'Another hot day coming up,' Nick commented. 'So we all sweat again. Grande Bretagne?'
'You can sweat,' Newman said. 'I'm going to sleep.'
They approached Syntagma Square along Sofias Avenue, a street which Newman remembered ran straight from the Hilton to the square. They would visit the Hilton later.
Nick was stopped by red lights at the entrance to Syntagma and Newman leaned forward, staring through the windscreen. Nick nodded.
'It is the same car…'
'With the same registration number…'
The black Mercedes with amber-tinted windows was parked across the street from the main entrance to the Grande Bretagne. Behind the tinted glass Newman could see two men sitting in front, two more in the rear seats. Nick parked at the foot of the steps leading up to the hotel. Newman got out slowly, stood upright, stared at the car.
One of the front windows lowered slowly, moved by automatic control. A head leaned forward, looking direct across the street at Newman. He stood quite still, hands in his jacket pockets.
In real life he looked even more like an Old Testament prophet than in the photo Sarris had showed him. Aged and ageless. The curved beak of the cruel nose. The eyes intense beneath the bushy brows, the craggy forehead. Their eyes clashed over the width of the street. Newman sensed a look of pure hatred, venomous. The window closed slowly, shutting out the gaze of Petros Gavalas. The black Mercedes slid away from the kerb and was gone.
8
Petros Gavalas sat beside the driver, his grandson, in silence as the Mercedes headed down Syngrou Avenue. A very big man, he had pushed his seat back to its fullest extent to give comfortable leg room – so far back that the henchman sitting behind him had cramped knees. As they approached the point where the avenue forked, he spoke in his gravelly voice. 'Dimitrios, take the turn-off to Piraeus.' 'I thought we were returning to the farm…' 'Later. I have phone calls to make from the apartment at Zea. You are a fool,' he continued. 'I told you to shoot the driver of their car – to discourage Greeks from helping the English. You missed.'
'But we did not miss with Giorgos,' Dimitrios replied as he turned down the right fork. He chuckled unpleasantly. 'That one had his fill of wine forever.'
People should not ask for more money than has been agreed. And he was a Greek. He should have known better. He knows now.'
'We are going to kill those two Englishmen?' Dimitrios asked.
'Not yet, cretin.' Petros shifted his bulk: the heat was making him irritable. 'I have already given orders. They will be followed night and day. Let us first see what they are up to. They had better not come near the farm. And they would be most unwise to start asking questions about Andreas. I trust for their sakes they do not go anywhere near Siros.'
'Does it matter? If they do go to Siros?'
It was the wrong thing to say. Petros hit Dimitrios on the arm. He almost swerved off the road. Petros swore at him, turned to glare at his grandson.
'Any English who goes near Siros could be involved in the great betrayal over forty years ago on Siros. Someone will pay for that. With his life…'
Marler ran a bath as soon as he entered his room. He stripped off, donned a robe, waited for the bath to fill. He ached in every limb. They'd sat him in a hard-backed chair for the interrogation. Standard procedure…
The gentle tapping on the outer locked door startled him. All his mental alarm bells began ringing. He picked up the ebony-backed hairbrush he always packed, held it in his right hand. He opened the door suddenly, leaning against the side wall.
A woman stood in the opening, a woman with a mane of dark glossy hair, a woman in her early forties, a woman clad in tight denims emphasizing her long slim legs and a white blouse unbuttoned at the neck, which exposed the upper half of her full firm breasts. Christina Gavalas.
'Aren't you going to invite me in, Mr Marler?' she enquired with a slow smile. 'People may talk if they see us standing here together.'
'All right, come in. If you must.'
'Such a warm welcome,' she commented as he closed and locked the door. 'I thought it was time we talked.' She eyed the bed. 'I am a little tired. I don't mind where we talk.'
That makes two of us.'
Marler stood with his hands on his hips, his mind racing as she unlooped her shoulder bag, dropped it on the dressing table. She reached for the hairbrush he was holding. 'May I? I look a mess.'
She stood in front of the mirror, brushing her hair vigorously, watching him in the mirror. Putting the brush down, she turned, put her arms round his shoulders, clasped her hands behind his neck and kissed him on the mouth, pressing her strong body into his.
'To what do I owe this honour?' Marler enquired as she pulled her head away from his, still grasping his neck. He watched her greenish eyes, his expression bleak and showing no excitement. She arched her thick eyebrows, half-closed her eyes, presenting to him her open front. Marler remained still, without reacting. Let her make the running. Her right hand slid inside his robe, felt his naked chest, moved down.
'I took a fancy to you when I saw you at Zea. I thought that you'd taken a fancy to me. You did wave.'
Her English was perfect. Her technique for rousing a man was good. The roving hand took its time. She gave him her slow smile again. Then she removed the hand, used it to take off her earrings, tossing them on to the dressing table.
'We won't be needing those, will we?'
'If you say so.'
'The cool calm Englishman. I love them…'
Standing away from him, still facing him, she undid her blouse, threw it on the floor. She wore nothing underneath it. She watched for the effect she was creating as she undid her denims, slid them down her legs, threw them on top of the blouse. She kicked off her flat-heeled shoes, shoes fit for running in, for moving around with the least possible noise, Marler noted. He raised both hands, palms towards her, rested them on her bare shoulders and threw her back on the bed. Dropping his robe, he followed her, lying on top of her as she giggled and wriggled.
'My name is Christina,' she said ten minutes later as they lay side by side.
'Christina What?'
Marler lit a cigarette he didn't really want, stared at the ceiling as she pressed against him, the black mane spread over the pillow.
'Does it matter? Tell me something about the man I have just made love with.'
'I am training to be a newspaper reporter. I was in insurance before. Bored the hell out of me.'
'And what story are you working on at the moment?' She snuggled closer, her hand splayed on his flat hard stomach.
This and that.' He leaned on his elbow, stared down at her and his expression was grim. 'I like to know who I've played with. Christina What?' he repeated.
'Does it matter?' She pouted.
He jumped off the bed, told her to stand up. Puzzled, she got to her feet. She faced him, then gave the same slow smile.
'What is your relationship with Petros?' he demanded. 'Did he send you?'
'Petros? If I am going to be cross-questioned I can get that at police headquarters like you…'
She stooped to reach for her clothes. Marler grasped her by her strong pointed chin, stood her erect. 'I answered your question, now you answer mine.'
'I am going…'
Marler raised his right hand and hit her hard across the side of her face with the fiat of his hand. She reeled under the blow, fell back on the bed. Her eyes blazed. He saw now they were black with greenish flecks. She leapt
