The Greek Key (70 page)

51

Friday, 4 December
. At Cherry Farm the atmosphere was strained and becoming worse. Five men were living in close proximity inside the farmhouse. Anton had agreed with Foster's decision that no one must appear outside. The temperature was low and a biting wind swept across the waterlogged fields and rattled the closed shutters.

The Shi-ite Muslims, shivering with cold, had complained they were freezing. They were given extra underclothes and left to cope. Conditions were little better for their five captors. There was a tantalising pile of logs on one side of the large fireplace in the living room. No fire could be lit: smoke from the chimney would show a passerby the place was inhabited.

There was no electricity, no gas, no water. All services had been cut off from the supposedly abandoned farm. Seton-Charles cooked a meal for himself at midday using Calor gas for the stove - an item he had bought on his way back from Norwich. He had,very little left.

In the living room Anton and Foster pored over two ordnance survey maps, planning out the route to the general area of Brize Norton. Saunders and Sully stood behind them as they crouched over the table. They all wore extra clothes brought with them: woollen pullovers and two pairs of socks.

Transport,' Anton said suddenly. 'We've talked about it but taken no decision. I'll drive the Austin Metro and park it so we can get away afterwards, then get inside the furniture van.'

'It's a risk, I agree,' said Foster. 'And I'll take the Ford station wagon - again a risk. But not so risky as trying to hire different vehicles. We'd have to show our driving licences. The Vauxhall can stay here.'

'What is the escape route?' Anton demanded. He stood with his arms folded. 'You fobbed me off before but I want to know now before we talk any more about routes.'

Foster compressed his thin lips. 'Very well. We're close to doing the job. Afterwards we abandon the vans, then drive back to Exmoor. We leave the way you came in - by motorboat from the beach at Porlock Weir. A ship will be waiting for us outside the three-mile limit. An East German freighter. The East Germans are not nearly so keen on
glasnost
as Gorbachev.'

'Another point - I'd like to discuss it with you alone.'

'Really?' Foster's cold grey eyes narrowed. 'Let's go take a breath of fresh air.'

The air outside the back of the farmhouse was more than fresh: it was bitter. Foster thrust his hands inside his jacket pockets. Until he was twenty-five years old he had been used to the razor-edged wind sweeping across the Russian Steppes. Fifteen years in England had made him more susceptible to the cold.

'What is it?' he demanded.

'I have decided I can't shoot Seton-Charles. Killing that arms dealer in Lisbon was child's play. He was a stranger. Seton-Charles introduced new opportunities into my life. I don't like him - but he's become a part of my life.'

Foster stood more erect, held himself stiffly as he stared hard at Anton, reassessing him. Anton forced himself to gaze back but inwardly he felt nervous. Suddenly he felt the force of the
Spetsnaz
leader's personality.

That calls for a change of plan,' Foster informed him, his tone grating. 'I have been watching Seton-Charles. I thought he was no more than a theorist. He is dedicated -more dedicated than you will ever be. He will drive one of the furniture vans, Sully the other. That leaves Saunders and myself to operate the launchers.'

'But I can do that,' Anton protested. 'What would I do?'

'You drive the escape vehicle. When we met the second time at the crossroads and drove back here a Post Office van overtook us. He passes along the road at the end of the track every day, Sully tells me. First time early in the morning.'

That's right. Seton-Charles told me. What's the idea?'

'On the morning of Monday 7 December, we stop the driver, seize his vehicle. No one notices a Royal Mail van.'

'What do we do with the driver?' Anton asked.

'Kill him, dump the body in that grave Seton-Charles dug. I'll do the job.' Foster's lip curled. 'I don't think you're up to it.'

'But I can fire one of the launchers . . .'

'But you won't. You've trained us. The Stinger is a weapon it is easy to use. Now, you can stay out here while your balls freeze - assuming you have any. I'm going inside to look at those maps again. Saunders and I are going to reconnoitre the route to Brize Norton.'

He walked inside the farmhouse, closing the door quietly. Anton shivered in the wind. The look in Foster's eyes, his manner, had frightened him. But he had to admit Foster was well-organized: they had brought with them three pairs of the type of overalls worn by furniture removal men. They had spent time rubbing dirt into them, crumpling them to take away the appearance of new garments.

Anton went back inside to find Foster and Saunders bent over the maps. Foster was tracing a route with a pencil, careful not to touch the maps. He looked up as Anton returned.

'And we'll be taking your Austin Metro for the reconnaissance - no one will know about that vehicle.'

* * * *

Friday, 4 December
. It was late afternoon when the call came through to Park Crescent from Newman. Monica told Tweed he was on the line and pressed the recording button.

'I've found out Sam Partridge's driving licence was used to hire a car. Weeks ago - and the car is still on hire. Someone with an upper-crust voice phones Barton's - the car hire outfit - and an envelope of money to extend the hire is pushed in the letter box at night. Barton's is in Taunton. The car is a blue Austin Metro, registration number . . . God, I called at enough places before I found the right one.'

'Good work, Bob. We'll circulate that car's details immediately. Now, can you contact the others within the hour? I want everyone back here tonight. It's an emergency.'

'I'm calling from the Minehead phone box. Couldn't find an empty one in Taunton - so I drove back here like a bat. Butler and Nieid happen to be at The Anchor now. We'll be on our way within half an hour. Don't go, Marler has news for you. Here he is . . .'

'I know how Anton slipped out of the country,' Marler drawled. 'Got back here to find Newman monopolizing this box. Anton is an expert pilot of small aircraft. Remember-Christina told Newman. Dunkeswell Airport, a small private airfield south-east of Tiverton. He flew out in a Cessna.'

'You're sure? There's a manifest to prove it?'

'Like hell there is. I identified myself to a pilot, showed him Anton's photo, told him he was a leading terrorist. He went as white as a sheet. I had to exert a little pressure -you don't want to hear about that. Briefly, Anton paid this pilot a large sum in cash . . .'

To fly him back to Lisbon?'

'Not quite. Anton insisted on flying the Cessna himself. Took the pilot along as passenger. The pilot flew the machine back to Dunkeswell. The controller of the airfield was away, doesn't know what happened.'

'Another question answered. You're coming back to London. A disaster is imminent.'

'If weapons are in order,' Marler responded, 'I'd like a rifle with a telescopic sight. See you . . .'

On her other phone Monica was finishing giving details of the Austin Metro to the Commissioner of Police. She put down the phone, her eyes gleaming with excitement.

'It's all happening at once. Like it so often does.'

'And these things come in threes,' said Paula.

The call from Norwich came at 7 p.m.

Waiting for Newman and his three companions to arrive, Tweed had a tneal of ham sandwiches, followed by fruit, with Paula and Monica. Extra camp beds had been erected in the office next door where the two women slept overnight. They were all beginning to feel housebound when the phone rang.

Monica frowned as she answered the call, listened, asked several questions, then put her hand over the mouthpiece.

'It's Norwich police headquarters. A Constable Fox. Calling in reply to our circulating Seton-Charles' Volvo description and registration number. Sounds tentative. He's called the General & Cumbria Assurance cover number we used.'

Tweed picked up his phone, asked how he could help.

'Constable Fox speaking, sir. In response to your enquiry re the Volvo station wagon.' The youthful voice hesitated. 'My inspector wasn't sure I should call. I keep a careful record in my notebook of even trivial incidents. You never can tell when the information may be needed.'

'Very sensible,' Tweed encouraged him. 'Do go on.'

'Back in October late one night. I can give you the date in a minute. Left my notebook in my tunic pocket. As I was saying, I was on duty and I saw this Volvo park near a corner. A man got out and walked round to a furniture removal firm selling off bankrupt stock. It was eleven at night so I was curious. Especially as he could have parked in front of the warehouse. Am I wasting your time, sir?'

'Please go on.'

'There were lights in the warehouse so I thought I'd better check. This chap goes inside after Latimer answers the door.'

'Latimer?'

The proprietor of the firm selling off the vans, Camelford Removals. When I saw it was Latimer I thought it must be OK, so I pushed off. Then the next morning I was walking near the same area when I saw the Volvo driver pass me behind the wheel of one of the furniture vans. Trouble is his description does not tally with your Identikit. He wore horn-rims and an old cap.'

'But the registration of the Volvo is the same as the one we sent out?'

'Quite definitely. I checked that in my notebook.'

'Could you contact this Latimer, persuade him to wait until I arrive? He'll be paid for his trouble. And can you wait for me at the station until I arrive? It will be after ten.'

'I'm on night duty again. And behind enquiries counter tonight. Latimer practically lives at the warehouse. I can phone him.'

'My name is Tweed. I'm coming. Your recording of trivial events could end up in promotion. I'm leaving London now . . .'

As Tweed had guessed, Constable Fox was in his early twenties. A thin, pale-faced man, he had an earnest manner and blushed when he was introduced to Paula. Tweed was careful to show him his Special Branch card. Fox took the card, studied the photograph inside the plastic guard, stared carefully at Tweed and handed it back. He was carrying the Identikit picture of Seton-Charles in an envelope.

Outside police headquarters he opened the rear door of the Cortina for Paula, closed it, then joined Tweed in the front.

'Latimer is waiting for us, sir. I didn't give him any idea who was coming.'

'Very sensible,' said Tweed again, then concentrated on Fox's directions. They reached the furniture warehouse in a few minutes and a short middle-aged man opened the door as they pulled up. 'That's Latimer,' Fox whispered.

Tweed introduced himself and Paula, showed his card, and with only a cursory glance Latimer invited them inside. They sat round a rough-surfaced wooden table and Latimer drank tea from a tin mug. Tweed took the envelope from Fox, extracted the Identikit picture and pushed it in front of him. 'Is that the man who bought a furniture van from you?'

Two vans. No, it doesn't look like him. He wore hornrimmed glasses, not rimless, and a driver's cap.'

Tweed looked at Paula, pushed the Identikit towards her. 'You are the artist. Mr Latimer, please describe as best you can the type of glasses, the kind of cap. Miss Grey will convert the picture under your guidance . . .'

He changed places so Paula sat next to Latimer. She produced a small clipboard and a felt-tip pen from her capacious shoulder bag and worked on the picture, altering it from Latimer's instructions. Then she pushed the picture in front of him.

That's the chap. Magic it is, the way you did that. I've a good memory for faces. No doubt about it.'

'You said he bought two vans. He had someone with him?' Tweed enquired.

'No. Collected them both himself, one by one. Both the same day. Was gone about eight hours before he came back for the second job. Twin vans, they was. Only one left now.'

'He spoke with an educated accent?' Paula enquired.

'No. Workingman's lingo.' Latimer scratched his head. 'Mind you, it didn't sound it came natural to him.'

'He paid by cheque?' Tweed probed.

'No. Cash. Fifties. I held them up to check them. You can't be too careful these days. Funny sort of bloke. And that cap didn't fit him too well.'