Stones of Treason

by Peter Watson

  Edward nodded slowly, thinking. ‘Yes … but there are two problems we need to face. In the first place, the main authority will almost certainly be at the British Museum itself. I presume I shouldn’t go there for my answers?’

  ‘You presume correctly. Next question.’

  ‘I need some sort of cover story … I can’t ring people up and give them the real reason I want the information. What do I say?’

  O’Day sucked his teeth. He was the only man Edward had ever met who could whistle breathing in. ‘Hmm. We also want to distance it from the Palace and the government. Do you hold any other positions apart from being on the royal household? Are you on any committees, advisory bodies, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Well … I’m on the editorial board of the Burlington Magazine, that’s a scholarly journal for art historians, and I’m a trustee of the Courtauld Institute – that’s part of London University … Hold on! The university has its own Institute of Archaeology – it’s at the north end of Gordon Square, opposite where the Courtauld used to be. Its library takes all the archaeology journals in the world. Why don’t I spend some time there? They are bound to have the Greek journals and very probably there’s a special section on the Parthenon in Athens. Yes!’ Edward was excited now. ‘I may be able to find out what we want without talking to anyone at all. That would be even safer.’

  O’Day got down from his perch on the desk. ‘What time will this library close?’

  ‘At a guess, five.’

  ‘So you’ll be back here no later than half past. Use an official car, to be on the safe side.’ O’Day straightened his tie. ‘Okay … let’s arrange our next confab for six. I have to get back to the department … Other things are going wrong besides this show. Let’s hope we have something for tonight’s midnight committee. Six all right for everybody?’ He looked at each of the others. ‘I know you can’t guarantee results but I always find that a deadline helps to concentrate the mind.’

  Leith and Victoria Tatton both nodded. Edward hurried down by the back stairs to where the cars were waiting. A moment later Wilma Winnington-Brown knocked on the studio door. She had brought his soup.

  It was just after eleven-thirty when Edward arrived in Gordon Square. He had the driver drop him some way from the entrance to the Institute of Archaeology – otherwise it might look odd, a scholar arriving in a chauffeur-driven car. He told the driver to collect him from the same spot just after five and then he marched across the square to the glass doors of the Institute of Archaeology.

  The library, he knew, was on the first floor. He didn’t bother with the lift but climbed the stairs. He had been here once or twice before on research errands to flesh out the classical background for some Renaissance piece in the Royal Collection. Edward nodded to the librarian, a shaggy-haired man in jeans, and turned left inside the door, towards where he knew the card index was. He knew there was not much point in looking up ‘Elgin’, not here. Whether an archaeologist was for or against the return of the Elgin Marbles to Greece – and he knew that many of them did wish to see the stones go back – none of them referred to the Elgin Marbles as the Elgin Marbles. They were metopes, sculptures or reliefs from the Parthenon or Acropolis in Athens. Accordingly, he found the card index marked ‘GLO–GYN’ and pulled it out. The cards on ‘GREECE – ATHENS – PARTHENON’ were depressingly numerous and Edward pulled out the entire drawer and sat himself at a table. Slowly he worked his way through the cards. This was a professional library, one of the best in the world in its field, so there were a number of cards typed up in the Greek alphabet. Edward knew enough to be able to decipher them but it wasn’t easy and it slowed him down.

  He made notes as he went along. At the end of about three hours he had seven names of authors who appeared to be Greek and had written articles specifically on the Parthenon sculptures, published in Greek, German, British or American journals in the previous ten years. This was an arbitrary cut-off but Edward had decided he needed to set some limit. The kidnappers were clearly passionate about their case, fanatical even. But ten years was a long time to burn a political candle. Edward also had the titles of three conferences that had been held on the Parthenon. Now he had to find the published proceedings of those conferences: each would contain a series of articles which might provide further names. Once he had found them and returned to his seat, it took him another hour to go through the books and the exercise gave him four names – but two overlapped with those he already had. That made nine names in all.

  It was half past three: an hour and a half left. Edward could not think of any way of fishing out more names, but there was time for him to read some of the articles. If one of these names was part of the Apollo Brigade, reading an article they had written might give him some idea of the characters they were dealing with. Edward’s task was helped here, because he found that four of the articles had appeared in the same periodical, the Journal of Classical Greece. He found the journal on the shelves and took down the relevant volumes. The articles, all published in English, despite the fact that the editorial offices were at the University of Thessaloniki, were in general extremely scholarly. There was nothing that was overtly polemical. At the same time, it could not have escaped anyone’s attention that, among these archaeologists at least, the Parthenon reliefs were – archaeologically speaking – part and parcel of the Parthenon in Athens. It was implicit in everything that was written that Athens was where the sculptures belonged. In that sense, all the nine names probably shared the aims of the Apollo Brigade.

  Edward read the articles very closely, searching for clues in the text. Suddenly a buzzer sounded and it was five to five: time to return the books and leave. He collected his things together. As Edward approached the counter where the books were returned, he saw a face he knew. It was Harry Irving, Professor of Sculpture at the Royal College of Art. Edward’s heart sank. It wasn’t that Harry was a security risk: he was a ‘telly don’, among other things, and was notoriously long-winded. Irving might keep Edward talking too long, or he might walk out of the building with Edward and see him get into the official car. That was best avoided if possible.

  There was, however, no way of avoiding the encounter and Edward prepared himself.

  Irving saw him. His face showed a number of emotions: surprise, an anxious frown as Irving tried to work out in advance what Edward might be up to, then the famous television smile designed to put everyone at ease and in their place. ‘I’m glad these places close at five, eh? Otherwise I could go on all night. Lynne wouldn’t like that.’

  Lynne, Edward knew, was Irving’s wife. ‘How is Lynne?’ Edward asked. That should keep the conversation away from work, at least to begin with.

  ‘Set to murder me. Three children are like an army platoon to feed and like a critical mass so far as trouble is concerned. All activity turns immediately into an explosion. What brings you here? Bit off your patch isn’t it?’

  ‘Not at all!’ Edward was ready and he gave Irving a smile that was almost as wide as his own. ‘Just because I haven’t bumped into you before doesn’t make me a stranger here. There are lots of drawings at Windsor, drawings of classical sculpture. I’m trying to make sense of them.’ He smiled again, as they reached the ground-floor lobby. ‘You know how it is with catalogues. It will take years.’ And that should stop Irving prying: make it sound as boring as possible. ‘And you? You’re even further from home than I am. What are you up to?’ Irving would surely prefer talking about himself.

  The other man held up a file. ‘I’m one of the editors of the Journal of Sculpture. Among other things I send out books for review … I’ve been reading other journals, looking for good reviewers.’ He put on a sombre expression. ‘Tedious, of course. Unpaid work.’

  Edward smiled again. Nobody was paid much for editing academic journals: they did it for prestige. ‘Never mind, Harry. TV makes up for all that. When are you on next?’

  Irving grew serious. ‘I’ve got a series in the summer. Industri
al monuments in Britain. An interesting moment in the history of sculpture, as I hope to show. Mind you, there’s not the money in TV that there was. I remember the first –’

  Edward wasn’t really listening. This had gone on for long enough. They had reached the pavement outside the Institute. The day was overcast now, and blustery. He had to get rid of Irving.

  ‘Which way are you headed?’

  ‘What? Oh, Euston Square tube.’

  ‘You go ahead, then, Harry. I seem to have left a pen upstairs – I must go and get it. A gift from my goddaughter. Then I want to buy some books in Dillon’s, so I must hurry. Give my regards to Lynne.’ He moved back inside the Institute – you had to behave like that with people like Irving. They were as stately as the royals.

  He knew that behind the lifts were the lavatories. That occupied a couple of minutes, by which time the editor of the Journal of Sculpture was out of sight. The official car was already waiting at the southern end of the square and Edward hurried across. What with the delay caused by Irving, and the traffic in Gower Street, not to mention an accident in Trafalgar Square, it was eight minutes to six before the dark-green car slid to a halt in the courtyard at St James’s. When he reached the studio, the others were already there. O’Day and Leith were standing over Victoria Tatton, who was still working at the computer.

  ‘We’ve started without you,’ growled O’Day. ‘At least on the technical bits. Tawsy has managed to hack into both the Swissair and Olympic records. I was about to ask the inspector what he has come up with. Bob?’

  ‘Not a great deal, as yet, but the embassy have promised more for tomorrow. There is apparently a handful of Greek MPs who are very vociferous about the Marbles – here are their names.’ And he handed a piece of paper to O’Day, who inspected it. ‘There’s a well-known television presenter who made a programme about the Marbles and about Elgin – here is his name. There are two books, though the author of one is dead. Then there’s a bunch of Greek sculptors who have protested en masse to the British Embassy – here is a list of signatories. But that’s it. As I say, more tomorrow.’

  O’Day looked at Edward. ‘What about you?’

  Edward opened his briefcase and stepped closer to the others. He handed over his list of nine names. ‘In the time available, I can’t claim it’s an exhaustive list. But I consulted the main journals.’

  O’Day took the list from Edward and scanned it. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘One of your academics, Andover, has the same name as one of the politicians – but different initials. Phanodikos. Brothers? Father and son? Maybe they work together, as a team.’

  Edward’s pulse began to race. Were they on to something?

  O’Day was speaking again. ‘Okay, you two … slip out and get yourselves something to eat. Tawsy and I will check these names. We’ve got – what? – nearly two dozen. Still, it shouldn’t take much more than half an hour … sixty minutes at the most. We can decide our next move when you come back. Depending on what we find.’

  Edward was grateful for the break and led the way up St James’s Street. After a few hundred yards, he turned into his club. At that stage in the evening it was the best bet for food. They climbed the stairs to the first floor and found a corner to themselves. Edward ordered sandwiches, a beer for Leith and a whisky and soda for himself.

  ‘Tell me about O’Day,’ said Edward, refusing the other man’s offer of a cigarette.

  ‘I don’t know much. MI6 lives in a world of its own … O’Day is from Belfast and made his name over there, cleaning up all that mess. He got the top job when his predecessor, Martin Abbotsbury, committed suicide – though that was hushed up, of course. Very bright, unmarried – and I don’t mean he’s gay. He’s married to the job. Unusually, he didn’t come up through Oxford or Cambridge, or any university. Not overgood with people but generally regarded as fair, which in that never-never world counts for a lot. The PM respects him, I’m told. That’s it. I don’t know what his favourite colour is, or where he gets his suits made, or if his cufflinks are real gold. I do know he is a keen military historian, reads everything about the Nazi high command. And that he likes Guinness. Will that do? Can I eat this sandwich now?’

  ‘Have you worked with him before?’

  ‘Yes, but don’t ask on what. I can’t tell you.’

  ‘How come you work with MI6?’

  ‘I was once in the Special Patrol Group – watching embassies and so on. There’s a lot of contact.’

  ‘Do you do a lot of secret stuff?’

  ‘I can’t answer that, either. Not really.’ A pause. ‘Yes.’

  Edward changed the subject. ‘Once we get a name, or names … what then?’

  Leith tapped ash into the tray. ‘Depends on who he is, or she is. Locate that person, trail them, see who their contacts are. Then, once we are sure we’ve covered everyone …’ He bit into his sandwich.

  Edward stared at the Welshman. ‘What do you mean?’ Suddenly he was very disturbed. ‘What did that gesture mean?’

  ‘Obvious, surely?’

  Edward didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

  ‘Oh, come on, Andover. You’re taking this academic ivory tower nonsense too far. You’ve got a brain – Lockwood seems to think so, anyway. Use it – think things through. None of this is ever going to come to trial – how can it? The Queen’s not going into court, as a witness, is she? Why do you think I’m involved? Or O’Day?’

  Edward found his voice. ‘I was told you were – are – a policeman.’

  ‘Yes. So?’

  Edward’s mind raced. He was shocked but at the same time he instinctively knew that Leith was telling the truth. He – Edward – hadn’t thought it through. Perhaps, unconsciously, he had avoided doing so. This brigade, whoever they were, were playing a serious game. Deadly. What Leith said – insinuated – made sense. Except that sense was hardly the word for it.

  Leith squashed out his cigarette. ‘I can see that you hadn’t thought it through.’ He softened his voice. ‘Don’t worry about that part. You won’t have to be there. These things are never spelled out, you know – how could they be? The Crown and the government have to be protected. But all the others – O’Day, me, Mordaunt – we know what’s expected.’

  ‘And Victoria Tatton?’

  Leith nodded. He said, more gently still, ‘But don’t worry about it. As I say, no one expects you to be there, or anywhere near.’ He drank some beer. ‘That part is going to be easy, compared with finding these people. That depends on how much time we have to play with and that depends on how well Lockwood succeeds in his diversionary tactics.’

  ‘How is that going?’ Edward was grateful for a change of subject. Sort of.

  ‘You’ll have to ask O’Day for details, but from what I hear they’re roping in Owen Cutler.’

  ‘The MP?’

  Leith nodded.

  ‘I wonder how it will work?’

  ‘Not our problem.’

  Edward was intrigued by the policeman’s mind: he could work on a case like this and yet have no curiosity about aspects which did not immediately concern him. And apparently had no moral scruples about … the other business.

  ‘What do you know about Victoria Tatton?’

  Now Leith grinned. ‘Not bad, is she? She’s like mountain snow, though – very bright but very cold. Some people like them like that.’

  ‘What’s her background?’

  ‘You tell me. I don’t know much about Miss Tatton – it is miss, by the way. I do know she lives on a houseboat on the Thames, at Chelsea, because I dropped her off there once when we worked on another project abroad and travelled in together from Heathrow. But she’s fanatical about her privacy. She never socializes, doesn’t drink, lunches God-knows-where, never carries a shopping bag. Either she’s got no sins at all, or she’s so sinful she needs to keep them under lock and key all the time.’

  ‘And MI6 and Scotland Yard, of course, prefer the latter.’

  Leith grinned. As he did so, a hi
gh-pitched whine suddenly cascaded from his breast pocket. Others in the club looked irritably across at the source of the intrusion. Without looking down, Leith reached up and switched off his bleeper. ‘O’Day demands our presence.’ He guzzled the rest of his beer. ‘Come on.’

  On their way back to the studio, they passed Wilma Winnington-Brown, who was just leaving for home. She came up to Edward. ‘Hillier’s secretary has been on the phone again. They’re getting quite tetchy. Can you see him tomorrow? It might be diplomatic.’

  Edward nodded. ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Any progress?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’ Then he whispered, ‘Not really.’

  ‘Will you be staying late?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why?’

  ‘I bought a thermos flask. It’s on my desk. The soup’s in it. Don’t go hungry.’

  Edward looked after her as she rushed off. Maybe he should marry Wilma.

  He hurried after Leith into the studio.

  ‘No good,’ O’Day was shouting. ‘No bloody good at all. Not a name, not one.’

  Edward closed the door.

  ‘It was a long shot, anyway,’ Leith said to O’Day.

  ‘Ye-es, but you hope, don’t you. You always hope.’ He worried at his teeth with a fingernail. ‘Lockwood is not going to be happy. Not one bit.’

  ‘Maybe they drove or went by train? Maybe they went from London?’ Edward looked at Victoria Tatton as he said this. He smiled vaguely but she didn’t seem to notice. Mountain snow.

  O’Day was shaking his head. ‘Of course, they wouldn’t have needed to fly direct – but we can’t check every flight on every airline in Europe. And why shouldn’t they fly direct? They weren’t doing anything wrong, not then. They wouldn’t drive or take the train. This was too urgent, too exciting! They’d be in a hurry.’