Who Pays the Ferryman Read online

  'You remind me of someone,' he said and as he did so he felt certain that that had to be the answer. But who?

  She studied him. 'Are you lost?'

  'In a way,' Haldane replied quietly.

  The woman hesitated, but only for a second. And then she smiled gently and she was even more beautiful. 'You will take a glass of wine?' she asked.

  He nodded, accepting the inevitability of the invitation; only now without question. .

  He crossed to the steps and began to climb them. And, as he did so, he was obsessed with the certainty that life had, at that moment, taken on a new beginning for him.

  Side by side, slowly and not looking at one another, they walked across the terrace and into the house through open French windows. And they took the magic with them.

  The large room was light and airy. The walls and the stone benches which were built into them were painted white. In the middle of the room there was a round fireplace with a canopy and chimney of beaten copper.

  The furniture was modern but obviously made by Craftsmen to traditional Cretan designs, modified for contemporary comfort. There were three abstract paintings hanging on the walls alongside a genuine Byzantine icon and a filigree, wrought iron cross.

  The stone benches around the walls were covered and backed with cushions of a bright, cheerful colour which blended with the curtains hanging at the windows.

  Neither of them had said anything since they entered the room. Now they stood facing one another each holding a glass of the deep red, local wine. There was an air of intimacy between them which Haldane accepted but which he still could not explain.

  The woman gave him another questioning look. 'Why are you here?' she asked.

  'I fought a battle in that olive grove in nineteen forty three,' Haldane said. 'Men died there.'

  She nodded. 'Men have died in battle all over Crete.

  Women and children too. This has been an island of slaughter. Throughout history. Our soil is the colour of blood.' She raised her glass to him. 'And so is our best wine.'

  Haldane lifted his glass in acknowledgement and they both drank. 'The grove has changed,' he said.

  She shrugged. 'Of course.'

  'And now it belongs to you?' he asked.

  'Yes. Or rather I hold it in trust. For the past.'

  'The scars have healed.'

  'Some of them perhaps.' They sipped their wine, each holding the other's gaze. Neither of them heard the sound of the car approaching the house and stopping at the foot of the steps to the terrace, nor of the car door slamming shut. 'Were you long in Crete?' she asked.

  'Three years,' said Haldane. 'With the Andarte.' The woman gave him a curious, puzzled look. 'There were many British with the partisans,' he added.

  'Yes, I know,' she said. 'When times were very bad my father would often speak of them. To remind us that we were not alone in our struggle.'

  Haldane was surprised. 'But surely you don't remember those days?' he said.

  'Little of them. I was only a child. The hunger. I remember that. But the fighting ... ' She shook her head. 'No. The village where my parents took me was not touched by that.' She took another sip from her glass and then looked up into his face again. The war. It now seems so long ago.'

  'It was,' said Haldane.

  'And you have not been back here since?'

  'No.'

  'So why now?'

  Haldane shrugged. 'I'm not sure.'

  She considered his reply, studying his face intently. And then she said, 'Interesting. All these years later. Like Theseus returning to the Labyrinth where he fought the Minotaur. In search of what?'

  'A memory. A sense of purpose.' Again Haldane shrugged. 'I don't know.'

  A man came in off the terrace through the French windows. He was in his forties, well built and handsome but with an air of arrogance and conceit which stemmed from something more than just philotimo, that sense of personal honour and pride so treasured by Cretan men and so characteristic of them. Under one arm he carried a sheaf of papers in a folder.

  The man stopped abruptly when he saw Haldane and frowned. He glanced at the woman. 'Oh,' he said surlily in Greek 'Excuse me.'

  'It is all right,' she replied, speaking in English. 'Come in, Matheos.'

  The man moved further into the room, his eyes on Haldane.

  'This is ... ' the woman continued and then gave the Englishman an enquiring look.

  'Alan Haldane,' he said.

  She smiled. 'My name is Annika. Annika Zeferis. And this is Matheos Noukakis.'

  Noukakis gave Haldane an unenthusiastic nod. 'Herete,' he mumbled.

  'Herete, ' replied Haldane, studying the man and sensing his hostility.

  'Matheos is my right hand,' continued Annika. 'He manages the olive groves for me. And the factory where the oil is processed.' She looked at Noukakis. 'The kyrios was here during the war,' she explained.

  'Oh yes,' said Noukakis flatly.

  Annika looked into Haldane's face once more. 'Now he searches. But for what he is not sure.'

  'I will know it when I find it,' said Haldane quietly.

  She smiled wryly. 'That is a promise we all make to ourselves. To ensure against disappointment. And where do you go from here?'

  'The monastery of Keras. We gathered there often. It was like a beacon to the Andarte.' Annika nodded. 'And if I'm to get there in good time I'm afraid I must go,' Haldane went on, He drained his glass. 'I'm sorry.'

  'So am I,' said Annika. And Haldane knew that she meant it. She took his glass from him.

  'Thank you for the wine,' he said. Then he looked across at Noukakis. 'Andie.'

  Noukakis had not taken his eyes off them since he entered the room and what he had seen had not pleased him. He did not reply.

  Reluctantly Haldane crossed to the French windows.

  He paused gratefully and looked back when Annika spoke once more.

  'Whatever it is you are looking for. I hope you find it,' she said.

  'I'll let you know,' he replied with a smile.

  'How long are you staying on Crete?'

  'Two, three weeks.'

  Annika nodded. 'If you have time then.'

  Haldane studied her for a while, searching her face intently, then he turned and walked out onto the terrace.

  Annika crossed to the French windows and watched him move away. He did not look back.

  'He interests you?’ asked Noukakis, crossing to her side and with a sour note in his voice.

  Annika ignored the question and turned back into the room. 'What is it you want, Matheos? she asked.

  He strode over and stood close to her. 'The Kalogeridis contract. It requires your signature.'

  Finding her alone with the Englishman had made him even more aware of how desirable she was, of how much he needed to possess her. And for so many reasons.

  'Annika! ... ' he said and there was entreaty in his voice. And he would have continued if she had not interrupted him. Her smile was friendly, her expression pleasant but her tone cool and matter of fact.

  'Leave it with me, will you?' she said. 'I would like to study it.'

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was late in the afternoon of the next day that Matheos Noukakis returned to Annika's house to pick up the contract. He found her in a strange mood; edgy, distant and preoccupied. Several times during their discussion she. walked across to the windows overlooking the olive grove and stared out at the track which led to the road, lost in thought. But, as he had expected, she had read through every clause of the Kalogeridis deal thoroughly and she went through it with him line by line and there were many questions for him to answer before she was satisfied and she finally approved it. And by then it was evening and the sun was beginning to set.

  Noukakis hoped that she would ask him to stay on for a while and have a drink as she invariably did when he came to the house on business but she did not. She merely thanked him politely, apologised for keeping him so long and then walked with him to the F
rench windows and said goodnight.

  And it was only as they were crossing the room that Noukakis noticed for the first time that the table in the dining alcove was already laid for the evening meal and set for two.

  He was still wondering who her dinner guest could be as he drove the pick-up truck slowly back through the trees. Her mother? That was a possibility but an unlikely one, he thought. The old lady seldom left her house in Neapolis. A woman friend perhaps? But then, as far as he could recall Annika had no close friends among her own sex and she had confided in him once that female gossip bored her. Her brother? No, Petros lived in Athens and he was too busy making money to spend much time visiting his mother and his sister. If Petros Matakis was dining out anywhere tonight, Noukakis reflected, it would almost certainly be somewhere expensive overlooking the Acropolis or in the Grande Bretagne Hotel. And he would be in the company of some influential politician or a likely business prospect. Besides Noukakis was certain that he would have heard if Petros was in Crete again. Her niece then? But she was married and, quite rightly, her husband would never allow her to go out alone at night; even to have dinner with her aunt. And there were only two place settings on the table. So who had Annika invited to eat with her? Noukakis frowned.

  And then, as he approached the head of the track a car turned on to it from the road and the question which was nagging him was answered.

  Haldane had spent the night in the guesthouse at the monastery of Keras but he had not slept well. The two monks he had found living there had greeted him warmly and had insisted that he stay but neither of them was old enough to remember the war and they assumed his interest in the monastery to be no more than that of any other discerning tourist. And Haldane had said nothing to correct their impression. They talked until late and of many things but never once was the war mentioned. And when finally he excused himself and went to his room it was not his wartime recollections of the place which disturbed Haldane's rest, it was the image of a woman, smiling.

  He had left early the next morning and driven higher into the mountains to a place where there had once been a village but where there were now only ruins, overgrown by a wilderness of thorn bushes and juniper scrub and a carpet of herbs and tall grasses. With dynamite and flame throwers the Germans had razed every building in 1942 because they had claimed that the villagers had given shelter to men of the Andarte. And they were right. They had. -And Haldane had been among those whom they had fed and then watched over while they snatched a few hours’ sleep.

  Sitting on a mound of rubble, smoking his pipe and deep in thought, Haldane had taken the photograph of Melina out of his wallet and gazed at it.

  'Were you long in Crete?' he heard Annika say again and he snapped his head around sharply to look over his shoulder, willing her to be there. But he was alone.

  For almost an hour he sat here, his mind a turmoil of questions without any answers. Then he had slipped the photograph back into his wallet, got to his feet and pushed his way through the tangle of bushes to where he had left his car.

  It was no use fighting it any longer and he knew it. He was going back. He had to. Back to the woman whose smile had haunted him during the night.

  As the Kadett edged past the pick-up, Haldane recognised the driver and waved to him but Noukakis did not wave back. He stopped the truck, put on the hand brake and watched the Opel in his rear view mirror as it accelerated away from him and towards the house. Then he spat out of the window and cursed.

  Haldane parked his car, got out and looked up at the terrace. Annika was standing at the top of the steps, the sun setting behind her. He was only faintly surprised.

  'I was waiting for you,' she said simply when he stood facing her. 'I was expecting you. As I think I was expecting you yesterday.' And then she turned and led the way into the house.

  They had said little during dinner. Now, still sitting opposite one another at the table, they lingered over coffee and brandy.

  'So tell me,' said Annika, not looking at him. 'Did you find anything?'

  'Only the memory. Ghosts.'

  Annika lifted her head and their eyes met. 'They are always with us,' she said.

  'There was nothing else.'

  She shook her head. 'Of course not. Not among phantoms. You will have to look elsewhere.'

  'Among the living?'

  She nodded. 'In today anyway. Not in yesterday.'

  Haldane drank from his coffee cup and studied her thoughtfully. 'You said you were expecting me,' he said. 'Something. Someone. And then you arrived. But this evening I knew that it was you I was waiting for.'

  'I had to come back,' he said. 'I don't know why.'

  'Yes you do,' Annika said quietly. She picked up her glass and sipped her brandy. 'You are married of course?'

  Haldane shook his head. 'No. I was. But my wife was killed in a road accident six years ago. And you?'

  'Divorced.' She saw the look on Haldane's face. 'You are surprised?' she asked. 'Ah yes, but then of course you know something of Cretan attitudes from the time you spent here. Well, little has changed. In that respect at least. Here a woman is still not expected to divorce her husband. No matter what cause he gives her. It offends his masculinity, his pride. Here a woman is born to walk behind the donkey. But I am one of those who have. broken that pattern.'

  'I imagine that hasn't made life easy for you,' he said.

  She shrugged. 'That is not important. Only dignity-is important. And giving. When you can. '

  'You have a family?'

  'I have two children. A boy and a girl. They are both studying in France. And I have a mother and a brother. So I am not alone.'

  Again their eyes met and each held the other's gaze. 'Aren't you?' he asked.

  'Alone I said. You speak of loneliness. They are different things. I think you know that.'

  'Yes,' said Haldane. 'And the man who was here when we first met?'

  She frowned. 'Matheos? A business associate. A friend.

  Nothing more.'

  His eyes still on hers, Haldane slowly reached out across the table and gently laid his hand on hers. 'I want you,' he said.

  Annika showed no shock, no surprise and she did not avert her gaze nor did she move her hand from under his but she shook her head sadly. 'You need me. As I need you. That is why you came back. That is why I wanted you to come back. But think about it, Englishman. As I have. What would it mean? What would it be? An interlude? A holiday affair?' She shook her head again and sighed sadly. 'We are both too vulnerable. We have spent-a pleasant evening together and when you leave we shall have that memory.' Now she slid her hand from under his. 'But neither of us will have invested anything in our meeting. And it is better that way. Because there is no future in tonight. And that is your real need. And mine.'

  And Haldane knew that she was right. And the thought saddened him.

  The secretary smiled at him when he went back to Babis Spiridakis' office at eight thirty the next morning.

  'Yes,' she informed him. 'Mr Spiridakis has returned from Athens. Late last night. But he is not yet in his office.' She indicated the bench to one side of the outer door. 'If you wish to wait.'

  Haldane nodded and sat down.

  Ten minutes later the door was thrown open and Babis Spiridakis exploded into the fusty office like a violent blast of fresh air. He was carrying a briefcase.

  'Andreas Phokakis is a fool,' he exclaimed vehemently in Greek as he strode across to his secretary's desk, unaware of Haldane's presence. 'Get Tzortis on the telephone for me.' Then he frowned and looked puzzled as the woman, somewhat embarrassed by his outburst, gave him a cautionary look and nodded in Haldane's direction.

  Spiridakis turned with a questioning look. Haldane stood up. The two men gazed at one another.

  He hasn't changed that much, thought Haldane, taking in the big, broad shouldered and powerfully built man opposite him. And he doesn't look his age. He must be, what? Fifty-eight? Or was it fifty-nine? He was a little fleshier perhap
s and the lines on his rugged face were now cut deeper around his mouth and still penetrating eyes. But there was not even a hint of grey in his dark, black hair and thick moustache. And his movements were still as bold and positive as ever. .

  Spiridakis recognised Haldane instantly and, once he had recovered from the surprise, for a moment his face broke into a broad, beaming smile. He took a step towards him but then checked himself and his smile faded until it was only a faint, polite curve to his lips. It was as though a light which had suddenly been turned on inside him had instantly burned itself out.

  He acknowledged the Englishman with a nod. 'Leandros!' he said quietly.

  Haldane frowned. He had imagined this reunion many time since his decision to return to Crete and always differently but always with enthusiasm in it, on both sides. And it had been there, in Spiridakis, for a second. He had seen it. But now there was only reserve and he had not prepared himself for any show of coolness. He made a great effort to hide his disappointment but his smile was now as awkward as he felt.

  'Hello, Babis.' And then he added lamely. 'You remember me then?'

  'Of course,' replied the lawyer.

  Haldane shrugged. 'It's been a long time,' he said.

  Spiridakis nodded. 'Yes. A long time.' He walked to the door of his office and opened it. 'Come in,' he said.

  Feeling very foolish and somehow cheated, Haldane followed him into the room.

  Spiridakis closed the office door and then crossed to his desk and put his briefcase down on it. He turned and looked across at Haldane and it was clear from his expression that he was perplexed and troubled. He studied him searchingly for a while and then he moved over to the window and stood with his back to him, staring down into the street below.