The Greek Key

33

Seton-Charles had held three seminars for Greek students over a period of two weeks. Newman and Marler had taken it in turns to monitor his movements. The seminars were held in a conference room inside the Hilton. They were advertised on a board in the vast lobby, giving the whole two-week programme. Subject: The Greek Civil War, 1946-1949.

The tension was rising between Newman and Marler. Security on Christina had been tightened up to the hilt: they had learned from their experience at the Hilton. Well-disguised, a scarf concealing her hair and wearing her outsize tinted glasses, she had registered as Mrs Irene Charles at the Grande Bretagne.

Booked into a suite, she stayed there. All meals were sent up by room service. Newman kept her supplied with books and magazines. 'This is marvellous, Bob,' she told him one day. 'The first real rest I've had in years – and I'm reading like mad…'

To keep up their watch on Seton-Charles, Newman and Marler had very little sleep. They exchanged surveillance duty at the Hilton; one staying with Christina, the other eating and keeping an eye open at the Hilton. Marler complained after a few days of this ritual.

'I feel locked in. I'd like to be outside, trying to find more data on what happened to Harry Masterson. Maybe take a trip to Cape Sounion, see what's going on down there.'

'Feeling the heat?' Newman grinned as he used a sodden handkerchief to mop his neck.

'No. You're the one who can't stand it. Doesn't affect me.'

'I can stand the waiting better than you can,' Newman told him. 'We're doing what Tweed asked. Checking on Seton-Charles and guarding Christina.'

'And as far as we can tell the Professor hasn't gone outside the Hilton. Which is pretty weird. Maybe he uses the phone in his room.'

'Not for any calls we'd want to know about. He'll know they'd go through the hotel switchboard.'

'So maybe he sneaks out in the middle of the night.'

'I have a feeling any message will be smuggled to him by someone attending one of those seminars. Probably he doesn't like the heat. He looks the type, I saw him go outside once and he came straight in again, glad to return to the air-conditioning. Patience, Marler.'

'You know where you can stuff that. As for waiting, you spent your life waiting as a foreign correspondent. Mostly holding up bars, from what I've heard.'

'Which shows your ignorance,' Newman rapped back. 'I was moving about, searching for fresh contacts. Time you got back to the Hilton. Don't fall asleep…'

'Up yours, chum.'

They had been drinking mineral water at the Grande Bretagne bar. It was eleven at night: Newman had come back sometime after he'd seen Seton-Charles go up to bed. He mopped his sticky hands when Marler left. It was going to be another torrid night.

They had booked two rooms at the Hilton. Whoever was on duty stayed op until he was pretty sure Seton-Charles had retired for the night. He then waited another two hours, sitting in the lobby, just on the off-chance S-C reappeared. Then he went to his room, set the alarm for five o'clock. After taking a shower, he put out his outfit to wear in the morning. Which meant the man on duty fell into bed at about 2 a.m. For three hours of sleep. No wonder the relationship – never good at the best of times – was growing strained.

It was Newman who spotted Anton Gavalas attending the final seminar eleven days later.

Christina had shown him a group photograph. Petros flanked by his family at the farm, occupying the central position, sitting on the veranda,

'Looking like God Almighty,' Christina had remarked venomously. 'Dimitrios and Constantine are there – on either side. As you see, I'm relegated to the outside -the proper position for a female. And that. ..' She had pointed to a slim man standing with his hand on Petros' shoulder. '… is Anton. Petros' favourite, the smooth bastard.'

Newman borrowed the photograph. He showed it to Marler at the first opportunity, pointing out Anton.

'Cocky-looking sod,' was Marler's only comment.

Eleven days later Newman was 'on duty' at the Hilton. He had eaten breakfast in the ground-floor restaurant, sitting four tables away from Seton-Charles who was looking limp from the heatwave.

Now he sat in the lobby on a couch close to the entrance to the conference room where the third and final seminar was taking place in half an hour's time. Newman wore a short-sleeved shirt, open-necked, a pair of loud check slacks. He was smoking a cigar, reading the New York Times. He looked like one of the many American tourists staying at the hotel.

Students – men and girls – began arriving, standing round, chatting. Age range: sixteen to twenty-five, Newman estimated. Some carried briefcases, others clutched files. Newman stretched out his legs, crossed them at the ankles. He wore green socks decorated with white diamonds, a pair of loafers.

Seton-Charles arrived in his shirt-sleeves, a pair of creaseless powder-blue slacks. Newman puffed at his cigar, glanced up as he turned to a fresh page. For a moment he glanced at the Professor, who looked down at him. Behind the rimless glasses perched on his Roman nose eyes as hard as diamonds skimmed over the seated man. Newman had a shock.

This was the first time they had looked straight at each other. The first time Newman had noticed those eyes. You're a cold-blooded bastard, he thought.

Then Seton-Charles was leading the students inside the conference room. Like a shepherd leading lambs to the slaughter. Why had that thought entered Newman's mind? He settled down, then glanced up again as a latecomer arrived, hurrying inside the conference room. Newman froze inside as the slim, smartly dressed man passed him. Anton Gavalas…

He stood up and wandered to a seat on the far side of the lobby. Startled as he was by Anton's appearance, Newman still noticed what else was going on.

A moment after the Greek had disappeared he observed a man who had been lingering outside the entrance come into the hotel. A small stocky man who reminded him of a dormouse. The newcomer also took a seat against the wall, settled himself, crossed his fat legs and began reading a Greek newspaper.

Newman forgot about him as he sat down to wait. He'd have given a lot to be an invisible witness to what was happening inside the conference room.

When Anton walked into the seminar the students were sitting down in the rows of chairs facing the dais where the Professor stood behind a table, arranging papers in neat piles. He paused, Seton-Charles looked up, Anton walked across the room and mounted the dais.

'Good morning,' he whispered. 'Jupiter has sent me with information…'

He had been going to say 'instructions', but then he looked at the eyes behind the rimless glasses. No sign of recognition. Ice-cold, they seemed to assess him at a glance. Anton began to wonder how high up in the power structure this man might be.

'Take a seat in the back row. Record a few things in this notebook. Make sure you're still here when the last student has left.'

The back row was empty. Anton sat down, perched the notebook he had been given on his knee, took out his gold Parker pen and listened as Seton-Charles began to lecture,

Seton-Charles was a natural orator, reminding Anton of newsreels he'd seen of Hitler. He started slowly, then worked himself up to a pitch of fanaticism, waving his arms. When he stopped the students applauded vigorously, then filed out. Anton pretended to make more notes until they were alone.

He stood up, approached Seton-Charles, who was gathering up his papers and stuffing them into a file. Again Anton mounted the dais. The Professor's hair was dishevelled from his oration and he was sweating profusely from his efforts and the heat.

'Yes?' he said without looking up.

Anton felt it was important to address this man respectfully. 'You are requested to catch Swissair flight 303 today to fly to Zurich. It departs at 5 p.m. Then tomorrow you fly on to London and return to Exmoor. That is the message.'

That means they have managed it,' Seton-Charles said, half to himself.

He looked up and stared at Anton as though photographing his appearance on his memory. Anton felt he dare not ask what they had managed, who they were.

'So you are not surprised, I shall be on the same flight,' he explained.

'I shan't even notice you. Hadn't you better go now? At once.. .'

Anton flushed at the tone of curt dismissal. Without another word he left the room. His feelings were a mixture of fury and fear.

In the lobby Newman watched Anton leave. He wished he could have followed him. But his task was to keep up the watch on Seton-Charles. Tweed had made that very clear.

Newman observed the quick short steps Anton took as he crossed the marble floor and left the hotel.

He lowered his eyes to his newspaper when out of the corner of his eye he saw movement. The dormouse-like man had folded his newspaper, shoved it inside his pocket and was also leaving. It looked very much as though he had Anton Gavalas under surveillance.

Outside the Hilton Anton climbed into a cab, slammed the door. Kalos ran to his Saab parked a few yards away and dived behind the wheel after unlocking the door with one deft movement.

He followed the taxi into the traffic, his bead-like little eyes gleaming with interest. The route was back along Sofias Avenue, past the British Embassy, and round Syntagma Square. The taxi returned to the opposite side of Sofias and Anton paid the driver, disappearing inside the Astir Palace Hotel. The same place where Kalos had followed Anton after his rendezvous at Papadedes.

Several days earlier Kalos had decided a piece was missing from his report. He had phoned the Astir Palace and obtained confirmation that Anton was registered at that hotel. He could hardly use a false name: he was too well known in Athens.

Since then Kalos had endured a long vigil patiently, Anton had stayed inside day and night – until this morning. Now a fresh link was established – of a sort. Anton had a connection with one of the students attending the seminars; maybe even with the crazy-looking Professor Seton-Charles. The latter seemed unlikely.

Parking his car, Kalos wandered into the vestibule of the modern-looking hotel, a black glass block which did not fit in with the more traditional surrounding architecture. He arrived in time to hear Anton giving the receptionist instructions in Greek,

'I shall want my bill ready immediately after lunch. Then you must arrange a car to get me to the airport by 3.30 p.m. The car must not be late.'

'Of course not, Mr Gavalas,' the receptionist assured him. 'I will deal with everything myself…'

He tailed off. His guest had walked away, was heading for the elevators. Kalos pursed his lips, wondering where Anton was flying to. Well, he would be there in good time to find that out.

In his room Anton called room service, ordered a large Scotch. The plane was leaving at 5 p.m. but he had deliberately arranged to arrive at the airport very early. The last thing he wanted was to bump into Seton-Charles.

Anton, a ruthless, hard man, had met some tough characters during his wanderings as a youth. But there was something about the Professor which disturbed him. The man reminded him of a cobra.

In the late afternoon Newman was driving a hired car towards the airport. He had seen Seton-Charles collect a travel folder from the reception desk in mid-morning. The Professor had returned to his room, reappearing for lunch. When he stepped out of the elevator he was carrying a case which he deposited with reception.

Newman had phoned Marler, phrasing his message carefully over the hotel phone. 'I'm tied up. Urgent business suddenly cropped up. Be with you this evening. Can you hang on there?'

'My pleasure…'

Arriving at the airport, Newman parked two vehicles behind the taxi Seton-Charles was travelling in. He stood behind him in the queue for checking in, heard the Professor being booked aboard Swissair flight 303 to Zurich, left the queue. Tweed must be informed at once.

Leaning against a wall, Kalos watched, took a quick picture of Newman. Earlier he had done the same thing when Anton arrived. Anton was flying to Zurich. Why? He waited until the queue had evaporated, approached the check-in girl.

'That Englishman with the thinning brown hair, rimless glasses. Where is he flying to?'

"I'm afraid we can't give out information…'

Kalos placed his police identity card in front of her, waited.

'Oh, I suppose that's different.' She hesitated, Kalos waited.

'He's a Professor Seton-Charles,' she said. 'First-class seat on Swissair flight 303. Departs 5 p.m., arrives Zurich 6.45 p.m.'

Thank you,' said Kalos.

He thought about what he had learned as he drove back to police headquarters. Anton had arrived three-quarters of an hour ahead of Seton-Charles. A trick. Kalos was certain the two men were collaborators: they had taken the precaution of not appearing to know each other. They'd sit in different sections of the plane to keep up the masquerade. But Anton had attended the Professor's seminar.

He tapped his fingers or, the wheel as he waited at a red traffic light. What the hell could he do now to find out where they had gone? Then he had an idea. Switzerland…

Arriving in his office, Kalos locked the door before he made the call to Berne, capital of Switzerland – and headquarters of the Federal Police. He was lucky. Arthur Beck, chief of the organization, was in his office.

Kalos spoke tersely, explained what had happened, gave details of the flight. He described both Anton and Seton-Charles. Could Beck help?

'Something to do with drugs?' Beck enquired, still speaking in English.

'Could be,' Kalos replied non-committally.

'I'll go myself,' Beck decided. 'Anything to help Peter Sarris. I have time to get a chopper from the local airport, Belp, fly to Kloten Airport outside Zurich. I'll be there to watch the passengers disembarking. Which is most important?'

'Anton,' Kalos said after a moment's thought. 'Maybe you will call me back. Sarris is up to his ears.'

'Consider it done,' Beck replied and broke the connection.

Kalos put down the phone. Sarris had no idea what he'd started, and Kalos had no intention of letting him know. If it all blew up in his face, Sarris could disclaim all knowledge of what his assistant had been up to. As he began to record the latest details in his secret file Kalos was worried. Had he been right to give Beck priority in watching Anton?