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 you’d 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 he’s broken his wrist.’
‘Wednesday?’ Mikali said automatically. ‘That only gives me three days.’
‘Come on, you’ve 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. I’d no idea you were due in Paris.’
Mikali explained the circumstances. ‘Naturally they’ll get a few quick adverts out in the Paris papers to let the fans know it’s me and not Hoffer who’ll be playing, but I thought I’d like to make sure you knew here at the Embassy.’
‘I can’t thank you enough. The Ambassador would have been furious if he’d missed it. Let me get you a drink.’
‘I’ll be happy to arrange tickets,’ Mikali told him. ‘For the Ambassador and anyone else he cares to bring. Didn’t 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. ‘I’ll 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 o’clock 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 day’s 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.’
‘I’m 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 can’t 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 grandfather’s unfortunate death. It must have come as a terrible shock. To have returned to the concert platform so soon after…I can only say, your courage fills me with admiration.’
‘It’s 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 you’d 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, didn’t 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. He’s not doing more than forty.’
‘That doesn’t make sense,’ Jarrot said as he drove off. ‘Not in a heap like that.’
‘It’s 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,’
