by Colin Forbes
'And now he's linked Petros with it – whatever 'it' may be.'
'So I simply must confront Petros – interrogate him -sooner or later.' He caught Monica's dubious glance and looked away. 'I have something else to do urgently. Monica, try and get Jill at Brown's for me. She could be in great danger.'
'Why?' asked Paula.
'She always stays at Brown's – you just told me. They'll know that on Exmoor and I've just heard all three ex-commandos have disappeared. That they may have come to London…'
He broke off as Monica signalled she had Jill on the line. He took a deep breath and began talking. She must pack at once, book a room at the Stafford Hotel in St James's Place, pay her bill and take a taxi there. Yes, tonight. At once. He put the phone down and sighed with relief.
'Thank God for a woman who does what you ask without questions.'
'Proves what I said earlier,' Paula remarked and winked at Tweed.
He turned to Monica. 'Could you play back that recorded talk I had on the phone from Minehead with Butler? Paula, listen carefully to what he says.'
Paula rested her elbow on her desk, cupped her chin in her hand, concentrated. Butler's cool voice came through loud and clear. As the tape ended Tweed asked his question. 'Anything strike you as interesting – bearing in mind that jumble of clues Masterson sent me in a cigar box from Athens?'
'Nothing. I must be thick. And I'm tired and hungry. So what did I miss?'
'Probably nothing, as you said. It was a wisp of an idea I had. I wanted to see if it hit you in the same way. And I'm taking you out to dinner. Monica has stuffed herself with sandwiches – fortunately.'
'Wild exaggeration,' Monica protested. 'But I have eaten. And why 'fortunately'?'
'Because I want to locate Barrymore, Robson and Kearns. May, Robson's sister, let slip he'd gone to London. Start phoning hotels. Those three will be together.'
'What makes you so sure?' Paula asked. 'Before I pop along to the bathroom to fix my face. I feel a wreck.'
'Because those three have stuck together for years -trapped by the past and their fear it may come back. They're haunted men.'
The two murders forty years ago? You think they were all involved?'
'I doubt that,' Tweed replied. 'Put yourself in their places. I suspect two out of three are wondering which of them committed the murders. I also suspect the guilty man is cleverly manipulating the other two. Listen again sometime to the tape recorded by Nield at The Luttrel Arms. Now, hurry up – I have a raging appetite too!'
He went on talking as he put on his Burberry after Paula had gone to the washroom.
'We'll wait a week or two longer before I fly to Greece – wait and see if anything breaks. Newman and Marler will be pretty active out there. Their rooting around may provoke someone to make a false move, to surface. There's something going on we've missed. I sense it.'
Take-off time coming,' Monica observed. 'Your usual method. First gathering all the data – which can take ages. Suddenly it will be all action. I'm starting already. What kind of hotel might those ex-commandos be staying at?'
'Not Claridge's or The Ritz.' Tweed had his eyes half-closed as he thought. 'One of them stole the present-day equivalent of a million pounds in diamonds after killing Andreas. So he won't throw it around, show he's loaded. Try the hotels in the medium-priced range. Maybe somewhere in Kensington.'
'You don't ask much, do you?' She was reaching for the yellow pages when Paula reappeared. 'This job could take forever.'
'You may get lucky. We must try,' Tweed said as he opened the door for Paula. 'One more point. From now on we'll codename the murderer Winterton, the ghost who sold those bungalows on Exmoor.'
31
Moscow, General Lucharsky was walking in the park again with his aide, Colonel Volkov. Both men wore civilian clothes and Volkov had to quicken his pace to keep up with the long strides Lucharsky was taking. The sunlight cast thin shadows from the trunks of birch trees. Mothers pushed prams with babies along the lower path as Lucharsky headed for a dense copse of trees, mounting a curving path.
'You leave for Athens tomorrow,' he reminded Volkov.
'I am fully prepared. Comrade General…'
'I should hope so,' Lucharsky snapped as they entered the copse. 'Everything depends on your passing on the verbal orders to Colonel Rykovsky, to Doganis and Anton, the Greeks. Events are moving quickly. I hear the Gorbachev-Reagan summit will take place in Washington, More important, the British Prime Minister has invited the General Secretary to land in England en route for America. A stroke of incredible luck.'
'What is the position now?' Volkov enquired.
'Gorbachev has gone too far. He is signing a treaty in Washington for the withdrawal of intermediate missiles from Europe. If we let him do that he will go on for more disarmament. The Red Army's power will fade instead of growing. And we have some powerful allies. Elements high up in the KGB are worried. They yearn for the return of the days of Brezhnev.'
'So it is something drastic?' Volkov suggested as he pushed aside foliage from his pasty plump face. The path they were following was getting overgrown, was rarely used.
'Gorbachev will be assassinated,' Lucharsky announced in his calm clipped voice. 'The Troika took the decision last night.'
'That will be difficult, and who will take over? What is this Troika?'
'A lot of questions. Comrade. First, you remember that document I handed you yesterday when I was wearing gloves? An incriminating document.'
'Yes.' Volkov felt a chill crawl up his spine despite the humid heat which enveloped Moscow that day.
'I put it in your safe after you had read it. I locked the safe and said I would keep the key. You do recall this?'
Lucharsky asked in a mocking tone which had reduced subordinates to jelly, 'I only check your memory because you had drunk a lot of vodka,'
'At your urging,..'
'I am a good host, although I stick to mineral water since the new General Secretary's expression of dislike for hard drinking. That document – locked away in your own safe – carries only your fingerprints. You would be shot within a week if that document was placed before the Politburo.'
'Why do you threaten me. Comrade?'
'Just in case you thought you could obtain swift promotion by betraying the Troika which, officially, does not exist.' Lucharsky stopped, faced his companion, gave him a Siberian smile. 'Of course we know you would never dream of betraying us. Now, you asked certain questions. Who will take over from Gorbachev? Answer: Yigor Ligachev, his Number Two in the Politburo. He has openly disagreed with perestroika and glasnost. He does not know what we plan, but once the seat is vacant he will be compelled to become the new General Secretary.'
'And the Troika?'
'The three-man council of high-ranking Red Army officers who have decided Gorbachev must be removed. I am their liaison with the men in the field who will do the job.'
Which was a lie. No point in letting Volkov know that Lucharsky was the top man among the three generals who made up the Troika.
'But who will carry out the assassination?' pressed Volkov, anxious to know the plan would really work.
Lucharsky folded his arms, swung again on his heels, staring through the foliage which surrounded them. On no account must they be observed. And Volkov's anxieties were transparently clear to the General. He must reassure him for the moment.
'The assassination will apparently be carried out by two Arab fundamentalists. Those fanatics are capable of any mad action. And relations between Moscow and Iran are deteriorating. That way we avoid any danger of a confrontation with the Americans – in case rumours spread it was the work of the CIA. We need the time to establish Ligachev in power, to turn back the clock to Lenin's age. To renew the great military build-up.'
'Arab fundamentalists? That is clever,' Volkov agreed.
'So tomorrow you travel with the instructions inside your head to Athens,' said Lucharsky, resuming his walk over the path encumbere
d with undergrowth. 'Doganis is controlling the operation – although he doesn't know what is really involved.'
'And what does he think he's getting out of all this?'
'A shrewd question. Comrade. We have hinted at support for a new Communist uprising in Greece. Doganis sees himself as a future Prime Minister. It won't happen that way, of course.'
'But, Comrade, I speak no Greek,' Volkov protested.
'Which is why you are chosen. While at the London Embassy you perfected your English. Doganis speaks the same language.'
'Everything has been thought of,' Volkov remarked, impressed by the efficiency of the planning. Then something struck him. T don't see how British security – which is good – will be penetrated? What weapons will be used?'
'No more questions.' Lucharsky increased his pace. 'But I can tell you the special weapons needed are at this moment on their way to their destination. Now I leave you, as last time. Go to your mistress's apartment. That gives you a reason for sneaking into Moscow if you are recognized. Give me five minutes to get back to my car.'
He turned round before leaving the copse, stood looking down at Volkov. 'And don't forget that document plastered with your fingerprints, locked away in your own safe. The KGB would not treat you with kid gloves – not after reading that document. Bon voyage, Comrade…'
Lucharsky emerged cautiously from the trees, standing to glance round like a man enjoying the warmth of the sunshine. Then he hurried back to his car parked in a deserted side street. It stood outside the block which contained the apartment of a well-known general he knew to be on holiday at a Black Sea resort. A further precaution – just in case a KGB patrol noted down the registration number.
Once inside the Chaika, Lucharsky took a pouch from his pocket, selected a specially designed tool. It took him only five minutes to turn back the odometer fifty kilometres. His chauffeur logged all journeys and recorded the precise distance. There was now no record he had ever made this trip from the barracks.
Everything has been thought of. Volkov didn't know the half of it. Lucharsky had earlier decided that after Gorbachev had been eliminated all his collaborating subordinates would go the same way. Rykovsky and Volkov would die in a helicopter crash over the Caspian Sea. Florakis would be ordered to take out Doganis and the other members of the Greek Key. Then Lucharsky would send someone from Moscow to liquidate Florakis.
Yes, everything had been thought of.
Kalos took the call at police headquarters the following day when Sarris was absent from his office. It came from the chief of security at Athens Airport.
That you, Kalos? Stefanides here. Your target just arrived. Colonel Volkov. In person.'
'Hold him till I get there. Make out you've received threats against Russian personnel. That you're bringing in a bullet-proof limo from Athens. I'll fix that before I leave. Hold him.'
'Will do. See you…'
Kalos followed the limo, driving an unmarked police car himself. It took forty minutes to reach the airport. Damned hot, Kalos thought as they arrived. Late afternoon. Like a furnace. He watched Stefanides escorting a stocky man clad in a pale grey lightweight suit to the limo. He had thick black hair, was clean-shaven, a pair of large rimless glasses very like those Gorbachev wore. In many ways he was like a pocket version of the General Secretary. And his face was pasty and plump – making him stand out as a new arrival. An easy man to follow.
Kalos watched a porter dump two suitcases in the boot, started his own engine as the boot was slammed shut. The limo glided away along the main road into Athens. Kalos followed.
Destination: the Soviet Embassy. As Kalos had expected. He parked the Saab behind another car, settled down to wait. Kalos was good at waiting. He watched Volkov disappear inside the building, followed by the chauffeur carrying the bags. Ages would now pass while Volkov conferred with Colonel Rykovsky.
Kalos radioed in to his assistant at police headquarters that he was on surveillance, that it might take all night. There was no request for information as to where he was. Surveillance meant secrecy. And he didn't want Sarris to know what he was up to. Yet.
Twenty minutes later Kalos had a surprise. Two men emerged and started walking down the street towards him on the far side. Volkov had changed into a linen suit, wore a straw hat. The glasses and the walk confirmed to Kalos it was Volkov. They were smarter than he'd anticipated. Never underestimate the enemy: Sarris' favourite maxim.
The second man, also short but slimmer, wore a similar linen suit and a peaked cap favoured by German students. A beak of a nose with a dark smear of a moustache, neatly trimmed, a man who made quick gestures with his hands. Colonel Rykovsky.
They hailed a passing taxi, climbed inside. Kalos waited until he saw the taxi moving in his wing mirror, did an illegal U-turn, tracked the taxi. In Omonia Square they paid off the taxi, gazed into a department store's windows. Not normal behaviour. Kalos felt a glow of satisfaction as he pulled into a parking slot which a woman had just vacated.
The two Russians moved slowly along the pavement, stopping to stare inside another window. Rykovsky glanced over his shoulder, scanning the street. Kalos was slumped behind the wheel, eyes almost closed. A taxi stopped, dropped a fare and both Russians moved.
As Volkov climbed into the rear Rykovsky gave the driver his instructions and followed his companion. The taxi pulled out into a gap in the traffic. Kalos grinned to himself as he turned cut, one vehicle behind the taxi. Who were they going to meet so secretly was the $60,000 question.
Inside ten minutes the taxi entered the Plaka, driving slowly, wending its way amid the labyrinth of twisting streets. The two Russians alighted outside a taverna. Papadedes. That made sense, Kalos thought, as he watched the couple disappear up a staircase alongside the taverna. Papa made a nice income on the side out of that first-floor room sealed off from the taverna.
He rented it out at exorbitant prices to Athenian businessmen who took their mistresses there. The room was nicely furnished, including one of those sofas you could convert into a bed. Papa also supplied his clients with drinks – at only four times the price charged in the taverna.
Kalos turned into a side street, parked his car on the one-man wide pavement and the cobbled street. He felt in his pocket. Yes, he had the compact Voigtlander camera he always carried. He got out, took up a position in a doorway where he could see the staircase entrance.
Something serious was going on. Why couldn't they have had their meeting inside the Soviet Embassy? That puzzled Kalos. And he was damn sure Volkov had disguised himself. OK, it was pretty warm. And the Russian had just flown in from Moscow. But that straw hat had been well pulled down over his face – and they'd spent very little time outside.
He was about to light a cigarette when he stiffened, reached for his camera, the unlit cigarette clamped between his lips. A tall heavily built figure was strolling towards the taverna. The Fat Man. An open-necked shirt, clothes hanging loosely from his body. Doganis. Senior member of the committee that controlled the Greek Key.
Kalos raised his camera, cupped inside his hand, waited. Doganis stopped suddenly, turned on the pavement, a woman collided with his huge bulk. He ignored her as he glanced down the street the way he'd come. Then he plodded on in his large trainer shoes, paused again to look back in front of the staircase entrance as though not sure of his whereabouts. Kalos took three quick shots as the Greek swivelled his outsize head. Full-face, profile – and behind him the name over the taverna. Then Doganis vanished. He'd slipped up the staircase towards the room where the Russians had gone. For a large man he moved with great agility.
Kalos pocketed the camera and frowned. He was disturbed. This looked even more serious than he'd suspected.
Inside the expensively furnished room Doganis stood gazing at the two Russians who sat at a highly polished English antique round table. A tray – brought up by a waiter from the taverna before anyone had arrived – stood on the table.
Two bottles of vodka, three cut
glasses. Both men had a glass in front of them.
Doganis nodded to himself. Free of the anti-alcohol restrictions imposed by Gorbachev, they were indulging themselves. The slim supercilious Colonel Rykovsky stood up to make introductions. Doganis shook hands with Volkov, squeezing his hand in a vice-like grip. The Russian had trouble avoiding grimacing at the pressure.
'Vodka?' Rykovsky offered.
Doganis shook his head, lowered his bulk into the third chair at the table. He wanted a clear head dealing with these goddamn Russians who had let down Greece in 1946 during the Civil War: they had not supplied the weapons needed. Later the US President, Truman, had sent a military mission, arms by the ton. That was what had defeated them. Rykovsky remained on his feet, downed the full glass of vodka, and explained.
'I am leaving you now with Colonel Volkov,' he continued, speaking in English. 'He has a long message to give you. It must be transmitted by Florakis to Jupiter tonight. The first part, that is. The signal is so long it has to be divided into three parts – sent on three successive nights. You have a good memory?'
'You know I have,' Doganis growled, his large paws clasped on the table-top. 'Get on with it.'
'Volkov will tell you where one section ends, the next begins. When he has passed on the complete message Volkov will leave. Give him five minutes. Then go yourself, drive at once down to Cape Sounion. Florakis will be expecting you. I have already phoned him. I am now returning to the Embassy to call him and confirm you are coming. He will wait for you at that site where they are constructing a new hotel complex. You know it?'
'I do.'
'They have stopped work on it for the moment. Something to do with waiting for fresh materials.' Rykovsky waved an elegant hand. 'The main point is the complex is deserted. When you get back to Athens, call me at the Embassy. Use your normal codename. Simply tell me you have found a further supply of mineral water – despite the shortage owing to this infernal heatwave. Remember, all calls are monitored, recorded…'
