The Greek Key

31

Moscow, General Lucharsky was walking in the park again with his aide, Colonel Volkov. Both men wore civilian clothes and Volkov had to quicken his pace to keep up with the long strides Lucharsky was taking. The sunlight cast thin shadows from the trunks of birch trees. Mothers pushed prams with babies along the lower path as Lucharsky headed for a dense copse of trees, mounting a curving path.

'You leave for Athens tomorrow,' he reminded Volkov.

'I am fully prepared. Comrade General…'

'I should hope so,' Lucharsky snapped as they entered the copse. 'Everything depends on your passing on the verbal orders to Colonel Rykovsky, to Doganis and Anton, the Greeks. Events are moving quickly. I hear the Gorbachev-Reagan summit will take place in Washington, More important, the British Prime Minister has invited the General Secretary to land in England en route for America. A stroke of incredible luck.'

'What is the position now?' Volkov enquired.

'Gorbachev has gone too far. He is signing a treaty in Washington for the withdrawal of intermediate missiles from Europe. If we let him do that he will go on for more disarmament. The Red Army's power will fade instead of growing. And we have some powerful allies. Elements high up in the KGB are worried. They yearn for the return of the days of Brezhnev.'

'So it is something drastic?' Volkov suggested as he pushed aside foliage from his pasty plump face. The path they were following was getting overgrown, was rarely used.

'Gorbachev will be assassinated,' Lucharsky announced in his calm clipped voice. 'The Troika took the decision last night.'

'That will be difficult, and who will take over? What is this Troika?'

'A lot of questions. Comrade. First, you remember that document I handed you yesterday when I was wearing gloves? An incriminating document.'

'Yes.' Volkov felt a chill crawl up his spine despite the humid heat which enveloped Moscow that day.

'I put it in your safe after you had read it. I locked the safe and said I would keep the key. You do recall this?'

Lucharsky asked in a mocking tone which had reduced subordinates to jelly, 'I only check your memory because you had drunk a lot of vodka,'

'At your urging,..'

'I am a good host, although I stick to mineral water since the new General Secretary's expression of dislike for hard drinking. That document – locked away in your own safe – carries only your fingerprints. You would be shot within a week if that document was placed before the Politburo.'

'Why do you threaten me. Comrade?'

'Just in case you thought you could obtain swift promotion by betraying the Troika which, officially, does not exist.' Lucharsky stopped, faced his companion, gave him a Siberian smile. 'Of course we know you would never dream of betraying us. Now, you asked certain questions. Who will take over from Gorbachev? Answer: Yigor Ligachev, his Number Two in the Politburo. He has openly disagreed with perestroika and glasnost. He does not know what we plan, but once the seat is vacant he will be compelled to become the new General Secretary.'

'And the Troika?'

'The three-man council of high-ranking Red Army officers who have decided Gorbachev must be removed. I am their liaison with the men in the field who will do the job.'

Which was a lie. No point in letting Volkov know that Lucharsky was the top man among the three generals who made up the Troika.

'But who will carry out the assassination?' pressed Volkov, anxious to know the plan would really work.

Lucharsky folded his arms, swung again on his heels, staring through the foliage which surrounded them. On no account must they be observed. And Volkov's anxieties were transparently clear to the General. He must reassure him for the moment.

'The assassination will apparently be carried out by two Arab fundamentalists. Those fanatics are capable of any mad action. And relations between Moscow and Iran are deteriorating. That way we avoid any danger of a confrontation with the Americans – in case rumours spread it was the work of the CIA. We need the time to establish Ligachev in power, to turn back the clock to Lenin's age. To renew the great military build-up.'

'Arab fundamentalists? That is clever,' Volkov agreed.

'So tomorrow you travel with the instructions inside your head to Athens,' said Lucharsky, resuming his walk over the path encumbered with undergrowth. 'Doganis is controlling the operation – although he doesn't know what is really involved.'

'And what does he think he's getting out of all this?'

'A shrewd question. Comrade. We have hinted at support for a new Communist uprising in Greece. Doganis sees himself as a future Prime Minister. It won't happen that way, of course.'

'But, Comrade, I speak no Greek,' Volkov protested.

'Which is why you are chosen. While at the London Embassy you perfected your English. Doganis speaks the same language.'

'Everything has been thought of,' Volkov remarked, impressed by the efficiency of the planning. Then something struck him. T don't see how British security – which is good – will be penetrated? What weapons will be used?'

'No more questions.' Lucharsky increased his pace. 'But I can tell you the special weapons needed are at this moment on their way to their destination. Now I leave you, as last time. Go to your mistress's apartment. That gives you a reason for sneaking into Moscow if you are recognized. Give me five minutes to get back to my car.'

He turned round before leaving the copse, stood looking down at Volkov. 'And don't forget that document plastered with your fingerprints, locked away in your own safe. The KGB would not treat you with kid gloves – not after reading that document. Bon voyage, Comrade…'

Lucharsky emerged cautiously from the trees, standing to glance round like a man enjoying the warmth of the sunshine. Then he hurried back to his car parked in a deserted side street. It stood outside the block which contained the apartment of a well-known general he knew to be on holiday at a Black Sea resort. A further precaution – just in case a KGB patrol noted down the registration number.

Once inside the Chaika, Lucharsky took a pouch from his pocket, selected a specially designed tool. It took him only five minutes to turn back the odometer fifty kilometres. His chauffeur logged all journeys and recorded the precise distance. There was now no record he had ever made this trip from the barracks.

Everything has been thought of. Volkov didn't know the half of it. Lucharsky had earlier decided that after Gorbachev had been eliminated all his collaborating subordinates would go the same way. Rykovsky and Volkov would die in a helicopter crash over the Caspian Sea. Florakis would be ordered to take out Doganis and the other members of the Greek Key. Then Lucharsky would send someone from Moscow to liquidate Florakis.

Yes, everything had been thought of.

Kalos took the call at police headquarters the following day when Sarris was absent from his office. It came from the chief of security at Athens Airport.

That you, Kalos? Stefanides here. Your target just arrived. Colonel Volkov. In person.'

'Hold him till I get there. Make out you've received threats against Russian personnel. That you're bringing in a bullet-proof limo from Athens. I'll fix that before I leave. Hold him.'

'Will do. See you…'

Kalos followed the limo, driving an unmarked police car himself. It took forty minutes to reach the airport. Damned hot, Kalos thought as they arrived. Late afternoon. Like a furnace. He watched Stefanides escorting a stocky man clad in a pale grey lightweight suit to the limo. He had thick black hair, was clean-shaven, a pair of large rimless glasses very like those Gorbachev wore. In many ways he was like a pocket version of the General Secretary. And his face was pasty and plump – making him stand out as a new arrival. An easy man to follow.

Kalos watched a porter dump two suitcases in the boot, started his own engine as the boot was slammed shut. The limo glided away along the main road into Athens. Kalos followed.

Destination: the Soviet Embassy. As Kalos had expected. He parked the Saab behind another car, settled down to wait. Kalos was good at waiting. He watched Volkov disappear inside the building, followed by the chauffeur carrying the bags. Ages would now pass while Volkov conferred with Colonel Rykovsky.

Kalos radioed in to his assistant at police headquarters that he was on surveillance, that it might take all night. There was no request for information as to where he was. Surveillance meant secrecy. And he didn't want Sarris to know what he was up to. Yet.

Twenty minutes later Kalos had a surprise. Two men emerged and started walking down the street towards him on the far side. Volkov had changed into a linen suit, wore a straw hat. The glasses and the walk confirmed to Kalos it was Volkov. They were smarter than he'd anticipated. Never underestimate the enemy: Sarris' favourite maxim.

The second man, also short but slimmer, wore a similar linen suit and a peaked cap favoured by German students. A beak of a nose with a dark smear of a moustache, neatly trimmed, a man who made quick gestures with his hands. Colonel Rykovsky.

They hailed a passing taxi, climbed inside. Kalos waited until he saw the taxi moving in his wing mirror, did an illegal U-turn, tracked the taxi. In Omonia Square they paid off the taxi, gazed into a department store's windows. Not normal behaviour. Kalos felt a glow of satisfaction as he pulled into a parking slot which a woman had just vacated.

The two Russians moved slowly along the pavement, stopping to stare inside another window. Rykovsky glanced over his shoulder, scanning the street. Kalos was slumped behind the wheel, eyes almost closed. A taxi stopped, dropped a fare and both Russians moved.

As Volkov climbed into the rear Rykovsky gave the driver his instructions and followed his companion. The taxi pulled out into a gap in the traffic. Kalos grinned to himself as he turned cut, one vehicle behind the taxi. Who were they going to meet so secretly was the $60,000 question.

Inside ten minutes the taxi entered the Plaka, driving slowly, wending its way amid the labyrinth of twisting streets. The two Russians alighted outside a taverna. Papadedes. That made sense, Kalos thought, as he watched the couple disappear up a staircase alongside the taverna. Papa made a nice income on the side out of that first-floor room sealed off from the taverna.

He rented it out at exorbitant prices to Athenian businessmen who took their mistresses there. The room was nicely furnished, including one of those sofas you could convert into a bed. Papa also supplied his clients with drinks – at only four times the price charged in the taverna.

Kalos turned into a side street, parked his car on the one-man wide pavement and the cobbled street. He felt in his pocket. Yes, he had the compact Voigtlander camera he always carried. He got out, took up a position in a doorway where he could see the staircase entrance.

Something serious was going on. Why couldn't they have had their meeting inside the Soviet Embassy? That puzzled Kalos. And he was damn sure Volkov had disguised himself. OK, it was pretty warm. And the Russian had just flown in from Moscow. But that straw hat had been well pulled down over his face – and they'd spent very little time outside.

He was about to light a cigarette when he stiffened, reached for his camera, the unlit cigarette clamped between his lips. A tall heavily built figure was strolling towards the taverna. The Fat Man. An open-necked shirt, clothes hanging loosely from his body. Doganis. Senior member of the committee that controlled the Greek Key.

Kalos raised his camera, cupped inside his hand, waited. Doganis stopped suddenly, turned on the pavement, a woman collided with his huge bulk. He ignored her as he glanced down the street the way he'd come. Then he plodded on in his large trainer shoes, paused again to look back in front of the staircase entrance as though not sure of his whereabouts. Kalos took three quick shots as the Greek swivelled his outsize head. Full-face, profile – and behind him the name over the taverna. Then Doganis vanished. He'd slipped up the staircase towards the room where the Russians had gone. For a large man he moved with great agility.

Kalos pocketed the camera and frowned. He was disturbed. This looked even more serious than he'd suspected.

Inside the expensively furnished room Doganis stood gazing at the two Russians who sat at a highly polished English antique round table. A tray – brought up by a waiter from the taverna before anyone had arrived – stood on the table.

Two bottles of vodka, three cut glasses. Both men had a glass in front of them.

Doganis nodded to himself. Free of the anti-alcohol restrictions imposed by Gorbachev, they were indulging themselves. The slim supercilious Colonel Rykovsky stood up to make introductions. Doganis shook hands with Volkov, squeezing his hand in a vice-like grip. The Russian had trouble avoiding grimacing at the pressure.

'Vodka?' Rykovsky offered.

Doganis shook his head, lowered his bulk into the third chair at the table. He wanted a clear head dealing with these goddamn Russians who had let down Greece in 1946 during the Civil War: they had not supplied the weapons needed. Later the US President, Truman, had sent a military mission, arms by the ton. That was what had defeated them. Rykovsky remained on his feet, downed the full glass of vodka, and explained.

'I am leaving you now with Colonel Volkov,' he continued, speaking in English. 'He has a long message to give you. It must be transmitted by Florakis to Jupiter tonight. The first part, that is. The signal is so long it has to be divided into three parts – sent on three successive nights. You have a good memory?'

'You know I have,' Doganis growled, his large paws clasped on the table-top. 'Get on with it.'

'Volkov will tell you where one section ends, the next begins. When he has passed on the complete message Volkov will leave. Give him five minutes. Then go yourself, drive at once down to Cape Sounion. Florakis will be expecting you. I have already phoned him. I am now returning to the Embassy to call him and confirm you are coming. He will wait for you at that site where they are constructing a new hotel complex. You know it?'

'I do.'

'They have stopped work on it for the moment. Something to do with waiting for fresh materials.' Rykovsky waved an elegant hand. 'The main point is the complex is deserted. When you get back to Athens, call me at the Embassy. Use your normal codename. Simply tell me you have found a further supply of mineral water – despite the shortage owing to this infernal heatwave. Remember, all calls are monitored, recorded…'

'I know that.'

'And get down to Cape Sounion as soon as you can. Florakis will need time to code the message. Understood?'

'Yes.'

Rykovsky told Volkov he would see him back at the Embassy later. He was leaving when he turned back.

'Doganis, you do have transport to drive to Sounion?'

'My car is parked a quarter of a mile away. I know what I am doing.'

Rykovsky nodded, bit his Sip, decided to say no more. The Greeks were a touchy lot. He was glad to get out of the room. Doganis was glad to see him go. He turned to Volkov. 'I am listening.'

The stocky Volkov knocked back another glass of vodka, saw the Greek's expression and refrained from refilling his glass.

This is the message. I will say it slowly. There is a lot to remember. The first part concerns furniture vans…'

Kales took two photographs of Rykovsky as he hovered at the exit from the staircase, looking to left and right. The Russian then walked briskly away to the left. Doubtless searching for a taxi. In his notebook Kalos noted down the precise time, as he had done when Doganis had arrived.

He was growing more puzzled. That left the gross pig, Doganis. upstairs with the new arrival to Athens, Volkov. Most peculiar. It was half an hour later before a second figure appeared. Volkov. He walked straight into the street in the same direction, straw hat rammed down concealing the upper half of his face. He stopped suddenly, lifted the hat as he stared round. Kalos took two more shots, waited until Volkov had disappeared, noted down the time. He had been precisely thirty minutes alone with Doganis. Most mysterious.

Unless he had been passing detailed instructions to Doganis – but why had Rykovsky not remained present? My God. Kalos was thinking: maybe Moscow doesn't even trust Rykovsky to hear what Volkov was saying. The cell system ~ carried to these lengths! The instructions must be incredibly secret.

Five minutes later, exactly, Doganis stood at the exit, lounging against the side, lighting a cigarette, scanning the street. A real professional, the overweight slug. Kalos risked it, took another photograph. Without a glance in his direction. Doganis walked off.

Kalos memorized the time, ran to his car, backed it into the main street, crawled after Doganis. That had been a difficult decision Kalos had wrestled with. Who to follow? Since they had met so furtively, he'd decided the Russians would probably return to the Embassy. You're my meat, he thought as he trailed after Doganis.

Kalos found he could drop back well behind his target. Among the tourists and locals crowding the Plaka Doganis loomed up among the other heads like a bear lumbering forward. He had parked his battered old Renault on an open stretch of ground. Kalos waited until he had eased his bulk behind the wheel and started moving. Then he followed him.

'Repeat the whole message back to me. Indicate where one section stops, another begins,' said Doganis.

'Get stuffed. I've memorized it perfectly,' Florakis snapped.

'Prove it.'

'I said get stuffed,..'

The two men sat in the front seats of Doganis' Renault parked in the shade thrown by the skeletal structure of the new hotel complex. Florakis, wearing his shepherd's garb, cast a sneering glance at the bloated jelly beside him, reached for the door handle.

'I said prove it,' Doganis said in a quiet voice, 'That comes from the top. I have to tell them you've really grasped the message.'

'Play with yourself, you overblown melon..,'

Doganis grasped Florakis by his arm below the elbow. He squeezed as Florakis swore and struggled to get free, There was a brief tussle, then Florakis' face twisted in agony. He was staggered by the strength of that fat man who he'd imagined was soft as a jelly. Doganis, with no expression, began to bend the arm. Florakis stifled a scream of pain.

'Now, let's try again, shall we?' Doganis suggested, releasing his grip.

'You stupid bastard,' railed Florakis. 'There's no feeling in my arm. And I have to tap out your bloody signal…'

'You're right-handed,' Doganis said mildly, gazing out of the window where an opening in the building structure framed the sizzling blue of the sea. 'I remembered that when I twisted your left arm. In any case, you'll be OK by nightfall when you do the job. Going to repeat the message? Word by word?'

'Blast you! Yes…' Florakis took a hold of himself, let his rage evaporate, then began reciting carefully.

'That's pretty good,' Doganis said fifteen minutes later. 'One more thing before you ride your donkey back to that cesspit you call a farm.'

'What's that?' Florakis asked sullenly.

'In future don't ever again forget I'm the boss. Now push off. I'll give you ten minutes to get clear before I drive back to Athens. ..'

Behind a boulder a short distance up the arid hillside under the scorching sun Kalos was watching. He peered through the field glasses he'd taken from his glove compartment. He'd followed Doganis all the way from Athens, keeping well back when he realized his quarry was taking the coast road.

He'd crested a hill with a clear view of the Temple of Poseidon atop Cape Sounion when he saw the Renault swing off the road behind the building site. Immediately he'd turned off the main road himself, jouncing over the rough ground into one of the many gulches which ended near the coastal highway. Parking his car well inside the gulch, he had climbed high enough to stare down at the site.

His glasses had brought up clearly the two men seated inside the stationary car. Kalos had recognized Florakis and he recalled finding the fingerprints which exposed Florakis' real identity. Oleg Savinkov: The Russian, The Executioner of the Civil War.

He waited until Doganis had driven over the crest on his way back towards Athens, then drove after him. He didn't expect to discover any new twist but he followed Doganis all the way back to the city. His eyes narrowed as he grasped that Doganis was heading back into the Plaka. He was even more startled when Doganis parked his car on the same open space and got out, then checked his watch and waited, lighting a cheroot. Kalos parked illegally in a one-way street and waited.

Thirty minutes passed before Doganis made his way on foot to the same street where he had arrived earlier in the day. Kalos guessed his destination was the room over Papadedes taverna and watched him disappear inside the entrance to the staircase.

Kalos parked his own vehicle in the side street he had used before. Standing in the doorway, he saw Colonel Volkov arrive five minutes later. He noted down the time below his record of Doganis' entering the building.

Very curious. This meeting was taking place without the presence of Rykovsky. He blinked and only took his camera out in time when a third figure walked down the street, paused by the entrance, glanced confidently around and vanished inside.

He wrote down the arrival time of Anton Gavalas. What the hell was going on?