by Peter Watson
*
‘Mordaunt! I thought we had agreed –’ Zakros’s voice grew petulant.
‘Don’t hang up!’ the equerry half whispered, half screamed into the phone. ‘Don’t hang up. Her Majesty is here. I just want to say that . . . the Duveen Galleries, which contain the Elgin Marbles, are closed and . . . it hasn’t been announced yet but the Prime Minister has recalled a Royal Navy frigate – HMS Anglesey – from a tour of duty off Norway. The Marbles are being crated over the weekend and the Anglesey will collect them from the Port of London on Monday or Tuesday, depending on the weather in the North Sea. Anyway, she will meet your deadline. She will then deliver them to Piraeus. It will take her – oh, four or five days . . .’ He tailed off.
‘Hmm.’ Zakros was non-committal. Then he said, ‘I will speak with Her Majesty now.’
The Queen took the phone. ‘Yes?’ Earpieces were affixed to the instrument so that Leith and Mordaunt could listen in.
‘There is one other thing we require of you, Your Majesty.’
The Queen was taken aback. ‘Is . . . is that fair?’
‘Don’t worry, we are not changing the rules, like common blackmailers. You will understand when I tell you. I’m sure Mr Lockwood has been expecting it – or something very like it.’
‘What is it?’
‘First, you need to buy a certain make and model of typewriter.’
‘What on earth for –?’
‘You’ll see. Just listen. Then do it. Have it done for you. Buy an Olivetti 509E. I’m told they can be bought almost anywhere. Harrod’s certainly. It must be Olivetti and it must be a model 509E. Is that quite clear, ma’am?’
‘Yes, yes . . . I’m writing it down.’
‘Good. Now, I’m going to dictate a letter to you. You are to have this typed out, using the Olivetti, on your own personal Buckingham Palace stationery and it is to be signed by you, in ink in the normal way. But – and this is an important instruction, which must be observed exactly – when you put the paper into the typewriter, you must press the “Return” key eight times. Do you understand?’
‘Eight times. Yes. Why?’
‘I’ll ignore that. Now, the letter. I’ll dictate slowly . . . Are you ready? . . . It should read as follows: “I am writing . . . to express . . . my appreciation for all the help and guidance . . . you have given concerning the return of the so-called Elgin Marbles to Greece. When we met, in London, all those months ago, it was your inspiration and discreet energy which helped me to encourage the British government that its decision to return the Marbles was the right one. I thank you too for all the help you gave in little ways, finding solutions to obstacles, overcoming difficulties, smoothing the path imaginatively and seeing through the whole project with enthusiasm and tenacity. Greece can be proud she has such a son and I hope that your role in all this will not go unrecognized or unrewarded. Yours sincerely and in friendship . . . Elizabeth R.”’
The Queen made a sound half-way between a groan and a sigh. ‘I can’t write this. It is not the sort of thing the monarch can write.’
‘Yes, you can, ma’am. You’ll have to.’
‘But . . . it will involve the Crown . . . in a political matter –’
‘But nowhere near as controversial as the other . . . matter, hmm? Look upon it as good news, as a piece of insurance. When this is all over, when the Marbles are safely back in Athens, it must have crossed your mind that we – the Apollo Brigade, that is – would still be free to give our story to the newspapers. This letter shows you we don’t intend to do anything of the sort. We shall only go public if you do not keep your side of the bargain. Otherwise, the letter I have just dictated will be made public – and only that. We have an Olivetti 509E . . . and shall simply insert the name of the . . . addressee at the top of the letter. It will be a significant social and political boost for that . . . person . . . acknowledgement from the Queen of England for the role . . . that person has played in this affair, this affair which all Greece will know about.’ Zakros chuckled. ‘The Apollo Brigade must have some sort of credit for all our hard work. You must have been wondering how we would go about that – I’m sure Mr Lockwood has. Now you know.’
The Queen went to speak but then changed her mind.
Zakros grew more businesslike. ‘On a Saturday it shouldn’t take more than an hour or two to track down an Olivetti 509E. Say a few minutes to tap out the letter. Half a day’s work at most. I shall telephone again at this time on Monday. Then I’ll tell you where to post it.’
*
‘Coming to you . . . nine, eight, seven, six . . .’
Brian Welch counted silently to five and saw the light over the camera lens flash red. ‘I’m standing now in the King’s Library of the British Museum, surrounded by priceless items of Britain’s heritage, mainly books in this gallery but of course the British Museum is famed throughout the world for its treasures of every kind – cuneiform tablets, Etruscan vases, the Rosetta Stone, the Portland Vase, Egyptian mummies . . . and of course the Elgin Marbles.’
At this point the camera turned away from Welch to take in a group of keepers and curators of the museum seated on the floor of the library, holding placards. Then the camera slowly turned back to Welch, who by now had a man and a woman standing next to him.
‘With me is Brenda Peachey, who works in the museum as a curator in the Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities, and Sir Henry Misco, the architect who is – or was, until very recently when he resigned – a trustee of the museum. Brenda, if I can come to you first . . . It has now been six days since this story first broke. Why are you demonstrating today when you have had all week? And what do you hope to achieve?’
‘Well, I would have thought that it’s obvious why we’re demonstrating today. Quite frankly, we never imagined for a moment that the government actually intended to carry out the policy that this secret Cabinet committee recommended. Not until the Duveen Galleries actually closed was it clear that the Prime Minister really is set on this course. Add to that the fact that the Trustees have now resigned and we had no choice but to make our views known. This museum is in crisis.’
‘Earlier today, several hundred Greeks, Indians and other sympathizers marched on Downing Street to petition the Prime Minister. Why haven’t you done that?’
‘William Lockwood seems to us to be beyond reason. Our aim therefore is to enlist the support of the public. My colleagues are giving lectures today in a variety of galleries, explaining the issues and asking members of the public to approach their MPs with a view to getting an emergency debate in parliament.’
‘Are the security staff and warders on your side?’
‘Some are, yes. I understand that one or two warders refused to close off the Duveen Galleries last night. But it has been done now. The doors are locked and we can hear the packers.’
‘The director of the museum, Sir Martin Ogilvy, has refused to see us. Have you seen him?’
Brenda Peachey shook her head. ‘No, he’s in the museum today, supervising the packing of the Marbles. But he won’t talk to anyone.’
‘What do you expect to happen now?’
‘Two things that we know about. The Reading Room will be closed on Monday, in protest, so the public will not be able to use it. Second, the Print Room will also be closed. We are talking to the warders and they may mount a protest. If they did, then the whole museum would have to be dosed.’
Welch moved the microphone across to Misco. ‘Sir Henry, mass resignation has a fine ring to it. But aren’t you now a spent force? Might it not have been more cunning for the Trustees to have fought the Prime Minister from inside?’
Misco tossed back his head, throwing his silver hair in a way that made him look much younger than his seventy-three years. He had obviously done it before. ‘The Prime Minister is using brutal tactics – we must do the same. But don’t imagine that our opposition to him stops with our resignations. Brenda here, and her colleagues, will try to force a debate in t
he Commons. We shall certainly get a debate in the Lords. Lord Renfrew, our chairman – or ex-chairman, I should say – will certainly raise it next week. We shall be asking other national museums to join us in protest.’
Welch pulled the microphone back to his own lips. ‘Does either of you know when the Marbles are due to leave?’
Peachey and Misco shook their heads.
Now Welch addressed the camera directly. ‘So . . . a chaotic week ahead in London’s museums. Protests, closures, debates in Parliament . . . The Prime Minister appears to be easily outnumbered on this issue – but he has the power. Will he use that power to push through this controversial repatriation? Here at the British Museum the mood is ugly but as yet not violent. Will the coming week change all that? This is Brian Welch for BBC TV.’
*
Riley had rented a new car, a green Mazda. A different make and a different colour. Now that they knew where Zakros was going to be at ten o’clock in the evening, they didn’t have to tail him at all times. Not that they would have been able to, since they had had to spend some time earlier today fixing the phone he was going to use. It was rather easier to fix public phones than any other kind – for the very simple reason that you could get at the instrument. Riley had done the honours in this particular case, unscrewing the plastic casing of the receiver while O’Day kept watch. There had been plenty of time to make a good job of it and to affix a tiny radio transmitter so that they could listen in to the conversation a few yards away. That is why Riley had hired the Mazda. Now there was no reason for Zakros to be suspicious about the car – he had never seen it before. For the past two hours they had been sitting in the Mazda, watching people go into the booth and make calls. O’Day and Riley had heard every single one of them perfectly.
‘Ten to ten,’ said Riley.
‘I can tell the time,’ said O’Day.
‘Just trying to be helpful.’
‘It would be a help if you passed the whisky flask.’
‘At the Bruegel in Bruges, they simmer tiny snipe in whisky. It has to be males apparently –’
‘Shut . . . up!’
They sat in silence as O’Day took a gulp of alcohol. They had experimented earlier in the evening, and found that it was impossible to see into their car from the booth. Zakros wouldn’t spot them. Each of them had long since passed the point at which they felt the need to keep talking. The minutes passed as they kept their eyes peeled for the first sign of the Greek.
‘There! By the travel agent. Wearing a raincoat.’
‘Got him. You’re right. Chic, eh? Bit of a playboy, our Zakros.’
‘Don’t knock it . . . it could be our saving. If he was a provincial Greek, he’d only speak Greek. As it is, he must speak German or French, to have been sent here to Basle. And English when he calls the Palace.’
They watched in silence as Zakros inspected one shop window after another, gradually moving closer to the phone booth. They saw him look at his watch twice and then, exactly on ten o’clock, he stood in front of the booth and lit a cigarette.
‘Christ! What’s that?’ hissed Riley as a raucous noise filled the car.
‘Moron! It’s the phone ringing. We haven’t heard it before . . . No one else has taken a call here.’
Almost immediately the noise was cut off. Zakros had lifted the receiver.
‘Yes?’ Zakros spoke in English.
‘What happened today?’ It was a woman’s voice. She spoke English too.
‘I talked to Queen Elizabeth. I really did. It was amazing. They do everything we ask –’
‘Of course. We hold all the cards.’ There was a chuckle. ‘The court cards.’
‘I dictated the letter. Me . . . I dictated to the Queen. Literally.’
‘What else happened?’
‘Oh yes. Mordaunt spoke first. He said Lockwood has arranged for a British Navy ship – a frigate – to load the Marbles –’
‘When?’
‘He said the ship was being recalled from Norway, would pick up the Marbles in two days, from London, and then proceed to Piraeus, which would take another four days.’
‘Do you trust him?’
‘I think so.’
‘You’re not sure?’
‘. . . Yes . . . I’m sure.’
‘Good. When do you speak to the Palace again?’
‘The day after tomorrow –’
‘When either the stones are on their way, or they aren’t. You’ll have to be firm.’
‘Don’t worry, we’re too close to success now.’
‘You’re being very brave. Kofas is most impressed. If the plan works, there’ll be big jobs for all of us. To think that a group like ours, just seven people, could accomplish what generations have failed to do.’
‘There are many demonstrations, I hear.’
‘Oh yes. Here in London and in Athens. That’s all to our advantage . . . We always knew there would be a lot of support for the cause. You will be the biggest hero of all. You deserve it.’
‘I am blushing. I never imagined, that time when Blunt came to Athens, that . . . that it would end like this. He was so unfriendly, so snobbish.’
‘We’ve discussed all this before, Nicos. He hated losing his knighthood, silly man. You know how the British love a title.’
‘He was certainly a lot friendlier afterwards, I agree. Lucky us.’
‘Not luck, Nicos. You played him well. He loved the idea of one end of the royals being used to blackmail the other end. You were brilliant. Now it’s paying off.’
‘I’m blushing again.’
‘Go and have a drink. I miss you.’
‘And I miss you. Give my regards to Kofas.’
‘So long. Tomorrow, as usual.’
‘Yes.’
The phone went dead, and O’Day and Riley watched the Greek walk away from the booth. His cigarette must have gone out during his conversation for he stopped to light it again and then resumed his walk. They watched him in silence until he had disappeared. Later on they would dismantle the phone and remove the tapping device. But they would let him get well clear first.
‘Who, then, is Kofas? And what was all that about Blunt?’ said Riley.
‘Search me. At least we found out one important thing tonight, besides Kofas, I mean.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Christ! Weren’t you listening? This character referred to a group of seven. That’s the first time we’ve had it confirmed that there are seven of them. The question is: who are the others? We now know about Kofas, we know about Aristotle and Stamatis Leonardis and about Kolettis. That makes four. We know about Zakros in Basle and Eugenie Shelby in London – that makes six. The voice on the phone was in London –’
‘Shelby?’
‘No. Shelby’s Greek. That woman’s voice just now was American.’
*
‘I don’t believe it,’ Victoria whispered, pulling on Edward’s sleeve.
‘What don’t you believe?’
‘What a break . . . Look, there’s a window open.’
For two-thirty in the morning, the light was surprisingly good, thanks to an entire galaxy of stars overhead. Victoria pulled on Edward’s sleeve again and they crept behind the harbour master’s office. They had used the old lovers’ routine to reach this end of the harbour. Victoria had leaned against Edward, her head on his shoulder and her arm around his waist as they strolled past the boats, now all wrapped in silence. He hadn’t objected. At the end of the jetty they had leaned against the office, apparently kissing, should anyone have been watching at that late hour. ‘My aunt would have disapproved of this,’ whispered Victoria. But, after a moment, their kissing had become real.
They had observed earlier in the day that the harbour master’s office was a simple affair, two offices in an L-shape with a reception area in between and what looked like a small kitchen and a lavatory behind that. It was not exactly a fortress, and Victoria had said she would easily be able to break in. Now, checking
behind the building to be absolutely sure there were no hippies or tramps or drunks sleeping there, who might be awakened by what they planned, she had found the open window.
‘They’re just asking to be burgled,’ whispered Edward.
‘There can’t be much worth stealing in here,’ she replied. ‘Just records – they probably take the harbour dues, those that are paid in cash, home every night and pay them into the bank next morning. It’s very hot here during the day, as we know. Maybe they leave the window open at night to keep the building aired. Anyway, lucky us.’ She led the way towards the window. ‘You’re taller than I am,’ she whispered when they had reached it. ‘Can you lift me up?’
Edward bent and grabbed Victoria around the thighs. He lifted her bodily so she could reach the catch on the window and pull it further open. Still holding her, he moved back so she could keep out of the way of the window as it swung round. Then he shoved her still higher as she bent over the window-sill. She tipped the upper part of her body forward and disappeared inside. Edward, who was wearing rubber-soled pumps, now jumped as high as he could and caught hold of the window frame. He got some purchase on the wall from his pumps, enough to stick his elbows over the sill and haul himself up some more. Inside the room, Victoria was just getting to her feet. She was rubbing her head.
‘I landed on the wash basin. If you can, sit on the sill and then step on to the basin.’
Edward managed that with difficulty – he was bigger than she was – but eventually he dropped down safely into the room. Victoria led the way through to the kitchen – a refrigerator, sink and electricity point, really – and on towards the main rooms.
‘You try that one,’ she hissed, indicating the door on the left. ‘I’ll do the other.’
Edward tried the door. It wasn’t locked. Inside, he found a desk and three or four filing cabinets. None was marked, so he opened them at random. The files were in Turkish but in one there were some drawings; he couldn’t be sure but they looked like designs for a new jetty. He tried another drawer – more plans, this time for shops lining the harbour. He tried a different cabinet. The first two files were filled with printed documents – official communications from Istanbul, by the look of them. In another drawer he found large-scale maps of the peninsula, all the inlets, coves and beaches. Emergency maps, maybe, in case of shipwrecks. He turned to the last cabinet. As he opened it, he smiled. It was empty, save for some flippers, goggles and snorkels. The desk-top was empty so he tried the drawers. Notepaper, envelopes, a date-franking machine, an old telephone, some phone books and what looked like a harbour master’s hat were all he found. He tiptoed through into the other room.