'You asked me when I arrived. Late yesterday. Just in time to have tea. It's out of this world, tea at Brown's. Why don't we do that?'
'Good idea. I could get there about three-thirty. Would that suit you?'
'Gorgeous. I'll count the minutes. Don't be late. They have the most scrumptious strawberry cake. But it goes quickly. Oh,' she added as an afterthought, 'I'll have something interesting to tell you. Not over the phone, darling.'
'Three-thirty then. Goodbye…'
Tweed put down the phone as though it were hot. He sighed, took out his handkerchief, mopped his forehead in mock horror. 'Good job you didn't take that conversation down.'
'She's very attractive,' Paula said in a thoughtful tone.
'Swarms all over you.' He looked at Monica. 'But you did tape-record the conversation I had with Nield?'
'Yes, I saw you nod twice. It's recorded for all time. Want to hear it played back?'
'Later. Something Nield said was significant and now it's gone. I was concentrating on getting them out of Dunster. Damned if I can remember what it was. You listen to it, Paula. See whether something strikes you. Monica, try Peter Sarris again.'
'Chief Inspector Sarris? London calling. Mr Tweed of Special Branch would like a word with you…'
Tweed spent little time over exchanging greetings. 'Robert Newman, the foreign correspondent, has told me of his conversation with you. Peter. He's fully vetted…'
'He works for you these days?' Sarris enquired.
'No, he doesn't. But when he's after a story and comes across something he feels affects national security he tells me.' That covered Newman. 'I have a big favour to ask you. Hold off any action on this character Stavros Florakis. Give him enough rope and he'll hang himself. I'm at the early stages of the investigation.'
'What investigation is that? If I may ask.'
'You may. I'm investigating the death of one of my top men – Harry Masterson. Can't tell you what it's about yet. Point is Florakis' farm is close to Cape Sounion where Masterson died in suspicious circumstances.'
'Official verdict is an accident.'
'And the unofficial? I'm on scrambler.'
'So am I,' Sarris assured him. 'We had it installed when drugs became a major problem. Unofficially? I'm only expressing my personal opinion. There are people higher up who wouldn't like this…'
'Don't worry. This chat is totally confidential.'
'Masterson was murdered. I went to the Cape myself, looked over the ground. No sane man could have stumbled over the edge. And Masterson was very sane – I saw him once at the Hilton. So, you want me to hold off the cavalry?'
'Please. We're at an early stage. Peter. I'm not sure at which end the key lies yet – yours or mine. Talking about keys, have you ever heard of the Greek Key?'
Sarris hesitated. Only for a second or two, but Tweed caught it.
'Doesn't mean a thing to me. Will we be seeing you out here?' he continued.
'Hard to say just now. How is Kalos? I remember him well at that security conference in Geneva. You have a clever assistant there.'
'Ah, but you are shrewder than some people here on the higher floors.' Sarris hesitated, this time for longer. Tweed waited, sensing the Greek was making up his mind about something. 'It is interesting you mentioned Kalos. He has made an important discovery. As you may know, Newman obtained Florakis' fingerprints. We were putting them through the computer. Kalos – as always – went his own way. He checked back through a card index of old records going back to 1946.'
'Sounds like Kalos,' Tweed commented.
'He came up trumps. An hour ago we were comparing the fingerprints of Stavros Florakis with another set under the magnifier. They matched.'
'Who is he really?' Tweed kept the excitement out of his voice.
'A certain Oleg Savinkov. Sent in by Stalin to murder leaders of EDES, the right-wing group fighting the Communists during the Civil War. Are you with me?'
'I have read about it. Go on.'
'Savinkov was nicknamed The Executioner, sometimes The Russian. So what is he doing as an impostor back in Greece? Someone has reactivated him. Can't be Gorbachev. He's in the Detente business. You still want me to hold off the dogs?'
'More than ever. And I will definitely be flying to Greece as soon as I can…
28
Newman knew there was something wrong the moment he stepped out of the elevator on Christina's floor. Nick was sitting in an armchair on guard. He was smoking a cigarette and the ash tray on the marble-topped table was filled with discarded butts,
But it was Nick's reaction as soon as the elevator doors opened which warned Newman. Nick stood up abruptly and his right hand slid inside his jacket towards the Smith amp; Wesson revolver Newman had returned to him. When he saw who it was Nick converted the movement into scratching his armpit.
'Is she safe?' Newman asked.
'OK. But we have a problem, a crisis. Anton, one of her relatives, has arrived. He came up to this floor, then wandered off down that corridor when he saw me. Later he came back and went down into the lobby again. Could still be there.'
'A good moment for me to have a little talk with Christina.'
'Maybe not. She's very touchy. Like a bomb that could blow up in your face. It's Anton that did it. I told her. Felt I had to…'
'You did right.'
Newman went to her door, rapped in the special way they had agreed. She opened the door after removing the chain and Newman realized she was in a bad mood. Her eyes looked larger than ever, she didn't smile, she turned her back on him and walked towards the balcony, arms folded under her breasts.
'Anton is here. They've found me.' she snapped before he could say a word.
'You haven't told me about Anton. Talk. And keep away from the balcony. If he's by the pool he could see you.'
'What difference does it make? He knows I'm here.'
'We'll handle that.' He took hold of her by the shoulders and turned her round, sat her down on the edge of the bed. 'Stay put.' He lifted the half-empty glass on the table, sipped it. 'Champagne. Bit early in the day.'
'I needed something to settle my nerves. The bottle's in the fridge. Fill it up for me.'
'Anything the lady wants, the lady gets.'
'Anything?' she asked as he brought back the refilled glass, handed it to her. She was wearing a cream blouse with the top three buttons undone. She wore no bra.
'Not that now.' he said. 'I have questions to ask.'
'Your eyes said something different.'
He moved away to a chair. She also wore a short pleated cream skirt. Her legs were stunning. Get your mind on the business in hand, he told himself.
'Stop it,' he snapped. 'Tell me about Anton. The full curriculum vitae. That means his life from the day he was born.'
'I know. I'm not illiterate – like Dimitrios and Constantine.' She sipped her champagne. 'Nor is Anton. He is Petros' son by his second wife – who was worked to death like the first wife. That makes Anton, six years younger than me, my uncle, for God's sake. Petros spotted he was bright. He spent money on his education, every drachma that was available.'
'What kind of education?'
'A good school in Athens. Anton was always top of the class. So he went on to a school in Switzerland. As
