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Authors: James Barrington
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asked.
Richter took his time, studying both photographs with exaggerated care. They weren’t bad either, bearing in mind the circumstances in which they had been taken. Each showed two men
standing inside a house, illuminated by the light of a small chandelier and framed by a tall window, apparently talking to each other. Because the pictures had been shot from a distance, and
through the window glass, the images naturally weren’t as clear as if taken in the open air.
In both of them, the man on the right-hand side was in profile. In the first shot, the other man was also in profile, but in the second photograph he appeared full-face, apparently staring
straight into the lens of the camera. Richter had no doubt, absolutely no doubt at all, that this was Lomas, but he shook his head.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It’s very like him, but I really need to see him in the flesh. Photographs can be deceiving.’
Perini looked disappointed. ‘We had hoped you could provide us with a positive identification just from these pictures,’ he said.
Richter shook his head again. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t be completely certain. It could be Lomas, but to be absolutely sure I’ll have to see him face-to-face.’
Simpson eyed Richter with deep suspicion. ‘Remember what I said, Richter,’ he snapped, ‘not sliced or diced.’ Richter put down the photographs and looked back at him
without expression.
‘I’m sorry?’ Perini said, with a puzzled frown, as he looked from one man to the other.
‘Nothing,’ Simpson replied, still staring at his subordinate. ‘Can you arrange for Richter to see this man?’
Perini was silent for a few moments, then replied slowly. ‘We were going to arrest him tomorrow afternoon,’ he said, some doubt in his voice. ‘I suppose Mr Richter could
accompany our team, purely as an observer, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Richter echoed. ‘But what are you going to arrest him for?’
Perini smiled slightly. ‘We hadn’t decided,’ he said. ‘If you had positively identified him, it would have been for murder, acting on behalf of the British Government. As
you haven’t, we’ll probably start with charging him for using a false passport or maybe illegal entry into Italy, and see what happens after that.’
Kandíra, south-west Crete
Spiros Aristides staggered slightly as he walked through the bar doorway and out into the cool of the night. It was nearly midnight, and he knew he’d drunk far more
of the cheap Scotch than he should have. He would no doubt suffer for it tomorrow, but tonight he would certainly sleep soundly.
Nico put a steadying hand out to the older man, but Spiros shrugged it off. Side by side they each retraced their separate steps back from the bar through the narrow streets until they reached
the Greek’s tiny house, where Spiros fumbled for a moment with the door handle.
‘You’ll take a last glass with me?’ he inquired. Nico nodded and followed him inside.
‘That was all I found,’ Spiros gestured towards the still-open steel case lying on the dusty floor. Nico walked across and picked it up. He opened and closed it several times, and
looked closely at the shaped and padded recesses designed to hold the flasks.
‘This is a very expensive item,’ he murmured. ‘This case was custom-made for some very special purpose, I think.’
‘Can you sell it?’ Spiros demanded somewhat hoarsely as he walked into the kitchen, returning with an open bottle of beer. He put the beer down on the table, sank into a chair and
filled a glass with Scotch.
‘No,’ Nico replied firmly, sitting down and picking up the beer, ‘or not easily, anyway. It’s too specialized in purpose, and in any case it’s been in the water for
too long.’
He studied the objects on the table with interest, picked up first the red-covered file, flicked through it, then put it down. Unlike his uncle, Nico spoke a little English – it was always
useful in dealing
Richter took his time, studying both photographs with exaggerated care. They weren’t bad either, bearing in mind the circumstances in which they had been taken. Each showed two men
standing inside a house, illuminated by the light of a small chandelier and framed by a tall window, apparently talking to each other. Because the pictures had been shot from a distance, and
through the window glass, the images naturally weren’t as clear as if taken in the open air.
In both of them, the man on the right-hand side was in profile. In the first shot, the other man was also in profile, but in the second photograph he appeared full-face, apparently staring
straight into the lens of the camera. Richter had no doubt, absolutely no doubt at all, that this was Lomas, but he shook his head.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It’s very like him, but I really need to see him in the flesh. Photographs can be deceiving.’
Perini looked disappointed. ‘We had hoped you could provide us with a positive identification just from these pictures,’ he said.
Richter shook his head again. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t be completely certain. It could be Lomas, but to be absolutely sure I’ll have to see him face-to-face.’
Simpson eyed Richter with deep suspicion. ‘Remember what I said, Richter,’ he snapped, ‘not sliced or diced.’ Richter put down the photographs and looked back at him
without expression.
‘I’m sorry?’ Perini said, with a puzzled frown, as he looked from one man to the other.
‘Nothing,’ Simpson replied, still staring at his subordinate. ‘Can you arrange for Richter to see this man?’
Perini was silent for a few moments, then replied slowly. ‘We were going to arrest him tomorrow afternoon,’ he said, some doubt in his voice. ‘I suppose Mr Richter could
accompany our team, purely as an observer, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Richter echoed. ‘But what are you going to arrest him for?’
Perini smiled slightly. ‘We hadn’t decided,’ he said. ‘If you had positively identified him, it would have been for murder, acting on behalf of the British Government. As
you haven’t, we’ll probably start with charging him for using a false passport or maybe illegal entry into Italy, and see what happens after that.’
Kandíra, south-west Crete
Spiros Aristides staggered slightly as he walked through the bar doorway and out into the cool of the night. It was nearly midnight, and he knew he’d drunk far more
of the cheap Scotch than he should have. He would no doubt suffer for it tomorrow, but tonight he would certainly sleep soundly.
Nico put a steadying hand out to the older man, but Spiros shrugged it off. Side by side they each retraced their separate steps back from the bar through the narrow streets until they reached
the Greek’s tiny house, where Spiros fumbled for a moment with the door handle.
‘You’ll take a last glass with me?’ he inquired. Nico nodded and followed him inside.
‘That was all I found,’ Spiros gestured towards the still-open steel case lying on the dusty floor. Nico walked across and picked it up. He opened and closed it several times, and
looked closely at the shaped and padded recesses designed to hold the flasks.
‘This is a very expensive item,’ he murmured. ‘This case was custom-made for some very special purpose, I think.’
‘Can you sell it?’ Spiros demanded somewhat hoarsely as he walked into the kitchen, returning with an open bottle of beer. He put the beer down on the table, sank into a chair and
filled a glass with Scotch.
‘No,’ Nico replied firmly, sitting down and picking up the beer, ‘or not easily, anyway. It’s too specialized in purpose, and in any case it’s been in the water for
too long.’
He studied the objects on the table with interest, picked up first the red-covered file, flicked through it, then put it down. Unlike his uncle, Nico spoke a little English – it was always
useful in dealing
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