The Greek Key (57 page)

They stood near the bow on either side and pushed with all their strength. The boat slid slowiy backwards, the outboard poised over the edge. They straightened up, stretching their strained arms, took hold of the boat again. One more prolonged heave and the boat was floating. It filled rapidly with water, drifting just offshore. Then it went down stern first. The bow hovered above the surface, disappeared.

Balaclava strode towards the vehicle, climbed in behind the wheel and Anton sat beside him. They drove off without lights, heading away from the sea, bumping and jostling over the rough terrain.

The driver switched on his lights as they reached the track past the cottages. He never gave a glance at the darkened dwelling where Mrs Larcombe had talked with Tweed. He drove on along the road at higher speed, passing The Anchor Hotel, continuing towards Porlock.

Reaching the toll road, he swung the vehicle up the steep curving slope. At the top he turned right again along the coast road. Beyond Culbone he turned left off the main road down on to the winding country lane which eventually led to the Doone Valley. For the first time he broke his long silence.

'Here is the key to the small house where you spend the night. It is unoccupied. And here is a pencil flashlight so you can find your way round it. The electricity is cut off. You will find canned meat, a tin opener, a loaf of bread, butter, knife, two bottles of mineral water inside a brown paper parcel in a downstairs room. Also a sleeping bag. The place is unfurnished. We'll park the vehicle in a garage alongside. But take the weapons into the house. Sleep with them by your side. And here is a sheathed knife for protection - to be used only in an emergency.'

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.'

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PART THREE

The Greek Key

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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?'