The Greek Key tac-6

by Colin Forbes

  'He works for you these days?' Sarris enquired.

  'No, he doesn't. But when he's after a story and comes across something he feels affects national security he tells me.' That covered Newman. 'I have a big favour to ask you. Hold off any action on this character Stavros Florakis. Give him enough rope and he'll hang himself. I'm at the early stages of the investigation.'

  'What investigation is that? If I may ask.'

  'You may. I'm investigating the death of one of my top men – Harry Masterson. Can't tell you what it's about yet. Point is Florakis' farm is close to Cape Sounion where Masterson died in suspicious circumstances.'

  'Official verdict is an accident.'

  'And the unofficial? I'm on scrambler.'

  'So am I,' Sarris assured him. 'We had it installed when drugs became a major problem. Unofficially? I'm only expressing my personal opinion. There are people higher up who wouldn't like this…'

  'Don't worry. This chat is totally confidential.'

  'Masterson was murdered. I went to the Cape myself, looked over the ground. No sane man could have stumbled over the edge. And Masterson was very sane – I saw him once at the Hilton. So, you want me to hold off the cavalry?'

  'Please. We're at an early stage. Peter. I'm not sure at which end the key lies yet – yours or mine. Talking about keys, have you ever heard of the Greek Key?'

  Sarris hesitated. Only for a second or two, but Tweed caught it.

  'Doesn't mean a thing to me. Will we be seeing you out here?' he continued.

  'Hard to say just now. How is Kalos? I remember him well at that security conference in Geneva. You have a clever assistant there.'

  'Ah, but you are shrewder than some people here on the higher floors.' Sarris hesitated, this time for longer. Tweed waited, sensing the Greek was making up his mind about something. 'It is interesting you mentioned Kalos. He has made an important discovery. As you may know, Newman obtained Florakis' fingerprints. We were putting them through the computer. Kalos – as always – went his own way. He checked back through a card index of old records going back to 1946.'

  'Sounds like Kalos,' Tweed commented.

  'He came up trumps. An hour ago we were comparing the fingerprints of Stavros Florakis with another set under the magnifier. They matched.'

  'Who is he really?' Tweed kept the excitement out of his voice.

  'A certain Oleg Savinkov. Sent in by Stalin to murder leaders of EDES, the right-wing group fighting the Communists during the Civil War. Are you with me?'

  'I have read about it. Go on.'

  'Savinkov was nicknamed The Executioner, sometimes The Russian. So what is he doing as an impostor back in Greece? Someone has reactivated him. Can't be Gorbachev. He's in the Detente business. You still want me to hold off the dogs?'

  'More than ever. And I will definitely be flying to Greece as soon as I can…

  28

  Newman knew there was something wrong the moment he stepped out of the elevator on Christina's floor. Nick was sitting in an armchair on guard. He was smoking a cigarette and the ash tray on the marble-topped table was filled with discarded butts,

  But it was Nick's reaction as soon as the elevator doors opened which warned Newman. Nick stood up abruptly and his right hand slid inside his jacket towards the Smith amp; Wesson revolver Newman had returned to him. When he saw who it was Nick converted the movement into scratching his armpit.

  'Is she safe?' Newman asked.

  'OK. But we have a problem, a crisis. Anton, one of her relatives, has arrived. He came up to this floor, then wandered off down that corridor when he saw me. Later he came back and went down into the lobby again. Could still be there.'

  'A good moment for me to have a little talk with Christina.'

  'Maybe not. She's very touchy. Like a bomb that could blow up in your face. It's Anton that did it. I told her. Felt I had to…'

  'You did right.'

  Newman went to her door, rapped in the special way they had agreed. She opened the door after removing the chain and Newman realized she was in a bad mood. Her eyes looked larger than ever, she didn't smile, she turned her back on him and walked towards the balcony, arms folded under her breasts.

  'Anton is here. They've found me.' she snapped before he could say a word.

  'You haven't told me about Anton. Talk. And keep away from the balcony. If he's by the pool he could see you.'

  'What difference does it make? He knows I'm here.'

  'We'll handle that.' He took hold of her by the shoulders and turned her round, sat her down on the edge of the bed. 'Stay put.' He lifted the half-empty glass on the table, sipped it. 'Champagne. Bit early in the day.'

  'I needed something to settle my nerves. The bottle's in the fridge. Fill it up for me.'

  'Anything the lady wants, the lady gets.'

  'Anything?' she asked as he brought back the refilled glass, handed it to her. She was wearing a cream blouse with the top three buttons undone. She wore no bra.

  'Not that now.' he said. 'I have questions to ask.'

  'Your eyes said something different.'

  He moved away to a chair. She also wore a short pleated cream skirt. Her legs were stunning. Get your mind on the business in hand, he told himself.

  'Stop it,' he snapped. 'Tell me about Anton. The full curriculum vitae. That means his life from the day he was born.'

  'I know. I'm not illiterate – like Dimitrios and Constantine.' She sipped her champagne. 'Nor is Anton. He is Petros' son by his second wife – who was worked to death like the first wife. That makes Anton, six years younger than me, my uncle, for God's sake. Petros spotted he was bright. He spent money on his education, every drachma that was available.'

  'What kind of education?'

  'A good school in Athens. Anton was always top of the class. So he went on to a school in Switzerland. As well as Greek, he can speak German and English fluently. He's a natural linguist. An expert horseman – he learned to ride in Germany, then went on to Vienna for dressage. Petros wanted a gentleman in the family, someone who could mix at all levels of society. He's also a crack shot with any kind of rifle or handgun.'

  'Where did he learn that? In Devil's Valley?'

  'You're joking. When he came back here Dimitrios and Constantine hated him. The one thing they could do to make him look useless was to shoot. Anton flew to England, joined a shooting club. When he came back he could make Dimitrios and Constantine look like children with guns.'

  'Happy families. How old is he?'

  'Thirty-eight. He looks ten years younger. He dresses smartly. Oh, I've left a bit out. When he came back from Geneva he had a spell at Athens University. He came under the influence of an English professor. He still attends his seminars when this professor comes here in summer.'

  'You know the name of this professor?'

  She screwed up her thick eyebrows. 'A double-barrelled name. I met him once. Didn't like him. He reeks with conceit and self-satisfaction. But he's clever.'

  'Try and think of his name.'

  'Got it. Guy Seton-Charles…'

  Newman had a word with Nick, who went straight down to the lobby by elevator. Returning to the bedroom, he found Christina sitting in front of the dressing table, brushing her hair. A bottle of mineral water and a glass stood next to her cosmetics.

  'I've sobered up,' she announced. 'I drank two glasses of water. Do you think this is a good idea – my going down to the lobby with you if Anton is still there?'

  'Part of the plan. If he's hanging about I want him to see you. And I want to see him – so I'll know him in future.'

  'He's the most dangerous of my relatives. Because I'm well-educated too he resents me. And he has pots of money of his own. Money is power he says,'

  'Where does it come from?'

  He runs a chain of shops in Athens and Salonika. They sell expensive television, video and radio equipment. Imported, of course. We Greeks don't make anything -except silverware. Anton is clever technically, too. He can bu
ild the most complicated high-powered radio equipment.'

  'That's interesting,' Newman commented to himself. He went to the door as he heard the agreed rapping signal. It was Nick.

  'Anton is still here. He's strolling round the lobby below the elevators. With a bit of luck we could see him by looking down. Without him seeing us.'

  'That's not the idea. Come with us. Ready, Christina?'

  'If you insist.'

  They crossed the first-floor lobby. Nick had pressed the button, the elevator doors opened and they stepped inside. Newman gave Christina's arm a squeeze as the elevator descended. She made a move, stiffened herself, stood erect.

  'To hell with Anton,' she said.

  'That's my girl,' Newman responded.

  They stepped out into the main entrance hall. Below them, beyond a waist-high wall, was a deep well, a large reception area approached by steps from the even vaster marble-floored hall leading to the street. 'Over to your left, behind the pillar,' Nick whispered.

  Several couples occupied some of the spacious couches at the lower level. A small man stepped from behind a pillar, lifted a small object to his eyes, held it there, then replaced it in his pocket.

  Marler sat in an armchair at the lower level. He had a newspaper in front of his face. He dropped the paper, stood up, wandered over to where Anton was lighting a cigarette. Marler brushed past him, looking the other way. 'Excuse me,' he said in English and walked on a few paces. He took the camera he'd filched from Anton's pocket, fiddled with it, snapped it closed again and tucked it down inside the side of his slacks.

  Anton still stood by the pillar. A small compact man wearing an expensive lightweight blue suit which Marler suspected was made of silk. He had a blue-striped shirt and a pale blue tie. Very dressy, Mr Anton. His pale face was plump and his black hair was brushed back over his high forehead. No parting.

  As Marler approached he was feeling in his jacket pocket. He looked up, put out a hand to detain Marler, who stepped behind the pillar. 'A word with you,' Anton said, following the Englishman. 'You've just stolen my camera.' His right hand gripped Marler's arm and there was strength in the hand.

  Marler wrenched his arm loose, shook himself, his expression bleak. 'Don't do that again.' He glanced down on the floor, pointed. 'Your bloody camera is down there. You dropped it, you stupid little man.'

  Anton stooped with agility, retrieved the camera. As he stood up Marler hit him hard on the jaw with his clenched fist. No one sitting in the reception area could see behind the pillar. Anton sagged, the back of his head caught the pillar, he lay on the ground.

  Marler hurried to the steps, ran up to the higher level where Newman waited with Christina and Nick. 'He's out cold. Time to move her. I'll inform the reception desk…'

  'Nick, go out to the car. Be ready to drive us to the Grande Bretagne…'

  Newman grasped Christina by the arm, guided her into a waiting elevator, pressed the button. As it ascended he talked fast. 'You kept most of your case packed as I suggested?'

  'Yes. I can dump my cosmetic stuff inside in: its sachet and be ready in two minutes.'

  'Make it one…'

  In the main lobby Marler was talking to the chief receptionist. 'A chap has collapsed behind a pillar down there. Just keeled over. May have had a heart attack.' He waited until the receptionist phoned for a doctor and rushed off, then asked a girl for the bill for Christina's room.

  'Everything's paid up,' he announced as Newman emerged from an elevator, carrying a bag with Christina by his side. Behind him he heard the same girl receptionist call out. 'Phone for you, Mr Newman. ..'

  'Take Christina to the car,' Newman ordered Marler. 'I'll be with you in a minute. God knows who this could be.' The girl behind the counter handed him the phone.

  'Tweed here, Bob. There's an emergency. Call me back safely within the hour. No later…'

  'Thanks a bundle.' Newman lowered his voice. 'We have a crisis at this end. I'll call back.' He slammed down the phone.

  Nick was waiting outside at the end of a queue of taxis, He opened the rear door of his Mercedes and Christina dived in, followed by Newman. As Nick dumped her bag inside the boot Marler appeared at the rear window. 'Follow us to the Grande Bretagne,' Newman told him. 'Reserve a room for Christina in the name of Mrs Charles. Take over. Nick will be taking me back to the Embassy.'

  'Will do.'

  Mick turned into the traffic. Christina was producing a large silk scarf from her handbag. She carefully wrapped it round her hair so it was concealed. Next she donned a pair of dark wrap-round glasses, then looked at Newman.

  'Do I pass inspection?'

  'Unrecognizable.' Newman felt relieved. Everyone was getting into the swing of quick escapes. And Nick was driving, a devious route to the Grande Bretagne. Christina looped her arm inside Newman's and snuggled up against him as he glanced through the rear window. Marler was close behind.

  'How the devil did Anton find me?' Christina wondered.

  'Probably by showing a photograph of you to a member of the staff short of folding money…'

  'But I arrived at the Hilton disguised.'

  'And then paraded yourself on the balcony. There were loads of staff serving drinks to the sun-worshippers round that pool. I should have thought of that. I should also have thought of telling you to wear your scarf and glasses when we had dinner at the Ta Nissia restaurant. We'll be more careful at the Grande Bretagne.'

  'And maybe,' Nick called over his shoulder, 'I should park this car at the Astir Palace across the road from the Grande Bretagne. They'll have the registration number by now. It means booking a room. ..'

  'Book one. In a different name. Buy a case and a few clothes, including one of those peaked caps the Germans like to wear. We want to sink out of sight – and that includes you. And sleep in the Astir Palace room, if that's OK. Then you're available on the dot when we need you. Unless your wife would object?'

  'Glad to see the back of me.' Nick grinned. 'Sorry about the traffic snarl-up, but no one can follow us into this.'

  They had arrived at Omonia Square, the Piccadilly Circus or Times Square of Athens. Everywhere intersecting roads converged, the traffic was solid. The square was surrounded with second-class hotels, department stores. Nick tapped his hand on the wheel as he waited.

  'Refugees from abroad flock to this area. The police don't mind. They know where to look if they're after someone. Miracles will never cease. We're on the move again.,.'

  On the veranda of his farm deep inside Devil's Valley Petros was lecturing his two grandsons viciously. He gestured with a heavy fly-swatter as they stood in front of him.

  'You, Dimitrios, are telling me again that several men crept up behind you that night at the mine, then clubbed both of you. Is that still your story?'

  'It is the way it happened…'

  'Liar! Cheat!' Petros moved with savage speed. The end of the fly-swatter whacked Dimitrios across the back of his left hand. Reinforced with leather, the swatter brought up an ugly weal. And Petros was still sitting in his chair. 'You lie in your teeth,' he snarled.

  'It was like that…' Constantine began, then stopped when Petros turned to him. He braced himself for the blow but Petros relaxed in his chair, studying the end of the fly-swatter as he talked in a calm tone.

  'You were both staring down inside the mine. You saw the legs of a man protruding from under the bucket. Had you shot him without hesitation – as I would – you would have turned round and seen the single man coming up behind you, the man one of you probably glimpsed before he knocked you both out. Clumsy fools.'

  'Why do you say that?' Dimitrios ventured. He sucked his injured hand.

  'Because I know the mine, know that for hundreds of yards it is surrounded with loose rock chippings. One man trained in field warfare, one very clever man, might make his way silently across those rocks without making a sound. One man,' he repeated. 'I refuse to believe that several men managed it. You are covering up for your idiocy. It was a tr
ap, you realize that?'

  'A trap?' Constantine sounded genuinely puzzled.

  'Of course. One man – the man inside the mine – lets you see him. He leads you to the mine. His companion then creeps up behind you both. Constantine, you said you saw a rifle barrel just before it struck you. He did it like this.' Holding the fly-swatter by the middle of the handle, Petros swung it first one way, then the other. 'Were they the English?' he growled. 'You saw one man coming up the track.'

  'Too far away to see him at all clearly,' Dimitrios broke in before Constantine could reply. It was a relief to be able to tell the truth.

  'And you did a lousy job of not finding Christina,' Petros sneered. He was enjoying himself, taking them down a peg, showing who was boss.

  'We did our best,' Dimitrios protested. 'So many hotels…'

  'Oho! Your best. Your worst, you mean. You walk into the Hilton and try to bribe the chief receptionist! He knows it is not worth risking his fat salary to give out information. I would have gone after the menials – people like yourselves. A chambermaid, a cleaner. Someone who needs the money, someone who goes into every bedroom. Well, at least Anton is now looking. He will find her.'

  'We could go back, try again,' Constantine suggested eagerly.

  'Now you grovel.' Petros spat beyond the veranda. They took all the insults he heaped on them, he was thinking. It was a tribute to the power of his personality. His huge body emanated physical magnetism. He waved towards the scrub-studded mountains.

  'Get out there in the sun. Tend the sheep. Make sure the other shepherds are not sleeping behind rocks. If you catch one, kick hell out of him.' He paused. 'That was curious that you should see Florakis climbing a mountain at that hour. Keep an eye on him, too. Report to me when you find out what he is up to.' Petros could not resist one last dig. 'And forget about Christina – let Anton find her. Anton has brains.'

  When Dimitrios and Constantine had left the farm, climbing up the track even a goat might find trouble negotiating, kicking up limestone dust which filled their nostrils, sweating in the afternoon sun, Petros remained on the veranda. His leonine head sunk on his barrel-like chest, he remained awake, thinking.