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?
34
'Newman here, speaking on the Embassy phone. Can you hear me?'
'Very clearly, Bob,' Tweed assured him. 'What's happened?'
'Seton-Charles is on his way back to England. At least, I assume he is…' He gave an account of his recent discoveries, including the appearance of Anton.
'You're probably right,' Tweed agreed. 'He's a devious so-and-so. Remember how he tried to make sure he wasn't followed to London Airport on his way out. My guess is he'll catch another flight back here tomorrow. At least that means you only have to guard Christina. One of you can start poking around again. How are you and Marler getting on?'
'Like two long-lost brothers.' He nearly added, 'who hate the sight of each other,' but kept his mouth shut. 'First I'm going to have another talk with Christina about Anton. Do you really need both of us to stay on in this inferno?'
'Yes. If you can stand the heat.' Tweed paused. 'You see, when the right moment arrives I'm flying out there. I may need back-up. I must grill that scoundrel, Petros.'
'Be it on your own head. He's got armed shepherds patrolling the whole area.'
'We'll cope. Keep in touch…'
Tweed sat back and looked at Monica and Paula. 'One bit of good news. Anton still seems to be floating round Athens. I didn't like the idea of that Greek on the prowl over here. And Seton-Charles is probably on his way back to Exmoor. I sense things are hotting up. Monica, warn Butler at Porlock Weir about the Professor possibly returning. Maybe at long last we're getting somewhere.'
The grim news reached them the following day.
In her room at the Stafford Hotel Jill Kearns checked herself in the mirror. Her bedside clock registered 6.25 a.m. She eyed herself critically, fiddled with her single golden plait. That would have to do. And how many people would be about at this hour? Not the point, she thought: never appear in public except at your best.
She was wearing a form-fitting pale green sweater, a white pleated skirt and flat-heeled shoes. Just the outfit for her early morning walk before breakfast.
A girl of firm routines, she always walked on the moor every morning before breakfast. Always left the house at precisely 6.30 a.m. Stuart, for some unknown reason, found her routine irritating. 'Should be in the bloody Army,' he'd told her. He never accompanied her; at least he hadn't for the last few years.
She said 'Good morning' to the hall porter and went out of the hotel, turning left into St James's Place. No one else about, thank God. It was a fresh morning, was going to be one of those rare fine days with the sun shining and the warmth on your face.
Reaching the end of the deserted street, she came out into St James's Street. Again no one in sight. Only a Jaguar parked by the kerb a score of yards further down the street, facing her way, the engine ticking over. She took a deep breath and made for the pedestrian crossing.
She was half-way across it when she heard the Jag coming. It had started moving the moment she stepped off the pavement. She glanced to her right, then froze in horror. The car was driving straight at her.
She began to run, taking a diagonal course to cross the whole street. Glancing again over her shoulder as she reached a point just midway across where a side street opposite entered from St James's Square, she had a glimpse of the driver behind the tinted glass.
He wore a chauffeur's cap pulled well down over his head and a pair of tinted goggles like motorbike riders affected. She ran faster, thanking her lucky stars she was wearing her flat-heeled shoes. The Jag was turning now. corning at tremendous speed.
The radiator slammed into her, lifted her whole body and threw it against the railings of a basement area on the far side of the street. She twisted under the immense impact. Then her lifeless body lay sagged against the railings. Blood from her smashed jaw flowed down over her green sweater, spreading like a lake.
The Jaguar picked up more speed, vanished in the distance as it turned into St James's Square. Suddenly it was very quiet.
35
'You're not going to like this,' Monica, who had rushed into Tweed's office, paused for breath. In her hands she clutched a copy of the Evening Standard.
'You're back early from lunch,' said Tweed as Paula jerked her head up from the file she was studying.
'It's awful,' Monica went on, sinking into her seat. 'I know how you liked her.'
'What is it?' Tweed asked, very alert.
'It's in the stop press. A Mrs Stuart Kearns, staying at the Stafford Hotel, was killed by a hit-and-run driver early this morning.'
'Show me.' Tweed's tone was Weak. He read the item, looked at Monica. 'Let's get this in the right sequence. Which hotel did you track those three down to? Something like a theatre.'
'Barrymore, Kearns and Robson are staying at the Lyceum Hotel. A modest place just off the Strand, close to Trafalgar Square.'
'And it says here the so-called accident occurred in St James's Street. Not very far from the Lyceum. Phone up the place. I want to know if they're still there.'
He stood up, shoved his hands inside his jacket pockets, began pacing up and down close to the window, his brow furrowed.
'They've checked out,' Monica told him as she put down the phone. 'All three left mid-morning. No forwarding address.'
'Get Chief Superintendent Walton of Special Branch. Urgently.'
'Why did you say 'so-called accident'?' enquired Paula.
'Because I don't believe it. Jill Kearns had all her marbles. That newspaper item says it happened before seven in the morning. How much traffic is about at that hour?'
He broke off to take the call. That you, Bill? Tweed here.'
'You on scrambler? Good.' Walton's voice was its normal buoyant tone. 'Are you still forging my Special Branch identity cards in that Engine Room? I don't know why I let you get away with it.'
'You supplied the original model for copying,' Tweed reminded him. 'We agreed total secrecy could only be
