Stones of Treason

by Peter Watson

  ‘And look.’

  Two-thirds of the way down the list of names was the entry: Dimitri Kolettis.

  19

  Sunday

  Archbishop Gregor Lysiptos stood in front of the scaffolding and waited for a moment before speaking. Ahead of him the Aghia Sophia was crowded; he had never seen it so full. He was moved but also angry: the size of the congregation only demonstrated that the power of publicity was greater than the power of God. He paused, not only to allow the crowd to settle down, but also to allow himself to settle down.

  ‘Friends,’ he said at length. He had a fine voice, as rich and as dark as his beard. ‘Friends, I have never seen this fine cathedral so full. So many newcomers. So many television cameras, microphones, reporters with their notebooks. Perhaps it is a reflection on our times that the Lord could never fill the Aghia Sophia as well as the devil can. With your forgiveness, therefore, I will say a few words in English. Greek, the Greek of Sophocles and Aristotle, of Herodotus and Homer, is the usual language of our service. But for today, and in these circumstances, I will speak in English. I want our newcomers to hear what I have to say.’ He shifted on his feet. His white and gold robes glowed beneath the television lights. ‘Behind me you see scaffolding. It supports what remains of our beautiful iconostasis, a holy screen showing some of the Greek Orthodox religion’s most venerated saints. Not that there is much that remains – a few square feet only. A beautiful gold-leaf screen, the work of hundreds of years, is no more. Many of you are sitting on flimsy chairs, lent to us by the Red Cross. You should, of course, be sitting on hardy pews, pews that no one would call beautiful perhaps but all of which were given by members of this church, pews which were dedicated to the memory of our ancestors, Greeks who came to London over the years and, in one way or another, enriched the city. Now, like the screen, many of these pews are no more and the memories have disappeared with them, literally gone up in smoke, just as the wooden pews themselves did.’ His gaze raked the room.

  ‘This, as you know, is the first service to be held in this cathedral since that black night last week. I look around you and I see policemen, policemen who are no doubt trying hard to find the culprits of this horrendous crime. I see politicians, distinguished men and women from our community, actors, professors, lawyers, bankers. This first service is emotional for all of us who know this church and love it. The people who started the fire took away not just the screen and our pews, not only the memories of our forebears … they took away our belief in our fellow men.

  ‘Look at the progress man has made in two thousand years!’ Lysiptos was shouting now, bellowing his words so that they rang around the cathedral. ‘Two thousand years ago, men spent their lifetimes carving beautiful shapes out of stone. They did so to create one of the most beautiful things the world has ever seen – maybe the most beautiful thing the world has ever seen.’ He paused. ‘I refer of course to the Parthenon in Athens. Now, after more than two thousand years of progress, after more than two hundred decades of better education, where are we? I will tell you where we are: we are in a world where a quarrel between governments – a quarrel moreover about beautiful objects, the same beautiful objects which, all those years ago, made up the most wonderful place of worship the world has ever seen – can cause hatred, can cause intolerance, can cause destruction. That is where we are today, friends.

  ‘The whole history of mankind has been a fragile undertaking. Every leap ahead has, as often as not, been accompanied by a slide backwards. Never was this illustrated more clearly than in the treatment meted out in this cathedral.’ The archbishop was bellowing again. ‘What happened here on that black night was evil, unholy, barbaric. The perpetrators were heathens, ignorant criminals. But worse, worse than all that is this fact … These black deeds, these terrible actions, were preventable. I don’t mean by the police. I mean that these cruel people, whoever they are, were stimulated to act, were prepared, primed, goaded into what they did. I refer here to the Prime Minister! To William Lockwood! The Prime Minister, by his shilly-shallying, by his inability to make up his mind, by his spreading of confusion, by his high-handed incompetence has created a climate in which this sort of grave act can occur. I do not mean to excuse the people who broke into this church, who spread petrol over the screen and the pews, who scrawled obscenities on the walls. They will be caught, I trust, and dealt with according to law. No! I speak out now, in this place, in this sad place, against the man who is the real cause of the ravages you see before you. And, as an archbishop, as a man of God, I cannot recognize the difference between peoples, between nations.

  ‘I now call upon the Prime Minister, I beg him, to bring this matter to a swift conclusion. Already this church has been desecrated, already several magnificent buildings throughout this fine land have been attacked, already demonstrators have been injured. The Prime Minister, by his statesmanlike vision over the Parthenon Marbles, has nevertheless unleashed emotions that were buried. By delaying the return of the Marbles, he has allowed reactionary forces to fester. They will not go back beneath the surface, not now, not after what has happened. Friends, I believe there is only one way, one way for this situation to be resolved. I say this as a man of God but also as a Greek man of God. I say to the Prime Minister, I implore him: return the Marbles now! This was a wrong committed more than a century ago. Nearly two centuries ago. Now is the time to put right that wrong. If the Prime Minister does that, now, it will also, in its way, put right the wrong that was done in this cathedral a few nights ago. I call upon the Prime Minister to act, and to act now!’

  At the front of the congregation, the local mayor sat next to the Commissioner of Police and Bayswater’s local MP. The mayor leaned forward and whispered across to the MP. ‘Are you going to make anything of this in the Commons, Arthur? It’s explosive stuff.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Arthur Page, Leader of the Opposition. ‘Yes. It’s about time I did.’

  ‘This is the first time in days that I feel decently hungry.’ Victoria smiled as she spoke to Edward.

  He leaned forward and helped her to some red wine. They were dining outside the harbour restaurant. ‘Tell me what you see.’ He stroked the back of her hand.

  After their success in locating Kolettis’s name in the Strabo’s passenger manifest, they had studied the other names. Among them were A. and S. Leonardis. So this was obviously where the Apollo Brigade was hiding out. There was also a G. Kofas on board.

  They had returned to their hotel in good spirits, Victoria especially. At last they were getting somewhere, she felt. At five in the morning, however, even Turkey was chilly, so Victoria had invited Edward to share her bed. He had not refused.

  ‘I see three men. The older one, the big one who is nearly bald, is doing all the talking. The other two are listening. There’s a resemblance, you know. Maybe they are the brothers. One of them keeps looking over his shoulder, as though he is expecting someone else to join them. There’s a spare place at the table so maybe they are expecting someone else.’

  Victoria and Edward had spent the day discreetly watching the Strabo. Now they knew Kolettis and the others were on board, their next priority was to identify them physically. Victoria had called Leith in London with the news of their discovery. He had promised to have the British Embassy in Athens check out the Strabo. He had informed them that the embassy had finally located Haydon’s car. It had been left in an Athens street and had finally been reported to the Athens police, who had notified the embassy. ‘And here’s the interesting bit,’ Leith had said. ‘It was five streets – three minutes’ walk – away from Stamatis Leondaris’s house.’

  Edward and Victoria had debated what that meant. ‘Haydon must have burgled Leondaris – and been caught. They couldn’t have known he was a British Embassy man but they wouldn’t have wanted to take risks,’ said Victoria. ‘A burglary, with Leondaris involved, would not have been welcome just before their big coup.’

  ‘But they must have been very suspicious,’
said Edward. ‘It was a hell of a coincidence.’

  Victoria nodded. ‘On the other hand, if they thought Haydon, or Broudin as his papers said, was anything to do with our side, a bit of brutality wouldn’t have gone amiss, would it? It would show they are serious in their threat. Anyway, they decided to go ahead. Leondaris’s wife is a jeweller – maybe they thought Haydon was a jewel thief.’

  Edward said nothing. Suddenly the danger was so close he could touch it.

  During the day, he and Victoria had watched the Strabo from various locations around the harbour, posing once again as artists. It had been embarrassing for Edward but he’d had no choice. Around seven-thirty they had watched a party of three leave the boat and head for the restaurant. They had allowed them fifteen minutes’ grace, then found a table for themselves at the same restaurant where they could observe, and even overhear something of what the Strabo party were saying.

  ‘Describe the others.’ Edward was itchy that he couldn’t see what Victoria could.

  ‘One man has silver hair, a thin neck, rather effeminate hands. Quite swarthy. The other is fatter, rounder, whiter. He’s going bald too.’

  ‘Like me.’

  ‘Bah! Don’t be so vain. I like a high forehead – I told you.’ Victoria smiled. ‘Everything looks so normal here, so jolly.’ She nodded towards the other table. They look as though they’re celebrating even before their victory.’

  The waiter brought Victoria and Edward their starters. As he leaned across to serve them, there was a movement at the table they were watching. Victoria had to crane forward to see.

  Another figure had arrived, a fourth man.

  ‘What kept you?’ The big man spoke in rapid Greek, so that Victoria had to strain to understand.

  The fourth figure remained standing. He was a squat, pugnacious-looking man with dark crinkly hair that hugged his skull. ‘I was reading, George,’ he said. ‘Working.’

  ‘Relax!’ said the big man. ‘Sit down. Have some wine.’

  Victoria hardly heard. The man who had been reading was still carrying a book. Except that it was too big and too flimsy to be a proper book. It was, instead, an academic journal. From where she sat, Victoria could even read the title: Journal of the Classical Greece.

  ‘That’s it, Zak, right on cue. The phone’s to your left. Keep going.’

  O’Day and Riley were in high spirits. After days of trailing the Greek, they were now, as they saw it, more or less in charge. Earlier in the day, they had found the next phone, near the next tram stop, easily enough. They had affixed the same bugging device as on the previous day. And now Zakros, or Zak as they half affectionately thought of him, had turned up at the appointed place, at the appointed time. Their world was behaving a little more predictably again.

  ‘I wonder what’s on the agenda for tonight.’

  ‘Not anything, necessarily,’ replied O’Day. ‘They most likely use these rendezvous just to keep in touch, in case anything should go wrong, or something unexpected crops up.’

  Riley drummed the steering wheel with his fingers. ‘Unless Zak actually goes to the bank where the pictures are kept we’ll never find them.’

  ‘You’re right there … At some point we’re going to have to worry him, panic him, so that he thinks the documents are in danger and goes to check them – and leads us to where they are hidden.’

  The car – a red Ford tonight – suddenly filled with sound as the phone in the booth across the street started to ring. ‘Here we go,’ said Riley.

  They watched the Greek walk quickly to the booth and lift the receiver.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Two things only to report.’ It was the same woman’s voice.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The English church in Athens has been attacked. As a reprisal for the Aghia Sophia.’

  ‘Was there much damage?’

  ‘Windows smashed. Graffiti, the altar overturned.’

  ‘That suits our purpose.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the other thing?’

  ‘It’s more complicated. I’ve been trying to contact Andover, just in case he might let slip something that would help. I know he’s not at home but he always checks in with his answering machine. I left a message for him to ring me. He always does – or he always has until now. He’s supposed to be on holiday, in Scotland –’

  ‘Yes – that’s what Mordaunt told me.’

  ‘I know … but I’m beginning to have my doubts. I wonder … I wonder if he’s suspicious of me … and that’s why he’s avoiding me? Maybe the other side know more than we think they do.’

  WEEK FOUR

  The Stones of Treason

  20

  Monday

  Given what had been happening, it was natural enough to assume that the throng of people outside the British Museum was a demonstration. But it wasn’t, not in the strict sense. Among the faces milling around, there were a number of well-known academics and art historians from across the world. The Reading Room of the British Museum, what was left of it after the British Library had decamped to St Pancras, had failed to open on time.

  Not everyone had seen the television news the previous Saturday, when Brenda Peachey had forecast that the protests at the museum would spread, and some of those who had seen the programme did not believe what she had said. In fact, she had understated the case. On their way into work that morning, the British Museum staff had seen seven dark-blue lorries drawn up in Russell Square and another three already backed up inside the museum’s deliveries entrance. It was obvious why they were there. As a result, while some of the world’s most distinguished scholars gathered at the front of the museum, almost the entire professional staff who worked there milled around at the back. There was no shouting or overt demonstrating: they were librarians, archaeologists, classicists, not the demonstrating types. There were one or two newspaper photographers and some protesters but the mood at the back of the museum was sullen and resentful rather than rowdy. Nevertheless, the sheer number of people on the pavement caused some of them to spill over into the road and, despite the presence of the police, this caused the traffic in Malet Street and Russell Square to back up. It was Monday morning and that area of London was very busy at the best of times. Traffic was inching along.

  One of the cars in line was driven by Sir Martin Ogilvy, arriving at the museum after a meeting of the Review Committee on the Export of Works of Art. He saw his staff before they saw him. But he was trapped by the traffic and for the last fifty or sixty yards, before he reached the gates of the museum, Ogilvy’s car was surrounded by members of his staff. No one shouted at him, no one screamed. In fact, no one spoke. Everyone was spontaneously mute as Ogilvy ran – or rather crawled – this silent gauntlet. He was unnerved by the silence, the control shown by the people standing there. He was distressed by the looks he received from people he regarded as colleagues. He had shielded himself so far; now, for the first time, he saw their collective reaction. As he turned into the gate, he looked in his rear-view mirror, to see those colleagues staring after him as if he was some hateful object. Until now Ogilvy had played the part the Prime Minister had asked of him. He had kept the secret – his wife and secretary were still in the dark, though he’d had that one conversation with the Arts Minister. He had realized that what he was doing would be unpopular but he had regarded it as his duty to help out and, more important perhaps, he had regarded the whole business as temporary, or theoretical. He had assumed that Lockwood would win, that the Marbles would never have to leave. Seeing the blue lorries in the deliveries yard, and the staring faces behind him, he suddenly realized that the situation was now very different.

  The Elgin Marbles were about to leave. They might never return – and he would be known in history as the director, the only director, of the British Museum to connive in the disposal of major art objects. Years from now he would be vilified, reviled, laughed at, dismissed out of hand. The sullen hatred he had seen in the eyes of his c
olleagues would eventually turn into contempt. His name would be recalled only with disdain.

  He parked his car in the space reserved for him. He entered the building by the side entrance, opposite the wooden hut where the cuneiform tablets were conserved. He nodded at the guard. There was only one, he noticed – some of the others were watching the lorries and standing outside. Even they disapproved of what was happening. As he went deeper into the building, he realized how quiet it was today. And dark. Not all the lights had been turned on, half the doors were locked – or closed at any rate. They should have been open. He decided to see what was happening in the main lobby. As he approached it, through the King’s Library, he heard a hubbub of voices. He turned the corner and stopped. Ahead of him the lobby was choked with people. But they weren’t tourists or visitors. They were scholars – yet more colleagues – come to use the Reading Room, which had obviously not opened this morning. The threat had been carried out.

  As he realized this, he was spotted – by David Seebag, an historian he knew from Manchester, an authority on Italian medieval pottery. Seebag pulled the sleeve of another man, whom Ogilvy also recognized. He was one of the top three authorities on St Patrick, and was talking to an Australian Chaldean scholar. They all looked in his direction – and then moved towards him. Seebag was about to speak when Ogilvy, surrounded and alone in his own museum, turned and ran.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Victoria held her treen animal – it was a horse’s head – cupped in her hand.