Athens and Cape Sounion. 'Mark the location for me.'
She pushed back her empty plate, clasped her hands in her lap, turned to face him. 'No. The last time I did that a man died. I'm growing fond of you, Bob…'
'Cut that out,' he said brutally. 'Mark the bloody map. Now!'
'It's your funeral.' Her eyes flashed. 'And don't ever use that tone to me again.' She spread out the map, took the pen he offered, studied the map, then drew a cross at the top of a mountain.
'Petros is crazy,' she warned. 'You'd be crazy too if you went anywhere near Devil's Valley.'
'When was the last time you saw Harry? Alive, I mean,' he persisted, his voice cold.
'You bastard…' Her voice trembled. She was on the verge of tears. 'When he left the breakfast room and went straight to his hired car…' She fiddled in her envelope-shaped handbag for a handkerchief.
He put an arm round her back, rested his hand on her shoulder. 'No need to get uptight, Christina. But I knew Harry well. I have to know everything he did – planned to do. What about a spot of dessert? The strawberry gateau looks pretty good – forget about your figure for tonight, even if I can't…'
'Flattery could get you somewhere.' She recovered her poise as he squeezed her shoulder. 'And I'd love some gateau. And more champagne.'
He waited until dessert was served, until she was tucking into the huge quantity with gusto. To sum up,' he began, 'you went to London at Petros' command, inserted the advertisement, made contact with Harry. OK so far?'
'On the nose,' she assured him and winked.
'He drove you to Exmoor, after tracing Barrymore, Robson and Kearns. He went to see each man, told them he was flying soon to Greece. You arrived with him. What was your mood about the mission Petros had sent you on when you got back here?'
'Bloody bolshie. I'd had Petros up to here. The trip to London – and spending time with Harry – had snapped any bonds with Petros. I didn't care any more who had killed Stephen, Andreas. I'd never even known them. I was worried about Harry. Now I'm worried about you. If it's not a secret, what are you going to do next? Please
She laid a hand on his arm. Then she waited until he turned towards her and kissed him full on the mouth. 'Please,' she repeated. 'I've been honest with you.'
'Fair enough. I'm going to phone a man in London I know after I've packed you off to bed. And Marler will stand guard. Outside your room.'
'Who are you phoning?' she pressed.
'My editor,' he lied. 'I am a foreign correspondent. Remember?'
22
Newman arrived at the British Embassy at eleven, well after dark. The large villa on Sofias Avenue was surrounded by a stone wall, looming up behind a Turkish-style church. Patterson, his contact, was a pain in the neck.
Impatiently, Newman waited in the hall as the round-faced man in his forties carefully examined his press card and then his passport. A typical bureaucrat, Newman thought: inflated with a sense of his own importance. Smooth-faced, he turned the passport pages with irritating slowness.
'For God's sake,' Newman snapped. 'You knew I was coming. Tweed warned you.'
'It is my responsibility who uses the phone,' Patterson responded in his bland voice.
'It's just a phone…'
'It's the scrambler,' Patterson reminded him pompously. 'I have to log all calls, be very careful who uses it. You have no diplomatic status…'
' You won't have any if I report you're obstructing me. You're on probation, don't forget.'
The blow struck home. Patterson's well-padded face flushed, he ran a manicured hand over his slick black hair. 'No need to be rude,' he bleated.
'Just realistic. Let's get on with it. Now. Tweed is waiting. Or have you forgotten London is two hours behind us? He likes to get home early to work on files,' Newman lied.
The phone was in a small room in the basement. A table, chairs pushed under it, the phone with the red button the only object on the table top. Newman sat down, reached for the phone, then looked up at Patterson who still stood waiting.
'Piss off, there's a good chap. This is confidential. Leave the card and passport on the table. Shut the door on your way out.'
Pressing the red button, he dialled Park Crescent. Paula came on the line within seconds. She sounded relieved to hear his voice.
'We wondered what the devil was happening to you…'
'Nice to be loved. Tweed about? Firs on scrambler from the Embassy in Athens.'
'He's here. Take care…'
Tweed sounded as fresh as sea air at nine in the evening. Newman plunged straight into a terse report of what had taken place since his arrival. Tweed listened without interrupting. At the end of five minutes Newman concluded his story.
That brings you up to date. Doesn't really take us any further as to who killed Harry.'
'It might have done. You have a pipeline into this weird Gavalas clan – Christina. Whether she can be trusted is for you to assess. What do you think?'
'I'm leaning to the idea she has broken with the whole crew. But only leaning – she's pretty street-wise and could be a first-rate actress. Pity Harry hadn't told her who the mysterious Englishman who phoned him was. Could it have been one of the commando trio?'
'Yes. All three I visited had just returned from separate holidays abroad. All had a deep suntan – which they could have picked up in Greece. The timing is right, too. One of them could have been out there at exactly the time Masterson was killed. I have ihe feeling the solution lies in Greece. That raid on Siros all those years ago. What intrigues me is the missing body – who took the dead Andreas away from that gulch? And why? I may fly out to join you when the right moment comes. What's your next move?'
To explore that old silver mine in Devil's Valley. Something very strange about, that – the way Petros takes such precautions to keep strangers sway from the place…'
'Don't!' Tweed's tone was sharp. 'I don't like the sound of Mr Petros one bit. We may do it together later. You need plenty of back-up to go into a place like that. Harry Butler and Pete Nield would be useful. Plus Marler. At the moment Butler and Nield are on Exmoor, nosing around and picking up gossip about Barrymore, Reams and Robson. How are you finding Marler?' Tweed asked casually.
'A pain. But I can handle him. One thing I will give him – he's a good man to go into the jungle with. I'll keep you in touch…'
'Don't go.' A pause. 'At this stage it seems like a vendetta directed by Petros against whoever killed his two sons, Andreas and Stephen. His main suspects being on Exmoor. Is that how you see it?'
'With the little data we have to go on yet, yes. Especially now you've told me about this Anton character. Christina hasn't mentioned him, which I find odd. Butler and Nield are on the lookout for Anton, too, I assume?'
'Anton has disappeared. I suspect he's flown by some secret route back to Greece. He didn't pass through London Airport – I've had the security chief there check the passenger manifests.'
'But it backs up the vendetta theory.' Newman paused and Tweed said nothing. 'Or is there something more?'
'I think this business could be much bigger, far more serious than we realize. I can't figure out the link between Exmoor and Greece.'
'There has to be one?'
'If there isn't, then we're wasting our time. But who pushed Masterson over a Greek cliff?' Tweed paused again. 'After he'd visited Exmoor. We're missing something…'
Florakis – Oleg Savinkov, The Executioner – crouched at the top of the mountain above his farm. It was 2
