The Greek Key tac-6

by Colin Forbes

  'But why does each van need a small generator to operate the panel,' asked Seton-Charles, whose knowledge of mechanical problems was zero. 'Surely you could have used the power from the van's engine.'

  'Which shows how much you know. For one thing the van will be stationary when we launch the missiles, the engine turned off. The driver will warn us over his walkie-talkie when the plane is in view. Only then do we open the panel.'

  'It seems very well organized,' Seton-Charles agreed. That smell of fresh paint is turning my stomach. Was it really necessary to change the name on the outside?'

  'Again, Jupiter's orders. We don't want any connection with Camelford Removals, the bankrupt outfit in Norwich you bought them from. Now we are Smith's Removals of Birmingham. There are two such firms in the city.'

  Anton had spent hours with a paintbrush, first obliterating the old names, waiting for the paint to dry, then substituting the new names. But Seton-Charles had a point: the barn, with its doors closed at both ends, reeked of the stench.

  'Tonight we'll open the rear doors of the barn after dark, let the smell out,' he decided. 'We'll take it in turns to stand guard while those doors are open. Later I'll rub dirt over the fresh paint…'

  He stopped speaking as the phone extension he had rigged up from the farmhouse began ringing. He sent Seton-Charles back to the farmhouse, picked up the phone.

  'Alfred Moss speaking.'

  'Are both containers ready yet?'

  The same supercilious, upper-crust voice Anton disliked. Like a commander giving orders to lowly subordinates. He took a deep breath.

  'Yes. They are ready to move to the port.'

  'Your two guests will be arriving today. Noon at the arranged meeting place. Foster and Saunders will be travelling with them. I must go. My garden is being ruined by magpies and goldcrests. I'd like to convert the place into a closed circuit. Don't be late…'

  Anton put down the phone and swore in Greek. Arrogant bastard. But he was clever. In a few words – seemingly innocent if overheard – he'd conveyed a lot.

  The two men who were bringing the prisoners to the lonely crossroads were called Foster and Saunders. They would give the password magpies. Anton would reply with goldcrests. He ran to the doors, opened one, closed it, snapped the padlock shut on the outside, ran into the farmhouse. Seton-Charles stood in the kitchen, waiting for the news.

  'I have to leave at once. I'll come back with the prisoners. Be ready to open the shed doors…'

  'Is it wise to keep on using the same Austin Metro you hired in Taunton? We've had it for weeks. And what about payment to Barton?'

  'Jupiter arranges fresh payments in cash. It's risky changing cars, using that driving licence. I must be off…'

  Driving at a modest pace along a winding country road, Anton reflected on the past. He kept a close eye on the dashboard clock, but he didn't want to arrive early. Hanging about – even in the middle of nowhere – was dangerous. A police patrol car might become interested.

  He was thinking about Petros and his lust for revenge. Anton had never shared his father's one-track outlook on life. He had simply gone along with him for years; originally to make sure the money for his education was forthcoming. He had played up to the old man like mad. Later he had borrowed from him to help set up his chain of radio, television and video shops. Then he had met the man who had changed his life. Professor Guy Seton-Charles.

  Anton had attended the first lecture at Athens University out of sheer curiosity. More intelligent – and cynical – than the other students, it had not taken him long to see through the professor. Under the guise of lecturing on Greek Studies, it had soon become apparent to Anton this was a course in political indoctrination. In the Communist creed.

  In his turn, Seton-Charles had spotted Anton as the cleverest, most cold-blooded and ambitious of his students. Just the material he was looking for. They had formed an alliance rather than a friendship. Anton had decided the West was on its way out; the future belonged to Russia.

  So convincingly did he appear to embrace Communism he was in due course invited to join the Greek Key as a junior member. The fact that his father, Petros, had supported the Greek Key during the war helped. Anton simply saw it as the quickest route to power in Greece. That was until Gorbachev replaced Brezhnev. Glasnost? Perestroika? This was no route to a Communist takeover of Greece.

  Recruited to the inner councils – after expressing his anti-Gorbachev sentiments – Anton had become a trusted member of the conspiracy. And then there was the detail of Petros' collection of British commando knives. It was Doganis who had suggested how these might come in useful when he learned of their existence.

  'Steal them,' he advised Anton, before his first trip to England. 'You may have to kill someone. You could do that? Good. If it comes to that, use one of those daggers. It will confuse any investigation. The English are poking around still trying to find out who killed Andreas Gavalas. Use one of those daggers and they will go back over forty years, ignoring the present. An excellent smokescreen…'

  Anton glanced at the clock again, increased speed. When he arrived at the crossroads a Ford station wagon was pulled up inside the trees. A man dressed in a smart blue navy pinstripe suit appeared. He wore pigskin gloves. Anton noticed they were soiled, which did not go with the smartness of the rest of his appearance. He pulled up, switched off his engine, looked round and listened. The only sound was the crunch of the man's shoes on a gravel track where the Ford was standing.

  'Excuse me,' the man said, standing by Anton's open window, 'I'm looking for the Magpie Inn.'

  'I can tell you how to get to the Goldcrest Inn.'

  'Thank God. Oh, my name's Foster. It's been a fraught business. We have them in the back of the station wagon. Hands bound behind their backs, ankles tied, their mouths taped, eyes blindfolded. Saunders is over there and will help. How are you going to move the merchandise?'

  'Under the travelling rugs in the back of my car. One on top of the other…'

  Seton-Charles ran out as Anton arrived back at Cherry Farm. The Greek lifted the corner of a rug and exposed the two captive Shi-ite Muslims dressed in prison garb. They untied the rope round the ankles of one man, manoeuvred him out of the car. When he tried to struggle they frogmarched him inside the farmhouse, up the stairs and into the prepared room.

  'Dump him on the bed,' Anton ordered. 'He'll be safe while we get the other one inside…'

  Five minutes later they had both men in their separate rooms. Anton held a Luger pistol while Seton-Charles tore off the tape and removed the blindfold. The Shi-ite blinked in the unaccustomed daylight and glared. Anton gestured towards the canvas sack he had dragged up the stairs. From its open end protruded the head of a slaughtered pig taken from the chest freezer in one of the sheds.

  'Any trouble with you and I kill you, then you'll be buried in a grave with this pig.'

  'No! No! No…!'

  Anton watched the man's terrified expression. It had worked. The only form of intimidation which would quell a Shi-ite. The Muslim religion regarded the pig as the most unclean and horrific of animals. Anton waited behind the pig lying on the landing floor while Seton-Charles released the prisoner's hands. The Shi-ite rubbed his wrists to get the circulation going and all the time he stared at the pig's head as though hypnotized.

  Anton waited until Seton-Charles had left the room, then threw inside a bundle of clothes: three suits in different sizes, underwear, shirts, socks and shoes.

  'You get out of that prison garb, choose the clothes which fit you best, wrap the others in a bundle. We'll collect them when we feed you. Put your prison stuff with the bundle.' He aimed the Luger at the trembling Shi-ite's head. 'If you try to get away I will shoot you dead. Then you will share eternity with a pig.'

  Seton-Charles closed, double-locked, bolted the door. 'Let's hope one of those suits fits him.'

  'One will fit well enough. A man escaped from prison doesn't always have the right clothes to wear. Now
haul the pig sack along to the other room and we'll repeat the process…'

  He watched as Seton-Charles heaved the heavy sack along the corridor, his rimless glasses perched on his nose. Anton had been careful not to comment on the fact, but he had been surprised at how useful the professor had been. He was stronger physically than the Greek had realized. He had proved a useful workmate during the conversion of the vans, handing up tools to Anton on the platform, finding the right screws, and a psychological change had taken place in the relationship of the two men.

  Seton-Charles now accepted Anton was boss and he prepared good meals for them. Something I might have foreseen, Anton thought: the professor was a bachelor who lived alone, looked after himself and was fastidious in his habits. They paused in front of the second reinforced door.

  'That latest phone call I had from Jupiter,' Anton told him. 'We've reached the stage of closed circuit.'

  'What's that?'

  'We stay under very close cover. We don't leave the farm for anything unless it's essential.'

  'Then the operation must be close?'

  'Soon,' Anton assured him, 'it has to be soon.'

  47

  Tweed had 'broken silence'.

  He had sent out a general alert all over Europe to counter-espionage chiefs, to his personal underground network of informants. The message was always the same.

  Any data on past and present movements of Anton Gavalas, citizen of Greece. Suspected member of hardline Communist group the Greek Key. Also identical data on Professor Guy Seton-Charles, British citizen, Professor of Greek Studies at Bristol University, England, and Athens University, Greece. Data required extreme urgency. Tweed.

  Copies of a photograph of Anton – made from the print inside the file Kalos had provided for Tweed – accompanied the request. But only a word description of Seton-Charles was sent. Tweed realized they had made a bad mistake in not photographing the professor.

  Howard wandered into Tweed's office a week after the messages had been sent. It was his blue pinstripe suit day. He perched his buttocks on the edge of Tweed's desk, adjusted his tie, smiled at Monica who was stunned by such amiability.

  'Any progress from the boys abroad?' he enquired.

  Tweed winced inwardly at the phraseology. 'Nothing that gives us any kind of lead. Later this afternoon I have a meeting with the Prime Minister. I thought it was time she knew about this business.'

  He waited for the explosion of outrage. It didn't come. Instead, Howard ran his fingers over his plump pink face and nodded approval. 'I was just coming in to suggest maybe we ought to let her know. Frankly, I'm surprised you didn't seek an earlier conference.'

  'No hard facts to go on. Ever since Masterson was killed it's been like seeing shadowy figures in the mists of Exmoor. You aren't sure whether you actually saw anything or not. It may be a tricky interview. She does like facts. Oh, Paula is on her way here, driving up from Somerset. I just hope she gets here before I leave for Downing Street.'

  'And why is the delightful Paula driving back to London? She could have reported over the phone from that public call box in Minehead.'

  'She said she had information she'd sooner give me face to face.'

  'Sounds intriguing. I suppose you couldn't record her report so I could play it back later?'

  'I'll do that.'

  Howard glanced at the machine on Tweed's desk, the neat piles of cassettes. 'You've been listening to those things yet again? The tapes of Butler's phoned reports and that clandestine job Nield did during dinner at The Luttrell Arms? You still think you've spotted which one of the three is the killer?'

  'Yes.' Tweed stood up, began pacing slowly. 'But no proof. In case anything happens to me I typed out a secret report which is inside a sealed envelope in the safe.'

  Howard stood up, pulled down his jacket at the back. 'Damned if I could point the finger at any of them. And God knows I've listened to them often enough. Why be so cryptic?'

  'Because I could be wrong. The main thing at the moment is two people have gone missing. Anton Gavalas. I checked with Sarris and there's no sign he has returned to Greece. Then Guy Seton-Charles has vanished off the face of the earth. He'd accumulated several months' leave, so Bristol University informed us. He said he was going abroad. No trace of him on any airline passenger manifest.

  And he always flew everywhere – again according to Bristol.'

  'So, we're up the proverbial gum tree. Good luck with the PM.'

  On this encouraging note Howard left the office. Monica stopped studying her file. 'He's also worried. Like you are. And although I hate Howard's guts, his instinct is sometimes very sound. I wish you hadn't said that thing about in case anything happens to you. It's tempting fate.'

  'Don't be so superstitious,' Tweed chided.

  Monica slammed her pencil down on her desk. 'Have we got one damn thing to go on after all this effort?'

  'Two things. When I was interviewing old Petros at his farm he mentioned there had been rumours during the Second World War that the Greek Key was controlled by an Englishman in Cairo.'

  'Seton-Charles was in Cairo…'

  'So were the three commandos. The second thing also came from Greece. Kalos told me a radio ham – a friend of Sarris' – had picked up a coded message. At the end there was an instruction in English. From now on the call sign is changed to Colonel Winter. History can be changed by such chance happenings.'

  Paula arrived early when Tweed and Monica were standing by the window, drinking tea. She was behind the wheel of Newman's Mercedes. As she parked by the kerb further along the Crescent Tweed saw the automatic radio aerial retracting, sliding down inside the rear. He frowned, held his cup in mid-air.

  'What is it?' asked Monica.

  'Nothing. Just an idea.'

  'She's made very good time. And she seems to be in a rush – she's almost running. And her clothes!'

  Paula was wearing a pair of tight blue denims and a windcheater. An outfit neither of them had ever seen her adopt before. Paula was classic pleated skirts and blouse with a well-fitting jacket. She disappeared inside the entrance below them.

  'I'll make her coffee,' Monica decided. 'She's had quite a long drive. Back in a minute. And I think something's wrong.'

  Tweed had his back to the window when there was a knock on his door, he called, 'Come in,' and Paula appeared, carrying in one hand her briefcase, in the other her small travelling case.

  'What's the matter?' he asked, coming forward.

  'Does there have to be something?' she asked, went to her desk and dumped two cases. Her voice was cool, too cool. She turned, leaning against the desk, and smiled wanly as he gave her a hug, kissed her on the cheek. She was a shade too controlled.

  She took off her gloves slowly, placed one neatly on top of the other. Then she folded her arms, tilted her chin in the defiant look he knew so well. She was white-faced and there were dark circles under her eyes.

  'I drove like a bat out of hell to get here.' She smiled again at his expression. 'But within the speed limit all the way.'

  'What's the matter?' he repeated.

  'You really are the most perceptive man.' She paused. 'It's good to be back.' Another pause. 'I've just shot two men.'

  Tweed concealed the jolt he'd felt. 'Why not sit down and tell me about it? Monica is coming with coffee. The Browning automatic I sent down by courier was for you then? Not for Newman or Marler, as I thought?' 'They've given me hell, those two.' She sat down, crossed her legs. 'I gave them hell back. Am I – or am I not – a fully-fledged member of this outfit?'

  'Very fledged.' He smiled and drew a chair close to her. 'I have always shown you that's the way I feel, surely?'

  'Yes. You have. Want to hear about my target-shooting – with live targets?'

  Her voice was steady but Tweed sensed tension under the surface. He fetched a bottle of cognac and a glass from a cupboard, poured a hefty snifter. 'Get that down inside yourself.'

  'Thanks.' She held the ballo
on glass in both hands to drink – to stop the glass shaking, Tweed suspected. 'My, that's made a difference.' She relaxed against the chair-back, her normal colour started to return. 'I hardly know where to start. I suppose it was Marler who saved my life. He arrived soon after I did.'

  'Because I decided we needed every possible person down there. Exmoor is a vast territory to cover. And why not start at the beginning? When you'd arrived with Newman at Porlock Weir…'

  Monica had phoned ahead and there were two rooms reserved for them when Newman and Paula carried their cases into The Anchor. They reached Porlock Weir in the early evening – Newman had encountered heavy sea mist drifting across the road. The moor was blotted out.

  They had a conference with Butler and Nield over dinner and divided up duties. Newman took charge, made the suggestion. The dining room was almost empty so they could talk easily.

  'We have three people to watch – Robson, Barrymore and Kearns. Nield, you take Robson. I'll keep an eye on Barrymore. That leaves Butler for Kearns…'

  'No go,' Butler informed him. 'Tweed has given me the job of checking out the people who live on that bungalow estate near Reams' place.'

  'And I'd like to help Harry, if he doesn't mind,' Paula said. 'I was the one who thought there was something odd about the place.'

  'Be my guest,' replied Butler with enthusiasm. 'I've been helping Nield watch the three commando types. The electoral register in Taunton is our first check,' he told Paula.

  'Then I'll have to take on both Barrymore and Kearns,' Newman decided. He grinned at Paula. 'You're just about as bloody… independent as Marler.'

  'You were going to say bloody-minded,' Paula told him. 'Maybe I am. Do I get the order of the boot?'

  'I'll overlook it this time. Eat your dinner, it's getting cold. ..'

  The problem solved itself the following day when Marler turned up at The Anchor, sent down by Tweed. Secretly Newman had been relieved the previous evening: Paula would have protection, working with Butler. He was careful not to point this out to Paula.

  While Paula and Butler visited Taunton, Newman gave Marler the task of shadowing Kearns in his hired Peugeot. Apart from Newman, they all travelled in hired cars. It took a week for Butler and Paula to come up with a list of names of the owners of the bungalows on the estate. Once she had the names Paula took to visiting The Royal Oak at Winsford where she was soon firm friends with the heavily built barman. She always arrived before the crowd at lunchtime, always came alone.