The Angry Hills (3 page)

A flood of uneasiness hit Mike. He counted the long hours ahead till dawn when he would be winging toward London. The shoeshine boy applied the final touches with a pair of oversized brushes and stepped back to admire his work. Americans’ shoes always shined so well. He received a handsome tip. For several moments Mike stood and looked in all directions contemplating the best way to kill the afternoon. The National Museum was closed and its treasures removed. He looked down Athena Street to its end and saw the rise of the Acropolis. No, he did not want to go there again. Rather silly, not wanting to sightsee, but his few side trips had left him depressed, for Ellie was not there. She would never see them. For a moment he considered the idea of the American Bar but visualized an afternoon’s dull conversation with a visiting fireman. He was hungry but ruled out trying another strange restaurant. Yesterday he had found a place in Cavouri, twenty miles from Athens overlooking a picturesque bay, but he could still taste the olive oil.

He began to wander, hands in pockets, along Aeolus Street where the conglomeration of food in the sidewalk stalls sent up a sickening odor. The shoppers and stallkeepers haggled, but the performance was halfhearted today. Their thoughts were on tomorrow. He window-shopped and remembered the thousand hours he window-shopped with Ellie when they could afford no other pastime. He purchased two pairs of peasant slippers with bright red pompons on the toes for Jay and Lynn and strolled on.

The next intersection brought an onrush of British troops from the camp at Kokinia. Then Morrison’s eye caught a sign he could read in any language.

The saloon was half-empty and the stock at rock bottom. A choice of two types of
krasi.
He stood at the far end of the bar, and after the first sip was thankful his long tenure as an unpublished writer hadn’t given him the opportunity to cultivate a taste for fine liquors. The tall blond man in the New Zealand uniform entered and sat near the door.

A half bottle later, much of the tension had eased inside Mike. As the bar filled with soldiers he made an honorable retreat to a table with his bottle. He observed and he drank.

The soldiers of the British Expeditionary Force were on the edge of collapsing morale. Morrison heard bitter complaints about the bombings of the camps and the lack of combat units in the force. The colonials, in soldiers’ jargon, had a word or two to say about the support they were receiving.

About three-quarters of the way through the bottle of
krasi,
the noise in the place seemed to fade. He banished his rambling thoughts about his children, whom he missed terribly, and quickly diverted his mind to guessing what was in the envelope and what kind of shady deal Mr. Stergiou was mixed up in. He overcame the temptation to open the envelope for a quick peek and instead wove a half dozen different plots about its contents. Morrison’s one attempt at mystery writing ended. He gave up.

“Mind if I sit down?”

Mike looked up into the face of the tall blond man in New Zealand uniform. He glanced toward the bar; it was three deep. He nodded to the man.

“Bit crowded there... Mosley’s the name, Jack Mosley—First New Zealand Rifles.” The lance corporal began to open his bottle.

“Might as well finish this one first,” Mike said, pouring.

Mosley pulled out a pipe. Pipe smokers have a common bond. “Here, try some good stuff,” Mike said, flipping his pouch over the table. Mosley loaded, lit, drew and approved.

“You’re an American, aren’t you?”

Mike balked. The answer often led to an argument. “Yes, I’m an American.”

“Goodo. I like Americans. What the devil are you doing in Greece these days?”

Mike’s tongue loosened as they started on Mosley’s bottle of
krasi.
As it emptied and another bottle came he gave the entire story, complete with pictures of Jay and Lynn. Mosley returned the compliment, showing pictures of three of his own. Mike found his drinking partner friendly and intelligent and, as the wine struck home, his talk turned to an outpouring.

The saloon was smoky now with a blend of powerful Turkish and flat-smelling British tobaccos. Singers were deep in harmony, forgetting, for the moment, their troubles. Streetwalkers wandered in and couples left.

“And what line of business are you in, Morrison?”

It was a question he dreaded. When a person meets a writer there is an expectant glow, as though he had run into Hemingway or Faulkner. It always embarrasses the non-professional when he has never heard of the writer.

“Morrison—of course, forgive me,” Mosley said. “I enjoyed
Home Is the Hunter
very much—splendid book.”

“Really! Well, have another glass of wine, my friend.”

“Tell me, Morrison. Are you really as bitter about life as your book indicates?”

Mike was used to it. With the purchase of a book the buyer automatically gets a critic’s license. Not that he minded much. It was the ones who borrowed a book and became critics who annoyed him. However, he was surprised to find Mosley’s comments extremely sharp as well as objective. The wine was good and the noise was loud and he bought another bottle.

Mike covered a great deal of ground, from literature to wars to San Francisco to Greece to music. In fact, there was very little he didn’t cover. The subjects began to overtake one another, then run into one another. He more than made up for the four days of sulking quiet in Greece. Mike was entirely too talky and heady to realize or care that his companion was barely drinking at all.

Then, as all such conversations generally do, it swung around to the subject of women and sex.

“Mosley, feel I know you well enough to pose a ver’ serious question.... Question is, are you one of those fellows completely faithful to your spouse?”

“Only on occasion,” Mosley answered.

“Well, this isn’t the occasion. Tell you what we’re gonna do—tell you what. We’re gonna wheel and deal over to Constitution Square to one of those plush joints and pick us up a pair of ladies....”

“Corking idea.”

“They don’t hardly make guys like you any more Mosley.... No, sir... You’re O.K. in my book....”

Mike struggled to his feet and promptly slumped to his chair. He emitted a long, long whistle. “Stuff gangs up on you ...” He whistled again. “Stuff’s loaded.”

This time, with Mosley’s aid, he managed to get to a vertical position. The man in the New Zealand uniform guided him through the crowd onto the sidewalk. The night air almost flattened him.

“Hey, wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute, read my watch...whatsit say?”

“Half-past eight.”

“Hell—I forgot—I got a ’pointment... Look, tell you what we’re gonna do... You go over to the Kifff—the Kiffff—the goddamn Kifffffissssia Hotel and wait in my room... Got this ’pointment... Hotel sits on the side of the mountain—over thataway... Soon’s I get back from my ’pointment you an me are going to get fixed up—know what I mean?”

Mosley spilled Morrison into a cab and waved as Mike poked his head out of the window. “Kifffffissssia—thataway—they don’t make them like you any more....

As Mike’s cab turned the corner, an automobile U-turned and stopped at the curb where Mosley waited. He opened the door and hopped in.

“Shall we follow him?” the driver asked.

“No—we’ll rejoin Zervos.”

“What about the American?”

Mosley smiled and stretched back. “Let the fool go. If he is a British agent, I’m Winston Churchill.”

FOUR

M
IKE STOOD OPPOSITE THE
yellow-stone mansion at Petraki, 17. The street was black and empty. He wavered back and forth and made an abortive attempt to light his pipe. He mumbled drunkenly to himself, staggered across the street and managed to negotiate the opposite curb. He swayed up the steps and reached for the big brass knocker. It hit the plate and the door jarred open.

He leaned against the door frame, bracing himself and waiting for Tassos to come. He pulled the knocker again—waited—waited—nothing.

“Only got one good ear between them anyhow...”

Mike shoved the door and plunged into a pitch-black hallway. He fumbled through his pockets, found his matches and lit one and squinted around. The match burned his fingers. He dropped it and yelled out an oath. He lit another and found the hall switch.

The hallway lit up. It was long and dimly lit and lined with white marble statues.

“Stergiou! Wake up!” His echo bounced through the place weirdly.

He staggered farther into the hall and called again. The house was eerie and his head reeled from the wine.

“Stergiou, come out, come out, wherever you are!”

He bumped into a statue and it swayed on its pedestal. Mike draped his arms around it to keep it from falling and bowed and apologized. “Stergiou!”

He stood before the door to the old man’s office.

“Probably sleep at his desk—probably—probably is...”

Mike leaned against the door and pitched into the office. The door groaned shut behind him. His hands groped for the light switch. He hit a chair and smashed to the floor with it. He lay there, unable to lift himself, hit with sudden spinning dizziness....

He struggled to his hands and knees and began to crawl. The journey stopped as his head cracked against the desk. Mike reached his hand to the desk top and he grunted as he rose to his feet and felt around the desk for a lamp.

The lamplight broke the room into dim yellow and black shadows. He propped himself against the desk and shook his head to clear the alcoholic fog. His eyes peered into the shadows and he scanned the room. It was a shambles!

A sound.

He reached to switch off the light, then froze.

There—on the floor—Stergiou’s glasses—smashed, and the carpet red with blood around them.

“Morrison,” a voice whispered from the shadow.

The blood rushed from Mike’s lips as a jolt of fear hit him. His throat muscles tightened into dryness...

“Morrison,” the voice whispered again.

Mike’s jaw trembled open. “Who are you?” he croaked unevenly.

“Over—by the door,” the voice said.

“Who are you? Where is Stergiou?”

“Stergiou’s dead.”

Morrison’s breath came in short frightened grunts. He shook his head again. It was a nightmare! A nightmare like the ones he had when Ellie died. His head turned slowly and he strained his eyes... Yes, there was someone there.... Through the dull yellow shadow he could see a man’s face staring at him.

“No—no—no—no...Leave me alone—leave me alone...I’m—I’m getting out of here....” He lurched toward the door in blind fear.

“Morrison! Stand still! I have a gun on you!”

The command halted him.

Mike’s eyes bulged in terror. His face was wet with sweat. He looked at the man. The man sat in a chair....There were streaks of blood running from the corners of the man’s mouth and the man’s big walrus mustache was red with blood.

“What do you want of me?” Mike pleaded. “What have I done?”

“The envelope—the envelope—you must deliver it...A plane—leaves Tatoi airdrome—midnight—take my credentials...”

Mike’s hands fumbled through his pockets. He found the envelope. “Take the damned thing—take it...I’m an American citizen—you’ve no right to mix me up in this...”

The man groaned and his eyes rolled and on his face appeared the stamp of death. His whisper fluttered....“You have no choice, Morrison. They’ll get you.... They are on to you.... Don’t—don’t try the American Embassy.... They’ll have it surrounded.... They—they have friends—everywhere.... You—have no choice, Morrison.”

The hand holding the pistol dropped limply and the pistol clattered to the floor. Mike grabbed the man’s lapel.

“Who are
they
?” he said. “Who are
they
?”

The man’s head rolled back. His lips trembled open but he was unable to speak. Mike bent down and picked up the pistol and put the credential card in his pocket.

The man groaned. Mike blinked from the sting of the salt from the sweat in his eyes as he backed off toward the door and stepped into the hallway.

FIVE

M
ORRISON BOLTED DOWN THE
hallway and through the door. He stopped abruptly on the doorstep and looked right and left in desperation.

Petraki Street was as still as a morgue. The drizzle put a shiny coat on the pavement in the glow of the lamplights.

He walked as quickly as his wobbly legs could bear him toward the Avenue Vasilissis Sofias. The Avenue would be filled with people—he must reach it quickly. The still of the night was broken only by the sound of his heels beating against the sidewalk.

He stopped short.

From behind came the sound of a motor starting—slow acceleration—the noise of wet tires rolling. Morrison fell back into the shadows and flattened himself against a wall. A black car, headlights out, inched toward him. Mike closed his eyes and swayed, on the verge of blacking out. He gritted his teeth to muffle the sound of his breathing. A moment passed. The car halted at the intersection, then turned into Ravine Street. The sound of the motor faded.

Mike began to run full speed down the glassy street.

He stumbled on the curb, struggled up and ran again, his heart nearly tearing through his chest. He saw the Avenue ahead of him—and stopped in terror.

“Oh, God, no!”

The Avenue Vasilissis Sofias was devoid of life. The wide boulevard had not a car—not a sign of a human on it. The houses were dark—no light shone except for a dim street lamp.

Let me wake up! Let me wake up! he cried to himself. He continued running down the deserted thoroughfare—two blocks—three—four—until everything blurred.

He stopped. He was facing the square white marble of the Byzantine Museum. He was unable to take another step. A whining sang through his ears....

There! Down the street—a light. Morrison staggered down the Avenue and edged toward the light. He peered through the window. The saloon was empty except for the barkeep.

Mike buckled over the bar, panting for breath. The bartender stared at him wide-eyed. “English,” Mike gasped. “You speak Englezos?”