‘Salamis, yes – well worth a gander . . . and if you fancy a swim we have three bathing beaches with a guard with a Sten at the ends of each, just to be on the safe side.’
‘Probably the best beaches on the island?’
‘Yes, just about – now I come to think about it.’
‘And the Cypriots aren’t allowed to use them, I assume?’
‘That’s right. Why d’ye ask?’
‘Because it was that sort of thing that got us tossed out of Egypt. We never learn.’
‘You’d rather be getting shot at, I suppose?’
‘No, I’d rather be back in Blighty, sitting outside a pub in the sunshine sipping a decent pint of bitter looking down the dress of a farmer’s daughter.’ I asked him, ‘Do you want me to wait for my relief?’
‘No, neither the twain shall meet – master’s orders. Anyway, your man’s outside with your carriage – been waiting ten minutes already. Have a good weekend.’ He beamed his sunny smile, and turned his attention to the papers on his desk. He smiled at them as well. I knew it then – another halfwit.
Pat Tobin ferried me back to my hut, where I had a quick shave and shower and changed into a clean, pressed set of KDs care of the invisible laundry service. Pete’s things were still neatly stacked at the end of his bunk – we’d met for supper once. He hadn’t told me what sort of deal he was doing over here, and I hadn’t asked. He’d tell me if the time came. Pat came back for me half an hour later, similarly spruced. The bastards didn’t actually think I was going to lock myself up in Fort Watson for four days, did they? We headed for Famagusta.
We left his transport in Yassine’s yard, and headed for a café bar a block away. Pat stopped half a dozen times on the way to glad-hand, or exchange jokes with, locals he knew. All men.
‘These are Turks, I take it?’ I asked him.
‘Sure. TCs. Friendlies . . . well, most of ’em, anyway.’
‘How do you tell the difference between them and the Greeks?’
‘They talk Turkish, of course.’
‘So a Greek Cyp talking Turkish could fool you?’
‘Yeah, I suppose. But he wouldn’t fool these guys.’
In the café we got into a heavy argument about Miss World with a group of hard-looking middle-aged men, all of whom were going for the moustache of the year award. Money changed hands. I managed to get an each-way bet on the girl from Cuba. Pat said it was a fix, and was taking money against Miss Venezuela.
These guys were drinking an aniseed drink identical in all respects to the Greek juice Watson had served me in his office. It had been invented in Turkey, they told me, and stolen by the Greeks. Their heavily accented English was more than adequate for the usual men’s conversation about dames, football teams, or for whom Fangio and Hawthorn were going to drive next year, and by the time they blew I had added a few Turkish words to my vocabulary as well. Later Tobin warned me, ‘Watch yourself when you’re around these guys – they’re heavies. They support the Turkish resistance to EOKA, and they’ll try to get you into a fight with some Greeks. Then they’ll accidentally slit a few Greek throats as they rescue you, and a riot will break out.’
‘How much did you take against the Venezuelan girl not winning?’
‘Too much. I gotta lay some off.’
‘How will you get anyone to do that? She’s not fancied.’
‘Go into a bar on Murder Mile, and tell them the Turks are all betting against her. I’ll get buried in her instant supporters putting money on her to win. You ever ate kebabs?’
‘No. What are they?’
‘Meat pieces on skewers. You put them in a flat bread envelope. Tonight’s your night to discover Turkish meat cooking.’
When we got back to Tony’s, Collins was up at the bar on a high bar stool with Steve. There was a vacant seat between them, and I slid onto it. Steve said, ‘Where have you been, sailor? I been waiting an hour . . . don’t expect me to do that again.’
‘Sorry, love, I didn’t know you cared.’ I supposed she’d recognized Pat’s wagon in the forecourt.
‘I don’t,’ she told me, ‘but a customer’s a customer, in both my language and yours. I don’t let go of you that easily.’ Then she began to laugh. So did Collins. So did I. The bottles of Keo began to do the rounds – Pat found David, and asked him when the dancing girls were coming on. Two musicians in traditional dress emerged from a corner and struck up a tune. It was going to be a decent night.
I awoke in her room again at about three. She yawned, and woke up at the same time. I lit one of her American cigarettes, Luckies I think, and we shared it. We still hadn’t exchanged a word. Then I broke the spell.
‘We’re getting on all right together, you and I, aren’t we?’
Nothing. A stream of tobacco smoke climbing away.
Then, ‘Don’t know what you’re getting at, Charlie.’
‘I’m telling you that I feel comfortable with you and trying to say thank you.’
‘Nothing sloppy?’
‘Nothing sloppy, Steve. I’ll warn you in advance before I say anything sloppy.’
‘You do that.’
I leaned on one elbow, looked down at her and ran a couple of verses of ‘Careless Love Blues’ in my head. I couldn’t work out whose version I liked best, Bessie Smith’s or Neva Raphaello’s. I think the Dutchwoman just had the edge.
‘I love this time in the morning,’ Stephanie said. And then, ‘You don’t want to go back to sleep just yet, do you?’ She reached up suddenly, looped an arm around my neck and kissed the bottom of my ear. Then she whispered, ‘Don’t think because I’m in
