The Greek Key (30 page)

'Yes, it would.' They had thought this out very carefully. Which gave Savinkov confidence. But he needed to know exactly what he was doing - and why. He sat up straight, staring at the glasses.

'In the old days I never operated in the dark. I must know what this is all about, Colonel.'

'An independent type. Good,' Lucharsky repeated. 'Really I have already told you. Gorbachev must be removed before he can do any more damage. There is a group inside Russia - high up - which is determined to replace him by a correct type of leader. The trouble is we have to be very careful. He has ears everywhere - inside Russia. So we have reactivated an organization outside the motherland. Partly here in Greece, partly in England. You will be the link. Doganis will deliver the messages you must send. At other times our associate in England will send you signals at certain times arranged in advance. That's it. And Doganis is your sole contact. Never go near the Soviet Embassy here.'

'Who am I communicating with in England?'

'The codename is La Jolla - a small place in America.

Doganis will explain everything. Oh, by the way, when you leave here he will drive you to a room we have rented for you over a taverna in the Plaka. I think that is all.' Lucharsky glanced at his watch.

'I don't see how this is going to bring down Gorbachev. And I will be risking my freedom. Greek counter-intelligence could trap me and I would be a spy.'

'You are right.' Lucharsky pursed his thin lips. They had reported Savinkov was intelligent and self-reliant. A thought occurred to him. 'You are not married, we know. What do you do for a woman when you need one? Any permanent girlfriend?'

'None. I would have had to entrust her with my secret. If we had quarrelled one day she might have betrayed me. I have an old woman who comes daily to the farm to cook for me and two men who work on the land. When I need a woman I go into the city here and pick one up. Always a different one. That way, no complications.'

'You are very well organized. And now you will excuse me?'

'I still don't see how you are going to replace Gorbachev - even operating a group safely from outside.'

This was the crunch. By now Lucharsky had made up his mind - time had not eroded Savinkov's training, his reliability, his faith in the cause. Lucharsky waved a hand as though swatting a fly.

'If necessary we await our opportunity - preferably when he is abroad - and kill him. You object to that?'

'Why should I? In the past 5 have killed enemies of the cause.'

Doganis had been waiting for him outside the room and had led him to a Citroen parked in front of the taxi rank outside the hotel. It had been a baking evening as Savinkov stared at the car.

'What happened to the Peugeot you drove me to Athens in?'

'We change cars. Frequently. It is good security. Get in. Now we will go to the Plaka. Inside the locked boot there is an old suitcase. Inside that is the transceiver. You start training tonight . . .'

And, Savinkov thought as he poured yet more mineral water, it was inside this room a year ago that Doganis had produced from a worn, shabby suitcase a superb large transceiver. They had practised half the night, Savinkov tapping the key while the machine was switched off. He had been surprised how quickly he had mastered the machine -so different from the one he had used in 1946.

Later that week Doganis had again visited his farm and the training had continued until Savinkov could operate it blindfold. His greatest shock had come that first evening here in this room when he had tackled Doganis about the clandestine organization working outside Russia.

'Colonel Gerasimov told me they have reactivated an organization - an apparatus - outside the motherland. What does that mean? I do need to know what I am doing,' he concluded aggressively.

'You might as well know. We may have to send a stranger to you with a message. This will identify him. The apparatus which has come alive again is the Greek Key.'

21

Newman escorted Christina through the large bar at the Hilton and down the staircase leading to the Ta Nissia, the main restaurant. It was located at a lower level from the vast entrance hall paved with solid marble. Christina paused at the bottom step and grasped Newman's arm.

'Oh, look, that tempts my taste buds madly.'

Facing them was a vast open fireplace and over the fire spits revolved slowly, cooking the food. The lower spit supported a whole roasting pig. On the long spit above it chickens were turning slowly and an appetising aroma drifted towards them.

'No need to consult the menu,' Newman joked. 'I've reserved a corner table ...' He gave his name to the maitre d' who escorted them past a huge cold buffet table into a spacious room shut off from the outside world.

They settled themselves at the table and Newman sat alongside Christina on a red velvet banquette, his back to the wall so he could watch the whole room. He glanced at her as she studied the menu. 'You're looking superb in that dress, what there is of it. It suits your figure.'

She glanced at him wickedly. 'Maybe a little too revealing.'

'I'm happy.'

It was the one item of clothing they had purchased in Kolonaki she had not allowed him to see. A strapless, low-cut dress of black velvet, it hugged her closely. 'You'll have to be careful not to drop anything down the front,' he remarked, with a quick look at the upper half of her well-formed breasts.

'You would think of that.' She giggled. 'I've decided. No starter. Spit-roast chicken for me. And it's nice to have a man who's so well-organized.' She nodded towards the ice bucket where a bottle of champagne rested half-concealed beneath a white napkin.

'Veuve Cliquot.' He looked at the waiter standing to take their orders. 'We'll start on the champagne right away - and we can order now . . .'

She waited until they were alone. 'Are these the opening moves in an attempted seduction?'

'You brought the subject up.' He lowered his glass. 'First I need to hear all about Harry Masterson.'

'I thought there'd be a catch.' She sighed. 'What do you want to know?'

'Everything. From the very beginning. How you met him would be a good opening.'

'I like this place. It's the first time I've been here. Silly, isn't it?' She gave him a bewitching smile. 'I suppose it is because I live here. A strange room, very cleverly designed.'

He looked round. The walls were constructed of very solid rough brown stone. Set back into the walls at intervals were alcoves containing Greek pottery - beautifully shaped vases and jugs. A soft glow illuminated the room and the windows were high up and recessed into the solid stone. At 8 p.m. there were only a few tables taken, but more guests were filtering in. Newman refilled their glasses.

'Now, about Harry Masterson,' he said firmly.

'What a persistent man you are. Well, it's a long story . . .'

'We have all evening.'

'Petros still had me under his thumb. He persuaded me it was my duty to help find who killed Andreas and Stephen. We Greeks call it
philotimo
, a matter of family honour.'

'Go on.'

'He went about it deviously - like he does everything. I had to fly to Zurich. There I stayed overnight and bought a return air ticket to London. I'd flown to Zurich by Swissair. I used British Airways to fly on to London. When I got there I stayed at the Strand Palace. I then inserted a personal advertisement in
The Times
newspaper.' She paused. 'Petros had written the words. The advertisement read,
Will anyone interested in the Greek Key and who knows about Antikhana please contact me. Irene
.'

Newman sipped champagne to conceal the shock he had received. Harry Masterson had been Tweed's sector chief for the Balkans, and that zone included Greece. Newman was also recalling that among the items Masterson had posted back to Tweed was a bracelet - a bracelet from which was suspended a symbol. The Greek key.

'What happened next?' he enquired amiably.

'Petros thought I might be contacted by one of three men - the men who were part of the commando raid on Siros when Andreas was murdered. A Colonel Barrymore, Captain Robson and Kearns, a company sergeant major. Whoever answered the advertisement was likely to be the murderer. So Petros thought. He felt sure they would have to find out who was enquiring after all these years.'

'I don't understand the Greek key bit.'

'I'm not talking about that. Too dangerous. For you . . .'

'There's no limit on danger.'

'Don't you want to know who got in touch with the phone number I put in the advertisement?' she asked.

'Go on,' he repeated, confident he already knew the answer.

'Harry Masterson. I was very taken aback. Then I thought it could be one of the three men using a false name. Especially because of the precautions he told me to take when he arranged to meet me.'

'What precautions?'

'I had to meet him at a certain place in Lincoln's Inn -where all the British lawyers are. It frightened me when I arrived at eleven in the morning. No one about. All those ancient courtyards. I thought it was a trap. I'd armed myself with an aerosol. He was very clever. The appointment was for the same morning he phoned. I only had less than an hour to get there.'

Yes, very clever, Newman thought. So typical of Harry -to select a rendezvous where he could watch her approach, make sure no one was following her. A thought occurred to him.

'How would he know it was you?'

'On the phone he asked me where I was and to give a description of myself, what I would be wearing. I waited for ten minutes and decided no one was coming. At that moment he came round a corner. Again he was clever. I realized he couldn't be one of the three men - he was too young. But I thought one of them might have sent him. He took me a short walk to a public place in Fleet Street, The Cheshire Cheese pub. Lots of people about. I felt safe then.'

She paused and drank half a glass of champagne. The restaurant was filling up. As he listened Newman kept a check on the new faces; for one especially. The face of Petros. He'd recognize him: from the picture Sarris, the police chief, had shown him; and even more from that moment he had spotted Petros inside the black Mercedes when they had returned early in the morning from police HQ.

'We're inside The Cheshire Cheese,' he reminded her after their meals of spit-roasted chicken had been served.

'Harry had a way with women. I felt he was OK but I still asked who he was, what he did. He said he was with Special Branch, the British secret police. I asked him to prove it and he showed me a card with his photograph. I found myself telling him about the murders of Andreas and Stephen, why I'd come to London, about Barrymore, Kearns and Robson. He said he had ways of tracing them. I couldn't believe my luck. I asked him what his interest was.'

'And he told you?' Newman was intrigued to learn what piece of fiction Harry had invented to cover that question.

'He said it might just link up with a case he had investigated and never solved. We arranged to meet the following day after he'd made certain enquiries. I've no idea where

he went . , .'

I have, thought Newman. To pump Brigadier Willie Davies at the Ministry of Defence. He let her eat her meal while he traced in his mind what had happened. It was all becoming horribly clear now - the tragedy of Harry Masterson.

Harry had been given a month's leave. Unmarried, Harry detested holidays, got bored within twenty-four hours. He'd seen the advertisement Christina had placed in The Times and reacted to it for a lark - anything to occupy his time.

The moment he'd met Christina he'd been hooked - but cautious - by her story, by Christina herself. Harry liked the ladies. He had still kept up his guard by pretending to be a Special Branch officer. That had impressed Christina, had given her confidence he could help her. But at any time Harry could pull out, pleading call of duty with another case.

'What happened next?' he asked as she pushed her empty plate to one side. 'And we need more champagne . . .'He mimed the request to their waiter.

'When he arrived next morning at the Strand Palace he was carrying a small case. He told me to pack, that we were going on a journey, that he'd traced not only Barry-more, but Kearns and Robson, too. I was shaken to the core. He said we had to drive to the West Country, to a place called Exmoor . . .'

She went on to explain how they had put up at a hotel in Dunster near the coast, Harry had then driven off to visit the three men now he knew their addresses.