The Angry Hills - Leon Uris [62]
He looked into the cold eyes of a German officer. Mike reached to the ground and picked up the German’s hat and bowed and apologized for bumping him in the crowd.
“Greek swine!”
“Efharisto!” Mike said and bowed again and edged away.
Café Andreas.
The sidewalk tables were nearly filled. Germans and their girls mostly. The sound of music reached Mike’s ears. At a nearby table three Americans chatted.
There were hardly any Greek men about. Mike felt conspicuous and half-naked as he edged into a table near the curb. A waiter looked at him unhappily. Greeks were not welcome, Mike thought. He ordered a bottle of krasi and sat rigid, afraid to look to the right or the left. He took a long swig of wine, trying to relax.
Nine o’clock.
A streetwalker slinked past Mike’s table and gave him the once over. She walked on in search of a more likely prospect. He poured another glass of krasi and drank it quickly.
Five past nine.
Ten past nine.
He was getting jumpy. Another glass of wine. The wine started to take hold. Mike looked over at the big clock. He’d give Nico just five minutes more to show up, then he’d leave.
“May I sit down?”
A hog-fat man was already pushing his way into a chair opposite Mike. He wore a ridiculous-looking panama squarely on the top of his head; his over-sized face looked like an English mastiff’s. In one hand he balanced a dish of black olives and in the other, a drink. He popped an olive into his tiny mouth which was a slit between layers of hanging jowls. His eyes, too, were slits and seemed to stay open only with the greatest effort above two deep pouches. His suit was of a wrinkled white summer cloth.
“I am expecting someone,” Mike said in Greek.
“Nico will not be here. He was—er—delayed.”
The man spoke like an American. He lit a cigarette which seemed to get lost in his gargantuan face. He puffed slowly, eyeing Mike. Mike arose to move.
“I wouldn’t go, if I were you. One outcry from me and you’d never get off the sidewalk.”
Mike gulped down a glass of krasi in two swallows. The man cracked his knuckles and spoke again in an asthmatic wheeze. “You are a British escapee, is that not correct?”
Mike remained silent.
“You are, no doubt, in the market for a fast-moving boat for Egypt. Perhaps I could be of some assistance.”
“I am a Greek citizen. I do not know what you are talking about.”
“My dear fellow, I’ve been a correspondent in this country for twelve years. I know a Greek when I see one.”
“All right—so I’m British.”
“Now then, that’s better.”
The man lifted his fingers and beckoned the waiter for another bottle of krasi. Mike looked around for a means of escape. There was none. The place swarmed with Germans.
“Now then,” he said, “I take it you would like to take leave of this pleasant little country.”
“What’s your game?” Mike snapped.
“Game? My dear fellow, I am Julius Chesney, foreign correspondent for the New York Star Bulletin. Have you ever read my reports? They are very illuminating. They are carried in the London Times.”
“I’m a New Zealander.”
“Good. I like New Zealanders, stout fellows.” He smacked his lips on another olive and dug his fingers into his mouth to locate the pit. The krasi arrived. “Just say it is a little avocation of mine. I take pleasure in helping you boys.”
“I’m listening. I have no choice.”
“Suppose I told you I was in contact with the captain of an unusually fast boat who knew the mine fields and the patrol schedules and the way to North Africa.”
“Suppose you did.”
“How much value would you place on it?”
“I have no idea.”
“Is it worth—er—say three million to hit a nice round figure?”
“I don’t have that kind of money.”
“Small matter. It just so happens I also know of a lovely Greek family who would be most happy to underwrite your passage.”
“Look, Chesney. I’ve heard about your little racket. You produce me to some Greek family, collect your money for my passage and the boat never