'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.'

  Sarris sat up straight. 'What does that mean?'

  'My mind roams.' Kalos smiled drily. 'As you know-there are people higher up who don't approve of a man who lets his mind roam. Never get fixated on one theory. My inflexible maxim, and stuff them upstairs.'

  'You said unless it's political. Please elaborate.'

  'Last year,' Kalos began, fitting his bulk inside the arms of a chrome-plated chair, 'a so-called Colonel Gerasimov visited us from Moscow. We were asked to guard him like royalty - but discreetly with plain-clothes operatives. He spent very little of his visit at the Soviet Embassy, a lot of it at the Hilton. He had three rooms booked and switched from one to another. I got curious and had him secretly photographed . . .'

  'Without my permission,' Sarris chided him.

  'You know me. When I visited Belgrade unofficially about this drugs problem I showed that picture to a Yugoslav - a Croat called Pavelic in the security services. I got him drunk and showed him the picture. He laughed when I said it was a photo of Colonel Gerasimov of the GRU. He told me it was General Lucharsky, a Deputy Chief of the Soviet GeneraI Staff.'

  'I remember. Do continue,' Sarris urged him with a quizzical smile.

  'Yugoslavia is sensitive to power movements inside the Kremlin. Gorbachev suits the Belgrade Government fine. Pavelic, though, is a hardliner. He told me Lucharsky was 'one of ours'.'

  'You didn't tell me that bit,' Sarris snapped.

  'Why raise hares? You were up to your eyes in work. While in Athens the man at the Soviet Embassy Lucharsky spent most time with was Colonel Rykovsky, the military attache. And an expert in communications.'

  'How do you know that?'

  The Greek cleaning woman they employ when their menial staff is on holiday happens to clean my apartment.'

  'Purely by chance, of course?' Sarris was leaning forward now, taking in every word. 'You do realize you are far exceeding the scope of your duties, my friend?'

  'I like to know what is really going on.' Kalos ran a stubby finger round his open-necked collar and smiled drily again. 'It is hardly likely to affect my promotion prospects. And now we hear a Colonel Volkov will soon visit us from Moscow. Odd.'

  'Why?'

  'Pavelic, the Croat, was very drunk when we talked alone. He said to me, 'I would not be surprised if you receive another visitor in Athens one of these days. Lucharsky's aide and confidant. A Colonel Volkov. Another sound man.' Translation - another hardliner. These are not pro-Gorbachev men. So why do they travel to Athens, I wonder?'

  Sarris sat thinking, Yugoslavia was a 'federation' of six different nationalities. A racial mix, and not all of them loving each other. Croatia, the Yugoslav state in the north, was the most rebellious, the most pro-Russian, the one closest to the real hard men in the Kremlin. Gorbachev's opponents,.

  This is all speculation,' he suggested, testing his assistant.

  Kalos ran a hand over the thin brown stubble which covered the dome of his head. 'You are right. Up to now. There is one more thing. When off duty I often amuse myself by following the military attache, Colonel Rykovsky. He likes wandering inside the Plaka. He thinks he has lost anyone who might just be tailing him. Then he meets and spends time with Doganis.'

  'Doganis?'

  'A leading member of the Greek Key.'

  27

  'Where to now?' Marler asked as they climbed into his car.

  'British Embassy. I'll rout that fat slob, Patterson, out of bed if necessary.'

  'Be it on your own head.' Marler nodded towards the clock on the dashboard. 'Eight in the morning here is six o'clock back in London. Who will be at Park Crescent apart from the guard?'

  'Tweed would be my bet. I think he's reached the camp bed stage by now.'

  They both knew what that meant. Tweed started investigating a fresh case slowly. Then the tempo built up. He unfolded the camp bed kept in his office and took up a permanent vigil at his desk, often working well into the night.

  At the Embassy on Sofias Avenue Patterson greeted them in his shirt-sleeves, unshaven, sullen. He let them inside the hall without a word. No one else was about as Newman rubbed both hands together vigorously.

  'The scrambler phone. It's an emergency.'

  'When isn't it? And you might have shaved before invading the precincts of Her Majesty's Embassy.'

  Ye Gods! Newman thought. How bloody pompous can you get? He grinned at Patterson. 'You look pretty rough yourself. Late night on the town?'

  'I don't indulge. Like some people. I'll unlock the door

  - you know the drill. He can't come with you.' He jerked his thumb at Marler.

  Marler said nothing. He produced his Secret Service card, held it under Patterson's nose, withdrew it when Patterson reached for it. The official bit his lip, made no further comment, produced a bunch of keys and unlocked the door leading to the basement. Newman ran down the steps after switching on the light.

  Marler pulled out a chair as Newman sat down and pulled the phone towards him. Upstairs Patterson slammed the door shut with great force. Newman pressed the red button, dialled the Park Crescent number.

  'Who is calling?' Tweed's voice, very alert.

  'Newman here. Sorry to call at this hour.'

  'That's all right. Very glad to hear from you. I was worrying. I slept here, got up with the dawn. Paula's here

  - she couldn't sleep and has just arrived. In case you need data taking down. Now, I'm listening . . .'

  He listened without saying a word for ten minutes as. Newman reported everything that had happened since they last spoke - including the trip into Devil's Valley and how Marler had saved his life. Glancing across the table he saw Marler spread his hands in a What the hell gesture.

  'You shouldn't have gone in alone,' Tweed told him.

  'I know that now. OK, I'll behave in future. Nowhere tricky without my chaperon. Now you know the lot.'

  'And maybe we've come a long way - with the information you've given me and what I've gleaned at this end. A lot more of the pieces in my hands. Now I have to try and fit them together. I'd better warn you, I'll be phoning Peter Sarris to try and stop him taking any action. Yet. I'll cover you. What's the next move you plan?'

  'Grilling Christina again about her relationship and movements with Masterson. That's what I came out for -to find out what really happened to Masterson. It looks like the Greeks to me. Petros and his vendetta. He's mad as a hatter.'

  'And dangerous. Tread carefully. He'll be turning Athens upside down to locate Christina. But don't be too sure you've got to the bottom of anything. Someone may be using Petros as a gigantic smokescreen - to divert our attention.'

  'From what?' Newman asked.

  'I don't know. Just a sixth sense. There are some pretty peculiar characters involved. Including a Professor Guy Seton-Charles. At the moment he's in the West Country, holds a position at Bristol University. But he takes seminars at the university in Athens. Greek Studies.'

  'Description?'

  'Early sixties, looks younger. Slim build. Clean-shaven, thinning brown hair, Roman nose. About five feet eight. Intellectual type. Conceited manner. Most distinctive feature the rimless glasses he wears. Informal dress.'

  'I'll recognize him. Early sixties again. So many of them are. Barrymore, Robson, Kearns, Florakis . . .'

  'Which could be significant. Takes them back to World War Two - where all this started, I suspect. Another point about this Seton-Charles. He was stationed in the Antikhana Building in Cairo at the time of the Ionides murder.'

  'A pattern is beginning to form,' Newman suggested.

  'Yes, but it's like a kaleidoscope. New events shake it

  up, give a fresh picture. One more thing before I go. And warn Marler - he can be impulsive. Petros is a very dangerous man. That crazy business about the skeleton in

  the mine. I'm sure you're right. It is the remains of Andreas. Watch your step, both of you. And has something else struck you just before I go?'

  'I expect not, since you phrase it like that.' 'From your description Florakis' land adjoins Petros' -that is a strange coincidence. Might be worth following up. But cautiously. Keep in touch . . .'

  As Tweed put down the phone the door opened and Monica came in. She greeted Paula, took off her raincoat, said she would be making coffee for everyone. Tweed waited until she returned with the tray and asked for black coffee. He was still working on automatic pilot, struggling to throw off the remnants of sleep.

  'I woke early,' Monica said as she filled their cups. 'It was all going round and round in my head.'

  'I can give you more - enough to make your head spin. Newman just called . . .'

  He gave them both a concise resume of the data Newman had provided. The two women listened intently. Paula made a few notes in her book. Monica absorbed it in her encyclopaedic memory. Tweed leaned back in his chair as he concluded.

  'So what do you make of all that?'

  'Florakis seems to be the key,' Paula said promptly. 'You've been looking for a link between Greece and England. The fact that he appears to be sending coded signals to somewhere here may be the missing link. That reference to Colonel Winter intrigues me. Colonel Barrymore?'

  'Not necessarily . . .'

  'But the thing I got from that tape recording Pete made of the conversation at The Luttrell Arms was Barrymore still treats his two companions as though he's in charge.'

  'Colonel Winterton,' said Monica. The man Seton-Charles told you had handled the property transactions for that bungalow estate near Kearns' house. Colonel Winterton, who disappeared once all the properties were sold. The Invisible Man.'

  'Have you contacted Pitlochry Insurance then?' Tweed enquired. They were the outfit which actually loaned the mortgages.'

  'I managed to get through after you left yesterday afternoon. I had trouble getting the manager to part with the information. I used our General & Cumbria Insurance cover to get him to open up. Said we'd had an enquiry from a Colonel Winterton about a property deal, that he'd given Pitlochry as a reference and . . .'She began choking. 'Coffee . . . went down the wrong way.'

  Paula jumped up, accompanied her to the ladies' room. Tweed sat thinking. The plate at the front entrance read General & Cumbria Insurance Co. The cover had worked well. They pretended to be a specialized company dealing with top security protection for private individuals of great wealth. Officially, they also dealt with kidnapping insurance, negotiating with the kidnappers if a client was snatched. This explained all the trips abroad made by Tweed and his sector chiefs. They were even a member of the insurance industry's association - to complete the cover. Monica came back with Paula, dabbing at her mouth with a handkerchief.

  'I'm all right now,' she said, sitting down behind her desk. 'I was telling you about Pitlochry. The manager said they'd found Colonel Winterton sound and businesslike. He confirmed that Winterton had simply acted as a middleman between clients buying those bungalows and Pitlochry supplying the mortgages.'

  'He met him?'

  'No, that was the odd thing. Odd to me. All the transactions were carried out by correspondence from the Taunton office and Winterton on the phone.'

  'Did you manage to get any idea how he sounded?'

  'Yes, by cracking a joke. Winterton had a very upper crust way of talking. Very much the colonel addressing the battalion - the manager's phrase.'

  'Any forwarding address?'

  'None. No one at Pitlochry has any idea where he is nowadays.'

  'The Invisible Man,' said Paula.

  'Another cul-de-sac,' Tweed remarked. 'Which reminds me - we still have no idea what Masterson meant by his note referring to Endstation. I feel certain that's a major pointer - either here or in Greece. Masterson was the cleverest interrogator I ever met. He was trying to tell me something. But what?'

  'Dead end for the moment,' Paula said briskly. 'But I've come up with something.' There was a note of triumph in her tone which made Tweed and Monica stare at her. 'I didn't tell you while we were there. I thought I'd follow something up for myself.'

  'Which was?' asked Tweed.

  'You remember the evening we visited Colonel Barry-more when you interviewed him? I was sitting to one side. He had his copy of The Times folded back to the personal advertisement section. I memorized the date. Yesterday I went off to Wapping, checked their files. What do you think I found?'

  'She's playing you at your own game,' Monica said and chuckled. 'Teasing you.'

  'So I'll play along. What did you find?'

  'An advertisement placed at the time Christina Gavalas was in England, the time when Harry Masterson was going around with her over here. The advertisement was this.' She read from a small pocket diary.' Will anyone interested in the Greek Key and knows about Antikhana please contact me. Irene. It gives a phone number for contact. I phoned the number. Turned out to be the Strand Palace. I phoned the hotel, said I was the sister of Christina Gavalas. Had she stayed at the hotel? They wouldn't play. So I jumped in a taxi and went down to the Strand. I sexed up the reservations clerk - naughty of me, I think he thought he had a date. He looked up their records. Christina stayed there at the relevant time.'

  'But Irene is the wrong name,' Monica observed.

  'I think she did that to protect herself. Not knowing who would come looking for her.'

  'I agree,' Tweed said. 'Type out that ad with the date and add it to the file. You did a good job. Actually,' he admitted, 'I knew about the advertisement. Newman told me over the phone that Christina had explained to him during dinner that was how she met Masterson. He saw the ad and contacted her.'

  'Thanks a lot!' Paula threw down her pencil. 'So I wasted my time.'

  'Hardly. I didn't spot that newspaper in Barrymore's study - which shows .he was interested. And in the near future I think you and I should drive down again to Exmoor to see how Butler and Nield are getting on. We know more than we did last time.'

  He stopped as the phone rang. Monica grabbed her receiver and spoke briefly. Putting her hand over the mouthpiece she looked at Tweed.

  'Talk of the devil. Pete Nield on the phone for you.'

  'Sorry to phone you so early. I called on the off chance,' Nield explained. 'I'm tasking from a public box. We put the pressure on and guess what's happened. The hunters have become the hunted. Harry and I are being watched by Barrymore and Kearns,'

  'What do you mean?' Tweed's tone was sharp, alarmed.

  'We each took one of them in turn and let them spot us - riding on the moor. Now when we get up there they appear out of nowhere and stalk us! It's uncanny . . .'

  They know the moor better than you'll ever do. What was their routine before they turned the tables on you?'

  'Robson rode to see patients during the day. He can go for ages without food or drink. His patients are scattered over a large area. Evenings he has a meal, presumably prepared by his sister. Then he retires up to that conning tower place and reads. After dark he draws the curtains. Goes to bed late.'

  'And Kearns?'

  'He rides the moor a lot. His wife, Jill, never appears. She hasn't been seen by either of us. Maybe he locks her up. As for Kearns, he rides up to the summit of Dunkery Beacon. Stays up there at night. God knows what he's doing. Can't get close enough. Weird bloke. A solitary.'

  'Dunkery Beacon? That's the highest point on Exmoor ...'

  That's right. Like to know about Barrymore?'

  'Of course.'

  'He's about one hundred feet from where I'm talking. Inside a newspaper shop that opens early. He's standing by the window, half-pretending to read a paper. But he's watching me. He came into the village on a horse tethered further down the High Street. He's also got a rifle in a scabbard attached to the saddle.'

 

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