The Greek Key

…'

'I know. Chief Inspector Kuhlmann of Wiesbaden in Germany called me. So did Beck in Zurich. Do get on with it.'

'Foster originally had twenty thousand pounds in his Bristol account. He's closed it now. The money was telexed from the Deutsche Bank in Frankfurt. They received it from the Zurcher Kredit Bank in Zurich. That's the end of the road.'

'What does that mean?'

'Zurcher Kredit received the funds from Liechtenstein. That's an iron door no one can open. Not much help, is it?'

'On the contrary, it fits into the pattern which is appearing so rapidly at last. Thank you, Perry. Yes, I suppose you'd better leave the file.'

He waited until they were alone. 'A secret Soviet base is set up fifteen years ago – in hardline Brezhnev's time -at that bungalow estate. It's screaming at us now. Those five men in their early forties would be in their mid-twenties when they slipped into this country. They'd have identities cooked up at Moscow Centre's Documents Section. A Colonel Winterton – whom no one ever met – bought a piece of land with an old house on it. Marler found that out from pub gossip. He had the house knocked down, the six bungalows built in its place. All ready for the Spetsnaz unit to move in…'

' Spetsnaz? '' Monica queried.

'You know – elite Soviet troops equivalent to our SAS. Trained to merge into the landscape of a foreign country. They were probably originally intended to assassinate specific key figures in the defence of this country. The leader of the Greek Key, an Englishman living on Exmoor, was their commander.'

'I know what they are,' Monica protested, 'but surely you're reaching, as the Americans would say. Guessing…'

'I'd sooner say I'm deducing the solution from clues now in our hands. They always kept to themselves. Foster visited The Royal Oak and chatted to the barman. Luckily barmen have good memories. Foster makes a point of telling him two wives have jobs abroad – which makes the place sound more natural, as opposed to six bachelors, including Seton-Charles. Having fed the barman that much – knowing it would be spread round the district – Foster never goes back there again. Paula finds one woman is cleaning all six bungalows…'

'In her forties, too, I'd say,' Paula interjected.

That's very peculiar,' Tweed continued. 'Six men, all strangers apparently when they buy their bungalows, use the same woman. In England? Not likely. Now Perry tells us Foster draws large sums from a fund which originated in Liechtenstein. So we can't trace where the money came from. Now we hear they've all disappeared, leaving not one fingerprint behind. Everything those men did is shrouded in secrecy. Except the two in hospital. It stinks of Spetsnaz.'

'And it wasn't due to the shooting incident Paula was involved in,' Monica stated. 'How do I know that? Because I know how long it takes to clean my flat. To erase all fingerprints from six bungalows must have taken days of meticulous work by that woman. They were leaving anyway. Doesn't that mean an operation is imminent?'

'It means we have very little time left to trace them,' Tweed said grimly. 'And I have very little time to keep my appointment with the PM.'

'Anything more we can do?' asked Monica as he put on his Burberry. It was typical November weather outside, a heavy drizzle.

'Only wait. And hope. We've thrown out across the country all the information we hold. I'm off.'

'One other thing while I remember,' Paula said. 'Nield heard this in a pub. Reams' dog kept on moping and whining for Jill. He shot it recently and buried it in the garden at the back of his house. Put up a wooden cross inscribed. In loving memory of Jill.''

'Damn!' Tweed hardly heard her as the phone began ringing and Monica picked it up. 'I can't talk to anyone…'

'It's Marler. Says it's very urgent.'

'Make it quick,' Tweed said after grabbing the receiver.

'Newman visited the hospital after hearing Morle was talking. Arrived, found Morle had a serious case of fever, high temperature. The policeman told Bob what Morle had mumbled. One word over and over. Then Newman heard it. Stinger. The police chap thought he was talking about the drink. Stinger. Do you get it?'

'Yes.' Tweed found he was gripping the receiver tightly. He said thank you and put down the phone.

'Bad news?' Paula asked.

'The worst. Now we know what Anton brought ashore. Stinger rocket launchers and missiles. God help us.'

He ran down the steps to the ground floor, forced himself to pause at the exit, glance round. Across the road stood the usual news seller. He stopped briefly to buy an Evening Standard. And this time he stared at the poster summarizing the main news.

Gorbachev To Meet Thatcher At Brize Norton En Route Washington.

49

Jupiter lay very still in bed inside his house on Exmoor. In the dark he ticked off in his mind the list of tasks dealt with. Everyone was now in place. It was 30 November: Gorbachev would land at Brize Norton on Monday 7 December.

Land? He would be blown to pieces in mid-air. The meeting with the British Prime Minister would never take place. Within days, Yigor Ligachev, Number Two in the Politburo, would take over as the new General Secretary. Ligachev had no time or sympathy with glasnost, with perestroika, and all the other nonsense. He had openly said so.

Jupiter had been trained as a youth in the hardline school. The world must be made safe for Lenin's Marxist principles. Only the Red Army could achieve the final victory. And I, he thought, will have contributed an essential role to that eventual victory I won't live to see. The Red Flag flying over Buckingham Palace, the White House in Washington. No, that would take more years than I have.

He smiled as he thought of the final signal he had transmitted to Greece. He had changed the scenario. The weak link was Florakis. It was ironic – that Florakis would pass on to Doganis the signal tomorrow, signing his own death warrant. Closed circuit.

Driving along the coast road to Cape Sounion just before dawn, Doganis hunched his huge, seemingly flabby bulk over the wheel. It suited him to be up early: he no longer slept well and woke with his brain churning with excitement. Everything had gone so well. Using Petros' insane lust for revenge as a smokescreen had completely foiled the opposition. He pulled up close to the hotel site, leaving his engine running.

'I have a fresh signal,' the lean-faced Florakis said as he got into the passenger seat. 'But why do I need the transceiver?'

'Put it in the boot,' Doganis ordered.

He waited until they were driving along the winding highway before he answered. Florakis glanced at Doganis who stared straight ahead: he disliked him intensely, this mountain of flesh, gone to seed. He should keep fit, an activity Florakis prided himself on,

'We are moving the location where you transmit from,' Doganis informed him. 'It is dangerous to transmit from the same area too frequently. You said it was a short message. Two words. What are they?'

'Closed circuit. That was all. Then he signed off.'

I guessed right, Doganis thought. And the timing is correct. Soon the operation will be accomplished. Unlike Florakis, he knew this would be the last signal. He went on talking as he drove closer and closer to Cape Sounion. And his own timing was correct – it was still half an hour before dawn.

'In future you will transmit from the summit of Cape Sounion. There is no one about at 2 a.m. I will show you the ideal place I have found – a dip in the ground beyond the temple.'

He stopped the car at the entrance to the track leading up from the highway. He told Florakis to fetch the transceiver. Inwardly Florakis sneered at this; the flabby bastard hadn't even the strength to lug the transceiver uphill.