Mission of Murder, page 20
Christos began to circle to his left, coming gradually closer. He said softly, “This is the way it should be, Larren. Now we can settle what we started at the villa.”
Larren wondered for a moment what had happened to Dimitri and he felt very vulnerable standing upright with his back exposed to any easy shot should the man appear behind him. But even so he felt another, stranger sensation of fulfilment. For he knew that Christos was right, and that deep down he too had wanted it to end in this way.
He too began to circle slowly, keeping the tall Greek in front of him all the time.
In the brief seconds before they became too close Larren had imprinted every rock and shrub in the vicinity with photographic detail into his memory, and now he knew exactly where to move to avoid tripping over backwards. Now his eyes never faltered in their steady gaze upon Christos’s face. He could feel the blood still flowing from the cut across his wrist and he knew that he was losing too much and losing it too fast.
Christos said suddenly, calmly, “What happened to Savino?”
“He was over-eager,” Larren answered in the same tone. “I think he was in too much hurry to avenge his pride.”
“He is dead?”
“Yes.”
It was impossible for those brittle eyes to become any harder, but the Greek’s mouth twisted into an ugly line. He said nothing more but began to move his knife with slow, idle turns of his wrist. The sunlight caught the bright-edged point of the slender blade in tiny flashes, but Larren knew better than to take his gaze from the Greek’s face.
Christos moved with blinding speed, making a slashing feint towards Larren’s throat, weaving back, feinting again and then dropping low on one knee to aim a long-armed thrust at the stomach. Larren was almost fooled by that second deceptive feint and it was mostly sheer instinct that caused him to twist sideways to the left to dodge that final thrust. The knife passed within an inch of his flinching stomach and the knuckles of the Greek’s fist brushed his jacket. Desperately Larren grabbed the man’s wrist before he could draw back and lunged his own blade at the exposed throat. Christos ducked frantically and threw up his left arm to deflect the blow. He threw himself backwards in the same moment and kicked one foot hard at Larren’s crotch.
The kick landed a shade low on the inside of Larren’s thigh and sent him staggering back. Christos landed heavily but was already springing lightly to his feet as Larren rushed him. Larren thrust towards the Greek’s ribs and Christos instantly parried the blow, the two blades clanging together as the hilts locked. Desperately Larren’s left hand came up again to grab the Greek’s knife wrist and he swung his body round to shoulder charge the man solidly against the chest. They went down together and as they landed Larren swung his head sideways in a savage butting movement that brought his temple into violent contact with the Greek’s nose. There was a crunching sound as the bone was smashed and Christos howled with pain.
Larren rolled to the left, lifting his weight from the Greek’s body but still pinning down his right arm. He pulled back his own knife hand for the final thrust but Christos was still capable of fighting back. Larren choked with agony as a knee hit him solidly in the stomach and then Christos had grappled with him and was clinging feverishly to his knife wrist. Larren could feel himself weakening from the loss of blood and the new pain as the Greek’s clawing fingers dug into his gashed wrist drove him mad with sudden fury. He tucked his chin down low and again butted his head viciously into Christos’s face.
Christos was gasping harshly for breath now and the blood was spreading thickly across his face from his broken nose. But still he fought back, hanging wildly on to Larren’s blood-drenched wrist and thrusting his knee in savage crippling blows to Larren’s stomach. Then Larren made a frenzied effort to free his knife wrist and Christos’s fingers slipped through the flowing blood. Larren leaned hard on the knife and saw Christos’s mouth burst open with the rush of pain. The tall, struggling body beneath him seemed to recoil and stiffen, and then became still.
Larren got slowly to his knees, clutching at his injured wrist in an effort to stop the bleeding and feeling very sick. He had to stay like that for a moment, but when he could focus his eyes again he saw that Christos was still breathing slightly and that the man’s eyes were open.
The hard face smiled very thinly and he croaked feebly, “So you were the better man, Larren, after all.”
Larren knelt beside him and found that the savagery had drained away from them both. There was compassion in him now and he suddenly felt that he could well be watching himself die, or at least a part of himself. He remembered his own feeling that he and Christos were twins of the night; and Christos saying that they were brothers in blood. Now he had killed his brother and felt as tainted as Cain.
He said slowly, “But only just, Christos. Only just.”
The brittle eyes had softened and the dying man had to force his last words out, his body shuddering slightly as he spoke.
“Do me one — one favour, Larren. Don’t be too hard on Antonella.”
Larren didn’t understand. He said hoarsely, “What about Antonella?”
Christos did not hear. He stirred and said, “She was only doing it for her old man, Larren. Don’t be too hard.”
Larren stared at him stupidly and then realized that he was dead.
Slowly he stood up, trying to make sense out of Christos’s words. His head was reeling and he couldn’t think straight and he gave up after a few moments of puzzled effort. He stood staring down at Christos who lay sprawled on his back with the knife hilt standing upright just below his chest and felt an almost bitter taste of remorse in his throat. He and Christos had been enemies, but he felt more as though he had lost a friend.
He started to turn away, and then he heard a movement behind him. He remembered Dimitri and the rifle, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter any more. He had never expected to get out of this alive anyway.
He turned round slowly, but it was not Dimitri who stepped out of the rocks to face him.
It was the slim young man with the figure of a ballet dancer; the man who called himself Adrian Cleyton.
CHAPTER 20: DEATH ON THE AEGEAN
Larren could only think of one thing to say.
“Who the hell are you?”
Cleyton smiled. He was still wearing the soiled clothes he had found aboard the Xenia, but now they were soaked with seawater and were smelling even more highly of fish as they dried in the sun. He had an automatic in his hand but he showed no intention of using it. He said calmly, “We have a mutual friend, Larren. A man named Smith.”
Larren became cautious. “I know a lot of Smiths.”
Cleyton laughed. “This one has a book-lined office in Whitehall. On the left-hand side, fourth shelf from the bottom, there’s a large volume on espionage throughout the ages which you were browsing through the last time you were there. Satisfied?”
Larren nodded, for the only man alive who could have known that he had shown an interest in that particular volume was Smith himself. He said slowly, “I’m satisfied, but I don’t understand. I thought Smith had strict orders to leave this job alone.”
“That’s correct,” Cleyton agreed. “But that was before Andromavitch vanished. When our scientist friend dodged security Smith had to find him. I was assigned the job of covering this end, and as it was pretty obvious that Valedri was tied in Smith had to explain to me about you. However, I had instructions to concentrate solely on Andromavitch and to leave you to your own job of getting the antidote; and once I saw that you had fallen foul of Valedri I followed instructions to the letter and simply kept you in sight from a distance. I was hoping that you might lead me to the man I was looking for, and you did, although it meant that I had to show my face and involve you with the police in order to save you from him.”
Larren looked at the dead man beside them and asked, “You mean Christos?”
“That’s right. I can’t prove it, but I’m pretty sure that it was your friend Christos who fixed Paolo Castel’s car. Smith maintains contacts in most of the capital cities of the Western world, and I got his man in Athens to check all arrivals and departures between Greece and Italy around the time Castel met with his so-called accident. He found that both Christos and his brother Savino made a trip to Milan four days before Castel died, and that they came back the day following. That could be a coincidence but I doubt it.”
Larren remembered the photograph of Castel that he had taken from Savino and said, “You’re undoubtedly right. Christos was an expert on sabotage in the Greek resistance during the war; he probably knew a dozen ways to booby-trap a car.” Then he asked, “But how do you tie Christos to Andromavitch?”
“I didn’t. As far as I know it was Valedri who wanted him, although I don’t know why. But both jobs were so finely woven together somewhere that it seemed that my best bet was to stick to Christos and see what happened.” He explained how he came to be aboard the Xenia and then finished up, “When Savino led his men ashore he left one man behind to deal with me, but the fellow was only expecting to find a simple fisherman when he came down into the cabin, and he was too confident to give me too much trouble. I swam ashore while the fighting was going on and then spotted our three friends chasing after you, so I tagged along.”
Larren stiffened suddenly. “There’s still one of them left,” he exclaimed. “Christos’s lieutenant is still wandering about with a rifle.”
Cleyton shook his head. “He’s finished wandering,” he said smiling. “I left him unconscious in the rocks. He was so busy searching for you that the last thing he expected was to find an enemy behind him.”
Larren had recovered a little now and he said grimly, “Even so, we had better get away from here before any more of those beauties on the beach decide to come exploring. I’ve got a launch below the cliffs and Andromavitch and Valedri’s daughter are waiting above it.”
Cleyton agreed readily, and Larren stopped only to bind up his cut wrist with a handkerchief that the younger man supplied before retrieving his knife and his automatic and leading the way back to the sanctuary. Andromavitch and Carla were still waiting behind the tall pinnacle of rock, and although the Russian waited for them to approach, Carla ran white-faced to meet them.
Larren cut short her frantic questions, introduced Cleyton simply as an unexpected friend, and insisted that there was still no time to properly explain. He overrode Andromavitch’s demands equally roughly and told the old man that now that Cleyton was here to descend the cliff first and bring the launch over to the rope there would be no more difficulty in getting them all down.
Cleyton accepted the task without argument and swung nimbly over the edge of the cliff. They watched him reach the end of the rope and drop into the sea, and then a few seconds later he reappeared on the surface and swam strongly towards the launch.
Without any further delay Larren hauled the rope up and knotted the end into a large loop in which Carla could sit as he lowered her down. His wrist was throbbing now and he ordered the reluctant Andromavitch to help him pass the rope over the edge of the cliff. When the rope was fully paid out Carla slipped out of her seat and tumbled clumsily into the sea within a few feet of the launch, and almost immediately Cleyton hauled her aboard.
Larren pulled the rope up again and turned to Andromavitch.
The muscles in the Russian’s face worked undecidedly, and then he burst out abruptly, “I still refuse to go. It is too risky, and with that injured hand you are liable to let go of the rope.”
Larren looked into the man’s face, and something about the undefinable colour of the eyes played a chord in his mind. He looked up to that mane of ginger-red, almost bronze-red hair, and quite suddenly a lot of things became clear.
He pulled out his automatic, pointed it calmly at the blustering scientist and said grimly, “I think perhaps you’re right about not going. You’re not going anywhere.”
Andromavitch stared. “What — what does this mean?”
“It means that I’ve tumbled to the obvious. It was a good try, Professor, and you almost pulled it off. But it was a pity that your own daughter double-crossed you.”
The Russian’s fleshy face jerked convulsively. “I — I do not understand,” he struggled weakly.
“You understand all right. I should have guessed the moment I saw that red hair and the colour of your eyes, except that I was too busy to think straight, and even when Christos told me outright the truth still didn’t register. But it has now. The woman who calls herself Antonella is your daughter; the one who was supposed to have drowned during a moonlight swimming party outside Athens.”
Andromavitch said nothing and Larren went on.
“It’s all beginning to fit now. I couldn’t understand what Valedri wanted with a nuclear scientist; but the answer is that he didn’t want you at all. Nobody wanted you. It was you who wanted to get away. I think it must have been you who planned the death of Paolo Castel, knowing that Valedri could then be seduced by Antonella into using the Ameytheline antidote for blackmail purposes and also into naming you as part of the price. No doubt you thought that the British Government would release you without question rather than allow the red death to continue, and you could then vanish without trace with part of the blackmail money. Isn’t that right, Professor?”
Andromavitch did not trouble to deny it. Savage anger had smoothed away his first reactions and he blazed furiously, “Of course it is right. I wanted my freedom, don’t you understand. My freedom! All my life all that I have ever wanted is simply to be free. But no! That is not possible. Because I am intelligent — because I have a superior brain — because I can understand nuclear physics better than any man alive — because of all these things I am not allowed to be free. I am no more than a prize animal who must be watched and guarded day and night. Every hour of my life there has always been the shadow of a security man behind me. Everywhere I go that shadow always follows. In Russia it was the secret police, the K.G.B., always following, always watching. And so I waited my chance and fled to the West, the glorious, unchained, unfettered freedom of the West. And what did I find? I find that freedom is only for the lower species. For the scientist — for the prize animal — there must always be policemen in the shadows. They tell me that it is for my own protection, because the Russians might try to kidnap me back. Just as in Russia it was for my own protection in case the British or the Americans should try to steal me away. I am sick of it! I am an old man and all that I want is to be free.”
Larren said harshly, “And you didn’t mind using the red death to achieve that freedom?”
“You think that I should!” Andromavitch was raging with contempt. He touched his broad forehead and tapped it violently. “Here I have the knowledge to wipe out whole cities; to destroy whole nations. Do you think that a few isolated deaths from a simple drug should mean anything to a man like me?”
Larren made no answer and the old man rushed on, “When I learned that Ameytheline was a killer I saw the opportunity that I have been searching for all my life — the opportunity to escape. I knew that if I simply tried to vanish I wouldn’t have had a hope of succeeding, for I should have had every intelligence agent in Western Europe swarming at my heels. The only way was to employ some threat that would ensure that they did not dare attempt to find me. And the use of the Ameytheline antidote supplied the perfect answer.
“I had plenty of time to perfect my plans, for I had friends in medical circles who knew the facts long before the story was discovered by the newspapers. The first victims of the red death were the laboratory workers who had volunteered themselves as guinea pigs when the drug was being tested, and although the existing supplies of Ameytheline were immediately frozen, the facts were somehow hushed up until the deaths began to occur among the general public months later. During this time Castel was already working hard to find the antidote, and I was working on the best way of using it once he succeeded.
“I made discreet inquiries and found out that Castel was unmarried, and that his next of kin was his father, Angelo Valedri. The mere fact that an ex-jailbird with a grudge against society would become the legal owner of Castel’s effects if the boy was to die suggested possibilities, and I sent Antonella to investigate more deeply. The result was more rewarding than I had dared to hope, for Valedri became infatuated with her, and once I realized that he would do practically anything she asked I was able to make definite plans.
“Antonella faked her own death and became Valedri’s mistress, and within weeks she had completely gained his sympathy for me. She played upon the fact that we had both been persecuted in our different ways by the society he hated. And by the time Castel had perfected the antidote I knew that I only had to arrange an accident that would not arouse Valedri’s suspicions, and then Antonella would have no difficulty in persuading the old fool to make the blackmail demand as I had planned it.
“I still had my contacts in the medical world, and I was able to keep myself up to date on Castel’s progress. When I knew he was on the point of success I warned Antonella who had already hired a man named Christos to take care of the accident. The plan was that Christos should keep constant watch on Castel in the final stages, and then kill him as soon as he perfected the antidote. The antidote samples and any relevant notes were to be posted to Valedri, together with a cleverly forged note that would appear to have been written by Castel himself. The note stated that Castel had learned by chance about his father, and wanted him to take care of the samples because he didn’t fully trust his associates in Milan.”
Andromavitch stopped, and there was a brief moment of silence.
Then Larren said slowly, “But you made one miscalculation, didn’t you? You underestimated your own importance. You didn’t get a chance to make a gallant show of giving yourself up to stop the plague, because the Government hushed up the facts about both the antidote, and the blackmail demand.”
