He let go. I staggered into the roadway.
I looked across at him, again through a narrow tunnel of vision.
“Help me up the step, Roger.”
For some reason, I could not work out how to mount the pavement.
“Do you know… ” I started, but never finished, nor could I remember what I was going to say.
It was a Damascene moment.
The tunnel that suddenly sprang into my mind, which obliterated all other thoughts, was the one I had wandered into in my last year at the Courtauld Institute of Art.
*
I woke up the next morning with a massive hangover. Gingerly, I eased myself upright and went into the bathroom. Where I sat for twenty odd minutes wondering if I should leave the facilities that were close at hand. Eventually, the nausea subsided, and I rose unsteadily to my feet.
I looked in the mirror, and groaned at the sight. A red-eyed, pale faced image stared back at me. I was still dressed in a shirt and trousers. I tottered back. On the bedside table was a note next to my mobile phone.
`Alan, you literally drowned your sorrows last night. I hope you`ll feel better in the morning, though I doubt you`ll be in a fit state to face the world.
Give me a ring when you can walk in a straight line, Roger.
PS, what did you mean, rambling on that the tunnel could be the answer?’
I had not the faintest idea either.
Chapter 45
Five containers lined Montague Place, close to the rear entrance of the British Museum. The sixty panels of the Parthenon frieze would be packed into three of them. The other two were destined to hold the fifteen Metopes, the caryatid from the Erchteheion, and architectural items from the Propylaia.
In reality, the first three containers had already been filled. They had come from the Beazley Archives at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford, where casts of the frieze were held. The other two containers were carefully packed with substitute items gathered from other galleries and museums.
Anyone keeping watch of events would have witnessed the containers being taken to the loading bay, and ostensibly, loaded with the statuary. Thereafter, they were driven to a secret location.
*
“Yes Prime Minister, I am awaiting a call from the Museum at this moment… Will they pass examination? As I said when we met, it`s a gamble, but I feel the odds are in our favour… Yes, of course, I`ll keep you posted… No, there is nothing yet from the police. Goodbye, Neil.”
He had sounded confident. But he knew if he did not retrieve the Turners, continuing in his job as Culture Secretary would be touch and go. The PM and Home Secretary had both endorsed his approach to the exchange. But it was a monumental risk, and he would be the sacrificial lamb if the Parthenon Marbles were exposed as copies, and the Turners lost to the nation.
*
“You say that the Piper Seneca was OY- AXF. We checked with the Danish authorities, and that registration is for a Schneider Grunau Baby II b. A sail-plane, a glider as I would know it,” said McClean. “Moreover, that particular aircraft was destroyed in a fire and officially cancelled… Yes, of course, one would take the registration at face value. What I`m saying is, if the owner, or the people using the plane were flying under a false identity, I would like to find out why. If I email some photographs to you, perhaps you could tell me if you have seen any of these people land at your airfield… That would be welcome… Thank you.”
“Well?” asked Jim Timmings. “Did Compton Abbas know anything about the fellow?”
“Perhaps. They`ll study the photographs and ring me back. The air ground operator there said she would also ask others at the airfield, to find out if they recognised anyone in the photos.”
“That`s useful. But if Engel did fly into Compton Abbas, you have to ask yourself, was he dealing with someone in the area?”
He looked at the map on the wall.
“If his name comes up, we should request the local police to check companies, hotels, and pubs in North Dorset.”
“I also raised the point about immigration, and she said that the airfield has a Certificate of Agreement, and they work closely with the Border Force which assesses foreign arrivals, and records passports, noting landing and departure times, the plane`s registration, and flight plans. She is going to email the details of the Piper Seneca flights to me”
Comptom Abbas phoned McClean an hour later.
The pilot and his companions, on the occasions they landed there, all had EU passports issued in Denmark. One person might well be the man they are looking for, but it was hard to tell, for he was wearing a beard, and his eyes were brown not blue.
“What do you think?” asked Timmings.
“I have the strongest feeling we should visit Compton Abbas,” murmured McClean.
Chapter 47
I watched the Culture Show special on the Newlyn School on my own.
I phoned Sophie to ask if she would care to join me, only to leave yet another recorded message. I had tried, on and off, for several days to speak to her. Still without success, the invitation left on her phone went unanswered.
The next morning I caught an early flight to Cologne to visit the Art Fair, an event that has been running for years. It has long captured the interest in contemporary and modern art, despite competition from other similar events in nearby Brussels and Berlin.
On the return journey later that day, I wrote a lengthy piece for the Art Newspaper, thus earning my crust for the week.
Still no response from Sophie. I also wanted to ask her how she had determined the Chagall was a fake. That was more a question introduced when we were together, not baldly put to her over the phone.
There was, however, a message from McKenna.
Would I give him a ring? There was something in his voice that suggested I do so immediately.
I dialled the Mead Court number. My mother answered the call.
“Hello, Mother, all well at your end?”
“Yes, Alan, but it seems things are hotting up. Here`s McKenna.”
“Hello, laddie, you got my message?”
“Just this minute. I`ve been out all day. It sounded urgent.”
“Things are happening. A friend at the Uplands airfield told me that a Piper Seneca landed there this morning. I asked John Fielding to drive over there on the pretext of checking storage rates and noting what might be happening from Engel`s standpoint. It appears Nicholls has been in to see them, requesting that the so-called art deco furniture and furnishings in the container be transported to berth two at Southampton Docks to await onward dispatch. They didn`t know when the container was being shipped out, or its destination.”
“No, but it must be soon. Within the next few days I should imagine. By the way, will you be around tomorrow when I come down?”
“Aye, I`ll be here.”
Neither of them will like what I`m going to say, I thought.
*
Another taxi from Gillingham to Mead Court.
With my income somewhat depleted, I`ll have to be more careful how I use my dwindling finances. Though, this being close to an emergency justified the expense.
When the taxi drew up on the forecourt my mother came out to greet me.
“Alan, how are you, dear?”
She looks happier than I`ve seen in a long time, I thought.
McKenna was behind her, and we shook hands warmly.
*
Mrs Dimmock brought coffee into the orangery, and while my mother poured, McKenna repeated the gist of Engel`s immediate plans.
“The container should already be heading for Southampton as we speak,” he added.
“You realise, both of you, that when the buyer opens the crates and comes across the fake Turners he will turn on Engel. Can you imagine what he will conclude?”
“That we changed them in the warehouse at Blandford Forum,” said McKenna hollowly.
“Exactly. . .and what do you think he will do?”
“Take out his f
rustration, anger, the ignominy of the situation, and his huge losses, on us,” muttered McKenna.
“Oh! I hadn`t thought of it in those terms,” said my mother, in a tremulous voice.
“Well, we`d better face up to it, Suzanna,” said McKenna, reaching for her hand.
I was strangely moved by the gesture.
I cleared my throat.
“This is what I suggest. You both go away for a while. Take a cruise, a long holiday, go somewhere far from Mead Court.”
“But I don`t want to. This is my home. I don`t want to be hounded from it,” objected my mother.
“Och, it`s only for a wee while,” he said to her. “You`ll be safe, no fears that people could be at the gate seeking vengeance.”
I had not realised that he could be quite so poetic.
“As McKenna says, hopefully it would only be for a short while, mother.”
In the end she agreed to stay with a maiden aunt in Salisbury, twenty miles away. But McKenna would have none of it.
“I`m not prepared to leave this place defenceless, laddie. This is Suzanna`s pride and joy, and will remain so!”
Stubborn fool. The two of them are well-suited, I thought.
*
I sat on the train thinking over what McKenna had said when he drove me to Gillingham station.
“I have something to ask you, laddie.”
He was hesitant. There was a long pause, presumably while he carefully marshalled what he wanted to say. In the end it came out in a rush.
“I want your permission to ask your mother to marry me.”
Chapter 48
The convoy was on the move.
Not nose to tail. The five vehicles carrying the containers held broadly to a distance of a hundred yards from each other as they drove towards Southampton.
The Minister for Culture, Media and Sport had arrived in the city the previous evening. Accompanied by two senior members of staff and his PPS, they had taken rooms in the Grand Harbour Hotel, a mile from the quays.
The police had already taken up positions within the dock area. Sitting with crane operators, for an aerial view of the terminal; alongside drivers taking and fetching containers from storage facilities; and among the stevedores, officials and clerks recording the general movement. All keeping a constant eye on the dockside traffic.
As lunchtime approached, the convoy arrived at the dock entrance.
They were directed to berth two, where the ship was moored. A crane commenced to unload the containers not in a stack, but directly onto the quayside.
Peter Engel and his UK agent, Trevor Nicholls, were watching events from the steeple of the Holy Trinity Church, five hundred metres away.
Nicholls lowered his binoculars.
“I came up here two days ago, and the number of people working over there was much fewer. I think they`ve added to the work force.”
“Without any shadow of doubt, Mr Nicholls,” Engel replied. “What is more, the extras are policemen, waiting for the chance to take me into custody. So, I think we should preserve your identity from the authorities. I shall go alone to conduct the exchange. When they are concluded, I shall sail with the ship as far as Bilbao. My pilot can collect me from there.”
He turned to his UK agent.
So, I wish you, adieu. I shall phone you when the ship is making its way down the estuary.”
*
Engel`s chauffeur had parked the car close to the church. When he saw his client approaching he opened the rear door.
“Where to, sir?”
“Take me to the container terminal, please.”
At the dock entrance he produced his passport, and the ticket permitting him to sail; the barrier was raised, and he was driven through the forest of steel containers to berth number two. He arrived just as the official government cars were disgorging their passengers.
Static from an earpiece crackled, and one of the two plain-clothes policemen accompanying the ministerial party pivoted aside to hear a voice state, “Tell the Minister we can`t be sure who the suspect is. He is wearing a beard, presumably false, and dark glasses. We shall compare images on the database to determine who it might be. However, there is little doubt this is the fellow who masterminded the theft and this exchange.”
The ministerial party turned as one towards the hijacker of the Turners.
“Good morning,” said the Minister to the man who had caused so much anguish. Though it was not reflected in his tone.
“Mr Minister.”
“As we are now together let us complete our business,” declared the Minister briskly.
“Of course. But first, allow me to comment on the terms of this exchange. I see that the containers are ready to be loaded aboard the vessel. Before they are, I would like to examine their contents. It would not be fitting to accept, at face value, that they hold the true Marbles. When I have done so, to my satisfaction, I have a device… ”
He drew a small, neat, remote control unit from a pocket, and held it up for all to see.
“This is my insurance that the ship will have free passage to the open sea. When the containers are on the ship and it is ready to leave, I shall leave with it. Any attempt to hinder or detain the vessel, or myself, and I shall push this button.”
He pointed to a red button set in the middle of the box.
“It is operational up to five miles. So you will appreciate that even in clear water the merest touch of this button will completely destroy the works of Britain`s revered artist. As Minister of Culture, you, most avowedly, would not welcome that on your conscience.
“Once the ship is out of your reach, I shall press the green button. It will detonate a smoke canister indicating the container`s location among the surrounding stacks. You would never locate it for countless hours otherwise. It`s really quite simple. So shall we begin the examination of the Marbles?”
Engel walked towards the containers on the quayside.
Behind him trailed the ministerial group.
“Please open that container,” he said imperiously to an official.
While outwardly calm, and giving every appearance he knew what he was about, in truth Peter Engel was a little unsure of himself. After receiving his commission, he had made every effort to learn about the Parthenon Marbles. Spending time in Room Eighteen of the British Museum, studying the individual pieces, noting their texture, shapes and sizes.
But, he lacked the intimate scholarship which would have come with hours of exposure to the sculptures.
The doors were pulled back, and Engel stood on the threshold of the container. He turned to the dockside official, and asked for the crate to be opened of a tall figure set to one side.
The ties securing the large wooden crate were unfastened. The front plate of the coffin-like structure unscrewed, the wrapping unwound.
The Minister`s face was a drawn, fixed mask hiding his anxiety. He licked his lips, waiting for the cries that heralded awareness of deception. What he heard was: `Ah! the Caryatid from the Erechtheion, beautiful is she not?”
Engel ran his hand almost lovingly over the substitute.
“Open that container!”
He marched over to a steel box. The doors were swung open upon a unit containing fake panels from the frieze.
“Drag out this one.” He pointed to another. “And that crate over there.”
The same procedure followed. The crate was opened, the panel revealed.
Engel came close and studied it carefully.
“This does not appear to be of the same material as the Caryatid. How do you explain that?”
The Minister`s PPS was quick to respond.
“As you know, sir, the frieze is of pentelic marble, more suited to the technique of high relief sculpting.”
A more cursory glance was afforded the other panel.
“We shall look at one more. Please open that one.” He pointed to the last in the line.
As the doors were pulled back, the Minister`s heart san
k.
It contained mostly architectural remnants from the Acropolis. To his mind, some looked decidedly false. Was the gamble going to founder at the very last minute?
As Engel made to enter the container, the ship`s siren sounded.
He hesitated, then slowly backed out.
“OK, I have seen enough. That siren is to announce loading should commence. Let`s get on with it.”
A half an hour later it was done. The five containers were safely stowed on the vessel`s deck. The Minister, his entourage and the police had stood impotently by watching the operation. Suddenly two blasts of the siren indicated the moment of departure.
Engel started towards the ship, a satisfied smile on his lips. But then he turned to the Minister.
“I`ll wager you don`t know who is behind all this.” He wagged a finger. “Well, let me just say… ”
A red spot moved up his chest.
Engel laughed out loud. “You`ll never guess who they were. So I`ll give you… ”
The red spot stilled.
“They… ”
The crack was loud, reverberating off the walls of shipping containers surrounding the scene. Everyone ducked low; but there was no second shot. It was not necessary. The victim, Peter Engel, lay on the quayside, his body twitching, blood pooling around him.
Suddenly, his hand jerked at the control box.
An explosion rent the air. The metal doors of a container, among a nearby four-high stack, were blown from their hinges, and a confetti-like pall of paper and canvas floated downwards over the tableau of people staring at the crumpled body in shock.
Chapter 49
A video of the event was played for the fifth time.
“You still don`t know who shot him then?” queried the Prime Minister.
“No, sir,” replied the police commissioner. He glanced at the Minister of Culture, Media and Sport. “Apparently, everyone was looking at the victim. We have established the shot came from the roof of a container. But everyone was so startled, the killer got clean away.”
“How did he manage that?”
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