His eyes were small, and sleepy; they blinked as he took in the room.
“Close the door,” Berkeley said.
Yannif pushed the door shut.
“The bolt,” Berkeley said.
Pathenikos shot the bolt, and Yannif seemed to notice him for the first time. “Pathenikos,” he remarked. “Are you with him?”
“He brought me here,” Berkeley said, “at my request. He knows nothing of my business.”
“Ah,” Yannif said. “And you have been unkind to my Sophie.”
“He has bruised my hand,” Sophie said.
“You are a harsh and brutal man, General Townsend.”
“Only to those I don’t fancy,” Berkeley told him.
“I have heard of you,” Yannif said. “I suppose everyone in the Balkans has heard of you.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Berkeley said.
Yannif shrugged. “I am sorry about your little girl. That it was your little girl, I mean.”
“But you do not regret having had her.”
“Well . . .” Yannif spread his hands. “She was such a delightful little thing. She knew how to make a man happy.”
“You taught her that?”
“I did not have to. She already knew.”
Antonov, no doubt. But that did not alleviate this man’s guilt. Or Sophie’s.
“Tell me the name of the man who bought her.”
“My dear General Townsend, that information is entirely confidential.”
Berkeley levelled his pistol. “You have ten seconds.”
“If you kill me you will yourself be killed,” Yannif said, beginning to breathe heavily.
“I’d say that is my problem,” Berkeley said. “Five.”
“I will give you the name,” Yannif said. “It is Szigeti. Paul Szigeti.”
Berkeley frowned. “Can you prove that?”
“It is entered in my account book. Sophie, show the general.”
Sophie opened another drawer, took out the book. Berkeley actually did not need the confirmation, but he looked anyway. Sold to Paul Szigeti, 1000 drachma.
Paul Szigeti, he thought. One of the Black Hand’s agents in Hungary before the War. A man who had known Anna Slovitza very well. But Berkeley did not think he had ever met Caterina, much less her children.
“That is a Hungarian name,” he said.
“That is right,” Yannif said. “He is from Budapest.”
“He did not always live there,” Berkeley said, half to himself. “Nor did he always have this kind of money.”
“You know this man?”
“We had an acquaintance, once.”
“Before the War, eh? But the War, General, the War made so much difference to so many lives. Some went up, others went down. Why, before the War, I was a penniless pimp. Now, look at me.”
“I am doing that,” Berkeley said. “You still have to explain to me how someone living in Hungary found himself in Athens, buying a girl.”
“Ah, well, you see,” Yannif said. “Word gets around in our business.”
“Are you saying that Szigeti is now in the vice trade?”
Yannif grinned. “How else may a man become wealthy, General? In this constantly changing world, there are only four constants: politics, food, drink and sex. Politics is dangerous, and there is little profit to be made from food and drink, unless one can corner a market. But sex, now, sex is eternal, and always in demand. Provide it in sufficient quantity, with the right quality, and you cannot go wrong.”
“It’s a philosophy,” Berkeley agreed. “So, Szigeti gave up anarchy in favour of becoming a brothel-keeper. Is that it?”
“He is in the business, yes.”
“And how did he find out about Anna?”
“As I said, word gets around. That little girl of yours has got to be the most beautiful twelve-year-old in Europe.”
“So he came here and bought her. And presumably then took her back to a Budapest brothel.”
“I would expect so. I do not know for certain.”
“I was under the impression that Hungary has been in a state of virtual civil war since the fall of Bela Kun’s regime.”
“Oh, it is. But that situation only makes men the more hungry for sex.”
“I see. Well, you’ve been a great help, Mr Yannif. Now I propose to leave this building, in your company.”
“Mine?” Yannif bristled. “You have no right to do this.”
“I have the right given me by this.” Berkeley raised his pistol. “Pathenikos, would you make sure Mr Yannif is not armed.”
Perspiring heavily, Pathenikos opened Yannif’s jacket. “You’ll pardon me, sir.”
“I will not,” Yannif said.
“Don’t worry about it,” Berkeley said. “He’s not going to harm you.”
“There is no weapon, sir.” Pathenikos stepped away.
“Thank you. You are coming too, Sophie,” Berkeley said.
Sophie swallowed, but she came round the desk.
“Now, here is what we are going to do,” Berkeley said. “You will go first, Yannif. I will be immediately behind you, and my gun will be pressed against your back. Do or say anything I do not like, and I will shoot you. Sophie, you will come behind me, and Pathenikos, you will be behind her, with your gun in her back. But first, Yannif, when the door is opened, you will instruct your people not to interfere with us. Understood?”
“I will have the law on you,” Yannif muttered.
“I’m sure you will. Let’s go.”
He drew the bolt, pushed Yannif into the doorway. “Do your stuff.”
“We are coming out,” Yannif called. “Do not shoot. We are coming out.”
Berkeley could hear a ripple of movement outside the door. He kept his left hand on the nape of Yannif’s neck, holding the collar, and followed the big man into the corridor. This was crowded, with some six men in evening dress, then several of the girls, and then some more men in evening dress, but these last, he decided, were clients.
“Say your piece,” he told Yannif.
The big man shouted in Greek, and there was a general retreat from the hall, some on to the stairs, others into the bar.
“Let’s go,” Berkeley said.
Yannif shambled down the corridor to the door at the end, which led into the foyer. Here there were two more tuxedo-clad bouncers, hovering.
“Mr Pathenikos and I will have our hats and sticks and coats,” Berkeley said, remembering that they spoke English. “Nothing else, mind. Or I shall shoot your boss.”
They both looked at Yannif and received a hasty nod. They handed over the clothes.
“Now stand against that wall, facing it,” Berkeley said, settling his hat on his head.
They obeyed.
“And under no circumstances turn round or allow that door to be opened until after Mr Yannif returns,” Berkeley said. “Open the door, Yannif.”
Yannif opened the street door, and went down the steps, Berkeley at his shoulder. Sophie and Pathenikos followed.
“How many of those people in there knew you?” Berkeley asked the dragoman.
“I do not think any of them, sir. Except for Madame Sophie.”
“And Mr Yannif, presumably,” Berkeley said. “Along there.”
He pushed Yannif in the direction he wished him to go.
“He will not forget,” Pathenikos muttered.
“I am sure of it.” They reached the corner of an alleyway, and Berkeley looked back. But whatever was happening inside the brothel, no one was venturing out.
He pushed Yannif into the darker darkness of the alleyway.
“You will suffer for this,” Yannif said. “I will track you to the ends of the earth, and hang you up by your balls until they drop off.”
“I thought you were going to take it badly,” Berkeley agreed. “Tell me something: did you enjoy having my little girl?”
“Yes,” Yannif spat at him. “She was good. She tasted good. And I must have ta
sted good to her.”
“What memories you have to accompany you through eternity,” Berkeley said, and shot him through the head.
Yannif collapsed on to the cobbles.
“Oh, my God,” Sophie gasped. “Is he dead?”
“They usually are, when I shoot them,” Berkeley said. “And then there is you.”
Sophie fell to her knees, Pathenikos having let her go. “Please. I . . .”
“Was only doing what came naturally,” Berkeley agreed. “I understand. But as you were doing it with my daughter, I do not forgive. Besides, there is Mr Pathenikos. You are the only one still alive who can positively identify him. You do realise this.”
“Please,” Sophie begged. “Please.”
Berkeley squeezed the trigger.
Part Three
The Quarry
‘Man is the shuttle, to whose winding quest
And passage through these looms
God order’d motion, but ordain’d no rest.’
Henry Vaughan
The Has-Been
“General Shrimpton will see you now, Colonel Townsend,” the adjutant said.
“Thank you.” Berkeley was not in the best of humours at being kept waiting for nearly an hour. But he was no longer dealing with Gorman, who, whatever his failings, had at least been punctual.
The man behind the desk was equally as unlike Gorman as it was possible to be, tall and thin with an ascetic-looking face and a small moustache. He wore the insignia of a major-general on the collar and shoulder straps of his khaki uniform.
He did not get up. Both his expression and his demeanour were hostile. But Berkeley supposed he had to expect this. Gorman had picked him from the junior ranks of officers in the British Army, had virtually created the international agent he had become. This man was taking over another man’s brainchild.
“The famous Berkeley Townsend,” he remarked. “Or should I say, infamous.”
“It’s a matter of opinion, sir,” Berkeley said.
“Oh, quite. Take a chair.”
Berkeley sat before the desk.
“I really was becoming to feel I would never meet you in the flesh,” Shrimpton remarked. “It’s been more than two years.”
“Yes, sir. But I assume you have been receiving my reports.”
“Oh, indeed. I don’t know how much value they have been, compared with your personal requirements.”
“With respect, General, General Gorman knew what I was meaning to do.”
“I wonder if even General Gorman knew just what you were meaning to do. I have also received a stream of reports from our various consuls and even ambassadors. Oh . . .” he held up his finger. “These are merely reports, Colonel, of apparently unconnected incidents. It is when we co-relate these incidents to our knowledge of your whereabouts that we begin to piece together a remarkable and not altogether salubrious scenario. Let me see . . .” he opened the folder on his desk. “Incident in Sofia. Brawl in a tavern of ill repute. One man shot dead and several others wounded, by a single gunman. It is believed the quarrel was over a woman. The Bulgarian police are looking for an Englishman named Smith, who is believed to have fled the country.” He looked up. “Very prudent.”
“No one can prove this Smith was me,” Berkeley pointed out.
“Oh, quite. What have we here: incident in Athens. Well-known businessman Georgi Yannif shot dead in the street, together with his mistress, after the pair had been abducted at gunpoint by two men, one thought to be Greek, the other to be English, name unknown. However, we do know that Colonel Berkeley Townsend was in Athens on the night Yannif was killed, and that he left the same night, by boat for Marseilles. Rather a coincidence, eh?”
“Do you know anything about Yannif, sir?”
“I understand he was an unsavoury character.”
“That is paying him a compliment. He is, or was, a pimp of the largest variety. And he raped my daughter.”
“I do understand, Townsend. However, we simply cannot have you running round Europe executing people at will. That should be left to the courts. My God, when I look at this list . . . man shot dead in Budapest, murderer unknown but believed to be English. Two men killed in a gun battle in Vienna. Killer unknown but believed to be British. Suppose these various governments or police forces started to put their heads together? You could be in a very difficult situation. And by extension, as you committed all of these crimes while supposed to be on fact-finding tours for the British Government, we would also be in a very difficult situation.”
“All the men I killed were involved in the kidnap and rape of my daughter,” Berkeley said.
“I have said, I understand your feelings even if I cannot possibly condone your actions. So tell me, you have now been searching for two years; have you found the young lady?”
Berkeley sighed. “No. She has utterly disappeared. There was a man called Szigeti, a Hungarian with whom I worked before the War, who I thought would be able to help, but he had been murdered before I got to Buda.”
“So you avenged his death.”
“No, sir. The man I killed was an associate of his, who had also been involved with the mistreatment of my daughter.”
“And have you now run out of people to kill?”
“It would seem so. The trail is absolutely cold.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
Berkeley shrugged. “There’s not a lot I can do. I’ve had Anna’s photograph published in all the leading newspapers in Europe, but there has been no response. All I can do is wait.”
“But you still think she’s alive?”
“I will continue to believe that until I am shown her dead body,” Berkeley said.
Shrimpton gazed at him for several moments. Then he said, “I’m sure you will. However, should you decide to go searching for her again, it cannot be as a representative of His Majesty’s Government. Questions are being asked. One was even put down in Parliament.” He referred to his file again. “I quote: Will the Right Honourable Minister tell this house if it is the practice of His Majesty’s Government to employ a paid assassin to move through the capitals of Europe eliminating those considered to be dangerous to this country.”
“How the devil did anyone know?” Berkeley demanded.
“I suppose there was some kind of leak. There always is. And he obviously didn’t know very much, as he seems to have been under the impression that these people you have been ‘eliminating’, as he puts it, are hostile spies or some such thing, whereas you and I know they were common criminals who happen to have interfered with your daughter. The question, I may say, was headed off by a private meeting, and was never actually asked. But there is no saying it will not be asked again, and this time in public, should this pattern continue. So you have been retired, Colonel Townsend. As of this moment, you have no more connection with, or employment from, His Majesty’s Government. You will of course receive a substantial severance grant and a full pension, plus—” he allowed himself a smile. “The thanks of a nation grateful for the services you have rendered, even if those thanks cannot be made public. So please, Colonel Townsend, go home. You have other children, I believe, who have not seen you for more than two years. Try concentrating on them. Two birds in the hand are better than one in the bush, by a long way, don’t you agree?”
If I could ever agree with you on anything, Berkeley thought, I would willingly forego my pension.
“Yes, sir,” he said, and stood up.
“Oh, there’s just one more thing,” Shrimpton said.
Berkeley waited.
“On the last official mission you undertook for the Government, you reported on the state of affairs in Germany.”
“I did.”
“You met Rathenau, didn’t you?”
“Briefly.”
“What did you make of him?”
“Not a lot. Too left-wing for me.”
“You know he’s been murdered?”
“I read it.”
>
“By some right-wing fanatic, objecting to the deal the German Government has done with the Russians, for the exchange of information, military training, and so on. This is of course in direct contravention of the Versailles Treaty, but no one seems to be willing to do anything about it. You also know, I’m sure, that the German economy is in free fall?”
Berkeley nodded.
“The country is in a total mess,” Shrimpton said, “and no one is quite sure how it’s going to turn out. The French and Belgians are really behaving very badly, not only by occupying the Ruhr, they say until the Germans start paying, but by shooting people who are doing nothing more than strike. Really, unacceptable behaviour, which only makes the crisis worse. It’s in this file that when you were in Germany you met a fellow called Hitler.”
“Yes,” Berkeley said.
“What did you make of him?”
“He’s a soapbox orator who prefers beer halls.”
“But you recommended that we should help him.”
“With respect, sir, that is not correct. I recorded his wishes to be helped by us; I did not recommend it. Don’t tell me he’s still about.”
“Still about?” Shrimpton snorted. “He’s a big noise. At least in Munich. He held a rally a couple of months ago.”
“I’ve been to one of those rallies,” Berkeley said. “About fifty people. Very self important, but going nowhere.”
“This rally attracted well over a thousand people. Maybe more; some are talking of five thousand. And it was handled with style. Bands, banners, this swastika he’s adopted as his badge everywhere . . . it was quite a do.”
“That does surprise me. What is the government doing about it?”
“Which government, the Federal or the Bavarian? There’s not a lot either can do about it. These Nazis, as they call themselves, have broken no laws. Although there can be no doubt that they are extremely right-wing and anti-semitic.”
“You’re not linking them with the death of Rathenau?”
“There’s no proof of it. Rathenau was killed in Berlin, and these people appear to operate strictly in Bavaria. The connection is that both the assassins and the Nazis hold the same political views. I don’t suppose that would stand up in a court of law. Not that there’s a lot of that in Germany at the moment; the courts, the judges, condemn or acquit people entirely on the basis of their political views, not their crimes, and I may say, as far as I can make out, nearly all the judges are as right-wing as Mr Hitler. What I wanted to ask you was – you’ve met the fellow. Now he appears to be getting financial backing from somewhere, and he’s also gaining political clout . . . what is he capable of, in your opinion?”
The Quest Page 19
