The Greek Key

26

Florakis lowered the transceiver into the cavity, concealed it with a flat rock, picked up the shotgun he had left inside the cavity before climbing the mountain. The transceiver was heavy. Now to investigate the two cars parked on his land down by the hotel site.. .

Dawn was breaking over the Mediterranean shore, flooding the unruffled sea with a variety of fantastic colours. Behind 'the wheel of his Mercedes Nick sat smoking another cigarette. The ash tray was crammed with stubs. Disgusting. He hauled it out from under the spring clip, stepped out of the car, then reached back in for his rifle. You never knew.

Christina was curled up on the back seat like a cat, fast asleep. Nick walked quietly across to a pile of rocks, lifted a few and emptied the ash tray, then replaced the stones. Crouched over, he froze. Someone was approaching from behind the steel framework. He remained crouched, aimed the rifle.

Florakis came round the corner, shotgun held in both hands. He stopped abruptly when he saw Nick, who straightened up, rifle still pointed. 'Good morning to you,' Nick called out in Greek.

'What are you doing on my land?' snapped Florakis.

'Parking off the road. You see any damage we've done?'

'We?'

Christina had woken, had heard the exchange. Running her hands through her msne. she sat up and looked out of 'the open window. Florakis glanced in her direction, grinned lewdly and turned his attention back to Nick.

'I charge a fee for screwing on my land…'

'Watch your mouth,' Nick responded sharply. 'Who the heli are you?'

'Stavros Florakis. I own this land,' he repeated. Tin telling you to shove off now before I blow a hole in you…'

'Keep very still,' Nick warned. 'You forgot your back.'

Florakis stiffened as he felt the muzzle of Marler's rifle press into the nape of his neck. Marler nodded again at Nick, who understood. 'Place that shotgun carefully on the ground, step over it towards me. A dozen paces will do, then stop.'

Florakis bent forward, laid the weapon down, did as Nick had ordered. He stood in the open as Newman walked past him, keeping out of Nick's line of fire. He went towards the Mercedes and called out to Christina. 'Give me the mineral water. I'm parched.'

He drank from the bottle, turned round, leaned against the car. He smiled as Florakis stared back bleakly. Yes, Newman thought, this is the man we saw on our way up the gulch, the man carrying a heavy transceiver.

'What's his name?' he called out to Nick. 'I couldn't quite get it.'

'Stavros Florakis, He owns Greece,' Nick replied in English,

A tough, wiry individual, Newman was thinking. Self-contained. A typical Greek shepherd. Except that he carried a transceiver up the mountain. The lined face suggested he was in his sixties. Newman's mind wandered. In his sixties. Weren't they all – Barrymore, Kearns and Robson. And Tweed had rabbited on about the missing link with Greece – between Athens and Exmoor. So, during World War Two Florakis would have been about twenty. Old enough to be in the Resistance. Which one? The instinct which had made him one of the world's best foreign correspondents was working again.

He took out his handkerchief, wiped the mouth of the bottle, turned as though to say something to Christina, and wiped the rest of the bottle clean. He turned round and smiled.

'Nick, I think we ought to apologize for trespassing on Mr Florakis' land.' He began to walk towards the Greek, holding the bottle by the neck, still smiling. 'It's thirsty weather. As a token of our regret I'd like to offer him a drink. Translate for me.'

Nothing in Florakis' neutral expression showed he'd understood every word Newman had said. He listened patiently as Nick spoke in Greek. Florakis was nervous: all these people appearing, seeing him out and about at dawn. The last thing he wanted was any talk of his nocturnal activities to reach Athens.

Newman extended the bottle, holding it by the neck. Florakis was also bone dry: he had forgotten to bring his water bottle. He nodded his thanks, grasped the bottle, took a good long drink, handed it back to Newman, who again grasped it by the neck and wandered back to the car.

'Nick,' he called over his shoulder as he reached the car, 'let him know we're leaving now. That if we come this way again we'll park elsewhere.'

While Nick translated Newman leaned in the window. 'Christina,' he whispered, 'give me that paper bag the bottle came in.' He slid the bottle inside the bag, holding it by the neck, then he pressed the top of the paper bag inside the neck and capped it. He now had Florakis' fingerprints.

'What was all that business about the bottle?' asked Christina as Nick drove them at speed back along the coast road to Athens.

Newman sat beside her in the rear of the Mercedes while Marler followed close behind in his own car. Newman was staring out of the window as the sun came up from behind the mountains and bathed the Mediterranean in its fierce light. The sea was now a smooth sheet of pure mother-of-pearl. An amazing country.

'Just fooling around,' he replied.

'And how was the fooling around in Devil's Valley? Marler did find you. Did you find the mine? And thanks for the sock on the jaw. I love you too.'

'Quiz time,' Newman said jocularly. 'So many questions.' He looked at her chin. 'No sign of a bruise. Just a gentle tap. Marvellous, isn't it? You save a girl from what could be a death-trap and she hates your guts.'

She looped her arm inside his, nestled against him so he could feel the firmness of her breast pressing into his body. 'Don't remember saying anything about hating your guts. And you evaded answering my questions.'

'I do believe I did.'

He looked out of the window again. They were covering the distance to Athens, seventy kilometres from Cape Sounion, in record time. They passed a hotel at the edge of the shore and tourists were walking the beach, swimming in the placid water.

'They make use of every minute,' he called out to Nick.

'They know what they do,' he replied. 'Later in the morning no feet will be able to touch that beach. The sand will be so hot it will burn them like a red-hot stove. They'll retire to their rooms, lie on their beds and sweat it out with nothing on.'

'What a lovely idea,' Christina whispered. 'Maybe we could lie on my bed at the Hilton with nothing on, sweat it out?'

'I'm dumping you there,' Newman said abruptly. 'Nick, make for the Hilton. Then have breakfast with Christina. When she goes to her room would you please sit in the lobby outside to guard her till I get back? A large tip will be my thanks.'

'Forget the tip, I take care of her.'

Thanks a lot,' Christina snapped, her eyes flashing. She pulled away from him and stared oat of her window.

'I have business to attend to, an editor to keep quiet,' Newman told her. 'And you may be in even greater danger now after what has happened. And don't ask me what.'

'Did you tell Christina about the skeleton?' Marler asked as he drove away from the Hilton.

'Nary a word. Nor about the mine…'

'Which means you're getting smart. You don't trust her.'

'Can it, Marler. Information like that is dangerous. You do realize who that skeleton is?'

'I think so. You veil me.'

'The missing Andreas. My guess is Petros was on Siros when the commando raid took place. He took the body of his son. He's stark raving mad. He must have had it buried, then after the war the bones were removed to Devil's Valley. Wired together – hidden in the mine. You know Greece well. Tell me again about philotimo.'

'And you're sure this is a smart move – what we're doing now? Driving to police headquarters to see Chief Inspector Sarris?'

'I want Florakis' fingerprints checked against their records. Look, a sixty-year-old Greek, tough as they come, lugs a transceiver up a mountain. He's gaining altitude. That suggests long-distance transmission. Who is he contacting? So secretly? I've had this lucky break before as a correspondent. You are working on one thing, you stumble across something much bigger. Yes, I think it's a smart move.'

Very little traffic at seven in the morning. They were coming close to Alexandras Avenue below the soaring peak of Mount Lycabettus. Close to the new police headquarters.

' Philotimo,' Marler began, 'is the Greek code of ethics which rules family life. No one must dishonour the family. If they do, the disgrace must be wiped out. In extreme cases by killing the culprit. Even if it is a member of that family. Only then can the family have peace of mind. Petros is just the type of man to be soaked in the creed -in the crudest and most old-fashioned way. Just the man to go to extreme lengths.'

'Just the man to go right over the edge,' Newman commented. 'I think Petros is taking the attitude Andreas cannot be finally buried until his murderer is identified and executed. Petros is crazy as a coot. Revenge is the most self-destructive force that can take hold of a man.'

'And this is the main reason we're going to see friend Sarris?'

'No. I want the fingerprints on this bottle checked. We may have stumbled into something even more diabolical than Petros' desire for revenge.'

The Thin Man. The hawk-nosed, dark-haired Sarris sat listening behind his desk. His eyes never left Newman's.

He smoked one cigarette after another. But he listened without interruption.

'That's it,' Newman ended, his voice hoarse from talking, from his ordeal at the mine. 'The skeleton at the mine, the bottle on your desk with Florakis' fingerprints. The transceiver I saw Florakis carrying up the mountain.'

'Petros has committed no crime,' Sarris responded, stubbing a cigarette. 'Yet. Funny you should come to me with this news of a possible transceiver…'

'Possible?'

'You have no proof that was the object Florakis carried. But, as I say, it is funny you come to me at this moment. Have you ever noticed weeks, months, can go by with no clues in a case? Then, bingo! Within hours the clues pour in.'

'What are you talking about? I'm damned tired.'

'Have more coffee.' Sarris poured as he went on. 'A friend of mine is what you call in England… a radio ham. Is that right?'

'Yes. An amateur radio operator. Sometimes they're helpful – pick up Mayday calls over long distances. That sort of thing.'

'My friend picked up something strange on the airwaves. Someone transmitting a series of numbers – sounds like a coded signal. At the end there are a few words in English – from the man receiving the coded signal.' Sarris leaned forward. 'So maybe the operator sending the coded signal was transmitting to England.'

'A big assumption,' Newman objected. 'English is a universal language these days…'

'Judge for yourself. My friend has a tape recorder. He recorded the entire signal. You might like to hear it…'

Sarris pressed a lever on his intercom, spoke rapidly in Greek, sat back, lit a fresh cigarette. The cassette will be here in a moment.'

He was wearing a pale linen suit and even at that early hour he looked alert. He watched his two visitors until a uniformed policeman brought in a cassette. Sarris picked up the cassette, inserted it inside a machine on a side table. 'Listen,' he commanded.

The cassette reeled out a string of pure gibberish for Newman. He glanced at Marler who was staring out of the window, showing no apparent interest in the proceedings. Sarris was checking his watch. After two and a half minutes he raised a warning hand.

The gibberish stopped. There was a pause. Then it came through loud and clear. In English. From now on call sign changed to Colonel Winter. Staring at Newman, Sarris switched off the machine.

'You have heard of this Colonel Winter?'

'No. Doesn't mean a thing to me.'

'Pity. I am thinking of informing the Drug Squad. The traffickers are becoming very sophisticated. Using coded radio signals to warn of a shipment on its way. The Drug Squad has radio detector vans. Maybe they'll send a couple down to Cape Sounion, try to get a fix on this Florakis.'

'And the fingerprints on that bottle?'

'We'll check them through our records. That could take time.'

'You can isolate Florakis' prints? I gave you that postcard I showed Christina while we were driving back. You've taken my prints. The card gives you Christina's. Eliminate hers and mine and you're left with Florakis.'

'I had worked that out for myself.' Sarris rose from behind his desk. 'Thank you for the information. Now I expect you'll want to get back to the Grande Bretagne, have a shave, some breakfast, then maybe some sleep. You've been up all night.'

'I had hoped for more from you,' Newman said as he stood up.

'I gave you the radio signal – which may link up with Florakis.' He paused. 'I will give you something more. I said earlier all the clues seemed to pour in at once. Yesterday we had a woman here with a weird story. A Mrs Florakis. About sixty and recently she took a bus tour to Cape Sounion. A widow, by the way. Married very young.' He smiled thinly. 'I see I have your attention?'

'Go on.'

'Her husband, Stavros Florakis, was killed in 1947 during the Civil War. In a battle with the Communist ELAS forces. It so happened a woman friend saw him die near Salonika. This woman also saw the Communists search the body, take his papers, then they incinerated the corpse. Something Mrs Florakis never understood. Still intrigued?'

'Stop tantalizing. You sound like my editor.'

'As I said, Mrs Florakis takes this bus tour. The bus stops off the road close to a new hotel building site. To let them get a good view of Poseidon. A man appears with a shotgun. He threatens the driver, tells him to get off his land. The bus driver argues. Mrs Florakis then hears the man with the shotgun shout, 'I am Stavros Florakis. I own this land and you are trespassing.' She gets a good view of this man. She gets a shock. He is not a bit like her husband. Then she remembers what happened to him. All this flashes through her mind in a few seconds. Then the bus moves off. She tells her story to me very clearly, but I am not impressed. We get so many crazies wandering in here. For good public relations I let her make a formal statement, which we filed. Now you tell me something that makes me think maybe I was wrong.'

'Florakis is an impostor.' Newman observed. 'So who is he?'

'Maybe – just maybe – the fingerprints you cleverly obtained can unlock his true identity.' He shook hands with Newman and Marler.'Let us keep in touch, gentlemen…'

'So that covers what Newman told me, Kalos.' Sarris concluded as he clasped his hands behind his neck and relaxed in his chair. 'What do you make of it all?'

Kalos, his trusted assistant, was very different physically from his chief. Small and stocky, with thick legs and arms, he had a long head and intelligent eyes. In his early forties, he had been passed over for promotion several times but bore no grudge. It was Sarris' private opinion that it was Kalos' lack of height which had held him back. Most unfair, and Sarris had done his best to help him up the ladder. But who said life was fair?

'We've had a lucky break again,' Kalos decided. 'We ignored the Florakis woman – but she may have fingered the key link in the organization the Drug Squad is trying to locate. With no success. Unless it's political,' he mused. 'Not drugs.'

Sarris sat up straight. 'What does that mean?'

'My mind roams.' Kalos smiled drily. 'As you know-there are people higher up who don't approve of a man who lets his mind roam. Never get fixated on one theory. My inflexible maxim, and stuff them upstairs.'

'You said unless it's political. Please elaborate.'

'Last year,' Kalos began, fitting his bulk inside the arms of a chrome-plated chair, 'a so-called Colonel Gerasimov visited us from Moscow. We were asked to guard him like royalty – but discreetly with plain-clothes operatives. He spent very little of his visit at the Soviet Embassy, a lot of it at the Hilton. He had three rooms booked and switched from one to another. I got curious and had him secretly photographed…'

'Without my permission,' Sarris chided him.

'You know me. When I visited Belgrade unofficially about this drugs problem I showed that picture to a Yugoslav – a Croat called Pavelic in the security services. I got him drunk and showed him the picture. He laughed when I said it was a photo of Colonel Gerasimov of the GRU. He told me it was General Lucharsky, a Deputy Chief of the Soviet GeneraI Staff.'

'I remember. Do continue,' Sarris urged him with a quizzical smile.

'Yugoslavia is sensitive to power movements inside the Kremlin. Gorbachev suits the Belgrade Government fine. Pavelic, though, is a hardliner. He told me Lucharsky was 'one of ours'.'

'You didn't tell me that bit,' Sarris snapped.

'Why raise hares? You were up to your eyes in work. While in Athens the man at the Soviet Embassy Lucharsky spent most time with was Colonel Rykovsky, the military attache. And an expert in communications.'

'How do you know that?'

The Greek cleaning woman they employ when their menial staff is on holiday happens to clean my apartment.'

'Purely by chance, of course?' Sarris was leaning forward now, taking in every word. 'You do realize you are far exceeding the scope of your duties, my friend?'

'I like to know what is really going on.' Kalos ran a stubby finger round his open-necked collar and smiled drily again. 'It is hardly likely to affect my promotion prospects. And now we hear a Colonel Volkov will soon visit us from Moscow. Odd.'

'Why?'

'Pavelic, the Croat, was very drunk when we talked alone. He said to me, 'I would not be surprised if you receive another visitor in Athens one of these days. Lucharsky's aide and confidant. A Colonel Volkov. Another sound man.' Translation – another hardliner. These are not pro-Gorbachev men. So why do they travel to Athens, I wonder?'

Sarris sat thinking, Yugoslavia was a 'federation' of six different nationalities. A racial mix, and not all of them loving each other. Croatia, the Yugoslav state in the north, was the most rebellious, the most pro-Russian, the one closest to the real hard men in the Kremlin. Gorbachev's opponents,.

This is all speculation,' he suggested, testing his assistant.

Kalos ran a hand over the thin brown stubble which covered the dome of his head. 'You are right. Up to now. There is one more thing. When off duty I often amuse myself by following the military attache, Colonel Rykovsky. He likes wandering inside the Plaka. He thinks he has lost anyone who might just be tailing him. Then he meets and spends time with Doganis.'

'Doganis?'

'A leading member of the Greek Key.'