The Greek Key (69 page)

'Because his wallet was missing. And later discovered with plenty of money inside it - by a dog ferreting in the Doone Valley.'

'So robbery was certainly not involved.'

'They were new notes. The numbers ran in sequence,' Paula reminded him. 'No thief with half a brain would risk spending them.'

'Back to the office.' Tweed's tone was firm. 'I want to see the list Marler sent us of what was in that wallet. Something was missing.'

'Sam's driving licence.' Tweed's voice held a note of triumph as he sat behind his desk and studied the list. 'It wasn't in his wallet. That's what is missing. And he drove down to Somerset. He told me he parked his car in the street at Dunster.'

'Then why hasn't someone reported its presence -parked there all this time?' Monica objected.

'Because someone - maybe Winterton himself - drove it away and parked it in some hidden place on Exmoor. Maybe an abandoned building. They didn't want the car-they're using the licence. Which means they probably hired a car on the strength of Partridge's driving licence.' He scribbled on his desk pad, tore off the sheet. 'Paula, here's his address, Call the Vehicle Registration people in Swansea immediately. Find out the licence number.'

'Which could take God knows how long. They don't move fast,' Paula warned

Tell them you're Special Branch.'He produced his card. 'And tell them I need a reply within one hour. That we are searching for an escaped terrorist. Dammit, they're using computers. Within one hour . . '

It was one hour and ten minutes later when Vehicle Registration phoned back with the number. Tweed called the Commissioner of Police, identified himself, gave him the number. He had hardly put down the phone when it rang again. Newman reporting from Exmoor. No change in the situation.

Tweed explained what he wanted, gave him the licence number and urgent instructions. 'I want all four of you on this. Divide up the area into sectors. Then drive round to every place where you can hire a car. Show them the number. If someone used the licence to hire a car their records will show it. I need any information you can get within twenty-four hours.'

'We have as long as that?' Newman asked cynically.

'Quicker if you can.'

At Cherry Farm the balance of power had changed, much to Anton's chagrin. It had started with a phone call from Jupiter. He told Anton in his cryptic way that three more guests would be arriving. Foster, Saunders and Sully.

At the appointed time Anton drove the grey Austin Metro Seton-Charles had hired in Taunton weeks before to the crossroads where he had taken delivery of the Shi-ite prisoners. A Ford station wagon and a Vauxhall Cavalier stood parked alongside each other on the verge. The lean-faced smartly dressed Foster he had met before came towards him.

Tawny Owl,' Foster greeted him.

'Night Heron,' Anton replied, wondering why Jupiter had thought it necessary for them to exchange agreed codewords when he knew Foster. There were two men in the Vauxhall who waited inside until Anton led the way, driving at the head of the convoy back to Cherry Farm. He didn't like the look of any of them. They had the smell of hardbitten professionals, almost as though they had undergone military training. -,

Foster introduced his companions after his two cars were hidden in the second shed. In the large kitchen at the back Seton-Charles examined the new arrivals through his rimless glasses. He also did not like what he saw. Foster, quick-moving and quick-talking, wasted no time.

'This is Saunders, my second-in-command. If I'm absent you take orders from him. This is Sully. We've brought our own food supplies. Sully will cook for the three of us . . .'

'Seton-Charles has been doing the cooking,' Anton interrupted. 'He can do the meals for all of us.'

'I said Sully will cook for us. You two look after yourselves. Now, where are the Stingers, the mobile launching platforms?'

Anton took them upstairs into the bedroom he occupied, opened a cupboard. Over his left arm was looped the handle of a walking stick with a hardened tip. He used both hands to push his clothes, suspended from a rod, to each side. Foster grunted.

'We'll need a better place than this in case a patrol car comes poking around.'

'Will we?' Anton snapped. Then find them yourself.'

Foster dropped to his knees, crawled inside, felt around the wooden planked floor. Anton looked at Seton-Charles, raised his eyebrows.
Bighead
his gesture conveyed. Sully, smaller, slimly built and also very fit-looking like the others, caught the expression.

'We can do without the sarcasm,' he growled.

Foster hammered hard at the back of the cupboard with his knuckles, expecting a hollow sound. He gritted his teeth - he had almost broken his knuckles on solid wood. He crawled out of the cupboard, stood up.

'All right, I can't find them,' he said and his tone was more polite.

Anton stepped inside, pressed hard with the tip of the stick on a knot of wood in a corner. There was a loud
click
. The rear panel opened inwards a few inches and Anton pushed it wide open, held it, revealing the compartment beyond with a long canvas bundle on the floor.

'You hold the panel open,' he warned. 'There is a spring-loaded hinge which closes it automatically. You haul that out . . .'

They stood inside the front furniture van after squeezing past the auction junk Anton had purchased. Seton-Charles had been told to stay in the farmhouse to keep watch. Holding a launcher with a missile inserted under one arm, Anton mounted the steps to the platform, followed by Foster and his two companions.

Anton settled himself in the chair, pressed the switch and the panel in the roof slid back. Foster stared, glanced at Sully and Saunders who also gazed up. 'Who created all this?' asked Foster.

'I did,' said Anton.

'Jesus, I'm impressed. The other van the same?'

'A replica of this one . . .'

There was an argument about who would drive each van, who would use the launchers. Anton refused to give way. 'I've been trained in the weapon's use by the arms dealer. I'm firing one of the launchers. Who the hell drives is your problem.'

Foster compromised. He and Anton would fire the launchers; the vans would be driven by Saunders and Sully. He asked about communication and Anton produced a walkie-talkie from a leather sheath attached to the platform. 'The driver has his own, tells the launcher when the target is in sight. Anything else?'

Foster asked about the Shi-ite prisoners who would be left dead inside the vans, their hands pressed on the launchers to leave fingerprints. Anton told him about the dead pig he was using to keep them passive. Foster nodded. 'Except when it is on view,' Anton continued, 'I keep it in the chest freezer in the shed. I rigged up a generator to power the freezer.' Foster nodded again, then raised the delicate topic.

'You heard from Jupiter that before we leave nothing must be left to show we were here?'

'Yes. When the call was finished I asked Seton-Charles to dig a grave in the field at the back for the pig.'

'You know what will occupy this grave?' Foster asked quietly.

'Look, I've just told you.' Anton stared at Foster, who stared back with a poker-faced expression. Was he grasping what he'd been told, the Greek began to wonder. Maybe this cold-faced man wasn't too bright? 'It will be occupied by the pig,' Anton repeated.

'Together with Seton-Charles. He's expendable.'

2 December
. An atmosphere of tension was building up inside Tweed's office at Park Crescent. There had been no further reaction to the long list of enquiries they had sent out. No one had called about Anton's photo or the Identikit picture of Seton-Charles which had been widely circulated.

None of the four men scouring Exmoor had reported back on the phone. Tweed, Monica and Paula spent their time listening once more to the tapes of the conversations recorded. They reread the files, including the report Newman had dictated about their visit to Greece. They searched desperately for something they had overlooked. Late in the evening Monica brought more coffee and asked her question again.

'Can't you tell us anything about your interview with the PM?'

'At a certain stage - closer to 7 December when Gorbachev will land at Brize Norton - I shall recall Newman, Marler, Butler and Nield from Exmoor. They must stay there a day or so yet in the hope they find two things - if Sam Partridge's driving licence was used to hire a car in the area, and the route used by Anton to leave the country secretly. When they arrive back we hold a meeting. Then you will hear what has been decided.' He paused. 'I can tell you the PM was convinced I am right, that we have her full support to indent for any weapons we may need. And that two Westland helicopters have been put at our disposal. At my suggestion they are being equipped with swivel-mounted machine-guns and the words "Traffic Control" are being painted on the fuselages. They are at a private airfield called Fairoaks near Woking in Surrey.'

'What's the idea?' Paula asked.

'I should give the credit to Newman. He phoned me in the middle of the night and I outlined the situation. He knows what's coming. So does Marler. Newman made those suggestions.'

Paula glanced at the camp bed made up in the corner. 'So you didn't get an undisturbed night's rest.'

'I don't expect any of us will during the next five days . . .'

He stopped speaking as Howard strolled into the room and sat down in the armchair. He carried a sheaf of photoprints.

'No developments yet, I assume? It's a tense time.'

'Nothing,' Tweed replied. 'And there's always tension at this stage.'

'As you know,' Howard remarked, 'I'm a bit of a car buff. It struck me that that
Spetsnaz
unit Paula uncovered must have moved to a new base prepared in advance.'

'I agree.' Tweed wondered what he was getting at.

'We know Foster has a Ford station wagon, Saunders a Vauxhall Cavalier, Seton-Charles a Volvo station wagon -from the information supplied by Vehicle Registration at Swansea. Sully left his Jag behind in the bungalow garage, so we can forget that. It occurred to me they won't dare hire fresh cars - they'd have to show their driving licences. With me so far?'

'So far, yes.'

That means they'll have to use the same transport to move about. But they may respray their vehicles to disguise them.'

'Highly possible,' Tweed agreed.

'So I have used photographs of those three cars and traced them on a sheet of paper. But I filled the colours in with a solid black. Then I had these photocopies made. If we're looking for those cars from a chopper and use these photocopies we won't be fooled by any change of colour. They're all fairly common makes of car. We'll spot them by their shapes.'

He reached forward, dumped the photocopies on Tweed's desk and sat back again. Tweed studied the copies.

'I think this is a clever idea,' he decided. 'Everyone involved in the search will have a copy.'

'Then I need one,' said Howard and took back a copy.

'What for?' asked Tweed.

'Because I'll be in one of those choppers. You can ride in the other machine.' He raised a hand as Tweed started to protest. 'Don't argue. I'm good at spotting cars. And if you tell the PM I'll never speak to you again.' He stood up. 'So that's settled. I'm fed up with fighting the war from behind my desk with paper darts.' He glanced at Monica's stupefied expression as he left. 'And better give Monica a brandy. Looks like she needs it.'

'My God!' Monica burst out when Howard had gone. 'I'd never have believed it.'

'You always did underestimate Howard,' Tweed told her, and then the phone began ringing.

There was dead silence as Monica grabbed the receiver. She listened, looked at Tweed. 'It's for you. Peter Sarris. Athens.'

Tweed greeted the Greek police chief, then kept silent for five minutes. Gradually he hunched closer to the phone. When he put it down he stared bleakly into the distance for a long minute before speaking.

'It's very close,' he said gravely. 'Doganis strangled Florakis on Cape Sounion, sent his body over the cliff. He didn't know Kalos was following him. Doganis admitted he'd killed Harry Masterson. Apparently he's as strong as an ox. Kalos had to shoot him.'

'What does it mean?' Paula asked.

'It means the Soviet hardliners back in Russia - probably led by General Lucharsky - are wiping their tracks clean. Killing off anyone who could betray them. 7 December is definitely zero hour. Pray for a break soon.'