The Greek Key (36 page)

'I'm off on my travels now. See you.'

'It could be dangerous . . .'

'I agree. For anyone I meet up there.'

* * * *

Newman led the way up the gulch with Christina close behind. The moonlight helped. He was careful where he placed his feet: the gulch was littered with loose rocks. Sound carried a long way at night. He was relieved to hear no sound from Christina as she plodded up behind him. Which is why he heard the faint tumble of stones slithering.

He stopped, turned, grasped Christina by the arm, raised one finger to his lips. Unlike some women she didn't ask questions: she simply raised one thick eyebrow. He crouched down behind a boulder, pressing her down, and her shoulder rested against his.

'Someone else on the mountain,' he whispered.

'I didn't hear anything - and I have good hearing . . .'

Another slither of stones. One came over the side of the gulch and touched Newman's right boot. Christina nodded. Newman had been right. Someone was approaching and very close.

They were crouched behind the large boulder at a point where the gulch began to turn sharply above them to the left. Whoever was on the prowl couldn't be descending the gulch, thank God, Newman thought. For the stone to have slithered from immediately above them the intruder had to be moving higher up the slope. Could he see down inside the gulch? Newman slipped the revolver out of the holster and Christina gripped his other arm. He looked up and froze. He hardly dared breathe. He held his body tense -for fear of dislodging even a pebble.

Along the crest of the ridge above, the silhouette of a man was moving. In the moonlight Newman could clearly see the bony profile, the prominent nose, the sunken cheeks beneath prominent cheekbones, the curve of the mouth. Over one shoulder was looped a rifle. He was carrying something in the other hand - something heavy. Newman frowned and then felt his right leg begin to cramp. He gritted his teeth.

Christina, hunched beside him, kept perfectly still.

Newman was staring at the heavy bag the man was carrying as he climbed the mountain - he knew it was heavy from the way the figure sagged to one side. But it wasn't a bag. It was rectangular-shaped, like a metal box. Newman was certain it was a high-powered transceiver - and that size meant it was capable of transmitting over long distance. The silhouette disappeared behind the ridge.

'That was Florakis,' Christina whispered. 'Someone pointed him out to me in the Plaka.'

'You're sure? In this light . . .'

'Positive. I could see his profile clearly. And he is walking on his own land. What on earth can he be doing at this time of night?'

'No idea,' Newman lied. 'Let's get moving. How much further to Devil's Valley?'

'We're nearly there. Another hundred feet up this gulch and we cross the pass. Then it's downhill . . .'

They climbed higher up the gulch inside its shadow, the ground levelled out and Christina pointed. Beyond, a track descended into an arid steep-sided valley, the slopes studded with scrub. The crest of the far side was lower and, following the line of her extended arm, Newman saw a weird structure perched on the crest. It looked like a large shack, but there were no walls. Between the supporting pillars at each corner there was open space and moonlit sky beyond the apertures.

'The old silver mine,' Christina said. 'A track from that huddle of boulders down there leads straight up to it. Mules used to bring the ore from the mine down that track years ago.'

'You know your way back?' Newman enquired casually.

'I know every inch of this country. As a child I used to roam all over it. I liked to go down that gulch so I could cross the highway and swim in the sea.'

'Sorry about this. It's for your own good . . .' Newman swung round and clipped her on the jaw. He caught her as she sagged and laid her carefully on the ground, placing her head on a soft tuft of grass as a pillow. He checked her pulse, found it was regular Taking out the note he had prepared earlier, he tucked it inside the top of her slacks. Then he hoisted the rifle on his shoulder and started the descent, heading for the silver mine.

'There is someone coming up the track,' said Dimitrios and he slipped the safety catch off his rifle.

'You are imagining it,' objected Constantine. 'You see ghosts everywhere Because of what is in the mine . . .'

'Someone is climbing that track,' Dimitrios insisted. 'I tell you I saw something move.'

'Now he says he saw something,' Constantine scoffed. 'In the past tense. Sure, he saw something move - a goat, maybe?'

Petros had sent them out as he did regularly- as another form of discipline, of keeping them under his thick thumb. And forcing them to stay up all night in the open toughened them. Petros had a dozen reasons for exerting his authority.

'Tonight you will go up and guard the mine,' he had ordered. 'One day there will be an intruder. Too many have been poking their snouts into my valley. And all accursed English. First there was Partridge - and he gave you the slip. Then came Masterson. Now we have more. This Newman, this Marler. Why so many so suddenly? Am I the only one who can scent danger? You go tonight . . .'

So they had climbed to the summit of the ridge close to where the mine reared up like a hideous eyeless monument. Constantine peered over the edge to where he could see stretches of the track as it mounted up to a point a quarter of a mile from where they waited.

Parts of the track were dearly illuminated by the moon; other parts were obscured by overhangs of rock, by the blackest of shadows. He could see nothing. From his ragged jacket pocket he pulled the bottle of
ouzo
. He handed it towards Dimitrios as he sneered at his brother.

'Drink some. It will steady the nerves of an old woman . . .'

'You talk to me like that and I break your scrawny neck, wring it like a chicken's.'

But Dimitrios snatched the bottle, tore out the cork and upended it. The liquid gurgled down his throat. That was better. He recorked the bottle, looked at Constantine and stiffened.

'What is it, cretin?'

'There is someone down there now coming up the track - a man with a rifle. A well-built man used to rough country.'

'Where?'

Dimitrios peered over the edge, saw nothing - only the wending track which came and went. Into the moonlight. Back into the shadows. He leaned over further, his mouth a thin slit, shoved the bottle into his own jacket, rested both hands on the rock, still staring down.

'Now you see ghosts.' He glanced at his brother. 'What are you doing?'

Constantine, always the quieter, the calmer of the two brothers, was checking his shotgun. He nodded with satisfaction. Then looked at Dimitrios.

'Inside ten minutes he will appear at the top of the track. We move now to that point. That is where we prepare the ambush.'

'And we drop the body down the mine . . .'

Marler had taken a short cut from the hotel site where Nick was waiting with the parked cars. He had scaled the almost sheer face of the mountain, working his way up a chimney hollowed out of the limestone. The map had shown him he would reach the pass far more quickly than by following the route Newman and Christina had taken.

Now he heaved himself over the top and the pass was thirty feet below. He descended rapidly, reached the entrance to the pass, stopped, head cocked to one side. The rope was again looped over one shoulder, the rifle over the other. Someone was coming. He heard the stealthy movement of feet padding among the bed of pebbles. A thick needle-shaped column of rock rose up near the track. He slipped behind it.

Christina was in a cold fury. Her jaw was sore, but that was nothing. When she regained consciousness she had found the note tucked inside the top of her slacks. Its message was clear- to the point.
Christina, this expedition is too dangerous for me to take you any further. Sorry for the tap on the chin. Go straight back to Nick. I'll join you there. Later. Bob
.

The stupid swine. She could have helped him find the mine, showed him where to veer off the track so he reached it more quickly. She
knew
the country. He didn't. And her sharp eyes could have spotted any shepherd guards lurking . . .

The arm came round the back of her neck, lifted her off her feet. She used her elbows to thud into the midriff of her attacker, her feet to kick back at his shins. She wriggled like a snake and the pressure on her throat increased. The voice whispered in her ear.

'Don't want to strangle you. Relax. Go limp. I'll let you go. Be quiet. There may be others about. Ready?'

Marler's voice. She stopped struggling. He released her. She turned round. His expression was bleak. She swung her right hand with the speed of a striking snake. The flat of her hand slapped hard into the side of his face. His head didn't move.

'Make you feel better? Jezebel ...'

'Why call me that, you bastard?'

'Because you've just led Newman into another trap -the way you did with Masterson . . .'

'You bloody idiot!' She waved Newman's note at him. 'Better read that. He socked me one, left me behind because he was worried about me ...'

'Worried you'd betray him , . .'

'Read the bloody note.'

He shrugged, took the note, read it, then looked at her. 'OK. Tell me where he's gone.'

To the silver mine. The crazy idiot. He's a suicide case.'

'Hardly. At least I hope not. Care to tell me exactly where this mine is?'

'You can see it from the end of the pass. I'll show you . . .'

Her long legs covered the ground in minutes. Marler had collected the rifle and rope he had left behind the needle of rock and hurried to catch up with her. At the end of the pass again she pointed, indicating the position of the silver mine. Marler frowned, then turned to her. She waited, hands on her hips, her expression contemptuous, eyes flashing. He lifted a hand and his slim fingers closed round her chin. She gritted her teeth, determined not to wince. The gentle way he handled her was a surprise. He turned her chin to examine it by the light of the moon.

'Sorry. I was checking to see how hard he'd hit you. Scarcely a bruise. Just enough to put you out. How long ago do you think he left you?'

She looked at her watch. 'I checked it. just before we got here. I must have been out cold ten minutes. No more than fifteen.'

'Then I have to hurry. Anything you can tell me to help?'

She repeated what she had told Newman. She pointed out where the track ran up to the mine. But this time she tried to show where Marler could veer off three-quarters of the way up, cutting across direct to a point just below the mine.

'Got it,' Marler said. 'Do me a favour. Go back to Nick. I think I can make it faster on my own. And I don't want to have to worry about you,'

'I'm popular with the men tonight, aren't I? Marler, why are you waiting? Get there fast . . .'

Newman had caught the faintest hint of movement high up and out of the corner of his eye. Imagination? He remembered the man he'd only known as Sarge. The time when he'd trained with the SAS - the Special Air Service - Britain's elite strike force, so he could write a series of articles on them. Sarge had put him through the full course. And he'd survived it. Just.

If you even suspect you've seen something, heard something, smelt something -
assume the worst
. You've been seen. Sarge, the toughest man Newman had ever known, the sergeant who'd put him through his paces, had said something else. Get inside the enemy's mind. Sit in his chair. What would you do
if you were him
? Out-think the bastard . . .

Newman moved into the shadows out of the moonlight. He paused, took out the compact pair of night glasses he'd bought in Athens. His mouth was parched with thirst, with fear. His boots, his clothes, were coated with limestone dust from his journey up the track. Slinging the glasses from his neck, he took the opportunity to relieve himself against a rock. Then he took a swig from the small bottle of mineral water in his pocket. Now . . .

He leant against the side of the rock and raised the glasses, aiming them where he thought he'd seen something move at the top of the ridge to the right of the track. He moved the glasses slowly, scanning the whole ridge. He stopped. Silhouetted against the night sky was the outline of a man, a man peering over a rock parapet. Got you. He held the glasses very still. No doubt about it. One of the shepherd guards. And he held the high ground. Time to rethink.

Assume the worst
. He'd been spotted. Coming up the track. So what would the enemy do? Wait for him where the track emerged at the top. The solution? Get off the track. Move up to the left. However rough the going. Head diagonally straight for the mine. He put the glasses back into his pocket. Began climbing higher, so long as he kept in the shadow. He nearly missed the defile spiralling up to his left.