The Mediterranean Caper Page 12

  “Alien Dive Bright Aluminum casing is waterproof to a nine hundred foot depth. We’re not going diving, but it’s rugged and throws out a long narrow beam, backed by one hundred and eight thousand candlepower. That’s why I borrowed it from the ship.”

  Giordino said no more, merely shrugged and slipped between the bars, following Pitt into the passage. “Hold on a second till I remove the evidence.”

  Giordino’s stubby hands nimbly unwound the shredded wrappings—a pile of old fallen stones covered the smoldering remains—before he turned to face Pitt, squinting his eyes until they became accustomed to the dim light.

  Pitt played his light into the darkness. “Look there on the ground. See why I don’t need the services of a detailed map?”

  The powerful beam spotlighted a broken trail of dried and caked blood leading down the steep uneven stairway. In a few places the red stains lay in scattered clusters, separated by occasional tiny round specks. Pitt descended the steps shivering, not so much from the sight of his old and discarded blood, but from the sudden change in temperature from the outside afternoon heat to the damp chill of the musty labyrinth. At the bottom he took off at a half trot, the swaying light in his hand casting a series of bouncing shadows that leaped from the crack-lined ceiling to the rough hewn rock floor. The loneliness and the fear that gripped him the night before was not present. Giordino, that indestructible sawed-off package of muscle, a trusted friend for many years, was beside him now. Damned if anyone or any barrier would stop him this time, he thought doggedly.

  Passage after passage, like gaping mouths in the shadows slipped by. Pitt kept his eyes trained on the ground, analyzing the dark red spots. At the honeycombed intersections he paused briefly, studying the trail. If the blood led up a tunnel and then returned it meant a dead end. Wherever the course indicated a single line he pursued it. His body was aching and his vision was hazy at the outer edges; a bad sign. He was bone tired and felt it to the deadening tips of every nerve ending. Pitt stumbled and would have gone down, but Giordino grabbed his arm in a wrench-like grip, holding him erect.

  “Take it easy, Dirk,” Giordino said firmly, his voice followed by a faint echo. “No sense in overdoing it. You’re not in condition to play All American hero.”

  “It’s not far,” Pitt said heavily. “The dog should lie around the next couple of bends.”

  But the dog was gone. Only the hardened blood pools remained where the great white animal had thrashed out the final moments of life. Pitt stared mutely at the huge stains. The dank odor of blood permeated the passageway, adding to, but not quite overcoming, the musty atmosphere. He vividly recreated the. attack in his mind; the dog’s gleaming eyes, the leap in the dark, the knife sinking into warm flesh, and the agonized animal howl.

  “Keep going,” Pitt said grimly, all weariness forgotten. “The entrance is only another eighty feet.”

  They plunged on amid the black depths of the mountain. Pitt didn’t bother to watch the blood trail, he knew where he was to the inch: he so thoroughly recalled the feel of the walls and floor that he would have been completely confident of finding the door at a dead run without the flashlight and in absolute darkness. The light in his hand swayed in wild arcs as they pounded along into the modern corridor construction.

  Suddenly the Dive Brite’s beam probed the massive door, holding it in a dazzling circle of light.

  “This is it,” Pitt said softly between labored gasps for breath.

  Giordino pushed his way past and knelt to the ground, examining the inside bolts. He wasted no time; already his fingers were probing the slight crack that separated the door from the frame molding.

  “Goddamn,” he grunted.

  “What is it?”

  “Big sliding latch on the outside. I don’t have the equipment to jimmy it from this side.”

  “Try the hinges,” Pitt murmured. He aimed the light toward the opposite side of the door. Almost before he said it, Giordino had snatched a short pointed bar from the flight bag and was prying the long pins from their rusty shafts.

  Giordino laid the hinge pins lightly on the ground and let Pitt ease the door open. It swung noiselessly, only an inch, at his touch. Pitt peeked through the widening crack, taking a swift look around, but there was no one in sight, no sound, except their own breathing.

  Pitt pulled the door aside and dashed across the balcony, blinking in the harsh sunlight, and hurried up the stairway. Giordino, he knew, was right on his heels. The doorway to the study was open, the drapes blowing inward in billowing folds from an offshore westerly breeze. He flattened against the wall, listening for voices. Then seconds passed, ticking off to half a minute. The study was quiet. Nobody home, he thought, or if they are they’re an awfully dead group, Pitt took a deep breath, turned quickly, and stepped inside the room.

  The study seemed quite empty. It was exactly as Pitt remembered it; the columns, classic furniture, the bar. His eyes sped around the room, stopping at the shelf containing the model submarine. He walked over and closely examined the workmanship on the miniature craft. The carved black mahogany that made up the hull and conning tower gleamed with a satin-like: sheen. Every detail from the rivets to a tiny embroidered Imperial German battle flag looked fantastically real, so much so that at any second Pitt half expected to see a diminutive crew leap out of a hatch and man the deck gun. The neatly painted numbers on the side of the conning tower identified it as the U-19, a close sister of the U-boat that torpedoed the Lusitania.

  Pitt whirled sharply from the model as Giordino’s fingers dug deeply in his arm, as Giordino’s head leaned closely to his own.

  “I thought I heard something,” the voice was a mere breath.

  “Where?” Pitt asked in a whisper.

  “I’m not sure, I couldn’t get a good fix on it.”

  Giordino cocked his head, listening. Then he shrugged.

  “Just imagining things I guess.”

  Pitt turned back to the model submarine. “Do you recall the number of the World War I sub that was sunk near here?”

  Giordino hesitated. “Yeah.. . It was the U-19.

  Why ask now?”

  “I’ll explain later. Come on, Al, let’s get the hell out of here.”

  ‘We just got here,” Giordino complained, raising his voice to a murmur.

  Pitt tapped the model. “We’ve found what we came for. . . “

  He froze into sudden immobility, listening, his hand motioning a silence signal to Giordino.

  “We’ve got company,” he said under his breath.

  “Split up and circle around the far end of the room to that second column. I’ll go along the windows.”

  Giordino nodded. He hadn’t even raised an eyebrow.

  A minute later their stealthy paths met, joining behind a long high backed sofa. Both men approached it cautiously and peered over the backrest.

  Without moving, without uttering a word, Pitt stood rooted to the carpet. He stood there, it seemed to Giordino, for an eternity, his mind absorbing the shock of seeing Teri peacefully asleep on the sofa. But it was no eternity, it was probably only five seconds before Pitt acted.

  Teri lay curled in a ball, her head resting on a huge humped armrest, her black hair falling in piles, nearly touching the floor. She wore a long red negligee that fluffed about her arms and covered her body from neck to toe, teasingly displaying the dark triangle below her belly and the two pink discs of her breasts through its diaphanous material Pitt whipped out his handkerchief and had it firmly stuffed in her mouth before she fully woke. Then snatching the hem of her negligee he yanked it above her head and knotted it around the arms, making her completely helpless. Teri began to struggle back to full consciousness—it was too late. Before she could fully grasp what ‘was happening, she was roughly thrown over Giordino’s shoulder and carted off into the sunlight

  “You’ve got to be crazy,” Giordino mumbled irritably when they reached the stairway. “All this hassle to gawk at a toy and steal a
broad.”

  “Shut up and run,” Pitt said without turning. He kicked the passage door aside and let Giordino enter first with his kicking burden. Then Pitt pushed the door back into place, aligning the hinge shafts before inserting the pins.

  “Why bother replacing the door?” Giordino asked impatiently.

  “We got this far without detection,” Pitt replied, grabbing the flight bag. “I want to keep von Till in the dark as long as possible. I’m betting he saw the obvious evidence of my wounds after the dog’s attack, and thinks I wandered off into this honeycombed maze and bled to death.”

  Quickly, Pitt turned and ran through the corridor, holding the light low so Giordino, grunting under his struggling burden, could see where he was stepping. The thick coat of blackness, pierced by the small island of incandescence, opened briefly at their approach and then closed, returning the labyrinth back to its eternal night. One foot before the other, the endless routine repeated over and over. Their feet pounded across the hard floor, echoing through the darkness with a peculiar hollow sound.

  The Dive Brite and flight bag clutched tightly in his hands, only dimly aware of the curious tingling in the pit of his stomach, Pitt rushed forward. Rapidly, with no attempt at stealthy caution, no expectancy of trouble, but with that strange inner sensation, half-belief of a man who has accomplished something he had thought was impossible. I’m on the path of von Till’s secret and I’ve got his niece, Pitt said to himself again and again. But somehow a lingering fear prodded his mind.

  Five minutes later they reached the stairway. Pitt stepped aside, holding the light on the steps, letting Giordino climb first. Then he turned, beaming the light back in the passage, taking a last look, and his face became grim. He wondered how few men and women too, had suffered but escaped from that honeycombed hell. One thing, he thought, no one will ever know fully the history of the labyrinth. Only the ghosts lingered, the bodies had long since turned to dust. Then his mouth twisted and he looked away. Without another backward glance, be mounted the steps for the last time, vastly relieved at seeing sunlight again at the top landing. He was half-way through the rusting bars, vaguely aware that Giordino was standing oddly quiet with Teri still slung over a shoulder, when he heard a loud contemptuous laugh roar beside the archway.

  “My compliments, gentlemen, on your exquisite taste in souvenirs. However, I feel it is my patriotic duty to inform you that the theft of valuable objects from historical sites is strictly forbidden under Greek law.”

  11

  Pitt froze while his mind raced to absorb the shock. He stood there, one leg outside, the other bent awkwardly inside the passage for what seemed to him a lifetime. He threw the Dive Brite and the flight bag behind him down the stairway and then squinted, Waiting for his eyes to adjust to the bright sunlight: he could barely discern a vague, formless shape that detached itself from the low stone wall and moved in front of him.

  “I . . . I don’t understand,” Pitt mumbled dumbly, feigning a peasant kind of stupidity. “We’re not thieves.”

  Again the resounding laugh. And the blurred form transformed into the Greek National Tourist Organization guide who wore a broad, white toothed smile beneath his great moustache; a swarthy hand gripped a nine millimeter Clisenti automatic pistol, the barrel aimed directly at Pitt’s heart.

  “Not thieves,” the guide said sarcastically in faultless English. “Then kidnapers perhaps?”

  “No, no,” pleaded Pitt, a forced tremor in his voice.

  “We’re only two lonely seamen on shore leave in a strange land having a bit of fun.” He winked and grinned a knowing grin. “You understand.”

  “Yes, I understand perfectly.” The gun remained level and steady as a rock. “That is why you are under arrest.”

  Pitt could feel a knot deep down under in his stomach, the dry, sandy taste of defeat in his mouth. God, this was a worse set-back than he had feared: it could be the end of everything a trial and then expulsion from the country. He kept the stupid. insipid expression on his face. Then he stepped forward from the gate, making an imploring gesture with his hands.

  “You must believe me. We haven’t kidnapped anybody. Look,” he said pointing to Teri’s upended and naked bottom. “This woman is nothing but a village whore we found wallowing in a pig sty of a taverna. She told us to take the tour of the ruins, promising to meet us at the amphitheatre.”

  The guide looked amused. He reached out with his free hand and fingered the material of Teri’s negligee, than ran his finger tips lightly over her smooth, rounded mounds, triggering a spasm of thrashing legs and feet.

  “Tell me,” he said slowly. “How much did she charge?”

  “At first she asked two drachmas,” said Pitt sullenly. “But after the fun and games she tried to hold us up for twenty drachmas. We, of course, refused to pay.”

  “Of course,” the guide replied dully.

  “He speaks the truth,” burst Giordino, the words rushed as if he couldn’t get them out fast enough. “This dirty tramp is the thief, not us.”

  “A masterly performance,” said the guide. “A pity it is wasted on such a small audience. We Greeks may lead simple, mundane lives compared to you of more sophisticated countries, but we do not possess simple minds.” He gestured the gun toward Teri. “This girl is no cheap prostitute. Expensive maybe, but not cheap. Her skin also makes you out a liar, it’s far too white.

  Our island girls are famous for their rich, dark texture

  and full hips. Hers are much too narrow.”

  Pitt said nothing. He watched the guide carefully, Waiting for an opening. Any movement on his part, he knew, would trigger Giordino into instantaneous action. The Greek looked a dangerous man, cunning and alert, but there was no hint of sadistic antagonism that Pitt could see in the dark, sun wrinkled features. The guide

  beckoned to Giordino.

  “Release the girl, let us have a look at her other end.”

  Giordino, without taking his eyes off Pitt, slowly dropped Teri, letting her slide down his shoulder to the ground. She stood drunkenly for a moment, unsure of her balance, arms upraised in their trapped position, and swaying like a giant tulip in the wind until Giordino untied the knotted negligee above her head. As soon as she was free, Teri tore the gag from her mouth and stared at Giordino with white hot hatred in her eyes.

  “You bloody, rotten bastard,” she screamed.

  “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “It wasn’t my idea, sweetheart,” said Giordino, his eyebrows arching slyly. “Talk to your friend over there.” He jerked his thumb towards Pitt.

  Her head spun in Pitt’s direction, and she opened her mouth to say something, but choked off the words with a gasp. The big hazel eyes reflected astonishment for an instant, then they changed with blinking speed to icy coldness, then to a glowing twinkle of warmth. She threw her arms about Pitt and kissed him fervently, too fervently, he thought, under the circumstances.

  “Dirk, it really is you,” she sobbed. “Back there in the darkness, your voice . . . I couldn’t be sure. I thought you were. . . I thought I’d never see you again.”

  “It seems,” he said grinning, “our meetings are a never-ending, constant source of surprise.

  “Uncle Bruno said .you wouldn’t call me, ever.”

  “Don’t believe all you hear from an uncle.”

  Teri discovered the bandage on his nose and gently touched it. “You’ve been hurt.” Her voice held a blend of concern and distress. “Did Uncle Bruno do that? Did he threaten you?”

  “No, I was climbing some stairs and tripped and fell,” he said, slightly distorting the truth. “That’s all there was to it.”

  “What is this all about?” the guide asked in exasperation. His gun hand was beginning to droop. “Will the young lady please be so kind as to tell her name?”

  “I am the niece of Bruno von Till,” she said testily. “And I don’t see how that concerns you.”

  There was a sharp exclamation from
the Greek and he took a couple of steps forward, studying Teri’s face closely. For almost half a minute he stared at her, then slowly, with deliberate ease, raised the gun level again, still pointing at Pitt. Once, twice he tugged at his moustache, nodding in thoughtful perplexity.

  “You may speak the truth,” he said quietly. “Then again you may be lying to protect these two unpleasant looking scum.”

  “Your ridiculous insinuations are of no importance to me,” Teri thrust out her chin, matching its protruding uplift with her breasts. “I demand you put down that hideous gun and leave us alone. My uncle has great influence with the island authorities. One word from him and you’ll find yourself rotting your miserable life away in a mainland prison.”

  “I am well aware of Bruno von Till’s influence,” the guide said indifferently. “Unfortunately it makes little impression on me. The final decision concerning your arrest or release rests entirely with my superior in Panaghia, Inspector Zacynthus. He will wish to see you. Any lies to him and your immediate futures shall be very lamentable indeed. If you will all please step behind the wall, you will find a pathway leading approximately two hundred yards to a waiting car” He swung the gun from Pitt to Teri. “A warning, gentlemen. Do not entertain any thoughts of a foolish move. If I detect even a slight facial tic on either of you, I shall place a bullet in the brain of this delicate and lovely creature. Now, shall we proceed?”

  Five minutes later they all reached the car, a black Mercedes parked inconspicuously under a copse of fir trees. The driver’s door was open and a man dressed in a spotless ice cream suit sat casually behind the wheel with one foot solidly planted on the ground outside. At their approach he rose and opened the rear door.

  Pitt looked at the man for a long moment. The contrast between the neatly pressed white suit and the dark ugly face presented an impressive picture. About two inches above Pitt’s own height, the man looked like a chiseled stone colossus, and just as solid. He had the largest set of shoulders Pitt had ever seen, and must have weighted at least 260 pounds. The face was misproportioned and strikingly repulsive, and yet there was a strange sort of beauty about it; the kind that artists sought to capture on canvas. Pitt wasn’t fooled. He could read a man who had an indifferent attitude toward killing. His paths had crossed many times with lovable looking brutes who murdered as if it were a run-of-the-mill, everyday routine.