The Hidden Target Page 12

  “Too crowded, too expensive,” Kiley said and forestalled any questions about why hadn’t they headed in that direction. He went on easily, “The beach here is just the same kind of sand. We can catch up on our sun tans without bankrupting our budget.” And that silenced them completely: compared to Shawfield’s expenses with gas and oil and camping-site fees, and Kiley’s expenditures on basic foods, they hadn’t spent much. It was practically a free ride. Who could grumble at that?

  Kiley’s arm tightened around Nina’s waist. Her silence worried him. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, her eyes studying the six miserable cottages they were now passing. They were deserted. No sign of life at all.

  Kiley spoke hurriedly. “This is a fishing village, but in summer the fishermen move down the coast, nearer Katerini. There’s a better market for their fish. In winter, they come back here—this part of the bay is more sheltered.”

  Nina looked at the thin trees, sparsely scattered, the bushes that bunched in clusters where the sand ended and the rough road began. To think that only a hundred yards away there was the main highway, down which they had speeded this evening, down which they could have travelled all the way to Athens. “What made you choose this place?”

  “Tony ’phoned ahead from the frontier and found that the camping sites near Salonika were all full. It’s August, the European vacation month. A campsite manager told him about this beach.” He didn’t need to invent any more excuses. Nina’s attention was now on the Café Thermaica, which they were entering. Simple but clean, he noted with relief: scrubbed wooden floor, oilcloth covers on the long tables carefully washed, a charcoal fire against the back wall glowing and ready to broil the fresh fish piled on a small serving counter. He ignored the two men, roughly dressed, who sat in the darkest corner of the room, just as they were ignoring him and the group of hot and crumpled people who came straggling behind him.

  The woman who owned the place (“Can be trusted,” Kiley had been told; “widow of a faithful party member who died fighting the fascists”) switched on an extra light bulb alone with a brief smile of welcome that softened her usually intense, haggard face. Beside her, a very young girl and an even younger boy (“niece and nephew, orphaned, negligible” had been the report on them) hesitated nervously, dark eyes fixed in wonder as they stared at the foreigners. Then at a string of sharp commands from their aunt, they hurried forward to serve.

  They were so anxious, so willing, so pathetic, that Nina’s resistance eroded. To please them, she even drank the retsinata wine that tasted of turpentine, tried a mouthful of cold rice wrapped in cooked vine leaves, ate—with enjoyment—the crusted black bread. And the fish, when it came to the table at long last, was excellent.

  Kiley relaxed. Exhaustion and hunger had been the trouble. Now, everyone around the long table was in a more docile mood. But we nearly had a mutiny on our hands, he told himself. He rose, saying, “I’d better find Tony before we eat his dinner.” And then to Nina, “Okay now? Hardly the Ritz, I know.” He left, glancing briefly at the two men in the corner, who were making a glass of wine last all through their evening. I’ll be with you, he told them silently, once I get this crowd bedded down for the night.

  ***

  Shawfield had finished, receiving the latest instructions and was locking the thin metal doors that protected his special equipment. “Coming, coming,” he called to Kiley as he slid into place a screen of medical supplies and canned foods—all tightly secure on narrow, deep-lipped shelves backed by a wooden panel—that covered the metal doors exactly. A neat job, he thought—as he always did each time he used his radio transmitter—a pleasure to work with: so carefully set into the side of the camper that no customs official yet had noticed the depth of the shelves was less than the total depth of the supply cupboard. He closed its wooden doors and locked them, too. All complete.

  He let Kiley enter. “No Istanbul,” he reported. “It’s cancelled.”

  “Why?”

  “Turkish Intelligence is snooping around Istanbul. Something has stirred them up.”

  “So we go directly to Bursa,” Kiley reflected.

  “That’s where our meetings are scheduled, anyway. So no problem.”

  “But that could cause us more trouble. We nearly had a mutiny tonight,” Kiley said as they left the camper.

  Shawfield locked its door, turned to stare at Kiley. “Now what reason could they—”

  “This beach is the reason. No Salonika. Before that, no Dalmatian coast, no Belgrade, no Venice, no Vienna.”

  “This beach suits you and me. You gave them a good explanation about why we had to come here. They accepted it.”

  “And what about my absence tomorrow—for three days and nights? And your three to follow?” A long stretch, thought Kiley worriedly. Usually, his one-day disappearances had a standard explanation: someone to be interviewed, a place visited for a future story, a finished article to be mailed to a Paris agency that handled free-lance material. All that, and the collection of money waiting for him at prearranged banks or travel agencies, took care of a busy day with no time for ordinary sightseeing. Marco’s standard excuse had also worked: the firm subsidising his trip had sent various spare parts ahead to be picked up in certain places; wanted tests to be made and radio reports on the results. “It’s a long absence this time. They’re just in the mood to start questioning—”

  “Bloody hell, we can’t arrange our schedules to suit their whims. You’ve heard them: six different ideas on what they want to see at every discussion session.”

  That was true enough: everyone with his own demands, his own interests to satisfy. “Democracy, it’s called,” Kiley said with a laugh, and turned Shawfield’s anger into a smile.

  Shawfield said, “You’ll find an additional excuse to shut them up. Tell them you’ve got an old college friend who married a Greek girl, and they’re living on her father’s farm not far from here. Can’t refuse their invitation, can you?”

  “It might work. If Nina were persuaded, Madge would listen. Possibly the others, too.” Nina, surprisingly, had more will power than all the rest added together. “A strong-headed girl.”

  “A spoiled little bitch.”

  “No. I thought that at first. She’s just too damned independent, that’s all.”

  “You know how to handle her.”

  “Look, you told me to ease up.” Kiley’s lips tightened. “In Innsbruck—”

  “Only as far as you were concerned. Keep her tied to you, but no real involvement on your part. Wasn’t that your plan?”

  Kiley was silent.

  “You aren’t in love with her?” Shawfield asked sharply.

  In love? Perhaps I’ve been in love since I first caught sight of her standing at the foot of a staircase in Wigmore Hall. Kiley drew a long breath, said, “Don’t be a damn fool, Tony. I have other things on my mind. Being in love is no part of them.” He pretended some amusement, changed the subject back to the six days ahead of them. “What excuse will you give for your absence?”

  “I’ll find one. The engine needs extra special attention after all these mountain passes, don’t you think? I can take the camper to Katerini and have it checked there—a three-day job.” Then Shawfield glanced at his friend. “Or perhaps I should start giving them pills for Malaria?” He slapped Kiley’s shoulder, led the way into the café.

  ***

  The air was bland, still warm from the intense heat of the day. There was no sound except the gentle lapping of the sea. A night with little moon, but the sky was free of clouds and the stars were brilliant. Nina sat alone near the water’s edge, her arms folded around her knees, her head tilted sideways with her blonde hair falling unchecked over her brow. Hardly the Ritz... Jim’s parting shot had rankled. I don’t and never did expect the Ritz, she told the ripple of dark water; dammit, I’ve only been in the Ritz once in my life, when Father took me to that reception in Paris. For a moment, she had an attack of nostalgia: life had seemed
so much simpler then. Now, she was completely and thoroughly confused. About Jim Kiley. And because of Jim Kiley.

  What had she done to change him? He had been in love with her—she knew that. Then something had happened—but what? Her fault? He was still friendly, still affectionate, but different, too. Ever since Innsbruck, all through Austria and that mad dash through Yugoslavia, he was changed. It was her vanity, she tried to tell herself: she had always been the one to push a man aside; no one had ever pushed her. Except— the long-past memory quickened—except Robert Renwick... But not this way; and now that she was no longer a girl of fifteen, she could understand what Bob must have felt. A silly romantic, she chided herself, embarrassing the hell out a man who liked you. Liked you a lot. More than liked you. If only you had been—well, you weren’t... God, how you cried your eyes out after he left Geneva so suddenly, went back to Brussels... And then she realised that this was the first time she had ever thought about Renwick’s feelings instead of remembering her own. Perhaps, she thought in surprise, perhaps I’m growing up at last. Perhaps—

  She heard the light footsteps only as they reached her. One hand caught her shoulder, another laid its fingers across her lips as they opened to cry out. “Let’s not wake the others,” Jim Kiley said as he knelt beside her. “All asleep.” Except Shawfield, who was again back at the café, deep in quiet talk with two hard-bitten characters. Kiley’s fingers moved from her mouth to caress her cheek, trace the line of her neck down into her loosely buttoned blouse. He dropped back on the sand, pulling her with him. She tried to speak, make one small protest, but his arms were tightly around her and his lips silenced hers with a kiss that was as vehement and hard as his body.

  She tried to free herself, but he caught a long strand of hair and pulled her back. Nina cried out in pain. He eased his grip but still held her captive. Now his kisses were soft, smothering. At last he released her. “Is that what you want? You just want to play at love. Is that it, Nina?”

  She sat up slowly, tried to fasten her blouse. “I just want to be sure of love,” she said. She was close to tears.

  He noticed her trembling. Wrong tactics, he told himself. “Did I scare you?” he asked gently, his hand caressing her hair, fondling her cheek.

  Three times, she thought. First, the silent approach. Then the sudden attack—as if I had no say at all, just a puppet that danced when he pulled the strings. And now—this sudden change to tenderness, all passion turned off in one short moment. It was this change that upset her most of all. Yes, he scared her.

  “Nina...” He sat up beside her, slipping an arm around her waist. “You’ve got to understand. These last weeks have been pure hell for me—close to you, watching you. I’m sorry if I scared you.”

  Her smile was nervous, uncertain. “You shouldn’t slip up behind me in the dark. I didn’t know who it was.”

  He relaxed a little. “Stupid of me. But you looked so tempting, sitting there, lost in dreams.”

  “If I had been an enemy sentry,” she said, confidence returning as her voice steadied, “you could have slit my throat. Where on earth did you learn that trick, Jim? In the army?”

  He turned that aside with a laugh. There had been no army listed in James Kiley’s history. “In the Boy Scouts.” That was safe enough; untraceable. He had got her laughing, too. So he kissed her again. “A pity to waste the starlight.” Then he said, “You are right, you know. We can’t let emotions run away with us, not when we’re crowded into a camper, and six other people are noticing every look we exchange. And at the campsites, there are just too many strangers around, children everywhere, no privacy. Not like this beach. It’s the first time we could get away from everyone. Do you realise that, Nina?”

  She nodded, staring out at the quiet sea.

  “So you forgive me?”

  She nodded again.

  “Once we get rid of the others—”

  She turned to look at him.

  He cursed himself for that slip. Nina had scattered his wits. “Perhaps in America,” he said, “we’ll get away from them.”

  “Aren’t we going back to London?”

  “First, we have to travel through America, don’t we? I’d like you to meet my uncle. He’d certainly want to see me. And you.”

  This really startled her. She had been thinking so much about Asia and the Far East that she had forgotten about America. “No doubt my father will expect to see me, too. He’d be hurt if I didn’t make an effort to get in touch.”

  “Then I can meet him?” Would Theo approve of this suggestion? he wondered. It could do no harm at the moment; later, if Theo had other plans, it could be cancelled. Excuses came in the hundreds. It was only necessary to choose the most acceptable and make it believable.

  Her amazement grew. “Jim—do you really want to meet him?”

  “I’d like his approval.”

  Nina waited. But nothing was added. What was he trying to say? That he wanted to marry her? “You’re the strangest man, Jim Kiley.”

  “Then we make a very good pair.” He drew her close again and kissed her. She’s so damned beautiful, he thought.

  And Nina, looking at the handsome face, the tender eyes, felt a surge of emotion. “Jim—what do you really want?” she asked. He made no reply to that except to kiss her and pull her—gently, he warned himself—down on to the sand beside him.

  ***

  “Almost midnight,” Kiley announced, so suddenly that Nina, still under the spell of bright stars, could only look at him in surprise. “I’ve an early start tomorrow.” She sat up slowly, staring at him. He gave her three kisses, lightly, one on each eye, one on her lips. “That’s for the days I’ll be away.”

  “Three days?”

  A visit to an old college friend, Kiley explained: he had married a Greek girl, was now helping her father run his tobacco plantation just west of Salonika. A couple of days with him, and a day in Salonika for a visit to the bank, and he would be back here to join her on the beach.

  “And then Tony has his three days?” she asked bitterly. “What about us?” Six days in this place...

  “You’ll all catch up on your sun tans, swim, relax. The next stage of this journey won’t take you near any seashore. It will be a long haul until we reach Bombay.” As for Tony, he went on explaining, he’d need three full days to get the camper thoroughly overhauled. He was worried about the front axle; had to make sure everything was in good condition for some of the mountain passes through Iran, Afghanistan. Sure, there were trouble spots there, but she wasn’t to worry. In Salonika, Kiley would arrange for local guides to meet them and ease their way, help steer them clear of the fighting. There was a definite highway all the way into India—didn’t she remember the two campers they had met at the site where they had stopped after crossing the Yugoslav frontier at Ljubljana? A German teacher, wife and two young children in one, an Englishman with wife and three children in the other? They were taking the same route; it was practically becoming a main thoroughfare nowadays. “I’ll make sure it’s safe,” he ended, watching her reactions warily.

  “Of course you will.” He always did. “So we are here until Saturday.” She frowned.

  “For rest and recreation,” he said, smiling.

  “Then we’ll reach Istanbul by next Tuesday at latest?” That would be the fourth of September, she calculated, and time enough to collect the money that would be waiting for her at Turk Express. She had written her father about that from Basel, weeks ago—just in case Robert Renwick had forgotten her message.

  “We’ll cross the Bosporus into Asia by ferry from Istanbul, and make our main stop at Bursa. It’s the old Turkish capital; you’ll find it interesting. You could even make a visit to Troy from there. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “No stop at Istanbul?” she asked in dismay. “What about Topkapi, Saint Sophia, the Blue Mosque, the Bazaar? Oh, Jim—we can’t miss them!”

  “The good campsites are already booked full. August, you kn
ow—the holiday month in Europe. We’ll be better off in Asia. Bursa is old Turkey, authentic. No hordes of tourists from France and Germany and—”

  “Jim! We must have two days at least in Istanbul.”

  “Come on,” he said, raising her to her feet, “my bus leaves for Salonika at six in the morning.”

  “Leaves from where?”

  “On the main highway, just as the road to the café branches off.”

  That was only a short distance away. She remembered the sudden cut-off they had taken that evening, and the large modern hotel that stood well back from the highway at that point. Its gay blue and yellow wall decorations had caught her eye: Mondrian design, Matisse colours. “Why didn’t we park at the hotel?” she asked suddenly. “We might have had hot baths there.” I’d give anything for a long hot tub, she thought, brushing her shoulders and hips free of sand. Her hair, too, was filled with fine grains. She’d never sleep tonight, even if she combed her hair for an hour.

  “It’s a motel, government-run,” he said curtly. “Doesn’t allow stray campers. Come on, Nina, come on.” He was already starting over the beach.

  She gave one last look at the quiet, dark waters. The salt wouldn’t help her hair, she decided, even if the sand was washed out. She caught up with him, saying, “I’m going to the café.” It hadn’t closed as yet: meagre lights still showed.

  “Why?” he asked, worrying now about Shawfield. He must still be there.

  “To get a bath. They have a tub, surely.”

  “Zinc, no doubt. And three inches of cold water.”

  Remembering her horrified retreat from the café’s one toilet, the size of a telephone booth, stone floor with a hole in the centre, overpowering smell of chloride of lime, no window, a hundred flies, she admitted that Jim could be right. “Okay,” she said in resignation. “I’ll have a swim even if it leaves my hair sticky and dull.” She halted, began loosening her blouse, unfastening her jeans.

  “Nina!” He pointed to the four sleeping bodies sprawled near the caravan.