The Greek Key

They walked in silence past the restaurant and hotel which showed no lights. Then they climbed the twisting rocky path to the summit. Doganis wheezed, apparently with the effort. They reached the elegant Temple of Poseidon, its columns silhouetted in the dark.

Doganis led the way past it and down the slope towards the cliff edge. The ground was covered with scrubby grass and Doganis stopped at the edge of a bowl. He pointed one thick finger.

'That is the place. You make all future transmissions from here. ..'

'I see. But why bring the transceiver? I am not going to use it now.'

'Because you will not need it any more.'

Doganis raised his huge hands, clamped them round the throat of Florakis. The Greek was taken by surprise, but not frightened. Doganis had gone mad – even to imagine he could cope with a man of Florakis' strength. He tried to knee Doganis in the groin, but the attacker had turned sideways and the blow struck his thigh. Florakis felt a flash of fear. It had been like hitting the leg of an elephant. The pressure on his windpipe increased. Lights appeared before his eyes. Doganis' face seemed enormous as he began to bend Florakis whose back arched in a bow. If the process continued his back would be broken. Panic took hold. He kicked futilely with his right foot at Doganis' leg. It felt like striking ebony. Then he sagged, lost consciousness as Doganis went on strangling him.

Satisfied that he had done the job, Doganis let him slump to the ground. They were perched on top of the slope. Doganis used one foot to lever the prostrate corpse. It began to roll. The momentum increased. Like a broken rag doll Florakis vanished over the edge of the cliff. Doganis grunted with satisfaction, flexed his hands.

'I am arresting you for cold-blooded murder,' a quiet voice said behind him.

The Dormouse stood about two dozen feet away, further along the top of the ridge where it curved inland. He stood, a tiny figure, with his hands clasped behind his back, staring at Doganis, at the sea behind him which stretched away like a sheet of black steel. Stood as though about to make a speech.

'You came alone?'

Doganis could hardly believe it, looked round for, reinforcements.

The plump tiny figure looked so absurd. There was no sign of anyone else.

'Yes,' said Kalos. 'I have been watching your apartment in the Plaka for days – and nights. I followed you in my Saab without lights. You were so intent on your murderous plan you never dreamed you might be followed.'

'And you think you are going to arrest me?'

Doganis began to move slowly towards Kalos who remained quite still. Hands still clasped behind his back as Doganis crept along the ridge, padding silently.

'Is this the way you killed the Englishman, Harry Masterson?' he asked.

'Yes. You might as well know it since you will end as food for the fishes. Masterson was also deceived like Florakis -by thinking I was a fat weak slob. I told him I could show him where the leader of the Greek Key lived. He was making too many enquiries about us. He was confident he could handle me. And he was stronger than Florakis.'

'Stay where you are,' Kalos ordered. 'Do not take one more step towards me. I have handcuffs behind my back. I am taking you in.'

Doganis continued his ape-like progress. A sound came from inside him, a rumbling noise which was his version of a chuckle. He raised both hands, ready to grasp this doll round the throat. He would be able to lift him off his feet, throw him over…

Kalos brought both hands from behind his back. They held the 9mm Walther automatic he had extracted from the holster strapped to the middle of his back. He fired once, aiming to disable. The bullet struck Doganis in the left shoulder. He stopped. Then he came on again. Kalos fired again. At the thigh. Still Doganis moved forward like an enraged bull elephant. Kalos shifted his aim, shot him through the heart.

Doganis slumped slowly to the ground on the seaward side of the ridge, on to the slope. Like Florakis, his huge bulk began to roll. He caught a medium-sized boulder a glancing blow and the loosened boulder also started to roll. Kalos stood watching as Doganis' body reached a steeper section of slope, picking up speed. The gross corpse shot over the brink, dropped out of sight to fall three hundred feet, followed by the boulder.

He walked over to the transceiver Doganis had intended hurling off the cliff. He embraced its sides with both hands, his gun slid back inside his holster, and staggered back to his Saab, preserving Florakis' fingerprints on the handle.

50

Three men paced the snow-bound barracks square southwest of Moscow. In the centre of the group strode General Lucharsky, flanked by the other two members of the Troika. Their boots crunched the hard snow and they had the square to themselves: all officers and men were moving out aboard military transport for the annual manoeuvres in the Ukraine which would be watched by Lucharsky.

The timing suited Lucharsky admirably. He would be out of the way when the imminent crisis broke. His companions waited for him to speak. He kept them waiting. An assertion of his authority. A bitter wind whipped at his white bony face.

'Everything is prepared,' he said eventually. 'We are so far advanced radio communications are being cut. The weak links in the Greek Key are being eliminated. It all depends now on Jupiter in England.'

'Gorbachev has played into our hands,' commented General Budienny. Thank God he is landing in England. But British security is very good. Is Jupiter better?'

The commander of the Spetsnaz unit which has been activated is an ex-soldier in the British Army. A formidable man. He will find a way. Meantime, General Budienny, your armoured division will remain here ready to seal off Moscow should a crisis arise.' He stopped and stared hard at the stocky, wide-shouldered general. 'But on no account must you move unless you receive a direct order from Yigor Ligachev to preserve stability.'

'Of course not, Comrade General. My division has always had to stand by for that role – even under Brezhnev.'

Lucharsky resumed his walk in the square where they could not possibly be overheard. 'And the one general who might rebel because he is a glasnost enthusiast will be taking part in the Ukraine manoeuvres. At the slightest sign of resistance on his part I will have him arrested. So what can possibly go wrong?'

'You were worried at one time when your KGB associate warned you the British agent, Tweed, was in Greece.'

'Until I heard he was concentrating on that crazy old idiot, Petros. Then I knew he had taken the bait – incensed by the killing of his sector chief, Masterson, which is why I ordered Masterson's liquidation. You can forget Tweed. He is confused, like a ship without a rudder, sailing round in circles.'

Snow had begun to fall again, heavy flakes which drifted down out of the pewter sky. Lucharsky paused, bent down, scooped up some in his gloved hand and rubbed it on his face.

'That helps the brain to become alert, Comrades. The first snow of winter – the winter which will descend on glasnost and freeze it to death.'

1 December. Tweed had not returned to his office the previous day. He had to wait at Downing Street to see the PM. And when he did meet her the meeting had lasted far longer than he had anticipated. Now he was walking in Regent's Park with Paula. The wind was biting and he wore his British warm topcoat. Paula clutched her own coat collar at the neck as they made their way across the deserted open spaces.

'Let us go back to the beginning,' Tweed said. 'I still have the worrying feeling I have missed something.'

'You've done everything you can,' she assured him. 'It is a matter of waiting for a break.'

'But we have so little time left. Gorbachev lands at Brize Norton on Monday 7 December. That leaves only six days. So, recall how it all started for me.'

She summarized the early events and Tweed listened in silence. 'Then,' she went on, 'there was the murder of Sam Partridge on Exmoor. You had to identify him for that local policeman…'