The Greek Key (50 page)

'Keep trying at intervals until you get one of them. I want to be at their throats before they've had time to settle in.'

Monica nodded. Again she didn't like the vehemence with which Tweed had spoken. If he'd still been a Chief Superintendent at Scotland Yard in Homicide, they'd have taken him off the case. Too much personal involvement.

Zurich, Arthur Beck could pass in the street for any profession. Except that of Chief of Federal Police. In his mid-forties, he wore a light blue business suit, a cream shirt, a blue tie which carried a kingfisher emblem woven into the fabric. Plump-faced, his most prominent feature was his alert grey eyes beneath thick dark brows the same colour as his hair.

He sat alone in an office at Zurich police headquarters with a window overlooking the River Limmat, the university perched on the hill rising steeply from the opposite shore. Lifting the phone, he dialled Kales' number. The Greek answered quickly.

'Beck here. I have some data on your Anton Gavalas. Ready'.''

'That was quick. It was only yesterday. Go ahead.'

'Anton disembarked from the Athens flight, caught a taxi to the Hotel Sehweizerhof which faces the main station. He had early dinner, then wandered down the Bahnhofstrasse to the lake. He sat on a seat watching the boats come and go. No one approached him. He made no phone calls from the hotel - I found that out after he'd left.'

'Left for where?"

'Let me tell you in my own way,' the Swiss said precisely. 'I checked with the porter after he'd returned from his walk. He went straight to bed. This morning he has a leisurely breakfast. Again, no one approached him. Then he leaves by cab for Kloten Airport, where he arrived. A model citizen. Mr Anton Gavalas. Always well-dressed. Walking down the Bahnhofstrasse he could be mistaken for a Swiss - except for his dark suntan.'

'What happened next?' Kalos asked.

'He produces a first-class ticket, checks in his luggage for the SR 690 flight bound for Lisbon . . .'

'Lisbon?' Kalos sounded surprised.

'Lisbon in Portugal,' Beck continued genially. 'The 12.10 p.m. that reaches Lisbon at 1.55 p.m. That's Portuguese time. Which means you can alert someone in Lisbon to meet the flight if you wish. End of report.'

'I'm very grateful.' Kalos paused. 'It almost sounds as though you followed him everywhere yourself.'

'But I did. My dear Kalos. when you're trapped behind a desk in Berne most of the time, reading files, it does you good to get out on the streets again. Stops you getting rusty - your mind going to sleep." He added the last bit in case Kalos' English was not up to the colloquialism.

'I really am grateful,' Kalos repeated. 'I owe you one.'

'Indeed you do. But that's for the future. Good hunting . . .'

In his Athens office Kalos put down the phone and mopped his forehead. The heatwave was getting worse. There was a real shortage of mineral water.

Lisbon? Kalos was baffled. He added the data to his secret file. What could the connection be? And he had no way of checking, no link with Portugal he could use without Sarris' cooperation.

36

Anton landed at Portela Airport, changed a sum of Swiss franc high-denomination banknotes into escudos, the local currency. He never used traveller's cheques while moving about secretly: they left a trail which could be followed. Inside the taxi he opened his case, used the raised lid to conceal what he was doing from the driver.

Inside the suitcase was an executive case crammed with Swiss banknotes. He had been handed this by a woman who visited his room at the Schweizerhof in Zurich. An incident Arthur Beck had no chance of observing: the woman had reserved her own room at the hotel for the night.

Anton collected the equivalent of £5.000 in escudos. tucked the bundle into an envelope. He then counted out the equivalent of £10,000 in Swiss banknotes, transferred them to a second envelope and put them in another pocket. When he closed the lid, the executive case contained £109,000 in Swiss notes. He looked out of the window.

Lisbon was a galaxy of colour-washed houses: pink, blue, green and all of them pastel shades. The side streets were narrow and twisting. He paid off the driver outside the Kitz Hotel.

Speaking perfect English, he registered under the name Hunter, using the forged passport Doganis had supplied for his previous trip. The Portuguese were strict about examining passports, inside his room he checked the time and ordered mineral water from room service. He would need a clear head for coping with the arms dealer.

He ate a quick dinner in the restaurant, keeping an eye on the time. It was still light when he took a taxi to Cascais, a resort and fishing village on the coast. The air was sultry, but nothing compared with the burning heat of Greece. He paid off the taxi on the promenade, found a cheap clothing shop and bought a large fisherman's pullover, a pair of trousers. His feet were shod in trainer's shoes which fitted him comfortably. Footwear was important: you never knew when you would have to move fast.

Checking the time again, he walked along the front, the package of wrapped clothes under one arm, the other holding the executive case which was well-worn and had a grubby look. He found a
fado
café which was crowded, went inside, sat at a table and ordered a glass of wine which he paid for.

He drank half the glass, asked the waiter for the washroom, disappeared inside it. He locked the door of the cubicle, undid the parcel. Within a minute he had pulled the trousers up over his own pair and donned the turtle-necked pullover. Flushing the toilet, he stuffed the wrappings behind it and walked out carrying the case.

He made a point of finishing the glass of wine, standing at the table as people pushed past him. The place was a babble of voices with a background of mournful
fado
music.

Personally, Anton preferred the
bouzouki
. He checked the time once more.

He walked along the front and it was dark now. Lights sparkled in the clear air, the Atlantic rolled in, threw its gentle waves on the shore. Carlos, a gnarled wiry fisherman, was waiting with his boat moored, a lamp shining in the tiny wheelhouse.

'Mr Hunter,' he greeted, 'my wife had your phone message, passed it to me.' Clambering ashore, he pointed. 'Everything is with us when you need.'

He was pointing at a donkey cart half-filled with hay, a donkey between the shafts and fastened to them with traces. Anton frowned, put his free hand on the animal's shoulders. The head peered round.

'She has to carry a weight,' he commented. 'And also stay by herself for some time.'

'She is good. You take the cart. Look at wheels. She carries weight. When you come back I take you with cargo to
Oporto
.'

'The freighter is at the harbour now? Gomez is expecting me?'

'All is ready, Mr Hunter. We take cargo aboard in the night. The
Oporto
sails when the sun rises. One day from this day. Sails for England.'

'Here you are, Carlos. I'll be back later.' Anton handed him the envelope containing £5,000 in escudos. 'Don't open that envelope until you're inside the wheelhouse. And turn down the lamp.'

'I'll do that. All the time God gives us. I nearly do not know you in those clothes . . .'

Anton led the donkey cart along the front back the way he had come. He had no trouble controlling the animal. He'd had a lot of experience in handling the creatures on Petros' farm. The main thing was that it was docile.

From the cafés he was passing came more
fado
music, the voices of men and women who had consumed large quantities of wine. It was not a night when anyone was interested in what was happening on the deserted front. Arriving at a narrow side street, he guided the donkey across the road, parked it outside a shop which sold swimwear and which was closed. Just beyond was the entrance to the dimly lit Rua Garrett. The address Volkov had given him.

He left the bright lights and plunged into Stygian darkness as he picked his way over the uneven cobbles of Rua Garrett. One place was still open, double doors thrown back. He strolled past it, glancing inside. A big place with a cracked concrete floor - a service garage on one side, a ship's chandler on the other.

His glance showed him a gloomy cavern lit by oil lamps, On the garage side a car was perched on an elevated platform about a foot above a service pit. He walked in when he was satisfied only one person was inside.

'Mr Gallagher?"

'That's me. What do you want?'

'I've come to collect the merchandise, the type with a sting in its tail.'

'So, you're the one? Brought the money?'

'Of course.'

Gallagher was six feet tall and broad-shouldered. He spoke with an American accent. In his late thirties, his manner was offhand and he moved silently. Like a big cat. Anton studied the insolent expression, the restless eyes. The arms dealer was not a man Anton liked the look of. Still, he had come prepared.

Gallagher held out a large hand. He made the universal gesture with thumb and forefinger.

'I'd like to see the colour of your money first.'

'That is reasonable.'

'Wait! We need a little privacy for our business transaction.'

He walked over to the wall, pressed a switch and the double doors closed automatically. The place was not so down at heel as Anton had thought. Sealed inside the cavern, the stench of petrol and oil grew stronger. Anton laid his case on the table, unlocked it, raised the lid and stood back. While Gallagher walked back to the case and picked up bundles at random, rifling through the banknotes, Anton hoisted his pullover a little higher.

'Just how much is here?' Gallagher demanded.

He had the flattened nose of an ex-boxer, a mass of untidy hair the colour of ripened wheat, a hard jaw. His pale eyes watched Anton, waiting for an answer,

'One hundred thousand pounds in Swiss francs. The agreed price in the agreed currency. For three Stingers. Plus six missiles.'

'Price just went up,' Gallagher informed him. 'Law of supply and demand. Been a heavy call for Stingers. IRA, Angolan rebels, Iranian nutcases. People like that. £145,000 is the going rate. Take it or leave it.'

'But the price was agreed,' Anton protested coldly. Volkov had been very clear on that. 'Your reputation rests on keeping to a deal once concluded.'

'Grow up, buddy boy. I said the going rate is the price. You can't raise it? Get lost."

'I didn't say I hadn't got that much,' Anton replied. 'Since you insist, I'll pay it. But first I want to see the weapons.'

'You need to go to the bank?' Gallagher pressed, arms folded. 'Or is it in there?' He nodded towards the case Anton had shut and relocked. 'You came ready for the bad news?
I heard it on the grapevine
,' he sang the old melody and then laughed.

'I hid more money in the Rua Garrett earlier,' Anton told him. 'You'll never find it - but it's within a hundred yards of where you're standing. Now, show me the weapons.'

"Good to do business with a gentleman.' Gallagher grinned and walked back to the bank of switches and buttons on the wall. He pressed one and the elevated platform supporting the car rose up four more feet. The arms dealer lowered himself into the pit, pressed a switch which illuminated the darkness. Against one wall was a large canvas bundle. He unstrapped it, rolled back the canvas with care, exposing three Stingers and six missiles. He looked up.

'Satisfied?'

'Bring one up, plus one missile. No - take the middle ones in each case.'

'Leery sort of bastard, aren't you?'

Gallagher placed a Stinger and a missile on the garage floor, hauled himself up. 'Show you how it works.' He grinned again. 'You get value for money here. It's shoulder-launched by one man. Weighs only thirty pounds. It has a hundred per cent hit rate - mainly due to its infra-red heat-seeking system, plus its amazingly accurate aiming system. You fire in the direction of the aircraft and leave it to do the rest - home in on the target. God knows how many Soviet fighters it's wiped out back in Afghanistan. Take hold of it.'

Anton balanced the weight in both hands, surprised at its lightness. It looked like a mobile telescope with a wide muzzle at the front tapering to a slimmer barrel resting on his shoulder. To his right as he held it was a large rectangular plate. He peered through the aiming system.

This is how you load it,' Gallagher said, inserting a missile. 'Don't pull the trigger or we'll both end up as red goulash.'

'I want a demonstration,' Anton remarked as he handed back the weapon. 'Don't argue. For £145,000 I'm entitled to check the damned thing works . . .'