Mission of Murder, page 18
“What is it, Simon? What’s happening?”
Larren could recognize the spitting bark of several automatics and the sharp, isolated crack of a single rifle, but apart from that he had no idea of what was going on. His brain cells practically tumbled over one another as he sought desperately for some means of turning the interruption to his advantage and he blurted desperately, “There’s no time to explain, Carla. But that’s why I’m here. You and I have got to get away — quickly.”
He stepped forward appealingly but the automatic jabbed at his chest and brought him to an abrupt halt. Carla was searching his face with wide, bewildered eyes and it was plain that her thoughts had been scattered beyond immediate recall.
“My father,” she faltered. “Antonella said you went looking for my father.”
Larren fumbled for a fraction of a second and then told the first lie that jumped into his mind. “Your father and I have made a deal.” He could hear the shouts and curses from above as the rest of Valedri’s household came to life and he went on insistently. “There’s no time to explain the details now, but part of the deal was that I should get you out of here. Now put that gun down and come on.”
“I don’t believe you.” There was still doubt in her tone but it was beginning to fade, and her former mood was returning as she realized that the gunfire was not yet close to the villa. She said again, “You played me for a fool. For that I ought to kill you.”
Larren ignored the automatic that still bored its snout hard against his chest and clamped both hands on her shoulders. His heart was pounding horribly and his stomach seemed to be whirling like a slow spinning top, but his voice was hard and commanding as he said, “I don’t think you could do it, Carla. Even if I was an enemy of your father’s, I still don’t think you could do it.” Despite the gun between them his mouth was only inches from her own and he finished up harshly. “You’re too damned man-hungry, Carla. Just too damned man-hungry.” And then he kissed her hard on the mouth.
Carla Valedri made one half flinching effort to draw back, but the cruel touch of his lips drained the willpower from her body and she moaned weakly as she parted her own lips to meet him. The automatic slowly folded between them, crushed flat between the soft mounds of her breasts and the hard muscles of his chest as she drew her hand away. Then her arms moved round his waist and her hands clutched at his shoulders.
“Simon, I love you.” She breathed the words into his mouth as they kissed, her lips hungry and ever-searching. “I need you, Simon. Take me away — please.”
“Do you trust me now?” he demanded roughly.
Her answer was muffled but unmistakable, and he knew that for the moment, and for any other moment when their bodies made contact, she would be a puppet in his hands.
Another series of shots sounded from the beach and from above came the clatter of footsteps in the corridor outside the bedrooms. A door slammed and the bawling voice of Bruno sounded above the melee. Larren swiftly scooped one hand under the back of Carla’s thighs and lifted her into his arms as he turned and dived back into the safety of the dining-room.
Seconds later Bruno came running down the stairs with a gun in his hand and three men at his heels, and all four crashed across the lounge, through the main doors and out into the pale grey dawn.
Larren lowered Carla to the floor and disentangled himself from her arms. “We can do that later,” he promised. “Right now I’ve got to get you off this island.”
He had her automatic in his hand now and with his left arm about her waist he hustled her across the lounge and warily surveyed the scene on the distant beach through the open door.
A launch had just landed at the small jetty and three men were frantically running away from it, heading towards the villa over the soft sand. Larren recognized two of them as Valedri’s hirelings, but the man in the middle, an older, slower man who was being half dragged by his companions was a complete stranger. Further along the beach a second launch had landed and Larren recognized it as the craft that belonged to Christos; and seconds later he saw the tall Greek leading Dimitri and a third man in a desperate effort to cut off the running trio who were trying to reach the house. A few yards beyond Christos’s launch a forty-foot fishing boat was just on the point of landing and in its bows stood the man with the single rifle. Another small party was scrambling over the fishing boat’s side and running up the beach, and Larren thought he recognized Savino in the lead. Nearer to the villa Bruno was leading his small force to join up with a small group of four men who were already crouching at the top of the beach and providing covering fire for the first three running men.
As Larren watched the three fugitives reached the first line of defenders and threw themselves down beside them. This first line consisted of the patrolling guards who roamed the island. Bruno’s party had joined up with the original guards and soon a violent gun battle was taking place. Larren could see Bruno rapping orders to his men who immediately began to spread out in a determined defensive line; and then one man broke away from the group and began to hustle the old man who had been one of the three fugitives towards the safety of the villa.
Quite suddenly Larren realized who the old man was.
He could only be Andromavitch.
The explanation to the unexpected battle on the beach became suddenly plain. Andromavitch had either been kidnapped, or else persuaded to surrender himself to Valedri’s thugs, and somehow Christos had learned that the scientist was due to arrive on Kyros at dawn this morning. Consequently Christos and his so-called crime syndicate were moving in to scoop both Andromavitch and the Ameytheline antidote in one savage swoop. However, Larren could not visualize an expert like Christos intending such a crazy mix-up as the one that was taking place now, and he guessed that somewhere the tall Greek’s plans had gone astray. More probably they had attempted a pirate raid on the launch carrying Andromavitch while it was still out on the Aegean, but somehow they had blundered and the launch had reached the shore to give the alarm.
Larren felt a quiver of excitement as he realized that his surmise must be correct, but the only answer that he could not reason out was how could Christos have known so much about Valedri’s plans. Then Carla, who had moved closer beside him in the doorway, supplied the final answer. She touched his arm and said sharply, “Look, Simon. Look over there!”
Larren followed the direction of her pointing finger and a hundred yards to their left he saw a slim figure in black jeans and a yellow blouse crouching almost double and running fast through the rocks and scrub. It could only be Antonella, and she was heading away from the house on a course that would take her around the battle in a wide looping circle to join up with Christos and the invaders on the beach.
“It’s Antonella!” Carla exclaimed in surprise. “But what on earth does she think she’s doing?”
Larren said briefly, “Haven’t you recognized your friends Christos and Savino down there on the beach? The men who tried to kidnap you. Antonella is running to join them and it’s pretty obvious that she must have been betraying your father.” He saw an opening for another lie and added, “That’s probably why she tried to give you the untrue impression that I meant your father harm when you released her.”
“The bitch!” Carla burst out vehemently. “The rotten, lying little bitch!”
Then abruptly the mention of Valedri jogged her memory and she stared up at Larren’s face. “My father! Where — where is he?”
Larren crushed his conscience with a savage effort and said, “Don’t worry — he’s all right. He stayed behind to destroy some papers and things that he doesn’t want to fall into Savino’s hands. He has his own escape route planned when he’s ready, but he didn’t have time to give me the full details. Meanwhile he’s entrusted me to get you away from Kyros.”
“I — I still don’t understand,” she protested feebly.
Larren smiled. “Of course not, but right now just trust me until we’re safely back in Athens. Will you do that?”
She hesitated, and then nodded slowly.
“Good.” Larren gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze. Out of one corner of his eye he could see that Andromavitch and his single guard were halfway towards the villa and he went on swiftly, “Do you think you can find me a good length of rope. I want something that will reach from the cliff tops to the sea so it must be at least one hundred feet long.”
She looked dubious. “I can find two fifty-foot coils.”
“Get them,” Larren ordered. “And then take them up to that high pinnacle of rock on the cliffs that you pointed out to me when we first came here — the place you called the sanctuary of Poseidon. I’ve got a launch waiting below the cliffs there and that’s the way we’re making our escape. Hurry now, and I’ll catch you up in a few minutes.”
Carla looked dazed. “But, Simon, what about —”
Larren seized her shoulders, kissed her violently, and pushed her away. “Get going, Carla. There isn’t time for any questions.”
A renewed burst of gunfire from the beach hammered home the truth of his words and without any further argument she turned and ran off through the back of the house. Larren heaved a sigh of relief as she disappeared, and then turned his attention back to the two men who were now hurrying over the last fifty yards to the doorway where he stood.
Grimly he stepped to one side and waited, slipping Carla’s automatic into his pocket and drawing his sheath knife in its place. He knew that the tiny phials of liquid in his breast pocket were priceless, but so was the knowledge stored inside the brain of the approaching nuclear scientist and he could not leave the man to fall into Christos’s hands.
The sound of gunshots still crackled on the beach and Larren wondered how much time he would have before the battle ended and the victors realized that the prizes were being snatched from under their noses. He knew that if the fighting came to a swift close then his own chances of escaping would be slim indeed, and he earnestly hoped that both contesting sides would dig in their heels and fight to the bitter end.
His palms were sweating again and he carefully smoothed them down his thighs to remove the moisture, and then he heard the footfalls of Andromavitch and his companion as they scraped on the first of the wide steps before the doorway. Two shadows fell through the entrance and Larren’s muscles tensed, then the first man was entering the villa.
Larren held back as he realized that this man was old and stooping, and he prayed that Andromavitch would not look round and reveal his presence before the second man stepped inside. Then the other man appeared, and even without the smart white suit Larren recognized him as the manservant who had helped Bruno and Valedri to conduct his interrogation. His grey-green eyes gleamed with pleasure as he stepped silently forward, and his left hand closed over the manservant’s mouth and jerked him backwards. The knife flashed once before blood dulled the silver of the blade, and the dead man was lowered slowly to the ground with his last breath still gurgling slightly in his gashed throat.
Andromavitch turned clumsily at the noise and his lined face contorted with horror. He took a staggering step back and raised his hands in a wild gesture of self-protection.
Larren said swiftly. “Everything’s all right, Professor. I’m an agent for British Intelligence, and from now on you’re in my care.”
The words did nothing to reassure the scientist, and if Larren could have seen the picture he presented he would have realized why. He looked far more villainous than any of the struggling desperadoes on the beach; his clothing was still wet and crumpled, and plastered with sand where he had wriggled up to the villa; his face was a hard, unsmiling frame for eyes that could well have been transplanted from a hunting Jaguar; and tiny drops of red still drained from the sheath knife in his right hand.
Larren went on. “I take it that you are Professor Andromavitch?”
The old man had lowered his hands but he was still unable to speak, and he simply nodded his head. He had a fine shock of bright ginger-red hair that helped to conceal his true age, and despite his present air of helplessness he was a large-boned man who looked as though he would still be strong and active once he had recovered his balance. His hands looked big and clumsy for a scientist, but his broad, deeply-furrowed forehead was more in relation to his exceptional brain power. His brows were ginger and bushy and the eyes beneath them had a peculiar penetrating quality, but apart from that their colour was undefinable. There was something vaguely disturbing about those eyes, but Larren couldn’t quite place what it was.
Then Andromavitch recovered the power of speech and declared hoarsely, “You — you just murdered that man. You butchered him!”
Larren picked up a cushion from a nearby chair, cleaned his knife, and calmly returned it to its hidden sheath that was reached through the inside pocket of his jacket. “It was necessary,” he explained simply. “And now you’ve got to trust me, Professor. I have no means of identification, but I assure you that I am employed, although somewhat indirectly, by the British Government. And I do have a launch ready to get you away from here.”
Andromavitch stiffened his shoulders and said slowly, “And what if I refuse to go?”
Larren showed him one of the glass phials from his shirt pocket and answered grimly, “There’s no need for you to refuse, Professor. This is the antidote to the red death that Angelo Valedri offered in exchange for your knowledge. And now let’s stop wasting time and get out of here while the rest of the party is still squabbling.”
The sight of the tiny glass container that Larren held between his finger and thumb robbed Andromavitch of any further argument. He watched as Larren replaced the antidote sample and rebuttoned the flap over his shirt pocket, and he made no resistance as Larren extracted his automatic from his coat pocket and then took him by the shoulder and hustled him out of the villa.
The pitched battle on the beach was still in full swing, but Bruno and the island’s defenders seemed to be getting the worst of it. Two of their number now lay motionless on the sand, and a third was twisting helplessly and clutching a shattered kneecap. The remainder were firing more frequently and far more haphazardly than Christos and his party, who were now swelled by the group from the fishing boat, and Larren saw that it would not be long before they ran out of ammunition.
Larren realized that Christos and Savino must eventually take the island, for although Bruno was an ugly and dangerous man, he was still an amateur compared to the tall, blue-jawed Greek. Besides which, the fact that Valedri had not appeared and must seem to have deserted them would soon rob Bruno’s companions of the heart to fight. For their kind would not continue to risk death to defend a leader who would not stand beside them.
Grimly Larren turned away from the beach and hurried Andromavitch along the side of the villa. A grove of olive trees offered a small patch of cover and he sprinted across the intervening space with Andromavitch protesting hoarsely beside him. He was certain from the reckless way in which Bruno and his men had dashed down to the beach that the high voltage trip wire must have been switched off at dawn, and he wasted no time as he dodged through the gnarled trunks of the olives. The ground beyond rose steeply and was covered with rocks and scrub, and Larren dragged the old man up the slope.
Halfway up the slope Carla suddenly rose from behind a clump of bramble-strangled rocks and ran to meet him.
“Simon. Simon, you took so long. Where —? Who —?”
“The rope,” Larren said savagely. “Did you get the rope?”
She nodded. “Yes. It’s behind the rocks. But —”
“There’s no time for buts!”
Larren pushed past her and heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the two heavy coils of rope lying in the grass behind the rocks. He stooped and hoisted a coil on to each shoulder and then turned back to his companions.
“Come on, we’ve —”
He realized abruptly that the shooting had stopped, and that both Carla and Andromavitch were staring down to the beach over the tops of the olive trees.
Bruno’s party had surrendered and Christos’s men were efficiently rounding them up and herding them into a small guarded circle near the jetty. Further along the beach stood Christos himself, his automatic held loosely at his side. Antonella was with him, her vivid yellow blouse easily distinguishable, and she was pointing up to the three fugitives up in the rocks.
Christos suddenly left her and raced up the beach. He yelled orders as he went and both Savino and Dimitri turned from the task of rounding up the prisoners and followed him. Dimitri paused only long enough to snatch the single rifle from its owner and then all three were in furious pursuit.
CHAPTER 19: AT THE SANCTUARY OF POSEIDON
Larren knew that only speed could save them now, and grabbing Andromavitch by the shoulder he mercilessly propelled the complaining Russian up the steep slope. Carla stumbled desperately at his heels, too frightened and too breathless to worry him with any further questions and dragging at the elbow of his jacket as she struggled to keep pace. The two coils of rope were hampering Larren’s progress and he uttered a violent oath as one of them slipped down to catch in the crook of his arm. He had to falter a moment to hoist the rope back into place and at the same time risked a swift glance behind him. He saw that Christos and Savino had both reached the grassy slope leading up to the villa in its bowl in the hills below; but Dimitri had stopped to kneel in the sand of the beach and was coolly squinting through the sites of his raised rifle.
Larren hurled himself flat, pulling both Carla and Andromavitch down to the earth with him as the ringing crack of the rifle whined through the still morning air. The bullet sang a rustling course through the leaves of a small bush directly ahead of them, and buried itself into the earth beyond.
