by Peter Watson
The concierge nodded and began to play the computer keyboard. The screen shone green, went blank, shone green again. There was a pause, then the screen went blank again, to be replaced almost immediately by columns of numbers and names.
‘Yes,’ said the concierge. ‘Oh . . . I don’t know. Look . . . Aristotle Leondaris stayed here on the first date you gave me. Is that a girl? Aristotle? Surely not?’
Riley did his best to control his wheeze, which always got worse when he was excited. ‘She might have changed her name as part of the deception . . . You see, she was seduced away from Britain by her lover . . . Maybe the person she was with checked in on her behalf – and changed her name to be safe, to cover their tracks.’ He paused, for effect. ‘It has to be her. Of course it does! The times and the names fit too closely. Who was she travelling with – can you tell from your records?’
‘Hold on.’ More tapping on the keyboard. ‘Yes, her bill was paid by a Mr Dimitri Kolettis. Just a sec . . .’ He looked up at Riley. ‘They had separate rooms.’
‘Of course they did,’ wheezed Riley. ‘They would have done that so as not to attract attention to themselves . . . Tell me, who made the reservations? Was anyone else involved?’
The concierge turned back to the keyboard. After a moment, he pointed to a set of figures and letters on the screen. ‘That code means that the reservation was made locally, by phone. No names, however, just Mr Kolettis’s credit card number. Does that answer your question?’
Not really, thought Riley, but he nodded all the same. It confirmed there was someone here in Basle – but they already knew that. What they wanted was a name. ‘Is there a list of the telephone calls they made?’
The concierge shook his head. ‘Sorry. Our equipment isn’t so fancy.’
Riley smiled in mid-wheeze. He thanked the man on behalf of the British government and went back to tell O’Day. As soon as he had finished, O’Day approached the concierge himself.
‘Excuse me, sir. Do you speak English?’
‘But of course.’
‘You have been most helpful – but I wonder if you could help me with one other thing?’ Now O’Day held out a second hundred-franc note.
This time the concierge pocketed it straight away.
‘My daughter’s lover was Greek, but she may have been abducted with the help of people here in Basle – either Swiss or Greek. It is very important for us to trace this local person. The only other thing I can think of is this: my daughter was a great cook – she would have wanted to try the local restaurants. The reservation may have been made by the local man . . . in his name. Do you have a list of local restaurants? Good ones, I mean.’
The concierge dipped under the counter and produced a list. ‘These are the best restaurants in the Basle area. Name, speciality, address, phone number. I can give you a photocopy.’
O’Day nodded and the concierge went along the counter and disappeared into another room. This was easily worth a hundred francs. He re-emerged after a short delay and handed across the photocopy. ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘Daughters are worse than sons, eh?’
O’Day tried to smile, sadly, playing his part. Then he and Riley crossed the lobby and stood near the door. ‘We’re no further forward just yet,’ said O’Day. ‘But if I had been Kolettis, and flown all the way here to see Blunt’s Nazi pictures, and they had turned out to be blackmailers’ gold, I would have felt like celebrating. A slap-up dinner would have been in order. But neither he nor this Leondaris person would have known the local scene. It stands to reason, therefore, that the reservation would have been made by the local man. We have confirmed that Kolettis and Leondaris came to Basle, so we can now switch from hotels to restaurants. We give them these dates and see if they have on their books any Greek names for the nights in question.’
*
No traffic had moved in Great Russell Street for ten minutes. Westwards it was backed up beyond Gower Street to Tottenham Court Road. Eastwards it extended to Southampton Row. All of these important north-south thoroughfares were choked. Solid. The cause was obvious enough: about fifty placards and posters held outside the main entrance to the British Museum. These were the brainchild of Madeleine Rolfe, wife of the leader of the Liberal Democrats and Chairman of the Friends of the British Museum. She had spent Sunday and this morning calling the rest of her committee. They had contacted others in their organization.
The ‘call to arms’ by Madeleine Rolfe had succeeded beyond even her wildest hopes. The placards (‘Lockwood: don’t lose your marbles’; ‘BM = British Marbles’) were surrounded by another two hundred chanting supporters (‘S–O–S – Save our Stones – S–O–S – Save our Stones’). The crowd spilled from the gates of the museum on to the road but the police might have controlled it had not a number of customers at a nearby Greek restaurant in Museum Street been attracted by the noise and the placards.
To begin with, these customers, mainly Greeks, stood on the pavement opposite the museum, just watching. Then the Greeks among them had started shouting at the chanters. That soon grew into a sustained chorus. These two rival groups almost immediately attracted about the same number of onlookers, including people arriving or leaving the museum. Within an hour there were more than a thousand people milling around in Great Russell Street, and the traffic jam was forming.
Two police cars arrived, one after the other, blue lights flashing. Four officers tried to disperse the crowd. One of them, a chubby, sandy-haired man with a megaphone, started to shout. ‘Please clear the road! This demonstration is illegal! The police were not informed in advance. Please clear the road! The traffic is blocked beyond Russell Square and as far as Euston Station. Ambulances cannot get to Great Ormond Street Hospital. The fire-engines at King’s Cross are blocked. Please disperse – now!’
Nothing happened. At least, not to begin with. Then the sandy-haired policeman shouted again through his megaphone. Two policewomen on horseback had arrived but had been separated in the mêlée. One of them tried to force a passage through the milling crowds, which had become a congealed mass directly outside the museum gates. Behind her a black London taxi eased forward. Two of the Greeks from the restaurant tried to dodge in front of it but the driver accelerated a fraction to block their way. He overreached himself, however, and his front bumper just snicked the hind leg of the police horse. Surprised, and panicked, the horse jerked, and bucked. Not expecting it, the policewoman was dislodged from her saddle and slid to one side. Several people in the crowd screamed at once. Frightened even more now, the police horse bucked again and the policewoman was thrown to the ground. At this, the horse shied away – and stepped on a woman onlooker. The woman screamed, pushed at the horse, and all of a sudden the people around her moved together, as a wave. Several of the original demonstrators holding placards were unbalanced by this and fell. Seeing a whole bank of placards disappear, other demonstrators assumed they had been attacked by the Greeks from the restaurant. One of the remaining placards was thrown across the road, as a spear, towards them. A moment later four more followed in a concerted salvo. One grazed the police horse, which panicked yet again and ran forward a second time. Its hooves landed on several other onlookers. In no time, screaming and fighting had engulfed that area of Great Russell Street. The taxi was rocked violently.
The Greeks from the restaurant were heavily outnumbered and the few that remained to fight soon found themselves surrounded. No one paid any attention to the police megaphone. Four police could not control the hundreds of demonstrators and onlookers that now thronged the area. Angry drivers left their cars and joined in the screaming and shouting. The ten or so Greeks from the restaurant soon disappeared inside the mob. In the distance, police sirens could be heard as reinforcements converged on the scene. But their arrival was hampered by the traffic blockage that had attracted their colleagues in the first place.
Across the forecourt of the museum, Sir Martin Ogilvy, the director, had heard the commotion and now watched the fighting fr
om his window. He could not make out the details but he had a very good idea of what was happening. He had never known anything like it but in some ways he sympathized with the demonstrators. He was still adjusting to the news which the Prime Minister had given him earlier in the day. On his appointment as Director of the British Museum, Ogilvy had signed the Official Secrets Act. The Prime Minister had reminded him of that fact and instructed him not to tell even his wife or secretary, and that was hard. Ogilvy was a reasonable man. By training he was an archaeologist, an authority on Roman Britain. He had been appointed to the museum by a previous government and therefore was not a particular fan of the present Prime Minister. Even so, he could see that Lockwood was in a dilemma. Clearly the Prime Minister couldn’t leave the Crown in the lurch, and at the same time he had to appear to be taking action over the Elgin Marbles. But how long would the impasse last, Ogilvy wondered. This sort of controversy did the museum no good.
A fresh bout of shouting over in Great Russell Street suddenly rolled across the forecourt of the museum. Ogilvy was no expert on political matters, but it seemed to him as though Lockwood might have misjudged this one. He peered into the crowd, trying to make out what was happening. Unless he was mistaken, the bell he could hear ringing on the other side of the mêlée was not a police car: it was an ambulance.
*
Edward and Leith stood outside a row of booths in the South Bank Centre, the Hayward Gallery to be precise. It was mid-afternoon and they could see that, for some reason, the traffic on Waterloo Bridge was blocked.
The Apollo Brigade’s call had come through to the studio about twenty-five minutes before, and Leith and he had scrambled down here, as commanded. So far, it had been rather a thin day for Edward. He hadn’t heard from Victoria since her call from the airport, and as yet there had been no call from O’Day in Basle. And nothing from Nancy, of course. He had listened to The World at One, which had consisted mainly of Greek reaction to the Sunday Post’s story. The Greek Minister of Culture had called a press conference that morning at which he had announced he was sending a special emissary to London to ensure that the return of the Marbles really did go through this time. He had also disclosed that a special exhibition was to be mounted, in Athens and in London, featuring models which would depict how the Parthenon would look after the Marbles had been returned. Cheering demonstrators had appeared outside the British Embassy in Athens with placards showing Lockwood dressed in a classical Greek toga and wearing a laurel crown. In Paris, the Secretary-General of Unesco had welcomed the British decision to return the Marbles – he, at least, seemed to regard the ‘final decision’ as already having been taken. And in London the archbishop of the Aghia Sophia, the Greek Cathedral in Bayswater, had devoted a special service to give thanks for the British government’s change of heart.
The forecourt to the Hayward was crowded. An exhibition of Georgia O’Keefe paintings had opened about a week before and was proving very popular. ‘Do you think Lockwood was wise . . . with the leak, I mean?’ Edward had been impressed and depressed by the reactions reported on The World at One.
‘I’m no politician,’ replied Leith. ‘It wasn’t ideal – but did he have any choice? The Apollo Brigade people want action. If we are going to string them along, we have to do something. Or appear to. He’s under pressure – and there’s also his grandson. A dot on the brain, apparently. They’re going to have to operate.’
‘Hmm. It’s unlike Lockwood to misjudge events. But –’
‘This O’Keefe woman.’ Leith changed the subject. ‘All those flower pictures with dark holes in the centre. Are they supposed to mean what I think they mean?’
A frown mixed with a smile on Edward’s face. Leith was sharp and blunt at the same time. He was just about to reply when the phone rang.
He stepped forward. The booth smelled, the receiver needed cleaning, graffiti and cigarette ash formed patterns over the interior at eye level. He lifted the receiver from its cradle. ‘Andover.’
‘We’ve seen the papers. What does it mean?’
Edward’s pulse raced. He stared at Leith as he spoke. ‘The government has accepted your . . . terms. But . . . you must understand . . . We have to prepare the way. From now on, we shall do our best to comply with your timetable.’
‘Do your best?’
‘The Marbles are an emotive issue, for us as for you. There’s likely to be opposition – but don’t worry, you’ll get your stones.’
‘Does Ogilvy know?’
‘He saw the Prime Minister this morning. The Duveen Galleries, which house the Marbles, will dose on Thursday or Friday.’
‘No. They must dose forty-eight hours from now. In other words, on Wednesday.’
‘That’s hardly fair –’
‘Andover! It’s not your place to –’
‘But it’s madness!’ Edward was suddenly very angry. Whether he was angry with this . . . voice, with himself, or with Nancy he didn’t know. But all this deception and double talk . . . it overwhelmed him. He found he had raised his voice. ‘You can’t say one thing at one time, have us running around after you, and then say something quite different the next time. Where do you expect to . . .’
Edward faltered. He realized he was addressing thin air. The man at the other end had rung off. ‘Damn!’ he muttered to himself, replacing the receiver. He turned to face Leith. ‘I mishandled that. He put the phone down on me.’
‘Yes,’ said Leith quietly. ‘You stepped outside the script.’ The inspector’s face had hardened. His lips, thin at the best of times, had almost disappeared. ‘Your job, Andover, is to be amenable, compliant, submissive even, if that’s what is required. You accept what they say, however autocratic, inconsistent or misguided it appears to be. You play by their rules, not the Geneva Convention or the Marquess of Queensberry’s idea of fair play.’
‘It was just –’
‘You lost your temper. For all they know, it was contrived on your part, designed to trick them into making a slip. You simply must never –’
‘All right, all right. I’m sorry. I apologize. I didn’t realize. It won’t happen again.’
‘There may not be another time,’ Leith sighed. ‘Come on, no use waiting here. The worst is: not only do we not know if they are going to call again, but, even if they do call, we don’t know when. Lockwood’s going to be livid.’
Edward bristled at this. ‘I made a small slip. There’s no need to get apocalyptic.’
Leith ushered Edward out into the fresh air before replying. They stood, overlooking the river, where they couldn’t be overheard. The traffic still appeared to be blocked on Waterloo Bridge. ‘You seem to forget, Andover, that the main risk is to you – to the Crown, I mean. If this thing blows up, the government may suffer – but another will be elected . . . But what will happen to your precious monarchy, eh? You’d better go back to the palace, stick by the phone and pray that our Greek friends call back. Otherwise you will have accomplished single-handed what Oliver Cromwell needed an entire army for.’
*
Victoria rolled down the window of the car and let in the warm evening air of Athens. All the cars she had ever owned had been built before the age of air-conditioning but Haydon’s was a brand-new Toyota. Anonymous but air-conditioned.
‘That’s the flat,’ Haydon said softly, getting back into the car and lighting a cigarette. ‘The second floor, with the balcony. “Leondaris” is printed on one of the mailboxes.’
Victoria had taken an instant dislike to Alex Haydon. He was a good-looking bastard but cocky, supercilious, knowing. In view of the song and dance that the Greek press were making about the Sunday Post’s story, and the fact that the Greek Minister of Culture had held a press conference that morning, and because there were demonstrations outside the embassy, Haydon had booked Victoria into a hotel on the outskirts of Athens, away from the limelight. If she were to be seen, even in a television establishing shot of the embassy, it might alert the blackmailers. No one kn
ew how much they knew.
Haydon had met Victoria at the airport and taken her straight to the hotel. After unpacking, he had insisted on hearing the full story from her. So, what with the journey and the two-hour time difference between London and Athens, it was after four before they had begun work proper.
Work proper involved, first, a call to Thessaloniki University. This established that Professor Kolettis was not at his desk. Big surprise. The professor, they were told, was away on an archaeological excavation and no one knew when he would be back. And the secretary would not say where the dig was, for security reasons. ‘Who is calling?’ she had asked.
‘American Cable Television,’ Victoria had lied. ‘I am a researcher for a documentary on the classical world. I wanted to pick his brains. Will you tell the professor we were sorry to miss him.’ That had seemed to satisfy the secretary.
A. Leondaris was easier. The number and address were in the book and there was only one. No one had answered the phone when they had called, and there was no answering machine. The address, Haydon had said, was in the university area of Athens, a pleasant, leafy district north of Sintagmatos, the city’s main square. There were many boutiques, restaurants, art galleries and cafés. Victoria and Haydon had decided to go and see the flat for themselves and Haydon had just parked the Toyota, across the road and about fifty yards down a slight hill.
He looked at his watch. ‘It’s nearly five-fifteen. The question is: has he or she gone off “excavating” also . . . or not yet home from work?’ He smiled at Victoria. He did a lot of smiling – his teeth were perfect and he knew it.
‘We’ll wait and see,’ said Victoria.
They waited. Till six, seven, eight. At nine they decided that A. Leondaris could have gone straight out to dinner from work. Haydon left Victoria and went in search of some sandwiches. He came back with hamburgers, grapes and wine. They waited again: ten, eleven. At eleven Victoria, conscious that she ought to check with London, said: ‘If Leondaris is out with a lover, they might spend the night together. How long are we going to stay?’