“Hallo, up there!” a voice called. “And what’s your verdict?” It was Beaumont, standing down on the path and looking up at him with an expression of real pleasure to see another enthusiast sharing his addiction.
Strang could only shake his head in wonder. Praise would even be an impertinence.
“Now, that’s the right response,” Beaumont said. “But don’t you see the busloads arriving? Time for us to start thinking of lunch. How’s Miss Hillard?”
“Fine. Just fine.” Wait until Cecilia sees all this, he thought. I want to see her face when she does. That would be just about perfect. The girl, the place, long peaceful days... He glanced up at the hillsides around him. “Where have you been all morning?”
“I always like to spend some time up in the theatre.”
“Reading Euripides?” Strang asked, noticing the book in Beaumont’s hand.
“Oh, well—” Beaumont was a little embarrassed. And then they both laughed.
“I’ve discovered why the Greek dramatists had to be good,” Strang said. He glanced up the hillside again. Yes, the movement that had caught his eye was not imagined. There was someone up there, by the topmost rim of the theatre. But it was not Christophorou. Strange way to move, though: from cover to cover, among the bushes and wild shrubs, carefully, quickly.
“Why?” asked Beaumont.
“Competition. Your audience sat up there and looked over this view. You would have to be good.”
“Better than good,” Beaumont agreed, looking back at the theatre. “He’s still up there!” he said in surprise. “He has been giving a good imitation of a mountain goat, all this morning. And he is as wary, too.”
“Who is he?”
“That shepherd from Sparta.”
“Levadi?” The figure had vanished behind some boulders. Yes, it could be Levadi. He looked as if he were making his way across the excavations toward the eastern boundary of cliffs.
“I saw him up on the cliff, two hours ago. When I wandered up into the stadium, he was disappearing behind some trees. What is he looking for missing sheep?”
“Look—” Strang said very briskly—“why don’t you head down toward the road, Hank? And tell Elias that Levadi is here. I’ll join you in five minutes or so.”
“Something wrong?”
“No. Just unexpected. Tell Elias that Levadi seems to be stalking something.”
“What?” Beaumont was worried.
Strang stared at the base of the cliff. He could see no more movement. “Go on, Hank!” he urged. “Get down there, fast. But don’t look as if you were hurrying.” He gave a short wave of his hand and raised his voice. “See you over a long, cool glass of beer!” He turned away from the perplexed and troubled Beaumont.
“All right, all right,” he heard Beaumont’s voice say testily, and Beaumont’s feet went clattering down the Sacred Way.
This, Strang told himself, was scarcely the moment to remember that the path got its name from the sacrificial offerings that were led up here to be given to the gods. He did start moving (slowly it was true, but still, moving) away from this exposed position at the east end of the temple, and put a six-foot diameter of cylindrical stone between himself and the cliffs. He shook his head in wry amazement; so we all thought Christophorou was hiding somewhere high on the cliffs because, obviously, the best hiding places were up there. But Christophorou might have decided that the obvious was the less safe. Call it impudence or daring—and Christophorou had plenty of both—but it was just possible he had come down into the amphitheatre of Delphi itself. In that case, he must have hidden—judging by Levadi’s direction—among the excavations over at the eastern side. But why?
Strang moved again, between a row of columns, letting Christophorou know he was still there. Why? he kept wondering. And then he found the answer: a large group of tourists, about thirty of them, were descending from their visit to the theatre. There, thought Strang, is the best escape route of all: thirty people, mostly strangers to each other, wandering slowly, sometimes straggling, sometimes thickening into a concentrated group around the young woman who was their guide and culture-dispenser. He watched them as they listened to her (tourists were a most respectful audience), waiting patiently as she switched from an explanation in English to one in French, to one in German. At last, they flowed downhill again, the usual lingerers lagging, the usual independents straying farther off the path.
That was the escape route, he suddenly knew: join the tourists, wander with them, be packed into a bus, exclaim that you were sorry you had become separated from your own group (don’t we all?) and that it didn’t matter for the five-minute drive into the village of Delphi for lunch. And from the village of Delphi, you climbed down into the valley far below and headed for the sea. You abandoned all the slopes of Mount Parnassos, all the obvious hiding places to the north. You let the search parties climb and clamber. You found a fishing boat, perhaps even a decrepit foreign freighter at one of the little ports along the Gulf of Corinth. All you needed was money and confidence.
Confidence? Had Christophorou still so much of that? Strang moved quickly back to the temple’s entrance, his eyes now fixed on the eastern slopes of the amphitheatre. The group of tourists was going downhill. A man hurried to catch up with them. He saw Strang watching him. He halted. Then he began walking again, less hurriedly, more naturally. The delay had been slight, and yet it was disastrous. For the gap between him and the last stragglers had grown too big to be closed without drawing attention. He was out in the open, too, away from the cover of the ruins of the Roman cisterns. Now he was clearly seen, a solitary figure, Alexander Christophorou. He looked toward the temple once more. He looked at the receding group of tourists. Run after them? Scramble over fifty, sixty feet of littered marble and limestone?
No, thought Strang; that, he will not do. Retreat back into his hiding place? Not that, either. I have seen him and he knows I have seen him. He will come here. Yes, his anger is so great that it has become a rage that destroys even himself. And me. I asked for it, thought Strang, and I’ll get it.
Outwardly, he didn’t move. There was a moment of dismay, of frankly admitted fear. But he stood his ground, watching Christophorou advancing steadily toward him. And Christophorou was watching him. No, thought Strang, I’ll not give you the pleasure of seeing me dodge and run, you son of a bitch. Eighty yards, seventy yards, aren’t you close enough yet?
“Odysseus!” The sudden command rang clear across the hillside. Christophorou halted abruptly, swung around to face it. Colonel Zafiris was walking up towards him.
The revolver in Christophorou’s hand was no longer hidden. He looked back at Strang, looked again at Zafiris. And then the huge bulk of Levadi rose from behind a broken wall on the terrace above and leaped down on him.
It was quick and silent.
Strang saw Zafiris reach the body and look down. He did not kneel. He stood, looking down. Levadi had drawn slowly back along the side of the terrace from which he had jumped. From other levels of the amphitheatre, Elias and two men were converging quickly on the little group. The few tourists who had halted to look vaguely around were being called together by their clock-conscious guide. Far down the Sacred Way, Beaumont had stopped to turn and stare.
Strang left the temple, and made his way slowly toward Zafiris. He stopped, first, beside Levadi. The shepherd’s face was white and set. An unpleasant gash drew a scarlet line at one side of his brow; the blood dripped over his eyelid and he kept wiping it away, angrily, with the back of his huge clenched hand.
“Here!” Strang said quietly, and gave him his remaining clean handkerchief.
Zafiris came forward now. “Neck broken,” he said briefly, and gave a passing glance at Levadi’s good left hand. He looked at Strang. His dark eyes studied the American for a long moment. “I am glad there was no shooting in this sanctuary.” He gave an unexpected smile of relief, one that almost chased the exhaustion out of his face. “Now, we can sleep. The nightm
are is over.” He clapped Strang briskly on the arm, and turned to walk down to the road.
Strang watched him go. Then he said to Levadi, “Why don’t you?” He pointed to the hills behind Delphi.
Levadi stared at him.
“Who will stop you?”
Levadi looked at Elias. He looked at the hills. He looked at Christophorou, lying so still against a bed of broken marble. “He will kill no more,” Levadi said. He looked back at the hills.
Strang turned to walk a little distance away. Levadi might follow his own impulse more easily if no one was watching him.
Elias came over to join Strang. “Who told him to leave?” he asked, looking up the hillside after Levadi.
“He’s already spent fifteen years in exile,” Strong reminded him.
Elias considered. “Too much,” he said, “too much for the death of a traitor.” He looked away from the hillside. Mentally, he filled up his report. “Accidents can happen. People should not walk across this ground without watching where they put their feet. It is dangerous, here, not to pay attention.”
“It certainly was.”
Elias put out his hand and shook hands warmly, much to Strang’s surprise. “Time for you to go. I wait here. Soon, everyone leaves for lunch. We shall get the body down to the road then. No trouble, no notice, no fuss.” Elias added softly, “How he would have hated that!”
Strang walked down the Sacred Way. Beaumont was waiting for him. “You had me worried, there,” he told Strang.
“I had myself worried,” Strang admitted.
“He is dead?”
“Yes.” Nemesis played by a shepherd, Strang thought.
Beaumont took a deep breath of obvious relief. “Not that I know very much about the man. Still, from the little I did learn—well, I think we can do without his kind. One of our poor world’s terrible simplifiers, wasn’t he?”
Strang nodded. “The most deadly of all barbarians,” he said.
Beaumont looked at him curiously. “What happened, up there? It was all so quick—” And I hope it wasn’t what I thought it was...
“Later, Hank. Later. Let’s walk back to the hotel. Do you mind?”
“No,” Beaumont said politely, all visions of cool beer and an early luncheon vanishing. “The village will be crowded with tourists at this hour, though.”
“People aren’t such a bad prescription, at this moment,” Strang said. Just ordinary, everyday people, in search of a little culture, some food, and sheepskin rugs.
Pringle, limping heavily, met them outside the door of the hotel. “Zafiris sent word,” he told them. “My God, it’s all over. It’s all over!” He put his hand on Strang’s shoulder, his grip heavy with excitement. “What happened?” he wanted to know. “What happened, Ken?”
Everyone, thought Strang wearily, wants to know what happened. The nightmare was ended. That was all he could feel now: release. Release and thankfulness. But he couldn’t talk about it. “Later, Bob,” he said. “Later.” He looked around him. The truck and the soldiers had gone. The hillside road, stretching toward the mountains in the west, was empty. Here, by the door, cars were parked, a bus; some drivers stood around, smoking and talking. As in the village, everything was delightfully normal.
“Well,” Pringle said cheerfully, hiding his disappointment, “it seems as if I don’t have to do any more sitting out on a balcony with a gun in my pocket.” He could laugh now, at that memory.
“Is Cecilia still asleep?”
“No. She awoke just after you had left.”
Strang turned quickly to enter the hotel.
“She’s fine, Ken,” Pringle assured him. “Effie arrived with some clothes for her. I have a spare shirt for you. Fifteen neck?”
Strang gave his first smile. “Thanks, Bob.” We are certainly back to normal, he thought, as they entered the lobby.
“Steve Kladas telephoned you, by the way.”
“How is he?”
“Pretty good. Quite his usual self again, I’d say.”
“I doubt that,” Strang said with a widening grin. “A long-distance call? Or did he reverse the charges?”
“He’s anxious to see you as soon as you get back to Athens. He Wants you to persuade Lee Preston to run a series on Frankish castles. Kladas thinks he could do a good job on that. Not a bad idea, actually.”
“Not bad at all,” Strang agreed. He even laughed.
“We thought we’d start back to Athens around four. How does that suit?”
“Fine—if I can find that car I’m supposed to have hired.”
“Zafiris sent it back. Also, Cecilia’s handbag. One of the search parties found it, up near that pool at the top of the woods. It had been kicked behind a boulder. They probably hadn’t much time to hide it carefully.”
“What about the woman?”
“Xenia?” Pringle shrugged his shoulders. “No trace,” he said.
Beaumont took Pringle’s arm to help him down a flight of steps. “You make a fine Byronic figure,” he told him. “Let’s limp towards the bar, shall we? See you later, Ken!” When Strang left them, he said very quietly, “There was a moment, back in Delphi, when I didn’t expect to be able to say that to him again.”
* * *
Strang knocked on the door of Cecilia’s room. No guards, any more. The bright-cheeked maid glanced into the corridor, nodded approvingly, and went back to her work.
“Come in,” Effie Pringle called.
Cecilia was sitting in a chair drawn up near the french window, her feet—in soft silk slippers—propped up on a stool, her camera beside her unopened, her face turned tensely to the door. As she saw him, life came back into her eyes.
“She has been worrying her head off,” Effie told Strang. “But there’s no more need for that, is there?” She looked at him and then at Cecilia. “Of course not,” she answered herself. There were only the usual little worries left, and they were almost a pleasure, by contrast. “Is Bob still hobbling around? He isn’t supposed to walk much on that leg. I’d better—” She picked up her handbag. They hadn’t heard one word she had said. So she left. She could not help thinking of Caroline Ottway, who no longer had anyone to worry about.
Cecilia looked at him, her eyes wide and blue and beautiful. She did not ask what had happened. She simply smiled and held out her’ arms. She laughed as he knelt beside her and caught her in his, a little laugh that ended in a sob. He kissed her lips, her eyes, her lips, her cheeks, her lips. Then he drew back, holding her hands, looking at her eyes as if he could see through them deep into her heart. This is the real world, he thought, the only world that makes the innocent dream come alive.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The lines from Constantine Cavafy’s poem “Waiting for the Barbarians”, which Cecilia quotes on page 265, can be found in The Poems of C. P. Cavafy, translated by John Mavrogordato and published by The Hogarth Press, Ltd.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The plot and the fictional characters of this novel are wholly imaginary. Any resemblance to real names and living persons is purely coincidental.
On the other hand, the historical background, and the historical characters who are part of it, are perfectly true and real. Such are the Greek guerilla leaders—Ares, Psarros, Zervas—who were active during World War II; and such are the political events of 1940 to 1958 which are the basis of this novel. These things did happen, and are now part of the tragic history of Greece.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Helen MacInnes, whom the Sunday Express called ‘the Queen of spy writers’, was the author of many distinguished suspense novels.
Born in Scotland, she studied at the University of Glasgow and University College, London, then went to Oxford after her marriage to Gilbert Highet, the eminent critic and educator. In 1937 the Highets went to New York, and except during her husband’s war service, Helen MacInnes lived there ever since.
Since her first novel Above Suspicion was published in 1941 to immediate success, all her nov
els have been bestsellers; The Salzburg Connection was also a major film.
Helen MacInnes died in September 1985.
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HELEN MacINNES
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PRAISE FOR HELEN MacINNES
“The queen of spy writers.” Sunday Express
“Definitely in the top class.” Daily Mail
“The hallmarks of a MacInnes novel of suspense are as individual and as clearly stamped as a Hitchcock thriller.” The New York Times
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Decision at Delphi Page 52
