The Greek Key (51 page)

Gallagher had driven them in his Volvo station wagon into the hills. Leaving Rua Garrett, Anton had noted the donkey still stood patiently with the cart where he had parked it; it looked as though it would stay there all night.

Gallagher pulled up at a lonely spot overlooking the sea. Getting out, he grasped the Stinger and the single missile concealed under a travelling rug. They picked their way past a cactus grove and Gallagher halted at the top of a cliff. Out at sea a lone fishing vessel was returning to port, navigation lights twinkling. Gallagher handed weapon and missile to Anton.

'There's your target. There's always one conies crawling back late."

'I don't understand.'

'That fishing vessel. Get on with it. It's about two miles away. How tar will your target be in the air?'

'Less than two miles. I still don't understand . . .'

'Oh. for Christ's sake! The missile is heat-seeking. Thai boat has a boiler in the engine room. Aim straight for it.'

'Won't there be an enquiry?' Anton inserted the missile, raised the Stinger, cuddling it into his shoulder. 'The police might start searching - when they realize what did it.'

"Except they won't. A month ago a similar fishing vessel blew up - the boilers they use are ancient as these hills. It will be recorded as another case of inefficient maintenance. They don't bother that much round here.'

Anton aimed at a point well below the wheelhouse. He squeezed the trigger, the missile left the launcher, curved in a low arc above the Atlantic at such speed he didn't see -its flight. A dull boom echoed in the humid night. The fishing vessel turned into a pillar of flame after a brief flash. The flame died fast.

Lowering the Stinger, Anton gazed at the smooth surface of the sea. The fishing vessel had vanished. He lifted the Stinger, peered through the aiming device. He could see no trace of any wreckage.

'Satisfied?' Gallagher demanded. 'If so, let's get back to the garage.'

'How many in the crew?'

'Roughly half a dozen. Plenty more where they came from . . .'

'Drop me at the entrance to the Rua Garrett,' Anton told the arms dealer as they drove along the front. 'I have to bring my transport.'

That the transport?' Gallagher enquired as Anton, carrying his executive case, alighted by the donkey cart. 'You'll get a long way with that. And I bet I know where you hid the balance of the money. In that mess of a hillside at the end of the street.'

'And you could search for years and never find it. See you at the garage. Don't wrap the merchandise until I'm there.'

'Anything you say, buddy boy . . .'

I don't think he's American at all, Anton was thinking as he led the donkey cart into the side street, following the Volvo. Under the accent, the over-use of American slang, he had detected traces of some unidentifiable Mittel-European language.

He left the donkey cart outside the open garage doors. Inside Gallagher had lowered the elevated car back over the pit. A careful man, Mr Gallagher. Anton continued down the dark tunnel of the narrow street.

He'd noticed when he first arrived that at the end the street stopped where a steep hill rose, its slopes covered with undergrowth and trees. He found a narrow path twisting up and followed it a short distance. Crouching down, he unlocked the case, lifted the lid.

He took a number of bundles of banknotes and stuffed them inside his pockets until his pullover bulged in an ugly manner. This would appear to be the extra money. He locked the case, made his way back down the tortuous path, walked back to the garage.

'Looks like you're going to have a baby,' Gallagher commented.

He stood by the control panel, pressed one switch, watched the garage doors slowly close, pressed another and the platform elevated above the service pit. Anton put the case down on a table, hoisted his pullover a few inches as he asked the question casually.

'Supposing I want to come back and ask you a question tomorrow. About the operation of the Stingers. You'll be here?'

'No. Anything you want to ask, ask now.' He lowered himself into the pit. 'I'll be away for a week in another country. A fresh deal.'

'Your regular customers - for servicing cars - will be pleased.'

'They know me. The doors are closed, I'm not here. Give me a hand. Take these, put them on that big table, the one with the sheet of canvas.'

When the three launchers and five missiles were laid on the top of the table, Gallagher hauled himself out of the pit. He towered over Anton. He spent the next ten minutes working rapidly, wrapping each launcher and missile in polythene sheets; then he arranged them on the large canvas already spread out. Rolling up the canvas, he fetched some straps and began securing the bundle. 'You can start relieving yourself of that money,' he suggested.

Anton pulled out the bundles of banknotes, laid them in stacks on the table-top. Gallagher was fastening the last strap when the Greek stepped back to pick up the case he'd stowed under the table. Gallagher had his back to him, stooped over the canvas-wrapped weapons.

Anton took out a handkerchief, blew his nose, kept the handkerchief in his hand, grasped the handle of the commando knife inside its sheath fastened to the belt under his pullover. He drew it out, stepped forward and rammed it with all his strength into Gallagher just below the left shoulder blade. Gallagher gasped, made a muted gurgling sound and slumped forward across the table.

'You really should keep to an agreed price,' Anton said.

Anton used two of the straps as makeshift handles to carry the canvas bundle to the donkey cart. At that, he staggered under the weight which must have been between a hundred and fifty and two hundred pounds. And Anton kept himself fit.

He dropped it into the cart and moved the hay to conceal the weapons. He hauled large handfuls close to the bundle, which caused it to sink, then dumped the hay on top. It took him a good five minutes to complete the job. Returning to the garage, he repacked the stacks of banknotes in the case, locked it and buried it under the hay.

Half an hour later he was leading the donkey along the deserted front. The cafés and discotheques were going full blast. From open windows the sound of guitars being strummed, of girls singing
fado
, drifted. At least it guaranteed an empty waterfront.

He had acted quickly clearing up the garage behind closed doors. Gallagher's dead body had been heaved into the pit. Anton had found an oil-stained canvas sheet to cover the corpse. Then he had pressed the button and lowered the elevated platform. He had doused the three oil lamps. Fortunately the control panel was near the doors: he had pressed the switch and dived into the street before they closed.

Carlos leapt on to the jetty when he arrived. Between them they lowered the weapons into his fishing boat. The Portuguese hid them under a pile of fishing nets. He wiped his hands on his trousers and looked at Anton, who asked the question.

'What about the donkey and the cart?'

'Will wait until I return from the
Oporto
. Then I go home. I saw a fishing boat out there die.'

'Sorry?'

'It blew up. Boom! They do not take care with boilers. I am careful. It is my living . . .'

'Has the coastguard gone out?'

It was an important question. Anton was thinking police launches might be prowling around.

'No.' Carlos spread his hands. 'They will not make the hurry. Maybe when the sun rises. Are we good to leave for the
Oporto
?'

'As soon as you can get under way . . .'

Anton felt relieved as he saw the shoreline receding. It would be a week before anyone started worrying about Gallagher's closed garage. That had been a bit of luck. As the boat chugged steadily towards the main harbour Anton wiped his forehead. They were away.

Gomez, skipper of the freighter
Oporto
, was well-organized. A short fat jolly man, he helped to bring the canvas-wrapped cargo aboard up a gangway lowered on the far side from the jetty where his ship was moored. Anton waited until Carlos was guiding his fishing vessel back to Cascais, then handed Gomez the envelope containing £10,000 in Swiss banknotes.

'The same amount as before. Where is the crew?'

'Below decks. I invented work for them when I saw Carlos coming. What they don't see, they don't know. Better I hide this in a safe place?'

'Very safe.' He knew Gomez would assume he was smuggling drugs. 'When do you sail? I have to complete some business.'

'At dawn the day after tomorrow.' He checked his watch. 'It is eleven-thirty. Yes, not tomorrow, the day after. That is OK?'

'Perfectly.' Anton, holding his executive case, decided to take it with him. He had to return to The Ritz, act normally, sleep there, have breakfast, then pay his bill. 'I would prefer it if I could slip aboard tomorrow and stay under cover until you sail.'

'What time? Your cabin is ready now.'

'Probably about midday. You can time arrival at our destination as you did when you took me before? At eleven o'clock at night? Again someone will be waiting to take me ashore.'

'There is a problem.' Gomez, his weatherbeaten face making him look more like sixty than forty, scratched his head. 'Last time I told the harbourmaster at Watchet we had engine trouble. Ah! I have it. This time, after you leave us, we will steam back a way down the Bristol Channel, turn round, and berth during the morning.'

'I'm counting on you.'

'Of course. You will be put ashore at Porlock Weir just as you were before.'

37

'I've never seen anything like this place,' Tweed said as they walked out of The Anchor. He had Paula on one side, Butler on the other, 'It's fascinating. A tiny world on its own.'

Tweed had driven down with Paula to Porlock Weir after he had warned Butler they were coming. 'Book us two rooms at The Anchor,' he had told Butler. 'I want to avoid The Luttrell Arms in Dunster this time. The idea is to surprise Barrymore and Co. You said they've all returned to Exmoor?'

Butler had confirmed the three men had arrived back the previous day. As they left The Anchor after a satisfying lunch he explained.

'Nield and I each have our own hired cars. We spent our time touring the whole area, checking for any sign of life at their residences. We split up, went to pubs to catch any gossip. It's common knowledge the three men took a trip away from Exmoor. You can't go to the loo down here without everyone knowing. Nield is out having another look-see.'

They crossed a narrow wired-fenced footbridge over seventeen-feet lock gates. A notice warned, Closed Spring Tide. Tweed paused, gazing at the oyster-shaped harbour behind the gates. Low tide. The harbour was a basin of sodden mud. A trickle of water ran under the footbridge out of the basin. Expensive power cruisers, moored to buoys, heeled over at drunken angles.

No one else was about as they followed a footpath past a small row of three terraced houses; all of them old, one with a thatched roof. Beyond, a shoal of pebbles led steeply down to a calm grey sea. Tweed stopped, taking in the atmosphere.

He looked back at the gabled hotel which was combined with The Ship Inn. Gulls drifted in the overcast sky, crying mournfully. Behind the coast the hillside, covered with dense trees, climbed. To the west the rocky coast stretched away and everywhere was a feeling of desolation.

'A quiet hideaway,' Tweed commented. 'Like the end of the world.'

'That reminds me.' Paula sounded excited as she delved inside her handbag. 'I found this in a pocket in my suitcase when I was packing to come down here. A brochure I picked up at The Luttrell Arms.'

She handed him a coloured brochure headed
Take the West Somerset Railway to Minehead
. Below was a picture of an old-fashioned steam train. He opened it up and looked at the map inside as Butler peered over his shoulder.

The steam train started at Minehead, ran along the coast through the port of Watchet and later turned inland over the Quantock Hills, ending at Taunton. It began running on 29 March and shut down for winter on 29 October.

'
Endstation.
' said Paula. 'That clue Masterson gave you inside the cigar box he posted from Athens. He was drawing your attention to that old privately run railway.'

'And which is
Endstation
?' Tweed asked. 'Minehead or Taunton?'

'No idea. Don't you think I'm right?'

'Maybe.' Tweed folded up the brochure, handed it back to her. 'Hang on to it. It goes through Watchet, I see. The port where Anton probably came ashore from that Portuguese freighter.'