The Angry Hills - Leon Uris [34]
He spun away from the window in anger. He had allowed himself to be lulled into a fool’s paradise. He was angry because he knew, deep inside him, that he did not want to leave Paleachora. Yes, Paleachora had become like an irresistible lure.
But in his nightmare the names of seventeen men had rumbled through his mind in the form of a roaring train and the click clack of the wheels said—Dr. Harry Thackery—Dr. Harry Thackery—Dr. Harry Thackery. Suddenly the train was in San Francisco Bay enshrouded in fog and he heard the voices of his children, Jay and Lynn, call in desperation from the water, “Daddy—Daddy—Daddy...”
Mike Morrison was trapped in heaven and he was angry. Christos hadn’t fully played out his hand, but Mike surmised what was coming. Without the help of Christos, Mike was powerless unless he was willing to risk a walk of two hundred kilometers to Athens. Strange land, no travel pass, no personal papers, no friends. The odds would be crushing. Too crushing a risk for the Stergiou list. On the other hand, he could not press Christos into unfriendliness.
There was still another part of Mike’s dream. A far-off chorus whispering, “They’ll find you—they’ll find you—they’ll find you...” Mike was frightened. He knew full well that each day in Paleachora brought Heilser closer. The German was not sleeping either and sooner or later a trail would bring him to the village.
Mike thought it through carefully and decided to give Christos another few days to calm down from this evening’s fencing. Then he’d have to press Christos, even at the risk of daring the journey to Athens by foot.
He looked from the window once more to the stable where Eleftheria slept. Then he climbed into the huge bed over the oven and pulled up the covers. He lay on his back and stared at the blackness and heard the sounds of Melpo and Christos snoring. He could not sleep.
Konrad Heilser sipped his Scotch and water and lit another cigarette. The fat Greek, Zervos, sat next to him, rumpled and drowsy. Heilser looked across the broad polished table at the defiant fisherman named Maxos.
Maxos glared back at Heilser. His bulging muscles rippled through a tight-knit navy-blue sweater. His massive arms were almost black from years of whipping winds and burning sun. His face was square and hard and his hair fell in black ringlets and from his right ear hung a small circular gold earring.
Maxos was angry because he had been snatched from his boat by Zervos on the Isle of Kea. He could not fish and he could not drink krasi. Maxos did not care whether Mr. Heilser found whom he was looking for or—or if he did not find whom he was looking for. For Maxos was half fish, and away from his boat he was a fish out of water.
“All right,” Heilser said. “Tell me the story once more.”
“I have already told it fifty times,” Maxos grumbled.
“I want to hear it again,” Heilser said.
Maxos sighed. “I can go to my boat then?”
“Perhaps.”
Maxos grumbled again. “I was in a waterfront saloon in Nauplion drinking and minding my own business. I had just returned with a catch of fine fish. A man should mind his own business.”
Heilser ignored the rebuff. He was more interested that Maxos was in the saloon the same night Morrison jumped the prison train near Nauplion.
“A man was at the next table to me, drinking. He was minding his own business, too.”
“You say you do not know who this man was?”
“I had seen him before about four months ago in the same saloon. He was a crewman from a boat that came from Larissa Province. He was dressed like a Larissa farmer and spoke with that accent too.”
“You did not meet this man personally?”
“I tell you I did not. I tell you so a hundred times I did not. How many times you want me to tell you I did not?”
“Continue with your story.”
“As I said—his boat came once before. Four months ago.”
“What do you know about this boat?”
“Only that it was trading grain and tobacco and many other things, probably stolen. I do not trade with such people.”
“How do you know about this boat?”
“From people around the