Argylle by Elly Conway

Author:Elly Conway [Conway, Elly]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-01-04T00:00:00+00:00

30

THE TAXI CRESTS A CRAG AND NOW ARGYLLE CAN MAKE OUT THE inky sea lapping around the base of the cliffs ahead. But there is still a long way to go as the path zigs and zags, avoiding olive trees and sheer, vertiginous drops, down to the coast. As they descend towards the tiny port, protected by rocks on three sides, where the dinghy awaits with Martin Casner at the helm, there comes the wail of sirens and Argylle spots the glow of lights approaching in the distance, skirting the base of the mountain off to the right.

There’s silence while they all perform the same calculation, realizing they can just make it.

A screech of brakes. The driver, who has been glancing nervously in the rear-view mirror this whole time, has come to an abrupt halt and is gesturing wildly behind him. Glancing over, Argylle sees that the peak of Erin Quinn’s cap has been knocked askew and a tendril of long hair has come loose. Argylle has no idea how much time has passed since the man last saw a woman, but the expression of abject horror on his face suggests it’s not inconsiderable. He starts shouting at them and gesturing at them to get out. Argylle understands only snatches of what he’s saying, but it’s not hard to guess. Taking a bribe to help out some rule-breaking pilgrims is one thing, but betraying a thousand-year tradition and one of the Mount’s most fundamental and deeply held beliefs is something else entirely. Instant loss of livelihood, perhaps trouble with the police. And that’s without factoring in the wrath of God.

Wyatt flings open his door. Before the driver has a chance to react he has been dragged from the car and Wyatt has taken his place. He reaches for the ignition.

‘Dammit. That asshole has the keys.’

‘No time,’ says Argylle, reaching over Quinn to throw open the back door. ‘We have to make a run for it.’

And now they are all out of the van and scrambling down the hillside, through dense, prickly scrubland and thick bushes, thrusting aside the branches of the trees. They can see the lights from the vehicles approaching down the hill. Two long white SUVs with police insignia and sirens on the top are already bumping mercilessly along the twisting road.

Argylle’s eyes rake the shoreline as he makes his descent, half running, half tumbling. Three times a week a speedboat belonging to the Mount Athos authorities calls in to this secluded port, dropping off adventurous pilgrims heading for the remote Katunakia monastery, but at night it is deathly quiet. He can hear an owl calling in a nearby tree. But mostly what he can hear is the sirens getting closer.

Ahead, Wyatt stops.

‘You gotta flash your light, Casner,’ he says into the walkie-talkie.

‘Are you crazy?’ comes Casner’s answer. ‘They’ll see me.’

‘They already know where we’re heading. You gotta let us see where you are.’

There is an audible sigh. And then …

‘There.’ An unmistakable flash of yellow in the black treacle sea.

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