Pol shook his head: ‘I don’t want them to know I suspect them. It’s better they think I’m still at the hotel — at least until tonight.’
‘But why are they after you?’
‘They want to make sure I don’t leave Athens.’
‘Why?’
Pol looked at them both: ‘You haven’t heard the news?’
‘No.’
‘There’s been another military revolt in the Protectorate.’
Neil sat back and said, ‘My God! When?’
‘Early this morning. The reports are still coming in. It’s all very confused, but it looks as though the Secret Army has taken over the whole centre of the capital and dug themselves in behind barricades. The airport’s been closed and all the frontiers are sealed off. Nobody really knows what’s happening yet. Broussard arrived sometime yesterday and is behind the barricades with General Guérin.’
The waiter returned with dishes of shellfish in an oily grey sauce, shish-kebab on wooden skewers, a lot of dry white cheese and glasses of pale beer with a head like seafoam.
‘From what I can gather,’ Pol went on, ‘two regiments of paratroopers were supposed to move into the capital at dawn this morning to reinforce the security troops. Then at the last moment they went over and joined Guérin. They’ve seized all the administrative buildings and the university. Most of the paras and the Foreign Legion units are now with them behind the barricades. And the Army, of course, sits on its arse and does nothing — each half waiting to see what the other will do.’
‘And what are you going to do?’ said Neil.
‘Go over there.’
‘But how?’
‘By sea.’ Pol took a gulp of his muddy-brown drink and grinned: ‘And you and Monsieur Van Loon are coming with me — tonight.’
‘Huh!’ cried Van Loon.
‘I’ve only a small boat and I need a sailor. The crossing will take two days and two nights.’ He turned to Van Loon, whose eyes burned with a fierce blue light. ‘Can you get us across?’
The Dutchman smacked the table with his huge hand: ‘Bloody hell, I get you five times round the world if you want!’
Pol leant over and patted him affectionately under the ear, then turned to Neil: ‘The boat belongs to an old friend of mine, Monsieur Biaggi, who lives in the King George most of the summer. He knows all about it, I’ve been prepared for this to happen for some time. You’ll go to the French Consulate first and collect your visas and military permits. Ask for a man called Molyneux, he’s very discreet. I’ve already warned him by phone that you’re coming.’
‘You think of everything,’ said Neil, with a grain of sarcasm. Perhaps it was the man’s appearance, but he still found it difficult to take Pol quite seriously.
‘Then go back to the King George,’ Pol went on, ‘and get the boat’s logbook and harbour permits from Monsieur Biaggi. Suite 24. I’ve phoned him too and he’s expecting you. He’s very rich,’ he added. ‘No problems. I’ve told him we’re going down to Crete with some female company for a long weekend — doing a bit of archaeological research!’ He let out his peal of laughter, and Van Loon laughed with him.
Neil said earnestly: ‘So he doesn’t know we’re going to Africa?’
Pol gave a grand gesture: ‘Ah, Monsieur Biaggi is very broadminded. He comes from Marseilles — we’ve known each other since the old Vichy days.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s now ten past three. I want to be out of Athens by sunset. I shall wait here, and expect you both back not later than six.’
‘What about your luggage?’ said Neil.
Pol produced from inside his jacket the proverbial toothbrush, plus a tin of Max Factor talcum powder. ‘I travel light,’ he said, holding up the tin, ‘a necessary luxury. One sweats so much in this climate. I could borrow your razor, perhaps?’ he added.
Neil nodded, then just as he was leaving, he pointed down at Pol’s glass: ‘By the way, what is that stuff you’re drinking?’
‘This, my dear Ingleby,’ said Pol, lifting the muddy glass to the sunlight, ‘is Hellenic Excelsior Scotch!’
They left him shaking with quiet laughter.
CHAPTER 4
The door was unlocked. A voice called from the darkened bedroom: ‘Who are you? Sit down.’ Heavy curtains were drawn against the afternoon sun. Monsieur Biaggi lay on the bed in his underpants, propped up on a heap of pillows. Neil could just make out a brown body running to fat, its chest and legs fledged with black hairs like seaweed.
He stepped in and said, ‘I’ve come from Charles Pol. I’m Monsieur Ingleby.’
‘Ah, you’re the Englishman!’ A hand groped out and switched on the bedside light: ‘So Charles is off to Crete at last, is he? The old dog!’ Monsieur Biaggi gave Neil a tired grin and poured himself a glass of Vichy water from the side table. He had a ruined face, creased like an old glove. ‘Is she pretty?’ he added.
‘Who?’
‘Charles’ girl. He told me he’d found a girl to take to Crete.’
‘Oh yes. Not bad.’
‘Ah! He’s been looking round for that girl for weeks. I hope she treats him well.’ He took a sip of water and closed his eyes. ‘I’m sick,’ he added, ‘are you a sailor, Monsieur Ingleby?’
‘No,’ said Neil, ‘but we’ve got a sailor with us.’
‘Ah!’ Monsieur Biaggi nodded, eyes still closed. ‘You want the ship’s papers? They’re on the desk.’ He flapped a hand in the direction of the window. The documents and the ignition key were in a greaseproof envelope marked ‘Serafina’. Neil checked through them to make sure they were in order.
‘I want her back after the weekend,’ Monsieur Biaggi murmured, ‘I’ve got a couple of girls I’m taking over to Naxos on Monday.’ He opened his bloodshot eyes and smiled with a row of
