The Greek Key

'And you're sure this is a smart move – what we're doing now? Driving to police headquarters to see Chief Inspector Sarris?'

'I want Florakis' fingerprints checked against their records. Look, a sixty-year-old Greek, tough as they come, lugs a transceiver up a mountain. He's gaining altitude. That suggests long-distance transmission. Who is he contacting? So secretly? I've had this lucky break before as a correspondent. You are working on one thing, you stumble across something much bigger. Yes, I think it's a smart move.'

Very little traffic at seven in the morning. They were coming close to Alexandras Avenue below the soaring peak of Mount Lycabettus. Close to the new police headquarters.

' Philotimo,' Marler began, 'is the Greek code of ethics which rules family life. No one must dishonour the family. If they do, the disgrace must be wiped out. In extreme cases by killing the culprit. Even if it is a member of that family. Only then can the family have peace of mind. Petros is just the type of man to be soaked in the creed -in the crudest and most old-fashioned way. Just the man to go to extreme lengths.'

'Just the man to go right over the edge,' Newman commented. 'I think Petros is taking the attitude Andreas cannot be finally buried until his murderer is identified and executed. Petros is crazy as a coot. Revenge is the most self-destructive force that can take hold of a man.'

'And this is the main reason we're going to see friend Sarris?'

'No. I want the fingerprints on this bottle checked. We may have stumbled into something even more diabolical than Petros' desire for revenge.'

The Thin Man. The hawk-nosed, dark-haired Sarris sat listening behind his desk. His eyes never left Newman's.

He smoked one cigarette after another. But he listened without interruption.

'That's it,' Newman ended, his voice hoarse from talking, from his ordeal at the mine. 'The skeleton at the mine, the bottle on your desk with Florakis' fingerprints. The transceiver I saw Florakis carrying up the mountain.'

'Petros has committed no crime,' Sarris responded, stubbing a cigarette. 'Yet. Funny you should come to me with this news of a possible transceiver…'

'Possible?'

'You have no proof that was the object Florakis carried. But, as I say, it is funny you come to me at this moment. Have you ever noticed weeks, months, can go by with no clues in a case? Then, bingo! Within hours the clues pour in.'

'What are you talking about? I'm damned tired.'

'Have more coffee.' Sarris poured as he went on. 'A friend of mine is what you call in England… a radio ham. Is that right?'

'Yes. An amateur radio operator. Sometimes they're helpful – pick up Mayday calls over long distances. That sort of thing.'

'My friend picked up something strange on the airwaves. Someone transmitting a series of numbers – sounds like a coded signal. At the end there are a few words in English – from the man receiving the coded signal.' Sarris leaned forward. 'So maybe the operator sending the coded signal was transmitting to England.'

'A big assumption,' Newman objected. 'English is a universal language these days…'

'Judge for yourself. My friend has a tape recorder. He recorded the entire signal. You might like to hear it…'

Sarris pressed a lever on his intercom, spoke rapidly in Greek, sat back, lit a fresh cigarette. The cassette will be here in a moment.'

He was wearing a pale linen suit and even at that early hour he looked alert. He watched his two visitors until a uniformed policeman brought in a cassette. Sarris picked up the cassette, inserted it inside a machine on a side table. 'Listen,' he commanded.

The cassette reeled out a string of pure gibberish for Newman. He glanced at Marler who was staring out of the window, showing no apparent interest in the proceedings. Sarris was checking his watch. After two and a half minutes he raised a warning hand.

The gibberish stopped. There was a pause. Then it came through loud and clear. In English. From now on call sign changed to Colonel Winter. Staring at Newman, Sarris switched off the machine.

'You have heard of this Colonel Winter?'

'No. Doesn't mean a thing to me.'

'Pity. I am thinking of informing the Drug Squad. The traffickers are becoming very sophisticated. Using coded radio signals to warn of a shipment on its way. The Drug Squad has radio detector vans. Maybe they'll send a couple down to Cape Sounion, try to get a fix on this Florakis.'

'And the fingerprints on that bottle?'

'We'll check them through our records. That could take time.'

'You can isolate Florakis' prints? I gave you that postcard I showed Christina while we were driving back. You've taken my prints. The card gives you Christina's. Eliminate hers and mine and you're left with Florakis.'

'I had worked that out for myself.' Sarris rose from behind his desk. 'Thank you for the information. Now I expect you'll want to get back to the Grande Bretagne, have a shave, some breakfast, then maybe some sleep. You've been up all night.'

'I had hoped for more from you,' Newman said as he stood up.

'I gave you the radio signal – which may link up with Florakis.' He paused. 'I will give you something more. I said earlier all the clues seemed to pour in at once. Yesterday we had a woman here with a weird story. A Mrs Florakis. About sixty and recently she took a bus tour to Cape Sounion. A widow, by the way. Married very young.' He smiled thinly. 'I see I have your attention?'

'Go on.'

'Her husband, Stavros Florakis, was killed in 1947 during the Civil War. In a battle with the Communist ELAS forces. It so happened a woman friend saw him die near Salonika. This woman also saw the Communists search the body, take his papers, then they incinerated the corpse. Something Mrs Florakis never understood. Still intrigued?'

'Stop tantalizing. You sound like my editor.'

'As I said, Mrs Florakis takes this bus tour. The bus stops off the road close to a new hotel building site. To let them get a good view of Poseidon. A man appears with a shotgun. He threatens the driver, tells him to get off his land. The bus driver argues. Mrs Florakis then hears the man with the shotgun shout, 'I am Stavros Florakis. I own this land and you are trespassing.' She gets a good view of this man. She gets a shock. He is not a bit like her husband. Then she remembers what happened to him. All this flashes through her mind in a few seconds. Then the bus moves off. She tells her story to me very clearly, but I am not impressed. We get so many crazies wandering in here. For good public relations I let her make a formal statement, which we filed. Now you tell me something that makes me think maybe I was wrong.'

'Florakis is an impostor.' Newman observed. 'So who is he?'

'Maybe – just maybe – the fingerprints you cleverly obtained can unlock his true identity.' He shook hands with Newman and Marler.'Let us keep in touch, gentlemen…'

****

'So that covers what Newman told me, Kalos.' Sarris concluded as he clasped his hands behind his neck and relaxed in his chair. 'What do you make of it all?'

Kalos, his trusted assistant, was very different physically from his chief. Small and stocky, with thick legs and arms, he had a long head and intelligent eyes. In his early forties, he had been passed over for promotion several times but bore no grudge. It was Sarris' private opinion that it was Kalos' lack of height which had held him back. Most unfair, and Sarris had done his best to help him up the ladder. But who said life was fair?

'We've had a lucky break again,' Kalos decided. 'We ignored the Florakis woman – but she may have fingered the key link in the organization the Drug Squad is trying to locate. With no success. Unless it's political,' he mused. 'Not drugs.'