The Greek Key

She broke off as he stopped, gripped her arm. 'That's it. Why did I have to identify him?'

'Because his wallet was missing. And later discovered with plenty of money inside it – by a dog ferreting in the Doone Valley.'

'So robbery was certainly not involved.'

'They were new notes. The numbers ran in sequence,' Paula reminded him. 'No thief with half a brain would risk spending them.'

'Back to the office.' Tweed's tone was firm. 'I want to see the list Marler sent us of what was in that wallet. Something was missing.'

'Sam's driving licence.' Tweed's voice held a note of triumph as he sat behind his desk and studied the list. 'It wasn't in his wallet. That's what is missing. And he drove down to Somerset. He told me he parked his car in the street at Dunster.'

'Then why hasn't someone reported its presence -parked there all this time?' Monica objected.

'Because someone – maybe Winterton himself – drove it away and parked it in some hidden place on Exmoor. Maybe an abandoned building. They didn't want the car-they're using the licence. Which means they probably hired a car on the strength of Partridge's driving licence.' He scribbled on his desk pad, tore off the sheet. 'Paula, here's his address, Call the Vehicle Registration people in Swansea immediately. Find out the licence number.'

'Which could take God knows how long. They don't move fast,' Paula warned

Tell them you're Special Branch.'He produced his card. 'And tell them I need a reply within one hour. That we are searching for an escaped terrorist. Dammit, they're using computers. Within one hour. . '

It was one hour and ten minutes later when Vehicle Registration phoned back with the number. Tweed called the Commissioner of Police, identified himself, gave him the number. He had hardly put down the phone when it rang again. Newman reporting from Exmoor. No change in the situation.

Tweed explained what he wanted, gave him the licence number and urgent instructions. 'I want all four of you on this. Divide up the area into sectors. Then drive round to every place where you can hire a car. Show them the number. If someone used the licence to hire a car their records will show it. I need any information you can get within twenty-four hours.'

'We have as long as that?' Newman asked cynically.

'Quicker if you can.'

At Cherry Farm the balance of power had changed, much to Anton's chagrin. It had started with a phone call from Jupiter. He told Anton in his cryptic way that three more guests would be arriving. Foster, Saunders and Sully.

At the appointed time Anton drove the grey Austin Metro Seton-Charles had hired in Taunton weeks before to the crossroads where he had taken delivery of the Shi-ite prisoners. A Ford station wagon and a Vauxhall Cavalier stood parked alongside each other on the verge. The lean-faced smartly dressed Foster he had met before came towards him.

Tawny Owl,' Foster greeted him.

'Night Heron,' Anton replied, wondering why Jupiter had thought it necessary for them to exchange agreed codewords when he knew Foster. There were two men in the Vauxhall who waited inside until Anton led the way, driving at the head of the convoy back to Cherry Farm. He didn't like the look of any of them. They had the smell of hardbitten professionals, almost as though they had undergone military training. -,

Foster introduced his companions after his two cars were hidden in the second shed. In the large kitchen at the back Seton-Charles examined the new arrivals through his rimless glasses. He also did not like what he saw. Foster, quick-moving and quick-talking, wasted no time.

'This is Saunders, my second-in-command. If I'm absent you take orders from him. This is Sully. We've brought our own food supplies. Sully will cook for the three of us…'

'Seton-Charles has been doing the cooking,' Anton interrupted. 'He can do the meals for all of us.'

'I said Sully will cook for us. You two look after yourselves. Now, where are the Stingers, the mobile launching platforms?'

Anton took them upstairs into the bedroom he occupied, opened a cupboard. Over his left arm was looped the handle of a walking stick with a hardened tip. He used both hands to push his clothes, suspended from a rod, to each side. Foster grunted.

'We'll need a better place than this in case a patrol car comes poking around.'

'Will we?' Anton snapped. Then find them yourself.'

Foster dropped to his knees, crawled inside, felt around the wooden planked floor. Anton looked at Seton-Charles, raised his eyebrows. Bighead his gesture conveyed. Sully, smaller, slimly built and also very fit-looking like the others, caught the expression.

'We can do without the sarcasm,' he growled.

Foster hammered hard at the back of the cupboard with his knuckles, expecting a hollow sound. He gritted his teeth – he had almost broken his knuckles on solid wood. He crawled out of the cupboard, stood up.

'All right, I can't find them,' he said and his tone was more polite.

Anton stepped inside, pressed hard with the tip of the stick on a knot of wood in a corner. There was a loud click. The rear panel opened inwards a few inches and Anton pushed it wide open, held it, revealing the compartment beyond with a long canvas bundle on the floor.

'You hold the panel open,' he warned. 'There is a spring-loaded hinge which closes it automatically. You haul that out…'

They stood inside the front furniture van after squeezing past the auction junk Anton had purchased. Seton-Charles had been told to stay in the farmhouse to keep watch. Holding a launcher with a missile inserted under one arm, Anton mounted the steps to the platform, followed by Foster and his two companions.

Anton settled himself in the chair, pressed the switch and the panel in the roof slid back. Foster stared, glanced at Sully and Saunders who also gazed up. 'Who created all this?' asked Foster.

'I did,' said Anton.

'Jesus, I'm impressed. The other van the same?'

'A replica of this one…'

There was an argument about who would drive each van, who would use the launchers. Anton refused to give way. 'I've been trained in the weapon's use by the arms dealer. I'm firing one of the launchers. Who the hell drives is your problem.'

Foster compromised. He and Anton would fire the launchers; the vans would be driven by Saunders and Sully. He asked about communication and Anton produced a walkie-talkie from a leather sheath attached to the platform. 'The driver has his own, tells the launcher when the target is in sight. Anything else?'

Foster asked about the Shi-ite prisoners who would be left dead inside the vans, their hands pressed on the launchers to leave fingerprints. Anton told him about the dead pig he was using to keep them passive. Foster nodded. 'Except when it is on view,' Anton continued, 'I keep it in the chest freezer in the shed. I rigged up a generator to power the freezer.' Foster nodded again, then raised the delicate topic.

'You heard from Jupiter that before we leave nothing must be left to show we were here?'

'Yes. When the call was finished I asked Seton-Charles to dig a grave in the field at the back for the pig.'

'You know what will occupy this grave?' Foster asked quietly.

'Look, I've just told you.' Anton stared at Foster, who stared back with a poker-faced expression. Was he grasping what he'd been told, the Greek began to wonder. Maybe this cold-faced man wasn't too bright? 'It will be occupied by the pig,' Anton repeated.

'Together with Seton-Charles. He's expendable.'

2 December. An atmosphere of tension was building up inside Tweed's office at Park Crescent. There had been no further reaction to the long list of enquiries they had sent out. No one had called about Anton's photo or the Identikit picture of Seton-Charles which had been widely circulated.