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.
Anton waited until Seton-Charles had left the room, then threw inside a bundle of clothes: three suits in different sizes, underwear, shirts, socks and shoes.
'You get out of that prison garb, choose the clothes which fit you best, wrap the others in a bundle. We'll collect them when we feed you. Put your prison stuff with the bundle.' He aimed the Luger at the trembling Shi-ite's head. 'If you try to get away I will shoot you dead. Then you will share eternity with a pig.'
Seton-Charles closed, double-locked, bolted the door. 'Let's hope one of those suits fits him.'
'One will fit well enough. A man escaped from prison doesn't always have the right clothes to wear. Now haul the pig sack along to the other room and we'll repeat the process…'
He watched as Seton-Charles heaved the heavy sack along the corridor, his rimless glasses perched on his nose. Anton had been careful not to comment on the fact, but he had been surprised at how useful the professor had been. He was stronger physically than the Greek had realized. He had proved a useful workmate during the conversion of the vans, handing up tools to Anton on the platform, finding the right screws, and a psychological change had taken place in the relationship of the two men.
Seton-Charles now accepted Anton was boss and he prepared good meals for them. Something I might have foreseen, Anton thought: the professor was a bachelor who lived alone, looked after himself and was fastidious in his habits. They paused in front of the second reinforced door.
'That latest phone call I had from Jupiter,' Anton told him. 'We've reached the stage of closed circuit.'
'What's that?'
'We stay under very close cover. We don't leave the farm for anything unless it's essential.'
'Then the operation must be close?'
'Soon,' Anton assured him, 'it has to be soon.'
47
Tweed had 'broken silence'.
He had sent out a general alert all over Europe to counter-espionage chiefs, to his personal underground network of informants. The message was always the same.
Any data on past and present movements of Anton Gavalas, citizen of Greece. Suspected member of hardline Communist group the Greek Key. Also identical data on Professor Guy Seton-Charles, British citizen, Professor of Greek Studies at Bristol University, England, and Athens University, Greece. Data required extreme urgency. Tweed.
Copies of a photograph of Anton – made from the print inside the file Kalos had provided for Tweed – accompanied the request. But only a word description of Seton-Charles was sent. Tweed realized they had made a bad mistake in not photographing the professor.
Howard wandered into Tweed's office a week after the messages had been sent. It was his blue pinstripe suit day. He perched his buttocks on the edge of Tweed's desk, adjusted his tie, smiled at Monica who was stunned by such amiability.
'Any progress from the boys abroad?' he enquired.
Tweed winced inwardly at the phraseology. 'Nothing that gives us any kind of lead. Later this afternoon I have a meeting with the Prime Minister. I thought it was time she knew about this business.'
He waited for the explosion of outrage. It didn't come. Instead, Howard ran his fingers over his plump pink face and nodded approval. 'I was just coming in to suggest maybe we ought to let her know. Frankly, I'm surprised you didn't seek an earlier conference.'
'No hard facts to go on. Ever since Masterson was killed it's been like seeing shadowy figures in the mists of Exmoor. You aren't sure whether you actually saw anything or not. It may be a tricky interview. She does like facts. Oh, Paula is on her way here, driving up from Somerset. I just hope she gets here before I leave for Downing Street.'
'And why is the delightful Paula driving back to London? She could have reported over the phone from that public call box in Minehead.'
'She said she had information she'd sooner give me face to face.'
'Sounds intriguing. I suppose you couldn't record her report so I could play it back later?'
'I'll do that.'
Howard glanced at the machine on Tweed's desk, the neat piles of cassettes. 'You've been listening to those things yet again? The tapes of Butler's phoned reports and that clandestine job Nield did during dinner at The Luttrell Arms? You still think you've spotted which one of the three is the killer?'
'Yes.' Tweed stood up, began pacing slowly. 'But no proof. In case anything happens to me I typed out a secret report which is inside a sealed envelope in the safe.'
Howard stood up, pulled down his jacket at the back. 'Damned if I could point the finger at any of them. And God knows I've listened to them often enough. Why be so cryptic?'
'Because I could be wrong. The main thing at the moment is two people have gone missing. Anton Gavalas. I checked with Sarris and there's no sign he has returned to Greece. Then Guy Seton-Charles has vanished off the face of the earth. He'd accumulated several months' leave, so Bristol University informed us. He said he was going abroad. No trace of him on any airline passenger manifest.
And he always flew everywhere – again according to Bristol.'
'So, we're up the proverbial gum tree. Good luck with the PM.'
On this encouraging note Howard left the office. Monica stopped studying her file. 'He's also worried. Like you are. And although I hate Howard's guts, his instinct is sometimes very sound. I wish you hadn't said that thing about in case anything happens to you. It's tempting fate.'
'Don't be so superstitious,' Tweed chided.
Monica slammed her pencil down on her desk. 'Have we got one damn thing to go on after all this effort?'
'Two things. When I was interviewing old Petros at his farm he mentioned there had been rumours during the Second World War that the Greek Key was controlled by an Englishman in Cairo.'