The Greek Key

'Dimitrios! Christina! Get out here fast. And tell Constantine to be ready to take off in the helicopter. Come on! You should be here now, damn you!'

He waited until his two grandchildren stood before him. Christina, clad in tight-fitting denims and a flowered blouse, looked down at him, took a cigarette out of her mouth and ran a hand through her long dark hair.

'Was that Anton?' she enquired anxiously. 'He is on his way back from England?'

'No. And Anton can look after himself. He has a job to do. So have both of you.'

He studied the thin-faced Dimitrios, who often acted as his driver. Forty-four years old, he had Petros' dark eyes, his cruel mouth. With more training, another five years, Dimitrios might become as ruthless as Petros himself, although the old man doubted it. He twisted his hawk-nosed profile, stared hard at Christina.

That Englishman, Marler, you got information from. Did you sleep with him, you whore?'

'Of course not,' she lied smoothly, refusing to lose her temper with the old bastard. God, she thought, he's still living in 1947. The world has changed since then. But he'll never know it. Petros leaned towards her, reached out a gnarled hand to grasp her arm. to twist it. She was too quick for him: she stepped out of his reach.

'I told you once. That's enough,' she snapped. 'What job? Who phoned you?'

'Pavlos – from Piraeus.' Petros slumped in his chair with disgust. 'He had trouble getting through on the phone. Nothing works in this country any more. Since the colonels went…'

'Don't start that again,' she rapped back. 'What has happened?'

'Oh, nothing much.' He made a sarcastic gesture with his hands. 'Just that the two English – Newman and your Marler- are at this moment aboard a ferry bound for Siros. The chopper will get you to Siros ahead of them. The ferry left Piraeus at eleven this morning and arrives soon after one o'clock. It is now noon – so move your leaden feet. Christina, you will stay out of sight. If Dimitrios decides, you can meet your Marler and lure him into a trap.'

'He is not my Marler. You have said that twice. Say it a third time and I will not go…'

'You try to disobey me?' Petros heaved himself out of the chair, clenched his fist and moved towards her. 'I will beat you until you cannot move…'

'No more!' she shouted back. From the sheath attached to her belt she whipped out a long-bladed knife and waved it in front of her. 'Come one step nearer and I'll cut you open…'

Petros stood stunned. He couldn't believe what was happening. A woman was threatening him. Aware that Dimitrios was watching him closely, that he must not lose face to a mere female, he changed tactics. Slapping his thigh, he raised his large head, roared with laughter, then gestured at Dimitrios.

'You see! She is a true Gavalas. A real spitfire, my little Christina.' He turned back to her. 'Use that knife to cut open this Marler and I will buy you a beautiful dress from Kolonaki. Now, off you go! You are armed, Dimitrios?'

'Constantine has loaded shotguns and rifles aboard the chopper. He guessed it was an emergency…'

'Then what are you waiting for? If those two English go near where my son, Andreas, was killed in the war – you kill them.'

He stopped speaking as the sound of a helicopter's rotors starting up drowned all further conversation. He sank back into his chair as Dimitrios and Christina ran off round the side of the house. Stephen and Andreas, vengeance for your deaths will be mine, he said to himself. He felt great satisfaction.

He had four descendants – Dimitrios, Constantine, Christina and Anton. He believed all shared his obsession that the killers must be dealt with. He had dinned the idea into them since childhood and worried only about Christina. Women should not think – only obey.

Petros looked around the front of the farm while he waited to see the machine take off for Siros. It was a large building. The veranda ran thirty feet along the front. The once-white walls were grey with dirt. In places they sagged, were held up by huge beams of wood which served as props. Many tiles on the roof were broken. Petros never spent money on repairs unless he simply had to.

This meanness had helped make him rich. Money in the bank. That was power. And he owned a second farm way up north in Macedonia. A farm which boasted many scores of head of cattle. They provided the milk the tourists loved. And for making the cheese the tourists staying at the great hotels also loved. Goat's milk, which Petros preferred, was not liked by the visitors bloated with money.

The Sikorsky was airborne, flew along the front of the farm as it gained height. The pilot, Constantine, waved. Petros waved back. They would do the job. And the sight of the Sikorsky made him feel good. War surplus bought by another farmer at a knock-down price.

Petros had coveted the Sikorsky. One night during a heatwave summer he had led his grandsons to the farmer's fields. They had used flaming torches to set fire to his crops. He had been ruined. Only then had Petros approached him with an offer for the Sikorsky – an offer which would not have bought a second-hand car. Desperate for money, the farmer had sold him the machine. I'm a good businessman, Petros told himself. Now I wait, see what happens on Siros.

Aboard the ferry Nick sat behind the wheel of the Mercedes and started up his engine. They were coming in to Siros, the ramp would soon be lowered. Newman stood on the bow deck as the ferry began turning slowly through a half-circle, ready to berth stern first. Alongside him stood Marler, lighting one of his king-size cigarettes.

'Pretty-looking place,' he drawled.

Newman was carefully scanning the waterfront with his glasses, searching for any sign of a reception committee. The island was mountainous, one limestone giant rearing in the distance. Mount Ida, he assumed. The lower slopes were arid, studded with more scrub.

He blinked. The small port of Siros was crammed with stark white-walled two-storey houses. Huddled together and piled up the hill, they glared beneath the burning sun. The shallow-sloped red-tiled rooftops were stepped up the incline. He followed the route of several narrow walled roads which appeared to zigzag upwards. A rabbit warren.

The harbour was sickle-shaped, enclosed by two curving jetties. Inside the entrance a small fleet of fishing vessels and motorized caiques were moored. Along one jetty wall the golden strands of scores of fishing nets hung drying. The tavernas and shops lining the waterfront had a sleepy look.

'It's a working port,' Newman remarked, lowering his glasses. 'Not many tourists find their way here would be my guess. And I still wonder about that chopper which flew over us earlier.'

'Could have landed anywhere,' Marler replied offhandedly. 'I think we'd better join Nick…'

There was a bump as the stern touched shore by a stone causeway. The ramp was lowered, vehicles began moving off as Newman ran clown the companionway. then slowed his pace. It was like moving inside a red-hot oven.

'You take is easy in Greece, old boy.' Marler needled him, strolling down the steps.

'And you don't let on I speak Greek,' Newman warned. 'That way we may hear something interesting.'

'Sir!' As Newman looked over his shoulder Marler gave a mock salute.

Cocky bastard, Newman thought, then quenched his irritation. He had better watch himself in this inferno. Nick had driven the Mercedes off and was waiting on the waterfront. Small boys were dancing round the gleaming car, touching it and then jumping back as Nick shouted at them.

'Where to first?' Newman asked, climbing in beside Nick while Marler settled himself in a rear seat.

To meet my friend, Spyros. I sent him a radio message from Athens. He lives high up here in Siros…'

The car was moving, turning away from the waterfront into one of the narrow side streets. Almost immediately the street was climbing, twisting round narrow corners over the paved surface. On both sides they were hemmed in by the clean whitewashed walls as they ascended the labyrinth. Sweat started pouring down Newman's back. The tunnel-like streets, the blinding glare off the white walls – everything intensified the hellish heat despite the fact that Nick had opened all the windows.