by Peter Watson
‘And customers, my dear.’ He pointed. ‘Including the chef from the Strabo.’
It was true. A thin, blond man with a white sweatshirt and a blue gingham kerchief around his neck was standing at the stall which sold tomatoes. The word ‘Strabo’ was printed in blue across the back of his shirt.
‘Let’s sit here,’ said Edward, indicating a small café with a dim, but cool, interior. ‘It’s out of the sun and it’s out of the way.’
They went in, found seats and ordered two Cokes. They watched the Strabo chef. He had a huge straw bag with him, which he filled with grapes. He stepped to one side and Victoria saw Kolettis next to him. Instinctively, she stiffened. She nudged Edward and pointed, but he too had seen the archaeologist. They both got up and moved to another table, where they couldn’t be seen from the market. At the back of the café a radio was playing and a number of men were standing by the bar. They stared at Victoria and at Edward, but then went back to their gossip. Edward got up and went to stand in the arch that formed the front of the café. The chef and Kolettis had disappeared; presumably they had gone back to the Strabo. Edward returned to the table inside the café. Victoria was leaning back in her chair, her head cocked to one side, her eyes gazing blindly at the vaulted ceiling.
‘Is that supposed to be sexy?’
She held up a hand. ‘Ssshh!’
Then he realized she was listening to the radio behind the bar. The other men had stopped talking and were also listening. As Edward sat down, the men suddenly burst into chatter and Victoria rocked forward on her seat. ‘That was the news, from Athens.’
‘Saying what?’
‘The British School was attacked during the night. As a reprisal for the Greek tanker that was holed in the Thames. The school burned down.’
Riley balanced a tin of beer on the bulge of his stomach. ‘Terrine Toyota,’ he sighed, passing O’Day some pâté he had hurriedly bought earlier that evening, while the Irishman kept watch alone on the Zakros house. ‘The man said it was made from the same recipe they use at the Stucki – that’s one of the best restaurants in Basle.’
They both swallowed in silence. Then Riley, in between sips of beer, added: ‘Say Zakros doesn’t behave as he is supposed to. Are we ready?’
O’Day nodded. ‘I was thinking about that, too. I raised it with Leith but … now there’s to be that debate on Monday, in the Commons, security’s tighter than ever.’ He swallowed some more beer. ‘No reinforcements.’
‘Let’s think it through, then –’
‘What is there to think about? Either he goes to the bank or he doesn’t. Whatever he does we follow him. If anyone else in the Brigade comes here to join him, then either Athens or London will alert us.’
‘Are we certain we aren’t expecting any more of the Brigade who we don’t know about? People who’ve been sleepers so far.’
‘No, of course we’re not certain. But my guess is that there aren’t any more. The Tucker woman said there were seven of them. No one else has ever been referred to in their phone conversations, and they wouldn’t need anyone. Security’s important for them too, don’t forget.’ He drained his beer can. ‘One thing, though: we do need another vehicle, just in case anyone joins Zakros. That would bring Tatton and Andover, or Leith, as back-up for us, but, in a chase, the other side could still split up. Better get another car first thing tomorrow.’
Riley nodded. ‘And the more I think about it, the more likely it is that Zak will have support. Paintings are bulky objects: he couldn’t carry more than a few by himself.’ He paused. ‘Say he does make a bolt for it. Where’s he going to head for?’
‘Do I look like a gypsy?’ O’Day held up his beer can. ‘This isn’t a crystal ball.’
‘Just trying to be prepared.’
‘All we can do is keep mobile.’
Riley rubbed his hand over his chin. ‘I wouldn’t mind a shave, though.’
‘You think you look any prettier without the stubble?’
‘Nnnno.’ Riley eyed himself in the car mirror. ‘But would you rent even a Toyota to someone who looks like me?’
William Lockwood looked down at his grandson, Tommy. The boy seemed so small in the hospital bed. ‘May I kiss him?’ the Prime Minister asked.
‘Next time,’ whispered the nurse. ‘He’s been asleep less than an hour. He should have been asleep hours ago. We don’t want to risk waking him now.’
Lockwood nodded and hugged his daughter instead. ‘Shouldn’t you get some sleep?’ he asked her. ‘You look shattered.’
She nodded. ‘I will now. Thank you for coming, Daddy. You’re in the wars, too, like Tommy.’
Lockwood looked down at the boy again. ‘Not like Tommy,’ he whispered. ‘Not like Tommy at all. We act as though it’s life or death in politics, but it rarely is. When you see … when you see such a little head, almost lost in the pillow … and you realize how close it was … what it would have done to you if … Politics is just – tawdry.’
His daughter hugged him back. ‘I’ll tell Tommy you came, when he wakes up in the morning. And I’ll give him the chess set.’ Lockwood had brought his grandson a gift. ‘He’ll be thrilled.’
The Prime Minister kissed his daughter’s cheek. As he did so, he saw the door to the room open and, in the corridor outside, the figure of Bernard Midwinter. ‘Looks like I’m wanted,’ he whispered. ‘No peace for the wicked.’
His daughter squeezed him a last time. ‘Tommy doesn’t think you’re wicked. And neither do I.’ She let him go.
Outside in the corridor, Midwinter led the way to a quiet spot away from the nurses and doctors and where they couldn’t be overheard. ‘How’s the boy, Bill?’
‘Better, they say. Not completely out of harm’s way yet, though. Thanks for asking. But that’s not why you’re here.’
‘No, in fact, I’ve just come from another hospital. From the London Hospital. The Greek tanker captain died an hour ago.’
25
Saturday
‘I like Greek wine, I like Greek grapes and I like Greek sunshine. But what I wouldn’t give for a good British breakfast!’
Edward smiled at Victoria. They had taken to eating breakfast – bread, jam, fruit and coffee – on their balcony. It was sunny but not yet hot and they could keep an eye on the Strabo. ‘You didn’t get that figure on bacon and sausage,’ he said.
‘Wrong. I eat like a horse in the mornings. Like a horsefly in the evenings.’
‘You had two kebabs last night, one more than I did.’
‘Yes, well … all this tension, plus your constant attention, gives me a larger appetite than usual.’
‘Jam?’ He passed it to her. ‘What happens after we get taken off tomorrow morning?’
‘Leith didn’t say. He said that the captain of the Anglesey would fill us in but that it rather depends on how the Strabo reacts to the frigate’s change of course.’
Edward stood up, still holding his coffee-cup. He stood at the edge of the balcony, amid the towels, and looked down on the Strabo.
Victoria continued. ‘Apparently the Shelby woman, the conservator, is not being called in to see Ogilvy until tomorrow. Our side doesn’t want them to have too much time to think – so from then on it’s all going to be very closely timed. The idea is that at some stage after we have gone on board, the Anglesey will change course. That’s designed to provoke the Strabo so that they alert Basle to withdraw the Blunt pictures and documents from the bank. That should happen some time on Monday –’
‘In time to head off the censure motion.’
‘You can’t blame Lockwood for that. After the risks he’s taken for the Queen.’
‘I don’t blame him. But I hope he’s not counting on the Greeks to do exactly as he hopes.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Edward finished his coffee. ‘Because, my dear, unless I’m very much mistaken, the Strabo is getting up steam. There’s smoke coming from her funnel and that can only mean one thing: she’s
preparing to leave again.’
‘We now have a back-up vehicle: a purple – would you believe? – Ford. Hardly discreet, I know, but that’s all they had. It’s just out of sight, round that corner over there. Oh, and I got this.’ Riley handed O’Day a cardboard box.
The Irishman opened it. Inside there was a pastry. He bit into it lustily. Between mouthfuls, he asked: ‘You called London?’
‘I did.’
‘And?’
‘The captain of the Greek tanker – the one that collided on the Thames when the Anglesey loosed off all that smoke – has died. The Greeks are incensed. Some British tourists were attacked in Athens late last night. Three of them are in hospital.’
Sir Francis Mordaunt put down his propelling pencil and rubbed his eyes. It was late and he had been working all day. Sir Francis was a very definite type of Englishman (though his ancestors, generations ago, had been Huguenots). Though he was in theory surrounded by relatives, nieces, godchildren, he was in practice a fairly solitary soul. The only two people he saw frequently were the Queen and his manservant, and he was more of a valet really. A long time ago, Mordaunt had been married. But Mordaunt had found he preferred his job to his marriage and when Angela had phoned from Italy to say that she was staying on indefinitely with Toby and Georgia Mitchell they had both known that it was the end. Mordaunt hadn’t minded, not really. It had taken them years to get round to a divorce, by which time he was quite friendly with Angela’s new lover. Mordaunt was aware that some people thought he was homosexual. His solitary lifestyle, his rather sharp features, the care he took with his clothes … in fact, it wasn’t true. Not strictly true anyway. Mordaunt’s job was still his life, his mistress, his ruling passion. Sex, any form of sex, played no part in his existence. He wasn’t ashamed of that, nor was he particularly proud. He was just relieved. It made life a lot easier.
He got up and went to the fridge. He took out a piece of cold chicken and a bottle of Chablis. He felt tired and slumped on the sofa. After a moment he leaned forward and, with a long, bony finger, switched on the television.
‘… Here, then, are the headlines again. Another earthquake in China is believed to have killed seven hundred and fifty people … The Italian Prime Minister has resigned over a bribery scandal … Twenty people were evacuated from a North Sea oil-rig after it appeared to shift on its supports … The US Secretary of State has stopped all American aid to India as a result of the murder at the Metropolitan Museum and because the stolen statues have gone on show at Hindupur … and at the Crystal Palace two world-class Nigerian athletes mounted a protest, demanding the return of the Benin bronzes in the British Museum. That’s it … Goodnight from everyone in the newsroom.’
As the music played, Mordaunt tried to digest that last item. Did that mean the Nigerians were taking a lead from the Greeks and the Indians? He groaned. No doubt the story would be all over the Sunday papers tomorrow and he would find out all he wanted to know. Another hurdle for Lockwood. And what about the other item, the American response to the theft of the objects at the Metropolitan Museum? He bit into his chicken. These were deep waters.
Another programme was starting. It was called No Strings and featured puppets, marionettes, carved or modelled to look like well-known figures. It was incredibly childish and vulgar and very, very funny. It had a cult following and Mordaunt loved it. The Queen herself often came in for quite a bit of stick. He gnawed at his chicken leg and settled back, trying to ignore the Crystal Palace episode.
Immediately, he saw a face that he recognized and he sat up again. It was Lockwood’s, more or less. The creases in his cheeks were very deep, he was miniscule in comparison to everyone else around him and his iron-grey hair appeared to be fashioned from real wire. The Prime Minister was dressed, however, not in his habitual dark-blue suit, but in a white toga. He wore a crown of laurel leaves. Mordaunt also realized that the puppet Prime Minister was standing in front of a model of the Parthenon. Behind him was the head of Hatfield, also in a toga but carrying a lyre and a jug of wine. Arthur Page was next to Hatfield. He also wore a toga and carried Cupid’s bow and arrow.
‘I say, Bacchus,’ said the Page puppet. ‘Zeus is being a bit authoritarian these days, even for him!’
Bacchus hiccupped. ‘He is god of gods, you know, so he can do as he likes. The Greeks may have given us democracy but that was for mere mortals – Aristotle, Sophocles, buncha humans. We gods just carry on, as we always did. More wine, Cupid?’
Cupid swallowed from the jug, wiped his mouth, and then went on, ‘But why does he want the Parthenon restored?’
Bacchus nodded his head. ‘It’s all Greek to me, old boy. The Greeks are Christian now, whatever that means.’ He hiccupped again. ‘In their new services, they set fire to the churches. Very quaint.’
At this, Zeus turned and pointed to Bacchus. A flash was seen and then the puppet with the jug went up in smoke. Next, Zeus pointed at Cupid, with the same result. The camera closed in on Zeus’s face. ‘There’s nothing a good thunderbolt can’t cure,’ Lockwood was made to say. He put his finger to his lips and sighed. ‘I hope I’ve got one left for the debate on Monday.’
The show moved on to another skit. But Mordaunt didn’t notice. He replaced his chicken leg on the plate on his lap. Lockwood was becoming an object of ridicule. This whole business threatened débâcle and it had to be stopped. It really was time to call in Arthur Page.
26
Sunday
The bridge of the Anglesey was, so far as Edward could judge, some thirty to forty feet above the water-line, and fairly breezy. That was why Kenneth Lynn had chosen it for their conference. It was impossible for anyone to disturb them unawares and they could not be overheard. Indeed, they could hardly hear each other. Victoria and Edward had been taken off Kithira at about two-thirty that morning. Getting back to the airstrip had proved no problem. They had taken a taxi to Kithira town and then, since the strip was so exposed, they’d walked the few miles to the coast after dark. It was only then, during the walk to the shore, that Edward suddenly thought of Samantha. In the rush of things he had quite forgotten! Tonight was the night of the concert and the dinner at the Hard Rock Café. He’d let Sammy down – his effigy would be all but destroyed by now. It was the first time he’d ever let her down and he was upset. He’d make it up to her – but it would take some doing.
Once on board the Anglesey, he and Victoria had gone straight to bed – they’d had very little sleep in the last forty-eight hours and both went out like bad boxers. They had been roused at ten, given a good, old-fashioned English breakfast and then brought to the bridge. It was now eleven-fifteen – nine-fifteen in London. ‘Here are copies of the messages I have received from Inspector Leith, via the Admiralty,’ Lynn said, giving them slips of paper. ‘I must emphasize that, apart from me and the radio operator, you two are the only people on this ship who have the faintest idea what is to happen. And even I don’t know everything, or why we’ve been told to slow down. It’s my ship, but I have been told to do as you suggest.’
Victoria and Edward studied the slips of paper in turn. The shock they’d had, the morning before, when the Strabo had put out to sea, had proved to be short-lived. She had moved about a mile away from the harbour and then dropped anchor again. Edward was the first to realize why. ‘Her radar wouldn’t work in port – she was in the shadow of the island. Now she’ll be able to pick up the Anglesey much sooner.’ Certainly the Strabo had held her position all day, until they’d had to leave for their rendezvous.
‘Where are we exactly?’ said Victoria, handing the slips of paper back to Lynn.
‘During the night, while you were asleep, we changed course slightly and slowed down. We are currently about forty miles south of Kithira and some twenty miles west. From here on we steam steadily north, at ten knots, reaching Kithira this afternoon, around four-thirty or five. Assuming all goes to plan and the Strabo picks us up, we shall continue north – well, you know the rest. We stop aro
und five or five-thirty, relax, dress the ship and so on. What I don’t understand is what happens after we change course that final time and head back to Britain. Can you fill me in?’
Victoria nodded. ‘First off, you don’t head back to Britain, not straight away.’ She held her face to the sun but kept her lips close to Lynn’s ear. ‘The next part is going to be very tricky – and I can see why they didn’t try to explain it to you either over the phone or by telex. You need some background.’
As she outlined the whole blackmail business, Lynn stared at her. At times he seemed to sway, though whether that was the waves or the impact of the story was difficult to tell. She brought the narrative right up to date and then added: ‘First, as you say, you change course. You do that in such a way as to claim the attention of the Strabo – you make a large change of course but you do it slowly. We don’t want to lose the Strabo. By tomorrow morning, the people on board the other ship will be expecting you to change course but they will want to see it for themselves before they take any action. You will change course at approximately eight o’clock … you don’t need to know why but the timing is important. I say “approximately” because it will help us greatly if you can make the change when there is no one else around to see it. Much safer. When you change course, that will set in train a chain of events – again, you don’t need to know what they are. That chain of events will take … oh, somewhere between two hours and three and a half hours to unfold. During that time, the Anglesey needs to maintain her change of course but she also needs to remain in visual or radar contact with the Strabo. This period, when you are on your new course and yet keeping in contact with the Strabo, is the second phase.
‘At some point we shall hear that the chain of events which you have set off has, or has not, unfolded successfully. If the chain of events is not successful, then I shall have to do some sharp negotiating and you will have to put on speed – and resume your old course, for Piraeus. If, on the other hand, the chain of events is successful, the Anglesey will change course again, put on speed – and close with the Strabo. We have to catch her and arrest her.’