Colin Forbes - The Greek Key

Giorgos made his way along the top side of the square facing the pink-washed building which had once been the Royal Palace. Now it was the Parliament since Greece had become a republic.

In the centre of Constitution Square is a park filled with a variety of trees and shrubs. Tall railings fence off the park from the pavement beyond. Walking rapidly in the opposite direction from the one he had previously taken, Giorgos slipped inside a phone booth. Again he dialled the same number. Again he had to wait for it to be answered.

He glanced at his watch. His off-duty period was almost over. At least the chief receptionist had gone home, the bullying bastard. The same heavy-timbred voice came on the line.

'Giorgos here. More news. I discovered the names of those two men. Newman and Marler…' He spelt them out. 'I think they will be going somewhere in a Mercedes with a Greek driver. The registration number of the car is…'

'Any sign of them leaving immediately?' the voice enquired.

'No. The driver is still cleaning the Mercedes. But they may leave at any time. A silver-coloured Mercedes.'

'I can have a car following them in ten minutes.'

'Let us hope they are in time. Oh, there is one more thing.'

'Yes?'

This is hard work for me. Maybe a little dangerous. More money would be welcome.' Giorgos swallowed, then stiffened. 'Another twenty thousand drachmae would be welcome – if I am to continue this work.'

'Be at your place in the Plaka at nine this evening.' The connection was cut before Giorgos could say 'thank you'.

He was surprised at how easy it had been.

S8°F. 31°C. They were driving down Syngrou Avenue, sitting in the back of Nick's silver Mercedes. It was early evening and the scalding sun shone out of the azure sky as clear as a sea without ships. Nick used a handkerchief tc wipe sweat off the back of his hand, his forehead.

'Syngrou is the longest avenue in Athens,' he remarked. 'As you can see, it's mainly car showrooms. BMW, the lot.'

Newman glanced back again through the rear window. Marler, wearing the lightweight linen suit he'd changed into, was careful not to look back.

'Some problem?'

'I think we may be followed,' Nick replied.

'The black Mercedes with amber-tinted windows?' Newman suggested.

That's the joker. We'll know more when we fork for Piraeus. Someone may have been on the lookout for you coming into the city.'

Ruler-straight, Syngrou Avenue, lined with dusty poplar trees, stretched away forever into the distance. Nick maintained the same speed, kept glancing briefly in his rear-view mirror.

'What facts have you to back up that statement?' Marler demanded.

The fact that one of the temporary staff at Grande Bretagne took an interest in your arrival. Followed us up the stairs when we used the elevator. He was peering round the corner when Mr Newman was shown into his room. The fact that later when I left the room he was hanging around in the corridor, pretending to fool with a window. The fact that he came and tried to get information out of me when I was cleaning the car ready for this trip. The fact that he made a note of my car's registration number. Which may explain that big black Mercedes keeping the same speed and distance behind us now.'

'Any idea who this character might be?' asked Newman.

'Name is Giorgos. Don't know his second name. He's a all creep with a small dark moustache.' Nick made a quick stroke above his upper lip. 'Dark hair. Now, let us see what that black Mercedes does. Here we take the right fork to Piraeus. Left for Cape Sounion.'

He swung the wheel and grinned. 'Still with us. If he stays with us to Zea we shall know.'

'How far from Syntagma to Piraeus?' asked Marler.

'Ten, twelve kilometres. We are entering Piraeus now…'

The buildings lining the street were lower than in Athens. Nick pointed out derelict sites between them, the legacy of the wartime bombing of Piraeus. They crossed the main city square with the imposing town hall on their right built like an ancient Greek temple. Then they were swinging round the curve of the waterfront of the main harbour.

They passed large car ferries with their doors open, exposing yawning caverns. Nick slowed down. He gestured towards the vessels.

'The big ferries. They go to Crete and Corfu and Rhodes. The small one is soon sailing for Siros.'

Newman jerked his head. The name of the vessel was clearly marked on its compact stern. Ulysses. The last cars and trucks were edging their way up the ramp, forming three rows.

'How long to Siros?' he asked.

Two hours.'

Marler was staring at the wall of buildings to the left facing the waterfront. Four-storey blocks, they carried names of various shipping lines, most of which he recognized. Watching him in his rear-view mirror, Nick grinned again and gesticulated.

The headquarters of so many shipping empires. Others have registered in Panama. Some of those big men have yachts which come in to Zea. Petros Gavalas has a small yacht there – what these people would call a rowboat. And still our friends are with us.'

That black Mercedes?' Newman enquired, careful not to look back.

'Yes. And we have made too many turns for it to be a coincidence. Let us see what he does when we turn down to Zea.'

They had left behind the big shipping company buildings. Now they were driving along a narrow street which twisted and turned, following the indentations of the coastline. On the landward side were small old apartment blocks. Freshly painted, they had pots and tubs holding decorative shrubs standing on their balconies.

'It would cost you a fortune to live at Zea,' Nick said. 'Only the very rich have an apartment here…'

Staring ahead beyond the windscreen Newman saw a signpost to the right as Nick slowed to a crawl. Zeas Port. He turned down a sloping track leading to the sea and along a platform below a high stone wall. The small harbour was crammed with ships moored hull to hull – and each worth hundreds of millions of drachmae. The million-dollar class.

Nick drove along the jetty which curved round the exclusive harbour, protecting it from the sea. Executing a three-point turn, he pointed the car the way they had come. He was parked by the stern of a small yacht, Venus III. Jumping out, he opened the rear door.

'This is Gavalas' yacht,' he remarked. 'A very small fish.'

'How could he afford even this?' Newman asked.

'He buys cheap. During the oil crisis he buys it for one tenth of its value from a man who needs cash. Petros is cunning.'

'What happened to the black Mercedes?' Marler enquired, standing by Newman on the jetty.

'It stopped by one of the apartments on the hill, one man got out, carrying a violin case. Then it drove off.'

'Odd that,' Marler observed and lit a cigarette.

'Please?' Nick was puzzled. 'I do not understand.'

The car follows us from Syntagma. He has no way of knowing where we are going. We arrive here and they drop off one man at an apartment. Some coincidence.'

Newman was running up a flight of steps to a narrow ledge beneath the wall which was now waist-high. The view out over the harbour hit him. The emerald sea, very calm, sparkled with dazzling reflections from the sun. On the far side and further out a fleet of freighters waited, stationary, bows pointed towards the harbour, smoke drifting lazily from their stacks.

Tor Christ's sake come down,' Marler called out.

Newman turned, leant his arms on the wall. It was so hot he could barely stand the heat. He stood looking down at the assembled craft. From one of the photographs taken by Masterson this was where he had stood when he took them. On the jetty just-about the point where Marler waited.

He recognized the huddle of old apartment blocks, the hills rising behind, bare, mushroom-coloured, flecked with scrub. There had to be something here which would give a clue as to why Masterson had come to Zea. He walked down the steps and spoke to Nick, who was polishing the bonnet of the car.