Stones of Treason

by Peter Watson

  ‘We would like him to say two things.’ Hilary Stockton had vivid purple hair, or so it seemed under the studio lights, and an immense chest. She also wore spectacles with bright-red frames. ‘We want him to put this Elgin Marbles business behind us. It is utterly confusing to the parliamentary party, as it is to people in the rest of the country. Why did we get into this mess to begin with? Why has it all been cloaked in such confusion and secrecy? We want a full explanation and then we want to let it go. Most of us would not have wished the Marbles to leave in the first place but, now that they have, let’s put them behind us. Second, we need a lead from the Prime Minister, he needs to take an initiative … There’s an election due very soon now, and it’s time the government started taking the fight to the opposition, showing up the weaknesses in their policies rather than allowing this Elgin Marbles issue to concentrate minds on our faults all the time.’

  ‘Do you think the Prime Minister will survive tonight?’

  ‘My own soundings are pretty close to Colin Raine’s. It will be very close. I don’t know if this Athens vigil or the new death will affect the vote in any way.’

  ‘Now, we talk about the vote being pretty close but of course no one in your party will actually be voting against Mr Lockwood. And even if those thirty-one abstentions are counted as votes against him, that still leaves him with some two hundred and seventy MPs who support him. Doesn’t that still make him a convincing leader of the party?’

  ‘Of course not. If William Lockwood loses the vote tonight, there will be many in the party, both inside and outside Parliament, who will not forgive him for exposing us to such a drubbing so close to a general election. There are some who believe we should call an election straight away, to remove the uncertainty that will then exist. There is no doubt in my mind that, if the Prime Minister loses tonight, he will have to resign as leader of the party. As I say, some of my fellow backbenchers believe he should dissolve Parliament at the same time and call an election. The alternative would be for us to hold a very quick election for leader, and then have George Keld, say, as PM for a few weeks before we are forced to call an election under the law.’

  ‘But would George Keld command any more support than William Lockwood? Couldn’t the opposition call another debate in, say, a fortnight’s time? Would Keld survive that?’

  ‘It would depend what he did in the interim. If, for example, he cleared the air over the Elgin Marbles, and showed himself capable in other ways … if the opinion polls were to show that the party’s fortunes were reviving after this damaging time, then no, I don’t think the opposition would be wise to call another debate. If they secure Lockwood’s demise, they would probably rather go into an election with that in people’s memories than have a second debate and risk Keld being unanimously supported.’

  ‘So, it all depends on tonight. Colin Raine, that was a backbench politician’s answer. You’re a lobby correspondent … what do you think will happen tonight?’

  ‘The one thing we can say with certainty is that it will be one of those debates which will be affected by the performances of the major players. It all comes down to the Prime Minister’s own performance. If he can really explain the Elgin Marbles affair, then I think he might rally one or two people to his side, and survive. But if he can’t, if he persists with the style that has so far governed this whole crazy business, then I think it’s a different matter. I think another five or six MPs could turn against him and he will lose.’

  ‘Someone is leaving the Strabo!’ hissed Victoria, pressing the binoculars closer to her eyes.

  ‘Got it!’ said Edward almost straight away. ‘Five people in all – yes?’

  ‘Yes … Four men – Kofas, the Leondaris brothers and Kolettis? – and a younger man? Who’s the younger man?’

  ‘Crew, probably. Yes, there they go. The younger man is steering the dinghy … in a circle …’

  ‘They’re going ashore. Look, they’re heading for that town over there – see all that white.’

  ‘That’s Leonidhion,’ said the bosun. He had a map open on his knees.

  ‘Okay,’ said Victoria, ‘let’s follow. But be careful … zigzag behind them as they did behind the Anglesey. We don’t want them to notice us at this stage. Keep a distance to begin with but try to close on them as they get near to the harbour. We don’t want them to notice us but we can’t afford to lose them.’

  For forty minutes they bucked on the waves swinging to the north of the Strabo’s dinghy as if they were headed towards somewhere else. Victoria used the time to raise Lynn on the radio phone, to explain what they were doing.

  He had no news. He had heard from his admiral but London had not yet heard anything from Basle. ‘But it’s early, don’t forget. If it’s half past nine here, it’s eight-thirty in Basle, seven-thirty in London.’

  ‘Well, our people are on the move and you’d better tell London. I’m wondering whether the Basle contingent and the Greek contingent are planning a rendezvous? But where?’

  ‘Yes, that had occurred to me. I’ll relay that to London and get back to you.’

  The Strabo dinghy was now approaching Leonidhion harbour. Through his binoculars Edward could see that the town was quite large, with several churches and a number of modern apartment blocks ten or twelve storeys high. The two fingers of the jetty stuck out crookedly, overlapping slightly so that the dinghy had to turn to get inside. As it did so, Edward got a much clearer view of the people in the boat. ‘Yes,’ he breathed, ‘it’s Kolettis, all right, and the others. What are they doing here?’

  With the jetty wall barring the view, the bosun felt safe in turning towards Leonidhion and accelerating over the last mile, so that they too were soon slipping in between the crooked fingers of the harbour. Once in calmer water, Victoria and Edward sat in the well of the launch. Kolettis and the others might just recognize them from the amount of time they had spent ‘sketching’ near the Strabo at Datça. On their behalf the bosun found where the Strabo’s dinghy had tied up. ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘it hasn’t tied up. It’s just putting them ashore. The crew man is going back out again, taking the dinghy back to the Strabo straight away.’ Another Anglesey crew member guided the launch into a berth as the bosun continued his commentary. ‘The four people who have gone ashore are walking along the jetty … They keep craning their necks as if they’re looking for someone or something – ah! I think I’ve found what it is they’re looking for.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A big black taxi. They’ve obviously arranged to meet it over the ship’s phone.’

  ‘Christ! Now what? We’ve got to keep in touch. How on earth are we going to do that?’

  ‘Waiting is always worse than anything else.’ Riley sniffed. ‘Eight-thirty. Two and a half hours and I’m stiff as stubble.’

  ‘It’s my birthday next week,’ replied O’Day. ‘We could still be here then. If only Lockwood wasn’t so paranoid about security … a couple more bodies would make it a lot easier.’

  Riley nodded. ‘Let’s hope our Greek friend doesn’t have any hidden reinforcements of his own.’

  ‘I wonder what the other side has in mind? What I mean is: just how many pictures are there? Is Zakros waiting while all the others go to ground? After all, they have people in Greece, the American in London and that conservator woman at the British –’

  ‘That’s it! That’s the delay. We’re stupid! We should have thought of it! What they did before.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s waiting for the Tucker woman to come from London, like he did before. What time did they meet then? Twelvish, wasn’t it? It will be the same today, I’d lay money on it.’

  ‘You could be right.’

  ‘You wait here. I’m going to phone London. It will help them to know. I’ll come back as soon as I can. If the Greek arrives and leaves again before I get back, follow him. But I’d lay money the rendezvous is here, at twelve.’

  Opposite the Savoy Hotel, the wind on
the Embankment was bracing. Arthur Page stood for a moment. He looked downriver, to the totems of the City, the cranes of Dockland, the white stone of the Tower. He looked across to the National Theatre and Waterloo Station – not all of London’s river was beautiful. And then he looked upriver, for the best view of all, the fine bronze lines of Parliament herself. He checked his watch: just after eight. Tonight, this time tomorrow certainly, the place should be his. So far, the arithmetic of the voting was close but the mood was shifting his way: he could feel it.

  This breakfast he was about to join, for instance – that was a sign. The chairman and editor-in-chief of 3Ns, the National News Network. They had asked to see him. Some time ago, of course, but they had been assiduous in their attentions lately, confirming and reconfirming the appointment.

  He had stepped out of his car at the Temple. He needed a dose of cool air to clear his head. The news this morning was good, very good, from his point of view. He would send flowers to the widow of the tourist who had suffered the heart attack. But from his – Page’s – point of view, the man had died right on cue. These broadcasting people would want to talk about the Censure debate, of course, but he would have to be on his guard, for they would be testing him, gauging his attitude. He had to be careful not to give any hostages to fortune which they could hold up to him when he was Prime Minister.

  Prime Minister Page. It had a ring to it, one had to admit. It could happen in February, it really could. It could happen sooner if Lockwood panicked – and went to the country. Page was ready for that too. Lockwood had lost his touch. It happened. For Page a fight couldn’t come soon enough.

  He had reached the Savoy. His driver had already parked the car. Page took a last deep breath of cool air and strode across the dual carriageway. His bodyguard was just behind him. Ahead, at the entrance to the hotel, he saw a doorman and, next to him, Harold Swale, his press officer.

  ‘Harold? What are you doing here? Nothing wrong is there?’

  Swale had a round face and salt-and-pepper hair. The frames of his spectacles were perfectly round. ‘I don’t know Arthur – but it may be that Buckingham Palace think you are going to form the next government. You’re to call Sir Francis Mordaunt, the Queen’s equerry. He says it’s urgent.’

  ‘No! Choose the other one! It’s a Mercedes. They have a fast car. We’ll need a big one if we are to catch them.’ Victoria argued with the man in the garage near the harbour. The garage also had the local car rental agency. There had been no other taxis in Leonidhion and the garage was their only hope.

  ‘Bribe him!’ hissed Edward. ‘And bribe him quick!’

  A fifty-dollar note was flashed. The keys to the Mercedes were found. The forms produced. Victoria brandished her driving licence. It was fifteen minutes since they had put ashore.

  As they got into the Mercedes, Edward was inspecting his watch. ‘They must be ten or twenty miles away by now. And we don’t even know where they are headed.’

  Victoria was speaking in Greek to the garage owner. After a moment, she said, ‘There’s only one road out of here in the direction they set off. It goes north towards Argos and Athens. And, don’t forget, they don’t know they are being followed, so there’s no need for them to hurry on our account.’

  Edward, who was driving, manoeuvred between bicyclists, children, a few animals. No one, save them, appeared to be in a hurry. Out on the main road they drove up behind an old bus belching black diesel smoke. Its smell began to fill the car and Victoria soon felt sick. ‘Can’t we overtake this damn thing? It’s slowing us down, too.’

  Edward was also feeling ill but there was too much traffic coming towards them to attempt overtaking.

  They rumbled on for about a mile until they came to a hill. The road was clear now but there was a bend a hundred and fifty yards away. Edward pulled out. Immediately he did so, a lorry appeared from around the bend. It bore down on them but Edward still accelerated and moved alongside the bus. All the passengers turned to see the Mercedes overtake but Edward and Victoria could not take their eyes off the lorry coming towards them. Edward, with just one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear lever, kept looking to his right to see how soon he could pull over, in front of the bus and out of the way of the oncoming lorry. The lorry driver was now flashing his lights, leaning on his horn. The big, bright-red vehicle was sixty, maybe seventy yards away. Edward was too frightened to feel sick but Victoria urged him to go faster. Then, at the last minute, the old bus seemed to drop quickly behind. Whether the driver of the bus had suddenly braked, it was impossible to say, but in no time Edward had pulled over and the lorry had screamed past, horn still blaring. The Mercedes accelerated away from the bus.

  The road wound up the side of a range of hills, which sloped away from the coast. Looking back, Victoria could see across the water to the Strabo. The Anglesey could not be seen. Both Victoria and Edward were silent to begin with, scanning the road ahead for the black taxi.

  They passed a small village, barely slowing. People kept out of the way but one or two animals had near misses, very near misses. They were losing sight of the sea now. Victoria looked over her shoulder in time to see the blue expanse disappear as it dropped behind the brow of a brown hill.

  They came to another sharp bend. Half-way round it, a black car swept past in the opposite direction.

  ‘The taxi!’ yelled Victoria.

  ‘And empty!’ shouted Edward almost at the same time.

  For a moment Edward took his eyes off the road to look at Victoria. They were both perplexed and worried. Then they heard a noise, above and to the left. A small twin-engined Cessna, like the one in which they had flown from Crete to Kithira, was descending out of the sky, ready to land. The road was straighter now, the land being flatter hereabouts.

  Suddenly Edward slapped his hand against the steering wheel.

  Victoria turned round in her seat. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Look, that plane! That’s why the taxi was empty. They’ve turned off this road – they are going to fly to … Athens or wherever they are going to fly to. There’s an airfield somewhere – there must be! See, where the plane is landing.’ He pointed.

  Victoria went to say something but changed her mind. Edward drove more slowly for about three miles until they did indeed come to a road sign with an aeroplane on it and an arrow pointing right. He turned on to a track and the car began to buck along it. They saw a windsock ahead of them.

  ‘Stop the car here,’ said Victoria. ‘We don’t want to announce our arrival.’

  Edward brought the car to a halt. They got out. Up here on the plain there was a slight wind, enough to raise the windsock. But it was still warm. Ahead of them there was a line of olive trees and a drystone wall. The trees were close enough to hide them from the airfield to begin with, and Edward and Victoria hurried along as quietly as they could. About fifty yards from the windsock, however, they were forced to bend down and crouch behind the stone wall. They edged forward until the wall gave out. Here there was an open gate and a length of rusty chain that had once been used to keep the gate closed.

  Edward twisted and whispered to Victoria. ‘We’ve got to take them on here –’

  ‘We can’t! That might alert the others in Basle, it might spoil the entire –’

  ‘If they get away from here, in that plane, we will never find them again. It has to be –’ Above the breeze, they suddenly heard the throaty roar of a propellor coming to life. ‘They’re already aboard!’ hissed Edward. ‘Jesus.’

  He poked his head around the edge of the wall. As he did so another engine whined into life. He could see the plane easily enough. It was not sixty yards away. And it was certainly within seconds of taxiing to the dusty runway, for its navigation lights were already illuminated and rotating. The airfield was just that – a barren, dry expanse that could have been on Mars or the moon for all the life there was. Not even a small dilapidated building like there had been on Kithira. The noise of the aircraft en
gines rose, and then immediately fell, as the aircraft started to wheel left, back to the runway. As the plane turned, the wind from its propellors swept back in Edward’s direction.

  He ran towards the plane but then stopped. The field was deserted but for himself, Victoria and the Cessna. The strip was hard earth, a light brown line about three hundred yards away.

  ‘They’re too far,’ gasped Victoria. ‘We’ve lost them.’

  Edward groaned.

  The plane had reached the end of the runway and was beginning to turn. Edward’s heart was thumping as he grew angry at the thought of the Greeks getting away. Then he began running. At first he ran away from the runway, to the old gate. He retrieved the length of rusty chain. Then he turned towards the runway. The plane had to be stopped. He had one idea and one only. But he had to be on the runway, as far down it as possible. The plane had now completed its turn and was waiting at the end, perhaps while the pilot completed his checks, or perhaps while he sought permission for take-off on his radio from some central air traffic control. Edward kept running. Perhaps they would think he was the taxi driver, come back to tell them something … in which case they might stop completely. He kept running. On the other hand, they might have seen that they were being followed, in which case they would be doubly anxious to take off. He kept running.

  He was fifty yards from the runway. The Cessna began to move, about three hundred yards to his left. He covered half the distance. The plane was moving faster now but still had to pick up real speed before it could leave the ground. Edward had nearly reached the runway when his foot landed in a hole and a pain shot through his ankle. He gasped but still pressed on. The plane was gathering speed now; he could hear the thrust of its engines. His ankle was red hot with an agonising pain. He tried to ignore it. In agony, he reached the runway. The plane was a hundred yards away, its engines roaring. His ankle throbbed and he groaned out loud. Sweat from his forehead slid into his eyes. He could barely hear himself cry out as the engines roared closer. He positioned himself not in the centre of the runway but to one side. He knelt. He fingered the chain. Now he needed luck.