The Greek Key (60 page)

It was the first conversation they had had since they started out. They had agreed in the car they wouldn't speak during the descent into the valley. Nick had explained that voices carried a long distance.

'Well, isn't that our good luck?' Tweed commented and drank from his own water bottle.

'It's too quiet. And I have not seen one single shepherd. That I do not like.'

'Why not?'

'It is almost as though they know we are coming. Fifteen more minutes' walk along this path to the left and we see Petros' farmhouse ..."

It was creepy. Despite the glare of the sun burning down Tweed found the silence unnerving. Now they had to pick their way among a bed of stones and rocks and he realized they were walking along the path of a stream. In winter it would be a gushing flood.

Tweed paused to glance round. Dante's Inferno. That was what it reminded him of. The deep valley, the mountains closing in, the heat trapped in the wide gulch they were moving through. It was the sheer aridity of the slopes which appalled him. Scrub, nothing but scrub.

By now his boots and clothes were coated with fine limestone dust. It clung to his wet face. Nick turned and walked back to him. He scanned the slopes and shook his head.

'Maybe we should go back,' he suggested.

'Why?' asked Tweed.

'Look at that flock of sheep grazing high up on the mountain. No shepherd. There should be a shepherd. Something's wrong.'

'How many shepherds has Petros?'

'Between twelve and fifteen. It is a big farm. And all those men are armed.'

'I'm not turning back now. I have to see Petros. Let's keep moving.'

Nick shrugged. 'OK. Petros' farm is round the next bend. We approach very cautiously . . .'

The long tumbledown building with a veranda stretching its full frontage came into view. Nick stopped abruptly. The desert-like atmosphere was transformed. Tweed gazed at the olive groves climbing up behind the farmhouse, small stunted trees with tortured twisted trunks. On the empty

veranda stood a large wickerwork chair. Tweed noticed the cushions were depressed - as though someone had sat there recently. The silence was even more oppressive.

'I am responsible for your safety,' said Nick. 'I think that we should turn back at once. We are walking into a trap.'

When Newman had introduced Paula to Christina the previous day and left them alone the atmosphere had been frigid. Christina eyed Paula up and down, lit a cigarette and then asked her casually, 'You're Tweed's woman?'

Paula tensed, then relaxed. 'Not in the sense you mean.' She decided she'd start as she meant to go on. 'Let's get one thing straight between us. I'm here to protect you. Just like Newman and Marler were. We're going to be penned up inside this room. Even at night because I'll be sleeping in the other bed. We'll use room service for all meals, including breakfast. Two women cramped together like that is a recipe for an explosion. There won't be one. Now, shall we start all over again?'

By the following morning they were chatting like old friends. It was Christina who brought up the subject when the waiter had taken their breakfast things away.

'Have they gone into Devil's Valley?'

'I think they're somewhere in Athens. On some checking job.'

Christina sat close to Paula, laid a hand on her arm. 'I can tell you are fond of Tweed. I like him myself. If he's gone into Devil's Valley he'll be killed. Petros hates what he calls English. He thinks an Englishman killed both his sons during the war.'

Tweed can look after himself . . .'

'Then that is where he has gone?'

Paula bit her lip. She'd been indiscreet: Christina was quick. And very worried. Which increased the anxiety Paula was feeling. Christina gripped Paula more firmly, her tone emphatic.

'I know the area. Petros and his men know every inch of that Godforsaken wilderness. Even if they've all gone - Tweed, Newman and Marler - they won't survive. Your friends are committing suicide. Their bodies will never be found. They'll be dropped down the old silver mine shaft . . .'

'Don't.' Paula began to feel sick. Christina had conjured up such a vivid picture. 'I didn't say that's where they were going.'

'But it is, isn't it? You said Tweed can look after himself. Petros is crazy. He has no mercy, no feelings. He lives only for revenge. Don't you understand? He's obsessed.'

Obsessed. Paula was shaken. Tweed, also, she felt was obsessed. What would happen when the two men confronted each other? She got up out of her chair, began to pace round the room. I'm doing what Tweed does, she suddenly thought.

'You have to do something,' Christina insisted. 'Now.'

Paula stopped by the telephone and smiled. 'I think I'm going to do something which will lose me my job.'

'Do you mind? If it saves Tweed - and the others?'

Paula checked the phone book, picked up the receiver, dialled police headquarters, asked for Captain Peter Sarris.

Keeping well away from the farmhouse which was overshadowed by a limestone crag, Tweed walked slowly forward over the dusty ground. Nick walked alongside, gripping his shotgun in both hands, the muzzle parallel with the earth.

'You interpret for me,' Tweed said. 'I'll try to make it a quickfire conversation.'

'With who?'

'I sense there are people here - all around us . . .'

He stopped speaking as a large tall man emerged from the farmhouse. He had a hooked nose and thick eyebrows, a lined face. For a man of eighty his movements were vigorous. He carried a double-barrelled shotgun similar to Nick's and was followed by two much younger men. From Newman's description they were Dimitrios and Constantine. Both carried rifles.

'I am Petros,' the old man announced as he descended the steps. 'Bring me a chair, Dimitrios,' he ordered.

Nick translated as Dimitrios carried the wicker chair into the sun. Petros sat in the chair, crossed his legs, laid the gun over his lap, the barrel aimed at Tweed's stomach. The safety catch was on. Seated in the open, Petros reminded Tweed of an Old Testament patriarch. His presence radiated authority and domination.

Dimitrios padded well to the right while Constantine also came into the open, taking up a position on the left -making it impossible for Nick to cover both men. He aimed his gun direct at the old man's chest.

'You were expected,' Petros said, and grinned.

'My name is Tweed. I hold a senior position in the British Special Branch. That is our version of a secret police force. I am investigating the deaths of Andreas and Stephen Gavalas, among others.'

'Listen to him!' Petros threw back his great head and roared with laughter. 'He expects me to believe his lies.' His manner changed, became menacing. The main thing is you are English. I hate all English. You made a big mistake coming here, a fatal mistake.'

'You are blind, old man? You can't see my friend has a gun aimed at you point-blank?'

'At the first sign of movement you are both dead. You must be blind. Have you overlooked Dimitrios and Constantine?'

Tweed had not overlooked them. They stood, feet slightly apart. Dimitrios had his rifle aimed at Tweed, Constantine aimed his weapon at Nick. Sweat was running down Tweed's neck into the already sodden handkerchief. More sweat trickled from his armpits. But inside he was as cold as ice as he held the old man's eyes.

There have been more murders. One of my men, Harry Masterson, came here. He ended up at the foot of Cape Sounion. Don't say you've never heard of him. It was in the papers. You were responsible for his murder?'

Petros' eyes gleamed, locked on Tweed's. He patted his shotgun, as though to check it was there. There was pure hatred in the dark eyes.

'No,' he said eventually, 'I know nothing about that. He must have been the man who came into Devil's Valley by night weeks ago. We couldn't find him. You should have asked Florakis.' He waved his left hand towards the western ridge. 'He owns a scrap of land over there, two hundred hectares or so.'

'You call that a scrap of land?' Keep him talking, Tweed was thinking.

'I own two thousand hectares here.' Petros made a grand gesture. 'Another thousand in Macedonia. If I had killed your man I would tell you. Why not? You will not leave here alive . . .'

'You are a member of the Greek Key?'

Petros scowled, screwed up his thick eyebrows. 'You know too much, Mr Tweed. Yes, during the Civil War I was a member. But when I found they were controlled by Moscow I left them. You think I want some commissar telling me what to do?'

'So you won't like the idea that Anton is a member?'

'You lie!' Petros' face was distorted with fury. He uncrossed his legs and his shotgun barrel shifted, pointing into space. 'You dare to say that to me, English? Your time has come. I will listen to no more of your filthy accusations. You are at the end of your life . . .'

* * * *

Tweed said the first thing that came into his head, something which would distract the old ruffian. 'You know about those diamonds which were taken from Andreas' dead body on Siros? A fortune.'

He reached up, removed his hat, scratched at his head, smoothed down his hair. 'Order your grandsons to freeze.' Nick translated rapidly.

The first shot hit the ground between Petros' splayed feet, kicked up a puff of dust. The second bullet struck within inches of Dimitrios. The third a foot behind Constantine. Petros' gnarled hands gripped the sides of his chair. He sat motionless.

On the top of the eastern ridge Marler squinted through his telescopic sight, the crosshairs centred on Dimitrios' chest. At the summit of the western ridge Newman held his own rifle, aimed at Constantine. The telescopic sight brought up the Greek so close he felt he could reach out and touch him.

Tweed put his hat back on his head. There was a dry smile on his face. 'You really think I'd wander into this place without protection? My men are marksmen, as you may have realized. They could have killed both Dimitrios and Constantine - their bodies would be lying in the dust. Had you moved, Nick would have shot you dead. Who would have carried out your mission of vengeance? If anyone attempts to move they will be shot. Now, can we continue?'

'You are a brave man.' Petros spoke slowly, glancing up at the ridge crests. 'You are also a clever man. OK. Talk.'

'Let's talk about Anton. He went to England many weeks ago by a secret route. You sent him, I suspect. His mission? To locate three men. Colonel Barrymore, Captain Robson and CSM Kearns, the same three men who accompanied Andreas on the fatal raid on Siros. Am I right?'

Petros drew a hand across the grey stubble of his unshaven face and stared at Tweed. It was a long minute before he replied. Tweed could feel the furnace-like heat radiating up from the ground.

'You are right,' Petros told him. 'That was the first stage in my plan to kill the man responsible.'

'You know which one did it? Anton found these men?'

'We don't know which one. Yes, he found them. All living so close together. I thought that strange.'

'Then Anton returned, told you what he had discovered. But it took you only part of the way. Because you still didn't know who murdered Andreas on Siros, stole the diamonds, then returned to Cairo and killed Stephen, masquerading as Ionides? The killer must somehow have found out his real identity. That worried him sufficiently for him to decide Stephen also must die. Why was Stephen living in Cairo under an assumed name?'

Tweed waited while Nick translated. He was trying to keep his questions short, to encourage Petros to continue the conversation, but he had to extract the whole story.

'You are right,' Petros said again. 'About Anton's first trip to England. And the rest. The EDES mob sent Stephen to Cairo as a spy. They gave him false papers under the name Ionides.'

'Maybe it was the right-wing EDES which killed Andreas?' Tweed pressed on.

'No. They had their headquarters on Siros, under the nose of the German commanding general, Geiger. They wanted the diamonds. They would never have killed one of their own.'

'What about the Germans? Maybe one of them did the job, found the diamonds, took them?'

'I thought of that.' Petros paused. 'This will sound peculiar. I arranged a truce with General Geiger. He agreed. He did not want a bloodbath. A Greek killed in battle is one thing. But killed by a German soldier who steals from him, that is another. We met under a flag of truce. He was a reasonable man. He said he knew which patrols were near the area that night. He would question them himself. I knew I could trust him. Later he sent me a message. Only one patrol was near the place where we found Andreas. None of them had even discovered the body.'