‘This is it,’ he whispered excitedly. ‘I was on that veranda last night.’
He handed the glasses to Mario. The statue was surrounded by flower boxes and a number of garden seats, but that made no difference. He was convinced that this was where he had been brought to the previous evening.
‘What about her?’ Mario asked, and handed the glasses back.
A dark, tanned woman in her early thirties had appeared on the veranda with a small child. Fletcher saw the child run across the lawn and disappear over the rocks. A further series of children’s cries came from the sea. It hardly seemed the place for an interrogation or a conspiracy, but he was still adamant.
‘They could have been in a different part of the building,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘but this is the place all right.’
‘What do we do now?’ Mario asked.
‘Find out who owns it for a start.’
‘And then?’
‘Go visiting.’
He saw the tradesman lift a basket out of the van and carry it into the bungalow.
‘Mario, go back to the track. When that van appears get a lift from him. He will tell you what we want to know. I will stay here for a while and see what develops. I’ll join you back at the car.’
Mario vanished into the trees and Fletcher remained hidden in the bushes, patiently watching the bungalow. The tradesman left soon after Mario, and the only other person to appear was an elderly gardener who poked about in the shrubs and flower beds without making any visible impression.
The children’s cries continued to carry across from the sea, and occasionally he caught a glimpse of the woman inside the bungalow. The scene appeared completely innocent, except for the tiled veranda, the stone statue, and the unobstructed view of the lighthouse!
Fletcher had gained nothing by staying, but fortunately Mario had learned a lot from the tradesman.
‘The bungalow belongs to a dentist called Pula,’ he explained, when Fletcher rejoined him at the car.
‘Pula,’ Fletcher muttered. ‘Does he live here?’
‘No, Stefan,’ Mario said enthusiastically, ‘he doesn’t. He lives in Athens. He uses the bungalow as a summer retreat.’
‘And the family?’ Fletcher asked eagerly.
‘They arrived this morning,’ Mario explained. ‘They are friends of Pula’s.’
‘So the bungalow was empty last night,’ Fletcher said. It was the final confirmation of his suspicions. ‘Pula,’ he muttered, and rubbed his chin. ‘Do you know, Mario, after last night, I think I should have my teeth seen to.’
‘Is it wise to visit him?’ Mario asked. ‘If he was with Lofer last night, he will recognise you.’
Fletcher paused before replying. The advantages were all on Pula’s side. The only alternative was to put a watch on the man and hope he led them to someone else. But that was a slow, time-taking business, and it wasn’t certain to get results.
It was also possible that Pula was completely innocent. His bungalow could have been used without him knowing. On the other hand, if Pula was involved and Fletcher exposed himself it would at least bring some sort of reaction, dangerous or otherwise.
‘He may be innocent,’ Fletcher said. ‘In which case we will be wasting a lot of time waiting for him to make a move. If he is in league with Lofer, it is unlikely that he will attempt any reprisals on me from his surgery. No, I think I will go and see him.’
He glanced at his watch. The afternoon siesta period was over. Pula would be back at work.
It wasn’t difficult to locate Pula’s residence, or his surgery. They were one and the same. A telephone directory provided the information. They were on the top floor of a modern, five-storey building, in a fashionable district in the west of Athens.
Mario drove slowly past the building.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ he said.
‘No, stay in the car. Drive around the block and drop me at the end of the road. It will be better that I am not seen leaving the car.’
Mario quickly toured the block and deposited Fletcher out of sight of the building. By the time Fletcher had walked up to the entrance to the apartments, Mario was already parked on the opposite side of the road, in the shade of a large, overhanging tree.
Pula’s surgery adjoined his apartment. His name was printed across the glass entrance door to his reception room. Fletcher straightened his tie and without knocking entered the room. Sitting at a desk was a young, slim girl, in a neat, white starched, overall. There was no one else in the room.
The girl looked up, surprised, when he entered the room.
‘Good afternoon,’ Fletcher said, ‘I wonder if I could see Mr Pula?’
She looked slightly confused.
‘Mr Pula has a patient and he does not see anyone unless they have an appointment.’
Fletcher walked over to her, leant on her desk and looked her full in the face.
‘I have no appointment,’ he said firmly, ‘but I would like Mr Pula to have a look at my teeth, and perhaps we can arrange a number of visits.’
She could tell him he was determined and hurriedly opened the appointment book which lay in front of her.
‘There is another patient due in fifteen minutes,’ she said apologetically.
‘Tell Mr Pula I have been specially recommended to him.’
He contemplated mentioning Lofer’s name, but decided to use it as a last resort.
The receptionist hesitated and then capitulated.
‘What name is it please?’
‘Fettos.’
She stood up and, backing away from him, entered the surgery. Instantly Fletcher had the appointment book open and was scanning the pages. Mentally he repeated the patients’ names. Suddenly one of them sounded familiar — Dr Sleitser!
With mounting curiosity he repeated the name. Dr Sleitser! Was this significant? he wondered. His brain raced over the facts he knew about the Doctor. He had seen him with the Professor at the Acropolis the day he had gone to meet Spencer. He was an archaeologist working on one of the islands. He was German!
Fletcher clenched his fist. My God, he thought, it could be very significant!
He quickly closed the book when he heard the receptionist return.
‘If you will take a seat, Mr Pula will see you in a few minutes. He is nearly finished with his present patient.’
Fletcher thanked her and sat down, his mind still preoccupied with the fact that Dr Sleitser was one of Pula’s patients.
A few minutes later the surgery door opened and Pula appeared with his patient. He was tall for a Greek, but still smaller than Fletcher. He had a serious-looking face and a prominent nose on which rested a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles.
After dispensing with his patient, he came over to Fletcher. There was no visible sign of recognition, but this meant nothing to Fletcher. He could have been prepared for the meeting when the receptionist gave him Fletcher’s name.
‘Come in,’ he said politely.
Fletcher followed him into the surgery.
‘Sit in the chair,’ Pula said. ‘I am afraid I can only look at your teeth today. I have another patient coming.’ He walked over to a desk and Fletcher took his place in the dentist’s chair.
‘I understand,’ Fletcher said, watching him closely.
Pula started to make some notes on a small pad.
‘The receptionist said you were recommended to me,’ he remarked.
‘Yes,’ Fletcher replied slowly.
Pula had his back to him and was still writing his notes.
‘Who by, Mr Fettos?’
Fletcher hesitated. It wasn’t the ideal moment, but he couldn’t afford to let the opportunity pass.
‘Herr Lofer,’ he said. He couldn’t see Pula’s face, but he noticed he had momentarily stopped writing! There was a short delicate silence. Pula had been caught off guard!
‘Herr Lofer?’ Pula asked. ‘I don’t know a Herr Lofer.’
‘He gave me your name,’ Fl
etcher persisted.
Pula finished his writing and walked over to his instrument tray.
‘There are a lot of dentists in this area,’ he said calmly, ‘and my name is not uncommon.’
There was only one Pula in the district, Fletcher thought, and he knows it.
‘Do you own a bungalow on the point near Voliage?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Herr Lofer told me you did.’
The dentist played with his instruments.
‘Well, I do not know him,’ he said, but he didn’t answer Fletcher’s question. ‘It is of no consequence,’ he added.
He started to examine Fletcher’s mouth, but it was not with the expert touch Fletcher had anticipated. The dentist had been knocked off balance!
‘There is a filling missing,’ Pula said. ‘I will attend to it, but you will have to come back for further treatment.’
Fletcher became suspicious. A few minutes earlier, Pula had not been prepared to give him more than a cursory examination. Now he was offering to do much more!
‘I see you have had a blow to your head,’ Pula remarked. He had walked behind the chair on which Fletcher was sitting, to a small wall cupboard.
‘Yes, I got into a spot of trouble last night,’ Fletcher replied. He leant forward and quickly adjusted a small table mirror so that he could see what Pula was up to.
‘Do you live in Athens?’ Pula asked.
Fletcher watched him silently unlock the cupboard and take out a small glass phial.
‘In Piraeus,’ Fletcher replied casually.
He couldn’t see what Pula was doing now, but he had a shrewd idea. He was preparing a hypodermic injection! Fletcher recalled the previous evening when he had been drugged by an injection from a similar instrument. Was Pula planning to do the same?
The dentist returned to face him.
‘Keep this spring in your mouth,’ he said, and leant forward and inserted the instrument in Fletcher’s mouth.
Fletcher braced himself. When he saw the hypodermic needle suddenly appear he grabbed Pula’s arm to stop him. He saw the dentist’s cheek muscles go taut, and Pula tried to force the needle towards his face. For a fleeting moment the two men were locked in a trial of strength.
Suddenly Pula gave way and allowed his arm to be pushed to one side.
‘This is only to kill the pain,’ Pula fumed, his face flushed with anger.
Fletcher removed the spring from his mouth.
‘No injection,’ he said firmly. ‘I can stand the pain.’
The dentist clashed the hypodermic on to the glass-topped table.
‘As you wish,’ he snapped.
Fletcher replaced the spring in his mouth and Pula proceeded to attend to the tooth. But the atmosphere was strained. The dentist quickly did what was necessary with even less polish than he had displayed earlier. His attitude, however, had confirmed Fletcher’s suspicions. Pula was linked with Lofer! But how? And why? He hadn’t been at the bungalow the previous evening, Fletcher felt certain, so where did he fit into the plot? Was he acting as the link man, providing Lofer with accommodation? And what about Dr Sleitser? Was his name in the appointment book a coincidence, or something more pertinent?
‘Come back tomorrow, at the same time,’ Pula said abruptly. He opened the door to his reception room. ‘Good day.’
Fletcher thanked him and left the surgery. In the corridor outside the reception room, however, he paused for a moment and then reopened the reception door. Pula was standing by the receptionist’s desk, the telephone in his hand. When he saw Fletcher his face clouded over and he replaced the telephone on its stand. His hasty action told Fletcher all he wanted to know. Fletcher had put his head in the hornet’s nest and stirred up trouble. Pula was quickly passing on the news — too quickly.
‘Well?’ Pula asked.
‘What time did you say tomorrow?’ Fletcher asked calmly.
‘Five o’clock,’ Pula said irritably.
Fletcher thanked him and closed the door. He had set the ball rolling. If only he knew where it rolled to, he would be a lot closer to solving the mystery. Who was Pula in such a hurry to contact on the telephone?
At the entrance to the building, Fletcher hesitated. He saw Mario sitting in the car, and made a quick decision to return to Piraeus by train. He crossed the road and walked towards a bus stop. This took him past the car.
Fortunately Mario had the window open and was leaning against the door. As he came alongside the car, Fletcher talked to the air in front of him. ‘I will see you back at the flat,’ he said. ‘You stay here and see if Pula has any sudden visitors.’
Mario made no reply — Fletcher didn’t expect him to. In full view from the dentist’s window, Fletcher boarded a bus which took him to the station in the centre of the city. But he had just missed the train to Piraeus. Rather than hang around the crowded railway station, he strolled into the nearby market and purchased some provisions.
When he returned to the station, there was a train standing at the platform. No sooner had he taken his seat, however, than he realised he was being followed. A sixth sense, almost like a built-in radar system, gave him the alert. He had noticed, in the market, the small slim man in the crumpled fawn suit, who had just entered the compartment. He had also seen him before that, standing on the railway platform. It was more than a coincidence.
He relaxed and looked out of the window. If he was being followed, he didn’t want to give the man any indication that he was aware of his presence. Not until he knew who he worked for!
The train quickly covered the short distance from Athens into Piraeus, but Fletcher purposely waited until they reached the harbour before alighting. It was an area he knew well. It was an area where he had friends. The man in the crumpled suit also left the train at the same station!
From the station, Fletcher slowly skirted the harbour and gradually made his way towards Nico’s bar. Like a person used to such a situation, he gave the man behind him every opportunity to keep a respectable distance without losing his prey. Only on the last leg did Fletcher purposely lose his man.
Quickly he darted through the narrow lanes and into the small, dark, bar. Nico was in his customary pose, glass and cloth in hand. A handful of locals sat in a corner under a blue haze, quietly drinking ouzo. No one looked up when he entered, only Nico nodded his head in recognition. Fletcher went up to him.
‘There is a man tailing me,’ he whispered. ‘Small, wearing a fawn suit and trilby. I want to know who he works for.’
Nico nodded his head knowingly. Fletcher put a ten drachma note on the counter, not for Nico, but for one of his boys. Nico indicated his stock room, and Fletcher left him to make his own arrangements.
For about a quarter of an hour Fletcher sat in the small back room, silently studying the various labels on the bottles and contemplating the graceful lines of the wine casks.
When Nico joined him, he still had the glass and cloth in his hand. For a moment he stood grim faced. Then he dispensed with the cigarette from his mouth and said: ‘He’s gone.’
Fletcher stood up.
‘Thanks, Nico. Who was he?’
Nico paused.
‘One of Veti’s men.’
Fletcher looked at him. Their eyes met.
‘Sure?’ he asked, but didn’t doubt the answer.
Nico nodded his head. ‘Sure,’ he muttered.
Fletcher swore; he had enough on his plate without having to contend with the Communists. Why had they entered the field? Spencer had told him that the Russians had tipped him off about Lofer, so why should they now be interested?
He had never met Veti, but he knew of him, well enough. He was a Greek and a Communist. In many ways he was their counterpart to Fletcher. Only he had been trained by the K.G.B. and worked strictly to orders — usually from the Kremlin, or Prague, or Budapest, depending upon who was making the play.
‘Watch your step,’ Nico said quietly. ‘Don’t let them get too close.’
‘I don’t intend to,’ Fletcher said grimly.
He left the bar to return to his apartment. He wasn’t feeling quite so elated as he had been earlier. The nature of his work had suddenly changed. He was in the big league now.
With the Communists hovering about it became an East versus West issue. But their presence puzzled him more than annoyed him. Up till now there had not been the slightest whisper of their interest, and he had put out a wide enough net to pick up any of their moves. Why the sudden flexing of their muscles? he wondered. Were they just watching from the sidelines?
It wasn’t unusual. Even if they were not involved they didn’t like to be uninformed. They could be only on the fringe looking for any scraps to pick up. But on the other hand, he knew they could be deeply involved. In which case the sooner he got to the bottom of it the better. Their interest could only spell danger for Britain. It would certainly suit the Communists’ motives to wreck the Rhodes Conference.
Chapter Nine
‘Good afternoon!’
The man sitting in the chair smiled blandly. His hands rested on his knee under his trilby hat. He was a Turk, there was no question about it, and he spoke in a rough, broken accent.
Fletcher closed the door and entered the apartment. He didn’t like uninvited visitors, even polite ones. He noticed the Turk’s bruised cheek bone and wondered if they had met before. He ignored the welcome and crossed over to the veranda. There was only one car parked outside — Mario’s.
‘I am alone,’ the Turk said. His Greek was only just understandable.
‘You can speak in your own tongue,’ Fletcher snapped. ‘Then there will be no misunderstanding.’
Again the Turk smiled.
‘As you wish,’ he said in Turkish.
‘What do you want?’ Fletcher asked.
‘Not trouble,’ the Turk said. ‘This is purely a social call.’
‘Well, I am afraid I can’t offer you a drink,’ Fletcher said sarcastically.
The Turk shrugged.
‘There may be other occasions,’ he smiled.
‘Let’s stop beating about the bush,’ Fletcher said. ‘What are you after?’
Nest of Spies Page 5
