“Smythe.”
“That’s right. Anyway, Richard Hutchinson was accused of stealing a large amount of the Nazis’ gold supply from a cache in Athens. He was eventually acquitted for lack of evidence and he got an honorable discharge. That’s why nothing more was ever made of it. Hutchinson went on into civilian life. Needless to say, the gold was never found.”
“Interesting. Do you believe the old man was guilty?”
“If he had been Alfred Hutchinson, I’d say yes, because I know … er, knew the man. I didn’t know his father. But the army doesn’t usually go court-martialing officers unless they have a damned good reason.”
“Why did Alfred Hutchinson rub you up the wrong way, Sir Miles?”
“He had an air of superiority that was obnoxious. He thought he was a cut above everyone else. I wouldn’t have bought a secondhand motorcar from him. I never trusted him. That’s all. Only gut feelings, I’m afraid.”
“No, that’s fine, Sir Miles. You’ve been enormously helpful.”
“Goodbye, James,” the old man said. “Be careful.”
They had an appointment with Melina Papas, the president of BioLinks Limited, after lunch. It would not be a pleasant meeting. The Greek police force had already confiscated the building’s entire sperm and blood supply and had put a serious deadlock on the facility’s business operations, but it couldn’t be helped. Bond and Niki expected to get an earful from Ms. Papas about that.
Niki drove the Toyota while Bond studied a file marked “BioLinks Limited.” Inside was a black-and-white photo of a woman in her forties with dark hair, a hawk nose, and a puckered mouth. The caption read, “Melina Papas, President.” Her résumé was impressive, as she had worked in research and development for three major international drug companies before founding BioLinks six years ago.
BioLinks Limited was located near Athens University in a large, three-story modern complex. The lower floor held medical offices that served patients with infertility problems and acted as a family planning unit. The upper floors contained offices, laboratories, and drug manufacturing equipment.
They were taken to the elevator by a plump woman with a mustache and eventually brought into the executive office of the president. It was a large, well-lit, and comfortable room with a conference table at one end and an elegant desk at the other. Medical and biochemistry books lined the walls.
After a moment, a frumpy woman with a hawk nose walked into the office. She was short, roughly five feet tall.
“I’m Melina Papas,” she said. She didn’t look happy.
Niki introduced them in Greek, but before she could finish, the woman said in English, “When can we have back our sperm and blood supplies? Do you realize what this has done to our business? Our research and development has completely halted!”
“We want to make sure that there isn’t anything wrong with your bodily fluids, Ms. Papas, or rather, the company’s bodily fluids,” Niki said. “You wouldn’t want to give someone anything that might hurt them, would you?”
“It’s been twenty-four hours. How long will this take?”
“Ms. Papas, I think you can count on not getting any of it back. It will probably be destroyed.”
“This is outrageous! You will hear from our lawyers.” Melina Papas clenched her puckered mouth even more tightly.
“That’s fine,” Niki said, “but we have the law on our side. Now, we’d like to ask you some questions if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind, but go ahead and let’s get it over with.”
“Do you know Charles Hutchinson?” Bond asked.
“No.”
“He delivered a case of sperm from your clinic, ReproCare, in Austin, Texas.”
Ms. Papas shook her head. “We haven’t had any deliveries from them in weeks. I told your other inspectors that.”
“Ms. Papas, we know that Charles Hutchinson delivered a case here, and we’d like to know what was in it,” Niki said.
“Why do you have samples shipped here from the United States?” Bond asked. “Can’t you get your own sperm here in Greece?”
“Yes, of course we can. It’s just that our clients tend to think they get better quality if it comes from America.”
“Being Greek, I consider that an insult,” Niki said.
“Surprisingly, it’s true, to an extent,” the woman said. “The sperm tends to be healthier and have better motility. I’m not saying that really makes it better, but it sounds better to our clients. It’s marketing, that’s all. You understand that many races are represented by the sperm we market. We get people who want an Asian father, or a Caucasian, or a Hispanic … We have to get what sperm we can.”
“What kind of research and development are you doing here?”
“We make drugs, Mr. Bryce. That is our primary business. We also have a small team working on fertility issues. There is a team working on vaccinations for various diseases. We have an AIDS researcher. We have a cancer researcher. Our facility is one of the most highly respected medical research laboratories in Greece.”
“How well did you know Dr. Ashley Anderson?” Bond asked.
“I met her three times, I think. She came here on business a few times. I was certainly unaware that she was involved in criminal activity.”
“ReproCare was owned by BioLinks, wasn’t it?” Niki asked.
“Yes, but it was an independent clinic. They operated on their own.”
“Then why were you getting sperm samples from them?” Bond asked.
“It was just part of our business! Really, I was terribly distraught when I learned what happened in America. I couldn’t believe that she was using our laboratory and clinic there to distribute chemical weapons. She was a talented and intelligent biochemist. I think the Americans must have got the wrong person or something. It just can’t be true.”
“I’m afraid it is true,” Niki said.
“Luckily our insurance will cover the loss of the clinic. I still don’t understand how she died, though.”
“She took her own life, Ms. Papas,” Niki said.
“I see.”
“Do you know a man named Konstantine Romanos?” Bond asked. He noticed that the woman flinched a little.
“Of course I do—he owns the company,” she said. “He doesn’t have anything to do with the day-to-day operation of it. That’s my job. I think he’s been in the building only a couple of times.”
“He’s put a lot of money into BioLinks, has he?”
“Well, yes. We would have gone bankrupt two years ago if he hadn’t purchased us. Now we’re worth millions.”
It was difficult to pin anything on her or the company. The Greek police and secret service had absolutely nothing out of the ordinary on BioLinks. Melina Papas had a clean record. Bond thought it was possible that whoever was behind all of this was just using BioLinks as a tool of convenience, but his intuition told him otherwise.
“Did you know a man named Christopher Whitten?”
“No, I don’t think so. Is he English?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know him.”
“Does the name Alfred Hutchinson mean anything to you?”
Again, Bond detected an involuntary blink. “No,” she said.
Bond looked at Niki. They silently acknowledged that they weren’t getting anywhere.
“Thank you, Ms. Papas,” Niki said. “We’re sorry to have troubled you. I’m sure arrangements will be made to reimburse you for the loss of the, uhm, bodily fluids.”
“Can I have your guarantee?”
“I’m not authorized to do that, but I’ll see what I can do.”
They were shown out of the office and led to the elevator by one of Ms. Papas’s aides. Once they were alone, Niki whispered, “So how good a liar was she, James?”
“A good one,” he said. “But not good enough.”
Back in her office, Melina Papas poured a glass of scotch and sat at her desk, trembling. She picked up the phone and dialed her secretary.
>
“Christina,” she said, “I have to go away for a few days. I’m leaving now. Please handle all my correspondence and phone calls… . No, I can’t tell you where I’m going. If you need to get hold of me, leave a message on my voice mail. I’ll call you… . Right.”
She hung up, then opened a cupboard behind the desk. She removed a travel bag and stuffed it with some of her more treasured office possessions. Melina Papas fought back tears, for she knew she would never be returning to work in this capacity again.
After she was finished, she picked up the phone again and placed a call to the island of Chios.
By the end of that day, fifteen people in London had died of Williams’s disease. One of them had brought it across the English Channel to Paris. New York’s casualties numbered in the thirties. In Japan, the death toll had climbed to well over a hundred. In Los Angeles, ninety-eight people had met their end from the mysterious affliction.
Inevitably, the news agencies realized what was going on. That night, it was reported on CNN that a deadly epidemic was threatening to spread worldwide.
SIXTEEN
ROMANOS
THE AU MONT PARNES CASINO SITS ATOP MOUNT PARNITHA, ONE OF THE three hills surrounding Athens. It is in the Thrakomakedones area, a suburb at the outer limits of the city. While it is possible to drive up the mountain to the casino and park a car right outside, almost everyone who visits the establishment chooses to park down below and ride the cable car. It is a pleasant five-minute ride, and at night the view of Athens is spectacular. The city lights fan away from the mountain and spread across the dark vista as far as the eye can see.
At ten P.M., James Bond parked the Jaguar in the cable-car parking lot and joined a group of twelve people in the waiting room. He was a bit overdressed in a gray Brioni tailored three-piece suit, but he wanted to make an impression on Romanos when he met him.
After their visit to BioLinks, Niki had gone back to her headquarters in Katechaki Street. Bond told her that he would call her in the morning after his night at the casino. He had wanted to do this alone. Partners were fine in most situations, but Bond didn’t like distractions when he gambled, and he thought a partner like Niki would be distracting for what he had to do tonight. Besides, Niki needed to follow up on the police investigation of Charles Hutchinson’s death. Frankly, he wanted a little distance. It was a familiar malaise, and unfortunately, it was a vicious circle. She had called him twice during the evening, probably in an attempt to get him to change his mind and allow her to accompany him. As usual, it seemed that women always became more interested in him when he tried to avoid them. As Felix Leiter once said to him, “Women are like stamps—the more you spit on them, the more they get attached to you.”
The casino itself was a bit of a letdown after the spectacular cable car ride. Bond had to walk through nondescript hallways to the main room. Not nearly as opulent as Bond had expected, the Au Mont Parnes was small. It consisted solely of one room containing all of the various gaming tables. Although there were no slot machines and the red carpet was ornate, little else in the casino was striking. Off to the side of the room near the bar was a section for sitting and drinking that contained several tables covered in white tablecloths.
Despite its overall shabbiness, the casino attracted a crowd. The place was already full, and smoke filled the room. Several blackjack tables were in operation, the roulette table was packed with players and spectators, and the poker tables were unreachable.
Bond went over to the only baccarat table in the casino. It too was crowded, with no vacant seats. He lit one of his cigarettes from H. Simmons of Burlington Arcade and ordered a vodka martini from a waitress. When his drink came, he stood casually to one side and observed the people around the table.
Konstantine Romanos had the “shoe.” There was a singular aura around the man, as if he exuded an invisible, yet tangible, charisma. He was very handsome, sat very tall in his seat, and had a dark complexion. His eyes were cold as steel. He incongruously smoked a thin cigar in a cigarette holder, the smoke circling his head in halos. Romanos was apparently doing very well. He had a large stack of chips in front of him.
Bond recognized the cousin, Vassilis, standing behind Romanos. He was the bodybuilding, swarthy man he had seen in Texas. Vassilis wasn’t fooling anyone—he was there as a bodyguard for his boss. The man was simply a mountain.
Baccarat is closely related to chemin de fer and its rules vary from casino to casino. Bond observed that the game in the Au Mont Parnes was closer to chemin de fer in that the bank was held by a single player until he lost. The bank, and shoe, then rotated around the table to the players willing to put up an amount of cash. The object of the game was to obtain cards totalling as close to 9 as possible. Court cards and 10s were worthless.
A woman sitting at the table said, “Banco,” and placed a large bet in the Players’ field on the table. Calling “Banco” was a bet against the entire bank’s worth, which in this case was around a million drachmas. No one else at the table was betting, except a Middle Eastern man wearing a fez. Bond studied the woman, who looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties. She had fiery red hair and was extremely attractive, with pale white skin and blue eyes, and a hint of freckles on her face and bare shoulders.
Romanos dealt the cards. He had a natural 8 and turned his cards over.
“Eight,” he said. The redhead lost her money.
A man shook his head and stood up from the table, leaving a seat open for Bond. He casually took the chair and said, “Banco.” He matched the bank’s bet of two million drachmas. At the exchange rate of roughly 365 drachmas to the pound, this amounted to almost 5,500 pounds. Earlier Bond had drawn out the cash from an SIS fund specifically for “nonreimbursable” business expenses.
Konstantine Romanos looked up at Bond and nodded his head slightly in a greeting. He dealt the cards from the shoe. Bond had a 1 and a 3. Romanos examined his cards and left them facedown. Bond asked for a third card. It was dealt face up—a 4. Romanos was forced to stand, then turned his cards over. Bond’s 8 beat Romanos’s 7.
“Lady Luck is on your side, Mr… . ?” Romanos said in English.
“Bryce. John Bryce,” Bond said. “It’s not luck. I say a little prayer to the gods before playing. Don’t you?”
Romanos blinked slightly and smiled. Bond wasn’t sure if the man knew who he was. Vassilis, the cousin, was staring hard at him. Up close, Bond thought Vassilis looked like a circus freak of old. Once again he was amazed that the man had practically no neck—just a large football shaped head on top of a wall of shoulders. His biceps were so large that Bond doubted he could get both hands around one.
Romanos forfeited the shoe. It was offered around the table, but no one wanted it. It finally came to Bond, who set the bank at half a million drachmas.
Romanos called, “Banco.” Bond deftly slipped the cards out of the shoe and slid them across the table. Bond had a total of 7. He had to stand. Romanos asked for a third card, which was revealed to be a 5. The two men revealed their cards.
“Eight,” Romanos said. “Seems as if the gods forgot about you that time.”
Bond offered the bank and shoe to the next person, but it eventually found its way back to Romanos. He set it for one million drachmas.
“Banco,” Bond said. Another two cards came across the table. This time Bond had a natural 9, but so did Romanos.
“Push,” said the croupier.
The cards were dealt again. Bond had a total of 7 again and had to stand. Romanos drew a 3, then revealed a court card and a 2. The spectactors gasped as Bond raked in the chips.
“It’s too bad that nine is the best possible number in baccarat,” said Bond. “It really should be ten, don’t you think?”
Romanos flinched and the thin smile disappeared. “What do you mean?”
“You are Konstantine Romanos, aren’t you? Head of the New Pythagorean Society?”
Romanos smiled and nodded. “You know somethi
ng of our little group?”
“Just a little, but I’d love to learn more.”
“Perhaps that can be arranged,” Romanos said. Everyone at the table felt a sudden tension between the two men. Play continued in a back-and-forth fashion until Romanos ended up with the shoe once again. Bond glanced at the other people. The attractive redhead was watching him intently. She placed a large bet against the bank.
Romanos dealt Bond two totally useless court cards. Lucidly, Bond’s third card was a 7. Romanos had a total of 6, barely losing. Bond glanced at the redhead, who was smiling knowingly at him.
“Mr. Bryce, you’re going to clean me out before I’ve had time to finish my drink,” Romanos said. “Might I buy you one, and we can adjourn to the bar?” The man’s English was very good.
“One more,” said Bond. He declined to take the bank. Romanos held on to it, and it was worth nearly four million drachmas.
Romanos nodded his head as if to say, “Very well.” He dealt the cards. Bond had a total of 5, the worst possible number to get in baccarat. He had to draw a third card, which could very well push him past 9. The third card came across the table and was revealed to be a 4. Romanos drew a card, then turned the hand over. He had a total of 7. Bond won again with his 9.
“My compliments,” Romanos said, passing the shoe. “I shall quit while I still can.” Although the man was polite, Bond could tell he was perturbed at losing so much. He had forfeited nearly five million drachmas to Bond. As Vassilis pulled back his chair, Romanos stood up. He was well over six feet tall, statuesque and authoritative. It was no wonder he had followers who would do his bidding. Did that bidding extend to murder and terrorism?
Bond politely passed the shoe, tipped the croupier, then joined Romanos at one of the tables near the bar. He asked for another vodka martini. Romanos ordered a gin and tonic.
“Tell me, Mr. Bryce,” he said, “why do you want to learn more about the New Pythagoreans? Are you a mathematician?”
“Lord, no,” Bond said. “I’m a writer. I’m preparing a book about philosophy and religion. I thought your group was interesting. I know that you base much of your teachings on Pythagoras.”
The Facts Of Death Page 18
