by Peter Watson
Lockwood nodded his head. ‘But how will you do that without alerting the suspect?’
‘I know a bit about the BM – I helped organize an exhibition there a few months ago. There is a central archive for the museum, in the director’s wing. A handwriting expert could go through each person’s file, comparing scripts. We could send the expert into the museum during the day, along with masses of other visitors. The director could tell us in advance where the expert can hide while the museum is closing. We arrange for this expert to have a key to the archive. So long as he stays there all night and leaves next day when the museum is again thronged with people, there is no way anyone will even know he is there, apart from the director, that is.’
Lockwood again played with his fountain pen. ‘Leith – you’ve got a handwriting expert, I take it?’
Leith nodded.
The Prime Minister sighed. ‘The London end, and Basle, seem under control. As much under control as these things ever are. But what are we going to do about Athens? Victoria Tatton isn’t enough.’ He glanced at Edward. ‘You really think Kolettis is on a dig, researching this . . . sculptor?’
‘Praxiteles.’ Edward shrugged. ‘I can’t think of a better plan.’
‘Are you thinking we should send Andover?’ Slocombe looked at Lockwood.
‘O’Day would be best, but he’s locked into Basle. Leith has to stay here, to advise on the negotiations –’
‘If there are any,’ whispered Midwinter.
‘If there are any,’ repeated Lockwood. ‘Security is a first consideration. I’m terrified Keld will hear of this. He mustn’t. We could send someone from O’Day’s outfit but . . . if Andover is right and Kolettis is on a dig then some specialist knowledge might come in handy . . .’
‘But what about the Brigade – how do we explain Andover’s absence, and who will take over?’ It was Midwinter again.
Lockwood looked from Edward to Mordaunt. ‘We tell them what in fact nearly happened – that Andover has been fired. We say that, after his display of temper last time, when he lost control of himself, we have decided not to risk him again. That will show them how seriously we take their Vienna manoeuvre. We’ll need an official alibi, too.’ He looked at Mordaunt. ‘Any ideas?’
Mordaunt sniffed. ‘The Queen is scheduled to go to Berlin later this year. An exchange of paintings has been discussed. We could pretend Andover’s gone to Germany to sort it out. I’ll tell Hillier it had to be done now.’
Lockwood nodded. ‘And I think it’s about time the Palace took a more prominent role in the affair. Sir Francis, I think you should take over from Andover.’
Mordaunt’s hand gripped his chin. ‘I must of course ask Her Maj –’
‘No! This issue is already taking up a great deal of government time. I want you on board, Mordaunt. Fully. We’re in this together and that means you will take over from Andover. I’m sure Her Majesty would agree. If Andover is going to Greece, he’s going first thing in the morning and you are going to cancel everything to be on hand, in case the Brigade do call. I hope I make myself very clear.’
Mordaunt returned Lockwood’s stare and for a moment there was an icy silence in the room. But Mordaunt knew when he was beaten. He uncrossed his legs and smiled. ‘Of course, Prime Minister . . . I shall be glad to help in any way I can.’
Lockwood grunted. ‘So, we all hold our breath overnight to see what Haydon’s death brings with it. Now, before we disperse, anything else?’
‘Yes, there is.’ All eyes turned to Hatfield. ‘Owen Cutler bearded me in the House today. He’s a trustee of the National Portrait Gallery, as you know, and therefore linked in to the art-world mafia. It seems there is an extraordinary meeting of the British Museum Trustees tomorrow. There’s nothing we can do about it, of course, but I’m told there’s a distinct possibility that some of them – maybe more than half – will resign.’
*
‘I could get to like this street.’
‘Aren’t you the comedian. At least we’ve got better soup tonight.’ Riley handed O’Day a mug. Earlier in the evening they had cruised past Zakros’s house. It appeared as if it were still unoccupied. There was no police car outside, nothing looked as though it had been disturbed in any way. Accordingly, they had eaten a late dinner and returned to the road near the house at eleven. They had now been waiting for just over an hour, parked a little further away this time.
‘Do you think he’ll come now?’ Riley continued. ‘Why would he return home in the middle of the night? Surely he would stay somewhere warm and comfortable and then come on in the morning.’
‘You’re probably right,’ answered O’Day. ‘On the other hand, speed still matters above everything else. He must come back here at some stage and we can’t afford to miss him. So we stay. More soup?’
Riley shook his head. ‘These stake-outs don’t get any easier, do they? Makes me wish I was in – oh, maybe the Riesbachli in Zurich. Fricassee of lobster, simmered in champagne –’
‘Shut up!’
Riley chuckled. ‘The longest I’ve ever been on a stake-out was eight whole days . . . Our tip-off got the day right but the week wrong. That was in Southampton waiting for a drugs rendezvous. I’ve hated Southampton ever since.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘In the old days of the Cold War I was in Vienna. Waiting for people to come over from the east was no joke either. A four-day wait was routine. And often, of course, no one ever came. People forget how far north Vienna is. God, it was cold –’
‘Car!’
As O’Day hissed out the word, headlights lit up the inside of their own car and they settled lower in their seats – O’Day was in the back so he was able to lie flat. The silver glow of the lights gradually filled the car as if it were a searchlight beam directed right at them, except that all the time the shadow moved, sliding over their shapes like mercury. As the car passed them, it slowed. Now the interior of the car filled with an amber light, on and off, on and off. O’Day raised his head a fraction so he could peer over the ledge of the car window. He smiled . . . in fact, he almost burst out laughing. Although it was approaching one o’clock in the morning, although there was not another waking soul, so far as he knew, for miles around, this was Switzerland and so the driver of the car was signalling that he was turning in. O’Day poked Riley in front of him in the shoulder. ‘He’s here!’
Both of them, like a couple of cats in a bin, stuck the top half of their heads above the window-ledge of the car. The winking amber light had been killed. Now the sidelights were switched off. The driver’s door opened and a figure emerged. He was tall and slim but that was all they could make out. He took a suitcase from the boot of the car and walked to the front door.
‘Fingers crossed and let’s hope he doesn’t notice the window.’
Riley looked at O’Day in the gloom. ‘How will we know?’
‘If he’s at all suspicious he’ll clear off straight away.’
‘Fine. Then we follow him.’
‘Then we follow him. First, though, I’d like a peek in that car. Might make our job easier.’
A light had gone on in the hall of the house. Then another came on in the study, at the side. Things remained that way for several minutes.
‘He could be reading his mail, or telephoning. Either way, he doesn’t appear to have noticed the window.’
Riley murmured agreement.
Moments later the study light went out. Then nothing.
‘He’s in the kitchen, pouring himself some water or juice. We can’t see that light from here.’
A few minutes later a light came on upstairs and immediately the hall light went out. ‘He’s going to bed,’ said Riley.
‘Huh-uh. And, since he’s arrived back from out of town, at one o’clock in the morning, it follows that he must be exhausted. He should be comatose inside half an hour. More soup, I think.’
They kept their eyes on the light as O’Day sipped the hot liquid and Riley finished his cigarette. After seven or ei
ght minutes, the light was turned off. Riley inspected his watch and then took from his pocket the skeleton keys he had used the night before. ‘Did you get training with these?’ He looked at O’Day.
‘Yes – but a long time ago. You can do the honours.’
‘I’ve never had to break into a hotel room with those newfangled electronic keys. They must be tricky.’ Riley held up the rods. ‘These are wonderful, though. Never fail.’ He wiped the rods with his handkerchief. ‘Right. I think it makes sense for you to wait outside the front door. He’s got to come down the stairs if he hears anything and you’ll be able to sound the alert. Agreed?’
O’Day nodded.
Silently, they opened the car doors and stepped out into the road. It was cooler than last night. O’Day made for the front of the house and Riley moved swiftly across to Zakros’s Peugeot. He had the car door open in little more than a minute. The lock’s design was predictable and he got in behind the wheel. The interior of the car was empty. There was nothing on the leather seats. He felt the pockets behind the seat backs. They too had nothing in them. He felt under the seats. Still nothing. He pressed the button on the glove compartment. It was locked. Now that was interesting. It was almost unheard of, in Riley’s experience, for anyone to bother locking a glove compartment. He reached again for his skeleton keys.
It was a simpler lock than the one in the driver’s door and he had it open in no time. Inside there was a tin of boiled sweets, the car handbook, the insurance document and another piece of paper. He opened it out and looked at it. There was a list of numbers. Each line was six digits long, grouped in pairs, so it looked as though they were telephone numbers. Some of the numbers began with the same order of digits, as if they were from the same exchange. But what did the numbers mean? Did they mean anything? Were they numbers Zakros had to call? Riley thought hard. The numbers were intriguing but they were also a little disappointing. He couldn’t take the piece of paper, in case Zakros noticed that it had gone. So should he copy out the entire list? He thought that, first, he would try the boot: there might be something more obviously useful to them there. He slipped out of the car, taking the skeleton keys with him. The boot lock opened as quickly as the others – he hadn’t lost his touch. Inside, there was a spare wheel, a blanket, a number of maps scattered loosely over the floor and, to his surprise, a punctured football. But that was all. Quietly, he closed the lid and then waved at O’Day for him to stay where he was. He ran back to their own car and reached for the paperback he had brought with him to help pass the time. It had some blank pages at the back. Inside a minute he was back in the Greek’s car and writing down the numbers. There must have been twenty or thirty sets of them – why so many? It didn’t take him long to get it done, then he replaced the list back in the glove compartment and pushed its lid closed. Gently, he relocked the Peugeot’s door, looked across to O’Day, then both of them hurried to their own car. Leaving the doors slightly ajar, they held on to them as Riley accelerated gently away. Only after they were clear of the Greek’s house did they slam them closed.
Back in Riley’s hotel, whiskies in hand, they pored over the list of numbers. ‘They’re definitely Basle phone numbers,’ said Riley. ‘I recognize some of the exchanges.’ He pointed to several sets of digits.
‘But they may have nothing to do with this whole affair. Let’s see.’ O’Day picked up the phone and took the list from Riley. ‘I’ll try the top one first.’
‘Is that wise?’
‘We’re in a hurry.’ O’Day punched the numbers, then held the receiver to his ear. ‘It’s ringing,’ he said after a few moments. Then: ‘No reply . . . I’ll try the next . . . No reply there, either. Let’s see if the last number produces anything . . . No,’ he said after a further delay. ‘No one’s home anywhere.’
‘We’re wasting our time. We should get some sleep.’
‘He won’t be up before seven.’ O’Day looked at his watch. ‘Quarter past two . . . we can give ourselves a four-hour break.’ As Riley made to move, O’Day added: ‘I’m not so sure I agree with you about these numbers. They must be linked in some way. You don’t just keep a list like that for no reason. Not in a rented car.’
‘But there are twenty or thirty of them. Do you think there are twenty or thirty members of this Apollo Brigade?’
‘Nnno. No, I don’t. But maybe they have an elaborate communication system and these are the numbers he calls at a prearranged time.’ O’Day shrugged. ‘Sleep, Riley! We don’t want to miss him in the morning. Our masters in London would not be pleased if we did that.’
Chapter Sixteen – Thursday
‘If that waiter knew what he was talking about, the site should be along here, on the right.’ Victoria had a map, opened on her lap as Edward drove. It was high afternoon near Eleusis, the sun bleaching the landscape all around as far as the eye could see. White hills hurt the eyes and the warm, sweet smell of figs filled the air.
Victoria had received a call in the early hours that morning, from Edward. He was arriving on the first flight from London. Victoria, now less frightened than before but still in shock after Haydon’s death, had checked out of the Holiday Inn and met Edward at the airport, where they had rented a car. They had left Athens by the Corinth road, coming off to the left before the junction which led to Thebes.
As they drove, Edward had brought Victoria up to date on the thinking in London. He also explained why they were heading for Eleusis. ‘Yesterday, I phoned the Classical Association, for a list of current digs in Greece. Most of these digs use volunteer labour so they’re perfectly happy to give out information over the phone to “amateurs”, which is what I said I was.’
‘And?’
‘There are only three current digs in the area associated in any way with Praxiteles: Eleusis, Olympia and Knidos. Eleusis is closest to Athens, so we start there.’
Eleusis may have been closest but it had still involved driving back through Athens. That had been a hot, sticky experience so they had stopped for a coffee in Eleusis itself, which had also provided an opportunity for Victoria to ask the way to the site. They were now leaving the town on its north side and Edward felt better than he had done in days. The Apollo Brigade still hadn’t gone public and the warmth of Greece had a mellowing effect on him, as if it loosened the joints of his limbs. Victoria’s presence wasn’t a hardship, either.
Hills sloped gently away from the road, white stone blazing in the sunshine. ‘What’s this?’ Victoria murmured, leaning forward in her seat. ‘Look.’ She pointed. A narrow track ran off to the right, like a line of chalk drawn in the landscape. ‘There’s a sign . . . see.’ It was a makeshift affair, a stretch of board nailed to a post. The writing was in Greek. ‘It says “Temple”.’
‘That must be it.’
‘We’re a bit exposed, aren’t we?’ said Victoria as Edward slowed the car and turned off the metalled road. ‘They’ll see us long before we see them.’
‘We’ll pretend we’re tourists – so don’t let on that you can speak fluent Greek.’
The track went straight over the hill, without any allowance for the gradient, and they soon lost sight of the road. Ahead of them now, low slopes stretched away, each one whiter than the last until they were lost in the haze of the day. There were hardly any trees – just low bushes. After about five minutes they came to an area that had been levelled. It was about the size of a football field and the far end had been cut into the hill. It was deserted.
‘No one could dig in this heat. They must have been mad to build here in the first place.’ Victoria turned in her seat, looking this way and that, to make sure there was no one observing them.
‘Or very devout in their belief that the gods inhabited these lands. This is the wrong place. The Classical Association misled me. The digging has been finished for some time. The ground has already been smoothed over.’
It was getting hot in the car. ‘Where next?’ asked Victoria, turning up the air-conditioning.
‘Olympia,’ said Edward, putting the car into gear, ready to turn round. ‘I pray to God it’s the site we want.’
‘Why? What’s wrong with the other place – Knidos?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just that it’s on a narrow spit of land north of Rhodes and actually in Turkey. It’s very isolated. If Kolettis is hiding there, he will almost certainly see us coming.’
*
Sir Francis Mordaunt stared in horror at the lines of people queuing for the Tate Gallery cafeteria. In his life he rarely had to deal with the mass of humanity and he didn’t relish being so close to it now. He looked down at the little Welsh policeman, standing nearby. Leith was more like the people in the cafeteria queue. He wore the same kind of clothes, probably lived in much the same area and held his knife and fork in much the same way. Mordaunt was a snob and accepted the fact. Secretly he felt it was beneath him to be here but of course he had no choice. Since the meeting with the Prime Minister, he’d had to rearrange his schedule, hand over various duties to the Lord Chamberlain, and hold himself in readiness for the call that had finally come just a little while ago.
His eye fixed on a swarthy – Greek-looking – youth in the cafeteria queue. They had all received a shock first thing this morning. The breakfast news had carried a story to the effect that, during the night, a group of buildings across Britain had been attacked and daubed with graffiti. Each of the buildings – the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square, Downing College in Cambridge, Birmingham Town Hall, the Royal Scottish Society in Edinburgh – had one thing in common: each was modelled on the Parthenon, or had some prominent classical Greek features. In each case the graffiti had been daubed on the columns of the façade of the building, one letter per column, each several feet high and spelling ‘KLEPHTES’. This, it had turned out, was Greek for ‘Thieves’.
That had been worrying enough but, during the morning, the BBC had received a phone call from an organization claiming responsibility for the attacks. The organization called itself ‘The Enemies of Elgin’ and had demanded the return of the Elgin Marbles immediately. Otherwise, the spokesman had threatened, its action would be stepped up. That was bound to inflame the situation, Mordaunt reflected, introducing yet another ‘joker’, as the Prime Minister’s political aide had put it, into the equation. Mordaunt also knew that the Trustees of the British Museum were meeting about now . . . they could make trouble, too.