Solo (Aka the Cretan Lover)(1980)

by Jack Higgins

  'Is that you, Colonel? This is Keegan - Seumas Keegan.'

  'Where are you?'

  'Not far from Ballymena. I thought you'd like to know I've just taken care of Tully and Tim Pat Keogh.'

  'Permanently?'

  'As the coffin lid closing.'

  There was a silence. Morgan said, 'Now what?'

  'I'll go down South for a rest.'

  'And then?'

  'What do you think, Colonel? Once in, never out. That's what we say in the IRA, you know that. You're a good man, but you're on the wrong side entirely.'

  'I'll try to remember that next time we meet.'

  'I hope for both our sakes that never happens.'

  The phone went dead. Morgan stood there for a moment then replaced the receiver.

  'Up the Republic, Seumas Keegan,' he said softly, then turned and went back into the kitchen.

  He sat by the window, drinking his coffee, over-tired and depressed and not because he'd killed a man. There had been too many over the years for that. And he had no regrets. Ford was, after all, a murderer by profession.

  'And so are you, old son,' Morgan said softly to himself in Welsh. 'Or, at least, that's what some people might argue.'

  He thought of Kate Riley then and of what she had said. She'd been right. He was no further forward. He'd had two possible leads only. Lieselott Hoffmann and the Mausers. Both had led him only into blind alleys.

  So, what was left? The newspapers, the magazines on the table, each with a different account of the Cohen shooting. How many times had he pored over them? He pulled the Telegraph forward and once again worked his way through the relevant article.

  When he had finished, he poured another coffee and sat back. Of course, the one thing that was missing was the death of Megan in the tunnel, because the press had not been allowed to link the two events.

  There was a mention, entirely separate, treating it as an ordinary hit and run accident in which the driver of a stolen car had run down a young schoolgirl and later abandoned the vehicle in Craven Hill Gardens, Bayswater.

  It was with no particular emotion he realized that, for some reason, he hadn't actually visited the place where the Cretan had dumped the car. Not that there could be anything worth seeing. On the other hand, what else was there to do when you were at the final end of things at six o'clock on a wet, grey London morning?

  He parked the Porsche in Craven Hill Gardens, and sat there with the Geographia map book of London on his knees, open at the relevant page, tracing the course of the Cretan's wild progress that night, imagining the panic as things had started to go wrong. And when he'd dumped the car, what then?

  Morgan got out and started along the pavement, doing what seemed natural. He turned into Leinster Terrace and there only a few yards away, was the busy Bays-water Road, Kensington Gardens opposite.

  'And that's where I'd have gone in your situation, boyo,' Morgan said. 'Straight across the road, head down in the darkness and run like hell to the other side.'

  When he crossed the road, he made automatically for the nearest entrance and followed the path, passing the Round Pond on his right. In spite of the hour, there were people about, the occasional jogger in tracksuit or early-morning riser exercising a dog.

  He emerged at Queen's Gate, opposite the Albert Hall. From here, anything was possible. The underground would have been the obvious place to make for. Once on a tube train, the possibilities were endless.

  He went back across Kensington Gardens to the place where Leinster Terrace joined the Bayswater Road and paused, full of anger and frustration, unable to let go.

  'You must have gone somewhere, you bastard,' he said softly. 'But where?'

  He crossed the road and started to walk along the pavement towards Queensway. It was hopeless, of course, he knew that as he paused wearily at the Italian restaurant on the corner and lit a cigarette.

  There were a number of posters on the wall beside the main window of the restaurant. It was the pale, handsome face that caught his attention first, the dark eyes and the name Mikali in bold black type.

  He started to turn away but the coincidence made him turn again to read the poster, remembering that according to the file Baker had shown him, Mikali had been one of the celebrities present in the hotel at the Cannes Film Festival when the Cretan had shot the Italian film director for the Black Brigade.

  And then he saw the date on the poster and the time. Friday 21 July 1972, at 8.00 p.m.

  It wasn't possible, it was absolutely crazy and yet he found himself turning and hurrying back along the pavement to Leinster Terrace. He stood there for a moment, imagining the Cretan dumping the car and emerging here.

  In the far distance, he could see the dome of the Albert Hall above the trees. He crossed the road quickly and plunged into the Park.

  He went down the steps from the Albert Memorial, crossed Kensington Gore, dodging the early-morning traffic and paused outside the front entrance of the Albert Hall. There was a selection of posters on the boards, advertising various concerts and their programmes. Daniel Barenboim, Previn, Moura Lympany and John Mikali. The Vienna Philharmonic and John Mikali playing Rachmaninov's Second Piano Concerto, Friday 21 July 1972 at 8.00 p.m.

  'Oh, my God,' Morgan said aloud. 'This was where he was making for. It had to be. That's why he came through the Paddington tunnel. That's why he dumped the car in Bayswater.'

  He turned and walked away quickly.

  It was a nonsense and yet, when he got back to the flat, he started to go through those newspapers again. The facts of the Cohen shooting and Megan's death were both mentioned on different pages of the Daily Telegraph for Saturday the twenty second.

  He found the music page and there it was. A lengthy piece by the paper's critic reviewing the concert of the previous evening and a picture of the pianist alongside.

  Morgan studied it for quite some time. The handsome, serious face, the dark hair, the eyes. It was stupid, of course, but he went and got Who's Who from the bookshelf anyway and looked Mikali up. And then a couple of sentences seemed to leap right out at him - the reference to Mikali's service in the French Foreign Legion paratroopers in Algiers - and he didn't feel stupid any more.

  *

  It was just after nine when Bruno Fischer's secretary unlocked the door of his office in Golden Square and walked in. She'd hardly had time to get her coat off when the phone rang.

  'Good morning,' she said. 'Fischer Agency.'

  'Is Mr Fischer in yet?' It was a man's voice, rather deep with a touch of Welsh about it.

  She sat on the edge of the desk. 'We never see Mr Fischer much before eleven.'

  'I am right, he does represent John Mikali?'

  'Yes.'

  'My name's Lewis,' Asa Morgan told her. 'I'm a postgraduate student at the Royal College of Music doing a thesis on contemporary concert pianists. I was wondering whether Mr Mikali might be available for an interview?'

  'I'm afraid not,' she said. 'He's just had a concert in Helsinki, then flown straight to Greece on holiday. He has a villa there on Hydra.'

  'And when might you be expecting him back?'

  'He has a concert in Vienna in ten days' time, but he'd probably fly there direct from Athens. I really couldn't say when he'll be back in London and there wouldn't be any kind of guarantee that he could see you.'

  'That's a pity,' Morgan said. 'I'd hoped to be able to question him about particular cities he likes to play in. Any personal favourites and why.'

  'Paris,' she said. 'I should say he plays Paris and London more than anywhere else.'

  'And Frankfurt?' Morgan inquired. 'Has he ever played there?'

  'I should say so.'

  'Why do you say that?'

  'He was giving a concert at the university there last year when that East German minister was assassinated.'

  'Thank you,' Morgan said. 'You've been more than helpful.'

  He sat by the phone, thinking about it. There had to be something wrong. It was too
simple. And then the phone rang.

  Kate Riley said, 'Asa, I'm sorry. I was so shattered by what happened...'

  'Where are you?'

  'Back in Cambridge at New Hall.'

  'Hell of a thing happened to me this morning,' he said. 'I visited the street where the Cretan dumped the car that night, moved on foot from there, as he might have done.'

  'All supposition, of course.'

  'But it took me across Kensington Gardens to the Albert Hall. Where I noticed a poster. One of many, but more interesting than the others, advertising a concert at eight o'clock on the night Megan died.'

  'A concert?' She was aware of a coldness in her, a quickening of breath.

  'John Mikali playing Rachmaninov's Second Piano Concerto and that name struck a chord. An Italian film director called Forlani was shot dead at the Cannes Film Festival in nineteen seventy-one in his hotel by the Cretan who vanished completely in spite of the French security guards. Mikali was one of a number of famous celebrities staying in the hotel at the same time.'

  'Well?'

  'Last year, when that East German minister was killed at Frankfurt, guess who was giving a concert at the university?'

  She took a deep breath. 'Asa, this is nonsense. John Mikali is one of the greatest pianists in the world. An international celebrity.'

  'Who spent two years in the Foreign Legion as a kid,' Morgan said. 'All right, so it doesn't sound very probable, but at least it's worth following up.'

  'Have you spoken to Chief Superintendent Baker about your suspicions?'

  'Have I hell. This is mine - nobody else's. I'm going to do some more checking. I'll keep you posted.'

  After he had put the phone down, she got her address book and quickly found Bruno Fischer's number. When he answered, he sounded as if he was still in bed.

  'Bruno - Katherine Riley.'

  'And what can I do for you so early in the morning?'

  'When's John due back from Helsinki?'

  'He isn't. He decided he needed a break. Flew straight to Athens and carried on to Hydra. He'll be there now if you want him. You've got the number, haven't you? The one good thing about that barbaric place is that he is on the phone.'

  She rang off then turned to another page. One thing about Hydra. It was possible to get through directly by automatic trunk dialling. She punched out the lengthy series of numbers. It took her three separate attempts before she got through.

  'John, is that you?'

  'Katherine! Where are you?' He sounded pleased.

  'Cambridge. I think I can get away for a few days. Can I come over?'

  'You certainly can. When do I expect you?'

  She glanced at her watch. 'I've a few things to clear up here, but I might just catch the afternoon flight. If not, this evening at the latest. That would mean I couldn't get across to the island till tomorrow morning.'

  'I'll have Costantine waiting at the dock for you.' After he had gone, she sat there for a long time without moving. Nonsense! Absolute bloody nonsense and at that moment, she actually found herself hating Asa Morgan with all her heart.

  Morgan waited at the counter of the Telegraph information department in Fleet Street. The pleasant young lady, to whom he'd stated his requirements five minutes earlier, returned with a bulky file.

  'Mikali - John,' she said, 'and there's a lot of him.'

  Which there was. Morgan took it to one of the tables, sat down and started to work his way through. There were gaps of course. The clippings were mainly English and American, but there were also some French. A review of a concert to fit the Vassilikos assassination, another that matched the Russian in Toronto.

  Finally, there was an article in Paris-Match which Morgan read slowly. His French was only fair, but he managed to get the gist of it. It was an account of Mikali's time in the Legion and there was a particularly graphic description of the affair at Kasfa.

  Then he turned to the next page and saw the pictures. One of Mikali in paratrooper's beret and camouflage uniform, holding a machine-carbine with negligent ease. The other, a close-up of him wearing the regulation white kepi of the fully trained legionnaire.

  Morgan looked at that hard young face, the cropped hair, the blank eyes, the mouth. He closed the file. It was enough. He had found the Cretan.

  It was just after one when Baker was admitted to Ferguson's flat by Kim. The Brigadier was enjoying a sandwich lunch by the fire. He was also reading The Times.

  'You look agitated, Superintendent!'

  'Asa's left for Athens on the eleven-o'clock plane. Special Branch at Heathrow had no authority to stop him, but the news did finally percolate through to us.'

  'By which time he'd gone, naturally. British Airways, I presume?'

  'Olympic.'

  'How very unpatriotic of him.'

  'I checked with them. It seems he booked the flight by phone and arrived with ten minutes to spare to pick up his ticket. He only had hand luggage with him.'

  'Greece,' Ferguson said, 'and Cretan. Somehow they really do seem to fit together, don't they? I don't like it;'

  'Do you want me to notify Greek Special Branch in Athens to pick him up?'

  'Certainly not.'

  'All right, sir, do we have a DI5 man at our Embassy there?'

  'Actually we do. A Captain Rourke, assistant in the military attache's office.'

  'Maybe he could follow Morgan when he gets in?'

  'It's certainly a thought, Superintendent, except for the unfortunate fact that as you yourself pointed out, Asa Morgan can't be followed unless he wants to be. Still, if you'd like to give Rourke a ring, please do so. The red phone generally achieves the quickest results.'

  He returned to The Times. Baker went to the desk, picked up the red telephone and asked to be put through on the scrambler, to the British Embassy in Athens.

  Captain Charles Rourke was leaning against a pillar reading a newspaper when Morgan emerged from Immigration and Customs. The captain was wearing a crumpled linen suit of a type favoured by many Greeks during the heat of the summer months which was supposed to help him merge effectively into the background of the crowded concourse.

  Professional soldiers in civilian clothes usually manage to recognize each other for what they are. On this occasion, Morgan's task was made easy for he had an encyclopedic memory for faces and remembered Rourke's from the front row of a study group on methods and technology of urban guerrilla warfare, that he'd lectured to in 1969 at Sandhurst.

  Ferguson being careful. Not that it mattered. He went to the exchange counter and passed two hundred pounds sterling, for which he received the appropriate rate in drachmas, then walked out of the entrance and hailed a cab.

  He'd last visited Athens a few years previously for a NATO conference. He remembered the hotel he'd stayed in at that time. From what he recalled, it would suit his purpose admirably.

  'You know the Green Park Hotel in Kristou Street?'

  'Sure,' the driver said and pulled away.

  Behind them, Charley Rourke was already into the back of a black Mercedes and tapping the driver on the shoulder. 'That cab up ahead. The green Peugeot estate. Where he goes, we go.'

  He remembered Morgan now and that course at the Academy. It was really rather amusing turning the tables like this. He leaned back with a smile and lit a cigarette.

  Morgan checked his watch. It had been necessary to advance it two hours which meant it was now a quarter to five, Athens time.

  'Is there still time to catch the hydrofoil to Hydra tonight?' he asked.

  'Sure,' the driver said. 'Summer schedule. They run later, these light nights. The last to Hydra leaves the Piraeus at six-thirty.'

  'How long does it take?'

  'Gets in eight o'clock. It makes a nice run. Plenty to see. Doesn't get dark this time of year till around nine-thirty.' He glanced briefly over his shoulder. 'You want I should take you to the Piraeus?'

  Morgan, aware of the Mercedes behind, shook his head. 'No, I'll leave it till tomorrow.
The hotel will do fine.'

  'Heh, for an Englishman you speak good Greek.'

  It didn't seem politic to mention that it had been gained during three hard years chasing EOKA terrorists in Cyprus.

  Morgan said, 'I worked in Nicosia for a few years, for a British-owned wine company.'

  The driver nodded wisely. 'Things are better there now. I think Makarios knows what he's doing.'

  'Let's hope so.'

  He'd little time to waste, he knew that as he paid off the driver at the Green Park Hotel and the black Mercedes drifted past and pulled in at the kerb a few yards away. As Morgan turned and went up the steps to the revolving door, Rourke got out of the car and went after him.

  Once inside, Morgan didn't go to the desk. Instead, he crossed to the mezzanine. Rourke paused for a moment, pretending to examine the daily currency exchange rate on the foyer bulletin board, only going after him when Morgan had moved round the corner of the first landing.

  Once on the mezzanine floor, Morgan, who knew exactly where he was going, darted past the souvenir shop and took the narrow back stair which led directly to the twenty-four-hour restaurant on the lower level. He threaded his way between the tables and was leaving by the side entrance of the hotel while Rourke, still on the mezzanine floor, hesitated, not knowing where to go next.

  He approached the young lady in the souvenir shop. 'My friend just came up ahead of me. He had a brown leather bag and wore a raincoat. I seem to have missed him.'

  'Oh, yes, sir. He went down the restaurant stairs.'

  Rourke, seized by a sudden dreadful suspicion, went down them two at a time. By then, of course, Asa Morgan was long gone, already half-way across the park in the square opposite.

  He emerged, as he'd expected, by a public taxi rank and got into the one at the head of the queue. 'The Piraeus,' he told the driver. 'I've got to catch the Flying Dolphin for Hydra at six-thirty.'