Nest of Spies

by Geoffrey Davison

  NEST OF SPIES

  Geoffrey Davison

  To Gary

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter One

  Two men made their way, independently, through the city of Athens, under the blistering hot, mid-July sun, towards the sacred rock of the Acropolis. They went, not with the intention of absorbing the atmosphere of ancient Greece, but to meet in secrecy for a few minutes to discuss a matter pertinent to the interests of the British Government.

  One of these men was Colonel John Spencer, Director of British Intelligence for the Balkans, the other was Stephen Fletcher, alias Stefan Fettos, a British spy.

  Spencer was an elderly man with the appearance and manner of a ‘blimp’. He was of medium height, overweight, with a clipped military accent and a gruff manner. But beneath this pompous and rather outdated appearance was a very astute and orderly brain, with an expert’s knowledge of the Balkans and the Middle East.

  Spencer travelled by car, together with a small party who had joined Professor Kay, from Cambridge, on his last visit to the great treasure of antiquity before he boarded his boat for home. Spencer and his wife accompanied the Professor’s party at the request of the Ambassador, but Spencer intended to turn the sightseeing trip to his own advantage.

  Fletcher’s mode of travel was entirely different from Spencer’s. He made his way by train and bus. He had come from the busy port of Piraeus, where he lived and operated from a fishing smack at present anchored in the crowded harbour.

  Fletcher was a much younger man than Spencer and, unlike Spencer, had known no other occupation than that of a spy. His ancestors on his mother’s side were Greek, on his father’s — Scots. He was born in Greece and had spent his childhood and youth in the consulates of the Balkan countries. At the age of eighteen he had been sent by the Foreign Office to Ankara University to study languages, and since that day had been on their payroll.

  In looks he was quite handsome with a strong face, dark hair and steel blue eyes. He was much taller than the average Greek, and had a deep resonant voice and confident manner. He accepted his way of life as part of his destiny. The Balkans were his home and his own particular responsibility. He moved freely through the various countries as if boundaries did not exist, and his contacts were many and varied.

  Whereas Spencer maintained a chain of contacts at attaché and Government level, Fletcher’s net was spread over a broader cross-section of the population. But he did not work entirely on his own. His boat was too big for one man to handle, so he had a partner — a tough, hard-bitten Greek mercenary, whose only loyalty was to Fletcher and whose knowledge of the cesspits of the many ports often proved invaluable.

  It is not surprising that such men were present in Athens and Piraeus. All capitals have spies, and the eastern countries of the Mediterranean have been Britain’s own special concern ever since it became part of her lifeline. But the volume and intensity of their work had greatly increased when the smouldering feud which existed between the Greeks and the Turks erupted to the surface over the Cyprus dispute.

  Immediately the island became a flashpoint area it attracted the full attention of the Communist countries, and Athens and Piraeus took over the mantle once worn by Istanbul, Prague, Berlin and Paris. British Intelligence had not only the Greeks and Turks to content with, but also a very active organisation of Communist agents whose one aim was to keep the pot boiling and prevent a settlement.

  On the 15th February, 1964 Britain brought the Cyprus dispute to the United Nations Security Council, and on the 4th March of the same year it was decided to send a peace force to the island.

  An uncanny silence has since hung over the island — but not elsewhere. In the stately rooms of the diplomats and the backrooms of the spies, the battle has continued. For the physical eruption of force on the island of Cyprus was only the safety valve to a much deeper conflict between Greece and Turkey, the roots of which can only be found in the pages of history. Cyprus became a pawn in this dispute, with the Greeks determined to encourage a policy leading to ‘enosis’, and the Turks equally determined to have part of the island for their own people.

  To the members of the N.A.T.O. alliance this unsettled part of the continent was a weakness, the feuding and military confrontations an embarrassment. To the Communists it was a chink in N.A.T.O.’s armour and, therefore, a situation to be exploited.

  To Britain, in particular, the situation was becoming a constant source of concern and a threat to her economy. Besides the increasing financial burden of maintaining a military and naval force within the area, the threat of open conflict was perilously close to the oil fields of the Middle East, and the whole of the Middle East has explosive potentials which a stray spark could easily ignite.

  When France first intimated her intentions to break with N.A.T.O., the other member nations quickly closed their ranks, and the British Government was asked to mediate between Greece and Turkey in order that the situation should not develop into another Achilles’ heel. It was a task Britain had been pursuing since the outbreak of the Cyprus hostilities, but with the backing of her more powerful allies she gladly renewed her attempts to bring about a settlement.

  After a considerable amount of diplomatic activity and the passing of time, the two powers eventually agreed to attempt to resolve their differences. As the forerunner to a full-blooded Foreign Ministers’ meeting, a preliminary conference was arranged to take place, secretly, on the island of Rhodes, at which minor officials would prepare the way.

  The importance to Britain of a successful outcome to this conference had been passed to Spencer and Fletcher in no uncertain terms. Nothing had to be allowed to rock the boat — nothing! But Spencer and Fletcher operated in a league in which the Communists, Greeks, and Turks, fielded their own teams and got their orders from their own Governments, and the natural desire for a country to produce an ace at the conference table meant a lot of activity for the spy. This conference was no exception as Spencer had learned, and he was in a hurry to start the counter moves.

  When Fletcher arrived at the meeting place, Spencer and his party were already present. They were standing outside the Propylaea listened to the Professor exalt the glory that was Greece. Fletcher slipped by, unnoticed by all but Spencer, and sat on a bench seat in the shade, and admired the plain of Attica which lay before him.

  Spencer listened patiently to the Professor, but when the party started to move towards the Temple of Wingless Victory he turned to his wife and said: ‘You go with the Professor, dear. I think I will have a rest.’

  His wife looked at him, concerned.

  ‘Oh dear!’ she said. ‘I do hope you are not getting another attack of malaria.’

  Spencer hastened to assure her that it was nothing like that.

  ‘Just this damned heat,’ he muttered. ‘It gets so hot.’

  He gave her a gentle push and she rejoined the group. For a moment Spencer stood where he was, mopping his brow and having a last minute check that no furtive eyes were watching his movements.

  When he joined Fletcher, he still had his handkerchief in his hand.

  ‘This damned heat,’ he muttered. ‘God! It’s a hot summer.’

  Fletcher, who was seated a
t the other end of the bench from Spencer, looked straight ahead of him.

  ‘You ought to have a spell in England,’ he said.

  ‘No good, old man,’ Spencer replied, ‘the cold would kill me.’

  Fletched smiled at Spencer’s somewhat paradoxical remark, but he sympathised with the man. For, like Spencer, he often longed to get away from the stifling heat, knowing only too well that he had lived too long in the hot climate to take kindly to a cooler atmosphere.

  Spencer looked across the plain to the blue Mediterranean Sea.

  ‘There’s trouble brewing,’ he said quietly.

  Fletcher sighed, but he was not unduly surprised.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘I wish I damned well knew,’ Spencer growled, ‘but I can feel it. Those blighters in the Greek Foreign Office are being a little too co-operative for my liking, and we haven’t heard a squeak from the Turkish Embassy for nearly two weeks now.’

  But Fletcher knew Spencer hadn’t got him there just to listen to his fears.

  ‘We’ve heard from Ankara,’ Spencer added. ‘That damned man Abdul Rassitz, has left Turkey, so no doubt we can expect him to be stirring up trouble soon.’

  Fletcher gave an appreciative whistle. He could understand Spencer’s concern now. Rassitz was a fanatic, a Turk who saw himself as the counterpart to Grivas and the saviour of the Turkish Cypriots, and like all rabble rousers he had his followers. His presence in the area could only spell trouble, and that was something they didn’t want at that precise moment.

  ‘I thought the Turkish Government had agreed to keep him under lock and key until after the conference,’ he said.

  ‘So they did, Fletcher,’ Spencer agreed. ‘No doubt they will give a plausible excuse for his escape, but you know what goes on before these conferences take place. We’ll hear all about what Rassitz has been up to at the conference table — unless you find out before.’

  Fletcher turned his back on Spencer. There was always a flurry of activity before any conference, but Rassitz could upset the conference altogether if he was played out of turn.

  ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Spencer replied. ‘Does the name Lofer mean anything to you?’

  Lofer! Fletcher mentally wrestled with the name, but it did not register.

  ‘’Fraid not,’ he muttered. ‘Why?’

  Spencer wiped his brow again.

  ‘Pity,’ he said. ‘It came my way in the form of a diplomatic whisper, if you know what I mean.’

  Fletcher knew what he meant all right. He knew they exchanged favours and passed information in the same way as Fletcher’s underworld. Only they liked to embroider their actions in more delicate and subtle terms.

  Spencer produced three photographs from his pocket and placed them on the seat alongside him. Fletcher deftly picked them up and with his back still to Spencer looked at each one in turn. The first photograph he looked at was of Rassitz, the Turk. It was an old photograph, but it nevertheless showed the man’s deep-set dark eyes and his leathery-looking face with a duelling scar over his upper lip. He wasn’t a pleasant man in person and his photograph did not hide the fact.

  The next photograph was also of a man, but a much younger man with a lean sallow face, dark hair and a neat, thin, black moustache. His eyes were much softer than those of Rassitz and he had the look of an intellectual. Fletcher placed him as a Turk, but he could have belonged to any of the Eastern Balkan countries.

  The last photograph was of a woman, a very attractive woman. She bore a remarkable resemblance to the man in the photograph Fletcher had just studied, but her face looked more determined, more sure of herself. It could have graced the cover of any beauty magazine. She had the classical high cheek bones, a full mouth with a flashing smile, dark eyes and long dark hair. A combination of eastern beauty with western sophistication. It was a face he would not forget. He didn’t even attempt to give her an age. She was a woman and in their part of the world that meant anything from sixteen upwards. He replaced the photographs on the seat for Spencer to pick up.

  ‘I recognise Rassitz,’ he said, ‘but who are the other two?’

  ‘Kasim and Karima Mohmad,’ Spencer explained. ‘Recent additions to the Turkish Embassy. That place is slowly become another Trojan horse.’

  ‘Brother and sister?’ Fletcher asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Turkish-Cypriots or Turks?’

  Spencer made a gesture with his hands which meant he didn’t know.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Fletcher asked.

  Spencer sighed.

  ‘Anything,’ he said, ‘so long as you get an answer. If there is something being hatched up, we must know about it.’

  ‘Give me twenty-four hours,’ Fletcher whispered. ‘I’ll contact you.’

  ‘You could always try that man Zonakas,’ Spencer muttered.

  ‘True,’ Fletcher said, ‘but if the Greek Government is involved we’ll get nothing out of him.’

  Spencer stood up.

  ‘I’ll leave it with you,’ he said. ‘Now where the devil is the Professor?’

  ‘They are just leaving the Temple,’ Fletcher said, and glanced across at the Professor’s party. He knew all of the people with the Professor except one — a small man with a neat, pointed, grey beard.

  ‘Who is that small man with the beard?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘Dr Sleitser,’ Spencer said. ‘A German archaeologist. I believe he is working on some ancient temple on one of the islands. I’ll be glad when we get the Professor on his blasted boat. All this mumbo jumbo about ancient Greece leaves me cold.’ He gave a deep, rumbling laugh, as if he had thought of something amusing, and walked slowly away from the seat.

  When he rejoined the party his wife came up to him.

  ‘Were you speaking to that Greek, John, dear?’ she asked.

  Spencer glowered at her.

  ‘Of course not, Clara,’ he replied gruffly. ‘Why the devil should I be doing that?’

  ‘Sorry, dear,’ his wife said nervously. ‘I thought I saw you talking to him, that was all.’ She beat a hasty retreat and gave her full attention to the Professor.

  Fletcher allowed a few minutes to elapse before leaving the Acropolis to return to Piraeus. As he joined the queue for the bus to take him to the station no one would have guessed his real occupation. Being a spy in a foreign country, it didn’t pay to advertise, so Fletcher hid his identity by becoming part of the everyday scene.

  In appearance he looked like thousands of other Greeks, and the only clue that he was something other than one of the masses could have been obtained by watching his eyes, which furtively took in all that was happening and missed nothing. On this occasion Fletcher was also pensive. If there was trouble brewing it was his job to flush it out. But he had learned from past experience that there were no shortcuts. It would take time, patience, and a lot of hard work.

  Chapter Two

  From the station in Piraeus Fletcher weaved his way through the busy streets until he reached the south harbour, where he patiently sat in the shade of a dockside building watching the numerous ferry boats come and go. When the S.S. Thasos nosed its way into the harbour, he became more alert.

  Still without moving his position he watched the ferry come alongside and saw the passengers start to disembark. He gave a grunt of approval when he saw a small, swarthy man come ashore, carrying a duffel bag flung over his shoulder. He looked older than Fletcher, but had an alert face and flashing eyes. His chest and biceps filled his shirt to its full extent and gave him the appearance of being a man not to be crossed or taken lightly.

  As the man left the boat, Fletcher also left his cool vantage point and walked slowly away from the jetty. Without waiting to see if the man was following him, he left the harbour for one of the many back streets which ran parallel with the front. Increasing his speed, he slipped through the rows of white buildings into a narrow side street and entered an obscure little bar, well hi
dden from the everyday tourist.

  The only occupant in the room was Nico, the proprietor, and immediately Fletcher entered the bar, Nico eased his sixteen stone off his stool and slid a bottle of local brandy across the counter. Fletcher collected the bottle and took a seat away from the counter, close to the single fan which fought an endless battle with the smoke and heat.

  A few seconds later the man from the boat entered the bar. He nodded his head in recognition to Nico and walked over and sat opposite Fletcher. For a second the two men looked at each other, and then exchanged greetings in a manner which left no doubt as to the respect and feeling they had for each other. They were, in fact, partners.

  Stephen Fletcher, the British spy, and Mario Fuigelo, professional murderer, gun runner, smuggler and freelance mercenary. But they were only partners when it suited each other’s purpose. Fletcher had only one master whereas Mario was prepared to do business with whoever paid his price — so long as business did not clash with Fletcher’s interests.

  ‘Your business was successful?’ Fletcher asked.

  Mario grinned — a broad friendly grin which lit up his whole face.

  ‘Stefan,’ he said, slapping Fletcher on the shoulder, ‘I told you it was not business on this occasion, but pleasure.’ He kissed the air. ‘Great pleasure!’ He came closer and whispered secretly: ‘There is a small island south of Santorini where the beauty of the scenery is only matched by the local girls who run naked through the woods. That is where I go, Stefan — to rest.’ He gave a long deep laugh. ‘I have to pay them a call to keep them happy.’ He slapped Fletcher again. ‘But I do not want to overstay my welcome.’

  Fletcher warmed to his exuberance.

  ‘You and your mythical island,’ he said.

  Mario preened himself.

  ‘I tell you this is no myth, my friend. One day I will take you and you will see for yourself.’

  Fletcher smiled. Perhaps there was a half-truth in what Mario said. Perhaps one day he would even go with him. But there were more urgent matters at the moment.