Stones of Treason: An international thriller

by Peter Watson

  ‘So! You are suggesting we give in?’ Lockwood drained his glass and slumped into a chair.

  ‘I think we are probably left with no choice, Prime Minister – but I am not advocating we do nothing.’ He paused but no one else joined in. ‘I believe this case is more dangerous than anyone else here in this room appears to think. Politically dangerous, I mean. I’ve already outlined what I think are the dangers if we don’t support the Palace. I think the dangers are just as great if we give back the Marbles.’

  The Prime Minister made a sound, somewhere between a grunt and a scream of pain.

  In response, Slocombe lowered his voice, so they all had to lean forward to hear him. ‘If the Marbles go back to Greece, the Palace keeps its secret. The Crown will be held in exactly the high esteem as it is now. The government, however, will have made a grand gesture that will earn it some kudos among a handful of intellectuals and worthies in this world but, again in my judgement, to most people of Britain, we risk becoming known as the government who “gave away” the Elgin Marbles, who disposed of our heritage. We shall be seen as wimps, weak at the knees and wet behind the ears. It is not as great a danger to the party as the other course but, in a close-run election, it could be decisive. In a close-run election, anything is decisive.’

  Midwinter broke in. ‘Come on, Eric. You can’t just present us with cul-de-sacs in either direction.’

  Slocombe was drinking more whisky. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I know, I know. I suggest two things. We have almost a month before this Olympic Festival, as they are calling it. Now, if we were to conduct ourselves during that time as if we intended to fulfil the bargain, that might persuade the blackmailers they have the upper hand. As a result they might relax and that might help us to find them. But in any case we can do things over and above the bargain. For instance, we could have it leaked that we were thinking of returning the Marbles. We would deny it officially of course, but the source of the leak would be credible – a worthy backbencher you could promise promotion to in the next administration – and so the rumours would not go away completely. The blackmailers would believe them.

  ‘Then a few days after that, we could close the Duveen Galleries at the British Museum, saying at first that they were due for renovation. A few days later we would arrange for the Marbles to be moved from the museum. Again, the official explanation might be that they were being restored, or protected while the gallery is being refurbished. But that of course would renew speculation about our intentions. Either way, the aim would be to ensure that the blackmailers believed we were keeping our side of the bargain. In fact, we would just be buying time.’

  ‘Let me get this straight. You are saying we should give the appearance of co-operation . . . but all the time trying to find out who the blackmailers are?’

  ‘Yes – and put that way it doesn’t sound so cock-eyed, does it? This problem is only a few hours old. The more you think about it, the more obvious it becomes that we can’t refuse to co-operate with the Palace and we can’t just give in. We have to play this like the police play any blackmail – pretend to go along with it but all the while trying to track down the buggers.’

  ‘But . . .’ Lockwood stood up again and placed the whisky on the mantelshelf. ‘If we make that sort of announcement, even as a leak, or if we close the British Museum, even part of it . . . well, pandemonium will break out.’

  ‘Very probably, Bill. We’ll have to weather it.’

  ‘You’re sure we shouldn’t just call their bluff?’

  ‘Yes, I am sure. This is a classic political problem. Either course has its dangers, grave dangers. Judgement is called for. You’re good at that, Bill, or used to be.’

  ‘But . . . but how are we going to start?’ The Prime Minister turned to O’Day. ‘Commander? What do you think of Eric’s plan?’

  ‘It’s not my place to comment on the political aspects, sir,’ said O’Day pompously. ‘Operationally . . . it doesn’t look as though we are going to get very far via the telephones . . . there’ll be precious little chance to trace these calls, so far as I can see – and very little point if they use a different phone every time.’

  ‘The other operational difficulty’, said Leith, interjecting, ‘is that there is now not going to be any handover of money. The blackmailers don’t have to show themselves – ever. Have you thought of that?’

  Lockwood let out a growl. ‘Terrific! Eric here tells me we’ve got to play for time – and you operational people tell me we’ve nothing to play with. Brilliant!’

  ‘I can think of two ways forward, sir.’

  There was a moment’s silence as all eyes turned to Edward.

  ‘Ah! Dr Andover. For those of you who don’t know, the Queen’s Surveyor of Pictures had a good idea about an operational headquarters room.’ The Prime Minister smiled at Edward. ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘Well, sir, the paintings that were sent to me had N7 postmarks. I’ve checked in the phone book and there are three Greek Orthodox churches in the N7 postal district – obviously that’s a Greek area of London. The police there could be asked if they’ve heard any unusual rumours, or if strange or prominent Greeks have moved into the area recently.’

  Lockwood turned to O’Day. ‘Well, commander?’

  ‘We can try, sir, but I doubt it will turn up anything. Most blackmailers are not habitual criminals so I doubt if the local police will know anything. But . . . well, we can try. Then there’s our own computer, in my department. We’ll try that, too.’

  ‘Yes, try,’ Lockwood said, sharply. Then he looked at Edward again. ‘And what was your other idea, Dr Andover?’

  ‘I take Inspector Leith’s point that there will now be no handover of money, but I can’t believe that this Brigade would go to all this trouble and get no credit for themselves if they succeed. It’s not in human nature. They must have some plan to boast about their achievements or take credit. I’m guessing now, but they must belong to one or other groups in Greece who campaign for the return of the Marbles. These lists could be checked. Who knows – maybe some of the names are in N7?’ Edward sipped his whisky.

  The Prime Minister eyed him. ‘You must be a good researcher, Dr Andover. You think like a detective.’ He turned to O’Day. ‘You have people in Athens, commander?’

  O’Day nodded.

  ‘Dr Andover has given us a start, I think.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Leith, you will handle the North London investigations.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Thank you for your help, Dr Andover. To be frank, I’m far from sure that these lines of inquiry will lead anywhere but I agree that we must pursue them. We must pursue any possibility. Has anyone else got any ideas or suggestions?’

  No one spoke.

  ‘Very well. We will pursue the strategy suggested by Eric. Starting with Dr Andover’s ideas. I think that from now on and for security’s sake, this committee will meet here, in this flat, every day – at midnight. Arrive singly, by the back door. I want everyone present at all times and I want everyone to worry about this problem at every opportunity. We’ve got a little time before the blackmailers call again and it would be good to have made some progress by then. Now, thank you all – and goodnight.’

  Going down the stairs, Edward received some friendly smiles from the others on the committee and he ought to have been more pleased than he was. In fact, he was confused and worried. He had been wrong to harbour any suspicions about Mordaunt – but what about Nancy? Nancy’s flat was in N7.

  *

  Edward reached home at about one-thirty. For days now, it hadn’t even occurred to him to go to the Albatross. He now dreaded what he would find on the answering machine. It wasn’t only Wilma Winnington-Brown and Barbra, who had given him such a good going over at lunch the previous day, who thought he should settle down. He half thought so himself. And he half thought that Nancy was the one he should do it with. He unlocked the door to his flat and
instinctively looked across at the green diode glow of the message counter on his answering machine. He closed the door and switched on the light. He considered having another whisky before facing Nancy’s message but it was late and he dismissed the idea.

  He approached the machine. A green figure 1 stared up at him. He pressed the button.

  ‘Darling machine. This is His Master’s Vice, speaking from Normanton, near Pontefract, home of Rysbrack’s wonderful monument. Tell your master that, after days of marble nudes, granite nudes, limestone nudes and bronze nudes, I’m looking forward to some old-fashioned ffffflesh! So long.’ The line went dead and Edward stood over the machine, staring at it as it clicked and whirred and rearranged itself, ready to receive the next message.

  Abandoning his resolve, he poured a scotch and splashed soda on to it. Then he crossed the room to the bookshelves. He took down Margaret Whinney’s Sculpture in Britain 1530–1830, and turned to the index. He found the entry on Rysbrack. It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for – the sculptor’s monument at Normanton. He read the entire entry. Sipping his whisky, he read it again. The entry confirmed something that had itched at the back of his mind. It was exactly as Nancy had said – except for one thing. Michael Rysbrack’s monument was not at Normanton in Yorkshire but at Normanton – same spelling – in Leicestershire. Was Nancy confused? No, she might be American and unfamiliar with Britain but she was very bright and you don’t confuse Yorkshire with Leicestershire when you are supposed to be telephoning from one of those places. Edward swallowed the rest of his scotch in one gulp. Nancy had lied.

  Chapter Ten – Friday

  Next morning when Edward reached the office, Wilma followed him through and closed the door behind her. ‘You look terrible, Edward. You’re not getting enough sleep. Now, I’ve got some pills –’

  ‘No!’ Edward was perturbed and angry about Nancy and he shouted more than he meant to. More gently, he added: ‘No. I hate pills, sleeping pills especially.’ He put his Walkman on his desk.

  ‘What did you have for breakfast, then?’

  ‘Oh . . . coffee . . . nothing really.’

  ‘I’ll make you some soup. I know where I can lay my hands on a packet.’

  ‘Don’t fuss, Wilma.’ He smiled but she just glared back.

  ‘Now . . . what messages?’

  ‘I’m going to make you some soup whether you like it or not.’ Wilma got this in very quickly, before adding, ‘O’Day has been here already. It seems –’

  ‘Later, Wilma! In a minute. We still have to look after the collection. Let’s deal with our real jobs first. What news?’

  ‘That’s the last thing I thought you’d want to do at the moment, with all this other nonsense on your plate.’ She turned and waved at a pile of papers on her own desk. ‘I’ve opened your official-looking letters – and read them. Three things you should know about. The Canadian National Gallery in Ottawa are holding an exhibition of Poussin and want to borrow our Capriccio. The exhibition is the year after next. Second, you’ve been invited to Bucharest by the Romanian royal family. Now they have been restored to office, they are thinking of rebuilding a royal collection and would like advice.’

  Edward bit his thumbnail. ‘If this other “nonsense”, as you call it, goes sour and hits the papers, they may not think we have much to teach them.’ He rubbed his chin where he had missed a tuft of beard shaving. ‘What was the third thing?’

  ‘Sir James Hillier’s secretary called. He’d like to see you.’

  ‘Oh dear, that’s all we need.’ Edward realised he was being unreasonable. Now that the director was beginning to recover from his operation, it was only natural that he should wish to take up the reins of his post. But such a lot had happened . . .

  ‘Very well. I don’t know when I shall be able to see him just yet – but don’t let me forget. Also, don’t forget to phone Balmoral. We need a condition report on the Capriccio – tell them Ottawa is interested.’ The Ottawa request was fortuitous: it would keep the restorer busy and out of the office for a couple of weeks at least.

  ‘Now is that all? If it is, we can get back to O’Day. What did he want, so bright and early?’

  ‘He said I was to tell you Leith had drawn a blank, during the night, in North London. The police there know nothing. There’s nothing on the MI6 computer either. But they are still waiting to hear from his people in Athens.’

  ‘He made a special journey, just to say that?’

  ‘Not only that. I am to give you this –’ and she held up a key. ‘The studio is now locked. He said you would find out why when you arrived.’

  Edward took the key. ‘Commander O’Day is a bit like a bulldozer. A bulldozer in a china shop. It’s a good job Hillier isn’t around. The noise level would definitely be higher.’ He grinned and put the key in his pocket.

  ‘Edward . . .’ Wilma lowered her voice to a whisper, or as dose to a whisper as her vocal cords would allow. ‘Edward, these Marbles . . . are they so important? I mean, I know they must be for this brigade to do what they are doing, but . . .’

  ‘Yes, they are important, Wilma. They’re important because the Parthenon is one of the oldest and most beautiful buildings in western history. They’re also important because Britain has an enormous amount – ninety-three pieces – and if they were returned they would transform the Parthenon and make it without doubt the most interesting building from classical antiquity. They’re important because they were exported with a permit from the Turks when they ruled Greece – and that means the Greeks have never recognized its legitimacy. And they’re important because, if the Marbles did go back, if Britain acknowledged that the Greeks do have a case, a precedent would be set. All sorts of countries might then claim back all sorts of objects if the Elgin Marbles were returned. Once this news gets out . . . well, if you think things have been hectic lately, it’s going to get far worse.’

  ‘In that case, I will bring you some soup.’

  Edward was already on his way out of the office. He waved his arm without turning. He went down the stairs, past the security guard, the dead fireplace and the Canaletto. He then had to climb a narrow flight of stairs on the opposite side of the hall and walk along a balcony that opened on to a small courtyard. This had a small bronze by Adriaan de Vries in the centre. Sculpture brought his mind back to Nancy. Why had she lied? Why? Was she with another man? He almost prayed that she was. Otherwise . . . otherwise she was part of this . . . Apollo Brigade.

  He arrived at the studio, inserted the key in the lock and turned it. Just inside the door, he found a burly, thick-necked man – an army type with fingers the size of sausages and freckles as big as snowflakes. The man, who was sitting on a chair, or rather around the chair, and reading a paperback, stood up and barred the way. ‘Yes?’ he barked belligerently.

  ‘I’m Andover. Can’t you see I have a key?’

  O’Day stuck his head from behind the big Canaletto that barred the view. ‘Frank, meet Dr Andover. Dr Andover, meet Frank from our security section. We need security now. Come here and you’ll see why.’

  Frank didn’t smile exactly. But he nodded at Edward and moved out of his way.

  Edward stepped forward. He noticed that O’Day had taken it upon himself to rearrange three large canvases – the Canaletto, a Van Dyck family portrait and a huge Paulus Potter ‘Bull’ – into a rectangle against one wall, so that they formed a room-within-a-room. Inside this ‘canvas room’ was the desk, the bank of phones, chairs for O’Day, Leith – who nodded – and another person whom Edward had not seen before. She was sitting at the desk with her back to Edward and tapping at a keyboard in front of her. Beyond that was a computer screen.

  ‘Tawsy, stop tinkling the ivories and say hello to Edward Andover.’

  The woman abandoned the keyboard and swivelled on her seat. She was wearing a restorer’s white coat. They all looked like a convention of chemists.

  ‘Victoria Tatton, Edward Andover. Edward Andover, vi
ce versa.’

  Edward and Victoria shook hands.

  ‘Now, although Tawsy here could easily be Miss Whitehall, or Miss Horse Guards Parade, her IQ is the right shape too. Higher, in fact, than my golf handicap. She comes from something called the Hard Languages Unit – HLU. She speaks Serbo-Croat, Hungarian, Bulgarian, Greek, of course, and Turkish, though that’s not very hard –’

  ‘And I can speak for myself, too. Hello, Edward.’ She smiled. She was small, with pale skin, close-cropped, dark-brown hair, a wide mouth and brown eyes that looked defensive.

  ‘Hello. What are the other hard languages?’

  ‘Japanese, Chinese, some of the Bantu tongues.’

  O’Day interjected again. ‘She has other talents too. She flies, she plays snooker, she shoots, she fences and she also speaks computerese. That’s also why she’s here. Lockwood knows, by the way, and approves. She has full clearance.’

  Victoria smiled at Edward again. ‘I wish I could paint, though. Do you?’ When she smiled two creases appeared in her cheeks, giving her a sardonic expression. Edward was reminded of the women in the paintings of Georges de la Tour.

  ‘No, I don’t paint any more,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t good enough. That’s why I became an art historian.’

  Victoria went on to reply but O’Day got in first. ‘Come on, back to the screen. This is linked to the department’s main-frame computer. I’ll explain as we go.’

  Victoria turned again to the keyboard. Edward could now see that there were columns of names on the screen.