Colin Forbes - The Greek Key

'How did Christina react?' Marler asked.

'A magnificent woman now, she is torn between two moods. Greek loyalty to the family – and her detesting Petros who treated her badly. As I told you, it is complex. But that is why I thought it strange to see her on Venus III. Petros only keeps the boat so he can watch those millionaires – wait for another to become in desperate need of money. Then maybe he picks up yet another bargain. He owns farms. One near Cape Sounion.'

'So he is rich?' Newman pressed. 'What kind of farms?'

'The one in Devil's Valley is in a remote part of the interior of the peninsula between Athens and Sounion. A dangerous area to explore. He grows figs and olives. His headquarters is an old farmhouse in wild country – reached by a track off the main highway to Sounion. There are even rumours he has a working silver mine. That I don't know about – whether it is working.'

'Let me get this clear,' intervened Marler. 'Petros was a one-time Communist. His son, Andreas, was killed on Siros. OK so far?'

'OK,' Nick agreed.

'And,' Newman suggested, 'this fierce old Petros is a Communist although he's rich?'

'Not any more from what I hear. Petros was sickened of politics by the Civil War. It lasted from 1946 to 1949. A lot of blood was spilt. At the end of it Petros said all politicians could burn in hell. He devoted himself to farming, making money, but he has never forgotten the murder of his sons.'

'How and where was Stephen killed?' Newman asked.

'The rumour is it happened in a street brawl in a native quarter in Alexandria. There are other versions.'

'And Christina wavers between supporting Petros and hating him?'

'So it is told in Athens.'

Marler grunted. 'The only fact that comes out of all this is that Petros – and Christina – could still feel bitter about Andreas' death on Siros. After all, Andreas was her father.'

That is what I have heard,' Nick agreed. 'And now maybe we should drive back to Athens so I can have the window repaired.' He finished off his ouzo, glanced at Newman. 'We forget about Cape Sounion – after what happened at Zea? For today?'

'Back to Athens. Another day we could visit this Petros? I'd like to ask him some questions.'

Nick grinned. 'You have brought some good weapons with you?'

'No. Nothing.'

'You go in Devil's Valley, you go armed. All Petros' men have guns. I said it before. A very dangerous place. You want to come out alive. Back to Athens…'

Newman saw the diesel train perched up on an embankment as it headed into Piraeus. He caught glimpses of it between buildings as they left the harbour behind.

'That's the Metro line, is it, Nick?'

'Yes. It starts at the other side of the city. The last stop this way is Piraeus.'

Newman looked at Marler. 'Endstation?'

'Who knows?' Marler adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses, perched his head back and closed his eyes.

Newman stared out of the window as a motorcyclist drew level. The rider, wearing a crash helmet and tinted goggles, turned and stared straight into the car for a few seconds. Then the machine was gone, zooming ahead of them, weaving in and out along the traffic.

'If you don't mind,' Nick suggested as they turned on to Syngrou Avenue, 'I will drop you close to Syntagma Square. That window is conspicuous. I want to get the car inside the garage before a policeman sees it. Then I have another job. I wish to have a word with Giorgos. He will tell me who it is he is working for – who followed us in that black Mercedes.'

'He may not feel like telling you,' Marler suggested.

'I have my own methods of persuasion. I will get his home address from reception. Oh, while I was waiting to take you to Piraeus I contacted my two helpers. Each has a photograph of Masterson. They must have checked with twenty hotels by now. Soon we will know where Mr Masterson stayed. May I drop you here? Only a five-minute walk to Grande Bretagne.'

'That's fine.' Newman had taken out his wallet. 'Time I paid you – for the trip, the repair to the window, and fees for your helpers.'

'Later.' Nick jumped out of the car, opened the rear door. 'You are well organized. Changing your traveller's cheques so quickly.'

He was referring to the regulations which only allow any tourist to bring in three thousand drachmae. Newman had changed cheques for a large sum at the hotel. As they stood on the pavement, the heat still hammering them, he laid a hand on Nick's arm.

'We would like to be there when you question this Giorgos. I have a few questions to put to him myself.'

'Late in the evening would be best. He will be relaxed and not expecting a hard time. I call for you at ten o'clock? If I find the time is wrong, I call your room?'

Ten o'clock. See you then.'

They strolled along the street as Nick drove away. A park stretched away beyond iron railings to their right. Kiosks selling newspapers stood by the railings. People were queuing to buy plastic bottles of mineral water.

A motorcyclist cruised past. Newman frowned, watched the rider sliding in between the slow-moving traffic. The machine disappeared, heading for Syntagma Square.

Arriving at the main entrance to the Grande Bretagne, Newman handed Marler his room key. 'Wait upstairs in my room. I'll be right with you…'

Newman followed Marler inside, paused, waited for a brief time, then pushed open the door and peered out into the square. Full of traffic. He scanned the area rapidly. He found what he was looking for further down the hill.

The motorcyclist had parked the machine by a meter, still sat astride it. The same motorcyclist with the orange-coloured crash helmet and tinted glasses who had passed them in Piraeus. Who had later skilfully guided the machine between cars when they were walking.

The rider removed the crash helmet, perched it between the handlebars. She reached up with both hands and draped her waterfall of black glossy hair over her shoulders. Christina Gavalas had arrived. Things were warming up, and not only the temperature. Newman closed the door, went up to his room.

Ten o'clock. On the dot. Nick led the way to his parked car. It had a new rear window. Newman and Marler had dined in the oak-panelled restaurant. It was still daylight as they sat in the back and the Mercedes took off down the hill which was almost traffic-free.

'He lives in the Plaka, this Giorgos,' Nick informed them. 'That is the old quarter of Athens. It spreads out at the foot of the Acropolis, climbs part of the way up the hill.'

'I know,' said Newman. 'Any news about where Masterson stayed?'

'No. It is strange. My helpers have checked all the main hotels. No luck. He must have stayed somewhere. Would he choose some cheap place?'

'Not our Harry,' Newman said positively. 'He liked a bit of luxury. Live high was his motto. Maybe the hotels don't like giving out information about their guests?'

'My helpers are clever. They take round an expensive wristwatch. Say they found it with a credit card in his name. They want to give it back. And they don't read the papers, so they don't know he's dead. They get a reply. No, he didn't stay with us.'

Dusk was falling. The sun had slid down behind the Acropolis. Nick had entered a maze of narrow, twisting streets. There was little space to spare if he met a vehicle coming the other way. Through the open window Newman heard the mournful strains of the bouzouki from the open doors of small restaurants and cafes. Sometimes it was Western pop music. Every second door seemed to lead to an eating place. The pavements were crowded with sightseers and customers.

Nick drove into a small square with a muddle of buildings on three sides. The fourth side was open to a large level area littered with stones. The Parthenon Temple, perched on the Acropolis, was an ancient silhouette against the darkening sky.