country and—’
‘Christ, Dad!’ shouted Norman. ‘I’m asking you to save the life of a twenty-year-old girl who’s risking death just because she was trying to make her country a better place, and you’re giving me this diplomatic crap!’ He got up abruptly, toppling over his chair: ‘Fine, just forget about it. I’ll take care of everything myself.’
He turned to leave, but his father stood between him and the door. ‘Don’t be an idiot. Pick up that chair and sit down. I’ll see what I can do. Give me a few minutes.’
He dialled an internal extension and exchanged a few words with a colleague in another office. He picked up his notepad from the table and left the room. Norman started pacing back and forth in the small space.
His relationship with his father had been cold for some time, if not downright hostile. He hadn’t wanted to ask him for help; he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was in trouble. But now that he’d spoken to him, he was sorry he hadn’t done so right away. Everything would have been resolved by now. He should have thought of it himself, dammit. Both Claudio and Michel knew about the situation and would never have dared to ask him to contact his father. God damn it. Lord knew what kind of trouble Michel was in, or if Heleni would pull through. How stupid he’d been. What an idiot. All this bullshit about independence. If he was going to run home crying like a kid, at least he should have done it straight away.
It was no use blaming himself now; what was important was getting things accomplished quickly. Every minute was important.
His father came back into the room, smiling: ‘Where are your friends? We’ve got a car ready to go; they’ll be safe in less than an hour.’
His voice trembled: ‘Dad, I don’t know how . . . my Italian friend lives in a one-room apartment in the Plaka, thirty-two Aristomenis Street, second floor; there’s a little external staircase. I could go with the driver.’
‘Absolutely not. We’ll send an operative who’s done things like this in the past. But he has to work alone. I’m sure you understand why.’
‘Yes, of course I do. But please hurry.’
‘Thirty-two Aristomenis Street, you said?’
‘That’s it.’
‘I’ll go and give him instructions.’ He started down the hall.
‘Dad?’
‘Yes?’
‘Thanks.’
Norman returned to the office and went to the window. He saw his father go into the courtyard, say something to the driver of a car waiting with its engine running. The car shot off immediately, headed towards the Plaka. There was so much traffic, it would take time . . . time . . .
‘T HIRTY-TWO A RISTOMENIS S TREET . They got here by cab and are in the second-floor apartment. She’s with a young man. They’ve been there for about half an hour.’
The astynomia officer picked up the microphone: ‘This is Captain Karamanlis. Can you see if the apartment has a phone line?’
‘No, no phone. The apartment is isolated.’
‘Are you sure they didn’t meet anyone before going to the apartment?’
‘Absolutely. The taxi brought them here directly without a stop. The only person they spoke to was a friend of theirs who walked them down from the doctor’s office.’
‘And where is he now?’
‘He left on foot, but he’s being followed by Roussos and Karagheorghis, car number twenty-six.’
‘All right. Don’t move an inch and don’t lose sight of them. I’m holding you responsible.’
‘Got you.’ The policeman turned off the radio and lit a cigarette. The window at second-floor level was still closed and there were no signs of life. He couldn’t figure out why he was tailing these two kids. They sure seemed innocent enough. His partner at the steering wheel leaned back, pulling his cap over his eyes.
The radio crackled to life again a few minutes later: ‘Captain Karamanlis here, are you listening?’
‘Yes, Captain. Go ahead.’
‘Proceed to arrest them,
‘Christ, Dad!’ shouted Norman. ‘I’m asking you to save the life of a twenty-year-old girl who’s risking death just because she was trying to make her country a better place, and you’re giving me this diplomatic crap!’ He got up abruptly, toppling over his chair: ‘Fine, just forget about it. I’ll take care of everything myself.’
He turned to leave, but his father stood between him and the door. ‘Don’t be an idiot. Pick up that chair and sit down. I’ll see what I can do. Give me a few minutes.’
He dialled an internal extension and exchanged a few words with a colleague in another office. He picked up his notepad from the table and left the room. Norman started pacing back and forth in the small space.
His relationship with his father had been cold for some time, if not downright hostile. He hadn’t wanted to ask him for help; he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was in trouble. But now that he’d spoken to him, he was sorry he hadn’t done so right away. Everything would have been resolved by now. He should have thought of it himself, dammit. Both Claudio and Michel knew about the situation and would never have dared to ask him to contact his father. God damn it. Lord knew what kind of trouble Michel was in, or if Heleni would pull through. How stupid he’d been. What an idiot. All this bullshit about independence. If he was going to run home crying like a kid, at least he should have done it straight away.
It was no use blaming himself now; what was important was getting things accomplished quickly. Every minute was important.
His father came back into the room, smiling: ‘Where are your friends? We’ve got a car ready to go; they’ll be safe in less than an hour.’
His voice trembled: ‘Dad, I don’t know how . . . my Italian friend lives in a one-room apartment in the Plaka, thirty-two Aristomenis Street, second floor; there’s a little external staircase. I could go with the driver.’
‘Absolutely not. We’ll send an operative who’s done things like this in the past. But he has to work alone. I’m sure you understand why.’
‘Yes, of course I do. But please hurry.’
‘Thirty-two Aristomenis Street, you said?’
‘That’s it.’
‘I’ll go and give him instructions.’ He started down the hall.
‘Dad?’
‘Yes?’
‘Thanks.’
Norman returned to the office and went to the window. He saw his father go into the courtyard, say something to the driver of a car waiting with its engine running. The car shot off immediately, headed towards the Plaka. There was so much traffic, it would take time . . . time . . .
‘T HIRTY-TWO A RISTOMENIS S TREET . They got here by cab and are in the second-floor apartment. She’s with a young man. They’ve been there for about half an hour.’
The astynomia officer picked up the microphone: ‘This is Captain Karamanlis. Can you see if the apartment has a phone line?’
‘No, no phone. The apartment is isolated.’
‘Are you sure they didn’t meet anyone before going to the apartment?’
‘Absolutely. The taxi brought them here directly without a stop. The only person they spoke to was a friend of theirs who walked them down from the doctor’s office.’
‘And where is he now?’
‘He left on foot, but he’s being followed by Roussos and Karagheorghis, car number twenty-six.’
‘All right. Don’t move an inch and don’t lose sight of them. I’m holding you responsible.’
‘Got you.’ The policeman turned off the radio and lit a cigarette. The window at second-floor level was still closed and there were no signs of life. He couldn’t figure out why he was tailing these two kids. They sure seemed innocent enough. His partner at the steering wheel leaned back, pulling his cap over his eyes.
The radio crackled to life again a few minutes later: ‘Captain Karamanlis here, are you listening?’
‘Yes, Captain. Go ahead.’
‘Proceed to arrest them,
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