The Angry Hills - Leon Uris [5]
Heilser’s face reddened and a frown showed the crow’s feet etched deeply in the corners of his eyes. “An American—what American?”
“We made a routine check,” Zervos said. “The man is a writer—a small writer of no consequence—by name, Michael Morrison. His visa is quite in order. He is here to settle an estate. The bank bears this out. There is some nine thousand American dollars in his name. By appearances, Stergiou is doing the necessary legal work to transfer the money.”
The pounding in Heilser’s chest slowed. “Not getting a little jumpy—eh, Zervos?”
“Perhaps—perhaps not. We’ve no reason to suspect the man.”
Heilser walked to the window and stared down at the alley. A mist was beginning to fall. “Go on.”
“There is nothing more to say. He has a plane out for London in the morning. He stays at a hotel in Kifissia.”
“Yes—yes...” Heilser mumbled half to himself. “It would be like Wilken and Soutar to pass off the list. A neutral above suspicion... Their plane at Tatoi a blind...”
The record ended.
Heilser shut off the machine, picked up the record and began to toy with it. Then he placed it gently on the dresser and stood frozen. The cigarette between his fingers burned down until he felt its heat on his fingers. He opened his fingers and watched the burning butt fall to the floor. With the ball of his foot he squashed the butt, then ground it into powder.
THREE
MORRISON WAS COMPLETELY UNAWARE of the tall thin blond man wearing a New Zealand uniform who picked up his trail the instant he left the attorney’s mansion. Nor was he aware of the half dozen pairs of eyes focused upon the house from points of observation nearby. Mike walked through the plush Kolonaki sector toward Concord Square across town, drawing his topcoat about his neck against the mist.
Concord Square was filled with the usual midafternoon crowd either scurrying to and from the subway or settled in the many coffee houses to argue the day away. The flower stalls were a blaze of color that helped offset the drizzly overcast.
He stopped to find his bearings and immediately fell prey to one of those sidewalk shoeshine hustlers who have the knack of spotting an American a mile away. The tall blond man in New Zealand uniform took up his vigil from a sidewalk table at one of the coffee houses.
The earlier undercurrent of tension was more perceptible, Morrison thought. Although the chatter was foreign, he could still deduce from snatches of conversation around him that the British were going to withdraw from Athens. People walked as if in a stupor and their faces betrayed a mixture of fear and confusion and disbelief.
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