The Greek Key (61 page)

'So that leaves the three commandos?'

'Yes. Now, I think we end this . . .'

'Wait! Anton is now in England again. Did you send him - or was it his idea? Did he persuade you it would be a good idea?'

For the first time Tweed saw doubt in Petros' expression. The old man stirred uncomfortably, looked away from Tweed towards the farmhouse and beyond.

'It was his idea,' he said slowly. 'He pressed hard for me to agree. Mr Tweed, do not remove your hat again. Do not make the signal a second time. Look behind the farmhouse ..."

Tweed turned his head. Then he knew the reason for the absence of shepherds when they had made their tortuous way into Devil's Valley. A group of about a dozen men in shepherd's clothes stood scattered above the farmhouse, concealed beneath the overhang of the crag where neither Marler nor Newman could possibly see them. He had been out-manoeuvred.

'I have only told you all this because I knew you would never leave this place alive,' Petros told him. 'You see they are all armed.' He stabbed a finger at Nick. 'Now you are marked for the first shots. As you drop I shall move very quickly - which I can - inside the house. Away from your marksmen who will not react until you make the signal. Then it will be too late. So. Mr Tweed, you should never have come here ..."

'Keep him talking for just a minute,' Nick whispered in English.

Tweed did not ask why. 'You haven't asked about Christina. I know where she is. She is under my care. And not in Greece.'

The fury returned. The hands clutched at the chair. 'You hold her as a hostage? I do not believe it. I would do that, but you are not such a man . . .'

'A different subject,' said Tweed, seeking the maximum distraction, 'Why did you wait for so many years before trying to locate the three commandos? It doesn't make sense.'

Petros' eyes seemed to start out of his head. His right hand clenched the chair as he spat out the words. A streak of near-madness glittered in his expression. Obsessed, Tweed thought - I'm facing a man obsessed . . .

'First there was the Civil War . . . then the years of work to make money, to build up the farm . . . you need money to conduct a manhunt. I had my family to bring up. The years passed quickly, too quickly. And all that time the thought never left my head. I must track down the killer of my sons. I live with that each day. That is what keeps me going.
Revenge
. And now your time is up . . .'

Marler was a long way below the eastern crest where he had shot from. He knew he was taking a desperate gamble - that he was leaving one flank unguarded. But he had heard the tumble of rocks sliding, which meant someone was moving beneath the overhanging crag protecting the farm.

He knew he had assessed the geography correctly: Newman, perched high on the western ridge, couldn't possibly see beneath the great crag. As he made his rapid descent, his rifle looped across his back, he was helped by his small stature, by his slim build, by the fact that he was moving down the sandy bed of a dried-up stream - which enabled him to move silently.

He avoided shifting even the smallest pebble which might give away his presence. His small feet skipped down the twisting bed. Then he slowed down, peered round the precipitous wall of the crag. The roof of the farm lay below. Under the shelter of the crag stood a group of shepherds, well spaced out, each holding a rifle or shotgun to his shoulder. Marler unlooped his own weapon.

Tweed could now hear the sounds which Nick's acute ears had picked up. The putt-putt beat of helicopter motors approaching fast. The machines appeared suddenly and at the same moment. One Alouette came over the western ridge, the second appeared over the eastern crest. Police choppers.

Petros stared upwards, exposing his thick neck. The chopper which flew in from the west was already dropping. Sarris was behind the swivel-mounted machine-gun, the glasses he had used looped round his neck. The window was open. A policeman beside him used an amplified loudhailer to shout the message in Greek.

'Drop your weapons or we open fire . . .'

A shepherd concealed behind a large boulder raised his rifle. He aimed for the pilot's cabin. There was a single report. The shepherd crumpled, shot in the back. Marler switched to another target. The shepherds panicked, hoisted their rifles to shoot at the chopper. Sarris' machine-gun began its deadly chatter, sweeping across those at the highest level. Shepherds threw up their hands, sagged to the ground.

'Run, Tweed . . .'

Nick darted forward, rammed the muzzle of his shotgun under Petros' jaw, shouted at him to get inside the house. The old man jumped out of his chair, fled for the veranda. Tweed was already running towards the house. On the western crest Newman saw one shepherd aiming his rifle over the rooftop at the running figure. He squeezed the trigger. The shepherd dropped his weapon, took two paces forward, fell flat on his face.

Both Alouettes had landed. Uniformed police holding guns dropped to the ground, ducked under the whirling rotors, spread out, surrounded the farm. Sarris strode up the steps and into the farmhouse. Tweed held an axe he had snatched from the kitchen wall.

'Better late than never,' said Sarris.

44

They drove along Alexandras Avenue and pulled up outside police headquarters. Sarris had driven Tweed back from the helipad where the chopper landed after flying them from Devil's Valley. In the rear seats were Newman and Marler. Nick was driving his Mercedes back on his own; a uniformed policeman was bringing back Marler's hired Peugeot. Sarris switched off the engine, lit a cigarette.

'What was that business about the missing commando daggers at Petros' farmhouse?' Tweed asked.

'Six of them,' said Sarris, 'all collected from British commandos the Germans captured raiding the Cyclades islands. General Geiger apparently kept them as trophies. One night Petros and some
andartes
broke into his villa, walked off with them. Petros has kept them in a glass case at the farm.'

'I heard your conversation with him in Greek,' Newman commented. 'The old maniac used to gaze at them every evening before he went to bed - to remind himself of his mission of vengeance. I'd say there were five, not six, in Geiger's villa. The sixth could have been the knife which killed Andreas. It was Petros' lot who found the body and removed it - and remember the knife was still sticking in Andreas' back.'

'But how did you know Petros had this macabre collection?' Tweed asked.

'I had one of his shepherds in my pay. He's the man who dropped flat and survived when I opened fire. I had to twist Petros' arm to find out what happened when I noticed the case was empty.'

'And what did happen?' Tweed pressed. 'I have a reason for asking.'

'Petros eventually admitted they disappeared many weeks ago - about the time Anton left for his first trip to England.'

'Which
may
explain who killed Sam Partridge,' Tweed remarked.

'Why the doubt?' asked Marler.

'Because the three men on Exmoor would also have access to the weapon - when they were in the Army. We still don't know who the killer is. What will happen to Petros?' he asked Sarris.

'He'll end up behind bars. Maybe in a padded cell. Now, was your crazy expedition worthwhile?'

'Yes. I'm convinced Petros had nothing to do with the killing of Masterson. Which is why I came here. I also believe Petros was kept alive by his dream of vengeance, that he might never have taken any real action. The dream would have gone.'

Sarris opened the door. 'Let's go to my office, get a drink. I'm parched.' He looked at Tweed as he climbed out of the car. There's someone waiting to see you. And you'd better say thanks to her very nicely.'

Tweed asked the question suddenly, hoping to catch Sarris off balance. 'What precisely is the Greek Key?'

'It's an ancient symbol. You must know it. You see it used on embroideries, it appears in the friezes of temples.'

'Freeze is the word - what you all do when the phrase is mentioned.'

Tweed followed Sarris inside the building while Newman and Marler brought up the rear. They waited and then stepped inside an elevator. When they walked into the office Paula, who had been reading a magazine, dropped it and rushed to Tweed, hugging him.

'God! You're crazy,' she exploded. 'I warned you. Sarris sent a radio report from the chopper. You walked into an ambush.' She released him, stood back, spoke in a solemn voice. 'And I know I disobeyed your instructions. So I expect to be sacked.'

'Stuff and nonsense. I owe you my life.' Tweed sank into a chair while Sarris ordered coffee and mineral water over his intercom. 'But where is Christina? Is she on her own?'

'Of course not!' Sarris snapped. 'Paula phoned me. Before I drove to the helipad I left orders for a plain-clothes man to go to the Grande Bretagne to guard Christina -so Paula could come here.' He looked at Newman and Marler who had also sat down. 'Officially you were not involved. Which is why I've confiscated your rifles. They'll get lost. I won't ask how you obtained them.'

That's big of you,' said Newman. 'Considering Marler shot down a shepherd who was aiming his rifle at the cabin of that chopper you were flying in. You could be cold meat on a slab now.'

Sarris grinned, looked at Tweed. 'Is he always so independent and aggressive?'

'Yes,' Marler interjected. 'A pain in the arse. But we did hold the situation until you arrived.'

'I think you all went mad,' Paula said and sipped at the cup of coffee served by a uniformed policeman. She was watching Tweed: there had been a major change in his mood and manner. The vehemence and tension seemed to have drained out of him.

A man came in and Tweed looked up. The Dormouse.

He stood up, smiled and shook hands. 'Good to see you again.'

'I would suggest,' Sarris began, 'that Kalos takes you for a ride away from here. That you ask him the question you put to me downstairs. I'd like the rest of you to stay while we cook up an official report, something that will make my superiors happy. The truth - but maybe not the whole truth . . .'

The Dormouse drove Tweed to the Plaka. He apologized for the transport, his battered old Saab. 'No one notices it,' he explained, 'which is why I favour it. Now the question.'

'What is the Greek Key?'

'I'll tell you when we reach my flat - that and a lot more. It's politically sensitive, which is why Sarris suggested we get out of police headquarters.' He manoeuvred the vehicle carefully inside the labyrinth, stopped outside a taverna, his engine still running. 'See that - Papadedes. Note the entrance to the staircase alongside - Papadedes hires out the room upstairs to men taking a woman up there. But other people have used that room. I will tell you in my flat.'

He parked the car inside a narrow alley climbing steeply up towards a hilltop. His flat was above a shop selling baskets and leather handbags to tourists. Tweed settled himself in an armchair after a good wash in a tiny bathroom. He felt more civilized after getting rid of the mixture of dried sweat and dust.

Kalos fussed about, making coffee. He placed the cup on a small round table next to the chair, produced a tin jug and two glasses. '
Retsina
.' he explained. 'If you do not like it leave it. And here is mineral water. Some bread with a little cheese - made from cow's milk. I do not think goat's milk cheese would appeal.'

'Very good of you, Kalos.' Tweed sipped at the retsina. It tasted resinous. 'I like it. Now, can we talk?'

The Greek Key,' Kalos began, settling himself in another armchair, 'is a highly secret underground organization of hardline Communists. It is run by a committee but the man who counts is Doganis, in his sixties . . .'

'Ah,' said Tweed, 'another man in his sixties. So he goes back also to the Second World War.'

'That is true.' Kalos leaned forward, tapped Tweed on the knee. 'And these are very hard men indeed. They are bitter because they just failed to take over Greece during the Civil War. We were saved by the American President, Truman. He sent a military mission, tons of arms. Now they have surfaced again. They are anti-Gorbachev.'

Tweed stiffened, put down his glass. 'Their activities are confined to Greece?'

'I don't think so. From the records, during the Second World War there were strong rumours the real controller of the Greek Key was an Englishman based in Cairo. Let me tell you what I have discovered.' He took a file from his briefcase. 'This is my secret report. You can read it later. Now, we start with the clandestine visit of General Lucharsky to Athens . . .'

Tweed ate the bread and cheese, listened grimly as The Dormouse described what he had found out. Lucharsky . . . Colonel Rykovsky. The arrival later of Lucharsky's aide, Colonel Volkov . . . the link with Doganis . . . Florakis, alias Oleg Savinkov, The Executioner . . . Pavelic, the Croat hardliner who had provided Kalos with secret information while drunk . . .