The Greek Key tac-6

by Colin Forbes

  'I know that.'

  'And get down to Cape Sounion as soon as you can. Florakis will need time to code the message. Understood?'

  'Yes.'

  Rykovsky told Volkov he would see him back at the Embassy later. He was leaving when he turned back.

  'Doganis, you do have transport to drive to Sounion?'

  'My car is parked a quarter of a mile away. I know what I am doing.'

  Rykovsky nodded, bit his Sip, decided to say no more. The Greeks were a touchy lot. He was glad to get out of the room. Doganis was glad to see him go. He turned to Volkov. 'I am listening.'

  The stocky Volkov knocked back another glass of vodka, saw the Greek's expression and refrained from refilling his glass.

  This is the message. I will say it slowly. There is a lot to remember. The first part concerns furniture vans…'

  Kales took two photographs of Rykovsky as he hovered at the exit from the staircase, looking to left and right. The Russian then walked briskly away to the left. Doubtless searching for a taxi. In his notebook Kalos noted down the precise time, as he had done when Doganis had arrived.

  He was growing more puzzled. That left the gross pig, Doganis. upstairs with the new arrival to Athens, Volkov. Most peculiar. It was half an hour later before a second figure appeared. Volkov. He walked straight into the street in the same direction, straw hat rammed down concealing the upper half of his face. He stopped suddenly, lifted the hat as he stared round. Kalos took two more shots, waited until Volkov had disappeared, noted down the time. He had been precisely thirty minutes alone with Doganis. Most mysterious.

  Unless he had been passing detailed instructions to Doganis – but why had Rykovsky not remained present? My God. Kalos was thinking: maybe Moscow doesn't even trust Rykovsky to hear what Volkov was saying. The cell system ~ carried to these lengths! The instructions must be incredibly secret.

  Five minutes later, exactly, Doganis stood at the exit, lounging against the side, lighting a cigarette, scanning the street. A real professional, the overweight slug. Kalos risked it, took another photograph. Without a glance in his direction. Doganis walked off.

  Kalos memorized the time, ran to his car, backed it into the main street, crawled after Doganis. That had been a difficult decision Kalos had wrestled with. Who to follow? Since they had met so furtively, he'd decided the Russians would probably return to the Embassy. You're my meat, he thought as he trailed after Doganis.

  Kalos found he could drop back well behind his target. Among the tourists and locals crowding the Plaka Doganis loomed up among the other heads like a bear lumbering forward. He had parked his battered old Renault on an open stretch of ground. Kalos waited until he had eased his bulk behind the wheel and started moving. Then he followed him.

  'Repeat the whole message back to me. Indicate where one section stops, another begins,' said Doganis.

  'Get stuffed. I've memorized it perfectly,' Florakis snapped.

  'Prove it.'

  'I said get stuffed,..'

  The two men sat in the front seats of Doganis' Renault parked in the shade thrown by the skeletal structure of the new hotel complex. Florakis, wearing his shepherd's garb, cast a sneering glance at the bloated jelly beside him, reached for the door handle.

  'I said prove it,' Doganis said in a quiet voice, 'That comes from the top. I have to tell them you've really grasped the message.'

  'Play with yourself, you overblown melon..,'

  Doganis grasped Florakis by his arm below the elbow. He squeezed as Florakis swore and struggled to get free, There was a brief tussle, then Florakis' face twisted in agony. He was staggered by the strength of that fat man who he'd imagined was soft as a jelly. Doganis, with no expression, began to bend the arm. Florakis stifled a scream of pain.

  'Now, let's try again, shall we?' Doganis suggested, releasing his grip.

  'You stupid bastard,' railed Florakis. 'There's no feeling in my arm. And I have to tap out your bloody signal…'

  'You're right-handed,' Doganis said mildly, gazing out of the window where an opening in the building structure framed the sizzling blue of the sea. 'I remembered that when I twisted your left arm. In any case, you'll be OK by nightfall when you do the job. Going to repeat the message? Word by word?'

  'Blast you! Yes…' Florakis took a hold of himself, let his rage evaporate, then began reciting carefully.

  'That's pretty good,' Doganis said fifteen minutes later. 'One more thing before you ride your donkey back to that cesspit you call a farm.'

  'What's that?' Florakis asked sullenly.

  'In future don't ever again forget I'm the boss. Now push off. I'll give you ten minutes to get clear before I drive back to Athens. ..'

  Behind a boulder a short distance up the arid hillside under the scorching sun Kalos was watching. He peered through the field glasses he'd taken from his glove compartment. He'd followed Doganis all the way from Athens, keeping well back when he realized his quarry was taking the coast road.

  He'd crested a hill with a clear view of the Temple of Poseidon atop Cape Sounion when he saw the Renault swing off the road behind the building site. Immediately he'd turned off the main road himself, jouncing over the rough ground into one of the many gulches which ended near the coastal highway. Parking his car well inside the gulch, he had climbed high enough to stare down at the site.

  His glasses had brought up clearly the two men seated inside the stationary car. Kalos had recognized Florakis and he recalled finding the fingerprints which exposed Florakis' real identity. Oleg Savinkov: The Russian, The Executioner of the Civil War.

  He waited until Doganis had driven over the crest on his way back towards Athens, then drove after him. He didn't expect to discover any new twist but he followed Doganis all the way back to the city. His eyes narrowed as he grasped that Doganis was heading back into the Plaka. He was even more startled when Doganis parked his car on the same open space and got out, then checked his watch and waited, lighting a cheroot. Kalos parked illegally in a one-way street and waited.

  Thirty minutes passed before Doganis made his way on foot to the same street where he had arrived earlier in the day. Kalos guessed his destination was the room over Papadedes taverna and watched him disappear inside the entrance to the staircase.

  Kalos parked his own vehicle in the side street he had used before. Standing in the doorway, he saw Colonel Volkov arrive five minutes later. He noted down the time below his record of Doganis' entering the building.

  Very curious. This meeting was taking place without the presence of Rykovsky. He blinked and only took his camera out in time when a third figure walked down the street, paused by the entrance, glanced confidently around and vanished inside.

  He wrote down the arrival time of Anton Gavalas. What the hell was going on?

  32

  This is political dynamite,' Sarris snapped, staring at his assistant. He waved the file containing Kalos' report. 'We have to bury it. You want us both to lose our jobs?'

  Kalos ran a hand over his stubble of hair, unperturbed by his chiefs outburst. He clasped his hands and spoke with great deliberation, gazing out of the window where night was falling over Mount Lycabettus.

  'Point One. We know Doganis is the most powerful figure on the so-called committee running the Greek Key. An organization of fanatical Communists which has lain fallow for a long time. In that file there is photographic proof that Doganis met with Colonel Rykovsky and the new man from Moscow, Colonel Volkov…'

  'That's what I'm talking about,' Sarris protested. 'Our government hopes for closer relations with Russia now Gorbachev has proclaimed his policy of glasnost…'

  'These people are not glasnost,' Kalos interjected in the same calm tone. 'They are hardliners – anti-Gorbachev. That swine, Pavelic the Croat, said as much to me when I was in Belgrade. He also let drop the name General Lucharsky – who visited us last year as Colonel Gerasimov of the GRU. I stole his photograph from Pavelic's file when he was dead drunk. I followed him
to the Hilton Hotel where he interviewed Florakis.'

  'And now you've put Lucharsky in your report! I hadn't finished when you interrupted me. I don't make our government's policy. I think they may be a bit over-hopeful…'

  'To the point of idiocy,' Kalos commented.

  'Keep quiet. Our government hopes for more trade with Moscow. Maybe even sophisticated military equipment to make our army stronger than the Turks…'

  'It won't happen. Let me go on,' persisted Kalos. 'Point Two. Rykovsky leaves Doganis alone with Volkov-which suggests even he is not permitted to hear some highly secret message from Moscow – from Lucharsky, maybe. Point Three. After that meeting I follow Doganis. To where? Another subversive rendezvous – this time with Oleg Savinkov, alias Florakis. Peter, this is a conspiracy I have uncovered.'

  'That's an assumption…'

  'And there is more – also backed up with photographic evidence in that file. Doganis drives back to Athens, to the same rendezvous in the Plaka. What happens now? Colonel Volkov arrives on his own – again Rykovsky is not privy to this clandestine meeting. Who else arrives? Anton Gavalas. Where does he fit in? He's supposed to be helping his crazy father – to locate the man who committed two murders over forty years ago. I repeat, it is a deadly conspiracy.'

  'And I repeat I cannot show this to the Minister. He will blow his top.' Sarris softened his tone. 'Kalos, you know I'm right. If I thought there was the slightest chance the Minister would let us follow this up I'd hand him the file.'

  'You're the boss.'

  Kalos sat, motionless, still gazing out of the window. He knew Sarris had judged the situation correctly. He was frustrated beyond belief, Sarris rose from behind his desk, took the report out of the file, separated the photographs.

  'Kalos, I'm sorry about this, it really is to protect you as well as me,'

  He went over to the shredding machine, Kalos watched impassively as Sarris fed in the photographs, then the typed sheets Kalos had produced on his own typewriter, A mess of shredded fragments showered into the plastic bag. The job done, Sarris sat behind his desk.

  'I had no choice. Forgive me.'

  'You are ordering me to cease my investigations?'

  Sarris chewed his lower lip, 'I don't recall saying that. And you have an excellent memory. Just be careful, for God's sake. For ours. ..'

  Kalos nodded, left the room and went back to his own office. He locked the door, went to his desk, unlocked a lower drawer and took out the duplicate file of the report Sarris had destroyed. There were also copies of the photographs: Kalos had developed them himself in his own darkroom in his apartment on the edge of the Plaka.

  With the file tucked under his arm, he crouched down and turned the numbered combination on the door of his safe. Opening it, he used a screwdriver to prise open the slim secret drawer at the bottom. Dropping the file inside, he closed the drawer, shut the safe, spun the combination lock.

  As he straightened up he thought how curious it was that Sarris had not asked him for the negatives: Sarris, who never missed a trick.

  After witnessing the meeting between Doganis and Anton Gavalas, Kalos had again been faced with a difficult decision. Which of the two men to follow? They had left the building separately: Doganis had emerged first. Kalos let him go.

  Ten minutes later Anton had appeared. Kalos had followed him. He was surprised when his quarry took a taxi which dropped him outside the Astir Palace Hotel on Sofias Avenue, only a short distance from the Grande Bretagne.

  There was nothing else he could do about that so he returned to present his report to Sarris.

  Inside his room Anton sat on the bed and dialled the number of Petros' farm in Devil's Valley. He had to wait some time before they made the connection with that remote area.

  'Anton here…'

  'You have found Christina?' growled Petros.

  'Found her and lost her…' Anton explained briefly his experience earlier that day at the Hilton. He expected Petros to explode. Instead the old man said he needed a minute to think. Anton jumped in quickly.

  'Isn't it time I returned to England? We should know what the commando killers are doing on Exmoor. This time I may find out whether all three were guilty – or whether it was only one of them.' He went on talking quickly. 'I have ideas for harassing them. As I told you, they already live in terror. They've barricaded themselves in their homes like men scared witless.'

  'But we must find Christina…'

  'Let those lazy sons-of-bitches Dimitrios and Constantine come back to Athens. She's here somewhere. All the idiots have to do is to bribe cleaning women, show them her photograph. Not approach the chief receptionist like that cretin, Dimitrios, did. Which is more important?' he pressed on. 'Tracking down Christina or tracking down the killer of your sons? I could be in England in a few days. This time I will be more aggressive.'

  The word 'aggressive' decided Petros. He liked the sound of that. It appealed to his temperament. It was how he went about problems.

  'Very well,' he said, 'When will you leave? You have plenty of clothes?'

  'Probably tomorrow. And 1 packed a case before I came to Athens. In any case, I have money. Keep Dimitrios and Constantine down there for two days, then kick their asses, send them, tell them they can't come back until they've found her.'

  Splendid, Petros thought. Anton was becoming more like himself every day. Very aggressive.

  'You can use the special route to England you mentioned?'

  'Absolutely.' Anton was standing up now, his voice vibrant with confidence. 'Don't worry if I'm away for a while. This time the job must be done…'

  Anton put down the phone, realized he was sweating profusely. It wasn't the heat – although the room felt like an oven. He had managed to persuade Petros, the old fool, to agree. Now he was ready to carry out the orders Volkov had passed to him.

  Anton was pleased so much responsibility had been heaped on him. It augured well for the future. He saw a top Cabinet post in a Greek Communist government in his grasp. Who knew? Maybe one day he would be Prime Minister.

  Extracting a Swissair timetable from his case, he sat down, checked flight times. Flight SR 303 left Athens at 5 p.m., arrived at Zurich 6.45 p.m., local time. He needed a late flight: there was some more work to do before he left Athens in the morning. He turned the pages.

  From Zurich another non-stop flight, SR 690, departed Zurich at 12.10 p.m., reaching Lisbon in Portugal at 1.55 p.m. Again local times. That meant spending only one night in Zurich. He always stayed at top hotels: with Suck he'd find some willing married woman on her own to spend the night with.

  Anton was careful with women. The married ones, away from their husbands and out for a fling, were safest. No comebacks. No risk of some annoying entanglement. He checked the dates in his diary. His memory had served him well.

  The freighter, Oporto, was not due to sail for several days. Then it would leave Portugal with its holds full of cork, bound for the Somerset port of Watchet. Later it would return with a load of wastepaper.

  Plenty of time to get in touch with the skipper, Gomez, To warn him this time there would be a special cargo as well as himself. And to call Jupiter at the agreed time to have someone ready for the rendezvous at sea. The phone number, he felt sure, was a public phone booth. Most important of all, time for him to contact the arms dealer in Lisbon, to collect from him the special weapons which would go aboard the Oporto.

  Anton called room service. 'Send me up a double Scotch. No ice. No lemon. Plus a bottle of mineral water.'

  He sat down, tired from the concentration. Now the only remaining task was to contact Professor Seton-Charles at his seminar at the Hilton in the morning. He'd go along as a student. Pass on the instruction Volkov had given him for the Professor,

  33

  Seton-Charles had held three seminars for Greek students over a period of two weeks. Newman and Marler had taken it in turns to monitor his movements. The seminars were held in a conference room inside the Hilton. T
hey were advertised on a board in the vast lobby, giving the whole two-week programme. Subject: The Greek Civil War, 1946-1949.

  The tension was rising between Newman and Marler. Security on Christina had been tightened up to the hilt: they had learned from their experience at the Hilton. Well-disguised, a scarf concealing her hair and wearing her outsize tinted glasses, she had registered as Mrs Irene Charles at the Grande Bretagne.

  Booked into a suite, she stayed there. All meals were sent up by room service. Newman kept her supplied with books and magazines. 'This is marvellous, Bob,' she told him one day. 'The first real rest I've had in years – and I'm reading like mad…'

  To keep up their watch on Seton-Charles, Newman and Marler had very little sleep. They exchanged surveillance duty at the Hilton; one staying with Christina, the other eating and keeping an eye open at the Hilton. Marler complained after a few days of this ritual.

  'I feel locked in. I'd like to be outside, trying to find more data on what happened to Harry Masterson. Maybe take a trip to Cape Sounion, see what's going on down there.'

  'Feeling the heat?' Newman grinned as he used a sodden handkerchief to mop his neck.

  'No. You're the one who can't stand it. Doesn't affect me.'

  'I can stand the waiting better than you can,' Newman told him. 'We're doing what Tweed asked. Checking on Seton-Charles and guarding Christina.'

  'And as far as we can tell the Professor hasn't gone outside the Hilton. Which is pretty weird. Maybe he uses the phone in his room.'

  'Not for any calls we'd want to know about. He'll know they'd go through the hotel switchboard.'

  'So maybe he sneaks out in the middle of the night.'

  'I have a feeling any message will be smuggled to him by someone attending one of those seminars. Probably he doesn't like the heat. He looks the type, I saw him go outside once and he came straight in again, glad to return to the air-conditioning. Patience, Marler.'