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.
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.