Youre right, Jarrot said, drinking. Oh, I played my part. Here, take a look.
He removed a rug from a wooden chest in the corner, fumbled for a key and unlocked it with difficulty. Inside there was a considerable assortment of weapons. Several machine pistols, an assortment of handguns and grenades.
Ive had this stuff here four years, he said. Four years, but the networks busted. Weve had it. A man has to make out other ways these days.
The garage?
Jarrot placed a finger against his nose. Come on, Ill show you. This damn bottles empty anyway.
He unlocked a door at the rear of the garage and disclosed a room piled with cartons and packing cases of every description. He opened one and extracted another bottle of Napoleon brandy.
Told you there was more. He waved an arm. More of everything here. Any kind of booze you want. Cigarettes, canned food. Be cleared out by the end of the week.
Where does it all come from? Mikali asked.
You might say off the back of a passing truck. Jarrot laughed drunkenly. No questions, no pack drill as we used to say in the Legion. Just remember this, mon ami. Anything you ever need anything. Just come to old Claude. Ive got connections. I can get you anything, and thats a promise. Not only because youre an old bel-Abbès hand. If it hadnt been for you, the fellagha would probably have cut my balls off, amongst other things, that time.
He was very drunk by now and Mikali humoured him, slapping him on the shoulder. Ill remember that.
Jarrot pulled the cork with his teeth. To the Legion, he said. The most exclusive club in the world.
He drank from the bottle and passed it across.
He was on tour in Japan when he received news of his grandfathers death. The old man, increasingly infirm with advancing years and arthritic in one hip, had needed sticks to walk for some time. He had lost his balance on the tiled floor of the balcony of the apartment and fallen to the street below.
Mikali cancelled what concerts he could and flew home, but it was a week before he got to Athens. In his absence, the coroner had ordered the funeral to take place, cremation according to Dimitri Mikalis wishes as conveyed in a letter of instructions to his lawyer.
Mikali fled to Hydra as he had done before, to the villa on the peninsula beyond Molos. He crossed from Athens to Hydra port on the hydrofoil and found Constantine waiting to pick him up in the launch. When he went on board, the old man handed him an envelope without a word, started the engines and took the boat out of harbour.
Mikali recognized his grandfathers writing at once. His fingers shook slightly as he opened the envelope. The contents were brief.
If you read this it means I am dead. Sooner later, it comes to us all. So, no sad songs. No more of my stupid politics to bore you with either because, in the end, the end is perhaps always the same. I know only one thing with total certainty. You have lightened the last years of my life with pride and with joy, but most of all with your love. I leave you mine and my blessing with it.
Mikalis eyes burned, he experienced difficulty in breathing. When they reached the villa, he changed into climbing boots and rough clothes and took to the mountains, walking for hours, reducing himself to a state of total exhaustion.
He spent the night in a deserted farmhouse and could not sleep. The following day, he continued to climb, spending another night like the first.
On the third day, he staggered back to the villa where he was put to bed by Constantine and his wife. The old woman gave him some herbal potion. He slept for twenty hours and awakened calm and in control of himself again. It was enough. He phoned through to Fischer in London, and told him he wanted to get back to work.
At the flat in Upper Grosvenor Street there was a mountain of mail waiting. He skimmed through quickly and paused. There was one with a Greek postage stamp marked Personal. It had been sent to his agent and readdressed. He put the other letters down and opened it. The message was typed on a plain sheet of paper. No address. No name.
Dimitri Mikalis death was not an accident it was murder. The circumstances are as follows. For some time, he had been under pressure from certain sections of the government because of his activities for the Democratic Front. Various freedom-loving Greeks had together compiled a dossier for presenting to the United Nations including details of political prisoners held without trial, atrocities of every description, torture and murder. It was believed that Dimitri Mikali knew the whereabouts of this dossier. On the evening of the 16 June, he was visited at his apartment by Colonel George Vassilikos who bears special responsibility for the work of the political branch of Military Intelligence, together with his bodyguards Sergeant Andreas Aleko and Sergeant Nikos Petrakis. In an effort to make Mikali disclose the whereabouts of the dossier he was beaten severely and burned about the face and the private parts of his body with cigarette lighters. When he finally died because of this treatment, Vassilikos ordered his body to be thrown from the balcony to make the death look like an accident. The coroner was under orders to produce the report he did and never actually saw the body which was cremated so that the signs of ill-treatment and torture would be erased. Both, Sergeants Aleko and Petrakis have boasted of these facts while drunk, in the hearing of several people friendly to our cause.
The rage in Mikali was a living thing. The physical pain which gripped his body was like nothing he had ever known in his life before. He doubled over in spasm, fell to his knees, then curled up in a foetal position.
How long he stayed there, he had no means of knowing, but certainly towards evening, he found himself wandering through one street after another as darkness fell, with no idea where he was. Finally, he went into a small, cheap café, ordered a coffee and sat down at one of the stained tables. It was like the echo of an old tune, the café in Paris by the market all over again for someone had left a copy of the London Times. He picked it up, his eyes roaming over the news items mechanically. Then he stiffened as he saw a small headline half-way down the second page.
Greek Army Delegation visits Paris for Nato consultations.
In his heart, he knew whose name he was going to find even before he read the rest of the news item.
After that, the whole thing fell into place with total certainty, as if it were a sign from God himself, when the phone rang. It was Bruno Fischer.
John? I was hoping youd arrived. I can get you two immediate concerts, Wednesday and Friday, if you want them. Hoffer was due to play the Schumann A minor with the London Symphony. Unfortunately hes broken his wrist.
Wednesday? Mikali said automatically. That only gives me three days.
Come on, youve recorded the damn thing twice. One rehearsal should be enough. You could be a sensation.
Where? Mikali asked. The Festival Hall?
Good God, no. Paris, Johnny. I know it means climbing right back into another aeroplane, but do you mind?
No, John Mikali said calmly. Paris will be fine.
The military coup which seized power in Greece in the early hours of 27 April 1967 had been expertly planned by only a handful of colonels in total secrecy which to a great extent explained its success. Newspaper coverage in the days which followed had been extensive. Mikali spent the afternoon before his evening flight to Paris at the British Museum, checking through every available newspaper and magazine published in the period following the coup.
It was not as difficult as it might have been, mainly because it was photos only that he was after. He found two. One was in Time magazine and showed Colonel George Vassilikos, a tall, handsome man of forty-five with a heavy, black moustache, standing beside Colonel Papadopoulos, the man who was, to all intents and purposes, dictator of Greece.
The second photo was in a periodical published by Greek exiles in London. It showed Vassilikos flanked by his two sergeants. The caption underneath read: The butcher and his henchmen. Mikali removed the page carefully and left.
He called at the Greek Embassy when he reached Paris the following morning, and was received with delight by the cultural attaché, Doctor Melos.
My dear Mikali, what a pleasure. Id no idea you were due in Paris.
Mikali explained the circumstances. Naturally theyll get a few quick adverts out in the Paris papers to let the fans know its me and not Hoffer wholl be playing, but I thought Id like to make sure you knew here at the Embassy.
I cant thank you enough. The Ambassador would have been furious if hed missed it. Let me get you a drink.
Ill be happy to arrange tickets, Mikali told him. For the Ambassador and anyone else he cares to bring. Didnt I read somewhere that you have some brass staying here from Athens?
Melos made a face as he brought him a glass of sherry. Not exactly culture-orientated. Colonel Vassilikos, Intelligence, which is a polite way of saying
I can imagine, Mikali said.
Melos glanced at his watch. Ill show you.
He moved to the window. A black Mercedes stood in the courtyard, a chauffeur beside it. A moment later, Colonel Vassilikos came down the steps from the main entrance, flanked by Sergeants Aleko and Petrakis. Aleko got in front with the chauffeur, Petrakis and the Colonel in the rear. As the Mercedes moved away, Mikali memorized the number although the car was recognizable enough because of the Greek pennant on the front.
Ten oclock on the dot, Melos said. Exactly the same when he was here the other month. If his bowels are as regular, he must be a healthy man. Out to the military academy at St Cyr for the days work, through the Bois de Meudon and Versailles. He likes the scenery that way, so the chauffeur tells me.
No time for play? Mikali said. He sounds a dull dog.
Im told he likes boys, but that could be hearsay. One thing is certain. Music figures very low on his list of priorities.
Mikali smiled. Well, you cant win them all. But you and the Ambassador, perhaps?
Melos went down to the front entrance with him. I was desolated to hear of your grandfathers unfortunate death. It must have come as a terrible shock. To have returned to the concert platform so soon afterI can only say, your courage fills me with admiration.
Its quite simple, Mikali said. He was the most remarkable man I ever knew.
And immensely proud of you?
Of course. Not to continue now, if only for his sake, would be the greatest betrayal imaginable. You could say this Paris trip is my way of lighting a candle to his memory.
He turned and went down the steps to his hire car.
He had a rehearsal with the London Symphony that afternoon. The conductor was on top form and he and Mikali clicked into place with each other immediately. However, he did ask for a further rehearsal the following afternoon between two and four as the concert was at seven-thirty in the evening. Mikali agreed.
At five-thirty that evening, he waited in an old Citroën in a lay-by on the Versailles road not far from the palace itself. Jarrot was at the wheel.
If youd only tell me what this is all about? he grumbled.
Later. Mikali offered him a cigarette. You said if I ever wanted anything to come to you, didnt you?
Yes, but
At that moment the black Mercedes with the Greek pennant cruised by and Mikali said urgently, Get after that car. No need to rush. Hes not doing more than forty.
That doesnt make sense, Jarrot said as he drove off. Not in a heap like that.
Its simple really, Mikali said. The Colonel likes the scenery.
The Colonel?
Just shut up and keep driving.
The Mercedes took the road across the Bois de Meudon, the park at that time in the evening quiet and deserted. It started to draw away. At that moment, a motorcyclist swept past them at speed, flashers going, a sinister figure in crash helmet and goggles and dark, caped coat, a submachine-carbine slung across his back.
He disappeared down the road passing the Mercedes. Bastard, Jarrot spat out of the window. Theres been a lot of these CRS swine riding around on those flash motorbikes recently. I thought they were only supposed to be riot police.
Mikali smiled softly, lit another cigarette. You can slow down. I know how to do it now.
Do what, for Christs sake?
So Mikali told him. The Citroën swerved violently as Jarrot braked hard and pulled it in to the side of the road.
Youre crazy. You must be. Youll never get away with it.
Oh, yes, I will with your help. You can supply me with everything I need.
Like hell I will. Listen, you madman, a voice on the phone is all the Sûreté would need.
What a fat, stupid man you are, Mikali said calmly. Im John Mikali. I play in Rome, London, Paris, New York. Does it make any kind of sense that I could be contemplating such a crazy idea? Why would I do such a thing? My grandfather fell to his death from that balcony by accident. The court said so.
No! Jarrot said wildly.
Whereas you, old stick, are not only a cheap crook, as became painfully clear when you showed me all that loot at your garage that night. You were also heavily involved with the OAS.
No one can prove that, Jarrot said wildly.
Oh, yes they can. Just your name and even a hint of an OAS connection and its Service Five, isnt that what they call the strong-arm squad the barbouzes? Half of them old mates of yours from Algiers, so you know what to expect. Theyll spread you on the table, wire up your privates, then press the switch. Youll be telling them everything down to the finest detail within half an hour, only they wont believe you. Theyll keep on, just to see if theyve got it all. In the end youll be dead or a drooling idiot.
All right, Jarrot groaned. Dont go on. Ill do it.
But of course. You see, Claude, all you have to do is live right. Now lets get out of here.
He wound down the window and let the evening air cool his face. He hadnt felt so truly alive in years, every nerve in him strung to perfect tune. It was like that last final moment in the wings before walking out into the light towards the piano and then the applause rising, lifting in great waves
It was just after six oclock on the following evening as Paros, the Embassy chauffeur at the wheel of the Mercedes, turned, Versailles on his left, and entered the Bois de Meudon. Sergeant Aleko sat beside him. Petrakis was in the back on the occasional seat, facing Colonel Vassilikos who was studying a file. The glass panel was closed.
It had rained heavily all afternoon and the park was deserted. Paros was taking his time as usual and became aware, in the rapidly falling dusk, of lights close behind him. A CRS man in dark uniform raincoat and helmet pulled alongside and waved him down. With the collar turned up against the rain, the dark goggles, Paros could see nothing of his face at all.