The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 33
‘You’re sure that that’s their yacht?’ asked Bennet, taking the binoculars from Vasilakis.
‘Certain,’ answered the Cretan, checking his phone. ‘My man in the harbour authority saw them boarding the yacht not more than twenty minutes ago. Her name is the Black Sea Princess, and she is registered in Cyprus with a company called Black Sea Holdings. I’ve run a check. It’s a St Petersburg-based front company. Dirty, rotten business by all accounts. Tentacles in Africa, the Balkans, conflict diamonds, arms dealing, you name it. It’s owned by Nahrapov, all right.’
‘St Petersburg?’ asked Newton. ‘We have anyone there?’
‘The Russian branches?’ asked Eric. ‘They’re far too busy dodging the security services.’
‘We need to get down there,’ said Bennet. ‘Can we rustle up a boat?’
‘Oh, many, many boats,’ answered Vasilakis. ‘Too many. The festival is still on, so the harbour is full to the bursting. Choice will not be an issue. Manning it will be, though. Are you a nautical man, Dr Barlow?’
‘Me?’ asked Newton. ‘Er … no.’
Vasilakis glanced around him, only to be greeted with at least five shrugs. ‘Anyone?’
‘Can’t be that hard,’ offered Bennet.
‘Issa pirate any good?’ said Enrico smugly.
*****
The harbour at Chania was, as Vasilakis had stated, rammed with ships. There were three-masted sailing ships the length of a football pitch, sleek executive cruisers resembling training shoes, Greek navy minesweepers, racing catamarans and colourful barques.
‘Oh, come on,’ protested Newton, looking apprehensively at the Greek trireme. ‘Why that one?’
‘Is only one with no crew aboard,’ explained Vasilakis.
‘And … it’s at the end of the berth,’ added Bennet, ‘which means we can get it out easily. Not ideal, I grant you, but it’s something.’
‘Seriously?’ asked Viv. ‘It’s a bloody antique!’
‘It’s a replica!’ added Newton.
‘Technically, it’s a warship,’ said Bennet, ‘a weapon of war … is always a bonus.’
‘We’re not fighting the Spartans, dammit,’ snapped Newton. ‘Why can’t we … for once, do something the normal way? For God’s sake, look at it; it has oars!’
‘My men take the oars,’ Papadraylou stated. ‘They are as strong as oxen.’
‘Of course, they are,’ said Newton, looking at the hotchpotch of bearded monks. ‘But … oars!’
‘Anda da sail. I used to be da sailor, remember?’ Enrico reminded him. ‘A pirate, actually. Giva me an hour or so; I’m sure it will alla come back.’
‘Will it now?’ sighed Newton, shaking his head and closing his eyes as he ran his hands through his ravaged quiff. ‘This is getting better and better by the minute.’
‘No point in debating it,’ insisted Bennet. ‘They are sailing merrily away while we stand here chinwagging. Every second we waste is one second more for them. It’s now or never.’
Newton put his hands on his hips, then took an intense breath, which he held while he looked down at his dusty boots. When nothing in the way of an alternative came into his once beautiful mind, he puffed out his cheeks and let it go.
‘Get on the bloody boat.’
The Purgatorians filed up the thin gangplank onto the trireme Olympias.
‘Ok. We’re aboard,’ declared Newton. ‘… Now what?’
‘I change ma clothes,’ announced Enrico.
‘What?
Enrico’s burgundy outfit morphed into a quilted silk tunic of shimmering blue with matching velvet, ermine-lined cloak, leather boots and belt with silver buckle.
‘So whadda you think?’
‘Very dapper,’ replied Newton. ‘Whatever floats your boat. I hate to interrupt your wardrobe change but we have a mission here. What next?’
‘We need to casta off,’ stated Enrico. ‘That’s usually da first step. It’sa lot simpler than my old carrack. Justa da one sail … simples. Bennet … getta da monks onna da oars anda waita for my orders.’
‘Aye, aye,’ replied Bennet, pointing the monks below.
Five minutes later, everyone was in place. The moorings were slipped, and the trireme was loose.
‘Ok,’ said Enrico, as she drifted slowly away from her berth. ‘Very steady now, giva me da little bit of da rowing onna da right.’
‘Little on the right … aye,’ answered Bennet, trying to sound nautical.
‘Right … a little,’ echoed Vasilakis to his men from below.
Oars slipped from hands. Some rowers slid from their seats with the effort, while others on the right thought they were on the left, leading to a horrendous crashing and splashing that caused lights to flick on in the nearby yachts.
The Olympias went nowhere.
‘Oh dear me,’ said Bennet. ‘Not a good start.’
‘We could always use the engine?’ suggested Gabby.
‘Dere’s an engine?’ asked Enrico.
‘There is,’ replied Newton, looking over the dashboard. ‘Plus a classical Greek GPS … and an Etruscan radar set.’
‘Excellent!’ exclaimed the former pirate, taking the rudder. ‘Pull da oars in, anda fire her up!’
Newton pressed the oversized red button, and instantly, the deck began to vibrate beneath them.
The Olympias was ready to go.
‘Isn’t someone going to notice we’re taking her?’ asked Viv, as the trireme began to creep away.
‘Not immediately,’ answered Vasilakis. ‘Our people in the harbour office will see to that. There will be questions later, yes. Is not ideal. We catch these dogs … then we sort out the paperwork.’
Throbbing softly from its modest engine, the Olympias edged out into the narrow channel and away from the busy marina. Stealthily, she slipped past the old Venetian lighthouse guarding the harbour … and into open water.
‘Ok,’ said Newton, looking back at the receding lights of the waterfront. ‘We’re out. Now what?’
‘The harbourman, he say they went east,’ answered Vasilakis. ‘This Russian, I think he head for Cyprus. That’s where he’s come from.’
‘Makes sense,’ nodded Newton.
A huge grin appeared across the former pirate’s time-worn features as an old fire reignited in his belly.
‘East it is,’ said the one-time Admiral of Malta, heaving the tiller hard over.
Chapter 26
All At Sea
The Black Sea Princess, Nahrapov’s superyacht, steamed fast across the Aegean on the clearest of nights, phosphorescing plankton in a trail behind her as she headed east for Cyprus beneath a blanket of stars.
The oligarch, content that he had left the Purgatorians far behind, retired to his cabin with his concubine, intent on a rather basic form of relief, with Dima Matsigura and his gunmen left to keep watch. Nahrapov had got through the best part of two bottles of vodka and a duty-free box of Marlboros before he’d so much as taken his socks off.
Dr Kraakenhausen, his repossessed grandfather and his daughter had been roughly incarcerated in the guest cabin, while what was left of the crusading knights had been sent down to the kitchen stores to cool off. Andronicus the Terrible, still tasked with caring for the blind Cretan, had meanwhile been handcuffed to railings at the bow, along with his charge.
‘I like this Russian,’ declared Andronicus. ‘He’s got that certain … something.’
‘Has he?’ asked the blind man. ‘Odd that you like him so much, given that he had you beaten like a dog not four hours hence.’
‘Oh, that,’ said Andronicus dismissively, nursing his near-broken jaw. ‘That was nothing. He had to do that, really, to command respect.’
‘Well, he certainly has the trappings of power,’ remarked the blind man. ‘This fine ship, the private army ….’
‘Exactly,’ agreed Andronicus. ‘I mean, even the men who beat me up were wearing gold. Total class.’
‘Maybe this Russian has enough power to influence a kingdom,’ mused the old man. ‘Ruthless, self-serving; he has the feel of a kingmaker.’
‘I used to be like that,’ mused Andronicus. ‘I was utterly ruthless, let me tell you. I had the whole empire eating out of my hand.’
‘You want this power again,’ observed the old man, placing his hand upon Andronicus’s arm. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Damn right, I do,’ replied Andronicus, eyes afire. ‘I was born to have power. Can’t you tell just by looking at me?’
‘I’m blind,’ replied the Cretan. ‘So no.’
‘Oh yeah … right.’
‘You do not like this body,’ declared the blind man, feeling Andronicus’s face.
‘Are you serious?!’ snorted Andronicus, pushing away the bony fingers. ‘I was way better looking than this. Even after I’d been torn apart by a mob for three days, I was still a looker. What kind of loser did this body come from? I mean, feel that arm; it’s so … weedy! Given a chance, I’d be out of this sickly frame and into a man with some proper balls.’
‘Like the Russian?’
‘Yes!’ exclaimed Andronicus. ‘Exactly like that.’
‘If I said, that you could do exactly that,’ whispered the blind man conspiratorially, ‘what would you say?’
‘I’d say … where do I sign?’ answered Andronicus, without hesitation. ‘That’s what I’d say.
‘T’is nothing,’ said the blind man casually. ‘I can do this.’
‘You can?’ asked Andronicus, sitting bolt upright. ‘How? Are you some kind of sorcerer?’
‘In a way. Primarily, though, I am a keeper of stories. I travelled far and wide to tell them and picked up many unconventional skills along the way. Useful skills. Very useful.’ He tapped himself upon his withered temple, producing a sound not unlike colliding billiard balls. ‘I remember … everything.’
‘Well, well, well. This is a turn-up for the books. I had you written off as a coffin-dodger. No offence.’
‘None taken,’ replied the blind man. ‘The old are invisible. It has its uses.’
‘I suppose it would have,’ shrugged Andronicus.
‘We will need to make the conditions right for such a conversion,’ continued the Cretan. ‘We will need an audience with this Russian, ideally … alone.’
‘Oh well, that’s us buggered, then,’ sighed Andronicus. ‘They’d never let you just walk into his cabin, let alone use your wizardry on him. They’ll run us through before you get a word out. Look how they treat the Kraakenhausens. We are below even that. I am surprised we haven’t been done in already.’
‘That is because they do not know who we are. Which is how we need it to be. At least for now.’
‘Go on.’
‘This Russian,’ continued the old man. ‘He is keen to impress his superiors, is he not?’
‘He is?’ enquired Andronicus. ‘I thought he was pretty superior himself.’
‘Wrong!’ corrected the old man. ‘He is not nearly superior enough. Of course, he isn’t. Men who seek power are never satisfied. They always want more. There are always people higher than the loftiest, making them feel smaller the bigger they get.’
‘Well,’ admitted Andronicus, feeding from his own dubious experiences. ‘S’pose.’
‘What, then,’ the Cretan went on, ‘could give him more power than information?’
‘Er … what information?’ asked Andronicus. ‘About what?’
‘The Purgatorians, of course. This “consortium” he belongs to. They want to destroy the Purgatorians; that much is clear. They desire to totally smite those smug keepers of secrets.’
‘They really do,’ agreed Andronicus. ‘And having been caged by those puffed-up little do-gooders for the best part of a thousand years, so would I.’
‘Park your dark desires for now,’ chided the Cretan. ‘Your time for revenge will come. For now, you must focus on the means … and not the end.’
‘Oh, ok then,’ sighed Andronicus. ‘So, what’s the next step?’
‘My plan … is to offer this Russian the means to damage these very Purgatorians. I will promise him the means to strike such a blow that these Purgatorians will never recover. Would he not take it? Of course, he would. He will be compelled to talk with us.’
‘Can you actually do that?’ asked Andronicus, still excited by the idea of lashing out at his former tormentors. ‘Or are you pretending?’
‘I can’t, no. Not … yet,’ admitted the Greek. ‘But for now, anyway, I don’t need to. I merely need to make him think that I can. We lay the bait, gain our audience, then, once we are close enough, I perform my ritual upon him.’
‘It’s certainly cunning,’ said Andronicus admiringly. ‘In my experience, the more cunning you are, the more you get away with. I’m super cunning myself. That’s how I became so powerful back in the day.’
‘You’re not powerful now,’ observed the blind man. ‘Are you?’
‘No,’ huffed Andronicus, pulling sadly at his handcuff. ‘I’m not. Things didn’t go so well for me towards the end. If I’ve got one fault, it’s that I’m far better at gaining power than I am at keeping it.’
‘Admitting you have a problem,’ added the blind man sagely, ‘is half the battle.’
‘Well,’ said Andronicus, ‘I’ve had centuries to mull it over, and I think I’ve cracked it now. I’ll be far better at it this time around.’
‘You died … and you were reborn. It sharpens the mind.’
‘Died?’ snorted Andronicus, his bile rising. ‘And some. I wasn’t just executed like a normal despot. Oh, no. I was tortured, spat at, urinated on, then stabbed, then –’
‘Yes, yes,’ winced the blind man, ‘I get the picture.’
‘¬– and they pulled my beard off!’
‘Yes, … yes, … I see.’
‘And …,’ continued Andronicus indignantly, the spittle flecking the old man’s features like light rain, ‘they had me ride around on a mangy camel for a whole day, taking abuse from beggars and strumpets. They didn’t finish me off for a day and a half! Does that sound like the proper way to execute a truly great man?’
‘Maybe you’re not meant for power,’ shrugged the old man.
‘I AM!’ snapped Andronicus. ‘Look, granddad. I’ve made my fair share of mistakes; I admit that. But I’ve learned from them.’ Andronicus the Terrible sat back. ‘You know, I really think I’ve grown as a person.’
‘Really? Because it would be a shame if you took over this Russian and you hadn’t. I could easily find someone better.’
‘Easily? No!’ protested Andronicus the Terrible. ‘I’m your man … really. I’m good for this. Let me off the leash, I beg thee. You won’t be disappointed.’
‘You are sure?’ asked the blind man, once again fumbling his fingers over Andronicus’ treacherous face.
‘One hundred and ten percent,’ declared Andronicus, as his features were pulled and prodded.
‘As you wish,’ said the Cretan, finally withdrawing his hand. ‘Then I begin.’
With that, the blind old man proceeded to loudly shout, so startling Andronicus that he instinctively and unsuccessfully tried to hush him.
‘YOU THERE!’ screamed the old man. ‘I NEED TO SPEAK WITH YOU!’
‘Shhh. What are you doing?’ whispered Andronicus. ‘Stop!’
But he didn’t stop. Rising still louder, the blind man’s reedy voice echoed across the deck until, finally, it reached Dima and his men, watching a football game on an iPad in the wheelhouse.
‘For God’s sake,’ said a bull-nosed Russian, annoyed at the interruption. ‘What does that old bastard want?’
‘You there!’ wailed the old man. ‘Come to me at once. I must talk with you!’
‘What you want, old man?’ barked Dima, reluctantly coming to investigate. ‘Better be important, or you and your boyfriend can go for a swim.’
‘I need to speak with your leader,’ demanded the blind man. ‘I have something to tell him. Something he will want to know.’
‘Tell me,’ ordered Dima.
‘What I have to say is for your leader’s ears alone,’ insisted the blind man. ‘Tell him I know things about these Purgatorians. Big things.’
‘Such as?’ demanded the gunman.
‘I know of a great weakness,’ declared the Cretan. ‘He will want to know of it.’
‘Why should I believe you, you old fool?’ snorted Dima.
‘Was it not I who found the Labyrinth?’ replied the blind man. ‘Is that not worthy of note? Yes, I found the Labyrinth, and I can find many more such things. Things that your leader and his superiors will be most aggrieved to have missed out upon. If you choose to ignore me, then so be it. You can explain later to your leader how you dismissed me … when it will be too late.’
‘Too late?’ asked Dima, his fear of Nahrapov’s violent disapproval slipping him onto the hook.
‘Of course. The information I possess is time-sensitive. In a few days … poof, it will be useless. Then, this fleeting opportunity to deal the Purgatorians a decisive blow … will be gone. And then, it will be down to you and your disbelief that this moment will have been lost.’
‘A few days?’ wondered Dima cautiously. ‘Really?’
‘Most definitely!’ continued the blind man. ‘The Purgatorians are moving fast to cover up the mysteries below Crete. In less than forty-eight hours, nothing will be left there but dust.’
‘What do you know?’ demanded Dima. ‘Tell me.’
‘I know where they have moved their operations,’ answered the blind man. ‘That is all I will say to you.’
‘Which is … where?’ demanded Dima again, pulling out a pistol, cocking it loudly to ensure the blind man could hear it
‘You cannot threaten me,’ laughed the blind man. ‘I am too old to be scared of your cheesy violence. What I know is for your leader alone. Only he will know what to do with it’
‘You’re really good at this,’ murmured Andronicus admiringly. ‘Hat’s off.’
‘Shhhhh,’ whispered the old man back at him. ‘I’m working.’
