feigned sleep.

She came out of the bedroom wearing a short white robe. Her dark hair was still glistening wet, and she smelled of soap and fragrance that filled him with longing. He heard her go to the kitchen and began to fuss about at the cupboard, and so he left the divan again and walked towards her with a packet of cigarettes in his hand.

“Would you like a Greek cigarette?” he asked.

She turned towards him, smiling.

“Would you like an American cup of coffee?”

It was a good beginning. He had been informed by the best authority that he was a natural born salesman, and he wondered how long it would take him to make Estelle Vance a happy woman. And so he kissed Katerina for the first time with a deep warmth spreading through him like the feeling of coming home. He had completed a violent quest, which is the dark side of love, and now the sun was rising.