The Greek Key tac-6

by Colin Forbes

  'Go on,' he repeated, confident he already knew the answer.

  'Harry Masterson. I was very taken aback. Then I thought it could be one of the three men using a false name. Especially because of the precautions he told me to take when he arranged to meet me.'

  'What precautions?'

  'I had to meet him at a certain place in Lincoln's Inn -where all the British lawyers are. It frightened me when I arrived at eleven in the morning. No one about. All those ancient courtyards. I thought it was a trap. I'd armed myself with an aerosol. He was very clever. The appointment was for the same morning he phoned. I only had less than an hour to get there.'

  Yes, very clever, Newman thought. So typical of Harry -to select a rendezvous where he could watch her approach, make sure no one was following her. A thought occurred to him.

  'How would he know it was you?'

  'On the phone he asked me where I was and to give a description of myself, what I would be wearing. I waited for ten minutes and decided no one was coming. At that moment he came round a corner. Again he was clever. I realized he couldn't be one of the three men – he was too young. But I thought one of them might have sent him. He took me a short walk to a public place in Fleet Street, The Cheshire Cheese pub. Lots of people about. I felt safe then.'

  She paused and drank half a glass of champagne. The restaurant was filling up. As he listened Newman kept a check on the new faces; for one especially. The face of Petros. He'd recognize him: from the picture Sarris, the police chief, had shown him; and even more from that moment he had spotted Petros inside the black Mercedes when they had returned early in the morning from police HQ.

  'We're inside The Cheshire Cheese,' he reminded her after their meals of spit-roasted chicken had been served.

  'Harry had a way with women. I felt he was OK but I still asked who he was, what he did. He said he was with Special Branch, the British secret police. I asked him to prove it and he showed me a card with his photograph. I found myself telling him about the murders of Andreas and Stephen, why I'd come to London, about Barrymore, Kearns and Robson. He said he had ways of tracing them. I couldn't believe my luck. I asked him what his interest was.'

  'And he told you?' Newman was intrigued to learn what piece of fiction Harry had invented to cover that question.

  'He said it might just link up with a case he had investigated and never solved. We arranged to meet the following day after he'd made certain enquiries. I've no idea where he went.,.'

  I have, thought Newman. To pump Brigadier Willie Davies at the Ministry of Defence. He let her eat her meal while he traced in his mind what had happened. It was all becoming horribly clear now – the tragedy of Harry Masterson.

  Harry had been given a month's leave. Unmarried, Harry detested holidays, got bored within twenty-four hours. He'd seen the advertisement Christina had placed in The Times and reacted to it for a lark – anything to occupy his time.

  The moment he'd met Christina he'd been hooked – but cautious – by her story, by Christina herself. Harry liked the ladies. He had still kept up his guard by pretending to be a Special Branch officer. That had impressed Christina, had given her confidence he could help her. But at any time Harry could pull out, pleading call of duty with another case.

  'What happened next?' he asked as she pushed her empty plate to one side. 'And we need more champagne…'He mimed the request to their waiter.

  'When he arrived next morning at the Strand Palace he was carrying a small case. He told me to pack, that we were going on a journey, that he'd traced not only Barry-more, but Kearns and Robson, too. I was shaken to the core. He said we had to drive to the West Country, to a place called Exmoor…'

  She went on to explain how they had put up at a hotel in Dunster near the coast, Harry had then driven off to visit the three men now he knew their addresses.

  'He made appointments?' Newman asked.

  'No, he was devious. He phoned each of the three men and said he was making an enquiry on behalf of the Ministry of Defence, that he would be with them shortly. Then he put the phone down before they could ask any questions. That way he knew they'd be where they lived when he arrived.'

  'You'd told him everything you knew about the two murders – one in Cairo, one on Siros? And about Petros' vendetta?'

  'Yes.' She smiled ruefully, 'Harry could get any secret out of a woman. I told him more than I intended to.'

  'So what happened after he'd seen the ex-commandos?'

  'He was suspicious of one of them. He wouldn't tell me which one. He told each of them the identity of the murderer was now known, that he was on his way to Athens to check with the chief of police. He thought the guilty one would follow us.'

  Oh God, Newman realized, and he succeeded. At the cost of his own life. No back-up. That had been Harry's fatal blunder. But he had always been a lone wolf, brimming with self-confidence. Had he left behind a clue?

  'Did he say anything about how the three men received him?'

  'He was very amusing about Colonel Barrymore who tried to treat him like a common soldier. They had a violent argument. Harry ended up by telling him that if they'd had many colonels like him they would have lost the war. Then we flew out here.'

  'What came next?'

  'I don't really know.' For the first time she sounded depressed. 'We booked in at the Astir Palace at Vouliagmeni. That's a sea resort on the way to Cape Sounion…' Which is why we weren't able to locate where he stayed, Newman thought grimly. She continued as he watched her closely. 'He said he was going to see Chief Inspector Sarris. I don't know whether he ever did. He changed his mind a lot.' She sipped more champagne and leaned against him. 'I'm getting a bit tiddly. Lovely.'

  He changed his mind a lot. Newman knew why Harry had done that: to keep Christina off balance in case she was passing on information to someone. He had never completely let down his guard with her.

  'Then what happened?' Newman prodded.

  'He told me over early breakfast one morning he was visiting Devil's Valley. He wouldn't say why. I'd told him about the silver mine. I think he was going to try and find it. I feel awful about that. I may be responsible for what happened to him.'

  'What silver mine?'

  'It's near the top of a mountain in Devil's Valley. Nobody has worked it for years. It's abandoned – but Petros forbids anyone to go near it. I don't know why. He has even told his shepherds who work near it to shoot anyone they see prowling in that area.'

  'Which is against the law,' Newman remarked.

  'Petros makes his own law. Harry was intrigued by that silver mine – why it was forbidden territory. I've never been near the place.' She shuddered, drank more champagne.

  'So, when Harry set out on his last journey that morning he was trying to locate this abandoned mine. Any idea what the place is like?'

  'Dimitrios once told me something when he was drunk. The shaft is still open. It goes down a long way, a vertical drop with the old cage which took down miners still suspended at the top. It sounded horribly sinister to me. But at the last minute before he left Harry changed his mind again. He received a phone call when he was getting ready to leave his bedroom. He said he might go first to Cape Sounion to meet the Englishman.'

  'What Englishman? What time in the morning was this?'

  Newman was watching her closely. Was she spinning him an elaborate yarn? Setting the same trap for him she'd set for Harry? She was such a beauty with her mane of black glossy hair; by the light of the single lighted candle on their table her bare shoulders gleamed. A girl to dazzle any man.

  'We'd had breakfast at six,' she continued. 'Neither of us could sleep that night. The phone call must have come through before seven in the morning. Harry went up to his room to take it. He looked pleased when he came back, said his ruse had worked. I presume he meant telling those three ex-commandos he was flying to Greece while we were on Exmoor. The caller had disguised his voice but Harry was sure he knew who it was. He wouldn't give me even a hint. Said i
t was dangerous…'

  And it had been dangerous, Newman reflected grimly. It had ended in Harry's death. But what she had told him was confusing. Had Harry tried to locate the silver mine first before going on to Cape Sounion?

  'Christina, did Harry know the exact location of the worked-out silver mine?'

  'Yes. He had a map of the area he bought in Athens. He asked me to mark its precise location on the map, which I did. Afterwards I wished I hadn't done that. Harry could be very persuasive.'

  'So can I.' He produced a large-scale map he'd purchased of the huge peninsular area stretching between Athens and Cape Sounion. 'Mark the location for me.'

  She pushed back her empty plate, clasped her hands in her lap, turned to face him. 'No. The last time I did that a man died. I'm growing fond of you, Bob…'

  'Cut that out,' he said brutally. 'Mark the bloody map. Now!'

  'It's your funeral.' Her eyes flashed. 'And don't ever use that tone to me again.' She spread out the map, took the pen he offered, studied the map, then drew a cross at the top of a mountain.

  'Petros is crazy,' she warned. 'You'd be crazy too if you went anywhere near Devil's Valley.'

  'When was the last time you saw Harry? Alive, I mean,' he persisted, his voice cold.

  'You bastard…' Her voice trembled. She was on the verge of tears. 'When he left the breakfast room and went straight to his hired car…' She fiddled in her envelope-shaped handbag for a handkerchief.

  He put an arm round her back, rested his hand on her shoulder. 'No need to get uptight, Christina. But I knew Harry well. I have to know everything he did – planned to do. What about a spot of dessert? The strawberry gateau looks pretty good – forget about your figure for tonight, even if I can't…'

  'Flattery could get you somewhere.' She recovered her poise as he squeezed her shoulder. 'And I'd love some gateau. And more champagne.'

  He waited until dessert was served, until she was tucking into the huge quantity with gusto. To sum up,' he began, 'you went to London at Petros' command, inserted the advertisement, made contact with Harry. OK so far?'

  'On the nose,' she assured him and winked.

  'He drove you to Exmoor, after tracing Barrymore, Robson and Kearns. He went to see each man, told them he was flying soon to Greece. You arrived with him. What was your mood about the mission Petros had sent you on when you got back here?'

  'Bloody bolshie. I'd had Petros up to here. The trip to London – and spending time with Harry – had snapped any bonds with Petros. I didn't care any more who had killed Stephen, Andreas. I'd never even known them. I was worried about Harry. Now I'm worried about you. If it's not a secret, what are you going to do next? Please

  She laid a hand on his arm. Then she waited until he turned towards her and kissed him full on the mouth. 'Please,' she repeated. 'I've been honest with you.'

  'Fair enough. I'm going to phone a man in London I know after I've packed you off to bed. And Marler will stand guard. Outside your room.'

  'Who are you phoning?' she pressed.

  'My editor,' he lied. 'I am a foreign correspondent. Remember?'

  22

  Newman arrived at the British Embassy at eleven, well after dark. The large villa on Sofias Avenue was surrounded by a stone wall, looming up behind a Turkish-style church. Patterson, his contact, was a pain in the neck.

  Impatiently, Newman waited in the hall as the round-faced man in his forties carefully examined his press card and then his passport. A typical bureaucrat, Newman thought: inflated with a sense of his own importance. Smooth-faced, he turned the passport pages with irritating slowness.

  'For God's sake,' Newman snapped. 'You knew I was coming. Tweed warned you.'

  'It is my responsibility who uses the phone,' Patterson responded in his bland voice.

  'It's just a phone…'

  'It's the scrambler,' Patterson reminded him pompously. 'I have to log all calls, be very careful who uses it. You have no diplomatic status…'

  ' You won't have any if I report you're obstructing me. You're on probation, don't forget.'

  The blow struck home. Patterson's well-padded face flushed, he ran a manicured hand over his slick black hair. 'No need to be rude,' he bleated.

  'Just realistic. Let's get on with it. Now. Tweed is waiting. Or have you forgotten London is two hours behind us? He likes to get home early to work on files,' Newman lied.

  The phone was in a small room in the basement. A table, chairs pushed under it, the phone with the red button the only object on the table top. Newman sat down, reached for the phone, then looked up at Patterson who still stood waiting.

  'Piss off, there's a good chap. This is confidential. Leave the card and passport on the table. Shut the door on your way out.'

  Pressing the red button, he dialled Park Crescent. Paula came on the line within seconds. She sounded relieved to hear his voice.

  'We wondered what the devil was happening to you…'

  'Nice to be loved. Tweed about? Firs on scrambler from the Embassy in Athens.'

  'He's here. Take care…'

  Tweed sounded as fresh as sea air at nine in the evening. Newman plunged straight into a terse report of what had taken place since his arrival. Tweed listened without interrupting. At the end of five minutes Newman concluded his story.

  That brings you up to date. Doesn't really take us any further as to who killed Harry.'

  'It might have done. You have a pipeline into this weird Gavalas clan – Christina. Whether she can be trusted is for you to assess. What do you think?'

  'I'm leaning to the idea she has broken with the whole crew. But only leaning – she's pretty street-wise and could be a first-rate actress. Pity Harry hadn't told her who the mysterious Englishman who phoned him was. Could it have been one of the commando trio?'

  'Yes. All three I visited had just returned from separate holidays abroad. All had a deep suntan – which they could have picked up in Greece. The timing is right, too. One of them could have been out there at exactly the time Masterson was killed. I have ihe feeling the solution lies in Greece. That raid on Siros all those years ago. What intrigues me is the missing body – who took the dead Andreas away from that gulch? And why? I may fly out to join you when the right moment comes. What's your next move?'

  To explore that old silver mine in Devil's Valley. Something very strange about, that – the way Petros takes such precautions to keep strangers sway from the place…'

  'Don't!' Tweed's tone was sharp. 'I don't like the sound of Mr Petros one bit. We may do it together later. You need plenty of back-up to go into a place like that. Harry Butler and Pete Nield would be useful. Plus Marler. At the moment Butler and Nield are on Exmoor, nosing around and picking up gossip about Barrymore, Reams and Robson. How are you finding Marler?' Tweed asked casually.

  'A pain. But I can handle him. One thing I will give him – he's a good man to go into the jungle with. I'll keep you in touch…'

  'Don't go.' A pause. 'At this stage it seems like a vendetta directed by Petros against whoever killed his two sons, Andreas and Stephen. His main suspects being on Exmoor. Is that how you see it?'

  'With the little data we have to go on yet, yes. Especially now you've told me about this Anton character. Christina hasn't mentioned him, which I find odd. Butler and Nield are on the lookout for Anton, too, I assume?'

  'Anton has disappeared. I suspect he's flown by some secret route back to Greece. He didn't pass through London Airport – I've had the security chief there check the passenger manifests.'

  'But it backs up the vendetta theory.' Newman paused and Tweed said nothing. 'Or is there something more?'

  'I think this business could be much bigger, far more serious than we realize. I can't figure out the link between Exmoor and Greece.'

  'There has to be one?'

  'If there isn't, then we're wasting our time. But who pushed Masterson over a Greek cliff?' Tweed paused again. 'After he'd visited Exmoor. We're missing something…'

/>   Florakis – Oleg Savinkov, The Executioner – crouched at the top of the mountain above his farm. It was 2 a.m. and earlier he had received a coded signal he suspected emanated from inside the Soviet Embassy in Athens.

  His suspicions were correct. But he would have been surprised had he known the hand which tapped out the message was that of Colonel Rykovsky, military attache. Rykovsky had waited until the Embassy staff had gone home: hence the arrangement made via Doganis for Savinkov to be ready to receive the signal at two in the morning.

  Savinkov had placed the powerful transceiver given to him in a small depression at the mountain summit. The telescopic aerial was extended as he checked his watch by the light of a pencil torch. Time to retransmit the message to England. And for that elevation was needed to cover the long distance.

  His bony face was tense with concentration as he sent out the call signal, received immediate acknowledgement. He began tapping out the coded message, keeping an eye on his watch as he operated. Three minutes was the maximum agreed time for any transmission.

  It was unlikely Greek counter-espionage would have detector vans as far south as this remote wilderness, but Doganis had emphasized the importance of security.

  Take no chances. You are the linchpin of the whole operation.'

  'What operation?' Savinkov had asked.

  'I don't know, but it's big, very big, It could change the whole course of history. That's all I've been told.'

  The words echoed in Savinkov's brain as he completed tapping out the signal. He felt excited as he depressed the aerial, Sifted the heavy transceiver back inside the shabby suitcase. It was a long climb back down the mountain to the farm but he would be there long before daylight.

  One thousand six hundred-odd miles to the north-west another hand on Exmoor was already beginning the task of decoding the signal which had just come in from Greece. The unbreakable one-time code had been used, the novel the series of numbers referred to was Sinclair Lewis' Main Street. Half an hour later the message was decoded, written on the pad which had a sheet of protective plastic beneath the sheet to avoid any risk of an impression of the wording reproducing itself on the sheet beneath the plastic.