The Greek Key tac-6

by Colin Forbes

  He stopped as he heard the phone ring downstairs. Automatically Anton turned towards the door. Foster pushed him out of the way. 'I'm taking all calls now.'

  He hurried down the creaking wooden staircase into the hall where the phone was perched on a table. He lifted the receiver and gave the agreed false number. The familiar cold distant voice spoke.

  'Is everything ready for the Monday conference? All delegates fully briefed?'

  'Yes. We've checked the conference site. I'm double-checking it tomorrow, Sunday, to make sure nothing has been overlooked.'

  'I should hope not at this stage. You'll give me a report when we meet? That's all.'

  Foster put down the phone, knowing that would be the last call he would receive from Jupiter. The reference to 'when we meet' was a hint they would meet aboard the East German freighter, Stralsund, which would be waiting for them at the mouth of the Bristol Channel. Only then, after all these years, Foster thought, will I know who has been controlling us on Exmoor.

  'Any crisis?' asked Anton, who stood at the foot of the stairs.

  The question confirmed to Foster he had been right to stop Anton operating one of the two precious launchers. He was growing more nervous by the hour. Foster glanced at the phone.

  'How is the bill for the calls made on this phone paid or? You said earlier you had a phone booth you called at certain times.'

  'All taken care of by Jupiter. A local solicitor in Taunton receives the bills, pays for them from a large sum Jupiter sent him in cash after instructing him over the phone.'

  Foster was satisfied: it was tiny details like this which could upset all their plans. Jupiter never seemed to miss a trick. Anton was still standing by the staircase.

  'What is it?' Foster snapped. 'Time we all got some sleep.'

  'That Post Office van…'

  'Don't shit yourself. I'll kill the driver. You can just bury him. And dump the Elsan closets we've been using for lavatories on top of the body. We leave this place neat and tidy. Don't forget to keep your gloves on – no fingerprints.'

  The Post Office van,' Anton began again. 'If you'd listened I was going to say it's a long drive to Porlock Weir. We'll need to top up the tank with petrol…'

  'And we still have plenty of the stuff left in spare cans in the boots of the two cars we came here in. And also dump all our sleeping bags in that grave. Now, push off…'

  He called after Anton as he was mounting the stairs. 'How much mineral water left?'

  'A dozen litre bottles. I have kept a watch on supplies,' Anton rapped back.

  'Good for you.' Foster's mind was checking other details. They would take the oil stoves and lamps which had provided heat and illumination with them. They could be thrown into ditches one by one on their way to Brize Norton. He went upstairs, nodded to Saunders who sat in a wicker armchair in the corridor where the Shi-ites were imprisoned. Saunders had a Luger lying in his lap. Any trouble in that direction and he'd crack their skulls with the Luger barrel, which was their ultimate fate anyway.

  It was Foster's turn on the duty detail to watch the approach to the farm from the front window. Later in the night Seton-Charles and Sully would take over. Rest for everyone. Sunday would be a busy day – making the trial run to Brize Norton.

  In Tweed's office at 3 a.m. everyone had left to get sleep except for Monica, Tweed and Butler. Newman had remarked that Butler had had more sleep than any of them, so he could make the report on Exmoor. With a cup of black coffee in front of him, Butler spoke tersely.

  'You'd almost think they were setting out to look normal. Dr Robson still rides the moor at all hours to see patients. One old semi-invalid lady at Dulverton is always calling him in the middle of the night to her decrepit mansion. He goes…'

  'How does she call him? Do you know?'

  'By phone. She has an extension by her bedside upstairs. Barrymore drives into Minehead after dark to call someone from that public box we use. Pub gossip has it his housekeeper, Mrs Atyeo, is threatening to walk out on him. No one knows why – she's been there for years. Kearns still goes riding during the night. Nield was driving along that lane which leads to the Doone Valley after dark. He noticed Kearns' horse tethered beneath some trees at a lonely spot midway between Quarme Manor and Endpoint.'

  'So Kearns could have been calling on Robson or Barrymore?'

  'That's what Pete said. He didn't hang around – he'd have been seen. Barrymore and Robson still have lunch together at The Royal Oak each Wednesday. Dinner together every Saturday at The Luttrell Arms. Oh, and one night Marler was trying to follow Kearns on his horse riding up to Dunkery Beacon. Near the summit Marler heard a single loud explosion – a cracking sound like a grenade detonating. He couldn't find out what had been going on.'

  'Unless Kearns was destroying something,' Tweed suggested. 'I think you'd better get some shut-eye, Harry. There's a camp bed for you. Second door on the right when you leave here…'

  For the next half hour Tweed was on the phone. He called Frankfurt, where Marler's deputy was standing in while his sector chief was away. He called Vienna and spoke with Masterson's deputy to check the Balkan sector. He called Berne and spoke with Guy Dalby about the situation in the Mediterranean. Finally, he called Erich Lindemann in Copenhagen, the sector chief for Scandinavia.

  'All quiet,' he commented as he put down the phone. 'Except in Vienna where they report extensive military manoeuvres in the Ukraine. Under the command of General Lucharsky. Which they always carry out at this time of the year.'

  He stretched his arms, got up and walked round to ease the stiffness out of his limbs. Monica marvelled at his stamina, his encyclopaedic memory which forgot nothing.

  The staff running the European sectors were based in a building further along the Crescent – together with the complex technical communications, including satellite reception from the weird seeing eyes orbiting in space. Tweed suddenly returned to his swivel chair.

  'I've overlooked something vital. Imagine the position of that Spetsnaz group. They've lost their Exmoor base, they're blown. After they accomplish their mission – as they hope – they need an escape route. Contact Roberts at Lloyd's. Ask about any Iron Curtain vessel sailing off oar shores.'

  'Sorry. Roberts is taking a weekend holiday. Don't know where. I could try to ask someone else…'

  'Don't. Roberts knows the need for secrecy. Monday will have to do.' He took off his tie, loosened his collar. Tin going to get some sleep.'

  Monica was already folding back the blankets from the camp bed in the corner for him. She plumped up the pillow. He was taking off his shoes when he stopped.

  'I wonder what happened to that cleaning woman Paula saw at the bungalow estate…'

  'Bed,' said Monica firmly. Then she swore. The phone was ringing. She listened for a moment, then looked at Tweed. 'It's Paula. Calling from Somerset. I can tell her you're asleep…'

  'I'll take it.' Tweed grasped the receiver, standing in his socks. 'Something wrong? You should be in bed.'

  'So should you, but I took a chance. I'm talking from the public box in Minehead. I got lost in the dark. Don't worry – I called The Anchor and the night porter will let me in. Lucky I've stayed there before. The main thing is I wasn't stopped by any police checkpoint. That worried me.'

  'That was because you were entering Somerset. The checkpoints are concealed. They're checking everyone leaving. I'm glad you called. In the morning contact Inspector Farthing in Minehead. He's reliable – the chap who turned up when Partridge's body was brought down from Exmoor into Winsford. Tell him frankly about the three men you're watching. You'll need help.'

  'OK. Will do. Now, get some rest…'

  'Bed,' Monica repeated. 'Stop thinking. Sunday is going to be hell.'

  He put his head on the pillow, his mind churning. Then he fell fast asleep.

  Sunday, 6 December. Foster was up early at Cherry Farm despite his night duty. They ate a hurried breakfast while he outlined the plan. 'I will be going over the r
oute with Seton-Charles and Saunders. We'll use Anton's Austin Metro. That's the safest vehicle. I want several places where the furniture vans can be hidden east of Brize Norton – the direction Gorbachev will be flying in from. The hiding-places have to be well away from the airfield perimeter. Security there is already ferocious.'

  'What will I do?' Anton asked truculently.

  'You will help Sully clean up this place. Ready for instant departure tomorrow. As soon as we've grabbed that Post Office van and dealt with the driver. Stack all the Elsan closets except one by the back door. What's that?'

  He stood up, ran to the back of the house. Round the table they could now all hear what Foster's acute ears had caught. A steady chug-chug of a helicopter's motor. They froze as Foster peered out of the back door he had opened a few inches.

  'Only a Traffic Control chopper,' he said when he returned. 'We get moving in the Metro now.'

  Inside the Wessex helicopter – roomy enough to take ten men – Tweed peered out of the window from his seat. Newman sat in front of him by the door where the swivel-mounted machine-gun was positioned. A member of an airborne division sat beside him, his beret slanted at a slight angle. He was satisfied Newman could handle the weapon. They'd had a practice shoot while the machine hovered above Fairoaks Airport. The target, a pile of wooden crates, had been shattered by Newman's first burst. The airfield had a notice at the entrance. Closed for Repairs.

  Marler was travelling with Nield in the second machine which was not visible. The radio op was keeping in close touch with its twin helicopter. Tweed was impressed with the swift conversion job. Both machines carried the legend Traffic Control in large letters. Only Butler was somewhere on the ground, riding one of the two waiting BMW motorcycles. Nield had said, 'Thanks, but no thanks. I'm not riding one of those death-traps.' Butler had made a rude reply and wheeled his bike aboard the other Wessex.

  The second machine had landed on a deserted main road, waited briefly while Butler disembarked with his BMW near Brize Norton, and had immediately taken off.

  Tweed stared down at Cherry Farm from two hundred feet. Raising the glasses looped round his neck, he scanned the buildings carefully. No sign of life. He dropped the glasses and spoke into the microphone, part of the headset he had attached to himself.

  'Nothing down there, Bob. That place has been derelict for a decade at least.'

  They flew on as the airborne soldier, Harper, shifted to the seat on the starboard side and raised his own glasses. Very little traffic on the roads at this hour. The wind was strong and Tweed was thankful he'd had the foresight to take Dramamine as the chopper rocked like a boat in a storm.

  At the last minute Howard had been forbidden to join them, much to his chagrin. The PM had phoned. 'Someone must be there to mind the shop…'

  But every member of the search party had copies of the car outlines Howard had produced – together with Paula's photographs of the furniture van seen from different angles. Everyone – including Butler riding his motorcycle round the country lanes – was concentrating on detecting a furniture van. Except Tweed who kept studying the car silhouettes, with an Austin Metro added.

  They had been cruising round the edge of the forbidden flying zone over Brize Norton for an hour without seeing anything. Marler came on the radio from his machine at regular intervals. 'Nothing to report.'

  Then Tweed saw the Austin Metro.

  Behind the wheel of the Metro Foster was driving along a winding country lane east of Brize Norton, close to the village of Ducklington. He saw the chopper appear over a ridge straight ahead about half a mile away. Beside him Saunders leaned forward. In the rear seat Seton-Charles peered out of the window.

  'Yes, it's that bloody Traffic Control machine,' Foster snapped. 'Something funny about it – there's no traffic round here.'

  He slowed down as a large copse of trees masked them from the helicopter. The copse was beyond a bend in the road. Glancing to his left, Foster saw a crumbling barn, the roof still intact, open at both ends. He looked in his wing mirror. Road deserted, behind as well as ahead. He jammed on the brakes in an emergency stop. Saunders was thrown forward; only his safety belt saved him diving through the windscreen.

  'What the hell,' he rasped.

  Foster made no reply. He swung the Metro through ninety degrees, drove off the road straight at the ancient farm gate. As the car hit it the gate fainted, collapsed inwards. Foster drove over it and continued across the field, pulling up inside the barn.

  'Let the bloody thing find us in here.' He switched off the engine. 'At least we've found four possible places to site the vans tomorrow.'

  'The chopper's coming,' warned Seton-Charles.

  'You must have imagined it,' Newman commented. 'I didn't see a car.'

  'Please keep flying along the country road below us,' Tweed instructed the pilot. He raised his glasses again as he replied to Newman. 'I tell you, I saw an Austin Metro. It matched the outline. And it was darkish – could have been blue.'

  'We'll find it…'

  'Which is exactly what we're trying to do.'

  They were flying at eight hundred feet – the minimum altitude permitted because they were close to the forbidden flying zone round Brize Norton. The pilot followed the winding course of the empty road below. Tweed had the glasses screwed tightly against his eyes. He scanned every likely hiding-place.

  A dense copse of evergreens came up in his lenses, a copse which straddled the road where it turned a bend. He ordered the pilot to circle it so he could study it from every angle. Where the devil had the Metro gone to? The pilot completed one circuit, commenced another.

  Tweed saw an isolated barn standing in the fields a short distance from the road. From that height he looked down on the sagging roof. Nothing. Anywhere.

  'Fly a mile or two, behind that ridge we came over. Then turn and come back,' he ordered.

  Inside the Metro the chopper sounded like a giant bee circling. Saunders was sweating. He mopped his forehead. Foster sat patiently, gloved hand tapping the wheel. Saunders stiffened, lowered his window. A blast of icy air came inside.

  'We might as well keep warm,' Foster told him.

  'That chopper's going away. I can hear the engine sound receding. We've done the job. We might as well get back.'

  'Not yet. It could be a trick. Go away and then come back – find us in the open.'

  'You're assuming it's looking for us.'

  'I always assume the worst. We wait…'

  Five minutes later they heard the helicopter returning. Foster stared ahead in silence. It wasn't his way to say, 'I told you.' He waited half an hour until the machine had flown off a second time, then started the motor, backed on to the road, drove back the way they had come.

  The Wessex cruised round the approaches to the perimeter of Brize Norton air base for another three hours. They frequently crossed the Vale of White Horse, maintaining the permitted altitude of eight hundred feet. Tweed's eyes were aching from staring through his field glasses. As they returned to Fairoaks, coming in to land, Newman made his comment.

  'Well, you were wrong about the Metro. And we've found damn-all. Marler reports the same result from his machine.'

  Tweed had a map of the Brize Norton area spread out on his lap. He had marked with a cross the place where he was sure he had spotted the Metro. Using a ruler, he measured three miles in each direction from the cross, then drew a circle with a diameter of six miles. He handed the map over the seat to Newman.

  'That's the area we concentrate on tomorrow.'

  'Why? We never found your Metro.'

  'For that very reason. I couid have been wrong- the car could have belonged to anyone. But it did a vanishing trick. And we scoured the ground without finding it. I think it went into hiding. That's highly suspicious. I scanned every road after it disappeared. No sign of it.'

  'If you say so.'

  'And,' Tweed added as they were landing, 'I'm changing the dispositions of Force Z tomorrow. We need more
men on the ground.'

  They drove back to London to spend the night at Park Crescent, to see if any further information had come through. Butler left his motorcycle at Fairoaks. 'Didn't see a thing,' he reported as they drove back. 'But I have a few more roads to check – to the east of the air base.'

  'Which I'd guess is where Winterton's men would place their missile launchers,' Tweed remarked. ' East. Because that's the direction Gorbachev's plane will fly in from. And I have to call the PM when I get back. She was insistent on that for some reason I can't fathom…'

  They had just arrived back at Park Crescent when Paula called from Somerset. 'I'm speaking from Minehead again,' she opened. Tve had quite a day. The police brought back a woman's body found in the Somerset Levels – that sinister area we crossed on our first trip here.'

  'I remember. Sounds a bit grisly.'

  'A peat digger found a hand sticking out of the place where he was digging. When Inspector Farthing told me I had an idea. I asked to visit the mortuary. It was the cleaning woman from the bungalow estate. I showed Farthing the photo I'd taken. She'd been shot once in the back of the neck.'

  They were cleaning up before they left. No macabre pun intended.'

  'And Farthing has been very helpful. He's put two men in plain clothes to help me watch the commando trio. They're all still here. That's it.'

  Take care. I have an important call to make.'

  The four men sitting in his office and Monica watched him as he called the PM on scrambler. He listened, said he understood and put down the phone. He looked around at Newman, Marler, Butler and Nield.

  'She's just heard from Moscow Gorbachev will be flying here in four Ilyushin 62s.'

  'Four?' Newman enquired. 'I know he's unusual but how can he do that?'

  'It's a clever Soviet precaution – security. No one will know which of the four machines Gorbachev and his wife will be aboard. Maybe the PM gave him a hint of possible trouble. I don't know. Now, we've eaten, so everyone get some sleep. Tomorrow is the day.'