The Greek Key

19

Room 318 at the Athens Hilton had a spectacular view from the balcony across the city. In the distance the Parthenon perched on the summit of the Acropolis was silhouetted against a clear evening sky. Her arms folded, Christina stood on the balcony alongside Newman.

'It is very beautiful,' she said, 'especially when you think of man's age-long struggle to become civilized. Two steps forward, one step backward. You know they're going to come looking for me,' she added quietly. 'My horrible family. Petros will see to that.'

'Which is why I brought you here instead of the Grande Bretagne. And you registered under an assumed name.'

They will still track me down. They will tour the hotels. A few drachmae will change hands. They have photos they can show a bellboy, a reception clerk.'

'When you arrived dressed so differently? Wearing those huge dark glasses and your hair concealed under a scarf.'

'Maybe you're right. Bob. I wish I could feel as carefree as those people by the pool.'

She looked down to where guests sprawled round the large swimming pool, (he water a deep turquoise in the sunlight. Even with the air-conditioning going full blast the large double room behind them was heavy with heat. Newman watched her while she gazed at the pool.

On their return to Piraeus aboard the ferry, Nick had driven them to Kolonaki, the Mayfair and Park Avenue of Athens rolled into one. He had left Newman and Christina there while he took Marler back to the Grande Bretagne. Christina had bought herself several new outfits and nightwear because all her clothes were at Petros' farm. Newman had paid with traveller's cheques and she'd made him promise to accept payment from her.

'I can go to the bank in the morning,' she had insisted. 'My mother left me all the money left her by her relative. There was quite a large sum even after paying for my education…'

Newman had braced himself for an ordeal. A woman buying clothes would take forever. He found he was wrong. Christina was decisive, could look quickly at a dozen outfits in her size, pick out one immediately, try it on in minutes, then buy it. They came closer together during the shopping expedition. Newman was always consulted as to whether he liked what she'd chosen. Twice he shook his head and she looked for something else.

Now she was kitted out with one evening dress and an adequate wardrobe for daytime. When she changed out of her jump suit she gave it to him, he rolled it up, took it outside the hotel and rammed it inside a litter bin. They would be looking for her dressed in that.

'Are we having dinner together?' she asked as they stood on the balcony. 'Or is that too forward of me?'

'The nicest possible way to put it. I've been hoping you would join me. We'll try the Ta Nissia here.'

'Super!' Her eyes glowed. 'Now, you've appointed yourself my bodyguard. Can you read a magazine or something while I take a bath?'

'Take your time…'

He was sitting by the large picture window spanning the end of the room when someone tapped on the door. He walked rapidly and quietly to the door. Leaving it on the chain, he opened it and Marler waved a hand through the gap.

'Embarrassing moment?' he drawled. 'I can come back. Give you another hour with her?'

'Shut up and come in. She's taking a bath before we have dinner downstairs.'

The balcony,' Marler said tersely.

He waited until they were outside, then slid the door closed and lit a cigarette. 'No sign of the enemy at the Grande Bretagne yet. And,' he forestalled Newman, 'I wasn't followed. Do you realize you may be walking into a lethal trap?'

'What the hell does that mean?'

'Strikes me you're getting pretty cosy with Christina. That's OK as far as I'm concerned…'

'Oh, how very kind,' Newman interrupted ironically. 'Nice to have the Marler Good Housekeeping seal of approval…'

'Let me finish. It could be a set-up – organized by Petros to lure you into a trap. All this stuff she's been handing out about hating them, that they'll come after her. Has she had a chance to use a phone since you left us?'

'As a matter of fact, no.' Newman held up a hand. 'And before you waste any more breath, did you really think the idea hadn't occurred to me? If it is a trap I'll be walking into it with my eyes wide open – to see where it leads. Tweed has used the tactic very successfully himself in the past.'

'Pardon me for being alive.' Marler gazed down at the illuminated swimming pool. 'Plenty of talent down there. Look at that brown beauty sprawled on the grass. And, while we're on the subject. I did as you suggested. Called in at the British Embassy and contacted Patterson. Bit of a drip, but after seeing my identification he let me call Tweed on scrambler. You have to call him back when you can. Sometime tonight. Remember we are two hours ahead of London.'

'That means my going to the Embassy…'

'It's on Sofias Avenue – a ten-minute walk along it from here.'

'I know that, too. The point is Christina must be guarded during my absence. You're elected.'

'We need to fix a time, then. There's a large hall outside this room with armchairs. I can sit there – but I need to know when to be here.'

'Be downstairs by the bank of lifts at ten forty-five. When you see me leave you come straight up…'

'Ten forty-five? My, we are looking forward to an athletic evening.'

Newman punched him hard on the arm. 'Just piss off, Marler- and before you go, you told Tweed about our trip to Siros?'

'Of course. He said it was as he'd thought before I called – that the solution to Masterson's death lies out here in Greece.' Marler held up a warning finger. 'Don't forget, the last Englishman who got pally with the glamorous Christina was Harry Masterson. And he ended up as a pancake at the foot of Cape Sounion.'

'Again, your subtle turn of phrase. I liked Harry. Now. Marler, just piss off…'

Petros sat in his cane chair on the veranda of the farmhouse in Devil's Valley. His shirt front was open, exposing the hair on his barrel-like chest. Across his lap rested a shotgun. The sun had sunk behind the cliff-like wall of the mountainside to the west. The valley was dark with shadows like blue smoke.

His son and two grandsons stood outside the veranda, keeping their distance, showing their respect. Anton was the most confident. Still wearing his dark blue English business suit, he had loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar at the neck.

Compared with his two nephews, Dimitrios and Constantine, who were clad in shabby peasant garb, Anton was small and dapper. He smoked a cigarette while he waited for Petros to speak – something the other two would not have dared do. Petros leaned forward.

'Anton is smart,' he began, his voice grating. 'He has just returned from England and the English don't even know he was there.'

'But Passport Control…' Dimitrios began.

Tell me, tell these simple-minded cretins how you did it,' Petros suggested.

'It was easy. Just like that.' Anton snapped his fingers. 'An English gesture,' he lectured his nephews with a superior smile which infuriated them. 'You are right, Dimitrios. I was able to enter England without any check by Passport Control.' He paused. It amused him that he had fooled Petros, an old brigand – an illiterate who couldn't speak a word of English. Well-educated – at Petros' expense – he secretly despised his father. 'I think it would be unwise to reveal my route – it could be given away by Dimitrios in one of his drunken stupors.'

'Now, listen to me, all of you,' Petros growled. 'I taught you, since you were mere children, family honour demands that we revenge ourselves on the killers who dishonoured our family name. Your father, Dimitrios and Constantine, was Stephen, my son who was murdered in Egypt during the war. Christina's father, Andreas, was murdered on Siros. Not that she cares…'

'We know this,' Dimitrios muttered in a feeble show of defiance, but Petros heard him.

'Silence! Both of you are in disgrace. You blundered badly on Siros today. More of that later.' He sank back and the chair creaked. Hooding his eyes like a hawk, he spoke again.

'Anton. Tell us what you found in England. Make it brief.'

'There is a lonely area called Exmoor. Also a place like here called the Doone Valley. The three men who went with Andreas on a commando raid to Siros – Barrymore, Kearns and Robson – live close together on that moor. Which is strange. They are not related…'

'Tell them about the places where they live,' Petros prodded.

'Each house is well defended. Like small castles expecting an invasion. One has television cameras watching all approaches. Another is guarded by a fierce dog called Wolf. The third has tall walls topped with barbed wire and a single separate wire. I was suspicious. I scaled a wall carrying a cat. I dropped the cat on the single wire. There was a flash. It screamed, died. Electrified. They are afraid – after all this time…'

'How did you find these three men?' asked Dimitrios.

'Christina went to England and used a newspaper advertisement which attracted the attention of a Harry Masterson…'

'That's enough,' Petros interrupted, eyes wide open. 'No need to give details. But which of the three is guilty, has our blood on his hands? Or were all three involved in both murders?'

'I don't know.' Anton made a resigned gesture with his manicured hands – hands which contrasted with the roughness of his nephews' who, Petros reflected, were poles apart. 'I made discreet enquiries in the pubs on Exmoor,' Anton continued. 'The three men meet twice every week – for lunch in one place, for dinner in another.' His manner changed, became more nervous as he talked more quickly. 'Then there was the strange incident of the murder of the Englishman, Partridge, on the moor.'

'Partridge, did you say?' asked Dimitrios, quick to sense Anton's change of mood. 'We know an Englishman of that name was poking round Athens, asking questions. That he later visited Siros.'

Anton looked at Petros before replying. The old patriarch nodded agreement for him to continue. 'It was the same man. There was an old picture of him in a newspaper reporting the murder. It is worrying – the report said he was a detective for most of his life with Scotland Yard. The Homicide Branch.'

'There was a man of that name in Cairo when Stephen was killed,' Petros reminded him. 'We found out later. He was one of the military detectives who supposedly investigated Stephen's death. Very young, he was. Is Partridge a common English name?'

'Not as far as I know,' Anton replied. He hurried on. That is why I returned here quickly. They were hunting for the killer.'

'And why should they think it was you?' demanded Dimitrios.

Anton hesitated again, looking at Petros. The old man frowned. It was a good question. 'Answer Dimitrios,' he ordered.

'I happened to be riding on a different part of the moor when he was killed,' Anton replied. 'Watching the homes of the three men who were the commandos.'

'I see.' Petros frowned and Anton shuffled his feet.

The old man turned on the two brothers, determined to humiliate them, to exert his authority. 'Now, tell us what a mess you made of things on Siros today. Describe in detail. Anton should know what fools his nephews can be…'

Petros sat staring into the distance while Dimitrios recalled the day's events. It was when he came to describe their visit to the home of Sarantis, the archaeologist, that he transferred his gaze to Dimitrios who seemed uncomfortable.

'Constantine,' he broke in suddenly, 'do you agree with all that Dimitrios has said?'

'Yes.' The more passive brother paused. 'We tried to make him talk, to tell us what he knew about where Andreas died. We broke his wrist, then his arm. The old fool slipped on the polished floor, fell over backwards and cracked his skull on the tiles.'

'Go on.'

'We decided to leave quickly aboard the chopper. We knew you would not want us to be tangled up with a police investigation…'

'So, you leave in the kitchen the cutlery and things you used to eat a quick meal. With your fingerprints on them, of course.'

'No, Petros! We wiped everything clean. Knives, the glasses. We would have put them away but we were afraid someone would arrive.'

'You ate when you first questioned him, then took him into the living room to apply more pressure?'

That is how it happened.'

'I wonder whether to believe you.' He was silent for a moment. 'And these two Englishmen Christina reported on – Newman and Marler. You fouled that up as well. No information from Sarantis.' He raised his voice to a shout. 'Do I have to be everywhere to make sure you do the right thing? All of you, get out of my sight. No, wait!

Christina has disappeared. Last seen with those English.' His tone was venomous. 'Tomorrow you go to Athens, find her. Do not let her see you. Follow her and tell me what she does, where she goes. Later I decide what to do about her. Now, go! Prepare the meal. If you can do that properly…'

Petros sat alone on the veranda, a grim smile of satisfaction on his lined face. Frequently it was necessary to crack the whip to remind his family who was the chief. He looked up as Anton appeared and spoke, his voice low.

'While I have been away. Papa, has anyone been seen near the silver mine?'

'No.' He smiled bleakly. 'You worry too much. Leave me alone. I have to think.'

Despite the mild rebuke, Petros approved: it showed Anton was using his brain. At least one of the litter had turned out well. Odd it should be his second wife's only son. The wife who had died from overwork like the first -driven on by Petros' insistence they run the farm. Early in Anton's childhood Petros had realized he was the bright one. How he had scrimped and saved to educate the boy.

While Dimitrios and Constantine had worked in the fields, Anton had been sent to a select school near Berne in Switzerland – away from the fleshpots of Athens. A school where discipline was strong, where he had learned to speak English and German.

But Petros had taken the precaution of bringing him home during the holidays for Petros' own kind of discipline. He had hammered into the boy's head that his half-brothers, Andreas and Stephen, had been murdered'- that the family must take their revenge. A cloud of poisonous hatred hung over Devil's Valley.

It had been a long struggle. First the Civil War from 1946 to 1949 between the Communists and the anti-Communists. Breaking out soon after World War Two had ended, it had gone on until the Communist guerrillas were defeated. So many wasted years,

Only recently had Petros been able to devote all his efforts to his vendetta. He had reached the stage where he was quite unable to realize it had become an obsession, filling his every waking moment, A stray thought crossed his mind. The Communists.

Why – after all these years – had the Russian, Oleg Savinkov, reappeared in Athens? He was one of the old school, a Stalinist. And the new man, Gorbachev, was a very different leader, they said. Savinkov, once called The Executioner, did not fit the new pattern Petros heard about in the cafes of the village he visited. To play checkers, to listen to the gossip. Above all to get the first hint of a farmer in trouble. Someone whose land or stock he might buy for a pittance.

Why had Savinkov changed his name to Florakis? The Russian did speak Greek fluently. And he had bought a small farm adjacent to Petros on the coast. But why had. he made a point of meeting him when Petros was sitting alone in a cafe? The Russian had handed him an envelope crammed with drachmae. A large sum – so large Petros, greedy for money, had not accepted at once.

'What do you expect me to do for this?' he had asked bluntly.

'Only one thing – which fits in with your own purposes. You make sure no Englishmen visit the island of Siros and poke around up near Mount Ida.'

'You expect me to kill them?' Petros had demanded.

'It is up to you.' Savinkov had shrugged. 'Maybe you rough them up a bit. You could sabotage their car – the mountain roads are dangerous.'

'And how do I get in touch with you?' Petros had asked, testing Savinkov, 'Walk across to your farm?'

'Never. And you know me only as Florakis. That is why I am paying you…'

Since then Petros had kept the money inside the same envelope in his Athens bank. For Petros this was an act of unprecedented willpower. But one day he might wish to sever all connection with the man who had appeared like a ghost. Then he would throw the money back at him.

But why, he asked himself for the twentieth time, should Savinkov take an interest in the murder of Andreas all those years ago?