by Colin Forbes
'Marler would,' Tweed commented drily.
'But Bob said I'd done the right thing. He took the Browning, spare mags and my makeshift holster. They were going to end up in the sea. Bob also said it was lucky Norton's gun went off by chance. That would confuse the police investigation.'
'Eat your ham sandwiches,' said Monica. 'You need something inside you.'
'Now you mention it, I'm famished.' She devoured one sandwich and Tweed waited, glancing at his watch. 'Am I holding you up?' she asked.
'No. Our tame accountant is due soon. Butler reported that he had followed Foster twice to the Somerset and Cornwall Bank in Bristol. He saw him draw about a thousand pounds in cash each time. He heard the teller address him as Mr Foster. Perry has the details and is in the Engine Room phoning God knows who to trace where that money came from. It's so often the money which helps us find out who people really are.'
'Well, there is something wrong about that bungalow estate. I said it was funny when we first saw it,' Paula said defiantly.
Tweed nodded. He understood her attitude. She was bound to suffer a reaction from the experience sooner or later. And the sooner the better.
'It's the first time I've shot anyone,' Paula went on and sank her teeth into a fresh sandwich.
'They're only injured,' Tweed assured her. 'Newman drove over to the estate after you'd left in the Mercedes. He arrived as they were carting those two thugs into an ambulance. He showed his old press card and they recognized the name. He called the hospital later.'
Tweed omitted to tell her Norton was in a coma, that Morle was still unconscious. Police were waiting by their bedsides ready to take statements.
'More alarming,' he went on, switching her mind to another topic, 'Marler arrived at the estate and flourished his fake Special Branch card, so the police let him in. The bungalows are all empty. The cars have gone. Most sinister of all, they can find not a single fingerprint. Everything has been wiped clean. You were so right about that estate.'
'What does that mean – no fingerprints?' Paula asked.
'I think you discovered the secret base of sleepers established fifteen years ago by the Englishman who controls the Greek Key. A base which was recently activated – and has now been evacuated – thanks to your encounter with Norton and Morle. We have now made copies in the Engine Room of those photos you took – and circulated them to every police force in the country. We also have their names.' He glanced down at the list on his desk.
Foster, Saunders, Norton, Morle, Sully.
'Anything else?'
'Yes. Before I sent out the European alert I circulated the registration number of Seton-Charles' Volvo station wagon over here. And Newman visited Bristol University with a police artist. They used several students to build an Identikit picture of the professor. Copies of that have gone out.'
'Will anyone take much notice?'
'I think so,' Tweed said grimly. 'I named him suspected terrorist planner. Highly dangerous.'
Talking of terrorists,' Monica chimed in, 'there's an interesting story I cut from a recent copy of The Times. Two Shi-ite Muslim killers were air-lifted by a chopper from Gartree Prison exercise yard. Most audacious. They killed an Iraqi diplomat.'
Tweed wasn't listening. Paula had remembered a further incident.
There was a big landslip when Bob and I were walking from The Anchor one night along the coast…' She described the experience. They've put up a big notice. Warning. Keep clear. Danger of cliff falls.'
The phone rang. Monica answered, looked up at Tweed. 'Perry is ready to emerge from the basement with his report on the Foster bank account.'
Tell him to come up.'
Perry was a small, precise, neatly dressed man who wore pince-nez. Monica thought he was a giggle but he had a shrewd financial brain. Clutching a blue file, he sat on the edge of a chair facing Tweed. He glanced at Monica and Paula.
This is highly confidential.'
Tweed compressed his lips. 'You should realize by now Paula and Monica know more about what's going on than you ever will.'
Then I will commence.'
He opened his fat file but Tweed glanced at his watch. He had to leave soon for his appointment with the PM. And now Paula had brought information – facts – which made his interview well worthwhile.
'Just tell me in a few words what you've found out.'
'Very well, but I think you should read the file later. The enquiry took longer than I expected. It is a devious trail -and I had to get Walton, head of Special Branch, to vouch for me before the bank manager in Bristol would talk. Then I had to use your name for Europe
…'
'I know. Chief Inspector Kuhlmann of Wiesbaden in Germany called me. So did Beck in Zurich. Do get on with it.'
'Foster originally had twenty thousand pounds in his Bristol account. He's closed it now. The money was telexed from the Deutsche Bank in Frankfurt. They received it from the Zurcher Kredit Bank in Zurich. That's the end of the road.'
'What does that mean?'
'Zurcher Kredit received the funds from Liechtenstein. That's an iron door no one can open. Not much help, is it?'
'On the contrary, it fits into the pattern which is appearing so rapidly at last. Thank you, Perry. Yes, I suppose you'd better leave the file.'
He waited until they were alone. 'A secret Soviet base is set up fifteen years ago – in hardline Brezhnev's time -at that bungalow estate. It's screaming at us now. Those five men in their early forties would be in their mid-twenties when they slipped into this country. They'd have identities cooked up at Moscow Centre's Documents Section. A Colonel Winterton – whom no one ever met – bought a piece of land with an old house on it. Marler found that out from pub gossip. He had the house knocked down, the six bungalows built in its place. All ready for the Spetsnaz unit to move in…'
' Spetsnaz? '' Monica queried.
'You know – elite Soviet troops equivalent to our SAS. Trained to merge into the landscape of a foreign country. They were probably originally intended to assassinate specific key figures in the defence of this country. The leader of the Greek Key, an Englishman living on Exmoor, was their commander.'
'I know what they are,' Monica protested, 'but surely you're reaching, as the Americans would say. Guessing…'
'I'd sooner say I'm deducing the solution from clues now in our hands. They always kept to themselves. Foster visited The Royal Oak and chatted to the barman. Luckily barmen have good memories. Foster makes a point of telling him two wives have jobs abroad – which makes the place sound more natural, as opposed to six bachelors, including Seton-Charles. Having fed the barman that much – knowing it would be spread round the district – Foster never goes back there again. Paula finds one woman is cleaning all six bungalows…'
'In her forties, too, I'd say,' Paula interjected.
That's very peculiar,' Tweed continued. 'Six men, all strangers apparently when they buy their bungalows, use the same woman. In England? Not likely. Now Perry tells us Foster draws large sums from a fund which originated in Liechtenstein. So we can't trace where the money came from. Now we hear they've all disappeared, leaving not one fingerprint behind. Everything those men did is shrouded in secrecy. Except the two in hospital. It stinks of Spetsnaz.'
'And it wasn't due to the shooting incident Paula was involved in,' Monica stated. 'How do I know that? Because I know how long it takes to clean my flat. To erase all fingerprints from six bungalows must have taken days of meticulous work by that woman. They were leaving anyway. Doesn't that mean an operation is imminent?'
'It means we have very little time left to trace them,' Tweed said grimly. 'And I have very little time to keep my appointment with the PM.'
'Anything more we can do?' asked Monica as he put on his Burberry. It was typical November weather outside, a heavy drizzle.
'Only wait. And hope. We've thrown out across the country all the information we hold. I'm off.'
'One other thing while I remember,' Paula
said. 'Nield heard this in a pub. Reams' dog kept on moping and whining for Jill. He shot it recently and buried it in the garden at the back of his house. Put up a wooden cross inscribed. In loving memory of Jill.''
'Damn!' Tweed hardly heard her as the phone began ringing and Monica picked it up. 'I can't talk to anyone…'
'It's Marler. Says it's very urgent.'
'Make it quick,' Tweed said after grabbing the receiver.
'Newman visited the hospital after hearing Morle was talking. Arrived, found Morle had a serious case of fever, high temperature. The policeman told Bob what Morle had mumbled. One word over and over. Then Newman heard it. Stinger. The police chap thought he was talking about the drink. Stinger. Do you get it?'
'Yes.' Tweed found he was gripping the receiver tightly. He said thank you and put down the phone.
'Bad news?' Paula asked.
'The worst. Now we know what Anton brought ashore. Stinger rocket launchers and missiles. God help us.'
He ran down the steps to the ground floor, forced himself to pause at the exit, glance round. Across the road stood the usual news seller. He stopped briefly to buy an Evening Standard. And this time he stared at the poster summarizing the main news.
Gorbachev To Meet Thatcher At Brize Norton En Route Washington.
49
Jupiter lay very still in bed inside his house on Exmoor. In the dark he ticked off in his mind the list of tasks dealt with. Everyone was now in place. It was 30 November: Gorbachev would land at Brize Norton on Monday 7 December.
Land? He would be blown to pieces in mid-air. The meeting with the British Prime Minister would never take place. Within days, Yigor Ligachev, Number Two in the Politburo, would take over as the new General Secretary. Ligachev had no time or sympathy with glasnost, with perestroika, and all the other nonsense. He had openly said so.
Jupiter had been trained as a youth in the hardline school. The world must be made safe for Lenin's Marxist principles. Only the Red Army could achieve the final victory. And I, he thought, will have contributed an essential role to that eventual victory I won't live to see. The Red Flag flying over Buckingham Palace, the White House in Washington. No, that would take more years than I have.
He smiled as he thought of the final signal he had transmitted to Greece. He had changed the scenario. The weak link was Florakis. It was ironic – that Florakis would pass on to Doganis the signal tomorrow, signing his own death warrant. Closed circuit.
Driving along the coast road to Cape Sounion just before dawn, Doganis hunched his huge, seemingly flabby bulk over the wheel. It suited him to be up early: he no longer slept well and woke with his brain churning with excitement. Everything had gone so well. Using Petros' insane lust for revenge as a smokescreen had completely foiled the opposition. He pulled up close to the hotel site, leaving his engine running.
'I have a fresh signal,' the lean-faced Florakis said as he got into the passenger seat. 'But why do I need the transceiver?'
'Put it in the boot,' Doganis ordered.
He waited until they were driving along the winding highway before he answered. Florakis glanced at Doganis who stared straight ahead: he disliked him intensely, this mountain of flesh, gone to seed. He should keep fit, an activity Florakis prided himself on,
'We are moving the location where you transmit from,' Doganis informed him. 'It is dangerous to transmit from the same area too frequently. You said it was a short message. Two words. What are they?'
'Closed circuit. That was all. Then he signed off.'
I guessed right, Doganis thought. And the timing is correct. Soon the operation will be accomplished. Unlike Florakis, he knew this would be the last signal. He went on talking as he drove closer and closer to Cape Sounion. And his own timing was correct – it was still half an hour before dawn.
'In future you will transmit from the summit of Cape Sounion. There is no one about at 2 a.m. I will show you the ideal place I have found – a dip in the ground beyond the temple.'
He stopped the car at the entrance to the track leading up from the highway. He told Florakis to fetch the transceiver. Inwardly Florakis sneered at this; the flabby bastard hadn't even the strength to lug the transceiver uphill.
They walked in silence past the restaurant and hotel which showed no lights. Then they climbed the twisting rocky path to the summit. Doganis wheezed, apparently with the effort. They reached the elegant Temple of Poseidon, its columns silhouetted in the dark.
Doganis led the way past it and down the slope towards the cliff edge. The ground was covered with scrubby grass and Doganis stopped at the edge of a bowl. He pointed one thick finger.
'That is the place. You make all future transmissions from here. ..'
'I see. But why bring the transceiver? I am not going to use it now.'
'Because you will not need it any more.'
Doganis raised his huge hands, clamped them round the throat of Florakis. The Greek was taken by surprise, but not frightened. Doganis had gone mad – even to imagine he could cope with a man of Florakis' strength. He tried to knee Doganis in the groin, but the attacker had turned sideways and the blow struck his thigh. Florakis felt a flash of fear. It had been like hitting the leg of an elephant. The pressure on his windpipe increased. Lights appeared before his eyes. Doganis' face seemed enormous as he began to bend Florakis whose back arched in a bow. If the process continued his back would be broken. Panic took hold. He kicked futilely with his right foot at Doganis' leg. It felt like striking ebony. Then he sagged, lost consciousness as Doganis went on strangling him.
Satisfied that he had done the job, Doganis let him slump to the ground. They were perched on top of the slope. Doganis used one foot to lever the prostrate corpse. It began to roll. The momentum increased. Like a broken rag doll Florakis vanished over the edge of the cliff. Doganis grunted with satisfaction, flexed his hands.
'I am arresting you for cold-blooded murder,' a quiet voice said behind him.
The Dormouse stood about two dozen feet away, further along the top of the ridge where it curved inland. He stood, a tiny figure, with his hands clasped behind his back, staring at Doganis, at the sea behind him which stretched away like a sheet of black steel. Stood as though about to make a speech.
'You came alone?'
Doganis could hardly believe it, looked round for, reinforcements.
The plump tiny figure looked so absurd. There was no sign of anyone else.
'Yes,' said Kalos. 'I have been watching your apartment in the Plaka for days – and nights. I followed you in my Saab without lights. You were so intent on your murderous plan you never dreamed you might be followed.'
'And you think you are going to arrest me?'
Doganis began to move slowly towards Kalos who remained quite still. Hands still clasped behind his back as Doganis crept along the ridge, padding silently.
'Is this the way you killed the Englishman, Harry Masterson?' he asked.
'Yes. You might as well know it since you will end as food for the fishes. Masterson was also deceived like Florakis -by thinking I was a fat weak slob. I told him I could show him where the leader of the Greek Key lived. He was making too many enquiries about us. He was confident he could handle me. And he was stronger than Florakis.'
'Stay where you are,' Kalos ordered. 'Do not take one more step towards me. I have handcuffs behind my back. I am taking you in.'
Doganis continued his ape-like progress. A sound came from inside him, a rumbling noise which was his version of a chuckle. He raised both hands, ready to grasp this doll round the throat. He would be able to lift him off his feet, throw him over…
Kalos brought both hands from behind his back. They held the 9mm Walther automatic he had extracted from the holster strapped to the middle of his back. He fired once, aiming to disable. The bullet struck Doganis in the left shoulder. He stopped. Then he came on again. Kalos fired again. At the thigh. Still Doganis moved forward like an enraged bull elephant. Kalos shifted his aim,
shot him through the heart.
Doganis slumped slowly to the ground on the seaward side of the ridge, on to the slope. Like Florakis, his huge bulk began to roll. He caught a medium-sized boulder a glancing blow and the loosened boulder also started to roll. Kalos stood watching as Doganis' body reached a steeper section of slope, picking up speed. The gross corpse shot over the brink, dropped out of sight to fall three hundred feet, followed by the boulder.
He walked over to the transceiver Doganis had intended hurling off the cliff. He embraced its sides with both hands, his gun slid back inside his holster, and staggered back to his Saab, preserving Florakis' fingerprints on the handle.
50
Three men paced the snow-bound barracks square southwest of Moscow. In the centre of the group strode General Lucharsky, flanked by the other two members of the Troika. Their boots crunched the hard snow and they had the square to themselves: all officers and men were moving out aboard military transport for the annual manoeuvres in the Ukraine which would be watched by Lucharsky.
The timing suited Lucharsky admirably. He would be out of the way when the imminent crisis broke. His companions waited for him to speak. He kept them waiting. An assertion of his authority. A bitter wind whipped at his white bony face.
'Everything is prepared,' he said eventually. 'We are so far advanced radio communications are being cut. The weak links in the Greek Key are being eliminated. It all depends now on Jupiter in England.'
'Gorbachev has played into our hands,' commented General Budienny. Thank God he is landing in England. But British security is very good. Is Jupiter better?'
The commander of the Spetsnaz unit which has been activated is an ex-soldier in the British Army. A formidable man. He will find a way. Meantime, General Budienny, your armoured division will remain here ready to seal off Moscow should a crisis arise.' He stopped and stared hard at the stocky, wide-shouldered general. 'But on no account must you move unless you receive a direct order from Yigor Ligachev to preserve stability.'
