The Greek Key

None of the four men scouring Exmoor had reported back on the phone. Tweed, Monica and Paula spent their time listening once more to the tapes of the conversations recorded. They reread the files, including the report Newman had dictated about their visit to Greece. They searched desperately for something they had overlooked. Late in the evening Monica brought more coffee and asked her question again.

'Can't you tell us anything about your interview with the PM?'

'At a certain stage – closer to 7 December when Gorbachev will land at Brize Norton – I shall recall Newman, Marler, Butler and Nield from Exmoor. They must stay there a day or so yet in the hope they find two things – if Sam Partridge's driving licence was used to hire a car in the area, and the route used by Anton to leave the country secretly. When they arrive back we hold a meeting. Then you will hear what has been decided.' He paused. 'I can tell you the PM was convinced I am right, that we have her full support to indent for any weapons we may need. And that two Westland helicopters have been put at our disposal. At my suggestion they are being equipped with swivel-mounted machine-guns and the words "Traffic Control" are being painted on the fuselages. They are at a private airfield called Fairoaks near Woking in Surrey.'

'What's the idea?' Paula asked.

'I should give the credit to Newman. He phoned me in the middle of the night and I outlined the situation. He knows what's coming. So does Marler. Newman made those suggestions.'

Paula glanced at the camp bed made up in the corner. 'So you didn't get an undisturbed night's rest.'

'I don't expect any of us will during the next five days…'

He stopped speaking as Howard strolled into the room and sat down in the armchair. He carried a sheaf of photoprints.

'No developments yet, I assume? It's a tense time.'

'Nothing,' Tweed replied. 'And there's always tension at this stage.'

'As you know,' Howard remarked, 'I'm a bit of a car buff. It struck me that that Spetsnaz unit Paula uncovered must have moved to a new base prepared in advance.'

'I agree.' Tweed wondered what he was getting at.

'We know Foster has a Ford station wagon, Saunders a Vauxhall Cavalier, Seton-Charles a Volvo station wagon -from the information supplied by Vehicle Registration at Swansea. Sully left his Jag behind in the bungalow garage, so we can forget that. It occurred to me they won't dare hire fresh cars – they'd have to show their driving licences. With me so far?'

'So far, yes.'

That means they'll have to use the same transport to move about. But they may respray their vehicles to disguise them.'

'Highly possible,' Tweed agreed.

'So I have used photographs of those three cars and traced them on a sheet of paper. But I filled the colours in with a solid black. Then I had these photocopies made. If we're looking for those cars from a chopper and use these photocopies we won't be fooled by any change of colour. They're all fairly common makes of car. We'll spot them by their shapes.'

He reached forward, dumped the photocopies on Tweed's desk and sat back again. Tweed studied the copies.

'I think this is a clever idea,' he decided. 'Everyone involved in the search will have a copy.'

'Then I need one,' said Howard and took back a copy.

'What for?' asked Tweed.

'Because I'll be in one of those choppers. You can ride in the other machine.' He raised a hand as Tweed started to protest. 'Don't argue. I'm good at spotting cars. And if you tell the PM I'll never speak to you again.' He stood up. 'So that's settled. I'm fed up with fighting the war from behind my desk with paper darts.' He glanced at Monica's stupefied expression as he left. 'And better give Monica a brandy. Looks like she needs it.'

'My God!' Monica burst out when Howard had gone. 'I'd never have believed it.'

'You always did underestimate Howard,' Tweed told her, and then the phone began ringing.

There was dead silence as Monica grabbed the receiver. She listened, looked at Tweed. 'It's for you. Peter Sarris. Athens.'

Tweed greeted the Greek police chief, then kept silent for five minutes. Gradually he hunched closer to the phone. When he put it down he stared bleakly into the distance for a long minute before speaking.

'It's very close,' he said gravely. 'Doganis strangled Florakis on Cape Sounion, sent his body over the cliff. He didn't know Kalos was following him. Doganis admitted he'd killed Harry Masterson. Apparently he's as strong as an ox. Kalos had to shoot him.'

'What does it mean?' Paula asked.

'It means the Soviet hardliners back in Russia – probably led by General Lucharsky – are wiping their tracks clean. Killing off anyone who could betray them. 7 December is definitely zero hour. Pray for a break soon.'

51

Friday, 4 December.

At Cherry Farm the atmosphere was strained and becoming worse. Five men were living in close proximity inside the farmhouse. Anton had agreed with Foster's decision that no one must appear outside. The temperature was low and a biting wind swept across the waterlogged fields and rattled the closed shutters.

The Shi-ite Muslims, shivering with cold, had complained they were freezing. They were given extra underclothes and left to cope. Conditions were little better for their five captors. There was a tantalising pile of logs on one side of the large fireplace in the living room. No fire could be lit: smoke from the chimney would show a passerby the place was inhabited.

There was no electricity, no gas, no water. All services had been cut off from the supposedly abandoned farm. Seton-Charles cooked a meal for himself at midday using Calor gas for the stove – an item he had bought on his way back from Norwich. He had, very little left.

In the living room Anton and Foster pored over two ordnance survey maps, planning out the route to the general area of Brize Norton. Saunders and Sully stood behind them as they crouched over the table. They all wore extra clothes brought with them: woollen pullovers and two pairs of socks.

Transport,' Anton said suddenly. 'We've talked about it but taken no decision. I'll drive the Austin Metro and park it so we can get away afterwards, then get inside the furniture van.'

'It's a risk, I agree,' said Foster. 'And I'll take the Ford station wagon – again a risk. But not so risky as trying to hire different vehicles. We'd have to show our driving licences. The Vauxhall can stay here.'

'What is the escape route?' Anton demanded. He stood with his arms folded. 'You fobbed me off before but I want to know now before we talk any more about routes.'

Foster compressed his thin lips. 'Very well. We're close to doing the job. Afterwards we abandon the vans, then drive back to Exmoor. We leave the way you came in – by motorboat from the beach at Porlock Weir. A ship will be waiting for us outside the three-mile limit. An East German freighter. The East Germans are not nearly so keen on glasnost as Gorbachev.'

'Another point – I'd like to discuss it with you alone.'

'Really?' Foster's cold grey eyes narrowed. 'Let's go take a breath of fresh air.'

The air outside the back of the farmhouse was more than fresh: it was bitter. Foster thrust his hands inside his jacket pockets. Until he was twenty-five years old he had been used to the razor-edged wind sweeping across the Russian Steppes. Fifteen years in England had made him more susceptible to the cold.

'What is it?' he demanded.

'I have decided I can't shoot Seton-Charles. Killing that arms dealer in Lisbon was child's play. He was a stranger. Seton-Charles introduced new opportunities into my life. I don't like him – but he's become a part of my life.'

Foster stood more erect, held himself stiffly as he stared hard at Anton, reassessing him. Anton forced himself to gaze back but inwardly he felt nervous. Suddenly he felt the force of the Spetsnaz leader's personality.