Ник Картер - The Liquidator

We didn’t make a deal right away; I still had to play it cool, but I wanted to be damned sure I could get what I needed on short notice. Elgon assured me that he would have a seaworthy craft for me whenever I wanted to take it out. That was one matter out of the way.

Another hotel, not much different from the one in Piraeus, except that there was one big, lumpy bed in it and the bath was down the hall. Well, I was only staying for one night, and maybe not even that.

It was late afternoon, and I’d done my tourist routine for as long as I could stand it when I finally approached the Taverna Zakinthos. A big, open-air establishment, it had a splendid view of the harbor and the big, mountainous island a few miles offshore. I sat down at a tippy metal table on the terrace, took off my battered yachting cap and put it on the seat next to me. The late sun was slanting across the Ionian Sea, falling down behind the boot of Italy which would be my destination a couple of days later. I waited for Christina with as much patience as I could muster, hoping she wouldn’t keep me waiting too long. It was damned uncomfortable, having some unknown girl to deal with who knew more about the details of this mission than I did. Especially after that run-in with the two pros in my hotel room the night before.

From the taverna I could see the late afternoon water traffic moving in the harbor. It wasn’t crowded, but there was a constant coming and going of boats of all descriptions. A black-hulled outboard runabout appeared, towing a girl on water-skis. They zoomed close to the row of fishing boats tied up along the quay, the girl with one arm raised above her head, dark hair streaming behind her and a look of ecstasy on her spray-flecked face. In the runabout both the driver and the other man watching the skier from the stern were grinning encouragingly at her. Some of the fishermen on the dockside boats looked up from their chores; a few stood in automatic appreciation at the sight of the bronzed, bikini-clad body swooping past them, and some ragged cheers went up.

Then a grizzled, stumpy man wearing a cap with impressive gold insignia on it rushed to the quayside, gesturing violently. The man at the wheel of the runabout didn’t see him at first, but some instinct made him turn to pay attention to where he was going; he swerved sharply, slowing at the same time, as he saw he was approaching the end of the harbor.

“Damned fools,” I muttered to myself. They should know better than to water-ski in a harbor anyway.

The girl was trying to shorten up on her towrope; she seemed the only one of the jolly trio who knew what she was doing, and in spite of the boat’s change of speed and direction she appeared to be in control.

And then, for no reason I could see, she just fell. Down she went into the water, automatically kicking free of the skis as she released the tow rope. The cheering stopped, but the harbor official kept up his fist-shaking at the men in the runabout. It came to a near stop, its engine muttering, made a slow circle and approached the girl.

She was treading water easily, clinging to the skis, but as the boat approached I could hear her voice lifted in anger. I knew a little Greek, but I was pretty sure what she was saying wouldn’t be found in any of the standard texts. She shoved the water skis at the man in the stern; he took them with a look of bewilderment on his face. But when he extended a hand to help her aboard she shrugged, turned and swam toward a crude wooden stairway along the quay.

The driver maneuvered the runabout cautiously after her, both men pleading openly. She ignored them, her face mirroring her lofty contempt. As she reached the stairway and began to climb out of the water, the man in the stern again reached for her; she shook off his hand, flipped water from her streaming hair so that he was spattered thoroughly, then went up a few more steps until she was well above them. At that point she turned and said something, snapping it out like a sergeant giving orders to the most inept recruit in his platoon. Both men looked crestfallen, then sullen; between them they handed the girl a garment of some sort and a big, bulging straw bag. When she had them, she turned away without so much as a farewell glance and climbed quickly to the top of the quay.

Like most of the other customers at the Taverna, I had gotten up from my table for a better look after the girl fell. From where I stood I had a pretty good view of all the action, and I was standing close by when she reached the top of the broad stone quay. She paused for a moment, deliberately not looking back, until she heard the sudden roar of the outboard as her two disconsolate escorts hot-rodded back out of the harbor in search of their lost egos. Then she put the straw bag down at her feet, raised her arms and dropped the terrycloth shift over her head, wriggled only as much as necessary until the garment was settled just south of her hips. She thumbed her sleek wet hair free of the shift’s collar, reached down into the bag and took out a monster pair of dark glasses. It was only after she put them on that she looked at the handful of us who stood watching her.

There was neither phony modesty nor haughty indifference in her attitude; she simply smiled faintly, gave a suggestion of a shrug and picked up the bag. As she passed me, so close I could smell the mixture of salt water and suntan lotion that beaded her skin, she hesitated for a fraction of a beat, then kept going, straight for the Taverna.

I watched her — I’d have blown my cover for sure if I hadn’t, because everyone else certainly was — as she mounted the couple of wide, shallow steps to the stone terrace and took a table with no umbrella to protect it from the sun. A waiter was there before she sat down, and as he returned to the gloomy interior of the taverna to fetch her order I walked slowly back to my own table. I felt a certain amount of sophomoric regret that she hadn’t chosen a table next to mine, but common sense reminded me that I wasn’t there just to admire the local water goddess.

She had a glass of the region’s wine, a potent squeezing of the grape that I’d already sampled, and decided to stick to ouzo; at least the pale, milky stuff sent out its own warning signals before you swallowed it. We were seated so that it was possible to look at each other without making a big deal out of it, and after a while it became obvious that she was flicking her eyes in my direction frequently. Okay, I could accept that; the only other customers in the place at the moment were a handful of tourist couples and a few locals, businessmen, to judge by their sober clothes, none of whom would interest the girl, or who would have the guts to approach her after that performance in the water a few moments earlier.

One of her long, bare legs was twitching impatiently. Every few seconds she fluffed out her wet hair, drying it in the sun; from where I sat I could see copper highlights appearing in the black velvet, and each time she raised her hands her breasts were outlined starkly against the clinging fabric of her shift. I looked away; the last thing I needed was that kind of distraction. Besides, I told myself, she was probably a high-class call girl on an afternoon off, looking for reassurance. I checked the rest of the taverna more closely and concluded with no immodesty that I was the best prospect in sight.

I checked my watch, then the rapidly falling sun out over the sea. Both told me it was getting late, and I wondered when my contact was going to show up.

She was getting to her feet, a gold-tipped cigarette dangling from her lips. For a moment she stood, surveying the quayside street as though she were looking for something, then turned and walked, still barefoot, into the dim interior of the taverna. As she passed my table she smiled vaguely, not quite looking at me.