The Greek Key

'How will you go about it?' Paula asked.

'I shall go into Devil's Valley with someone who speaks Greek as an interpreter. I'll grill him at his farm – the only way to get at him. He never comes to Athens – or rarely -so Newman said.'

'That could be dangerous,' Paula protested. 'He sounds mad as a hatter. And Newman told us earlier the area is crawling with armed shepherds.'

'We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.'

'I don't like it,' Paula insisted.

'No one asked you to.' He regretted the words as soon as he had spoken. 'I'm sorry, that was rude. I'm confused about this whole business. There seems no rhyme or reason to it. Unless the whole thing revolves round Petros.'

'You could ask Peter Sarris for help,' Paula suggested.

Tweed shook his head. 'No police until we know what we're getting into. We'll rely on our own resources.' He looked at Monica who had just made the phone call. 'All fixed up?'

'Two open date return tickets via Zurich booked.'

'Is this why we returned here so quickly from Porlock Weir?' enquired Paula.

'Yes. I felt I was getting out of touch with the position in Greece. Butler and Nield can keep a watch on any developments on Exmoor. You have your bag packed, Paula? Good. I may decide to leave suddenly for Athens.'

'Why go via Zurich?' Monica asked. 'Instead of flying direct?'

'I want to consult Arthur Beck. We'll call him before we leave. He often knows what's going on. And there are direct flights to Athens from Zurich.' He paused. 'So there are also flights direct from Athens to Zurich.'

'Oh Lord!' Monica groaned. 'He's being enigmatic again.'

Midnight. The storm had abated when the Oporto was rounding the tip of Cornwall. The sea now was just choppy as the vessel hove to west of Porlock Weir. On deck on the starboard side Anton held the flashlight and directed the coded signal towards the distant shore. Then he waited.

Gomez stood alongside him close to the gangway which had been lowered over the side. At the foot of the steps waves lapped over the metal platform. The canvas-wrapped Stingers, recovered from the hold, lay at Anton's feet. He wore a waterproof windcheater, thick seaman's trousers tucked inside rubber boots and over this gear a dark green oilskin. His suitcase was protected with another oilskin lashed round it with rope.

'You will need luck to make contact a second time,' Gomez commented.

'The crew are all below decks?' enquired Anton.

'As arranged – except for a lookout who can be trusted.' In the dark he smiled. 'He has been paid to be trusted… Look. Over there.'

Anton had already seen the light flashing its return signal from the shore. He checked the number of flashes, then sent a brief final signal, acknowledging, and rammed the flashlight inside a pocket of the oilskin.

'Now we have to wait. But not for long, I suspect…'

He was right. As the freighter rocked slowly under the surge of the sea the sound of an engine approaching reached his acute hearing. The night was moonless but soon both could see the white wake of the small boat. Anton reached down and hauled up with both hands the heavy weight of the canvas bundle. Gomez picked up the suitcase with one hand; with the other he raised a pair of night glasses to his eyes, leaning against the rail as he scanned the shoreline. They were two miles out. To the east he picked out the lights of Porlock Weir. He lowered the glasses.

'Be very careful when you go down the gangway. The steps will be slippery. You are carrying a heavy weight.'

'I'll be all right. And when I've left you're turning round and sailing out to sea, ready to come back tomorrow?'

'Do not worry. No one will know we arrived off England earlier.'

The small grey-coloured motorboat, powered by an outboard at its stern, was close. Gomez could make out the figure of the solitary man aboard. As before, he wore a Balaclava helmet under a dark green oilskin. He cut the power, the boat glided forward, bumped against the platform. Balaclava hurled up a mooring rope. Gomez caught it with his free hand, the glasses looped round his neck, made the rope fast to the rail.

Anton stood on the top platform, slowly went down, step by step. He rested the bundle on the rails on either side, letting them take the weight, sliding it down. The moored boat ground up against the Oporto 's hull, made a grating sound. Anton was half-way down when the sea lifted the freighter, then dropped it. Anton lost his grip, the bundle tumbled down the remaining steps, landed on the lower platform. He swore in Greek, grabbing the rails to recover his balance.

Balaclava leant forward, took hold of the cargo, heaved it up and lowered it quickly inside the boat. Anton stepped off the platform and joined him. Gomez called down, dropped the mooring rope he had untied and Balaclava hauled it in. dripping, looped round the handle of Anton's suitcase.

Anton sat down as his companion started up the outboard, grabbed the tiller and guided the boat away from the Oporto. He was just in time. A large wave lifted the boat, would have hurled it against the freighter, but Balaclava had steered the boat round. He headed for the distant shore.

The motorboat was coming in close to the rock-strewn coast. Behind it cliffs loomed, hiding them from the mainland. Anton was careful not to stare at the eyes which looked out through the slit in the Balaclava helmet.

He had no idea of the identity of his companion. When he had landed on his previous trip to Exmoor the same man had met him, wearing the same gear. Because of the loose flapping oilskin he wore it was impossible for Anton to guess Balaclava's height, build or age. Only the voice was distinctive. Upper-crust, clipped. On the rare occasions when he spoke.

As they approached the shore, the boat pitching and tossing, the engine was cut out. Balaclava crouched over the tiller, peering ahead, steering the craft towards a slope. There was a grinding sound as the keel rode up over rocks and pebbles, stopped.

'Take the weapons, put them in the vehicle.'

Anton heaved up the bundle, stepped out of the boat and staggered to the canvas-covered four-wheel-drive vehicle parked close to the shoreline. He used his shoulder to ease up the flap at the rear, hoisted the bundle higher, lowered it inside on top of a pile of coiled ropes. The wind whipped at his oilskin, blew it round his legs as he let the flap drop and went back for his case.

Balaclava had taken an axe attached to the side and began hammering at the deck. The axe was heavy, its blade honed like a razor. As he worked chips of wood flew up and he protected his eyes by holding one arm across them. He paused as Anton lifted out his case, turned to him.

'The sea goes down a hundred feet here. We have to lose this boat. Don't stand there watching me – keep an eye out along the shore.'

The axe began to sweep down again in thudding arcs. Inside a few minutes the boat was holed. Balaclava went on working, enlarging the gaping cavity. He was only satisfied when the hole was a foot wide, then he hurled the axe into the waves and returned to the vehicle. Climbing into the rear, he shifted the Stingers and covered them with the mass of rope. Jumping back on to the shore he gestured Anton to join him.

'We want to heave the boat over the edge. Give me a hand…'

They stood near the bow on either side and pushed with all their strength. The boat slid slowiy backwards, the outboard poised over the edge. They straightened up, stretching their strained arms, took hold of the boat again. One more prolonged heave and the boat was floating. It filled rapidly with water, drifting just offshore. Then it went down stern first. The bow hovered above the surface, disappeared.