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.
