‘Yes, I was wondering if all of it was sent, or whether there might be some spare footage left over?’
Jennifer shook her head. ‘No, there isn’t, Nicky. We passed everything to New York.’
‘I see.’
‘Are you sure I can’t be of help? You look worried.’
Nicky forced a laugh. ‘I’m not. Only curious, actually. And maybe you can help after all.’ As she spoke, Nicky opened her handbag and took out the three photographs; she handed only two of them to Jennifer. ‘The man in these pictures was caught on that news footage, just a face in the crowd. I had the frame frozen at the network and these pictures taken of him, because—’
‘Why? Is he important or something?’ Jennifer cut in.
‘In a way, but only to me, Jennifer. About a year ago, in New York, I was working on a piece. This man was one of the key figures involved,’ Nicky said in a cool voice, having worked out a suitable story in advance. ‘Then he disappeared, and I’ve not been able to pull the special together without him. I’ve been wanting to contact him ever since. To interview him. Seemingly he’s living in Rome. I thought Tony might know him, that he might be a local character, one who mixes with the international crowd. I was hoping Tony might suggest a few places I could look for him. Bars, restaurants.’
Jennifer had listened carefully, and now she glanced down at the photographs she was holding. She shook her head after a few seconds, and handed them back. ‘No, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him around. But—’ She paused, looking thoughtful, then shook her head. ‘No, I don’t know him.’
‘But what?’ Nicky pressed. ‘You were about to say something.’
‘I thought, for a minute, that he looked slightly familiar, but no… No, I can’t place him.’
Putting the photographs back in her handbag, Nicky smiled at her and said, ‘A pity. Well, never mind.’
The two of them walked through into the outer office, and Nicky headed for the door, realizing there was no point hanging around the Rome bureau. ‘Tell Tony I’ll call him later, and thanks, Jennifer.’
‘Sorry I couldn’t be of more help. Bye, Nicky.’
Nicky went down the corridor to the elevator, pressed the button and stood waiting. The elevator arrived, and she was about to step inside when she heard her name being called. Turning, she saw Jennifer rushing down the corridor towards her.
‘I’m glad I caught you!’ Tony’s secretary cried as she came to a halt. ‘I’ve just realized why that man’s face seemed a bit familiar to me. Could I look at the photographs once again please, Nicky?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Nicky said, her heart skipping a beat as she opened her purse and took out the pictures.
Jennifer peered at the larger one which Dave had taken, and nodded her head. ‘I’m pretty sure this guy was on the same plane as me last Thursday.’
‘A plane to where?’ Nicky asked.
‘Athens. I went there for the weekend. This guy was standing next to me at the carousel, waiting for the baggage. He helped me get my bag off.’ She passed the pictures back to Nicky.
‘Are you sure it was the same man?’ Nicky’s voice was suddenly lower, very quiet.
‘Yes. He was very polite. Gentlemanly. And he had a beautiful voice.’
Nicky looked at her swiftly and, hardly daring to breathe, asked, ‘What nationality was he, Jennifer?’
‘English. He was an Englishman.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
That afternoon Nicky flew from Rome to Athens.
The flight time was only an hour and a half, and around five o’clock the plane landed at Ellinikon Airport. As soon as she had cleared customs, Nicky found a porter to help her with her luggage, and within minutes they were standing outside in the suffocating heat, waiting in line for a taxi.
The drive into Athens did not take long, just half an hour, but by the time she arrived at the Hotel Grande Bretagne in Syntagma Square Nicky felt like a wet rag. The cab had not been very well air-conditioned, and August was the hottest month in Greece.
Her suite overlooked the Acropolis, and it was large and roomy. To her immense relief, the air-conditioning was turned on at full blast when she walked in, and she soon felt cooler. After taking a few clothes out of her hanging bag, Nicky showered, redid her makeup, brushed her hair and then dressed in a pair of white cotton pants, a pale-blue cotton shirt and flat white sandals. Her aim was to be as cool and comfortable as possible. Slinging her white leather handbag over her shoulder, she left the suite and took the elevator down to the lobby.
Walking over to the reception desk, she leaned against the polished wood and smiled at the two dark-suited young men standing behind it. They both returned her smile, flashing two sets of perfect teeth which looked very white in their tanned Mediterranean faces.
‘I’m Nicky Wells of the American Television Network in New York,’ she said, focusing on the smaller of the two young men, who was closest to her.
‘Yes, miss, I know. I am Costa Theopopoulos, and this is my colleague, Aristotle Gavros. How may we be of assistance?’ he asked politely.
Nicky gave a little nod of acknowledgement, and said, ‘I’m trying to locate someone, a friend, and I’m not sure whether he’s staying here or not.’ Opening her bag she took out the photograph of Charles which had been taken by the studio technician, since this was the best one. She showed it to the young man.
After studying it for a few seconds, Costa looked her right in the eye and shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen this gentleman before.’ Glancing at his colleague, he asked, ‘Have you, Aristotle?’ and handed him the photograph.
Whilst the other desk clerk eyed the picture, Costa said, ‘What is this man’s name, miss?’
‘Charles Devereaux,’ Nicky replied. However, knowing full well that Charles would not be using his own name, she added, ‘But Mr Devereaux frequently travels incognito, and so he may well be registered under a different name… that’s the reason I showed you the photograph of him.’
‘Oh,’ Costa said and stared at her in the oddest way. ‘Why would he do such a thing?’
Nicky had her story ready, and she said pleasantly, ‘Mr Devereaux is a famous writer. Very, very famous, actually, and he seeks anonymity much of the time. Hence the various names he hides behind.’
‘And what would they be?’ Costa asked.
‘Smith is one of them. Charles Smith,’ Nicky invented. ‘Another one is Charles Dixon.’
Costa had been writing the names down on a pad as she spoke, and lifting his head he said, ‘I will look at the register,’ and then he stepped away.
The other desk clerk, Aristotle, came to her and handed her the photograph. ‘I have seen this man,’ he said quietly, ‘or someone like him.’
Nicky gave him a swift glance, and exclaimed, ‘So I was right! I was fairly certain my friend would be staying here.’
Aristotle shook his head. ‘I bumped into a man who looked like this when he was entering GB Corner last Saturday. I do not believe he was a guest in the hotel.’
‘What’s GB Corner?’ Nicky asked.
‘It is a restaurant for light meals and snacks to the right, off the hotel lobby,’ he explained.
At this moment Costa walked over to them. He said, ‘None of the names you gave me are listed in our hotel register, miss. I am sorry.’
‘Thanks anyway. Aristotle says he saw my friend going into GB Corner last Saturday. They bumped into each other. Did you happen to see him, by any chance?’
Costa said, ‘I was not here. It was my day off.’
Nicky shrugged her shoulders lightly. ‘I see. Well, anyway, I do have another question—regarding hotels. Aside from this one and the Hilton, what are the names of the other big hotels in Athens?’
‘There aren’t any,’ Aristotle said, suddenly taking charge as Costa sidled away. ‘There are many small hotels of course, but—’ It was his turn to give a shrug. ‘I doubt this gentleman would stay in any of them. But there are some beautiful hotels
out at Vouliagmeni. You could try those.’
‘Where is Vouliagmeni?’
‘Oh, not so far away. Only about forty-five minutes by car,’ Aristotle told her.
‘Perhaps you could arrange a car and driver for me, for tomorrow,’ Nicky said. ‘I think I’d better go out there.’
‘What time would you like to leave?’
‘Mid morning, I think.’
‘That is wise, miss. It will not be too hot then.’ Aristotle smiled, pulled a note pad towards him and began writing.
Nicky leaned against the desk and plied him with questions about Vouliagmeni.
So engrossed was she in her discussion with Aristotle she did not notice Costa. He had retreated to the small office behind the front desk, and was busy dialling a number, looking almost furtive as he did. After a brief moment of waiting, he muttered rapidly into the receiver. His expression was anxious, and as he spoke he did not take his eyes off Nicky.
Aristotle handed her the piece of paper. ‘This is the name of my brother-in-law, miss. He is a good driver. Careful. He speaks English. I will arrange for him to be here at ten o’clock tomorrow.’
‘Thank you very much, you’ve been most helpful.’
He leaned closer and murmured, ‘His price is fair, and much less than some of the other drivers would charge.’
She smiled at Aristotle, then looked around for Costa, spotted him on the phone in the office and raised her hand in a half wave. ‘Thank Costa for me,’ she said to Aristotle.
‘I will, miss.’
Next, Nicky found her way to GB Corner opening off the lobby, and went inside. She spoke to one of the waiters before showing him the picture. The waiter shook his head, but went off with the photograph, quite obviously trying to be of help. This he passed around amongst the other waiters. When he returned to Nicky a few minutes later he said in a most regretful voice, ‘Cannot help, miss. We have not seen this man. If he was here on Saturday no one noticed him. No one. Sorry.’
***
She took a cab to the Hilton Hotel and went through the same routine all over again, asking questions of the three clerks at the reception desk, and the cashier, and showing them the picture of Charles.
It was exactly the same story once more. No one had seen this man, and none of the names she mentioned showed up on the hotel register. Of course not. She had not expected them to be there. Asking the desk clerks to check was just a ploy, one she hoped would help to give her story the absolute ring of truth. It would seem odd, to say the least, to be looking for a friend if you didn’t know his name. And the men on desk duty always asked his name.
As she left the Athens Hilton, Nicky’s sense of frustration was now so enormous she almost went back to her hotel in disgust, and then she suddenly changed her mind and took a cab to Plaka.
This was the oldest part of Athens, full of quaint little streets, shops, bars, restaurants and cafés. She strolled through the narrow streets for an hour or so, alertly looking around, keeping her eyes peeled as her father had taught her to do when she was a child. She knew only too well that life was full of strange coincidences and flukes; there was always the odd chance she might just spot Charles sitting outside at one of the open-air cafés or restaurants.
Plaka was crowded, jammed with tourists, as it usually was in August, and Nicky soon grew weary of being pushed and jostled; also, it was unbearably hot tonight. And so in the end she gave up her search. Deep down, she was beginning to admit to herself that it was futile, a waste of time, looking for Charles in the streets like this. Finally, she took a cab back to the Hotel Grande Bretagne, deciding she might as well be in comfort, if nothing else.
***
Once she had cooled off in her air-conditioned suite, she went to the phone, dialled room service and ordered grilled fish, fresh fruit and a bottle of carbonated water for dinner. Then she strolled over to the window, where she parted the curtains and stood looking out at the Acropolis on the hill.
This evening the Parthenon was dramatically illuminated, as it usually was in summer, and the ancient ruins looked extremely impressive, even heart-stopping, incredibly beautiful thrown into relief as they were against the darkening night sky.
She suddenly realized that a performance of Light and Sound was in progress right at this very moment. The lights were constantly changing as a story of ancient Greece was being narrated to the audience seated on the hill opposite the Acropolis. For a moment Nicky was transported back in time; she remembered attending such a performance with her mother and father years ago, and it was something she had found very moving and touching. It had held her in its grip, so that she had never really forgotten it.
Her knowledge of Greece was limited to what her father, that inveterate traveller, had told her. These were mostly things about Greek mythology; she had also garnered some knowledge from the wonderfully vivid novels of Mary Renault. She had read her last book, Fire from Heaven, in 1969, at the age of sixteen, and had been unable to put it down. This had been another of the writer’s classical novels about ancient Greece, and she wished, all of a sudden, that she had one of the Renault books with her right now. She suspected it was more than likely that she would have another sleepless night.
***
The driver’s name was Panayotis. He was a cheerful young man with a deferential manner, a fairly decent command of English, and a brilliant smile that seemed to be permanently pasted on his face.
He picked her up at the hotel promptly at ten o’clock the following morning, and she was delighted to see the relatively new-looking Mercedes, even more delighted to discover it had an efficient air-conditioning system. It was already steaming hot in the streets, and the cool interior of the car was welcome.
‘Aristotle tell me you want to go out to Vouliagmeni, to see the Astir Palace Hotels,’ Panayotis said as he pulled out of Syntagma Square.
‘Yes, I do. He said there were three altogether.’
‘It is… how do you say… a complex. Yes. There are the hotels, bungalows. Very nice place. Very beautiful. Forty-five minutes we get there. Okay? You comfortable, miss?’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ Nicky leaned back against the soft leather and placed her handbag on the seat next to her.
‘You like music, miss?’ Panayotis asked, half glancing over his shoulder. ‘You like I put on radio?’
‘Why not,’ she said, not really caring either way. Turning her head, she looked out of the window, and asked herself if she had been foolish to come to Athens. Yesterday had been a genuine waste of her time, and although Aristotle had said he had recognized Charles, had seen him going into the snack restaurant, what did that mean in the long run? Athens was a big city, just as Rome was, and, if she were honest with herself, she had to acknowledge that she really had very little chance of finding Charles, even if he were here.
Perhaps she should have done what Arch had suggested and gone to Paris. Instead, she had been determinedly stubborn, hell-bent on doing her own thing, following her own instincts. So she had rushed here just because of Jennifer Allen’s story. But for what? And what was her ultimate goal if she found Charles? She wasn’t too sure about anything anymore, and she sighed heavily. Seemingly she was unable to let go of the idea that Charles Devereaux was alive. At least, she wasn’t ready to just yet. I’m like a terrier with a bone, worrying it to death, she thought, and sighed again.
As they approached Vouliagmeni, Nicky realized that it was a resort area. There was a marina with yachts; a long, curving road led up to the top of high cliffs where the hotels were located at intervals. The area was actually a large and rather beautifully laid-out compound, with the three hotels built at varying levels on the sides of the cliffs. The bungalows were situated to one side of the hotel which stood on the lowest level; there were various restaurants, a tennis court, swimming pools and beaches.
The setting was quite extraordinary, breathtaking really, perched high above the Mediterranean. Homer’s wine-dark sea, Nicky thought, glanc
ing out of the car window. This morning it was intensely, brilliantly blue, glittering like a sheet of glass under the golden sun, and the reflection it threw off was almost blinding. She blinked rapidly and averted her eyes.
Panayotis finally brought the Mercedes to a standstill in front of the hotel which was located on the highest point of the cliffs.
‘I wait over there,’ he said through his huge smile, and took a piece of paper out of his trouser pocket. ‘From my brother-in-law, Aristotle. Ask for this man.’
‘Thank you,’ Nicky said, looking down at the piece of paper she was holding. It was a short note from Aristotle. He had written: Demosthenes Zoulakis is Assistant Manager. He is friend of my father. He will help if he can. A.G.
Within moments of asking for him at the reception desk in the hotel, Mr Zoulakis was grasping her hand in his, smiling broadly, and telling her in impeccable English that Aristotle had telephoned to explain everything.
‘Would you please show me the photograph of the friend you are seeking, Miss Wells,’ he said, taking out a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and slipping them on.
‘Yes, of course, right away,’ Nicky said, and reached into her bag for the famous picture.
Mr Zoulakis took it from her, studied it intently, frowned slightly, looked at it more closely, then shook his head. ‘This man was never a guest at any of the hotels. I always make a point of knowing everyone, and I have a good memory for faces.’
‘But you were frowning, and you looked as though you did know him,’ Nicky pointed out, having carefully observed the man’s initial reaction.
‘Yes, that is so, Miss Wells. For a split second he seemed familiar, but that is all. It is possible that I saw him briefly in one of the restaurants or in one of the other hotels. Perhaps I got a glimpse of him at the pool, or on the beach. However, if I did see him, it was fleeting.’ He smiled at her, and ushered her across the lobby. ‘But come along, Miss Wells, we will visit the hotels on the lower levels, and talk to the staff. Maybe they will have some information.’