Nest of Spies Page 2

  ‘There’s trouble brewing,’ he said quietly.

  Mario swore. ‘This is the height of the summer,’ he grumbled. ‘It is too hot for trouble.’

  ‘Rassitz has left Turkey.’

  Mario swore again. He didn’t like Rassitz, but then he was a Greek and he didn’t like many Turks.

  ‘What else?’ he asked.

  ‘Does the name Lofer mean anything to you?’

  Mario shook his head.

  ‘Didn’t think it would,’ Fletcher muttered. ‘They want us to stir it up a little and see what comes to the surface.’

  Mario sighed.

  ‘I suppose that is what we are paid to do,’ he said. ‘When do we start?’

  ‘Straight away. The Tonos is in its usual berth at the north end of the harbour. Put your gear aboard and take the harbour area. I will go into Athens. We will meet on the boat.’

  ‘The afternoon is time for siesta, not work,’ Mario said thoughtfully, ‘and all my friends prefer it that way.’

  ‘In that case, Mario, you had better catch them before they leave the bars for their woman and their beds.’

  Mario grunted and sank his drink. He picked up his duffel bag and slipped silently out of the bar.

  Fletcher followed him, but before leaving he put Nico in the picture so that he could handle any callers.

  Fletcher and Mario had their own contacts and their own way of doing business. Mario’s contacts were in the underworld and vice gangs which gather around any seaport like wasps around a honey pot. Men who would perform any task and not ask questions, so long as they got paid.

  Fletcher’s contacts fell into two categories. Those who worked for him alone, and those who supplied information as a commodity in a competitive market. Nico fell into the first category. So did Toni, who operated a taxi in Athens, and Miguel, the hairdresser, whose shop was opposite the Government buildings, and Gina, secretary to Doctor Astoros, a member of the Greek cabinet. So also was Patriarch Father Peikos, and there were others.

  In the second category were a host of small syndicates which had mushroomed and flourished as the work of the spy had increased in intensity. They existed in the customs offices, in the shipping offices, the post office, the civil service and even the police. They made the work of the spy easier and his expense account greater.

  After leaving Nico’s bar, Fletcher quickly set the wheels in motion in Piraeus. He didn’t wait for results. He was prepared to buy and if there was a seller they knew where to contact him.

  From Piraeus he went by train into Athens, collected Toni at his stand outside the station, and started a quick tour of the capital which began at the airport, but which took him to many surprising and unusual places. As the afternoon wore on, however, it became obvious that the market was dead. If something big was being hatched it was still in the nest.

  Finally, as a last resort before leaving the capital, he decided to come out into the open and visit a man who operated at the same level as himself, Andros Zonakas.

  Zonakas was a Greek who ran an unofficial network for his Government, independent of Greek Security. Fletcher kept himself well informed of Zonakas’s movements, as he did also with Veti, the Communist. But whereas Veti was the opposition, Zonakas could be friend or foe dependent upon the play that was being made. Fletcher didn’t like the man, nor did he trust him, but on occasions it suited his purpose to do business with him. This was one of the occasions.

  Zonakas lived in a fashionable district on a wooded slope, several kilometres north of the city, in splendid isolation. But not so isolated for him not to have visitors. As they manipulated the sharp bend and entered the cul-de-sac of luxury apartments where he lived, a man came hurrying along the pavement towards them.

  ‘Kronos,’ Toni muttered from behind the steering-wheel.

  Fletcher sat up and looked at the man.

  ‘Dimitri Kronos?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  Fletcher had heard of him. He was one of the many small fish who swam with the sharks and fed on their leftovers. In stature, strangely enough, Kronos was also small, but he had a friendly face which was engulfed by a thick mass of jet black hair.

  ‘That’s interesting,’ Fletcher said thoughtfully.

  ‘He is certainly in a hurry,’ Toni added.

  Fletcher frowned. ‘I hope Zonakas hasn’t scurried away as well,’ he muttered.

  But Zonakas was receiving visitors, and Fletcher was ushered into the apartment by his servant. He was taken to a large room, decorated and furnished in garish colours. Zonakas was on his balcony, playfully caressing a bunch of grapes which hung from the vines he had cultivated. He had his back to Fletcher.

  ‘Bring a carafe of wine, Zeus,’ he said, without turning round. ‘You know Mister Fettos’s taste.’ He spoke in a deep cultured voice which had only a slightly artificial ring about it. He swung round and beamed at Fletcher. ‘There! I am right. It is you, Stefan. I must be psychic.’

  He was tall, like Fletcher, and also quite handsome, but his features had become soft with easy living. His mannerisms were slow, sophisticated and affected, and he had a conceited air about him which could cause irritation.

  He was smiling, benevolently, at Fletcher, displaying a beautiful array of pearl-white dentures.

  ‘Not psychic,’ Fletcher said, ‘observant. Your balcony overlooks the road from the plain. You must have seen me arrive in my taxi.’

  Zonakas looked hurt.

  ‘There you go again, Stefan, trying to deflate my ego.’

  He walked into the room and took off a smock he had been wearing to protect his expensive, colourful silk shirt from the grapes.

  ‘I saw Kronos as I arrived,’ Fletcher said casually.

  Zonakas looked surprised and then disinterested.

  ‘Small fry,’ he said. ‘He must have other contacts in the area. Ah! Here is the wine. I think you will like this, Stefan. It has been a good year. This comes from my vineyard on Tinos.’

  The boy filled the glasses and Fletcher admired the wine before referring back to Kronos.

  ‘So Kronos has not been to see you,’ he said.

  Zonakas shook his head.

  ‘No, not me,’ he said firmly.

  Fletcher didn’t believe him.

  ‘Everything is very quiet, then?’

  ‘So it should be Stefan. It is summer, it is too hot.’

  ‘But you are still in Athens, Andros, and that’s what worries me.’

  Zonakas laughed.

  ‘You flatter me, Stefan, but to ease your mind let me tell you that I am off to Switzerland next week.’

  ‘Why next week?’

  ‘Because it suits my arrangements.’

  Fletcher gave him a long, hard look.

  ‘Andros,’ he said quietly, ‘what is going on?’

  Zonakas looked surprised.

  ‘My dear, Stefan, why should anything be going on?’

  ‘Because there is a conference next month,’ Fletcher said evenly.

  ‘So?’ Zonakas asked. ‘My Government is supporting it.’

  ‘Look, Andros,’ Fletcher said with more feeling. ‘I am no fool. Ever since the days you stopped believing in your ancient gods, your Government has never sat down at a conference table without having gone to great lengths to bend things their way. If this is going on I want to know about it.’ He paused and then added: ‘And if anyone is weaving the web it will be you, Andros!’

  He didn’t expect a confession out of Zonakas, but he had hoped to get something out of his reactions. However, he was disappointed. Zonakas only smiled blandly.

  ‘My dear Stefan,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I like you. You pay me high compliments and you have noble intentions. I only wish we could do business as we have in the past, but,’ he shrugged, ‘I have nothing to sell and my holiday is approaching.’

  ‘Being a noble gentleman, Andros, I know you wouldn’t lie to me.’ There was only the slightest trace of cynicism in Fletcher’s voice. ‘Because
if I found out that you were stirring up trouble for my Government, I would finish you!’

  The sting in the tail was no idle threat. Spencer could bring the right pressure to bear in the proper quarters. They would find a replacement, but Zonakas wouldn’t enjoy his luxuries any longer.

  Zonakas flushed up momentarily.

  ‘For a man who poses as a Greek and whose background would not hold very close investigation by the authorities, you speak strong words,’ he said.

  ‘At least my background is legitimate,’ Fletcher replied.

  There was a short, delicate silence.

  ‘Now you are trying to hurt me,’ Zonakas said with forced lightness to ease the tension.

  Fletcher ignored his remark.

  ‘Are you sure you have nothing to tell me?’ he asked.

  ‘I wish I had, Stefan,’ Zonakas said regretfully. ‘I do not like to see you like this, especially when you are worrying unnecessarily.’

  Fletcher replaced his glass on the silver server.

  ‘I hope you are right, Andros,’ he said meaningly, and added casually: ‘Have you heard that Rassitz has left Turkey?’

  ‘I must confess I have,’ Zonakas replied.

  ‘And it doesn’t worry you?’

  ‘Not me,’ Zonakas said. ‘Perhaps my Government, but I am thinking only of my holidays.’

  ‘Well, enjoy yourself, Andros, and if you haven’t been telling me the truth I shouldn’t hurry back.’

  Zonakas smiled.

  ‘I will see you in a few weeks,’ he said. ‘We must have dinner together.’

  Fletcher walked to the entrance hall which adjoined the room in which they had been talking. The boy stood waiting for him, a white linen trilby in his hand.

  ‘Your hat, Mr Fettos,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t have a hat,’ Fletcher said, loud enough for Zonakas to hear. ‘Perhaps Mr Kronos left it!’

  He gave Zonakas one last look, saw the annoyance on his face, and left the apartment to rejoin Toni.

  It hadn’t been a wasted journey altogether, he thought, as they motored back to Piraeus. Kronos’ hasty departure suggested that Zonakas was not being so idle as he had tried to imply, and if he was doing something the British Government wouldn’t approve of he would now be having second thoughts. Zonakas had long since learned that Fletcher was not a man to be taken lightly.

  On reaching the harbour Fletcher went straight to Nico’s bar, but, as he had now come to anticipate, the information which had been channelled back to him was of little merit.

  But Fletcher was not finished yet. He had one more call to make before rejoining Mario, and that was to Father Peikos, Patriarch of the Byzantine church of Saint Peter in Piraeus. His friendship with the Patriarch was one which even Fletcher couldn’t fully explain. He had been introduced to the man by his father, and from their very first encounter the Patriarch had proved a very valuable friend. Their friendship was a secret which Fletcher guarded jealously.

  Inside the church he made his way to the altar and lit a candle. As a long-bearded priest walked slowly across the altar swinging incense about him, Fletcher sat patiently in a position of prayer and meditation. There were several other people in the church, and after performing his ceremony at the altar he took his place in one of the pews.

  Several minutes later, a small, portly patriarch entered the church from one of the side doors. He went first to the altar and then to a small dark alcove at the side of the church. Fletcher quietly left his pew and joined him. The two men sat opposite each other. The Patriarch’s face was hidden behind his fertile beard, but his eyes looked soft and friendly.

  Fletcher bowed his head, and the Patriarch mumbled a short blessing, moving his crucifix across Fletcher’s body.

  ‘Is something troubling you, my son?’ he asked. There was a slight trace of a foreign accent in his voice.

  ‘No, Father,’ Fletcher replied, ‘not me, but my friends are worried.’

  Fletched looked up at the Patriarch’s face, but got no encouragement. His eyes were closed.

  ‘Carry on,’ the Patriarch mumbled.

  ‘My friends are under the impression that there is a party being organised for a guest from the east, and they are not going to be invited to attend.’

  The Patriarch remained silent for a while.

  ‘I know of no such party,’ he said finally.

  ‘It is being kept very quiet,’ Fletcher sighed.

  ‘Have your friends any information at all?’

  ‘None,’ Fletcher replied. ‘Except the name of the guest.’

  ‘Who is he?’ the Patriarch asked.

  ‘Abdul Rassitz,’ Fletcher whispered.

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Yesterday, Dimitri Kronos came here to worship,’ the Patriarch said very quietly. ‘He was wearing an expensive suit. He put a lot of money into the poor box. It is not like him. Perhaps he can help you.’

  Fletcher gave a satisfied grunt. The Patriarch didn’t bandy names around lightly, and Kronos has been visiting Zonakas. It was a coincidence which deserved investigating.

  ‘Thank you,’ Fletcher said, ‘I will talk to him. If you hear of the party, I would like to know of it.’

  The Patriarch nodded his head.

  ‘It shall be,’ he muttered.

  Fletcher left soon afterwards. He had got his starting point — Dimitri Kronos! He hurried through the labyrinth of narrow streets to the North Pier where the Tonos was moored, eager to start the wheels in motion.

  Mario was already on board. He was lying on his bunk smoking a cigarillo. One look at his face and Fletcher knew he had drawn a blank.

  ‘Nothing, Mario?’ he said.

  Mario shook his head.

  ‘Not a bloody thing. How about you?’

  ‘Dead duck,’ Fletcher said, and paused. ‘What do you know about Dimitri Kronos?’

  Mario turned on his side to face him.

  ‘He does a bit of smuggling and gun running,’ he said. ‘Buys and sells information. Nothing big, but he gets by.’

  ‘Any particular allegiance?’ Fletcher asked.

  ‘No. He is not interested in politics. Greek, Arab, Turk — it is all the same to him. He works for whoever pays him.’

  ‘What about the Communists?’

  ‘If it suits his purpose. I tell you, Stefan, he is all right.’

  ‘Could you contact him?’

  Mario’s face lit up and he swung off his bunk.

  ‘You know something, Stefan?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘It may be nothing, Mario,’ Fletcher said, ‘but I saw Kronos this afternoon. He had been visiting Zonakas.’

  ‘So?’ Mario asked.

  ‘I am also told that he has been giving an unusual display of wealth recently.’

  Mario looked at him.

  ‘He couldn’t have got that from Zonakas,’ he said. ‘He pays very little.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Fletcher agreed. ‘Kronos obviously has some other source.’

  ‘And Zonakas?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mario. Perhaps Kronos is selling to him.’

  Mario growled. ‘In that case, the sooner we find out the better.’ He stamped out his cigarillo. ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.

  ‘Arrange a meeting with him. We can afford to spend a few drachmas.’

  ‘Tonight?’ Mario asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Fletcher said, ‘tonight.’ The sooner the better, he thought. He didn’t like this period of uncertainty. If something was going on he had to be in on it. Mario caught the urgency and left straight away.

  Fletcher followed him on deck, and sat by the wheelhouse watching the crowds which thronged the illuminated harbour front. It was a ritual for them. In the cool of the evening they appeared like ants from their hill, and it had been particularly hot that day.

  He was still sitting on deck when Mario returned. Mario hadn’t been able to contact Kronos personally, but had left a message for him to meet them later that evening in one o
f the bars that Kronos was known to use. Fletcher felt more relaxed. It was only a slim lead, but he knew Father Peikos well enough to suspect it had a deeper significance.

  Chapter Three

  The bar in which the meeting had been arranged was no different from any of the other bars which fronted the harbour and dockyards, but it was in a quarter which Fletcher and Mario rarely visited. It was a long, rectangular-shaped room, drably furnished with a functional bar counter at one end.

  When Fletcher and Mario arrived the dimly-lit room had acquired its customary haze of light blue smoke. As soon as they entered the room Fletcher had an uneasy feeling about the place. It was unusually quiet despite the presence of a number of dockyard layabouts. Kronos was not yet present.

  They sat at a corner table and ignored the hostile glances which came their way.

  ‘Not a very friendly crowd,’ Fletcher muttered.

  Mario shrugged. ‘This is not the Y.M.C.A.,’ he said.

  The bartender, a sullen looking Greek, came over to them and Mario ordered the drinks. Fletcher glanced at his watch. It was 10 p.m. The time they had arranged to meet Kronos.

  An uncanny silence hung over the room.

  ‘I don’t like it, Mario,’ Fletcher said finally. ‘We’ll give him another ten minutes.’

  Mario moved his chair so that he was in a position to watch the other occupants. He also had a feeling about the place.

  The bartender brought their drinks and they sat idly playing with the glasses. Fletcher was becoming restless. In their business, punctuality was one of the rules. He was on the verge of accepting that it had been a fruitless visit when a man appeared at the entrance door … but it was not Kronos.

  ‘I think we are about to have company,’ Mario said quietly.

  He was a tall, well-made man, in a crumpled, white linen suit. He wore a white straw trilby hat. He was looking in their direction. Fletcher saw him glance at the bartender who gave a quick nod of his head.

  ‘Police,’ Mario grunted.

  The man came over to them. He grabbed a chair, swung it around, and sat facing them with his arms resting on the chair back.

  ‘You want something?’ Mario growled.

  The man ignored the question. He had a bulging pocket where he kept his armoury. His face looked hard and he reeked of garlic.