The Greek Key

36

Anton landed at Portela Airport, changed a sum of Swiss franc high-denomination banknotes into escudos, the local currency. He never used traveller's cheques while moving about secretly: they left a trail which could be followed. Inside the taxi he opened his case, used the raised lid to conceal what he was doing from the driver.

Inside the suitcase was an executive case crammed with Swiss banknotes. He had been handed this by a woman who visited his room at the Schweizerhof in Zurich. An incident Arthur Beck had no chance of observing: the woman had reserved her own room at the hotel for the night.

Anton collected the equivalent of?5.000 in escudos. tucked the bundle into an envelope. He then counted out the equivalent of?10,000 in Swiss banknotes, transferred them to a second envelope and put them in another pocket. When he closed the lid, the executive case contained?109,000 in Swiss notes. He looked out of the window.

Lisbon was a galaxy of colour-washed houses: pink, blue, green and all of them pastel shades. The side streets were narrow and twisting. He paid off the driver outside the Kitz Hotel.

Speaking perfect English, he registered under the name Hunter, using the forged passport Doganis had supplied for his previous trip. The Portuguese were strict about examining passports, inside his room he checked the time and ordered mineral water from room service. He would need a clear head for coping with the arms dealer.

He ate a quick dinner in the restaurant, keeping an eye on the time. It was still light when he took a taxi to Cascais, a resort and fishing village on the coast. The air was sultry, but nothing compared with the burning heat of Greece. He paid off the taxi on the promenade, found a cheap clothing shop and bought a large fisherman's pullover, a pair of trousers. His feet were shod in trainer's shoes which fitted him comfortably. Footwear was important: you never knew when you would have to move fast.

Checking the time again, he walked along the front, the package of wrapped clothes under one arm, the other holding the executive case which was well-worn and had a grubby look. He found a fado cafe which was crowded, went inside, sat at a table and ordered a glass of wine which he paid for.

He drank half the glass, asked the waiter for the washroom, disappeared inside it. He locked the door of the cubicle, undid the parcel. Within a minute he had pulled the trousers up over his own pair and donned the turtle-necked pullover. Flushing the toilet, he stuffed the wrappings behind it and walked out carrying the case.

He made a point of finishing the glass of wine, standing at the table as people pushed past him. The place was a babble of voices with a background of mournful fado music.

Personally, Anton preferred the bouzouki. He checked the time once more.

He walked along the front and it was dark now. Lights sparkled in the clear air, the Atlantic rolled in, threw its gentle waves on the shore. Carlos, a gnarled wiry fisherman, was waiting with his boat moored, a lamp shining in the tiny wheelhouse.

'Mr Hunter,' he greeted, 'my wife had your phone message, passed it to me.' Clambering ashore, he pointed. 'Everything is with us when you need.'

He was pointing at a donkey cart half-filled with hay, a donkey between the shafts and fastened to them with traces. Anton frowned, put his free hand on the animal's shoulders. The head peered round.

'She has to carry a weight,' he commented. 'And also stay by herself for some time.'

'She is good. You take the cart. Look at wheels. She carries weight. When you come back I take you with cargo to Oporto.'

'The freighter is at the harbour now? Gomez is expecting me?'

'All is ready, Mr Hunter. We take cargo aboard in the night. The Oporto sails when the sun rises. One day from this day. Sails for England.'

'Here you are, Carlos. I'll be back later.' Anton handed him the envelope containing?5,000 in escudos. 'Don't open that envelope until you're inside the wheelhouse. And turn down the lamp.'

'I'll do that. All the time God gives us. I nearly do not know you in those clothes…'

Anton led the donkey cart along the front back the way he had come. He had no trouble controlling the animal. He'd had a lot of experience in handling the creatures on Petros' farm. The main thing was that it was docile.

From the cafes he was passing came more fado music, the voices of men and women who had consumed large quantities of wine. It was not a night when anyone was interested in what was happening on the deserted front. Arriving at a narrow side street, he guided the donkey across the road, parked it outside a shop which sold swimwear and which was closed. Just beyond was the entrance to the dimly lit Rua Garrett. The address Volkov had given him.

He left the bright lights and plunged into Stygian darkness as he picked his way over the uneven cobbles of Rua Garrett. One place was still open, double doors thrown back. He strolled past it, glancing inside. A big place with a cracked concrete floor – a service garage on one side, a ship's chandler on the other.

His glance showed him a gloomy cavern lit by oil lamps, On the garage side a car was perched on an elevated platform about a foot above a service pit. He walked in when he was satisfied only one person was inside.

'Mr Gallagher?"

'That's me. What do you want?'

'I've come to collect the merchandise, the type with a sting in its tail.'

'So, you're the one? Brought the money?'

'Of course.'

Gallagher was six feet tall and broad-shouldered. He spoke with an American accent. In his late thirties, his manner was offhand and he moved silently. Like a big cat. Anton studied the insolent expression, the restless eyes. The arms dealer was not a man Anton liked the look of. Still, he had come prepared.

Gallagher held out a large hand. He made the universal gesture with thumb and forefinger.

'I'd like to see the colour of your money first.'

'That is reasonable.'

'Wait! We need a little privacy for our business transaction.'

He walked over to the wall, pressed a switch and the double doors closed automatically. The place was not so down at heel as Anton had thought. Sealed inside the cavern, the stench of petrol and oil grew stronger. Anton laid his case on the table, unlocked it, raised the lid and stood back. While Gallagher walked back to the case and picked up bundles at random, rifling through the banknotes, Anton hoisted his pullover a little higher.

'Just how much is here?' Gallagher demanded.

He had the flattened nose of an ex-boxer, a mass of untidy hair the colour of ripened wheat, a hard jaw. His pale eyes watched Anton, waiting for an answer,

'One hundred thousand pounds in Swiss francs. The agreed price in the agreed currency. For three Stingers. Plus six missiles.'

'Price just went up,' Gallagher informed him. 'Law of supply and demand. Been a heavy call for Stingers. IRA, Angolan rebels, Iranian nutcases. People like that.?145,000 is the going rate. Take it or leave it.'

'But the price was agreed,' Anton protested coldly. Volkov had been very clear on that. 'Your reputation rests on keeping to a deal once concluded.'

'Grow up, buddy boy. I said the going rate is the price. You can't raise it? Get lost."

'I didn't say I hadn't got that much,' Anton replied. 'Since you insist, I'll pay it. But first I want to see the weapons.'

'You need to go to the bank?' Gallagher pressed, arms folded. 'Or is it in there?' He nodded towards the case Anton had shut and relocked. 'You came ready for the bad news? I heard it on the grapevine,' he sang the old melody and then laughed.

'I hid more money in the Rua Garrett earlier,' Anton told him. 'You'll never find it – but it's within a hundred yards of where you're standing. Now, show me the weapons.'

"Good to do business with a gentleman.' Gallagher grinned and walked back to the bank of switches and buttons on the wall. He pressed one and the elevated platform supporting the car rose up four more feet. The arms dealer lowered himself into the pit, pressed a switch which illuminated the darkness. Against one wall was a large canvas bundle. He unstrapped it, rolled back the canvas with care, exposing three Stingers and six missiles. He looked up.

'Satisfied?'

'Bring one up, plus one missile. No – take the middle ones in each case.'

'Leery sort of bastard, aren't you?'

Gallagher placed a Stinger and a missile on the garage floor, hauled himself up. 'Show you how it works.' He grinned again. 'You get value for money here. It's shoulder-launched by one man. Weighs only thirty pounds. It has a hundred per cent hit rate – mainly due to its infra-red heat-seeking system, plus its amazingly accurate aiming system. You fire in the direction of the aircraft and leave it to do the rest – home in on the target. God knows how many Soviet fighters it's wiped out back in Afghanistan. Take hold of it.'

Anton balanced the weight in both hands, surprised at its lightness. It looked like a mobile telescope with a wide muzzle at the front tapering to a slimmer barrel resting on his shoulder. To his right as he held it was a large rectangular plate. He peered through the aiming system.

This is how you load it,' Gallagher said, inserting a missile. 'Don't pull the trigger or we'll both end up as red goulash.'

'I want a demonstration,' Anton remarked as he handed back the weapon. 'Don't argue. For?145,000 I'm entitled to check the damned thing works…'

Gallagher had driven them in his Volvo station wagon into the hills. Leaving Rua Garrett, Anton had noted the donkey still stood patiently with the cart where he had parked it; it looked as though it would stay there all night.

Gallagher pulled up at a lonely spot overlooking the sea. Getting out, he grasped the Stinger and the single missile concealed under a travelling rug. They picked their way past a cactus grove and Gallagher halted at the top of a cliff. Out at sea a lone fishing vessel was returning to port, navigation lights twinkling. Gallagher handed weapon and missile to Anton.

'There's your target. There's always one conies crawling back late."

'I don't understand.'

'That fishing vessel. Get on with it. It's about two miles away. How tar will your target be in the air?'

'Less than two miles. I still don't understand…'

'Oh. for Christ's sake! The missile is heat-seeking. Thai boat has a boiler in the engine room. Aim straight for it.'

'Won't there be an enquiry?' Anton inserted the missile, raised the Stinger, cuddling it into his shoulder. 'The police might start searching – when they realize what did it.'

"Except they won't. A month ago a similar fishing vessel blew up – the boilers they use are ancient as these hills. It will be recorded as another case of inefficient maintenance. They don't bother that much round here.'

Anton aimed at a point well below the wheelhouse. He squeezed the trigger, the missile left the launcher, curved in a low arc above the Atlantic at such speed he didn't see -its flight. A dull boom echoed in the humid night. The fishing vessel turned into a pillar of flame after a brief flash. The flame died fast.

Lowering the Stinger, Anton gazed at the smooth surface of the sea. The fishing vessel had vanished. He lifted the Stinger, peered through the aiming device. He could see no trace of any wreckage.

'Satisfied?' Gallagher demanded. 'If so, let's get back to the garage.'

'How many in the crew?'

'Roughly half a dozen. Plenty more where they came from…'

'Drop me at the entrance to the Rua Garrett,' Anton told the arms dealer as they drove along the front. 'I have to bring my transport.'

That the transport?' Gallagher enquired as Anton, carrying his executive case, alighted by the donkey cart. 'You'll get a long way with that. And I bet I know where you hid the balance of the money. In that mess of a hillside at the end of the street.'

'And you could search for years and never find it. See you at the garage. Don't wrap the merchandise until I'm there.'

'Anything you say, buddy boy…'

I don't think he's American at all, Anton was thinking as he led the donkey cart into the side street, following the Volvo. Under the accent, the over-use of American slang, he had detected traces of some unidentifiable Mittel-European language.

He left the donkey cart outside the open garage doors. Inside Gallagher had lowered the elevated car back over the pit. A careful man, Mr Gallagher. Anton continued down the dark tunnel of the narrow street.

He'd noticed when he first arrived that at the end the street stopped where a steep hill rose, its slopes covered with undergrowth and trees. He found a narrow path twisting up and followed it a short distance. Crouching down, he unlocked the case, lifted the lid.

He took a number of bundles of banknotes and stuffed them inside his pockets until his pullover bulged in an ugly manner. This would appear to be the extra money. He locked the case, made his way back down the tortuous path, walked back to the garage.

'Looks like you're going to have a baby,' Gallagher commented.

He stood by the control panel, pressed one switch, watched the garage doors slowly close, pressed another and the platform elevated above the service pit. Anton put the case down on a table, hoisted his pullover a few inches as he asked the question casually.

'Supposing I want to come back and ask you a question tomorrow. About the operation of the Stingers. You'll be here?'

'No. Anything you want to ask, ask now.' He lowered himself into the pit. 'I'll be away for a week in another country. A fresh deal.'

'Your regular customers – for servicing cars – will be pleased.'

'They know me. The doors are closed, I'm not here. Give me a hand. Take these, put them on that big table, the one with the sheet of canvas.'

When the three launchers and five missiles were laid on the top of the table, Gallagher hauled himself out of the pit. He towered over Anton. He spent the next ten minutes working rapidly, wrapping each launcher and missile in polythene sheets; then he arranged them on the large canvas already spread out. Rolling up the canvas, he fetched some straps and began securing the bundle. 'You can start relieving yourself of that money,' he suggested.

Anton pulled out the bundles of banknotes, laid them in stacks on the table-top. Gallagher was fastening the last strap when the Greek stepped back to pick up the case he'd stowed under the table. Gallagher had his back to him, stooped over the canvas-wrapped weapons.

Anton took out a handkerchief, blew his nose, kept the handkerchief in his hand, grasped the handle of the commando knife inside its sheath fastened to the belt under his pullover. He drew it out, stepped forward and rammed it with all his strength into Gallagher just below the left shoulder blade. Gallagher gasped, made a muted gurgling sound and slumped forward across the table.

'You really should keep to an agreed price,' Anton said.

Anton used two of the straps as makeshift handles to carry the canvas bundle to the donkey cart. At that, he staggered under the weight which must have been between a hundred and fifty and two hundred pounds. And Anton kept himself fit.

He dropped it into the cart and moved the hay to conceal the weapons. He hauled large handfuls close to the bundle, which caused it to sink, then dumped the hay on top. It took him a good five minutes to complete the job. Returning to the garage, he repacked the stacks of banknotes in the case, locked it and buried it under the hay.

Half an hour later he was leading the donkey along the deserted front. The cafes and discotheques were going full blast. From open windows the sound of guitars being strummed, of girls singing fado, drifted. At least it guaranteed an empty waterfront.

He had acted quickly clearing up the garage behind closed doors. Gallagher's dead body had been heaved into the pit. Anton had found an oil-stained canvas sheet to cover the corpse. Then he had pressed the button and lowered the elevated platform. He had doused the three oil lamps. Fortunately the control panel was near the doors: he had pressed the switch and dived into the street before they closed.

Carlos leapt on to the jetty when he arrived. Between them they lowered the weapons into his fishing boat. The Portuguese hid them under a pile of fishing nets. He wiped his hands on his trousers and looked at Anton, who asked the question.

'What about the donkey and the cart?'

'Will wait until I return from the Oporto. Then I go home. I saw a fishing boat out there die.'

'Sorry?'

'It blew up. Boom! They do not take care with boilers. I am careful. It is my living…'

'Has the coastguard gone out?'

It was an important question. Anton was thinking police launches might be prowling around.

'No.' Carlos spread his hands. 'They will not make the hurry. Maybe when the sun rises. Are we good to leave for the Oporto?'

'As soon as you can get under way…'

Anton felt relieved as he saw the shoreline receding. It would be a week before anyone started worrying about Gallagher's closed garage. That had been a bit of luck. As the boat chugged steadily towards the main harbour Anton wiped his forehead. They were away.

Gomez, skipper of the freighter Oporto, was well-organized. A short fat jolly man, he helped to bring the canvas-wrapped cargo aboard up a gangway lowered on the far side from the jetty where his ship was moored. Anton waited until Carlos was guiding his fishing vessel back to Cascais, then handed Gomez the envelope containing ?10,000 in Swiss banknotes.

'The same amount as before. Where is the crew?'

'Below decks. I invented work for them when I saw Carlos coming. What they don't see, they don't know. Better I hide this in a safe place?'

'Very safe.' He knew Gomez would assume he was smuggling drugs. 'When do you sail? I have to complete some business.'

'At dawn the day after tomorrow.' He checked his watch. 'It is eleven-thirty. Yes, not tomorrow, the day after. That is OK?'

'Perfectly.' Anton, holding his executive case, decided to take it with him. He had to return to The Ritz, act normally, sleep there, have breakfast, then pay his bill. 'I would prefer it if I could slip aboard tomorrow and stay under cover until you sail.'

'What time? Your cabin is ready now.'

'Probably about midday. You can time arrival at our destination as you did when you took me before? At eleven o'clock at night? Again someone will be waiting to take me ashore.'

'There is a problem.' Gomez, his weatherbeaten face making him look more like sixty than forty, scratched his head. 'Last time I told the harbourmaster at Watchet we had engine trouble. Ah! I have it. This time, after you leave us, we will steam back a way down the Bristol Channel, turn round, and berth during the morning.'

'I'm counting on you.'

'Of course. You will be put ashore at Porlock Weir just as you were before.'