by Peter Watson
*
Edward reached across, took the bottle from the bucket and held its neck over Victoria’s glass. ‘More wine?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t feel thirsty, I don’t feel hungry and I certainly don’t feel happy.’
Edward nodded but helped himself to wine all the same. Their journey to Datça had been uneventful and they had arrived at around seven in the evening. They had found a hotel but then had immediately gone to enquire about the excavation at Knidos. All the taxi drivers knew where the dig was, but Knidos was about twenty miles away, and at that hour, of course, the site was closed. They had returned to the hotel looking forward to their dinner – after travelling all day they were both famished. But then Victoria had called London, to be told that O’Day and Riley were making real progress and hoping to tap the blackmailers’ phone very soon, and that Wittington had unearthed the name of an Apollo Brigade member in the British Museum. ‘In other words,’ as she had pointed out to Edward once her conversation with Leith in London was at an end, ‘we are the only people with no progress to report. I’ll bet Lockwood is getting itchy.’ She also told Edward about the Aghia Sophia in Moscow Road. That had deepened their gloom still further. And ruined their appetite.
‘We ought to discuss our plan for tomorrow.’ Edward put the bottle back in the bucket. ‘The same as last time? Watch out for one of the diggers, follow him or her, ask about Kolettis?’
She seemed not to hear him. ‘What worries me . . . is that we took that man’s word too easily. The man in the café at Olympia, I mean. If I were Kolettis and were involved in what they are involved in, I would have some sort of security system. At the least, if someone came looking for me, I would leave standing instructions, to the effect that I wasn’t there.’
‘Not necessarily. Even allowing for Haydon’s murder, he can have no idea we’re on to him. He’s here as an archaeologist. He’s not in hiding as such and is not acting as a terrorist – or indeed as a blackmailer – normally does, keeping himself to himself in a closed cell. There is nothing suspicious about him.’
‘Hmm. Maybe. One of the main points of security is that it secures you against the unexpected. He may not expect us to have tracked him down so quickly, but if he is professional he will still have taken precautions against what might happen rather than what he expects to happen.’
‘What makes you think Kolettis was at the last site?’
‘Nothing. Nothing concrete anyway.’ She smiled a rather sour smile. ‘Two things, really. I thought it through as we were travelling today – it took a while before I could admit my doubts to myself . . . I will have some wine now, please.’ She spoke as he poured. ‘It seems to me that, given what he’s doing, or trying to do, a site on mainland Greece would be preferable. This peninsula is really out of the way, impractical if you are a budding blackmailer, wouldn’t you say? Leith said on the phone that it might be a clever ploy to run a Greek terrorist attempt from inside Turkey, but that may be too elaborate. There’s another thing. So far, this Apollo Brigade consists of a negotiator in Basle, a restorer at the British Museum, a Greek archaeologist, a Greek lawyer and, according to Leith, his brother, a backbench politician. We don’t know how many more there are – and there are probably not many, I agree. But there must be at least one other person with some political weight. More weight than Stamatis, I mean. The motive behind this blackmail is political – if the Marbles do return, the impact will definitely be political. I’m growing convinced that there must be at least one other person in this Brigade who is a heavyweight politician. Kolettis appears to be the motivating force intellectually but Stamatis Leondaris, if he is involved, and we’re not certain of that yet, is just a backbench MP. Useful, yes, but hardly a figurehead. There must be someone else. And if that’s true, this heavyweight and Kolettis must meet from time to time. A Greek political figure would stand out in a Turkish town, but if Kolettis was somewhere in Greece he could easily travel to Athens whenever it was required. In Athens they could meet – secretly or openly – without it seeming remarkable in any way.’
She drank her wine. A silence stretched between them, across the table.
‘I understand why you’re worried,’ said Edward at length. ‘But perhaps you’re worrying too much, especially as we’ve only just heard how well the others are doing. It seems to me that you could turn your reasoning on its head. An isolated place like this is a good place to hide. If there’s a genuine dig, it provides perfect cover – and the phones are very good these days.’ He let the matter of the Brigade’s size and strength slide. He couldn’t tell Victoria about Nancy. Not yet.
‘What about the political angle?’
‘You may have a point, I agree. But I’m not sure, once the actual blackmail had started, that Kolettis and the political figure, if there is one, would have to talk so much. The blackmail is an ‘operation’, so to speak. Only its effect is political . . .’
Another silence descended between them. Neither was wholly convinced by the other’s arguments nor, indeed, by their own.
Edward lifted the wine bottle out of the bucket, but there was nothing left. ‘Coffee?’
‘How about having coffee somewhere else? The harbour looked as though it had one or two decent places.’
He nodded, smiled and got up. As they went out, he signed for the dinner: it would go on to the hotel bill. They strolled to the harbour. Here the sweet and sour smells of the sea mingled with those of cooking – kebabs, hot olive oil, coffee. There were children, dogs and restaurants everywhere, old women in black, the crews of a few big yachts, in brilliant white.
‘Let’s walk first, look at the boats. See how the rich live.’ Victoria led the way. ‘Afterwards, I might just have a brandy with my coffee. I need something to give me a lift.’
It was a very warm night and, as they strolled around the harbour, they passed yet more children who were still up and wearing only bathing costumes. One or two wizened fishermen sat smoking in the gloom, young girls on scooters wove in and out of everywhere. Datça was not comparable to one of the fashionable French or Italian Mediterranean ports – Portofino or Saint-Tropez – but it had its share of smart boats. One, however, towered above all the others. It was not a sailing boat but rather resembled a miniature hotel. It was white, with lights everywhere and a wide deck area at the stern, which now overlooked the jetty. As Edward and Victoria strolled past, they could see several people on board playing cards. The men were in shirtsleeves, the women in flimsy dresses. Servants in white moved about them, removing plates, holding trays with glasses on them. Wine or whisky winked in the lights of the boat. Victoria and Edward walked on to the end of the harbour wall and sat for a moment looking out to sea. The sky was like ink, studded with stars. Then they retraced their steps and took coffee and brandy in one of the two harbour cafés.
‘I can’t believe that I’m here, feeling like this,’ said Victoria. ‘This has to be one of the most beautiful spots on earth – and yet it’s all lost on me.’
‘I’d feel better if there was something else we could do. Not just eating and drinking.’
‘Maybe that’s where your talents lie.’
‘Thank you.’
They sat for a while, not speaking, watching the life of the harbour. They were both worried. At length, Victoria drained her brandy glass and said, ‘I feel a talent for sleep, right now. Back to the hotel?’
‘Yes – but give me a moment. The wine and coffee seem to have zoomed right through me.’
When he came back, he sat down and reached across the table. He covered Victoria’s hand with his own. She looked at him: it was their first physical contact. But she left his hand where it was.
He said, ‘There were two men in the loo. They were talking – in English – about a dig.’
Victoria’s eyes glowed. ‘Was Kolettis mentioned?’
‘No. But they weren’t archaeologists. They were both dressed all in white. They were crew members from that gin palace over
there.’
Chapter Eighteen – Saturday
‘Now, sir . . . sir! Could you come here for a moment? . . . Yes, you, sir. You’re Indian, aren’t you?’
The man looked straight into the camera. ‘That is correct.’
‘May I then ask why you are here today, on this demonstration?’ The reporter, a red-headed twenty-nine-year-old with a Yorkshire accent, thrust the microphone to and fro enthusiastically between himself and his interviewee. ‘As I understand it, this march was called by the United Greek Fellowship to protest against the torching of the Greek Orthodox Cathedral in Moscow Road and to press the Prime Minister to speed the return of the Elgin Marbles back to Athens. And yet half the march seems to be made up of Indians, Pakistanis and even a few Irish.’
‘Yes, that’s true –’
‘But why?’
‘I’m coming to that, if you’ll let me answer. In the first place, it is a question of sympathy. I am chairman of the Indian Workers’ Association and we are only too aware of the hostility of some British – not all by any means, but some – the hostility of some British to different religions. We have had our places of worship desecrated in the north, several times. So, in the first place, our presence here is a gesture of solidarity with the Greeks. What happened in Moscow Road was a disgrace and a tragedy. But there is also the question of the Elgin Marbles themselves. These pieces of stone arouse great passions but they are not the only cultural objects which are in Britain illegally –’
‘You mean there are also Indian and Pakistani objects which you would like back?’
‘That is exactly what I mean. There is a Hindu throne in the Victoria and Albert Museum, which is very beautiful and of great importance historically. It was taken out of the country at the end of the eighteenth century. That definitely ought to be returned. There are a number of Benin bronzes here in the British Museum that the Nigerian government would like back – and in the Museum of Mankind, an offshoot of the British Museum, there are valuable masks and a canoe that were produced by the Indians of Canada. They are unique and should be back in their native land.’
‘If I may ask you just one more question, sir, then you can rejoin the demonstration . . . What do you hope to achieve by this march?’
‘Publicity, first. Interviews like this one so that we can make known our views to a wider group of people, to the nation at large, in the hope that they will join us. But today we are marching from the museum here in Bloomsbury, to Downing Street, where we are going to present a petition to the Prime Minister, urging him to return the Marbles without any delay, and then to turn his mind to other cases where grave injustice has been done.’
The camera followed the interviewee as he ran a few steps to regain his place in the march and then refocused on the reporter. ‘And so the saga of the Elgin Marbles takes a new twist today. I remind you also that this demonstration is only one of two taking place here at the British Museum. Inside the building, about a hundred keepers are staging a sit-in, with placards and speeches, in the larger galleries. Their object is the exact opposite of the Greeks and Pakistanis and Indians you see before you on the screen. The keepers want to stop the return of the Elgin Marbles and they have been joined by Lord Renfrew and some of the other Trustees who have resigned over the government’s action. We return to the studio for now, but I hope to report later from inside the museum. This is Brian Welch, for BBC TV.’
*
‘If someone else comes and looks over my shoulder, I’m going to die of embarrassment.’
‘Don’t be so touchy. You’re not that bad.’
‘Alongside you, I’m terrible. And you’re not Mary Cassatt.’
Victoria turned and speared Edward’s shoulder with her pencil. ‘You’re getting freckles on your forehead. All this sun brings them out.’
‘And I’ve got such a lot of forehead – yes?’
‘Don’t be so touchy. A high forehead can be very distinguished.’
They were both sitting against the harbour wall in Datça with sketchpads on their knees, pretending to be artists. They were in the shade as the white day blazed around them. They faced into the harbour where they could see all the boats, especially the gin palace. That morning they had staked out the dig, as they had intended. They had watched plenty of people come and go. Overnight, however, they had had second thoughts about adopting the same tactics as they had employed at Olympia. If Datça was the headquarters of the Apollo Brigade, Victoria had argued, then their planned approach – to ask after Kolettis – was too blatant and too dangerous. They needed something subtler. She hadn’t been sure what fresh approach would work but had suggested they keep watch on the boat, which was called the Strabo, in the hope that such observation might help. The sketchpads – bought in the village at lunchtime – were simply an excuse to be able to sit in one place for a long time, without appearing suspicious. They had now been leaning against the harbour wall for more than an hour. Since it was high afternoon there wasn’t much activity anywhere, just a few tourists foolish enough to brave the sun. It was some of these who kept looking over Edward’s shoulder at his handiwork.
‘Hello,’ said Victoria, lifting her head from her sketching. ‘Competition for Strabo.’
Edward followed her gaze. Another enormous yacht was nosing into the harbour. This one was also white – at least the main bodywork was. But it was very modern, sleek and swept back, and all its windows were smoked glass, almost black against the rest of the boat. Edward and Victoria watched as the boat slowed, moved into reverse and then gently approached a vacant slot at the jetty.
‘It’s British!’ said Victoria. ‘Look, it says “Ginfizz: Brighton” on the stern.’
Edward nodded. ‘How many would that sleep, do you think?’
‘I haven’t a clue. Count the portholes, that might help.’
He watched as Ginfizz tied up. A man dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt and white shorts descended from a staircase which the Ginfizz had lowered. He carried a briefcase; this was presumably the captain going to find the harbour master, to pay his dues and declare his passengers. There was little sign of life on board apart from that. No doubt they were all sleeping off lunch.
‘Which bits do you find easiest to draw?’ said Victoria softly. ‘People, things or the landscape?’
‘It’s all equally hard to me. And I’m hopeless at everything. Do you think we’re doing any good here. I’m thirsty.’
‘You’re too impatient. We’ve only been here an hour, at a quiet time of the day.’
‘Well, let’s have a drink and come back in an hour, when everyone starts waking up. There’ll be more happening then.’
‘Oh, all right. Beer comes first, as usual.’
They collected their things together and stood up. Then they strolled back to the bar. It too was nearly empty at that time of day and they chose to sit inside, in the shade. Edward ordered the beers while Victoria went off to find a newspaper. By the time she came back, he was half-way through his drink. ‘Any luck?’
‘No British newspapers, just yesterday’s Rhodes Daily. The Trustees of the British Museum have resigned. The British Embassy in Athens is still surrounded by demonstrators, peaceful but noisy if you see what I mean. A lot of shouting but no trouble yet. That could change after the Aghia Sophia business.’
As they talked they saw the captain of the Ginfizz enter the bar. He had presumably finished with the harbour master and was beginning to relax. They heard him order a coffee and water.
‘He looks about twelve,’ whispered Victoria.
‘Your type? You do live on a houseboat, after all.’
‘He’s good-looking but his skin’s too smooth. He must be gay.’
‘Is this someone else from the same boat?’
Another man had entered the bar and was making for the captain. He addressed him in English. ‘You forgot the passenger manifest.’ He held a sheet of paper in his hand.
‘I know. I’ll have to go back to th
e harbour master after my coffee. Thanks for bringing it. Saved me a walk. Want a coffee?’
‘I’d rather have a beer. I can’t do my shopping yet anyway. Nowhere’s open.’ His beer was poured and the two men chatted away. They were obviously regular cruisers of the Mediterranean, the second man being the ship’s chef. Victoria browsed through the paper and Edward just sat, as the Englishmen talked around him. After about ten minutes they left, the chef going off in search of shops in which to buy food, and the captain back to the harbour master with the passenger manifest.
Edward watched the figure of the captain as he crossed the harbour. How on earth did Victoria know he was gay?
She lifted her head from the paper. ‘Passenger manifest!’
‘What?’
‘That captain has to deliver a passenger manifest to the harbour master’s office.’
‘Yes.’
‘Other captains must do the same.’
Edward sat up. ‘Including the captain of the Strabo.’
‘Exactly.’
‘But . . . how do we get to see the manifest? . . . We’d have to break into the harbour master’s office.’
‘Exactly.’
Edward was silent, digesting what Victoria had said.
After a while, she added: ‘We’ll have to go in tonight. It won’t take long, not once we’re inside, anyway. Are you any better at breaking and entering than you are at drawing?’