Neil sat up and sighed. ‘Go on to Kalidon Street,’ he told the driver, who was beginning to look puzzled. They crossed the intersection and headed down towards the meat-markets huddled under the Acropolis. It was 5.50. Neil calculated that if all went well they could be out at sea by half past seven.
Van Loon gave a shout and grabbed Neil’s arm. The driver turned his head in surprise and they missed a cyclist by less than an inch, the rider wobbling away, shaking his fist. The Renault was coming up behind them again, its little Gordini engine whining like an angry insect.
Neil rammed his fist into his palm and swore. They were back now in narrow crowded streets where speed was impossible. Neil was trying to think hard, feeling the wet ridge of sweat round his collar. Whatever happened they must not lead the Renault to the Olympic Café. He told the driver to stop again. They could get out and try to slip away on foot; or telephone Pol and arrange to meet him later at the Piraeus.
They were outside a pastry shop in a crooked, sloping street. A moment later the Renault drove past. They watched it go on down the street for about fifty yards, then stop. Nobody got out. An old man with white stubble was hobbling towards them, following his shadow along the wall. The gramophone in the Chrysler switched itself off; and the two cars stood in the narrow street and nothing happened.
‘You wanna stop or go on?’ said the driver, shifting uneasily, as though he expected to be hit over the head.
Neil looked at his watch: it was three minutes to six.
‘You wanna go on to Kalidon Street?’ asked the driver.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Neil. Still nobody had moved inside the French car. The old man with the white stubble shuffled past them. Suddenly Van Loon seized the door handle and jumped out. ‘I’m going to see what they bloody want!’ he cried, and before Neil could stop him he was striding down the street towards the Renault. Neil was about to follow, when the driver caught him by the sleeve: ‘You wanna go on?’
‘You wait here,’ said Neil, ‘you’ve got our luggage. Just wait!’ The driver sucked at a knuckle and nodded. Neil got out and hurried after Van Loon, who had reached the Renault.
The steel-grey man had the window rolled down and was listening with a tight nasty look on his face, while Van Loon shouted in his ugly French: ‘You come from the hotel! You follow us here! What are you doing here? Huh?’
The man muttered something to his companion with the black crewcut, who shrugged and went on staring ahead.
Neil came up. He looked awkwardly at the Frenchman and said, ‘Good afternoon!’
The man said nothing.
‘We met back at the King George,’ said Neil.
Van Loon yelled, ‘You follow us here, don’t you!’
The man did not look at Van Loon. He said to Neil, in a measured voice, ‘You are quite sure, Monsieur, that you do not know where the man Pol is?’
Neil edged Van Loon aside and bent down till his face was a few inches from the Frenchman’s.
‘I’ve already told you I don’t know where he is. Nor do I know why you have been following us here. But if you’re not on your way within thirty seconds I’ll call the police.’
The man stared at him, quite expressionless. Neil straightened up and said to Van Loon. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here!’ As they were walking away, the Dutchman turned and shouted into the car, ‘Vive Guérin!’ and blew a raspberry through the window.
The Frenchman reacted as though he had been struck. He leapt out and slammed the door, standing in front of Van Loon with a little nerve tugging at the edge of his mouth: ‘Monsieur, be careful. Be very careful. We don’t like those sort of jokes.’
Neil took Van Loon’s arm and muttered, ‘Come on, let’s get out of here!’
Van Loon grinned: ‘Oh, to hell with these people! Stupid white kaffirs!’
The Frenchman stood rigid for a moment, then turned and got back into the Renault. The car shot away down the street.
‘You’re a damned fool!’ said Neil, as they walked back to the taxi.
‘To hell with them! They were following us, weren’t they?’
‘That’s not the point. You’ve now told them we know they’re members of the Secret Army. For Christ’s sake, these people aren’t fooling around!’
Van Loon shrugged and got into the Chrysler: ‘O.K., they have gone now.’
‘They may be back,’ said Neil. He told the driver to go on to the end of the street, then return to Omonious Square. But there was no sign now of the Renault. They headed back towards Kalidon Street. Neil paid the taxi off at the corner and they walked the last hundred yards to the Olympic Café.
Pol was sitting just as they had left him, smoking a cheroot and drawing wet rings on the marble table with another glass of Excelsior Scotch. When he saw them he raised both arms with a roar of welcome, splashing whisky on to the floor. ‘You’re six minutes late!’ he cried.
Neil sat down and told him about the Renault. Pol chuckled: ‘Ah, that’s old Jadot! Former paratroop captain who served under Broussard in Indo-China. He disappeared after the coup last year. I thought he’d turn up sooner or later.’
‘Is he dangerous?’
Pol chuckled again, his eyes beginning to look a little glazed: ‘Captain Jadot, my dear Ingleby, has the
