The Quest

by Christopher Nicole

“You will board tonight?” the clerk asked.

  “No. I have some business to complete. When is the latest I can board?”

  “Four o’clock. No later, sir.”

  “Four o’clock,” Berkeley said. “I will be there.”

  His suit was delivered promptly at six that evening by a perspiring Melos. But it was a perfect fit, as Berkeley had anticipated – he had dealt with Greek tailors before the War. His shoulder holster was utterly concealed. While the silk hat and the patent leather shoes were also perfection.

  Pathenikos arrived at eight, wearing, like Berkeley, evening dress, and the two men dined in the hotel dining room. They finished their meal just after ten, and smoked a couple of cigars. Pathenikos seemed less nervous than the previous day, certainly after a good meal and several bottles of wine.

  “Let’s go find ourselves a woman,” Berkeley said.

  They took a horse-drawn cab to the square, paid off the driver, and strolled down the side-street together, two obviously well-heeled gentlemen looking for some entertainment. To their left the mound of the Acropolis rose above the city, as it had done for three thousand years, the Parthenon etched sharp and clear in the crisp, cold, night air.

  One or two small boys approached them, then ran off again as they rapidly deduced these were not men to be touched.

  “You all right?” Berkeley asked.

  “I am very anxious, sir.”

  “Well, just do exactly as you are told by me, and you’ll come through safely. For the rest, you have just to guard my back.”

  “Yes, sir.” He did not sound reassured.

  The street was well lit, as was the house they approached. This was an entirely different affair to the Orlando Tavern in Sofia. There was no noise, and no one outside, either, while the house itself was tall and substantial, freshly painted, and presented a distinctly prosperous appearance. There were five storeys, so far as Berkeley could make out, and the windows on each one glowed with light.

  He went up the short flight of steps, Pathenikos at his heels, and pulled the bell rope. After a few minutes the door was opened by a powerfully built man, but he wore a dinner jacket to match the establishment.

  “Gentlemen?”

  “May we come in?” Berkeley asked, in English.

  “Certainly.” To his surprise the doorman replied in English. This was obviously a popular place for visitors.

  The doorman stood back, and they entered a well-furnished lobby. “Have you been here before, sir?”

  “Sadly, no,” Berkeley said. “It has been recommended.”

  “That is very gratifying, sir.” The doorman assisted them out of their coats, and took their hats and canes. Then he opened an inner door to accompany them into a well-lit and again elegantly furnished drawing room. As it was still early in the evening, there were more women present than men, but the men were all in evening dress, drinking what could have been champagne, and conversing with the girls; these were also in evening dress, with deeply cut decolletages, and skirts slashed to the thigh to reveal their black-stockinged legs whenever they moved. Shades of Berlin, Berkeley thought; but these were definitely women.

  They were faced by the madam, a woman in her early forties, Berkeley estimated, with a handsome face, dyed red hair, and a strong figure; in her youth she must have been a stunner, he thought.

  The doorman addressed her in Greek, and she nodded, and looked Berkeley up and down. “From England,” she remarked, in English. “I am Sophie. You are a tourist?”

  “Actually, I’m here on business,” Berkeley explained.

  “Ah.” She seemed pleased about that; no doubt, as a businessman, he would have more money to spend. And . . .” she turned to Pathenikos, and frowned. “Monsieur Pathenikos?”

  “Good lord!” Berkeley remarked. “Don’t tell me you know each other?”

  “Everyone knows Pathenikos,” Sophie pointed out.

  “I bring people here,” Pathenikos explained, cheeks pink. “As I have brought you here tonight, General.”

  “General?” Sophie was interested.

  “It’s a long story,” Berkeley said.

  “Well, you are very welcome. You may have any of the girls, for as long as you like.” Her eyes flickered. “And for whatever purpose you like, providing she is not injured. If you wish to injure one, the price is doubled.”

  “Quite,” Berkeley agreed. “Actually, Sophie, what I would like is someone very young.”

  Sophie’s left eyebrow twitched, presumably in contempt. But no doubt the paedophiliac habits of travelling Englishmen were well known. “How young, General?”

  “Something around twelve.”

  This time her snort was definitely contemptuous.

  “I was told in London that young girls were available in Mr Yannif’s establishments,” Berkeley said. “This establishment is owned by Mr Yannif, is it not?”

  She studied him for a moment, suddenly suspicious. “It is not our custom to reveal the name of our employer, any more than it is our custom to reveal the names of our clients, sir.”

  “Very sensible,” Berkeley said. “Well, then, I must ask you: is it possible to obtain such a girl? Perhaps at another of your establishments?”

  Another slow consideration. “What you ask is illegal. And therefore expensive.”

  “What is money, compared with pleasure?”

  “I will see what I can do,” she said. “In the meantime, use one of these. You may even enjoy it.”

  “If I use one of these girls,” Berkeley pointed out. “I shall not be able to enjoy my little girl. I’m no longer a young man.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “Well, come into my office, and I will see what I can do.” She glanced at Pathenikos.

  “He’ll come with us,” Berkeley said.

  Sophie shrugged, and made a remark in Greek.

  “What was that?” Berkeley asked.

  Parthenikos grinned. “She says I have some strange customers.”

  “Absolutely true.”

  Berkeley followed the madam round the drawing room, and through a door into a well-lit corridor. To the right a flight of stairs led up but she went round the stairs and opened a door. Her office was as elegantly furnished as the rest of the house, and dominated by a huge mahogany desk. She gestured Berkeley and Pathenikos to upholstered chairs, went to the book-case behind the desk, tapped her chin for a moment, then took out a large ledger. This she placed on the desk then sat down herself and opened it, turning several pages rapidly to reach the one she sought.

  “Hm,” she commented.

  Berkeley and Parthenikos exchanged glances. The dragoman of course had no idea what Berkeley was really after, but he was not about to criticise such a man as Berkeley Townsend, however disgusting he might consider his habits.

  “We did have a young girl here, about a month ago,” Sophie said. “Twelve years old. A very pretty child. She was in great demand.”

  Berkeley’s fingers curled into fists, but he kept them out of sight below the desk. “But she is not here now?” he asked, his voice as ever pleasantly nonchalant.

  “No. I’m afraid not.”

  “Then tell me where she has gone. I came all this way to have a pre-pubescent.”

  “Oh, she was pubescent all right,” Sophie said. “I’m afraid I cannot tell you where she has gone.”

  “Why not? If she is in one of your other establishments, I will go there.”

  “She is not in one of our other establishments,” Sophie said. “She has been sold on.”

  “Just like that? After only a month?”

  “I told you, she was an extremely pretty child. Quite lovely. I . . .” she changed her mind about what she was going to say, but Berkeley could guess. His sense of anger and outrage was now reaching the killing high.

  “Go on,” he invited. “You thought she was quite lovely. What did you do about that?”

  “Well . . . I have to try the girls out.”

  “And she was happy with th
is?”

  “Not really. Few of them are. It was necessary . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “She had to be beaten. Several times.”

  “I see. Now you say she was sold on. Tell me about that.”

  “Well,” Sophie said. “A gentleman took a fancy to her, and offered a price Mr . . . we could not refuse.”

  “You have a record of who she was sold to, of course.”

  “That is a confidential matter,” Sophie said.

  Berkeley very nearly reached across the desk and throttled her there and then. But before he exploded into violence he had to be absolutely sure.

  “Well, at least tell me her name.”

  Sophie frowned. “What is that to you?”

  “I like to know what I have missed.”

  “Her name was, is, Margo.”

  “That was her real name?”

  “Well, of course it is not her real name. The girls are all given names when they are accepted into our establishments.”

  Accepted, Berkeley thought, grimly. “Then tell me her real name.”

  “I am sorry,” Sophie said. “That too is confidential.”

  “Would it have been Anna?”

  Sophie’s nostrils dilated.

  “I see,” Berkeley said. “Well, I think we should put our cards on the table.” He took out his wallet, extricated Anna’s photograph, and laid it on the desk. “Is that the girl?”

  Sophie stared at the photo as a rabbit might have looked at a snake.

  “You may pick it up,” Berkeley invited. “Have a good look.”

  Sophie licked her lips. “I do not know this girl.”

  “Sophie,” Berkeley said, “you are shortly going to make me very angry. You had the girl here for a month, and you have admitted having sex with her as well as beating her. You certainly remember that she was very pretty. And you cannot recognise her photograph? Now tell me the truth, or I am going to hurt you very badly.”

  She stared at him for several seconds, then rather obviously moved her position behind the desk. Berkeley could not see her legs, but he knew she had pressed a bell.

  Pathenikos knew it too. “Shit!” he commented.

  “It had to be expected,” Berkeley agreed, and got up. Sophie tried to open a drawer, and Berkeley, rounding the desk, slammed it shut on her hand.

  Sophie screamed in a mixture of anger and pain. “My God! You have broken it.”

  “You have another one,” Berkeley reminded her, and pushed her aside to examine the ledger.

  It was very neat, in a careful hand; there was a whole list of girls’ names, with various comments, but he found what he wanted quickly enough.

  8 February 1921; Anna Antonova; offered by father; 12 years old; excellent condition. Just as if she had been a horse, Berkeley thought. The rest of the note was in a different handwriting: Sold 3 March 1921.

  But there was no name.

  Sophie was still nursing her bruised hand and mumbling, but now the door opened. Two men stood there. Both wore evening dress, but both were also of the bouncer variety. Unfortunately for them, as they had clearly supposed they were required only to deal with a recalcitrant or drunken client, they were unarmed.

  “Draw!” Berkeley told Pathenikos, and drew his own pistol, presenting it at the door.

  The men hastily retreated.

  “Lock it,” Berkeley said.

  Pathenikos obeyed, trembling.

  “Now you are trapped,” Sophie snarled.

  “Tell me who Anna Antonova was sold to,” Berkeley said.

  “I do not know. The matter was handled by Mr Yannif.”

  Progress.

  “Right,” he said. “Tell me where I can find Mr Yannif.”

  “I do not know.”

  Berkeley seized her hand and she gave a squeal of pain. “Good heavens,” he said. “It has turned quite blue. But Sophie, I don’t think any bones are actually broken, yet. Shall I have another go?”

  She panted. “You will never get to Yannif.”

  “I’ll do the worrying. Just tell me where he is.”

  Sophie licked her lips. “If you attempt to go upstairs, you will be killed.”

  “Ah,” Berkeley said.

  “Please let go of my hand,” Sophie said.

  Berkeley released her, and she fell to nursing it again.

  “What is this girl to you, anyway?” she asked. “The world is full of twelve-year-olds, waiting to be fucked. Anyone would think you were this Antonov, having changed your mind.”

  “Not Antonov,” Berkeley said. “But I am Anna’s father.”

  She stared at him with her mouth open. “You are English.”

  “Wasn’t Anna?”

  “My God,” she said, and sat behind her desk again. “I do not understand.”

  “And it’s far too long a story for this time of night.” He pointed at the two telephones on her desk. “I imagine one of those is a house phone. Call your boss and tell him I would like a word.”

  She stared at the phones as if afraid to touch them, and before she could make up her mind, one of them jangled.

  “Great minds think alike,” Berkeley remarked. “Oh, answer it, please. But do remember that Pathenikos can understand everything you say.”

  Sophie picked up the receiver with her good hand, listened to a torrent of Greek, to which she replied.

  Berkeley looked at Pathenikos.

  “She is saying that someone claiming to be the father of the Antonova girl is here looking for his daughter,” Pathenikos said.

  “Good girl,” Berkeley said.

  She looked at him over the phone. “He asks, what is it to do with him?”

  “Tell him everything. But I’ll let him off if he’ll tell me who he sold her to.”

  There was some more spluttering on the line.

  “He doesn’t sound happy,” Berkeley suggested.

  Sophie looked at him again. “He says, you will let him off?”

  “Tell him that if he doesn’t give me the name of the man,” Berkeley said. “I am going to shoot all the girls in his establishment. Beginning with you.”

  Pathenikos nearly dropped his revolver. Sophie did drop the phone, which landed on the desk with a thump and brought another angry splutter down the line.

  “You are mad,” she said.

  “Oh, absolutely,” Berkeley agreed. “Ask anybody. Tell him.”

  Gingerly, Sophie picked up the phone and spoke. Then she looked at Berkeley again. “He says you are mad.”

  “We’ve already agreed that. Do I get the name, or do I start shooting?”

  Voice trembling, Sophie spoke into the phone, then raised her head again. “He says there is no way you can leave this room; the passage-ways and the stairs are covered. He says if you throw out your weapons, he will let you leave the building unharmed. He gives you ten minutes to comply.”

  “Darling,” Berkeley said. “He has got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Tell him that my name is Berkeley Townsend. He may have heard of me. Tell him that I have fought more battles, and killed more men, than he has had hot dinners. Tell him that if I have to start shooting, he is going to be surrounded by a lot of corpses and his establishment will be a wreck. And tell him he has two minutes to give me the name I want, or I am going to start shooting.”

  Sophie gulped, and then spoke into the phone. This time there was a brief silence, then the voice spoke more quietly. Not for the first time in his life, Berkeley recalled, his threat to loose his powers of destruction had carried the day. Because he was never bluffing, and even people like Yannif could understand that.

  “Mr Yannif says for you to go upstairs,” Sophie said. “He would like to meet you, face to face. And he will give you the name you wish.”

  “No,” Berkeley said. “I would like to meet Mr Yannif also. But down here.”

  Sophie spoke into the phone. “He says, how does he know you will not hold him hostage as well?”

  “He doesn’t,” Berke
ley told her. “But let him ask himself why I should do that? I only want the name of the man who bought Anna, and then Pathenikos and I will leave his establishment and he will not see us again. Me, at any rate.”

  Sophie spoke into the phone, and then hung up. “he will come down.”

  “Now,” Berkeley said. “See how civilised things can be, if everyone behaves in a civilised fashion.”

  Pathenikos pocketed his revolver and took out a large handkerchief to wipe his brow. “By God, sir, I didn’t think it would work,” he said.

  “We don’t know that it has, yet,” Berkeley reminded him. “How’s your hand?” he asked Sophie.

  She looked at it. “It hurts like hell. And it is so marked. I will never get rid of the mark.”

  “Yes, you will. Just be patient. Now tell me, Sophie: did you rape my daughter?”

  “Well . . .” she assumed a sulky expression. “I told you, it is my business to try out the girls.”

  “Do you know,” Berkeley said, as pleasantly as ever. “Only a few nights ago I met up with this man Antonov. He confessed to having raped her. Several times, I think.”

  Sophie licked her lips.

  “So I shot him through the head,” Berkeley said. “I would have preferred to shoot him somewhere else, but there simply wasn’t time.”

  Sophie clasped both hands to her neck. Pathenikos’ handkerchief was working again.

  “So tell me,” Berkeley said. “Did Yannif have sex with her?”

  “I . . . I should think so. But . . . you can’t shoot Mr Yannif.”

  “Give me a reason.”

  “He’s . . . well . . .” her head turned as there was a knock on the door.

  “Draw,” Berkeley told Pathenikos, “then release the bolt and step aside.”

  Trembling, Pathenikos obeyed. Berkeley took up his position behind Sophie and the desk.

  “The bolt,” Berkeley said.

  Pathenikos drew the bolt.

  “Enter,” Berkeley said. “If there is more than one, I shall shoot.”

  The door swung in, and a man entered. Yannif was huge, over six feet in height and with a bulging chest and matching stomach. Like Pathenikos, he was bald, but clean shaven, although he had tremendous bushy eyebrows . . . Berkeley could well imagine him terrifying all those with whom he came into contact. But he was out of his class here.