“That’s OK. Just so that somebody makes them stop and think.”
“I’ll go to the embassy now and use their radio.”
“Can you let me know the reaction when you get any?”
“Yes, of course.”
A senior British Minister with an American wife found reason to visit the Washington embassy and had ten minutes with Bobby Kennedy after a theatre party, and the ambassador himself said a few words to the President while delivering the British government’s top-secret report on the Soviet Union’s launching of its first manned space-rocket. Neither approach made any perceptible difference but Langley noted the attempts and were grateful.
4
“Sweetie” Dawson was 22. Just over six foot tall with wavy blond hair and freckles across his nose and cheeks. Athlete, ball-game player to a high standard, he had chosen the army rather than the scholarship to UCLA. He wasn’t intelligent but he was sensible in a slow easy-going sort of way and the army could give him almost the same athletic facilities as the university without the pretence of attending classes that would bore and confuse him. As a second lieutenant he was drawing 690 dollars a month plus some benefits like special training, free time for representing the army at sporting events and no great disciplinary pressures.
He met Debbie after her performance at an army camp just outside San Diego. He thought she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen and had been surprised when she accepted his invitation to the beach-hut he hired at La Jolla. When she seemed to take it for granted that she would spend the night with him he was overwhelmed. He had several regular girl-friends who slept with him from time to time when his training programme allowed such therapy. His sex-drive was normal but not excessive despite his opportunities, but his first night with Debbie he looked back on with embarrassment. He was sure that she must rate him as some kind of maniac.
He was sitting on the steps of the shack the next morning looking out across the ocean, trying to think what excuses he could offer when she woke. The fact that she was a foreigner made it even more difficult. “Sweetie” Dawson was a nice young man from a small town in Kansas and he wanted to do the right thing. And he had fallen for Debbie right from the start.
He turned to look as he heard her footsteps. She was wearing his towelling bath-robe and she was smiling as she settled down beside him on the steps. He waited for her to speak so that he could decide what to say.
“God I’m hungry, Sweetie. Where can we get a real good breakfast?”
Smiling with relief he said, “We’ll go into town to Joe’s Place.”
She looked at him, her eyes screwed up. “You look kind of uneasy. Are you overstepping your leave or something?”
“Will you see me next weekend, Debbie? Same as this weekend?”
“Sure I will. I’ll be here for another month yet. There’s no show next weekend so you can pick me up on the Friday afternoon about four at my place. OK?”
“That’s great. Real great.”
She was surprised when he visited her. It was early afternoon and when she answered the door bell he was standing there smiling. “Hello, Debbie. I was on my way through to San Francisco. I heard you were here. How are you?”
“I’m fine. Come on in.”
She poured them both a glass of wine and they sat in the armchairs with the slatted sunshine lying in bars of black and gold across the room, the voices from the parade ground faint in the distance. They went through the usual social chit-chat when he looked at her and said quietly, “I want you to be … Nancy Rawlins … Nancy Rawlins … close your eyes … good … deeper and deeper … nice and relaxed … eight … nine … ten … tell me your name.”
“Nancy Rawlins.”
“Are you relaxed and comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about your doctor.”
“Washington 547–9077. Ask for Joe Spellman.”
“Will you do something for me, Nancy?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to look at a photograph. This one.”
As he put the photograph on the coffee table between them she leaned over to look at it.
“Do you recognize the man?”
“Is it Cary Grant?”
“No it isn’t Cary Grant. I don’t know his real name but he is an evil man. Very evil. One of my friends was killed because of this man. I want you to point him out to some friends of mine. Just point at him and say—‘That is the man.’”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what you have to do when you see my friends.”
“When I see this man I say ‘That is the man.’ ”
“Very good. Now let me help you pack a case for the journey.”
As she came down the aircraft steps she had to shade her eyes against the mid-day sun and she was startled when someone touched her arm as she reached the tarmac. He was a handsome man in his fifties with black hair laced with grey, and an old-fashioned Victorian moustache.
“Kalimerasis thespinis Rawlins.”
Debbie smiled. “I don’t understand.”
The man smiled back at her. “Panayotis Synodinos at your service. Is this your first visit to Athens?”
She frowned and said, hesitantly, “I think so. Where are your friends?”
“I take you there. I got my car here.”
He took her arm, grasping it firmly, ignoring the terminal building and immigration controls. A uniformed policeman nodded as they passed and another was standing by the Ford Capri as if he had been guarding it.
As she settled into the passenger seat he started the car. They left the airport from a small gate on the perimeter road.
“Is no need to go into city for us.”
She smiled and shrugged. She saw a road sign but it was in Greek letters and she couldn’t understand it. Ten minutes later they were climbing a coast road that looked on to the sea and a cascade of rocks. There was a lot of traffic on the road
