The Greek Key

'Next development,' Monica continued, 'we get all this weird data from Newman. And weird it is – Andreas' skeleton hanging inside that old silver mine. Macabre. Petros is obsessed.'

'No proof it is Andreas. Probable, yes. Certain, no.'

'Plus the strange trip to the island of Siros. Dimitrios and Constantine – according to Christina – tried to shoot Newman. And,' she pressed on, 'this is the hairbrained place where the three commandos landed – with a German lookout point perched in that monastery above them. Back to the present day, we have the murder of Giorgos – who worked for the Grande Bretagne and spied on Newman and Marler. Also macabre – ending head down in a cask.'

'I think the solution lies in Greece.' Tweed, suddenly alert, walked over to the window and gazed towards the trees of distant Regent's Park.

'Looks like it,' Monica agreed. 'That's further reinforced by this peculiar Seton-Charles character hurtling off to Athens. That might mean nothing- except for the devious route he took to London Airport. Harry and Pete handled that cleverly. But what do they do now?'

'They're already doing it. While you were out when Butler called from London Airport I sent them both back to cover Exmoor. Robson, Barrymore and Kearns are still holed up there. Change of tactics again. Butler and Nield will have gone back to checking on that curious trio. Later, I'll fly out to Greece. I want to question Petros.'

That could be dangerous. Newman nearly got killed venturing into Devil's Valley.'

'Sometimes you have to take chances.' lie was pacing restlessly. 'Harry was murdered at Cape Sounion. That's close to this Devil's Valley. And some swine murdered Sam Partridge on Exmoor. That Greek, Anton, was floating about when it happened. Two scores I have to settle. Someone is going to pay the price.'

Monica again was disturbed by the ferocity of his language, his bitter tone. She spoke quietly.

'Be careful. Don't get obsessed – like old Petros. You're losing your normal sense of detachment. You always said that was the fatal mistake…'

'Stop nagging me, woman.' Tweed stared at her. 'I'll work it out in my own way without your advice…'

He stopped, appalled at Monica's expression. She looked like a woman who had been whipped across the face.! n all their long relationship he had never spoken to her like that.

'I'm dreadfully sorry,' he apologized. 'I do rely on your judgement – maybe more than you've ever realized. I feel like a man walking in a fog, a tired man,' he admitted. He stuffed his briefcase with tape recordings and files. 'I think I'll spend a couple of days in my flat, sitting in an armchair, thinking. I need something to happen which points the way. '

'It always does.' Monica smiled. 'Now you're following your usual method. Don't worry. You're under pressure.

I'm amazed you haven't blown your top before. And there's a lot of personal feelings you've had to grapple with. Go home, get some rest – or would you like some coffee first?'

Tweed said thank you but he wanted to get straight off. He put on his shabby Burberry, squeezed her shoulder and walked out with his briefcase. Monica stood up, went to the window to watch him walk round Park Crescent through the net curtains. She was frightened. Tweed was acting like a man obsessed with his problems.

He left the building. He paused on the front steps to button up the raincoat, glancing all round the Crescent in case there were hostile watchers. Then he headed for the taxi rank.

On the way he passed a newspaper seller with a poster propped against the garden railings. Tweed didn't even notice it – he was thinking about Monica. It read, Reagan-Gorbachev Summit in Washington?

30

'I'm scared stiff. I need someone to confide in.' Jill Kearns laid a hand on Tweed's knee. It was two days later.

Tea at Brown's. Tweed looked round the room, admired the wooden wall panelling, the moulded ceiling. The atmosphere of the place created an air of intimacy. Especially when you were with a woman.

They sat at a table in an arched alcove at the end of the lounge. Behind them was a fireplace and they were isolated from the other guests taking tea. He twisted round in his deep armchair to look at Jill. She was worth the effort.

She had twirled her blonde hair into a single long plait looped over her shoulder. And she was dressed for London. A pair of tight-fitting leather trousers thrust into boots which displayed her well-shaped legs. She also wore a tunic of some black material splashed with vivid-coloured oriental flowers. Tweed drank some tea before replying.

'What exactly is worrying you?'

'Stuart, for one thing…'

'And for another?'

Tweed helped himself to a scrambled egg roll, bit off half of it. On the table in front of them stood a four-tier stand of some of the best food he'd ever enjoyed. The lowest tier had delicate little sandwiches with the crusts removed; on the second and third tiers were selections of bread and more sandwiches. Logically, the top tier held a variety of cakes, including some chocolate eclairs. You worked your way up.

'The company he keeps,' Jill replied, squeezing his leg. She used the other hand to eat and drink. The room was full of couples and quartets whose conversation muffled what Jill was saying. 'Those two men, Captain – Dr -Robson, and Colonel Barrymore. The colonel gives me the creeps.'

'Why?'

'He seems to mesmerize my husband and Robson. You'd think they were all still in the Army and Barrymore was their CO – the way he talks to them. Loathsome sarcastic bastard.'

'I take it you don't like him…'

'Don't make fun of me.' She looped her hand round his left hand he'd rested on the arm of the chair. 'You'll help me, won't you, Tweed? I wish I could get you on the telephone. Give me your number. It would be nice if we could have dinner. More cosy.'

All in a rush. She'll proposition me soon, Tweed thought. I wish to God I knew what she's really up to. He asked a question to throw her off balance.

'How do you know all this – how Barrymore talks to them? I thought they met by themselves for dinner once a week at The Luttrell Arms.'

'Sometimes they come over to our place and talk half the night in the study. I eavesdrop.'

'A bit naughty, that.' He smiled to take the sting out of the comment.

'You've got a lovely smile, I she said.

'You overheard something that frightened you,' he probed.

Outwardly impassive, Tweed wasn't feeling too comfortable. A woman had come in and sat down at a small table at the side of the room. She had folded her raincoat and parked it on The other chair. She was watching them briefly over the top of her glasses with a cynical expression. Paula. She hadn't, he knew, missed the fact that Jill was clasping his hand.

'Stuart is reinforcing the defences, as he put it. He's even laid some of those beastly steel-teethed traps outside the walls of our house. Barrymore advised that. They're all strengthening their security. Just as though they were expecting a raid.'

'Perhaps they are. By who?'

She hesitated, pushed two fingers under his shirt cuff. 'I've no idea. I feel like a prisoner.'

'You escaped for now. You're sitting here, in the middle of London. Not on Exmoor.' He poured more tea and she leaned over to hold the teapot lid in place, her breasts brushing his arm. 'You're confiding in me, as you put it, although I can't imagine why.'

She released her hand, flopped back in her armchair, her long leather-clad legs stretched out in front of her. Paula raised her glasses higher up the bridge of her nose, adjusted her beret and looked away. Tweed wished she'd stop sending signals.