The Greek Key (64 page)

'Because it may be wired for sound,' Lucharsky told him contemptuously. He towered over both his companions. 'Out here no one can hear us.'

He stopped inside a hollow encircled with trees. The Troika was assembled. Lucharsky kicked snow off his boots before continuing. The third man, an expert on armoured divisions, listened.

'The plan is proceeding,' Lucharsky informed them. 'I have now heard Gorbachev will land in Britain at the invitation of British Prime Minister Thatcher. We have him.'

'On the way to or back from the Washington summit?' asked Budienny.

'En route to Washington. Except his plane will never land. In one piece, that is. The missiles are in place.'

'How do you know where he will land? London Airport?' persisted Budienny.

'We don't know yet.' Lucharsky waved a gloved hand. 'It makes no difference. The missiles are located in a central position close to many airfields - including RAF military bases. They are mobile. Can be moved to the correct area as soon as we get the precise data.'

'How do you know all this?'

Lucharsky sighed. 'We have direct communication with the man who will control the operation. By radio. A complex route. But coded signals are received by one of our men at the Black Sea naval base of Novorossiisk. He is an excellent radio operator and brings me the signals regularly to Moscow.'

'Routine is dangerous,' Budienny objected. 'And our necks are on the block.'

Lucharsky sighed again, his expression saturnine. 'Since that naval base is so important a courier flies frequently to Moscow to report on progress about enlarging it. Our man is that courier. And before you suggest he could be searched he carries the messages verbally in his head, then tells me.' His tone became mocking. 'If your fears are now allayed perhaps I can proceed? The plan has taken on new dimensions.'

'What are those?'

'As Number Two in the Politburo, Ligachev - who has openly disagreed with Gorbachev's so-called reforms -will automatically become General Secretary. He knows nothing, of course, of what we plan.'

'But what are these new dimensions?' Budienny repeated.

'Once Ligachev is in power the real hardline element inside the Politburo will take over. Those men Gorbachev has not yet got rid of. Then next year, in 1988, we launch the limited attack.'

'Attack?' Budienny's eyes gleamed.

'We manufacture a border incident - as Hitler did against Poland in 1939. Our armies, brought close to the western frontier at night when the American satellites are blind, invade West Germany. We outnumber NATO enormously with our tanks. With our artillery and our air force. We shall reach the Rhine in three days.'

'That means World War Three,' Budienny objected.

'No. We stop at the Rhine. We announce we are going no further. The Americans will be in the middle of their presidential election. Everything will be in confusion in Washington. You think they will want a conventional
limited
war - a three-day coup - to turn nuclear? To risk New York, Chicago and Los Angeles become incinerated ash-heaps? Then we have in our hands the Ruhr, the great German powerhouse of armament production. We become the greatest power on earth.'

'And who will bring down Gorbachev's plane over Britain?'

'I told you before.' Lucharsky clapped his gloves together without making a sound. 'Shi-ite Muslims. They will end Gorbachev's regime of anti-Leninist idiocy . . .'

46

At Cherry Farm Anton stood inside the second furniture van and surveyed his workmanship. He wore his boiler suit and his cap: he had developed the habit of wearing it all the time except when he went to bed. In the little spare time left over he had visited pubs some distance away, drinking beer while he listened to the locals' chatter. Anton could now talk with the accent of a working man. Holding a power tool in his right hand he turned to Seton-Charles.

'Well, you have seen the second demonstration. The sliding panel works, as it does in the other van.'

The two men stood close together; space was cramped.

Near the driver's cab Anton had erected another platform with steps leading up to it; a chair with an adjustable back was clamped to the floor below the sliding panel.

But the rear part of the van was crammed almost roof-high with old furniture - as was the van behind them. To leave the van they had to squeeze past the projecting legs of tables and a large wardrobe among other items. This was a precaution Jupiter had insisted on when he had given instructions to Anton after his landing on the coast.

Then, if by chance you are stopped,' Balaclava had explained, 'the police will see a van stacked with furniture which will hide the launch platform . . .'

Before starting work on the rear van Anton had visited various furniture auctions, storing the junk he had purchased in the front van. Seton-Charles had studied the stack of local newspapers Anton had bought all over Hampshire, looking for furniture auctions. He had been surprised and pleased at how many there were.

'Let me see the panel open again,' Seton-Charles suggested. 'I want to be sure it works every time.'

Anton shook his head. The generator makes a noise. I tested it several times while you were inside the farm, keeping a lookout for snoopers. God, I've driven a long way, buying everything I needed from different shops. No one will have a clue about what we were constructing.'

'But why does each van need a small generator to operate the panel,' asked Seton-Charles, whose knowledge of mechanical problems was zero. 'Surely you could have used the power from the van's engine.'

'Which shows how much you know. For one thing the van will be stationary when we launch the missiles, the engine turned off. The driver will warn us over his walkie-talkie when the plane is in view. Only then do we open the panel.'

'It seems very well organized,' Seton-Charles agreed. That smell of fresh paint is turning my stomach. Was it really necessary to change the name on the outside?'

'Again, Jupiter's orders. We don't want any connection with Camelford Removals, the bankrupt outfit in Norwich you bought them from. Now we are Smith's Removals of Birmingham. There are two such firms in the city.'

Anton had spent hours with a paintbrush, first obliterating the old names, waiting for the paint to dry, then substituting the new names. But Seton-Charles had a point: the barn, with its doors closed at both ends, reeked of the stench.

'Tonight we'll open the rear doors of the barn after dark, let the smell out,' he decided. 'We'll take it in turns to stand guard while those doors are open. Later I'll rub dirt over the fresh paint . . .'

He stopped speaking as the phone extension he had rigged up from the farmhouse began ringing. He sent Seton-Charles back to the farmhouse, picked up the phone.

'Alfred Moss speaking.'

'Are both containers ready yet?'

The same supercilious, upper-crust voice Anton disliked. Like a commander giving orders to lowly subordinates. He took a deep breath.

'Yes. They are ready to move to the port.'

'Your two guests will be arriving today. Noon at the arranged meeting place. Foster and Saunders will be travelling with them. I must go. My garden is being ruined by magpies and goldcrests. I'd like to convert the place into a closed circuit. Don't be late . . .'

Anton put down the phone and swore in Greek. Arrogant bastard. But he was clever. In a few words - seemingly innocent if overheard - he'd conveyed a lot.

The two men who were bringing the prisoners to the lonely crossroads were called Foster and Saunders. They would give the password
magpies
. Anton would reply with
goldcrests
. He ran to the doors, opened one, closed it, snapped the padlock shut on the outside, ran into the farmhouse. Seton-Charles stood in the kitchen, waiting for the news.

'I have to leave at once. I'll come back with the prisoners. Be ready to open the shed doors . . .'

'Is it wise to keep on using the same Austin Metro you hired in Taunton? We've had it for weeks. And what about payment to Barton?'

'Jupiter arranges fresh payments in cash. It's risky changing cars, using that driving licence. I must be off . . .'

Driving at a modest pace along a winding country road, Anton reflected on the past. He kept a close eye on the dashboard clock, but he didn't want to arrive early. Hanging about - even in the middle of nowhere - was dangerous. A police patrol car might become interested.

He was thinking about Petros and his lust for revenge. Anton had never shared his father's one-track outlook on life. He had simply gone along with him for years; originally to make sure the money for his education was forthcoming. He had played up to the old man like mad. Later he had borrowed from him to help set up his chain of radio, television and video shops. Then he had met the man who had changed his life. Professor Guy Seton-Charles.

Anton had attended the first lecture at Athens University out of sheer curiosity. More intelligent - and cynical - than the other students, it had not taken him long to see through the professor. Under the guise of lecturing on Greek Studies, it had soon become apparent to Anton this was a course in political indoctrination. In the Communist creed.

In his turn, Seton-Charles had spotted Anton as the cleverest, most cold-blooded and ambitious of his students. Just the material he was looking for. They had formed an alliance rather than a friendship. Anton had decided the West was on its way out; the future belonged to Russia.

So convincingly did he appear to embrace Communism he was in due course invited to join the Greek Key as a junior member. The fact that his father, Petros, had supported the Greek Key during the war helped. Anton simply saw it as the quickest route to power in Greece. That was until Gorbachev replaced Brezhnev.
Glasnost?
Perestroika?
This was no route to a Communist takeover of Greece.

Recruited to the inner councils - after expressing his anti-Gorbachev sentiments - Anton had become a trusted member of the conspiracy. And then there was the detail of Petros' collection of British commando knives. It was Doganis who had suggested how these might come in useful when he learned of their existence.

'Steal them,' he advised Anton, before his first trip to England. 'You may have to kill someone. You could do that? Good. If it comes to that, use one of those daggers. It will confuse any investigation. The English are poking around still trying to find out who killed Andreas Gavalas. Use one of those daggers and they will go back over forty years, ignoring the present. An excellent smokescreen . . .'

Anton glanced at the clock again, increased speed. When he arrived at the crossroads a Ford station wagon was pulled up inside the trees. A man dressed in a smart blue navy pinstripe suit appeared. He wore pigskin gloves. Anton noticed they were soiled, which did not go with the smartness of the rest of his appearance. He pulled up, switched off his engine, looked round and listened. The only sound was the crunch of the man's shoes on a gravel track where the Ford was standing.

'Excuse me,' the man said, standing by Anton's open window, 'I'm looking for the Magpie Inn.'

'I can tell you how to get to the Goldcrest Inn.'

'Thank God. Oh, my name's Foster. It's been a fraught business. We have them in the back of the station wagon. Hands bound behind their backs, ankles tied, their mouths taped, eyes blindfolded. Saunders is over there and will help. How are you going to move the merchandise?'

'Under the travelling rugs in the back of my car. One on top of the other . . .'

Seton-Charles ran out as Anton arrived back at Cherry Farm. The Greek lifted the corner of a rug and exposed the two captive Shi-ite Muslims dressed in prison garb. They untied the rope round the ankles of one man, manoeuvred him out of the car. When he tried to struggle they frogmarched him inside the farmhouse, up the stairs and into the prepared room.

'Dump him on the bed,' Anton ordered. 'He'll be safe while we get the other one inside . . .'

Five minutes later they had both men in their separate rooms. Anton held a Luger pistol while Seton-Charles tore off the tape and removed the blindfold. The Shi-ite blinked in the unaccustomed daylight and glared. Anton gestured towards the canvas sack he had dragged up the stairs. From its open end protruded the head of a slaughtered pig taken from the chest freezer in one of the sheds.

'Any trouble with you and I kill you, then you'll be buried in a grave with this pig.'

'No! No! No . . .!'

Anton watched the man's terrified expression. It had worked. The only form of intimidation which would quell a Shi-ite. The Muslim religion regarded the pig as the most unclean and horrific of animals. Anton waited behind the pig lying on the landing floor while Seton-Charles released the prisoner's hands. The Shi-ite rubbed his wrists to get the circulation going and all the time he stared at the pig's head as though hypnotized.