by Peter Watson
O’Day crossed the street so that he could use the shop window to observe Zakros unobtrusively. As he did so, the blue Opel moved off, following the taxi.
The rain had eased but hadn’t stopped entirely. In the shop window, O’Day saw Zakros looking hard after the taxi – or was it the Opel? Had Riley been too enthusiastic, and too obvious, in his pursuit? Had they blown the whole thing? Despite the rain and the wind, O’Day found himself sweating as he watched the Greek turn back into the hotel and disappear. He hurried back himself and mounted the steps to the lobby. There was no sign of Zakros.
Yes, there was. He was in a phone booth. O’Day’s heart sank. Had Riley given them away?
Rain drummed against the windows of Francis Mordaunt’s office. He stared down at the green and white marquees on the lawns outside, bulging with people. He felt sorry for the hundreds of souls who had never been to a Buckingham Palace garden party before and today would see only the inside of a massive tent. He was feeling a bit sorry for himself too. The opinion poll in today’s paper had been a shock for Mordaunt – and indeed for them all. No one had known quite how unpopular Lockwood’s actions had been. Now they did know. If it ever became public that the Marbles were being returned to Greece to save the royal family’s skin …
The Commons debate didn’t help, either. Now that Page had come out so firmly against Lockwood, that would identify him, in the public’s mind at least, as anti-royal, should the story ever leak. The Crown was thus likely to become a political issue between the two main parties. Mordaunt shuddered. Outside, the rain was worsening: He watched as a policeman in a black cape examined someone’s pass. The woman was wearing a large, floppy, pastel-blue hat. She had not expected such God-awful weather and was already looking bedraggled. The rain still gusted in sheets across the marquees. Looking down again, Mordaunt saw the opposition front-bench spokesman on education, scurrying from one marquee to another. That made him think of Arthur Page and his damned debate.
Page. Once more, it occurred to Mordaunt that his own loyalty, as equerry, was not to the government. It was to the Queen. It was true that Lockwood had behaved very loyally over this matter but, at the same time, he had also mishandled it badly – to the point where this potentially very damaging debate was to take place. Where the royal family could lose more, in the long term, than by having the Windsor/Blunt business made public. Mordaunt stared at the wet marquees. Maybe there was a way in which the debate, at least, could be avoided. He’d have to choose his moment … but in principle there was nothing to prevent him briefing Page on the secret.
The conductor had just taken the rostrum, and the welcoming applause was dying down, as Mordaunt and Leith were shown into the private dining-room behind the royal box at Covent Garden. Tonight the table was laid for ten. Eric Slocombe, who was seated at one chair, had pushed the table setting to one side. He gripped a tumbler of mineral water. Midwinter sat at another chair, muttering into a mobile phone. Evelyn Allen stood near a window. A waiter offered Leith a glass of champagne. Behind him, in the auditorium, the first strains of Puccini’s Turandot could be heard. Suddenly, the noise level jumped as the door to the dining-room banged open. Mordaunt turned, to see Lockwood and Hatfield enter, both dressed in black tie. The Chief Whip stared at the waiter. Holding the door, he barked one word. ‘Out!’
The waiter put the bottle on the table and left the room. Hatfield closed the door behind him. They all found seats.
‘We can’t meet at midnight tonight,’ said Lockwood matter-of-factly. ‘As you can see, I am entertaining the German Chancellor and it will probably go on for ever. If I fall down on my public duties, there’ll be no shortage of comment and criticism. At least, now that the lights are down, no one can see I’m away. Herr Schenker is a polite man with problems of his own. He won’t draw attention to my absence … Now, the first interval is in thirty-six minutes – I’ve checked. So we’ve got to get a move on. A lot has happened today – who’s first?’
Evelyn Allen made his customary cough. ‘I am afraid, Prime Minister, that there is absolutely no way you can prevent the Greek issue coming up at the Cabinet on Thursday. Almost every senior minister has contacted me, announcing his or her intention of raising it.’
‘And I’m besieged by backbenchers, Bill. They’re all worried by what’s happening – and they’re worried by Page’s debate.’
Lockwood looked at the Chief Whip. ‘Have we got a date for that yet?’
‘Nothing definite but it’s probably Monday. Page is using opposition time so I can’t interfere.’
Lockwood nodded. He looked tired tonight. Sally was still at the hospital with his daughter and son-in-law. His grandson was not improving. The Prime Minister turned back to the Cabinet Secretary. ‘Evelyn, make the Greek business the top item in Cabinet. Circulate a new agenda first thing tomorrow. We’ll see off all the fainthearts. Now … the backbenchers, Joss. I’m not going to see them. The more people I see, the more I’ll have to lie to – they’ll resent that when it’s all over. I’m relying on you to protect me from extraneous things … We’re getting to the critical stage now and must keep our minds on the important details. Now, Eric, you’ve got one of your theories for us, I believe.’
‘It’s a bit more than a theory, Bill.’
‘Well, shoot.’
Slocombe sat up. ‘I’ve been putting together all that we know and trying to draw some conclusions. You never know when that will come in handy. It would seem from our observations that Kolettis and this Kofas character actually call the shots. For some reason, possibly security, they only contact Zakros indirectly, using the Tucker woman in London as go-between. She certainly seems to be a number, incidentally. She strung Andover along for months but the Greek in Basle, Zakros, is her real lover, if O’Day’s observations are anything to go by. Kofas incidentally is very well known to our political attaché in Athens. He has a very high profile, unlike the others. He owns ferries, hotels, petrol stations, travel companies, a publishing house, which includes the Journal of Classical Greece among its titles. I’ve had the embassy in Athens do some digging on him. He is about sixty, too old and too authoritarian to try for parliament but does have political ambitions. The most interesting thing about him, from our point of view, is that he is a staunch monarchist.
‘Now, see what you make of this … When the Basle Greek dictated the letter which the Queen had to sign, we assumed that the addressee was to have been … well, someone like Kofas. But how about this for a different scenario: say the addressee was not Kofas but King Constantine, in exile in England! There’s no shortage of Greeks who would like to see the monarchy in Greece return – but how can they create favourable circumstances? What better than to have the ex-King instrumental in the return of the Marbles? With a letter from our Queen congratulating their ex-King, who knows how much a popular movement might not develop, demanding his return? The Marbles are a fantastically emotive issue in Greece – all Greeks would applaud their return and support anyone who had a hand in it.’
Lockwood’s eyes were fixed on the menu card in the middle of the table. He digested what Slocombe had said. ‘Do you think the ex-King knows anything about this?’
Slocombe brushed his moustache with a finger. ‘No. He knows there’s a lot of support for him in Greece, he’d like to go back in the right circumstances … but no, I don’t believe he’d put the reputation of the British royal family, and the monarch who allows him to live here in exile, at risk for a plan like this. All that the Apollo Brigade can do is make the note public during the euphoria that is bound to accompany the return of the Marbles, and hope that the rest follows on.’
‘I agree with Mr Slocombe, Prime Minister.’
‘Yes?’ Lockwood turned and eyed the equerry. Mordaunt hadn’t touched his champagne but he fingered the stem of his glass. ‘As you know, we weren’t supposed to hear from Zakros again until he received the Queen’s letter – probably Thursday or Friday. Well, today, Nancy Tucker turned up in Ba
sle and both she and Zakros went to a bank. This afternoon, Zakros called me.’
‘To say what?’ Lockwood spread his hands across the tablecloth, his fingers splayed like two starfish.
‘The exact wording was: “If the Anglesey doesn’t leave within twenty-four hours, we go public with Titian’s Ariosto.”’
‘Go on.’
‘I’ve checked, and Titian’s Portrait of Ludovico Ariosto was looted from the Oriani Collection.’
‘And,’ Leith took up the story, ‘if they link that to the Duke of Windsor, people will start asking awkward questions. Coming on top of the Vienna Rubens.’
Lockwood stared at Leith. ‘What about this bank in Basle?’
‘Well, sir, the name is Drachen und Stoller. Zakros must have got the Tucker woman over to Basle this morning, to help him out. They obviously wanted a really important picture that would scare the daylights out of us and force us to act quickly. According to Andover, she’s an art historian, which would help explain her involvement. The good news of course is that we now know where all the stuff is hidden. How we get into Drachen und Stoller is a different matter. But at least we know its location.’
‘We still can’t act against anyone yet, though, can we?’ Lockwood saw the difficulties immediately. ‘When we go in we have to go in against all of them, simultaneously. We can’t do that until this yacht turns up again, tomorrow. What do you think the chances are that it really is going to … where did you say, Kiritha?’
‘Kithira, sir. Pretty good. I’d say.’
‘Oh yes, why?’
Leith looked from the Prime Minister to Slocombe, and back again. ‘Kithira is slap in the middle of the stretch of water that separates mainland Greece from Crete. That’s right on the route the Anglesey will take on its way to Piraeus. They’re not taking any chances, sir. They’ll pick up the Anglesey when she rounds Cape Malea and then follow her. The minute you call her off her direct course for Piraeus, Kofas and Kolettis and the others will know.’
22
Wednesday
Four thousand feet below, the waters of the Mediterranean looked green and inviting. The tiny plane was cramped and, in the sunshine, very hot. Both Victoria and Edward were deeply uncomfortable and it wasn’t surprising, considering the last eighteen hours. The crossing to Rhodes hadn’t been so bad, but owing to strong winds, which had made the sea choppy, the ferry had been late getting in – nearly midnight. They had found a hotel only with difficulty; by then it was after one. They had been too tired to make love, and Victoria had had to telephone London, where she was told by the duty officer that a small plane had been chartered for them at Heraklion in Crete and that two seats were booked for them on the first commercial flight out of Rhodes the next day, at ten-thirty. That plane had been half an hour late, so they hadn’t arrived in Crete until after midday. It was now nearly half past one and they were beginning their descent into Kithira. Ahead of them they could see the single mountain that dominated the island.
‘Where is the airport?’ shouted Edward, above the rattle of the small Cessna.
‘To the west of Kithira town,’ said the pilot, who spoke excellent English. ‘We fly out over the sea and then come in from the west. The prevailing winds today are from the north-east.’
‘Is that where the port is?’
‘What? I can’t hear.’
‘I said: is that where the port is – Kithira town?’
‘No. Kithira town is part-way up the mountain – look, you can see the white roofs straight ahead.’
They all stared to where he was pointing. A line of white buildings could be seen some nine hundred feet above the sea.
‘But there is a port here?’ Edward tried not to sound too pathetic.
‘Oh yes, Kapsali, near Kithira, and Aghios Pelagias, near Potamos, in the north-eastern corner of the island. Kapsali is very small.’
‘How big is Kithira?’
The pilot shrugged. ‘Fifteen … twenty miles, north to south.’
‘Can you fly over Potamos for us?’ said Victoria.
The pilot frowned. ‘I’ve already told flight control I’m coming straight in. It will look very odd to change now.’ He looked at his watch. ‘And I have to get back to Heraklion as soon as I can.’ He turned his head to look over his shoulder at Victoria. ‘I’d rather not.’
Victoria didn’t press it. She could see Kapsali from the plane: there were no large boats of any description. They’d have to travel to Potamos/Aghios Pelagias by taxi.
The pilot dipped the plane and curved it to their left. They dropped to two thousand feet. For about a minute and a half he held the plane’s nose down, flying north-west and losing height to fifteen hundred feet. Then he curved the plane right, looking over his shoulder to where they could now see a tiny white and brown strip sticking out into the sea. He straightened up at about a thousand feet and prepared to land.
The landing was uneventful and they taxied to the small pastel-blue building which stood next to a massive red-ringed wind-sock. There was nothing to pay – that had all been arranged during the night by London and the embassy in Athens. But they did have to arrange a taxi. The man in the blue hut, who doubled as flight control, customs and porter, agreed to phone for a car in Kithira town and, exhausted, they both sat on the ground in the shade of the building and watched as their pilot took off again, heading back to Heraklion. By now it was twenty to two.
The car arrived after about twenty minutes. It was actually a small pick-up truck so Edward let Victoria take the passenger seat and got into the back with their luggage. The road wound right over the main mountain and they were soon back at a thousand feet, though this time anchored firmly to the ground. There was no shade for Edward but fortunately there was so little traffic on the road that the pick-up could maintain a good speed, making a breeze that kept him cool. There was sea in all directions, with the mainland of Greece just visible in the north. Everything else, including the horizons, was lost in a heat haze. After about twenty-five minutes they started coming down again on the other side of the mountain. Edward twisted to look ahead. Aghios Pelagias was now in view, the usual Greek huddle of white and pale-blue walls and flat roofs. At about a quarter to three they reached the outskirts of the town, then a square with a few old olive trees, providing shade, and a church. Here the driver stopped. Victoria got out. ‘The driver says cars can’t get to the port; we have to go down these steps here.’
Edward handed down their bags and rolled over the edge of the pick-up. A group of small boys gathered round, their hands held out as Victoria started to count money for the taxi. Edward lifted the bags and led the way down the steps.
Victoria caught up with him and took her bag.
‘Nervous?’
‘I ought to be too tired to be nervous … but I’m not. Too tired, I mean.’ He nodded ahead to where they could see a stretch of water between the walls that lined the steps. ‘As soon as we get down there we’re going to know whether this has all been a terrible waste or not.’
They hurried forward, feeling anticipation with one step, dread with the next. What were they going to do if the Strabo wasn’t here? What were they going to do anyway? At the foot of the steps they were met by the usual harbour smells of fish and diesel. The usual harbour water, slicked with oil, cardboard cartons, half-submerged bottles, used cigarettes. Edward looked right: a line of cafés, a ship’s chandler’s, a gas station for boats, a police station. He looked left: a lighthouse, a small grey derrick, a very old, wooden-hulled fishing boat with a high prow and masses of orange netting. And, on the far side, the Strabo.
‘Half ahead.’ In these modern ships, Kenneth Lynn didn’t need to bellow as his predecessors would have done. He gave the order quietly.
‘Half ahead it is,’ replied the bosun.
The Anglesey had just reached the middle of the river. The loading of the Marbles had gone smoothly enough, though there now wasn’t enough room for the crew to play volley ball. The ship’s dep
arture had been curiously quiet. If the radio was to be believed, the docks were pulsing with protest. At one point the police had been unable to keep the rival demonstrators apart, and fighting had broken out. But that, of course, was outside the docks. At the water’s edge there had been only a few stevedores and a representative from the Admiralty to see them off.
Lynn sat down. The route down the Thames and into the Channel, indeed as far as Gibraltar, was fairly straightforward. He had asked for the charts of the eastern Mediterranean to be brought up, so that he could study his approach to Piraeus. He spread the largest-scale chart in front of him and scanned the area. Greece, of course, was a mass of islands, and his first officer had pencilled in what he thought was the best route. Lynn told himself he would make a more careful inspection later but, at a first glance, the most direct route took him between the western tip of Crete and an island called Kithira, then –
‘Sir – look!’
Lynn raised his head. ‘What is it?’
‘Boats, sir. A chain of them … blocking our way.’
Lynn saw what the first officer meant. ‘Oh Lord, I thought our departure was too good to be true.’ He focused his binoculars. Ahead of them, abreast of Greenwich Pier and the Royal Naval College, were five small boats, each manned by six or seven people and all roped together in one line. They were drawn up across the main channel of the river and each one had a huge board nailed to its gunwale. A single capital letter was painted on each board so that the whole chain read: ‘E-L-G-I-N’.
The boats were about a quarter of a mile ahead. There was plenty of time for the Anglesey to stop, but, Lynn calculated, there was not enough depth in the river for him to go around them. What was he to do? He used his binoculars again and examined the banks of the river either side of the boats. Hmm. Ferry Street and Factory Place, on the port bank, were deserted, but the starboard bank – Thames Street, the pier itself – was packed, scores of people milling around and – he should have guessed as much – several brightly coloured vans from the TV companies. Whatever Lynn did it would be on television tonight.
