The thought of this, of jail, being caged like a bird, made Jason’s heart thud in his chest. He’d do anything to prevent it. He felt so afraid, like a little boy—he wanted to cry his eyes out. But he didn’t.
Instead, he propped up the gun against a column. He bent down, reached around Kate’s waist—and pulled her to her feet.
He leaned forward, and kissed her on the lips.
“Don’t,” Kate whispered. “Don’t.”
She tried to pull away but he didn’t let her. Jason kissed her again.
This time, Kate let him.
While they kissed, Jason had a funny feeling—a kind of sixth sense, perhaps?—that they were being observed.
Is it Nikos? Is he watching us?
Jason pulled away for a second—and looked around. But no one was there. Just the trees, and the earth. And the sun, of course—white, dazzling, burning in the sky.
It blinded him to look at it.
17
Almost immediately, the weather began to change.
The sun disappeared behind a cloud, casting us into a gloomy half-light. And the wind, which had been picking up all day, first as a whisper, and now as a wail, began rushing at us, in a rage, across the water; tearing along the ground, shaking bushes and shrubs, rattling spiky cactus leaves, making the branches of the trees sway and creak.
We had planned to venture out to Mykonos, for dinner at Yialos restaurant. Agathi warned against it, on account of the wind, but we decided to go anyway. Jason insisted he’d taken the speedboat out in worse weather than this. Even so, I was feeling a little uneasy, and before we headed out into that dark and windy night, I thought I’d have a stiff drink—for Dutch courage, you could say.
I went into the living room. I examined the drinks cabinet, although calling it a cabinet was an understatement.
What a beautiful, perfectly stocked bar. It had everything you needed—shakers, spoons, whisks, and all kinds of paraphernalia; expensive spirits and mixers; limes, lemons, olives—a fridge for wine and a little freezer for ice. With such perfect ingredients, how could I resist making a martini?
I have strict ideas, you know, about how a martini should be made. Controversially, I prefer vodka, not gin. It must be ice-cold, and extremely dry. Vermouth originated in Milan; and No?l Coward once famously quipped that the nearest a martini should ever get to vermouth was a wave of the glass in the general direction of Italy. I agree, and I was careful to add only a drop or two, for the merest whisper of vermouth. This was an excellent vermouth, fortunately—French, not Italian—and kept chilled in the fridge, as it should be.
Then I opened a bottle of vodka. I threw some ice into the cocktail shaker and got to work. A few moments later, I poured out the thick, icy white liquid into a small triangular glass. I plunged a silver cocktail stick into an olive, delicately placed it in the drink; then I held it up to the light and admired it.
It was indeed the perfect martini. I congratulated myself. I was about to bring it to my lips—when I stopped, distracted by the oddest sight.
Behind me, reflected in the mirrored door of the cocktail cabinet, I saw Leo—creeping past the living room door—holding an armful of guns.
I put down my drink and went to the door. I peered out.
Leo was carrying the guns to the end of the passage. He went up to the large wooden chest on the floor by the kitchen door. With one hand, he opened the chest. Then he carefully lowered the guns into the chest. He handled them distastefully, as if they stank. He closed the lid.
Leo stood there for a moment, contemplating his efforts. He looked pleased. Then he sauntered off, whistling to himself.
I hesitated. Then I left the living room. I went along the passage, to check the room that Jason called his “gun room.” It was a fairly useless room, near the back door; previously a boot room, for muddy shoes and umbrellas—which, in this dry climate, was rarely used. Jason had cleared it out, installing gun racks, and kept his hunting paraphernalia there. He had three or four guns—including a rifle, a semiautomatic shotgun, and a couple of handguns.
All the gun racks were empty.
I let out a silent laugh. Jason wouldn’t like that at all. He would flip out. As much as I relished the prospect, I knew I couldn’t leave it like this. I wondered whether I should tell Lana. I decided to mull it over while I had my cocktail.
I went back to the living room—and returned to my perfect martini. But, having lost its chill, the martini was disappointingly warm.
Rather a letdown, in fact.
18
On the way to the restaurant, the atmosphere on the boat was strained.