The greek key, p.1
The Greek Key, page 1
Colin Forbes
THE GREEK KEY
PAN BOOKS
in association with Collins
First published 1989 by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd, London
This edition published 1989 by Pan Books Ltd,
Cavaye Place, London SW10 9PG
in association with William Collins
98765432
© Colin Forbes 1989
ISBN 0 330 30706 1
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Richard Clay Ltd, Bungay, Suffolk
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
This novel is based on facts told to me about a strange and grim murder committed over forty years ago. That murder remains unsolved to this day.
It happened in Cairo in 1944 - inside a weird triangular-shaped building near the banks of the River Nile. Not only the building was weird: it housed a mix of army, naval and air force personnel, and secret units whose missions were unknown to the other inhabitants.
The story moves to the present day and all the facts are provided for the reader to identify who was responsible - but I emphasize that the characters portrayed are creatures of the author's imagination and bear no relationship to any living person. Also, the island of Siros- as described - does not exist.
FOR JANE
CONTENTS
Prologue
Part One: The Moor of Death
Part Two: Devil's Valley
Part Three: The Greek Key
Epilogue
Prologue
Cairo, February 1944. Staff-Sergeant Higgins - 'Higgy' to his friends - had no warning this would be the last time he would ascend in the creaking lift climbing slowly to the fourth floor of the Antikhana Building.
At ten in the evening it was silent as a tomb within the walls of the three-sided building. The only sound was the ghostly creak of the old lift as it crawled upwards past deserted landings. Through the iron grille of the cage he could see the stone staircase which rose round the central lift shaft. It felt as though no one else was in the place -no one except the Sudanese receptionist behind his desk on the ground floor.
Not surprising if he was the first to get back, thought Higgy. The few military men who slept there occupied small bedrooms on the rooftop. And they rarely arrived back from drinking and eating in Cairo before eleven. Personally, he liked an early night . . .
He frowned as he slid the door of the cage shut when il had wobbled to a stop. They switched off the lights in the corridors running round the three sides of the building at seven. So where was the glow of light beyond the entrance to the corridor coming from?
He hesitated, listening. Normally he would head straight for one of the three spiral staircases at each corner of the building - the enclosed staircases which led to the rooftop. The light was gleaming from under the closed door at the end of the corridor. The Greek Unit's quarters.
He had no idea what Ionides, who had escaped from German-occupied Greece, did. Something connected with propaganda, they said. He must have forgotten to turn off the light before leaving for his billet. Or he could just still be working.
Hitching up his khaki drill trousers, he walked quietly along the tiled passage. The first twinge of unease ruffled him when he thought he heard a noise from the room next to the last one. Also part of the Greek Unit's quarters, the two rooms were linked by an inner door. But no light glowed from under this second door. Who would be moving about in the dark?
He paused, grasped the handle, turned it slowly, pushed. The door wouldn't budge, was locked. He stiffened. He'd never known that door to be locked before when one of the Greek Unit was working.
Higgy walked a few paces further and stopped at the second door. Beyond, at the corridor's end, the black hole leading to the spiral staircase gaped. He took a grip on the handle of the door, turned it, entered. He froze.
At the last moment, it occurred to him it might be Ionides' colleague, Gavalas, who was working late. But it was Ionides all right. Except he wasn't all right.
Higgy had his share of battle-hardened courage. An ex-tank commander, he'd seen friends in the desert scorched to death in what they cynically called a 'brew-up'. Not the normal brew-up of tea - the fearsome sight of another tank, hit by a German shell, going up in flames. Locked inside their steel box, few escaped alive.
The office, with barred windows facing the native quartet across the street, looked as though a hurricane had struck it. Drawers were pulled out, contents scattered across the floor. Filing cabinets had been overturned. Crimson splashes smeared the white walls.
The black-haired young Ionides lay amid the carnage, sprawled on the floor on top of a mess of papers. He was drenched with blood, his dark eyes stared sightless at the ceiling, his head had been almost severed from his neck, his face was slashed brutally, the weathered skin coated with more blood. Blood was everywhere - spattered across the desk where presumably he had been working. The splashes on the walls were more blood.
Higgy shivered. He closed the outer door. Six feet tall, well-built, twenty-eight years old, he stood motionless, gazing at the horror lying a few feet away. Then he remembered the noise he'd heard from the locked room. He stared at the communicating door. God! The maniac who had done this must be inside.
Panic gripped him. His first instinct was to haul open the outer door and run like hell for the roof up the spiral staircase. His throat felt parched. His hands trembled. The silence from the room beyond the communicating door was insidious, made him want to yell.
The silence went on: not a hint of a sound from behind that closed door. Higgy sucked in a deep breath. Had it been imagination, nerves tingling from the empty building? Had he, in fact, really heard anything? He glanced down and saw again the dreadful corpse which had recently been a living man. A black foot-long circular ruler of ebony lay on the floor. He picked it up, took a firmer hold of himself, walked towards the closed communicating door. Still no sound.
He was scared shitless. He was growing more convinced the next room was empty, but if the murderer was still there he wasn't going to let the bastard escape. Ionides was a nice chap, always liked a chat and a joke. Higgy held the ruler like a baton, reached for the door handle with his left hand.
If the killer was inside he was probably holding the knife used to inflict the terrible mutilations Ionides had suffered. The state of the office showed the Greek had fought for his life. No, Higgy thought, should the assassin still be here I'm damned if I'm letting the swine get away.
He opened the door a few inches. The room beyond was dark. He reached his left hand inside, found the light switch, turned it on. Light flooded the second office and he pushed the door wide open, flat against the wall. His right foot tangled with something. A screwed-up bundle, a whole mess of it, and all the sheets were stained a darkish red. Blood.
He took a step inside the office often used by Gavalas. He had heard a rumour that Gavalas had gone on leave. There were no signs of disturbance in this room as far as he was able to see. He gripped the ruler tightly and walked in.
He walked across the empty office which showed no evidence of the ghastly death struggle behind him. He must report this at once. In his dazed state he tried to open the door leading to the corridor without turning the key. It opened.
The significance of this hit him like a second shock wave. The door had been locked when he had tried to open it from the corridor. The confirmation that the assassin had been hiding inside the darkened room minutes - moments - after completing his hideous act was too much for Higgy.
He felt his bowels loosening. Throwing open the door, he ran for the nearest toilet, locked the door. Afterwards he was never sure how long he sat on the lavatory.
He went back down through the deserted building by the stone staircase. The lift cage was a potential death-trap. The Sudanese receptionist stifled a yawn as he appeared at the foot of the stairs, gazing at the black ruler Higgy was still holding, sat up straight and adjusted his red fez. 'Who has left the building since I came in here?' Higgy demanded.
'No one, sir. I would have seen them. They have to pass my desk . . .'
'I know that. Who came into the building?'
'No one, sir,' the Sudanese replied in perfect English again. 'You are the only person here at the moment.'
'Selim. You fell asleep,' Higgy accused.
'No, sir,' Selim protested. The night shift is my usual duty. I sleep in the day.'
Then call the SIB. Now! Urgently.'
'SIB?'
'Special Investigation Branch, idiot.' Higgy regretted the insult the second he had spoken. 'Just call them,' he repeated. 'Someone has been killed. I'll talk to them when you get them on the line.'
He sat on the stone steps while the Sudanese used the telephone. He felt washed out, drained. To stop his hands trembling in front of Selim he gripped the ebony ruler like a vice. And while he waited he kept asking himself the question. How could anyone have got into the building unnoticed when the only way in was the two huge double doors beyond Selim's desk?
Second Lieutenant Samuel Partridge of the SIB sat beside his chief, Captain Orde Humble, who drove the jeep slowly as they came close to the dirty grey Antikhana Building. It was the morning after the late night call from Sergeant Higgins and it was going to be another glorious sunny day.
'Seems we were here only five minutes ago,' Partridge remarked as a horse-drawn gharry with an Arab driver pulled up at the entrance to the building.
'Precisely three hours,' growled Humble and parked the jeep by the kerb.
Partridge, a one-pipper, twenty years old, wished once again he'd kept his mouth shut. Humble was fifty-six, ex-Scotland Yard, long-faced and pessimistic. He never missed a chance to put Partridge in his place. The lowest of the low - one-pippers. Not that it was Partridge's fault he had been posted to the SIB at his youthful age. You didn't create fallen arches under your feet. Hauled out of his regiment by a medical officer who had spotted this physical defect. 'Feet like that. You can't wear Army boots, my lad . . .'
An attractive fair-haired girl in her late twenties, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, a blue frock, high-heeled shoes, paid off the gharry driver and started up the wide steps leading to the huge closed double doors. Partridge felt the adrenalin start to pump as he studied her snow-white skin.
Humble leapt out of the jeep and intercepted her. She stared arrogantly at him, reaching for the doorbell. A wrinkled face stared back from under the peaked military cap, his eyes cynical, the thin mouth of a man who has learned over the years to choose his words.
'Don't press that bell. You're not going in there. Who are you, anyway?'
'Flying Officer Malloy's wife. His unit is based here. And may I enquire your authority to order me about? Incidentally, who is that young boy getting out of your jeep?'
With appraising interest she watched Partridge alighting from the vehicle. A gaggle of Arab street urchins appearing from nowhere surrounded the jeep.
This is my authority. SIB.' Humble waved his ID card in her face. 'A particularly unpleasant murder took place inside this building yesterday.'
'Not really? Some wog got in, I suppose. I tried to phone my husband and the operator refused to put me through. Such damned sauce.'
'Acting under orders, madam. No communication is permitted for the present. I suggest you go straight back to your married quarters.' He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled down a passing gharry. There's your transport home.'
'You've a bloody nerve. I shall complain . . .'
As she strolled back down the steps Partridge was handing a few piastres to the leading urchin. 'Watch this jeep until we get back. If it's OK you get the same again.'
It was a necessary precaution. They could have returned to find the wheels missing. He had heard every word of the conversation between Humble and Mrs Malloy. He passed her on the way up the steps. She gave him a direct look with half-closed eyes and was gone.
'Barmy outfit, this one,' Humble complained as he thumbed the bell. 'Allowing women like that to visit the place. Our first stop is Colonel Grogan. Right tartar from what I hear. Runs this pansy bunch of propagandists.'
That attractive girl you were talking to . . .' Partridge began.
'Married to some RAF type. Flying Officer Malloy. And she had her eye on you. If you know what I mean.' Humble made a crude gesture with his fingers which Partridge found distasteful.
'I was going to say,' Partridge persisted as Humble pressed the bell again, 'it was odd. She never asked who had been murdered.'
'Who knows what goes through a woman's mind?'
The door was opened by a private in the SIB. They're still examining the murder room,' he informed Humble. 'Haven't found anything that helps much yet, sir,' he continued as he escorted them into the lift. The body was removed hours ago.'
'I know. You needn't come up with us. Colonel Grogan's on the third floor? We'll find him.'
'Anything from the pathologist yet?' Partridge enquired as the lift began its rheumatic ascent.
'He's been up all night working on the corpus delicti. All he'll say so far is that the weapon which carved up Ionides could be a commando-type knife. Could be,' he snorted. 'I have yet to get a straight answer from any of those buggers.'
Colonel Grogan's door faced the lift beyond the entrance to the corridor running round the building. Humble knocked on the top panel, a voice rapped out, 'Come in, close the door, you're two minutes late.'
'Accounted for, sir, by the two minutes we had to wait outside to gain admittance to this place.'
'Sit down. This place, as you call it, is one of the most sensitive propaganda centres in Mid-East Command. And who am I talking to?'
Humble introduced himself and his companion, produced his identification, which Grogan glanced at and settled back in his chair. Humble had him weighed up at a glance. A regular soldier, contemptuous of all those 'in for the duration', which appeared to include his visitors.
Grogan, he estimated, would be in his late fifties. His thatch of white hair was trimmed close to his bony skull, his clean-shaven face was craggy, his expression bleak. He sat erect as a poker in his hard-backed chair.
'What do you want?' he demanded.
'Well, sir, we are investigating a particularly horrific murder which took place on these premises . . .'
'Get to the point. I haven't all day.'
'Up to this moment we have interviewed Sergeant Higgins who found the body. Nothing much he could tell us. But I understand that among the units you oversee . . .'
'Command!' Grogan snapped.
'As you say, sir. I understand there is a secret unit led by a Colonel Maurice Barrymore . . .'
'Half-colonel. Temporary appointment. Lieutenant-Colonel Barrymore you must be referring to.'
Oh, my God, Humble thought, no wonder they gave him a desk job a thousand miles behind the lines. A World War One type. Up boys, and at 'em. Never mind the casualties - take that machine-gun post. He changed tactics.
'I need to interview this Lieutenant-Colonel Barrymore - and his men. I understand they've just returned from some training course. That they've only been back here in Cairo for two days . . .'
'Good luck to you.' Grogan stood up. 'They're waiting for you. Can't imagine why you're interested in them.'
'I don't have to explain my reasons. Sir.'
'Can't imagine why they call you Humble.' Grogan glared. 'Follow me.'
Stiff in his walk, he led the way down the corridor, back straight, the veteran of a thousand inspection parades. Turning along a fresh corridor, he stopped in front of a closed door, opened it and walked in. He made a dismissive gesture towards Humble and Partridge.
'SIB. Over to you.'
Without a glance at them, he walked out, closing the door. The three men waiting in the room stared at their visitors in silence. The windows - again barred - overlooked the front street where the jeep was parked. Partridge noted as Humble made introductions.
'Better sit down, I suppose,' the half-colonel behind a desk suggested. 'Although we can't give you long. We have things to do.'
'So have we, sir,' growled Humble. 'Like investigating a grim murder . . .'
Partridge, seated next to his chief, assessed the three men with interest. Lieutenant-Colonel Barrymore had spoken in a languid voice, was dark-haired with a trim moustache, thin-faced with an aquiline nose. Effortlessly, he carried an aura of authority and command.
The records showed he was only twenty-one years old but from his air of sophistication Partridge would have guessed he was in his thirties. He sat back in a swivel chair, turning a short swagger cane between strong fingers. He pointed with the cane to the two men seated in hard-back chairs on either side of the desk.
'Captain Robson. Company Sergeant Major Kearns. Members of my unit.'
'Which unit is that. Colonel?'
'Classified.' He used the tip of the cane to push a typed sheet of paper across the desk. That explains.'
Partridge studied the other two men while Humble scanned the letter. Robson was twenty-two, more heavily built than the lieutenant-colonel. Brown-haired, he also sported a moustache, straggly, and his whole manner was more relaxed. He sat with an arm stretched across the back of his chair and his expression was amiable. He reminded Partridge of a country doctor. Again, he looked older than his years.
Kearns was tall, thin, clean-shaven and hadn't moved a muscle since they entered the room. His brown eyes reminded Partridge of glass marbles. He sat very erect and his expression was bleak, his jaw clenched. All three men had skin tanned the colour of mahogany.
