like that cretin, Dimitrios, did. Which is more important?' he pressed on. 'Tracking down Christina or tracking down the killer of your sons? I could be in England in a few days. This time I will be more aggressive.'
The word 'aggressive' decided Petros. He liked the sound of that. It appealed to his temperament. It was how he went about problems.
'Very well,' he said, 'When will you leave? You have plenty of clothes?'
'Probably tomorrow. And 1 packed a case before I came to Athens. In any case, I have money. Keep Dimitrios and Constantine down there for two days, then kick their asses, send them, tell them they can't come back until they've found her.'
Splendid, Petros thought. Anton was becoming more like himself every day. Very aggressive.
'You can use the special route to England you mentioned?'
'Absolutely.' Anton was standing up now, his voice vibrant with confidence. 'Don't worry if I'm away for a while. This time the job must be done…'
Anton put down the phone, realized he was sweating profusely. It wasn't the heat – although the room felt like an oven. He had managed to persuade Petros, the old fool, to agree. Now he was ready to carry out the orders Volkov had passed to him.
Anton was pleased so much responsibility had been heaped on him. It augured well for the future. He saw a top Cabinet post in a Greek Communist government in his grasp. Who knew? Maybe one day he would be Prime Minister.
Extracting a Swissair timetable from his case, he sat down, checked flight times. Flight SR 303 left Athens at 5 p.m., arrived at Zurich 6.45 p.m., local time. He needed a late flight: there was some more work to do before he left Athens in the morning. He turned the pages.
From Zurich another non-stop flight, SR 690, departed Zurich at 12.10 p.m., reaching Lisbon in Portugal at 1.55 p.m. Again local times. That meant spending only one night in Zurich. He always stayed at top hotels: with Suck he'd find some willing married woman on her own to spend the night with.
Anton was careful with women. The married ones, away from their husbands and out for a fling, were safest. No comebacks. No risk of some annoying entanglement. He checked the dates in his diary. His memory had served him well.
The freighter, Oporto, was not due to sail for several days. Then it would leave Portugal with its holds full of cork, bound for the Somerset port of Watchet. Later it would return with a load of wastepaper.
Plenty of time to get in touch with the skipper, Gomez, To warn him this time there would be a special cargo as well as himself. And to call Jupiter at the agreed time to have someone ready for the rendezvous at sea. The phone number, he felt sure, was a public phone booth. Most important of all, time for him to contact the arms dealer in Lisbon, to collect from him the special weapons which would go aboard the Oporto.
Anton called room service. 'Send me up a double Scotch. No ice. No lemon. Plus a bottle of mineral water.'
He sat down, tired from the concentration. Now the only remaining task was to contact Professor Seton- Charles at his seminar at the Hilton in the morning. He'd go along as a student. Pass on the instruction Volkov had given him for the Professor,
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.
