The Greek Key

'Looks like you're going to have a baby,' Gallagher commented.

He stood by the control panel, pressed one switch, watched the garage doors slowly close, pressed another and the platform elevated above the service pit. Anton put the case down on a table, hoisted his pullover a few inches as he asked the question casually.

'Supposing I want to come back and ask you a question tomorrow. About the operation of the Stingers. You'll be here?'

'No. Anything you want to ask, ask now.' He lowered himself into the pit. 'I'll be away for a week in another country. A fresh deal.'

'Your regular customers – for servicing cars – will be pleased.'

'They know me. The doors are closed, I'm not here. Give me a hand. Take these, put them on that big table, the one with the sheet of canvas.'

When the three launchers and five missiles were laid on the top of the table, Gallagher hauled himself out of the pit. He towered over Anton. He spent the next ten minutes working rapidly, wrapping each launcher and missile in polythene sheets; then he arranged them on the large canvas already spread out. Rolling up the canvas, he fetched some straps and began securing the bundle. 'You can start relieving yourself of that money,' he suggested.

Anton pulled out the bundles of banknotes, laid them in stacks on the table-top. Gallagher was fastening the last strap when the Greek stepped back to pick up the case he'd stowed under the table. Gallagher had his back to him, stooped over the canvas-wrapped weapons.

Anton took out a handkerchief, blew his nose, kept the handkerchief in his hand, grasped the handle of the commando knife inside its sheath fastened to the belt under his pullover. He drew it out, stepped forward and rammed it with all his strength into Gallagher just below the left shoulder blade. Gallagher gasped, made a muted gurgling sound and slumped forward across the table.

'You really should keep to an agreed price,' Anton said.

Anton used two of the straps as makeshift handles to carry the canvas bundle to the donkey cart. At that, he staggered under the weight which must have been between a hundred and fifty and two hundred pounds. And Anton kept himself fit.

He dropped it into the cart and moved the hay to conceal the weapons. He hauled large handfuls close to the bundle, which caused it to sink, then dumped the hay on top. It took him a good five minutes to complete the job. Returning to the garage, he repacked the stacks of banknotes in the case, locked it and buried it under the hay.

Half an hour later he was leading the donkey along the deserted front. The cafes and discotheques were going full blast. From open windows the sound of guitars being strummed, of girls singing fado, drifted. At least it guaranteed an empty waterfront.

He had acted quickly clearing up the garage behind closed doors. Gallagher's dead body had been heaved into the pit. Anton had found an oil-stained canvas sheet to cover the corpse. Then he had pressed the button and lowered the elevated platform. He had doused the three oil lamps. Fortunately the control panel was near the doors: he had pressed the switch and dived into the street before they closed.

Carlos leapt on to the jetty when he arrived. Between them they lowered the weapons into his fishing boat. The Portuguese hid them under a pile of fishing nets. He wiped his hands on his trousers and looked at Anton, who asked the question.

'What about the donkey and the cart?'

'Will wait until I return from the Oporto. Then I go home. I saw a fishing boat out there die.'

'Sorry?'

'It blew up. Boom! They do not take care with boilers. I am careful. It is my living…'

'Has the coastguard gone out?'

It was an important question. Anton was thinking police launches might be prowling around.

'No.' Carlos spread his hands. 'They will not make the hurry. Maybe when the sun rises. Are we good to leave for the Oporto?'

'As soon as you can get under way…'

Anton felt relieved as he saw the shoreline receding. It would be a week before anyone started worrying about Gallagher's closed garage. That had been a bit of luck. As the boat chugged steadily towards the main harbour Anton wiped his forehead. They were away.

Gomez, skipper of the freighter Oporto, was well-organized. A short fat jolly man, he helped to bring the canvas-wrapped cargo aboard up a gangway lowered on the far side from the jetty where his ship was moored. Anton waited until Carlos was guiding his fishing vessel back to Cascais, then handed Gomez the envelope containing ?10,000 in Swiss banknotes.

'The same amount as before. Where is the crew?'

'Below decks. I invented work for them when I saw Carlos coming. What they don't see, they don't know. Better I hide this in a safe place?'

'Very safe.' He knew Gomez would assume he was smuggling drugs. 'When do you sail? I have to complete some business.'

'At dawn the day after tomorrow.' He checked his watch. 'It is eleven-thirty. Yes, not tomorrow, the day after. That is OK?'

'Perfectly.' Anton, holding his executive case, decided to take it with him. He had to return to The Ritz, act normally, sleep there, have breakfast, then pay his bill. 'I would prefer it if I could slip aboard tomorrow and stay under cover until you sail.'

'What time? Your cabin is ready now.'

'Probably about midday. You can time arrival at our destination as you did when you took me before? At eleven o'clock at night? Again someone will be waiting to take me ashore.'

'There is a problem.' Gomez, his weatherbeaten face making him look more like sixty than forty, scratched his head. 'Last time I told the harbourmaster at Watchet we had engine trouble. Ah! I have it. This time, after you leave us, we will steam back a way down the Bristol Channel, turn round, and berth during the morning.'

'I'm counting on you.'

'Of course. You will be put ashore at Porlock Weir just as you were before.'

37

'I've never seen anything like this place,' Tweed said as they walked out of The Anchor. He had Paula on one side, Butler on the other, 'It's fascinating. A tiny world on its own.'

Tweed had driven down with Paula to Porlock Weir after he had warned Butler they were coming. 'Book us two rooms at The Anchor,' he had told Butler. 'I want to avoid The Luttrell Arms in Dunster this time. The idea is to surprise Barrymore and Co. You said they've all returned to Exmoor?'

Butler had confirmed the three men had arrived back the previous day. As they left The Anchor after a satisfying lunch he explained.

'Nield and I each have our own hired cars. We spent our time touring the whole area, checking for any sign of life at their residences. We split up, went to pubs to catch any gossip. It's common knowledge the three men took a trip away from Exmoor. You can't go to the loo down here without everyone knowing. Nield is out having another look-see.'

They crossed a narrow wired-fenced footbridge over seventeen-feet lock gates. A notice warned, Closed Spring Tide. Tweed paused, gazing at the oyster-shaped harbour behind the gates. Low tide. The harbour was a basin of sodden mud. A trickle of water ran under the footbridge out of the basin. Expensive power cruisers, moored to buoys, heeled over at drunken angles.

No one else was about as they followed a footpath past a small row of three terraced houses; all of them old, one with a thatched roof. Beyond, a shoal of pebbles led steeply down to a calm grey sea. Tweed stopped, taking in the atmosphere.

He looked back at the gabled hotel which was combined with The Ship Inn. Gulls drifted in the overcast sky, crying mournfully. Behind the coast the hillside, covered with dense trees, climbed. To the west the rocky coast stretched away and everywhere was a feeling of desolation.

'A quiet hideaway,' Tweed commented. 'Like the end of the world.'