The Greek Key tac-6

by Colin Forbes

  Forty minutes later they were sitting in the room Newman had booked for Tweed. Newman relayed to him all the details about Anton he'd extracted from Christina. As he listened, sipping mineral water in his shirt-sleeves, Tweed's expression became grimmer.

  'A man of many talents,' he commented as Newman concluded his report. 'And now I'm sure he's returned to England.' He told Newman the news Beck and Monica had given him in Zurich. 'I don't like the sound of any of this. But when can we get down to Devil's Valley? Tomorrow?'

  'That's pushing it. You'll need protection – and an interpreter. Petros doesn't speak English, you don't speak Greek. I think we have just the man. Nick the Greek, our driver. I've kept him on ice. He's holed up at the Astir Palace just across the square. He's even protested about the extra fee I pay him, saying he's doing nothing for it. Do you want to talk with Christina?'

  'Yes.' He looked at Paula.

  She shook her head, smiled impishly. 'Better you see her on your own. I'll cramp your style. I bet you have her eating out of your hand.'

  'I doubt that.' Tweed finished off his second glass of mineral water. 'But one-to-one conversations normally get off the ground better.'

  'Especially when you're with an attractive girl,' Paula went on.

  'Oh, do shut up.' Tweed put on his jacket. 'Just going to the bathroom. Back in a minute…'

  Paula waited until he reached the door, then called out. 'Don't forget to comb your hair!' Tweed gave her a glare and vanished.

  'You do twist his tail,' Newman commented.

  She became serious. 'I'm trying to relax him. I'm really worried about him. He's got the bit between his teeth over this business. He's become obsessed.'

  'Can you explain that quickly? I'll be taking him along soon to Christina.'

  'It started with Masterson's death. You can't kill one of Tweed's sector chiefs and expect him to shrug it off like Howard might. Then Jill Kearns – and he took a fancy to her – was murdered in London. Before that his old friend Sam Partridge was killed on Exmoor. And now an old lady in her seventies, a Mrs Larcombe, he interviewed has been battered to death at Porlock Weir. That was the last straw, I suspect. All the killings could be linked. If he decides Petros is in some way responsible I don't know what he'll do. Which is why I'm petrified about this Devil's Valley visit. Tweed has lost his sense of detachment.'

  Thanks for telling me. I'll bear it in mind. Now I must call someone.'

  Newman went to the phone, dialled a number, perched on the edge of the bed. 'That you, Nick? Can you get over here for a talk? In about five minutes? Good. My room. See you…'

  Tweed came out of the bathroom as he put down the phone. 'We'll be having a conference about the trip to Devil's Valley while you talk with Christina,' he told Tweed. 'Nick, Marler and myself.'

  The sooner the better. I'm ready for Christina. What about you, Paula? Going to peek at the shops?'

  'She'll be joining us,' Newman said firmly. He seemed to have taken command of the situation, noted Paula. Noted it with relief.

  Newman escorted Tweed to another room on the same floor. When he rapped on the door in a certain sequence it was opened by Marler. He gazed at Tweed, then at Newman.

  'You might have told me he was coming. About time,' he continued, looking at Tweed. 'Glad to have you on board. We need to take some action.'

  'You'll get all you can handle soon,' Newman promised him. 'Be a good chap, push off to my room. Here's the key. Tweed wants to talk with Christina.'

  As Marler left he walked into the room, followed by Tweed, and introduced him to Christina. 'My Editor-in-Chief…'

  Christina was sitting on a sofa, her back propped against one end, her long legs stretched out. She wore a low-cut emerald green dress, strapless, and backless to the lower part of her spine. She put down the book she was reading and stared at Tweed with her large eyes as Newman left the room, assessing him. Then she swung her legs off the sofa and sat with them crossed, one bare arm rested along the top of the sofa.

  'Do sit down. Pull up a chair close to me. You look like a man who can take care of himself.'

  'I've survived so far.' Tweed moved a chair, sat down so their knees were almost touching. She was a woman who liked close combat, who liked to touch a man if he passed inspection. Tweed had a feeling he'd done just that. And he wanted her to talk. She asked him if he'd like a drink. He said mineral water would be fine. She reached out to a table standing at the end of the sofa, poured him a glass from a collection of bottles, then she helped herself to a glass of white wine. She raised her glass.

  'Here's to us.'

  'To us…'

  'And you're not an editor.' She peered at him over the rim and sipped some wine. 'You have the eyes of a policeman. They're nice eyes.'

  'I was once a policeman.' He had decided frankness -up to a point – was his best tactic with this shrewd and glamorous creature. 'What can you tell me about the Greek Key? I need your help. Very badly. A lot of people have already died here and in England. I suspect more may die unless I find out what is going on.' He took off his glasses, laid them on the table. 'I need all the help I can get.'

  'Will Newman or Marler be coming back?' She watched him through half-closed eyes.

  'Not unless I summon them. I wasn't thinking of doing so.'

  He had trouble keeping his eyes off her beautifully moulded shoulders. The dress fitted her snugly; her well-rounded breasts projected against the cloth. She leaned forward and kissed him full on the mouth.

  'That was for starters, Tweed.'

  The Greek Key?'

  'A group of the most dangerous men in Greece. Shadow men who operate in the dark. The police can't find them. They live secret lives. Does that sound melodramatic?'

  'Yes. But it sounds just what I'm looking for. Tell me more.'

  'So you don't really need your glasses to see?'

  'Only long distance. When I'm driving. Times like that. Then I forget I'm wearing them. Tell me more,' he repeated.

  'I've told you too much already. You want to get me killed?'

  'No. I'd go a long way to prevent that. Is Anton a member?'

  She blinked, lowered her eyes. He could have sworn the suggestion came to her as a great shock. That she was thinking back over incidents she had observed – trying to link them up with his question.

  'I never thought of that.' She opened her full red lips and ran the tip of her tongue along her lower lip. 'I can trust you?'

  'You must decide that for yourself.'

  'When my mother sent me to the university – she's dead, Petros killed her with overwork on the farm – there was an English professor, Guy Seton-Charles.'

  'What about him?' Tweed asked in the same quiet tone.

  'There were rumours. He came to lecture from England each year. Behind his back they called him The Recruiter.'

  'Who were "they"?' His voice was very soft now, careful not to disturb her mood.

  'You will protect me?' She leaned close again and her eyes were enormous. She slowly removed her earclips, placed them on the table.

  'Yes,' he said. 'Providing you do exactly what I tell you when the time comes.'

  'You're a nice man. Some of the students who attended the Seton-Charles lectures stopped going to them.'

  'Who was he recruiting for?'

  'The Greek Key.' Her smooth-skinned face was almost touching his and he caught a waft of perfume. He told himself to move back but he was frightened of breaking the spell. 'I asked what it was and they wouldn't tell me. You asked me if Anton was a member. He attended the lectures and finished the course. After that he was a changed man.'

  'Changed in what way?'

  'He used to lay women like rows of beans. He still kept his playboy image outwardly – but he seemed to have become colder, more purposeful – dedicated. That's it. Dedicated.'

  'Dedicated to what?'

  'I don't know. Really, I don't, Tweed. As though he'd found some mission in life. Almost like a religious conversion. But
he's an agnostic. That's all I can say.'

  Tweed eased his chair away. He stood up. Christina also stood up and vaiked towards him. He had a curious gleam in his eyes. He saw his glasses still on the table, picked them up. Before he could put them on she grasped him.

  'Let's do it. Now.'

  He sighed, shook his head. 'Christina, I said I would protect you. I will. But I can't if we get involved with each other. I must go. Pack your things ready for a quick departure. All except your night things.'

  'I have to say thank you.'

  She pressed herself against him, kissed him again.

  'You'll be leaving tomorrow,' he told her.

  'Unless Dimitrios or Constantine or Anton reach me tonight.'

  'Which do you fear most?'

  'Anton. Of course…'

  'He is no longer in Greece. And you will continue to be with someone until you leave. It may be a woman.'

  'What use will she be? In an emergency?'

  'More deadly than a man. I must go. Lock the door and only open it for the special knock. You do have confidence in me?'

  'Completely.' She ran her hands through her hair. 'We will meet again?'

  'If possible. It depends on how things develop…'

  He waited outside the closed door until he heard her lock it. His hands were wet with perspiration. And not from the heat.

  Four people sat round a table in Newman's room. Newman himself, Nick the Greek, Paula and Marler. Two litre bottles of mineral water stood on the table with four glasses. The bottles were almost empty. Tweed was introduced to Nick who clasped his hand in a firm grip and gazed straight at him. Tweed liked what he saw.

  'Bob,' he said, 'take Paula along to Christina and introduce her. I want you to stay with her, Paula. Only open the door to the special knock Bob will demonstrate.'

  Paula looked amused as she stood up and smoothed down her skirt. She stood close and whispered. 'Better go into the bathroom and comb your hair again. Clean up your mouth at the same time.'

  Newman had reached the door with Paula when Tweed stopped them. 'Wait a moment.' He looked at Nick. 'I understand you can find weapons. We'll all be away when we go to Devil's Valley. Paula should have some protection. A small handgun. Can you obtain one for her?'

  Nick, still seated, rolled up his left trouser leg and revealed the holster strapped to it. He pulled out a small gun, a. 32 Browning automatic. He showed it to Paula.

  'Do you know this gun?'

  'Yes. It's a Browning. I've practised with it. That would do nicely.'

  'And spare mags.' Nick handed her the gun and hauled the mags out of his pocket.

  Paula dropped the mags into her handbag. She examined the Browning, released the magazine from the butt, made sure there was no bullet up the spout, all the time holding the weapon pointed at the wall. Nick watched with approval as she rammed the mag home again, dropped the weapon inside her handbag.

  'You know the gun,' he said.

  Tweed laid a hand on her shoulder. 'Only to be used in extreme emergency – if Christina's or your own life is in danger. You have no permit to use that in Greece. But if push comes to shove I'll square it with Peter Sarris. Take care.'

  'And you take care,' she said vehemently. This whole secret expedition to Devil's Valley is madness…'

  'Now go along with Bob and make friends with Christina.'

  When they had gone he excused himself. Inside the bathroom he checked his appearance in the mirror. He should have done that before he'd left Christina. His hair was mussed up; traces of lipstick showed on his mouth. Christina had deliberately let him go like that – knowing there was another woman with him. Just to show Paula. Women! Thank God he'd kept control of himself.

  He had a wash, used a tissue to clean off the lipstick. When he had combed his hair he went back into the bedroom.

  'What's the plan?' he asked, sitting down at the table.

  'She's quite a girl, Christina,' Marler remarked cynically.

  'Don't you start.' Tweed jabbed his index finger at Marler. 'I said what's the plan?'

  'Crack of dawn tomorrow we start out,' Marler began in a languid tone. 'We drive to the entrance near Cape Sounion. You go in on foot with Nick. He speaks Greek, he's the interpreter, and he knows the way. And we've devised back-up…"

  Marler explained the details and Tweed listened in silence. He nodded when Marler had finished. 'You've been out here a while. You know what you're doing. At least, I hope so. I approve the plan.'

  'It will be tricky – the timing,' Nick interjected. 'Dangerous, too.' He was looking at Tweed. 'What type of gun would you like? I can get most…'

  'I never carry a gun.'

  Tweed stood up. 'I have to attend to something now.' Newman came back into the room, using his key to unlock the door. 'I'm off to the Embassy,' Tweed told him. 'I have to talk to Monica, get her to contact Roberts at Lloyd's. And warn Butler Anton is probably back on his patch.'

  'I'll come with you,' said Nick. 'We pass the Astir Palace on the way to the Embassy. I can pick up another Browning from under my car in the garage.'

  'I can go alone. I know the way. I studied a street plan of Athens before I left London. No one will recognize me.'

  'I'm corning with you,' Nick persisted. 'Petros could have men watching this hotel. They would see you arrive with Newman and make the connection.'

  'You're right. Thank you.'

  Tweed cursed himself inwardly for not thinking of that. Maybe the heat was getting to him. They were crossing the road to the Astir Palace when Nick made the remark.

  'It will be touch and go whether we survive in Devil's Valley.'

  43

  Dawn was breaking over the Temple of Poseidon when the two cars pulled off the coast road close to the skeletal hotel building site. Nick drove the Mercedes with Tweed beside him. Behind them Newman drove a hired Peugeot with Marler as his passenger.

  'I'll drive,' he'd told Marler when they started from Athens in the dark. 'We want to get there in one piece.'

  'I was a racing driver once,' Marler informed him.

  'I know. You must have been a menace to the other contestants. I don't want to end up in the sea…'

  Tweed stepped out of the Mercedes and stretched. He was wearing a pair of mountaineer boots purchased in Kolonaki. He'd worn them for the rest of the previous day to break them in.

  Nick lifted up the travelling rug on the rear seat, took hold of the twin-barrelled shotgun. He had a fresh Browning strapped to his leg, a. 38 Smith amp; Wesson in a hip holster under his loose jacket.

  'A walking armoury,' Tweed had joked.

  'We'll need it,' Nick had replied without a smile.

  While Nick was collecting the weapon, locking the car, Tweed gazed at the fantastic colours of sky and sea. A spectrum of rose pink, cobalt and sapphire sea. An incredible sight you wouldn't find anywhere else in the world.

  'Ready?' asked Nick.

  'On a job like this the thing is get moving. No palaver.'

  Nick led the way behind the complex and they plunged into the wilderness of limestone bluffs looming above donkey trails which twisted and climbed. There was no sound once they'd left behind the screech of the gulls over the sea which soon vanished from view Nick placed his feet carefully, treading wherever possible on tufts of grass to deaden the sound of his footfalls. Behind him Tweed followed suit, watching for any sign of human life.

  He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, his safari jacket, tropical drill trousers tucked into the tops of his boots. Despite Nick's long sloping strides, Tweed had no trouble keeping up with him. In London he'd taken to rising very early, walking two miles round the deserted streets every day. At the weekends he drove down to Surrey, parked his Cortina and climbed the North Downs. He was in better shape than for years.

  They crossed the pass and began to descend into Devil's Valley. The tortuous path twisted as it dropped rapidly round boulders of limestone. Both Nick and Tweed carried water bottles slung over their shoulders. Nick
carried the shotgun in his left hand and paused as he came to each man-high boulder. He peered round it cautiously, waved to Tweed to proceed, and walked on.

  The sun was climbing in a clear turquoise sky. Already it was becoming very hot: the heat from the previous day had never dissipated during the night. As they progressed deep inside the valley Tweed cast frequent glances up at the ridges enclosing them to east and west. No sign of movement. Only the occasional sheep came into view, head down as it searched for nourishment among the scrub grass.

  Tweed saw a weird squat structure perched on the ridge against the eastern skyline. He guessed it was the abandoned silver mine where Newman had had his nightmare experience. They arrived at the base of the valley and the path ran to left and to right. Nick paused, drank from his water bottle, wiped sweat off his forehead. Tweed wrapped a large silk handkerchief round his own neck to mop up the sweat.

  'What's that thing?' Tweed asked, pointing to a crumbling high building. A series of chutes ran at angles and all the metal was rusty. The derelict structure stood at the foot of a path climbing up the eastern slope.

  The old ore-crushing plant where they extracted the silver,' Nick explained. 'Hasn't been used for years. Donkey trains brought down the ore. Have you noticed how quiet it is? And no sign of anyone.'

  It was the first conversation they had had since they started out. They had agreed in the car they wouldn't speak during the descent into the valley. Nick had explained that voices carried a long distance.

  'Well, isn't that our good luck?' Tweed commented and drank from his own water bottle.

  'It's too quiet. And I have not seen one single shepherd. That I do not like.'

  'Why not?'

  'It is almost as though they know we are coming. Fifteen more minutes' walk along this path to the left and we see Petros' farmhouse

  …"

  It was creepy. Despite the glare of the sun burning down Tweed found the silence unnerving. Now they had to pick their way among a bed of stones and rocks and he realized they were walking along the path of a stream. In winter it would be a gushing flood.