The Greek Key (32 page)

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.

All equipment and preparations should be made immediately. Possible that target will land in Britain on way to or when returning from Washington summit. Potential timing September or October this year. The Greek Key
.

23

'Gorbachev must go, he is destroying the military supremacy we have taken so many years to build up. His crazy glasnost will be the rain of the Soviet state,' General Lucharsky said vehemently.

By which he meant the power of the Red Army, his faithful aide, Colonel Volkov, thought as they strolled side by side in full uniform in the Moscow park. Children played ball games on the grass in the warmth of the sunlight round them as they followed one of the many twisting paths.

Lucharsky had chosen the park for this conversation because it was impossible for them to be overheard. He walked very erect, hands clasped behind him, head bowed in thought. Volkov asked the question tentatively. He was not sure Lucharsky wanted to reveal details of the plan but his curiosity drove him on.

'How can we ever hope to achieve his replacement? The Politburo is now packed with a majority in his favour . . .'

'Ligachev,' the General said tersely. 'He is Number Two. He does not agree with the new madness. Once Gorbachev has been removed he will take over and the yes-men in the Politburo will swing behind him.'

'But how can the present General Secretary be removed?'

'He can be killed.'

The cold-blooded audacity of the statement astounded Volkov and he was silent for a few minutes as they continued their stroll. Lucharsky took off his peaked cap and ran his hand through his blond hair, enjoying the feel of the sun on his forehead.

'But it must be done outside Russia,' Lucharsky continued, 'at a suitable moment. I set the wheels in motion when I made my unofficial visit to Greece. There are plenty of hard men in the Politburo who will welcome a return to the good old days. Fortunately, Comrade Gorbachev is playing into our hands. He agrees we must do everything possible to spread our influence in the Mediterranean. But by peaceful means. You, Comrade, have been chosen to follow up my visit to Athens. Like me, you will travel there in civilian clothes - on an unofficial visit. We are offering the Greek government special trade concessions. While you are there you will carry verbal orders from me to Colonel Rykovsky, the military attache at the Athens Embassy. I will give you those orders just before you fly to Athens via Zurich.'

'Why Greece? What is happening there?'

Lucharsky changed direction, headed for a path which twisted through a wooded area of birch trees. He had spotted two men in plain clothes who had KGB written all over them. One had a pair of field glasses slung round his neck. He might be a lip-reader. They entered the wood.

'Because,' Lucharsky explained, 'it is too dangerous to plan a coup inside the motherland. Gorbachev is no fool. He knows he faces opposition and has eyes and ears everywhere. We must not underestimate him. So, we have reactivated an organization outside Russia, one which has not operated for years. It is composed of men who worked for Stalin, who have been forgotten. Shadow men.'

'And Greece is this base?'

'One of them,' Lucharsky replied enigmatically. 'We are using the KGB cell system. Only what you need to know is told to you. There is great dissatisfaction inside the Red Army, as you know. When Gorbachev has gone the Army will again wield all the power it once did after Stalin died.'

'But you implied this organization outside the motherland is made up of Stalinists,' Volkov reminded him. He was bewildered.

'So it is. We use them, then discard them. They may well be the scapegoat for the assassination of Comrade Mikhail if that proves necessary.'

'You mean they do the job for us and then we accuse them of being responsible?'

'Possibly. It would be better if we could spread rumours once Gorbachev has gone that he was the victim of hardliners inside the Pentagon. We will play our cards as the game progresses. We wait for our opportunity - which may come within a few months. Our only chance to liquidate the mad dog is while he is outside Russia. There our allies can operate more safely.'

'I am at your service, Comrade General,' Volkov, a round-faced bail of a man replied.

'Who knows?' Lucharsky commented, adjusting his cap to a more jaunty angle, 'It might end up in promotion for you,'

Always dangle the carrot in front of the donkey, he thought. No point in explaining that those who helped would also have to be eliminated when the coup succeeded,

Inside his office at Park Crescent Tweed sat behind his desk staring into the distance. The desk-top was covered with neat piles of documents which he had just examined for the third time. The items Masterson had posted him from Greece and the notebook of Partridge he had collected from the safety deposit in Knightsbridge.

Paula sat at her desk checking through a file. Every now and again she glanced up at her chief. In another corner Monica bent her head over a card index, her dark hair tied behind her neck in a bun.

'Are we getting anywhere?' Paula ventured. 'After that phone call from Bob last night?'

'Listen, both of you.' Tweed sat upright in his swivel chair, hands clasped in his lap, his eyes alert behind his glasses. 'Let's go over what we have briefly. Damn all, as far as I can see.'

'Maybe more than we know,' Paula suggested. 'Basically it all appears to have started with two murders a long way off and a long time ago. Andreas Gavalas on Siros Island, Stephen Ionides -now revealed as Stephen Gavalas, Someone is trying to bury both killings.' She caught Monica's expression. 'Sorry - that sounded a bit callous . . .'

'But it may be true,' Tweed agreed. 'Go on.'

He was, Monica realized, conducting in reverse an exercise he'd often carried out with her. At a certain point of an operation he would sum up the main points, using Monica to bounce off his ideas, to test their relevance. With Paula he was listening to how she saw the situation

- seeking a key element they had overlooked. Something simple; maybe a factor which didn't fit what they knew. Paula went on.

'We have met Barrymore, Robson and Kearns - the three men who were with Andreas when he was killed. The same three men were back in Cairo when Stephen was brutally murdered at the Antikhana Building. Both victims were brothers. It really stretches the long arm of coincidence to breaking-point - that the commando trio were in the vicinity of two murders. OK so far?'

'Go on . . .' Tweed had relaxed, listening with his eyes dosed as he visualized what she was saying.

'Now we have two odd complications - which don't link up with what I've said so far. The mysterious disappearance of Andreas' body from Siros the night he was killed. And the arrival of Anton Gavalas on Exmoor making enquiries about the ex-commandos.'

'Something else odd about Anton,' Tweed pointed out. 'The way he vanished without leaving a trace of the route he used. We checked with the harbourmaster at Watchet. No ship left for anywhere when Anton pulled off his vanishing act.'

'Anything in Partridge's notebook?' Paula asked.

'Yes. According to Partridge Anton is well-educated and speaks fluent English. Yet Newman told me his nephews

- Dimitrios and Constantine - are peasant types. And what game is Anton playing? In his notebook Partridge records Anton is a lone wolf with plenty of money at his disposal. Newman also said Christina hadn't mentioned Anton. They seem to want him to be the invisible man.' He paused and Monica asked who 'they' were.

'That is what we need-to find out. Anton could be acting independently of old Petros. This vendetta business is complex, reeks of a long and dangerous hatred. You know, I'm getting the impression someone is using the vendetta as a smokescreen - to hide something far more deadly. And who killed Masterson?'

It was Saturday night at The Luttrell Arms in Dunster. They always dined together on Saturdays. At the corner table at the far end of the dining room Colonel Barrymore occupied a seat facing the room with his back to the wall. Dr Robson sat beside him while Reams was seated opposite the two men. They were at the coffee stage.

'Another large Scotch,' Robson called out.

'Of course, sir. Coming right away,' the manager assured him as he passed their table.

'Pushing the boat out a bit, aren't we?' Barrymore commented in a supercilious tone, glancing at his companion.

Robson's complexion had lost most of its suntan and was now a ruddy colour like a setting sunset It was his fourth double plus several glasses of Beaujolais. He stroked his thatch of brown hair, pulled at his straggle of a moustache, grinned amiably. As usual he was in high good humour.

'Thought we were here to enjoy the evening. Ever known me to be half seas over?'

'There's always a first time,' Barrymore continued in a lofty tone. 'And we have serious business to discuss. See that chap with the dark moustache, black hair, a hearing aid? Caught him watching Quarme Manor this morning. I challenged him.'

'You did?' Robson sounded amused and Barrymore glared at him. 'Where was he?'

'Up on the ridge behind the manor. Riding a horse.'

'Free country - in case you've forgotten.' He chuckled. His blue eyes lit up as his drink arrived. 'Thank you.' Lifting the glass, he swallowed half the contents. That's better.' He turned to Barrymore. 'So what happened when you challenged the chappie? Sounds like the corporal of the guard.' He grinned at Kearns who stared back, blank-faced, ramrod-backed.

'Had the insolence to tell me he was bird-watching,' Barrymore continued. 'Hence the field glasses trained on Quarme Manor. Rode off pretty sharp, I can tell you.' His tone changed, became silky. 'Gentlemen, I smell trouble. There was the Greek you encountered, Kearns.'

'And how can you be sure he was Greek?' Robson chaffed the ex-CSM. 'Wearing his
Evzone
outfit, was he?'

'No laughing matter,' Barrymore snapped. 'Tell him,' he ordered Kearns.

'Well, sir,' Kearns began, gazing at the colonel, 'his appearance for one thing. Olive-skinned, the facial bone structure. I've seen enough of them to recognize the breed. When I spoke to him he replied in English but with a slight accent. Greek.'

'Not Bulgarian or Yugoslav?' Robson enquired. He grinned again, drank more whisky. 'Would you know the difference?'

'Yes, I think I would,' Kearns responded stiffly.

'And what was he doing? More bird-watching?'

'Said he was on holiday, that he liked wild places. Asked me the way to the nearest pub. Told him Simonsbath, miles away from where we met. To test him. Later I saw him riding down a gully towards Winsford. Which was the way to the nearest pub. See what I mean, sir?'