truth. Take him with you and keep him with you until you hear from me. And Mister, if you are just an American tourist, I apologize and advise you not to walk about the streets at night alone.”
Stephanos leaped out of the car and slammed the door behind him. Instantly, he faded back into the shadows. Katerina put the car in gear and moved forward.
“The missing brother?” Brad asked.
“Yes.”
“What was that all about, back there?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to know.”
“You must have known something. You were waiting in the garage with the car.”
“Because I had word from Stephanos to meet him there in that way. He is my brother. He is all the family I have left and I am trying hard not to lose him, too.”
“Too.”
“My father and mother are dead.”
“I see.”
They drove the rest of the way in silence, turning, circling, cutting through narrow streets barely able to afford clearance for the small car. At last they came to a two storey apartment building where Katerina parked in the street and led him inside and up the stairway to her rooms. It was a tiny apartment: three small rooms and a bath. The furnishings were starkly modern. The walls were white and generously lined with bookshelves, colourful abstract paintings and one very prominent portrait of Martin Luther King. Katerina locked the door when they were inside and tossed her shoulder bag on the couch. She looked at him in the light and sighed.
“Men! Always fighting over something. Your lip is cut. Sit down somewhere and rest. I’ll get a Band-Aid.”
“All I need is a wash up.” Brad nodded at the open bathroom door. “May I?”
“Help yourself. Do you have a name?”
“Smith. Brad Smith.”
“I am called Katerina, Mr. Smith. Would you like a drink?”
“I could use one.”
He left the door open while he washed the blood off his face and hands and brushed the dirt off his knees. He could hear her fussing about in the kitchen—opening, closing the refrigerator door.
“I have no hard liquor,” she called out. “I have some wine—but no, it’s Greek wine and Americans don’t like Greek wine. How about some German beer?”
“Great!” Brad said.
He finished in the bathroom and came back to the living room, where she was carefully pouring the beer into a tall glass. “Run it along the side of the glass and it’ll have a good head of foam,” he said.
“How long have you been in Athens, Mr. Smith?” she asked.
“Since early this morning.”
“Really?” She handed him the beer. “You must think we’re a very strange people.”
“I don’t know. Once you’ve driven the Hollywood Freeway nothing seems strange.”
“And your name is really Smith?”
“I can prove it. Here’s my passport.”
He pulled the passport out of his pocket and opened it to the identification page. He was about to hand it to the girl when he noticed a small card tucked between the pages. Brooks Martins’ calling card. At the bottom of the card he had lettered in what must have been his personal telephone number. It seemed a strange thing to find and it certainly wouldn’t reassure Katerina that he had no official connections. He managed to palm it out of sight when she took the passport for examination.
“I’m a businessman,” he said. “I was in London and came down to see a friend who is in trouble.”
She returned the passport. “Private trouble?” she asked.
“Hardly. It’s in all the newspapers around the world. My friend is Rhona Brent.”
“Oh—”
She was impressed. She walked to the windows and looked out at the silent street.
“Then you are a V.I.P.,” she said. “And I offered you a cigarette.”
“A very good cigarette. Do you have another?”
“Of course.”
She was more relaxed when she came back from the window. She got the cigarettes from her bag and handed him the packet. “I feel foolish,” she said. “Stephanos said that I must keep you here for an hour.”
“I’m not
Stephanos leaped out of the car and slammed the door behind him. Instantly, he faded back into the shadows. Katerina put the car in gear and moved forward.
“The missing brother?” Brad asked.
“Yes.”
“What was that all about, back there?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to know.”
“You must have known something. You were waiting in the garage with the car.”
“Because I had word from Stephanos to meet him there in that way. He is my brother. He is all the family I have left and I am trying hard not to lose him, too.”
“Too.”
“My father and mother are dead.”
“I see.”
They drove the rest of the way in silence, turning, circling, cutting through narrow streets barely able to afford clearance for the small car. At last they came to a two storey apartment building where Katerina parked in the street and led him inside and up the stairway to her rooms. It was a tiny apartment: three small rooms and a bath. The furnishings were starkly modern. The walls were white and generously lined with bookshelves, colourful abstract paintings and one very prominent portrait of Martin Luther King. Katerina locked the door when they were inside and tossed her shoulder bag on the couch. She looked at him in the light and sighed.
“Men! Always fighting over something. Your lip is cut. Sit down somewhere and rest. I’ll get a Band-Aid.”
“All I need is a wash up.” Brad nodded at the open bathroom door. “May I?”
“Help yourself. Do you have a name?”
“Smith. Brad Smith.”
“I am called Katerina, Mr. Smith. Would you like a drink?”
“I could use one.”
He left the door open while he washed the blood off his face and hands and brushed the dirt off his knees. He could hear her fussing about in the kitchen—opening, closing the refrigerator door.
“I have no hard liquor,” she called out. “I have some wine—but no, it’s Greek wine and Americans don’t like Greek wine. How about some German beer?”
“Great!” Brad said.
He finished in the bathroom and came back to the living room, where she was carefully pouring the beer into a tall glass. “Run it along the side of the glass and it’ll have a good head of foam,” he said.
“How long have you been in Athens, Mr. Smith?” she asked.
“Since early this morning.”
“Really?” She handed him the beer. “You must think we’re a very strange people.”
“I don’t know. Once you’ve driven the Hollywood Freeway nothing seems strange.”
“And your name is really Smith?”
“I can prove it. Here’s my passport.”
He pulled the passport out of his pocket and opened it to the identification page. He was about to hand it to the girl when he noticed a small card tucked between the pages. Brooks Martins’ calling card. At the bottom of the card he had lettered in what must have been his personal telephone number. It seemed a strange thing to find and it certainly wouldn’t reassure Katerina that he had no official connections. He managed to palm it out of sight when she took the passport for examination.
“I’m a businessman,” he said. “I was in London and came down to see a friend who is in trouble.”
She returned the passport. “Private trouble?” she asked.
“Hardly. It’s in all the newspapers around the world. My friend is Rhona Brent.”
“Oh—”
She was impressed. She walked to the windows and looked out at the silent street.
“Then you are a V.I.P.,” she said. “And I offered you a cigarette.”
“A very good cigarette. Do you have another?”
“Of course.”
She was more relaxed when she came back from the window. She got the cigarettes from her bag and handed him the packet. “I feel foolish,” she said. “Stephanos said that I must keep you here for an hour.”
“I’m not
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