The Greek Key

16

11 a.m. 104°F. 40°C.

The heat scorched them like a burning glass. The cloudless sky above the ferry was a molten blue. Newman lifted his hand, wiped his forehead. He was dripping with sweat. His shirt was sodden. The car ferry bound for Siros edged away from its berth at Piraeus, turned slowly through ninety degrees, headed out into the gulf.

Newman stood at the bow of the vessel, elevated above the car deck and below the bridge. The ferry to Siros was small compared with the giant five-deckers which plied between Piraeus and Crete and Rhodes. Below the bridge and stretching to the stern, trucks and cars were parked three abreast, filling the ferry which was open to the sky.

Nick had had to back the Mercedes on to the ferry up the ramp so, like the other vehicles, he faced the ramp for ultimate disembarkation at Siros. Marler, wearing an open-necked shirt loose outside his khaki drill trousers, appeared alongside Newman and grinned.

'Enjoying the weather, old chap? A super day for the trip.'

'If you say so, and not so much of the old chap.'

'Just an expression, old boy. Don't mind me…'

'I won't.'

Marler, damn him, looked as cool as a cucumber. Resting his hands on the rail, Marler stared ahead at the millpond sea where the sun reflected like wavelets of mercury. Newman had earlier rested his own hands briefly on that rail. Very briefly. Like touching a red-hot iron.

'What's the object of our trip to Siros?' Marler enquired. 'That is, assuming I'm permitted to be put in the picture.'

'No need for sarcasm,' Newman growled.

'Irony, not sarcasm. Big difference. Why the change of plan at a moment's notice? Sort of thing Tweed would do. We were going to check out Cape Sounion where Harry Masterson took his dive.'

'You have such a subtle turn of phrase, Marler. The enemy – whoever they may be – would expect us to follow Masterson's trail. Instead we're going to Siros-where over forty years ago a man called Gavalas was murdered during a commando raid. I want to see the place where it happened.'

'You think there's a link with Masterson's death?'

'Tweed said it was a possibility. And that commando raid came up in conversation when Harry visited that chap at the MOD.'

'And how on earth are we going to find the spot where Gavalas was killed on Siros?'

'Nick. He knows the island well, has friends there. But we'll have to watch ourselves every step of the way…'

'Which is why, I suppose, you had Nick kit us up?'

'That's why,' Newman agreed. He tilted his wide-brimmed straw hat to shield his eyes. Marler, who seemed impervious to the torrid heat, was hatless, his fair hair gleaming in the sunlight. 'Watch it,' Newman warned, 'Nick's coming.'

'It's very hot,' Nick complained as he hauled himself up the companionway leading from the car deck and stood mopping his neck with a large handkerchief which was already limp with moisture. 'You can get a drink inside. The only way to avoid dehydration. I came up for a breath of air. There isn't any.'

'Join us,' Newman suggested.

'No.' Nick shook his head. 'I'll get a bottle of orange juice, take it back. I'd better stay with the Merc. You know why…'

Ten minutes later Newman stood alone on the bow deck, a fresh bottle of orange juice in his hand. Four more unopened bottles stood on a nearby seat. He'd have drunk gallons of the stuff by the time they reached Siros, two hours' sailing time away. You know why… He recalled Nick's words.

It was Newman's idea that they travel to Siros armed. He had not forgotten the bullet fired at them at the port of Zea. And Siros, he suspected, was a sensitive area for someone. He felt confident they had slipped the leash by boarding the ferry at the last moment, but he was not a man to take unnecessary chances.

Hence the guns and ammo Nick had obtained from God knew where. A sniperscope rifle for Marler, one of Europe's top marksmen; a Lee Enfield. 303 rifle for himself; a Smith amp; Wesson. 38 revolver for Nick. And all concealed, carefully taped to the underside of the chassis of the Mercedes. Which was why Nick was staying down on the car deck. To keep an eye on the car and its hidden cargo.

An hour later the ferry was moving at speed across the surface of the incredible sapphire blue of the Mediterranean. It almost hurt Newman's eyes to stare at it as he maintained his vigil, thinking, planning his moves when they landed. Over to the port side he made out the tip of Cape Sounion where Masterson had died. He raised the field glasses looped round his neck and focused them.

Perched at its summit the near-intact temple of Poseidon, guardian of the sea, came up in the lenses. A vision of perfection. Newman sighed, dropped the glasses, looked ahead. He'd liked Masterson.

Passing the Cape, the ferry headed south-east direct for the Cyclades group of islands. Siros was the closest of the group but was still out of sight. Peace, perfect peace, Newman thought as the ferry ploughed on through a shimmering heat haze. Probably their tour of Siros would also be peaceful, quite uneventful.

Deep in the heart of Devil's Valley, not twenty miles north of Cape Sounion, Petros Gavalas sat on the veranda of his headquarters farm. He had just put down the telephone. A summer hum of insects drifting above the grass was the only sound.

The farm was huddled under a looming limestone crag, almost hidden from the air, nestled in a wide defile between scrub-studded hills rising like cliffs. Shifting in his cane seat, Petros yelled his instruction hoarsely in Greek.

'Dimitrios! Christina! Get out here fast. And tell Constantine to be ready to take off in the helicopter. Come on! You should be here now, damn you!'

He waited until his two grandchildren stood before him. Christina, clad in tight-fitting denims and a flowered blouse, looked down at him, took a cigarette out of her mouth and ran a hand through her long dark hair.

'Was that Anton?' she enquired anxiously. 'He is on his way back from England?'

'No. And Anton can look after himself. He has a job to do. So have both of you.'

He studied the thin-faced Dimitrios, who often acted as his driver. Forty-four years old, he had Petros' dark eyes, his cruel mouth. With more training, another five years, Dimitrios might become as ruthless as Petros himself, although the old man doubted it. He twisted his hawk-nosed profile, stared hard at Christina.

That Englishman, Marler, you got information from. Did you sleep with him, you whore?'

'Of course not,' she lied smoothly, refusing to lose her temper with the old bastard. God, she thought, he's still living in 1947. The world has changed since then. But he'll never know it. Petros leaned towards her, reached out a gnarled hand to grasp her arm. to twist it. She was too quick for him: she stepped out of his reach.

'I told you once. That's enough,' she snapped. 'What job? Who phoned you?'

'Pavlos – from Piraeus.' Petros slumped in his chair with disgust. 'He had trouble getting through on the phone. Nothing works in this country any more. Since the colonels went…'

'Don't start that again,' she rapped back. 'What has happened?'

'Oh, nothing much.' He made a sarcastic gesture with his hands. 'Just that the two English – Newman and your Marler- are at this moment aboard a ferry bound for Siros. The chopper will get you to Siros ahead of them. The ferry left Piraeus at eleven this morning and arrives soon after one o'clock. It is now noon – so move your leaden feet. Christina, you will stay out of sight. If Dimitrios decides, you can meet your Marler and lure him into a trap.'

'He is not my Marler. You have said that twice. Say it a third time and I will not go…'

'You try to disobey me?' Petros heaved himself out of the chair, clenched his fist and moved towards her. 'I will beat you until you cannot move…'

'No more!' she shouted back. From the sheath attached to her belt she whipped out a long-bladed knife and waved it in front of her. 'Come one step nearer and I'll cut you open…'

Petros stood stunned. He couldn't believe what was happening. A woman was threatening him. Aware that Dimitrios was watching him closely, that he must not lose face to a mere female, he changed tactics. Slapping his thigh, he raised his large head, roared with laughter, then gestured at Dimitrios.

'You see! She is a true Gavalas. A real spitfire, my little Christina.' He turned back to her. 'Use that knife to cut open this Marler and I will buy you a beautiful dress from Kolonaki. Now, off you go! You are armed, Dimitrios?'

'Constantine has loaded shotguns and rifles aboard the chopper. He guessed it was an emergency…'

'Then what are you waiting for? If those two English go near where my son, Andreas, was killed in the war – you kill them.'

He stopped speaking as the sound of a helicopter's rotors starting up drowned all further conversation. He sank back into his chair as Dimitrios and Christina ran off round the side of the house. Stephen and Andreas, vengeance for your deaths will be mine, he said to himself. He felt great satisfaction.

He had four descendants – Dimitrios, Constantine, Christina and Anton. He believed all shared his obsession that the killers must be dealt with. He had dinned the idea into them since childhood and worried only about Christina. Women should not think – only obey.

Petros looked around the front of the farm while he waited to see the machine take off for Siros. It was a large building. The veranda ran thirty feet along the front. The once-white walls were grey with dirt. In places they sagged, were held up by huge beams of wood which served as props. Many tiles on the roof were broken. Petros never spent money on repairs unless he simply had to.

This meanness had helped make him rich. Money in the bank. That was power. And he owned a second farm way up north in Macedonia. A farm which boasted many scores of head of cattle. They provided the milk the tourists loved. And for making the cheese the tourists staying at the great hotels also loved. Goat's milk, which Petros preferred, was not liked by the visitors bloated with money.

The Sikorsky was airborne, flew along the front of the farm as it gained height. The pilot, Constantine, waved. Petros waved back. They would do the job. And the sight of the Sikorsky made him feel good. War surplus bought by another farmer at a knock-down price.

Petros had coveted the Sikorsky. One night during a heatwave summer he had led his grandsons to the farmer's fields. They had used flaming torches to set fire to his crops. He had been ruined. Only then had Petros approached him with an offer for the Sikorsky – an offer which would not have bought a second-hand car. Desperate for money, the farmer had sold him the machine. I'm a good businessman, Petros told himself. Now I wait, see what happens on Siros.

Aboard the ferry Nick sat behind the wheel of the Mercedes and started up his engine. They were coming in to Siros, the ramp would soon be lowered. Newman stood on the bow deck as the ferry began turning slowly through a half-circle, ready to berth stern first. Alongside him stood Marler, lighting one of his king-size cigarettes.

'Pretty-looking place,' he drawled.

Newman was carefully scanning the waterfront with his glasses, searching for any sign of a reception committee. The island was mountainous, one limestone giant rearing in the distance. Mount Ida, he assumed. The lower slopes were arid, studded with more scrub.

He blinked. The small port of Siros was crammed with stark white-walled two-storey houses. Huddled together and piled up the hill, they glared beneath the burning sun. The shallow-sloped red-tiled rooftops were stepped up the incline. He followed the route of several narrow walled roads which appeared to zigzag upwards. A rabbit warren.

The harbour was sickle-shaped, enclosed by two curving jetties. Inside the entrance a small fleet of fishing vessels and motorized caiques were moored. Along one jetty wall the golden strands of scores of fishing nets hung drying. The tavernas and shops lining the waterfront had a sleepy look.

'It's a working port,' Newman remarked, lowering his glasses. 'Not many tourists find their way here would be my guess. And I still wonder about that chopper which flew over us earlier.'

'Could have landed anywhere,' Marler replied offhandedly. 'I think we'd better join Nick…'

There was a bump as the stern touched shore by a stone causeway. The ramp was lowered, vehicles began moving off as Newman ran clown the companionway. then slowed his pace. It was like moving inside a red-hot oven.

'You take is easy in Greece, old boy.' Marler needled him, strolling down the steps.

'And you don't let on I speak Greek,' Newman warned. 'That way we may hear something interesting.'

'Sir!' As Newman looked over his shoulder Marler gave a mock salute.

Cocky bastard, Newman thought, then quenched his irritation. He had better watch himself in this inferno. Nick had driven the Mercedes off and was waiting on the waterfront. Small boys were dancing round the gleaming car, touching it and then jumping back as Nick shouted at them.

'Where to first?' Newman asked, climbing in beside Nick while Marler settled himself in a rear seat.

To meet my friend, Spyros. I sent him a radio message from Athens. He lives high up here in Siros…'

The car was moving, turning away from the waterfront into one of the narrow side streets. Almost immediately the street was climbing, twisting round narrow corners over the paved surface. On both sides they were hemmed in by the clean whitewashed walls as they ascended the labyrinth. Sweat started pouring down Newman's back. The tunnel-like streets, the blinding glare off the white walls – everything intensified the hellish heat despite the fact that Nick had opened all the windows.

'Where is everyone?' Newman asked. 'We haven't seen a soul.'

'Indoors. Resting.' Nick replied. 'Even for Siros today is very hot. It helps. If we see someone out we must wonder why. Who they are. Did you see that old Sikorsky with the blurred markings which flew over the ferry?'

'What about it?' Newman asked, glancing at Marler, who looked damnably cool and relaxed as he lolled in his seat.

'A woman passenger wearing dark glasses and a scarf over her hair was checking the ferry through binoculars. I think she was trying to find someone. Maybe us?'

'Cross that bridge when we come to it,' Marler responded.

'This is a good place to stop,' Nick went on. 'Then I can get the guns from under the car…'

He had reached a tortuous turn and pulled up half-way round so they had a view both down and up the street which was still deserted. Sliding under the car, he was less than a minute before he handed Marler his sniperscope rifle, followed by Newman's weapon. Scrambling out from under the car, he glanced round as he dumped a hip holster with his revolver on the front passenger seat.

'It's all right.' Newman assured him, 'we watched both up and down the street while you were under the car.'

Nick strapped on the holster while Marler raised his rifle and peered through the sniperscope at a fisherman walking slowly along a jetty far below. Nick slipped on a lightweight linen jacket he kept slung from a hook behind the driving seat. He left it open and grinned at Newman.

'It will be hot wearing this – but it conceals what I carry. You hide your rifles under that travelling rug rolled up on the floor in the back.'

'And now?' Newman asked.

'We meet Spyros who is waiting at the top. He will take us to Mount Ida – to the place where the Greek was murdered during the war. ..'

They have disappeared,' said Dimitrios. 'One moment the Mercedes is driving up towards us, then it vanishes. What kind of a trick is this?'

'They're probably parked at the corner of the road down there. Where it turns a sharp bend. That church dome hides it from us,' concluded Christina.

She sounded thoroughly rebellious. She shook her dark mane, exasperated with her cousins' slave-like obedience to Petros.

Constantine shrugged his shoulders, irked by her attitude. This was not women's work. Like Dimitrios he was thin and bony and he sported a moustache which curved round the ends of his slit of a mouth. He looked after his moustache proudly: it had made him a big hit with the girls, really rolled them over. On their backs.

They were perched on the roughcast terrace of a house overlooking the port of Siros. Through his binoculars Dimitrios had observed Newman, Marler and Nick coming ashore from the ferry. It was Christina who had earlier confirmed they were aboard when Constantine had overflown the ferry.

The house belonged to Petros and was empty. Today was Wednesday. On each Monday a local woman came to clean up the place. Parked in front of the house was a battered Cadillac, paint peeling from its bodywork. Petros had bought it for a song from a man in need of money. The weapons transported aboard the helicopter were stowed inside the Cadillac. Shrubs sprouting blood-red flowers decorated the terrace in large Ali Baba pots. Christina put on her dark glasses, lit a cigarette.

'You won't need to use the guns,' she told them.

'We use them if they go near Mount Ida,' Constantine snapped at her. 'You remember what Petros ordered?'

'Ordered! You are like a couple of puppets he dangles at the end of a string. Harm the Englishmen and everything goes wrong. The police will hunt you down. Sarris himself might come. He only waits for his chance to put you all inside for ever. Then what happens to me? If necessary I will handle Marler, lead him and the others away from where it happened…'

Constantine grinned unpleasantly, made an obscene gesture. 'Ah! You and Marler. Petros was right. You will do as we tell you to do.. .'

His left hand gripped her arm. He froze. Her free hand had whipped out the knife from the sheath attached to her belt. He felt its point tickle his throat. Her black eyes blazed with fury.

'Let me go or I'll rip your throat open. God knows how many women you have had, you fornicator…'

He released her, stepped back carefully. The fear was written large on his face as she followed him and his back pressed into the terrace wall. It was only as high as his hips and there was a long drop to the paved street below. She rested the point of the knife against his breast bone. He breathed heavily. She was strong; if she pushed the knife a couple of inches more…

'You will never use that filthy gesture in front of me again,' she told him. 'You will not use the guns. We will find some other way of diverting them. You understand?'

'Yes, Christina. For God's sake…'

She sheathed the knife suddenly, turned away. Her expression was contemptuous. As she had always suspected Constantine was a coward. Dimitrios, careful not to interfere – he had previous experience of Christina's temper -stood staring through his binoculars. He lowered them quickly.

'You were right,' he told her. 'They had hidden behind that corner. Why? Could they have spotted us? Impossible. They are driving this way. We must leave in the Cadillac quickly before they arrive, drive up towards Ida and see what they do next…'

Nick turned yet another sharp-angled bend in the zigzag road which went up and up. Newman glanced out of the window on his side. Nick was a superb driver: he had missed scraping the wall of a house by inches. They were very high up now and Newman caught glimpses of the sea which was an incredible mixture of brilliant colours -sapphire, turquoise, lapis lazuli. No picture postcard had ever captured this. The car slowed and stopped.

'Spyros,' said Nick.

An old hunchback, clad in peasant clothes and with a face like a wrinkled walnut under his wide-brimmed straw hat, sat perched outside a house. He was whittling a piece of wood with a knife. He stood up, adjusted the angle of his hat, opened the rear door of the car and joined Marler.

Nick drove on as he made introductions. 'Spyros. Sitting next to you is Marler. My other friend is Bob Newman.'

'I am pleased to meet both of you,' Spyros replied in English and with quaint old-world courtesy. 'You take the next fork to the right when we leave Siros port and climb the mountain.'

He opened the cloth he had used to wrap the piece of wood and the knife and continued whittling, careful to keep the pieces carved off on the cloth. Marler stared at the wood. It was beginning to take the shape of a madonna. Spyros kept glancing up as he worked, checking their position.

They emerged from the labyrinth of the port of Siros suddenly. Ahead the road was no longer paved. A track of white dust, it snaked up the mountain which rose sheer above them. Before long they were driving along a ledge just wide enough to take the Mercedes. On Nick's side rose a sheer wall of limestone. Newman peered out on his side and the mountain fell away into a deep precipice. Far below a grove of olive trees spread their stunted branches. Beyond the grove the sea spread into the distance, ink blue.

'You're sure the Merc can get all the way?' Newman enquired in what he hoped was a casual tone.

'Spyros would not have let us come if it was not possible.'

'Good for Spyros…'

Newman glanced down again and began to feel the symptoms of vertigo. He averted his gaze, forced himself to concentrate on the track ahead spiralling up and round the mountain. At several points there were tracks leading off through gulches in the mountain. Newman would have given anything to tell Nick to turn into one of the gulches – away from the hideous precipice which was growing deeper and deeper. Had the old Greek sensed his fear? Still whittling at the wood, he said suddenly, 'We are very close now. The country will open out. We shall leave the abyss.'

'And then?' Newman prodded.

'We shall be at the place where Andreas Gavalas died over forty years ago.'

The Cadillac, driven by Dimitrios, had taken the other route on the far side of the mountain. Hidden inside a copse of olive trees, they had seen Nick heading up the seaward road.

They are going where they shouldn't,' Dimitrios said. 'So, we get there first and wait for them…'

He had driven like a madman up the curving road with Constantine beside him, a rifle and shotgun resting in his lap. In the back of the car Christina sat tense and silent.

To her left the ground sloped away steeply but not precipitously. In the distance she could see the white-walled houses of Siros port – looking like a child's model.

'We turn here,' Dimitrios said and swung off the road inside a deep-walled gulch which snaked between lofty heights of limestone. The wheels bumped over rocks, shaking the vehicle.

'Why?' demanded Christina.

'We are now ahead of them,' Dimitrios condescended to explain. 'We will check to see they are going all the way. Then, if they are, we turn round here and go on up the mountain. There is a place where we can look down on them, see what they do.'

He had stopped at a point where the track widened and turned the Cadillac so it faced the way they had come. He had concealed the car out of sight of the gap at the end of the gulch. Daylight showed and way beyond it the intense blue of the sea.

'A place where you can look down on them?' Christina queried. 'You are taking your guns with you? Why?' Her hand clawed at Dimitrios' shirt collar as he was alighting. 'What are you planning to do?'

'You heard what Petros ordered. To shoot them if necessary. Now let go, you treacherous cat. At the end is the other road. We shall see their car pass if they have come this far.'

As Spyros had predicted, they had left the abyss behind. Ahead, below the sheer wall of the mountain, an area of flat scrubland stretched before them. Nick stopped the car, Newman stepped out, stretched and took another swig from the plastic bottle of mineral water. They had six unopened bottles: dehydration, as Nick was never tired of warning, was the greatest danger. Newman grimaced after drinking, replaced the cap. The liquid was tepid, tasteless.

The plateau of arid scrubland projected out from the mountain wall, then sloped steeply downwards. A wide deep parched gully led its winding way towards the distant sea. Its surface was cluttered with limestone boulders and pebbles. In winter, Newman guessed, it would be a gushing torrent. Now it was bone dry.

'Where?' asked Marler in his direct way.

Spyros pointed to the gully with his knife. The rocky gulch lay about two hundred yards away. Shielding his eyes, Marler gazed up at the towering mountain above them.

'What in Hades is that?'

Newman stared up. At the summit of Mount Ida, clinging to the edge of the rock, was perched a huddle of ancient buildings. Built of solid stone, one shallow-roofed building was hanging above another, perched at different levels and all joined in one complex.

'The monastery of Mount Ida,' Spyros told them. 'From there you see all over the island. During the war the German general, Hugo Geiger, established a lookout unit. He respected the monks. He said someone should live in peace in this frightful war.'

'Where?' Marler repeated again. 'Where exactly did this Andreas Gavalas die?'

'Inside the gully.' Spyros pointed the knife. 'I will show you the place…'

'Not yet.' Marler placed a hand on the old man's shoulder as he began to walk out into the open. 'Everyone back inside the car,' Marler continued, reaching inside for his rifle. He pocketed the sniperscope sight, picked up several spare magazines. 'Go on, get in quick,' he ordered. 'The lot of you.'

'May I ask why?' Newman enquired.

'You may. A mile or so back coming up the mountain I glanced down one of those side tracks leading into a gulch. I saw movement, a man watching. He dodged back out of sight. Before you venture into the open I'm going up there.'

He looked up the mountain which was fractured with deep fissures, some wide enough to allow passage for one man. Newman sucked in his breath at the prospect, thinking of the vertigo.

'You stay in the back. Bob,' Marler instructed. 'On this side of the car. Keep an eye on me. When I wave my rifle you can go into the open. Only then.'

He looped the rifle over his shoulder, wriggled his feet in his rubber-soled calf-skinned shoes to test their ankle support. 'If I'd known I'd have brought climbing boots. Can't be helped. I'll cope.'

'Watch it – for God's sake,' Newman warned.

'And I never knew you cared…'

Typical of Marler to mock just before he was attempting a climb fraught with risk, Newman thought. They settled in the car and Newman peered up. Marler was already a good twenty feet up a narrow fissure, finding a foothold on one side, then on the other.