by Colin Forbes
Anton took the weapon. 'This is a commando knife,' he commented. 'I brought a couple with me…'
'Listen!' Balaclava was concentrating on negotiating the road which dropped as it twisted between high hedges. 'Keep that knife. Now, in the morning you take the weapons to Cherry Farm. You remember how to get there from the drive we took last time?'
'Yes. It's near Liphook in Hampshire.'
Balaclava stopped the vehicle at a bend where he could see in both directions, pulled an ordnance survey map from the door's pocket. 'Use the flashlight and show me the location of Cherry Farm. Your route is marked part of the way in pen – driving along side roads. That way you should avoid all police patrol cars.'
Anton unfolded the map, studied it with the aid of the light. He pointed to an area. 'The track to it turns off about here.'
'Good. Keep the map. Burn it when you get there. And you've plenty to keep you occupied when you do get there. You will find you have company. You give him the password – Sandpiper.'
'What does he say in return?' Anton asked.
'Nothing.' Balaclava chuckled, a hard cynical sound. 'You'll recognize him. Tomorrow morning you drive this contraption to Taunton.' He hauled a slim folder from the same pocket. 'I've marked on this with a light pencil cross the car park where you leave this vehicle about ten in the morning. You park at the very back where there's a thick hedge. Hide the cargo under that hedge while you're away hiring a car from Barton's-they are marked with a pencilled circle. And here is a driving licence in the name of Partridge for hiring the car. Drive it to the car park. Collect the cargo. Then head for Cherry Farm. You leave this vehicle in the car park and you must be on your way by eleven o'clock. I will have the vehicle collected. Understood.'
'Let me check this.' Anton was studying the street plan of Taunton with the aid of the flashlight. He found the cross and the circle. 'All clear. But why can't I drive straight on to Cherry Farm now? Or am I dropping you somewhere?'
'Of course not. I have transport waiting not far from the house where you spend the night. And travelling at night is dangerous. You could be stopped and checked by a patrol car. You should have thought of that yourself.'
'You are right,' Anton agreed quickly. There was something in Balaclava's manner, in his contemptuous tone, which frightened him.
'Needless to say, you burn the Taunton map soon after you have left Taunton behind. Now listen carefully. I said earlier you will have plenty to occupy you at Cherry Farm. Something that will test your skills as a carpenter and hydraulics expert. So listen. There are two furniture vans at the farm. This is what you have to do…'
By early afternoon the following day Anton was driving his hired Austin Metro close to Liphook in Hampshire.
The Stingers and missiles were in the boot, concealed under a load of groceries he had bought in Glastonbury.
On both sides of the country road the flat fields stretched away beyond low hedges. The sun was shining and he hadn't passed another vehicle for several miles. He drove round a bend and slowed his speed, recognizing he was very close. Anton had the most retentive memory for routes and geography. Across the road were freshly fallen leaves. Autumn was coming. Soon September would become October.
He stopped the car alongside a closed gate with a gravel track beyond. He sat listening for several minutes, listening for the sound of the distant approach of any more traffic. Nothing. He got out, opened the gate which carried the legend Cherry Farm in white paint. Driving up the track a few yards, he stopped the car again, got out and went back to close the gate. Attention to detail.
The field alongside the track was spongy grass. As he drove further he passed large lakes, the product of rain which had fallen three days earlier. Poor agricultural land. He followed the curve of the track and Cherry Farm came into view.
A long low two-storey building made of brick with a tiled roof, it had two squat chimney stacks and a large barn to the right of the farmhouse. The place had a deserted look and he drove slowly, his eyes scanning the whole area in search of a sign of life.
Beyond the large barn stood two long sheds with corrugated iron roofs. The doors to both were closed. As he drove closer he saw the farm had an abandoned look. Undergrowth was smothering the tiny garden in front. Ivy creeper sprawled up the brickwork like a giant spider, its tentacles crawling over the closed shutters.
Had something gone wrong? Where was the man he was supposed to meet? He drove on round the back of the farmhouse, parked the car in a muddy yard, switched off the engine and listened again. There is no silence more eerie than that of a deserted countryside.
Anton remained behind the wheel, checked the knife in the sheath attached to his belt. No cattle, no sheep. No animals of any kind. More lakes standing in the soggy field behind the farm. No birds chattered or wheeled in the clear blue sky. Then the back door opened. Seton-Charles came out to meet him. Anton hid his astonishment.
'Sandpiper,' he said.
'You have the weapons? Good. We'll get them to their hiding-place inside the house. Then drive your car and park it inside the first shed beyond the barn. There are doors at this end.. '
Seton-Charles stood in the kitchen, watching Anton through his rimless glasses as the Greek ate ham sandwiches, drank mineral water. Seated at the table, Anton ignored the Professor. There was a distinct sense of unease between the two men. It had been different in Athens when Seton-Charles had lectured him at the university. Anton finished his meal, decided to establish his authority from the beginning.
'I'm in charge here. You know that?'
'So I was informed.' Seton-Charles' tone expressed no enthusiasm for the arrangement. He leaned against the dresser, folded his arms. 'What role are you playing here?'
'You leave this farm from time to time?' Anton asked cautiously.
'Not without your permission. I prepare the meals from now on. I give you any help you may need with your work. What work?'
'Communications,' Anton persisted. 'How do we keep in touch with Jupiter?'
'We don't. There is a phone in the hall. He calls us. We make no calls, have no contact with the outside world. You buy fresh food supplies in Liphook when we need them.'
'And might anyone come poking around here?'
'No. Haven't you seen the state of the farm? The land is useless, waterlogged half the time. The next farm is miles away. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like some idea on what I'm supposed to help you with. The two furniture vans are hidden inside the huge barn, one behind the other.'
Satisfied with the security, Anton dabbed at his mouth with a silk handkerchief. He twisted round in his chair to stare hard at the Professor.
'You saw the short planks of wood still in the boot? I bought them at a timberyard on the way. You've seen the two boxes on the floor here?'
'Yes.' Seton-Charles stared down at the containers, made of heavy wood and like tool boxes. The lids were open. Inside one was a collection of wires, steel slides and other electrical-type equipment. The second box looked like a carpenter's and was crammed with planes, saws, screwdrivers and other tools. 'What are you up to?' he asked.
'A complex operation. Each of those furniture vans has to be fitted with a large sliding panel in the roof- electrically operated. The hydraulics will be difficult. And inside each van I'll be building a platform with steps – the platform top to be about three feet below the roof, fitted with a chair I'll clamp to the platform.' Anton grinned. 'Guess what all that is for?'
'I'm not in the guessing game,' Seton-Charles said coldly.
'We're in the business of building two mobile rocket launchers.'
PART THREE
The Greek Key
42
'We're coming in to land,' said Paula and gripped Tweed's arm. 'This is the bit I never like.'
'Look at the view over there out of the starboard windows,' he suggested and squeezed her hand.
They were aboard Swissair flight 801, approaching Zurich's airport, Kloten. The machine was banking
and Paula saw framed in a window the magnificent sweep of the Bernese Oberland range, its peaks snow-capped. She sucked in her breath as she watched the mountain summits silhouetted against a backdrop of cloudless azure sky.
Tweed had taken one of his snap decisions. They had left London Airport at 9.30 a.m. and were due to arrive at 12.05 p.m. Before leaving Tweed had phoned Federal police chief Arthur Beck, an old friend. Beck was meeting them at Kloten. What worried Tweed was the closeness of their connection with the Swissair flight taking them on to Athens.
Flight 302, bound for Athens, departed from Kloten at 12.30 p.m. It gave them no time at all to check in on the fresh flight and Tweed needed time to consult with Beck. As the plane descended he laid his hand over Paula's and she turned and smiled.
'I'm OK now. Just a brief fit of nerves. Do you think Monica has got through to Newman, warning him we're coming?'
'It all depends on how early Newman makes his daily call to her. At least we know where to find him. The Grande Bretagne…'
Paula hardly realized the plane had landed as it skimmed along the runway. Beck was waiting for them at Passport Control. He wore civilian clothes and a Tyrolean hat with a little feather in the hat band, dressed like a man on holiday. The grey eyes under the thick brows gleamed as he spotted Paula. He took her arm.
'Welcome to Zurich, Paula.' He kissed her on the cheek. 'We bypass all the checks.' He looked over his shoulder as he led her to a side door which a guard unlocked. 'You'd better come too, Tweed. We have time to talk.'
Tweed smiled to himself. Beck had developed a soft spot for Paula when they'd met previously in Geneva. And he had organized their arrival so no one would notice them. He followed Paula along a corridor and into a starkly furnished room with maps on the walls.
Thank you,' said Paula as Beck pulled out a chair for her from under a table. 'But what about our cases? Shouldn't I go to the carousel?'
'All taken care of, my dear. I phoned Jim Corcoran, security boss at London Airport. When you checked in a special small red label was attached to your luggage and Tweed's. Two of my men are at the carousel now, collecting your things.'
'Am I permitted to join you?' Tweed enquired mischievously.
'As a special favour, rny friend. This is Kloten security chiefs office I have borrowed. As you see, there is coffee and sandwiches. You would like some, Paula? Good.'
On the table was an electric warmer with a transparent flask of coffee perched on it. Sandwiches wrapped in clingfilm. A telephone with a red button. Tweed sat down and stared at the instrument as Beck spoke while he poured coffee.
'Monica called you from London, spoke to the security chief and left a message. Can you call her urgently?'
Tweed looked at a clock attached to the wall with a red second hand sweeping the dial. 'We're going to miss our flight we're booked on for Athens. It leaves at 12.30 as I told you.'
'So…' Beck waved a hand. 'It has been delayed. A bomb hoax. All passengers have to identify their luggage laid out on the tarmac before they board. That takes time.' He smiled. 'One of the advantages of being Chief of Police.' He sat next to Paula as he addressed Tweed. 'So, make your call, then we can talk.'
I should have guessed he'd tie it all up for us, Tweed thought. He reached for the phone, pressed the scrambler button, dialled Park Crescent. Beck and Paula talked in whispers while Tweed was calling London. She liked the Swiss: he had a wicked sense of humour. She put her hand over her mouth to suppress laughter and then noticed Tweed's expression as he replaced the receiver.
'Is something wrong?'
'Later,' he replied and looked at Beck. 'Greece. Have you heard anything unusual on the grapevine?'
'No. Unless this comes under the heading of unusual…' For five minutes he recounted his two conversations with Kalos. He recalled how he had followed his quarry, kept an eye on him while he had spent a night at the Schweizerhof and then boarded a plane for Lisbon the following day.
'Lisbon?' Tweed's expression was grim. 'Are you sure, Arthur?'
'Of course I'm sure. I followed him myself to the airport. Later I checked with the pilot that he was on board. He was.'
'Sorry. That was a silly question. How long ago?'
'Ten days from today.'
'Hell's teeth.' Tweed stood up, began pacing the room. 'And I was congratulating myself that he was safely back in Athens. I'm getting this all wrong.' He looked at Paula. 'I said the solution lay in Greece, not Exmoor. Maybe it's the other way round.'
'Do we go on?' Paula asked.
'Yes. And we'd better hurry.'
'Might be as well,' Beck agreed. 'The baggage check should just about be over. You'll have to identify your own stuff. It will be all that's left on the tarmac…'
He hugged Paula, shook hands with Tweed. 'Anything more I can do to help – you give me a call.'
'You've helped a lot already,' Tweed assured him and they followed the Swiss to the aircraft.
They had eaten lunch. The plane was thirty thousand feet up and well south over the Adriatic Sea before Paula asked the question.
'You had bad news when you talked with Monica?'
'It's getting worse. Like the Klein problem we faced last year, the body count is rising. Butler called Monica. You remember that nice sharp old lady, Mrs Larcombe, we called on at Porlock Weir? This morning a neighbour noticed she hadn't taken her milk in. She started worrying, called the police. They found the front door unlocked and Mrs Larcombe battered to death.'
'Oh, that's awful. She was so bright for her age. Bright for any age. What do they think happened?'
'The police think some drunken youths called, pushed open the door when she reacted to the ringing of the bell, attacked her and walked off with fifty pounds she always kept in ready cash under her mattress. They found two empty beer cans in the front garden. No fingerprints.'
T did catch your emphasis on "police". What do you think?'
'I'm convinced it was staged. Drunken youths don't remember to wipe beer cans clean of fingerprints. Something bothered me about what she said to us and I couldn't recall it afterwards. Now I can.'
'What was it?'
'When that four-wheel-drive vehicle stopped outside her house at midnight she opened the front window. She said that window creaked. My guess is the driver heard that creak. And no one believed her when she said she saw flashing lights out at sea and up the coast. She saw them all right.'
'I still don't follow,' Paula commented.
'That was the first run – bringing something, or someone – landed on the coast. There must have been a second run last night, an important one. They couldn't risk her seeing them – so they called on her, she opened the door, and that was it. The fact that she opened the door is significant.'
'Someone she knew?'
'I think so. She was a shrewd careful woman. And I noticed she had one of those spyglass things in her front door. She could see who was there before she opened it. Yes, someone she knew – or knew of. A respected citizen.'
'What a brutal thing to do.' Paula shivered. 'To kill an old lady like that just on the off-chance she looked out of her window at the wrong moment.'
'But we are dealing with a ruthless killer. Look at the score – Sam Partridge, Jill Kearns and now Mrs Larcombe. The stakes must be very high.'
He peered out of the window. The air was crystal clear, without a cloud. He looked down on the intense blue of the Adriatic. A tiny blur of white on the blue located the wake of a ship moving south: the ship was invisible.
'When we get to Athens,' he went on, 'someone must go to the Embassy to call Monica. I want her to contact Roberts of Lloyd's of London, get him to check the shipping register.'
'Why?'
'Remember what Beck told us about Anton. He took a flight from Zurich to Lisbon. Roberts can check the movements of any vessel sailing from Lisbon about ten days ago – a vessel bound for Watchet on the Somerset coast. The killing of Mrs Larcombe backs up a vague theory I'd developed – that the way
Anton slipped in without any record was that he came ashore from some vessel during the night. Hence those flashing lights Mrs Larcombe really did see.' He grunted. 'And now he may be back on Exmoor again. I don't like that at all. Monica must warn Butler.'
'And you think Jill was killed because she knew too much?'
'I have another idea about that. She may have been run down simply to divert our attention away from Exmoor to London.'
That would be too horrible,' Paula protested.
'I said we're up against a ruthless killer.' He looked round the interior of the aircraft. They were travelling first-class and the section was three-quarters empty, which enabled them to talk freely. He peered out of the window again, checked his watch, settled himself back in his seat. 'Less than one hour to Athens. I have the feeling we're going to stir up a hornet's nest.'
The heat hit Tweed like a hammer as he emerged from the aircraft on to the mobile staircase. He walked down the steps and, with Paula by his side, made for the main building.
'God!' said Paula. 'It's baking and you don't like the heat.'
'So it's a good job you reminded me to wear my safari jacket and tropical drill trousers. Now, let's get the show on the road…'
Newman was waiting for them in the reception hall. He grinned as he came forward, shook hands with Tweed, hugged Paula, took her case.
'I phoned Monica early and she told me your flight details. I have a car outside. Straight to the Grande Bretagne? Marler is there, looking after Christina.'
'Straight to the Grande Bretagne,' Tweed replied. 'Sarris must not know I'm in town. We have to organize an expedition into Devil's Valley. I must see Petros, cross-examine him.'
'That will have to be planned carefully,' Newman remarked as he sat behind the wheel and drove off after storing their cases in the boot. He sensed tension in Tweed, that he was in one hell of a hurry.