The Greek Key

23

'Gorbachev must go, he is destroying the military supremacy we have taken so many years to build up. His crazy glasnost will be the rain of the Soviet state,' General Lucharsky said vehemently.

By which he meant the power of the Red Army, his faithful aide, Colonel Volkov, thought as they strolled side by side in full uniform in the Moscow park. Children played ball games on the grass in the warmth of the sunlight round them as they followed one of the many twisting paths.

Lucharsky had chosen the park for this conversation because it was impossible for them to be overheard. He walked very erect, hands clasped behind him, head bowed in thought. Volkov asked the question tentatively. He was not sure Lucharsky wanted to reveal details of the plan but his curiosity drove him on.

'How can we ever hope to achieve his replacement? The Politburo is now packed with a majority in his favour…'

'Ligachev,' the General said tersely. 'He is Number Two. He does not agree with the new madness. Once Gorbachev has been removed he will take over and the yes-men in the Politburo will swing behind him.'

'But how can the present General Secretary be removed?'

'He can be killed.'

The cold-blooded audacity of the statement astounded Volkov and he was silent for a few minutes as they continued their stroll. Lucharsky took off his peaked cap and ran his hand through his blond hair, enjoying the feel of the sun on his forehead.

'But it must be done outside Russia,' Lucharsky continued, 'at a suitable moment. I set the wheels in motion when I made my unofficial visit to Greece. There are plenty of hard men in the Politburo who will welcome a return to the good old days. Fortunately, Comrade Gorbachev is playing into our hands. He agrees we must do everything possible to spread our influence in the Mediterranean. But by peaceful means. You, Comrade, have been chosen to follow up my visit to Athens. Like me, you will travel there in civilian clothes – on an unofficial visit. We are offering the Greek government special trade concessions. While you are there you will carry verbal orders from me to Colonel Rykovsky, the military attache at the Athens Embassy. I will give you those orders just before you fly to Athens via Zurich.'

'Why Greece? What is happening there?'

Lucharsky changed direction, headed for a path which twisted through a wooded area of birch trees. He had spotted two men in plain clothes who had KGB written all over them. One had a pair of field glasses slung round his neck. He might be a lip-reader. They entered the wood.

'Because,' Lucharsky explained, 'it is too dangerous to plan a coup inside the motherland. Gorbachev is no fool. He knows he faces opposition and has eyes and ears everywhere. We must not underestimate him. So, we have reactivated an organization outside Russia, one which has not operated for years. It is composed of men who worked for Stalin, who have been forgotten. Shadow men.'

'And Greece is this base?'

'One of them,' Lucharsky replied enigmatically. 'We are using the KGB cell system. Only what you need to know is told to you. There is great dissatisfaction inside the Red Army, as you know. When Gorbachev has gone the Army will again wield all the power it once did after Stalin died.'

'But you implied this organization outside the motherland is made up of Stalinists,' Volkov reminded him. He was bewildered.

'So it is. We use them, then discard them. They may well be the scapegoat for the assassination of Comrade Mikhail if that proves necessary.'

'You mean they do the job for us and then we accuse them of being responsible?'

'Possibly. It would be better if we could spread rumours once Gorbachev has gone that he was the victim of hardliners inside the Pentagon. We will play our cards as the game progresses. We wait for our opportunity – which may come within a few months. Our only chance to liquidate the mad dog is while he is outside Russia. There our allies can operate more safely.'

'I am at your service, Comrade General,' Volkov, a round-faced bail of a man replied.

'Who knows?' Lucharsky commented, adjusting his cap to a more jaunty angle, 'It might end up in promotion for you,'

Always dangle the carrot in front of the donkey, he thought. No point in explaining that those who helped would also have to be eliminated when the coup succeeded,

Inside his office at Park Crescent Tweed sat behind his desk staring into the distance. The desk-top was covered with neat piles of documents which he had just examined for the third time. The items Masterson had posted him from Greece and the notebook of Partridge he had collected from the safety deposit in Knightsbridge.

Paula sat at her desk checking through a file. Every now and again she glanced up at her chief. In another corner Monica bent her head over a card index, her dark hair tied behind her neck in a bun.

'Are we getting anywhere?' Paula ventured. 'After that phone call from Bob last night?'

'Listen, both of you.' Tweed sat upright in his swivel chair, hands clasped in his lap, his eyes alert behind his glasses. 'Let's go over what we have briefly. Damn all, as far as I can see.'

'Maybe more than we know,' Paula suggested. 'Basically it all appears to have started with two murders a long way off and a long time ago. Andreas Gavalas on Siros Island, Stephen Ionides -now revealed as Stephen Gavalas, Someone is trying to bury both killings.' She caught Monica's expression. 'Sorry – that sounded a bit callous. ..'

'But it may be true,' Tweed agreed. 'Go on.'

He was, Monica realized, conducting in reverse an exercise he'd often carried out with her. At a certain point of an operation he would sum up the main points, using Monica to bounce off his ideas, to test their relevance. With Paula he was listening to how she saw the situation

– seeking a key element they had overlooked. Something simple; maybe a factor which didn't fit what they knew. Paula went on.

'We have met Barrymore, Robson and Kearns – the three men who were with Andreas when he was killed. The same three men were back in Cairo when Stephen was brutally murdered at the Antikhana Building. Both victims were brothers. It really stretches the long arm of coincidence to breaking-point – that the commando trio were in the vicinity of two murders. OK so far?'

'Go on…' Tweed had relaxed, listening with his eyes dosed as he visualized what she was saying.

'Now we have two odd complications – which don't link up with what I've said so far. The mysterious disappearance of Andreas' body from Siros the night he was killed. And the arrival of Anton Gavalas on Exmoor making enquiries about the ex-commandos.'

'Something else odd about Anton,' Tweed pointed out. 'The way he vanished without leaving a trace of the route he used. We checked with the harbourmaster at Watchet. No ship left for anywhere when Anton pulled off his vanishing act.'

'Anything in Partridge's notebook?' Paula asked.

'Yes. According to Partridge Anton is well-educated and speaks fluent English. Yet Newman told me his nephews

– Dimitrios and Constantine – are peasant types. And what game is Anton playing? In his notebook Partridge records Anton is a lone wolf with plenty of money at his disposal. Newman also said Christina hadn't mentioned Anton. They seem to want him to be the invisible man.' He paused and Monica asked who 'they' were.

'That is what we need-to find out. Anton could be acting independently of old Petros. This vendetta business is complex, reeks of a long and dangerous hatred. You know, I'm getting the impression someone is using the vendetta as a smokescreen – to hide something far more deadly. And who killed Masterson?'

It was Saturday night at The Luttrell Arms in Dunster. They always dined together on Saturdays. At the corner table at the far end of the dining room Colonel Barrymore occupied a seat facing the room with his back to the wall. Dr Robson sat beside him while Reams was seated opposite the two men. They were at the coffee stage.

'Another large Scotch,' Robson called out.

'Of course, sir. Coming right away,' the manager assured him as he passed their table.

'Pushing the boat out a bit, aren't we?' Barrymore commented in a supercilious tone, glancing at his companion.

Robson's complexion had lost most of its suntan and was now a ruddy colour like a setting sunset It was his fourth double plus several glasses of Beaujolais. He stroked his thatch of brown hair, pulled at his straggle of a moustache, grinned amiably. As usual he was in high good humour.

'Thought we were here to enjoy the evening. Ever known me to be half seas over?'

'There's always a first time,' Barrymore continued in a lofty tone. 'And we have serious business to discuss. See that chap with the dark moustache, black hair, a hearing aid? Caught him watching Quarme Manor this morning. I challenged him.'

'You did?' Robson sounded amused and Barrymore glared at him. 'Where was he?'

'Up on the ridge behind the manor. Riding a horse.'

'Free country – in case you've forgotten.' He chuckled. His blue eyes lit up as his drink arrived. 'Thank you.' Lifting the glass, he swallowed half the contents. That's better.' He turned to Barrymore. 'So what happened when you challenged the chappie? Sounds like the corporal of the guard.' He grinned at Kearns who stared back, blank-faced, ramrod-backed.

'Had the insolence to tell me he was bird-watching,' Barrymore continued. 'Hence the field glasses trained on Quarme Manor. Rode off pretty sharp, I can tell you.' His tone changed, became silky. 'Gentlemen, I smell trouble. There was the Greek you encountered, Kearns.'

'And how can you be sure he was Greek?' Robson chaffed the ex-CSM. 'Wearing his Evzone outfit, was he?'

'No laughing matter,' Barrymore snapped. 'Tell him,' he ordered Kearns.

'Well, sir,' Kearns began, gazing at the colonel, 'his appearance for one thing. Olive-skinned, the facial bone structure. I've seen enough of them to recognize the breed. When I spoke to him he replied in English but with a slight accent. Greek.'

'Not Bulgarian or Yugoslav?' Robson enquired. He grinned again, drank more whisky. 'Would you know the difference?'

'Yes, I think I would,' Kearns responded stiffly.

'And what was he doing? More bird-watching?'

'Said he was on holiday, that he liked wild places. Asked me the way to the nearest pub. Told him Simonsbath, miles away from where we met. To test him. Later I saw him riding down a gully towards Winsford. Which was the way to the nearest pub. See what I mean, sir?'

'He knew the moor, tried to pretend he didn't. That's what I want to talk about. The enemy could be closing in. Need to take more precautions.'

Barrymore sipped his cognac and Robson glanced at the balloon glass. 'Time I had one of those…'

Pete Nield, sitting with Harry Butler three tables away, adjusted his earpiece. A snappy dresser, he wore a navy blue business suit and a large jewelled tie-pin in his pale red tie. The tie-pin, shaped like a flower, was a directional microphone. The wire attached to it behind his striped shirt led to the miniaturized tape recorder in his jacket pocket. He spooned more fruit salad into his mouth as he listened.

Harry Butler, heavily built and clean-shaven, was dressed informally in a tweed sports jacket with leather elbow patches and a pair of grey slacks. He leaned over to whisper in Nield's 'good' ear.

'Reception OK?'

'Picking up every word,' Nield replied in an undertone and fingered his neat moustache.

The Engine Room wizards at Park Crescent had excelled themselves. Despite the presence of people at four other tables the directional mike was recording every word of the conversation at Barrymore's table. It had been easy for Nield to 'point' the microphone in the correct direction. A man fiddling with his tie-pin attracted no attention…

'You're not going to have a cognac on top of all you've had?' Barrymore enquired sardonically. 'You do have to drive home.'

'I'll get there.' Robson grinned again. 'I always do.' He signalled to the manager, pointing to the colonel's glass and then himself. The manager smiled, acknowledging the request. 'The other chappie,' Robson continued, 'the bigger one with the thin one you challenged…' His tone was mocking. 'Was he on the moor as well?'

'Never seen him before. As I was saying…'

'Had the thin one that hearing aid when you met him?' Robson persisted with the geniality of a man who has imbibed well.

Barrymore frowned, trying to recall the scene. 'Don't think he had. But he wouldn't need it, would he? Not out on the moor. Nov., for the third time. I think we should review our defences. Too many people poking around. There was that Tweed who barged in on us all.'

'Special Branch,' Reams remarked. T thought that rather strange. Despite the yarn he spun. Seemed to me he had an ulterior motive for calling on me. That man worried me.'

'Oh, just one of the horde of bureaucrats justifying his fat salary at the expense of the taxpayer.' Barrymore waved a languid hand. 'Wish I'd had him in the battalion. He'd have had to jump to it.'

'I suspect, sir,' Kearns persisted quietly, 'Tweed has had a spell in the Army. Something about his manner. And he'd done his homework. Knew about the raid on Siros. And the murder of that Greek chap, Ionides, at the Antikhana…'

'Hardly relevant.' Barrymore made a dismissive gesture.

'Are you certain, sir? Did anything strike you as weird about that body they brought down off the moor at Winsford?'

'Should it have?' The colonel was clipping the tip from a cigar. He lit it with a bookmatch as Kearns continued.

The savagery of the attack.' Kearns paused. 'He was slashed to pieces. Just like Ionides all those years ago.' He turned his attention to Robson. 'You examined the body inside the Land Rover. Surely I have a point?'

'Somebody had really done a job on the poor chap. A broad-bladed knife would be my guess. Mind you, it was a brief examination.' Robson's tone suddenly sounded sober, professional. 'Fail to see the connection with Ionides.' He drank more of his large cognac. 'Thought we were assembled here to enjoy ourselves.' He chuckled. 'But you Army types never slough off your skin.'

The fact remains,' Barrymore intervened irritably, 'we now have possible enemies on two fronts. The Greeks and this Special Branch lot. I just hope to God it isn't the Greek Key.'

'After all these years?' Robson scoffed and grinned. 'Come off it. Not like you to suffer an attack of nerves, Barrymore.'

'I never suffer an attack of nerves, as you put it,' the colonel replied coolly. 'I'm just saying we should look to our defences. Just in case.'

Tut up more barbed wire,' Robson joked. 'Lay a minefield round Quarme Manor.' He hiccuped. 'Call out the guard!'

'I'm serious,' Barrymore said coldly.

'I fear you are. As for me, business as usual. Carry on with my local practice. Did you know the local paper is doing an article on me? The Only Doctor in the Country who Rides to See Patients will be the headline. Rather good.'

'Jill has gone up to London,' Kearns said suddenly.

'Why?' Barrymore demanded.

'To pick up a few things from the shops she said.'

'You should have stopped her.' Barrymore sounded angry.

'Well, sir, that isn't the easiest thing in the world…'

'You made the mistake of marrying a younger woman,' the colonel told him brutally. 'Wives should be kept under heel. In the Army they knew their place…'

At his table Pete Nield finished his coffee, glanced round the dining room. A couple was just leaving. Which left only the trio at the end of the room and his table occupied. He leaned close to Butler.

Time to go, wouldn't you say? We're going to look conspicuous.'

'Agreed. Let's move the feet now.'

Nield waited until they were in the deserted hall and suggested a breath of fresh air. They wandered out under the ancient portal into a deserted High Street. Opposite the entrance the old Yarn Market with its many-sided roof was shrouded in shadow. A moon cast a pale glow over the silence. Barrymore's Daimler was parked across the road.

'How's the recording?' Butler enquired, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets.

'Let's check. Inside the Yarn Market would be a good place.,.'

Taking the recorder out of his pocket, Nield turned the volume to low' as they stood under the roof. He pressed the button which reversed the tape. Then he switched on the sound and together they listened.

Another large Scotch… Of course, sir. Coming right sway,.. Pushing She boat out a bit, aren't we,.,

Nield switched off. He gazed through one of the arched openings to the far end of the town. The eerie silhouette of the brooding castle loomed above the buildings. The sudden silence of night was uncanny.

'Perfect,' Butler commented. 'The voice tone is good. You can tell who is talking.'

'I think I ought to drive up to London tonight,' Nield suggested. 'Then Tweed can hear the tape in the morning. I can drive back here tomorrow if that's OK.'

'Do it,' Butler agreed. 'While you're away I think I'll keep an eye on the colonel.'

'Why choose him?'

'Sixth sense. As Tweed would say,..'