Stones of Treason: An international thriller

by Peter Watson

  The pulse raced on, ricocheting around the hall. Twenty-one seconds.

  He stopped the air, slackened his grip on the metal rod and twisted the ‘umbrella’ into a different position. Then he pulled hard on the rod again. Twenty-three seconds. He jabbed the nozzle against the mouth of the lock for the second time. He pressed his thumb against the trigger and held it there. The hissing all but drowned out the pulsing sound, but not quite. And then it did. The pulse had stopped and now only the hissing, the awful hissing was to be heard. The lock parts had moved. Riley eased back his thumb.

  Not a sound, save his own breathing, disturbed the night there in the hall. Calmly, he pocketed his tools. With his handkerchief he wiped the front of the lock so as to obscure and minimize any scratches he might have inflicted on the metal barrel. He closed the door. Then he went back to the study.

  O’Day was outside the window. He rolled through. ‘Brilliant.’

  Riley bowed slightly. He looked at his watch. ‘Quarter to four. Let’s work together – it’s easier to communicate if we’re disturbed. We’ll start at the top.’

  Upstairs there were four bedrooms and as many bathrooms. Two bedrooms were empty, save for carpets and curtains. Zakros obviously hardly ever did any entertaining. There was one guest bedroom but that was scarcely any different from the other rooms – just an empty room with a bed.

  The next room was the master bedroom. O’Day went to the cupboards. Rows of suits, lines of shoes, maybe twenty ties. Shirts, underpants, socks, black in one drawer, red in another, yellow in a third. ‘Bit of a ponce, our Zak.’

  Riley was in the bathroom by now. ‘Enough cologne to sweeten an elephant,’ he said. But there was nothing to help them. He went back to the bedroom, looked under the bed and then delved into the cupboards either side of the headboard. Magazines, a soft-porn movie, tapes and videotapes, a pair of black Porsche sunglasses. A pair of ski gloves and a pocket calculator. Discarded toys of a grown-up. ‘Okay, downstairs. We can split up there. I’ll take the kitchen and dining-room, you do the living-room. We’ll rendezvous in the study and make our exit from there.’

  ‘No, let’s turn the study over straight away. Zakros is only a lodger here. The study is the only room he spends any time in. Come on, you know I’m right.’

  O’Day led the way. When they reached the study he said, ‘You look through the books. I’ll do the desk.’

  For twenty minutes they worked in silence. O’Day went through each of the drawers in the pedestal desk, carefully taking out any papers or documents and then replacing them in exactly the same arrangement as he had found them. After half an hour he had finished. ‘Nothing here.’

  ‘Same here.’

  ‘It’s a quarter to five. Be light soon. Better think about leaving. Can you reset the alarm?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ He held up his skeleton keys. ‘I’ve got all the time in the world now to play with these.’

  ‘Right, let’s move, then. We should have known, I suppose, that he would be too canny to leave anything incriminating lying around. I’ll just close these drawers and make sure the desk is tidy and free of scratches.’

  The blotter had been dislodged in all the activity and a lamp had been moved. O’Day rearranged both objects. ‘Ready?’

  There was no reply from across the room.

  ‘Riley! What is it?’

  ‘A book on Blunt.’

  ‘A coincidence, I agree. But hardly incriminating –’

  ‘There’s a paper inside the front cover.’

  O’Day said nothing. Riley came towards him with his hand held out. ‘It’s an envelope, addressed to him . . . Look.’

  ‘Yes. But I don’t –’

  ‘Look at the postmark. It’s one of those special franking devices. Look where the letter was posted from.’

  O’Day was already looking up at Riley. ‘Zakros has a penfriend in the British Museum.’

  Chapter Fifteen – Wednesday

  ‘Haydon has disappeared!’

  Edward’s hand, holding the phone, went clammy. ‘You’re sure? What happened?’

  Victoria’s voice was trembling. ‘I don’t know what happened. We had an early dinner together last night, and then he dropped me at the hotel. He was coming over for breakfast this morning and we were going to head out of Athens, after I had talked to you, to wherever the Praxiteles sites are. He didn’t show, so I called his flat. No reply, so I called the embassy. He’s not been there today.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean he’s disappeared.’

  ‘Edward! I went to his flat. He’s not there – his bed hadn’t been slept in and his car is not in its parking slot. He went somewhere last night and hasn’t come back.’

  ‘Maybe he’s with a woman.’

  ‘And maybe I’m a trombone! Haydon’s a professional, Edward. Even if he was with a woman last night, he’d still have been here this morning.’

  Edward said nothing and, after a pause, Victoria went on. ‘What frightens me is this: if they knew about Haydon, how did they know? And do they know about me?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Edward as soothingly as he knew how, though he was growing anxious himself. ‘There may be another explanation.’ He thought fast. ‘I’d better talk to Lockwood, as soon as I can. You stay in the hotel – you must be safe there, I’ll get back to you. Soonest.’

  He rang off and instructed Wilma to call Number Ten. While she was doing this – as naturally as if she had been doing it all her life – he stared out of the studio, across the slate roofs of the palace. If anything had happened to Haydon . . . his mind turned to Nancy. What if she did know? What was her role in all this? How . . . how tough was she?

  Edward’s phone flashed and he snatched at it.

  Wilma said, ‘It’s Midwinter.’

  Edward had already called the press officer once this morning and relayed O’Day’s worrying news about another Apollo Brigade member inside the British Museum. Now he had more bad news.

  Midwinter, however, got in first. ‘They’ve gone public.’

  Edward winced. ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘Yes – but in an odd way. A Vienna newspaper received a key yesterday; it was dropped off at their editorial offices, with a note to say that it fitted a left-luggage locker at the main railway station and that inside the locker they would find a front-page story.’

  ‘And –?’

  ‘They did. It’s all over the Wiener Zeitung this morning. Our embassy there faxed it over to us a short while ago. The locker contained two things. There was a painting, by Rubens, of the Annunciation. It was apparently looted by the Nazis during the war from the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna. You can imagine the fuss they are making in Austria. It’s like the return of a kidnapped son or daughter.’

  ‘And what was the second thing? You said the locker contained two things.’

  ‘Yes, and very ominous it was too. With the Rubens, there was a photograph – showing the Duke of Windsor with Hitler.’

  ‘Jesus! What does the Wiener Zeitung make of that?’

  ‘Nothing. Not for the moment, anyway. They know nothing, so they are puzzled. But they have reported it, on page one. Which means that any number of people may read it.’

  ‘It’s a sort of warning – yes? It suggests they are not going public with everything . . . that they will be in touch again.’ Edward felt a weight lift. Till he remembered Haydon.

  ‘Let’s hope so. The story will probably be reported on British television tonight and in the rest of the world’s press tomorrow. Other people may begin to put two and two together. But, by and large – yes, I suppose this is good news.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Edward grunted. ‘And I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. Lockwood should be informed immediately.’ And he told Midwinter about Haydon’s disappearance.

  Midwinter groaned. ‘How did they know? How could they know?’

  ‘We can’t be certain they did know. But I suppose we must assume so.’

  ‘It’s too much of a c
oincidence – and you realize that this cancels out the Vienna business, don’t you?’

  Midwinter groaned again. ‘I’d better get on to Lockwood. It looks all over to me.’ He rang off.

  *

  Victoria opened the door of her room and peered around the frame. The corridor was empty. She stepped out and locked the door behind her. She hurried to the lift and pressed the button. Waiting for it to arrive, she kept glancing nervously along the corridor to be sure that she was alone. Victoria had still not heard from Haydon and it was now coming up to seven o’clock. Neither had the embassy heard and it was now closed. There was still no reply from Haydon’s flat. Edward was probably right to say she was safer in the hotel – but that rather depended on how much the other side knew, and whether they had established links between Haydon and herself.

  She had felt fairly safe in her room while it was daylight, but now that it was getting dark she didn’t feel quite so happy. She had decided to transfer downstairs, to the sitting area near the lobby where there were lots of people. She had left word with reception so that they knew where to find her if London called.

  At last the lift arrived and the doors slid back.

  Victoria was startled to see two women inside. They looked like tourists but . . . she had no choice other than to get in. One smiled at her and she began to relax. But then she felt the lift move up! She tensed all over again: they simply couldn’t have known she was about to enter the lift – could they? Two floors up, the lift stopped and the women got out. Victoria pressed the button for the ground floor and the doors slid shut. The lift began to descend – only to stop at the floor where Victoria’s room was located. The doors opened – to reveal two men, obviously Greeks, waiting. Victoria wanted to scream. The men entered without speaking and stood on either side of her. She held her breath. Should she dash out of the lift at the last moment? But the doors slid shut and it was too late.

  The three of them sank down through the floors. The men didn’t move or speak. Were they waiting until they reached the lobby, when they would forcibly ‘escort’ her outside? How did they know what she looked like?

  They reached the lobby and the doors opened. The men didn’t move. What were they waiting for? Then one said to her, in Greek, ‘After you.’

  She stepped forward and turned right, towards the hotel shop. Were the men following? She half turned and looked back. No – thank God. They joined two women who had been waiting and were making for the hotel’s main door. As Victoria relaxed, she felt her cheeks glow as her fear dissolved throughout her body.

  At last she was surrounded by people. She had a book and looked for somewhere to sit, somewhere in the middle of a crowd but where she could hear easily enough if they paged her. She walked forward, past the shop. As she did so, the evening paper caught her eye. She bent and picked up a copy. It was folded in two and she turned it over. Suddenly she was frightened all over again. A face stared up at her at the foot of the front page, a face that she knew despite the fact that it was distorted. She read the headline. It said: ‘Body of Frenchman found in sea.’

  *

  Edward contemplated the stone bust on the other side of the corridor. White marble, depicting Pitt the Younger, according to the caption. Parliament had quite a few works of art – hardly spectacular, but some good sculpture, quite a lot of rare books and a few decent pictures. Nothing quite as remarkable as the building itself. He looked along the corridor to the entrance to the chamber of the House of Commons. It was early evening and there was no shortage of MPs toing and froing.

  Edward sat with Midwinter, Leith and Mordaunt. It had been a tense day, waiting to see the Prime Minister, made even worse when Victoria had rung an hour earlier with the news about Haydon. Lockwood was spending the evening at the House, since there was a crucial debate on the loans to Russia. Lockwood’s parliamentary office, outside which the others were now gathered, was at the corner of the building, so that Edward could look along two corridors running at right angles to one another.

  The door to Lockwood’s office opened and Hatfield beckoned them in. The Prime Minister’s inner office was square, with a low ceiling fashioned in elaborate stone patterns. Two leaded windows looked out over the river and the row of amber lights stretching across Westminster Bridge. What was the PM’s mood? Edward wondered. The grandson, he had been told, was in intensive care and not yet out of danger.

  Lockwood waved them to seats but didn’t speak until they were all settled. He turned to Slocombe. ‘Eric?’

  ‘I’m stumped, Bill. The news from Vienna this morning was encouraging in its way. The other side’s response to Andover’s mistake seemed to suggest that they had stepped up their threat – but weren’t going fully public. In other words, we were still in business, still had a trade. But for Haydon, we could have expected another call tomorrow. The Haydon business, however, is a real joker in the pack.’

  ‘What happened exactly?’

  Slocombe looked at Edward.

  ‘According to Victoria Tatton’s account of the newspaper report, Haydon’s body was found floating in Piraeus harbour. He was bound hand and foot and, although he died by drowning, he had been hit over the head before being thrown into the water.’ Edward paused as they all took in the terrible details. ‘Victoria Tatton told me that it was routine for Haydon to change his identification documents whenever he was doing something illegal or risky. That’s why the Greek newspaper – and presumably the police – identified him as a Frenchman, Gilles Broudin. Victoria Tatton doesn’t know what he was up to last night – he never told her. So I’m afraid we don’t know who killed him or why, and what connection, if any, it has to the Elgin business.’

  ‘That’s why I say it’s a joker, Bill.’ Slocombe spoke again. ‘Put yourself in the other side’s shoes . . . This is speculation but that’s all we’ve got to go on . . . You’re nervous, tense. In the middle of a delicate and dangerous negotiation. Someone breaks into your house or your office, some sort of property belonging to one of your team. If that person was British you could be pretty certain you had been found out. But in this case the invader, the burglar maybe, is French. Or you think he is. Were you burgled for some other reason? Or was the Frenchman on contract to the British? Was he not a Frenchman at all? Or . . . final scenario . . . is Haydon’s death nothing to do with the other business? Did he make enemies in Colombia who have finally caught up with him? Did he have hidden habits that were always likely to land him in trouble?’ Slocombe sat back and patted his toupee gently.

  No one else spoke.

  ‘In a sense, of course, it’s academic,’ Slocombe eventually continued. ‘There’s nothing we can do except wait. We’ll either get a call or we won’t. This thing will either blow or it won’t.’

  Lockwood bit his lip. ‘Eric, I agree that we are forced to wait for them to call. But that’s not all we can do. I’ve had some ideas, so let’s not be too negative.’ He cocked his head at Midwinter. ‘Tomorrow’s papers.’

  ‘Go further than the television did on tonight’s news. All the serious papers have the Vienna Rubens story but the Telegraph and The Times each put it on the front page. The headline in the Telegraph is: “Mystery link between Duke and Nazi loot?” The Times doesn’t go so far, but inside there’s a piece about Windsor’s war – which concludes that there is no known link between the Duke and any stolen masterpieces.’

  Lockwood fiddled with a pen on his desk. ‘Bloody dose. Too dose. Now,’ he said, turning to the others, ‘what about this Brigade member actually inside the museum itself? Do we have any ideas?’

  Lockwood looked at Midwinter again. The press officer shook his head. ‘There are seven hundred people at the BM and it could be anybody –’

  ‘No, it bloody well couldn’t. It has to be someone with access all over the place, it has to be somebody senior enough to use the museum franking machine. These people are not going to trust anyone. From what I’ve been told, all the others in this Brigade are middle class
and politically involved. You can bet that whoever they’ve got at the BM will be the same. And maybe Greek, too.’

  ‘Sir?’ Edward sat up.

  ‘Yes?’ barked Lockwood.

  ‘O’Day has already faxed us a copy of the envelope he took from Zakros’s study, and he’s sending us the original by courier. So we have a sample of the handwriting of the Brigade member who works at the British Museum. We can check that against the various people who fit our profile of suspects –’