Mayhem in Greece

by Dennis Wheatley

  Stepping out of the cupboard, he slowly shook his head. ‘No, Pan Krajcir, I’m afraid I couldn’t do that.’

  With set mouth, the other man stared at him, then spoke. Whereas Krajcir’s voice had been imbued with anger and impatience, this one’s held quiet authority. Till now, he had remained concealed behind the cupboard door. On stepping past it, Robbie got his first sight of him. Instantly, he recognised the square, bald-headed figure that he had last seen with Barak at Toyrcolimano. It was the First Secretary, Nejedly. He said:

  ‘You will do as you are told, or take the consequences.’

  Robbie’s mouth twisted into a nervous, unhappy smile. ‘You mean, you will send for the police?’

  ‘Yes. Were you in my country, I could have you shot for what you have done. Here matters are different, but at least punishment can be secured for law-breakers who have been caught red-handed, as you have. Still, I am not a hard man; so I give you a choice. If you sit down, write a confession that I shall dictate, and sign it, I will let you go. If you refuse, you will spend tomorrow in a cell, and on Monday find yourself sentenced to a term of imprisonment.’

  It was an offer that might have tempted many people, but not a young dreamer of dreams who thought of Bayard, that chevalier sans peur et sans reproche, as a man of only yesterday.

  ‘No, thanks,’ Robbie replied. ‘You want me to implicate my uncle, don’t you? But he had nothing to do with this, and I’m not playing.’ As an afterthought he added: ‘I don’t mean to let you have it all your own way, either. After all, I’m one of the staff here. I shall say that I left something and came back—er—came back hoping to find Pan Krajcir still working in his office. Then … well, then, he wasn’t here but I found a window open and so got in to get it. Yes, and I’ll say that Mr. Krajcir asked me to make a copy of those notes for him before I left.’

  The bald-headed Nejedly gave him a smile of contempt. ‘You poor fool. Is it likely that, in a N.A.T.O. country, we would charge you with espionage? Even if convicted, with the sympathy of the West in your favour you would get off with only a token sentence. No. If you elect to go to court, it will be on a charge of having broken into the place and burgled it.’

  ‘But I have stolen nothing!’

  ‘Oh yes, you have.’ Nejedly produced his notecase. From it, he took a thousand drachma note and two five hundreds. Holding them up, he went on: ‘Comrade Krajcir will mark these. He will say that for some time he has had reason to believe that you have been stealing small sums of money from the till. This afternoon he laid a trap for you, by letting you see him put these away inside his bank paying-in book, then leaving you alone for a few minutes in this room. After the office was closed, he asked me to come back with him to see if you had taken the bait. Evidently you had feared to do so before the office closed. But you had left a window unlatched, and come back for it. Thus we were lucky enough to catch you red-handed.’

  Robbie’s tanned face paled slightly. There seemed no way in which he could counter this tissue of lies or prove them false. He was learning fast that he was no match for men like Nejedly. Meanwhile, the First Secretary was going on:

  ‘We shall add that you resisted us. Comrade Krajcir is a patriot. He will willingly give a little of his blood for his country. I, too, will sacrifice my shirt. I will tear it open, then give Pan Krajcir a tap on the nose. Just enough to make it bleed. Then we shall be able to charge you with robbery with violence, and ensure that you receive a good stiff sentence. Come now, is it to be like that, or will you sit down and write a confession?’

  The word ‘violence’ begot an idea in Robbie’s mind. He had never struck anyone in his life, but why should he not start now? The odds were two to one against him but, if he was going to be charged anyway with assaulting them, he might as well have the fun of doing it. Besides—sudden happy thought—if he hit them hard enough, there was just a chance that he might manage to escape before their shouts brought help.

  Nejedly, bald, moonfaced, and with slit eyes that suggested he might have a dash of Tartar blood, was stockily built with powerful shoulders and long arms. He was standing about six feet from Robbie and between him and the door to the outer office. Krajcir, his gold tooth showing in a servile but none-too-happy grin at his superior’s announcement that he should submit to having his nose punched in the service of his country, was standing on Robbie’s right, and nearer to him. He was the elder and, Robbie decided, the less dangerous of the two, so the best plan seemed to be to try to put him out of action first. Drawing back his right fist, he swung it hard at the side of Krajcir’s face.

  Had Robbie ever been taught to box, his superior height and strength would have enabled him to make short work of the two Czechs, but he had never even had to put up his fists to defend himself in a school playground. Instead of the blow taking Krajcir under the side of the jaw and knocking him out, it landed on his cheek, merely jerking his head round and causing him to stagger back against the wall.

  When Robbie struck out, Nejedly was holding a brief-case. Swiftly he set it down on Krajcir’s desk and sailed in, not with his fists but with his feet. As he ran forward, his right foot shot out. It caught Robbie a frightful crack on the shin. He let out a yelp and lifted the injured leg in the air. With surprising agility for one with his figure, Nejedly jumped back a pace then kicked out with his left foot at Robbie’s other leg.

  Had that second savage kick landed, it would have brought Robbie down. But Krajcir, his cheek bright red from the blow he had been struck, had now rounded on his aggressor. As he lurched forward to strike Robbie, he cannoned into Nejedly. Both the kick and the blow failed to find their mark. That gave Robbie a moment’s breathing space. With no plan, and only brute strength to aid him, he came lumbering forward, flailing his big fists indiscriminately at the two Czechs.

  One blow caught Krajcir on the forehead. Momentarily dazed, he again fell back against the wall. Another blow landed on Nejedly’s shoulder. It had such force behind it that it knocked him sideways, and he almost fell. For a moment, there was a clear space of several feet between them. Seizing his chance, Robbie made a dash for the door. He was half-way there when Nejedly recovered sufficiently to grab his wrist. At that instant, Robbie had one foot raised for his next stride. The sudden jerk on his wrist threw him off balance. His head thrown back and, clutching vainly at the air with his free hand, he heeled over sideways. Before he could recover, he cannoned into Nejedly and they both crashed to the ground. Robbie came down on top. As he fell his bent elbow, with all his weight behind it, came down on Nejedly’s stomach, temporarily driving the breath out of his body.

  With an agonised groan, the Czech doubled up and, for the space of a few heartbeats, Robbie had him at his mercy. A Commando-trained agent would have put him out of the game for good by giving him one hard sock under the jaw. But Robbie had imbibed the tradition that one never hits a man when he is down. Slightly horrified by the sight of the bulging eyes and gasping mouth in the moon-like face beneath him, he stared at it for those few vital heartbeats, then struggled to his knees.

  By then, Krajcir had recovered his wits. With a shouted curse, he launched himself from behind Robbie and grabbed him round the neck. Taken by surprise, Robbie felt himself being jerked backwards with his legs twisted under him. Kicking his legs free, he grasped Krajcir’s wrists and broke his grip. Robbie was now flat on his back with Krajcir behind him, still standing. The Czech could not use his hands; so he gave a swift, sideways kick that caught Robbie in the ribs.

  Robbie choked out an ‘Ouch!’ of pain, and let go of Krajcir’s wrists so suddenly that the latter staggered back. Nejedly was now sitting up, but still gasping for breath. Rolling over, Robbie lurched to his feet. Krajcir was between him and the door. As Robbie came at him, his eyes showed sudden fear. He ducked a windmill swipe from one of Robbie’s fists, and avoided the other by closing with him.

  For a few moments they swayed in a clinch, stamping to and fro on the floor and panting for breath. B
ut Robbie was far the stronger. Shifting his grip he broke Krajcir’s hold, then seized him round the wrist. With one great heave, he lifted the Czech right off his feet and hurled him from him. Krajcir’s ankle twisted under him as his foot came down on the floor. With a squeal of pain he spun half round, then toppled sideways. As he fell, his head hit the edge of the closet door. With a moan, he subsided in an ungainly heap and lay whimpering there.

  No time was given to Robbie to savour his victory. Nejedly was on his feet again, and had armed himself by snatching up a heavy, ebony ruler from Krajcir’s desk. As Krajcir slumped to the floor, Nejedly hit Robbie a stunning crack on the back of the head with the ruler. Robbie’s eyes bulged. Then, against a curtain of blackness, he saw flashing stars and whirling circles.

  With a groan, he lurched round. Nejedly was coming at him again. His sight cleared only just in time for him to glimpse the ruler held high. It was about to smash down into his face. Instinctively, he lifted a hand to ward off the blow. His hand caught Nejedly in the chest, halting the forward lunge of his shoulders. The jolt was sufficient to deflect his aim, and the ruler thudded down on Robbie’s upper arm.

  Again Robbie staggered back, but was brought up sharp by the edge of Krajcir’s desk. The sudden impact below his buttocks nearly sent his legs flying outward from under him. As his head and shoulders went back, he thrust his right hand behind him for support. It landed on the semi-circular handle of Nejedly’s heavy brief-case. Grasping it firmly he flung himself forward from the desk, drawing the brief-case after him in a wide, semi-circular sweep. More by luck than judgment, it struck Nejedly on the side of the head and sent him spinning. The ruler flew out of his hand and, with outflung arms, he measured his length on the floor.

  Robbie did not wait to see if he had knocked him out. Having temporarily got the better of both of his enemies, he took a deep breath and dashed for the door. In an instant, he was through it. A moment later, he had wrenched open the outer door of the agency and was in the courtyard. Still half dazed by the blow Nejedly had struck him on the back of the head, and much too excited by his first fight to think of anything but getting away, he ran as fast as his legs would carry him down the passage, out into the street and, dodging at considerable risk between two cars, across the road.

  An angry shout from the policeman on point duty brought him to his senses; but by then the danger of his being run down was past. It was only then, too, that he realised that he was still clutching Nejedly’s brief-case. A glance back at the far pavement showed him that he was not being pursued and, at a quick walk, he made his way round to the Grande Bretagne.

  Up in his suite, he took stock of his injuries. His head was still aching abominably and, on gingerly feeling the place where he had been hit, he found it sticky with blood. He wondered uneasily if his skull was split and he ought to call in a doctor, but that would have meant answering some very awkward questions. The wound did not seem to be bleeding much, so he decided to bathe it with cold water and leave it at that for the present. Now that he had stopped running and walking, his leg also began to pain him severely. Turning up his trouser leg, he found that Nejedly’s kick had broken the skin over his shin bone; so there was blood there, too, and the flesh all round was, already colouring up into a first-class bruise.

  Old Nanny Fisher had taught him that cuts should always be washed clean with soap and water as soon as possible; so, stoically clenching his teeth against the pain, he scrubbed his leg ruthlessly, thoroughly washed his head, then bound a handkerchief round the one and made a towel into a turban for the other.

  On his way from the bathroom through the narrow hallway of his little suite, he picked up the brief-case which he had thrown down there and carried it into the sitting-room. It was not locked, so he fished all the papers out of it and put them in a pile on his desk. His rough handling of himself when cleansing his wounds now paid a dividend, as by contrast they were throbbing only mildly, and, as soon as he realised what the papers were, he became so excited that he forgot his pain altogether.

  There were some two dozen documents in all. Each was in an envelope addressed to Krajcir and marked ‘Private’, and the postmarks on the envelopes showed that they had come from different parts of Greece. The majority were handwritten, but a few were typed. The greater part were in Czech, but several were in Greek, three in English and two in German. None of them was addressed to a person, and their only signature was a number which differed in each case.

  Inexperienced as Robbie was in such matters, after glancing through only a few it was plain to him that these were the reports of a network of secret agents. Except in particulars, they varied little. All of them were concerned with shipping, and principally naval shipping. From them could be built up a complete picture of the recent movements of every N.A.T.O. warship, American, British, Greek and Turkish, in the waters of the north-eastern Mediterranean. Movements of oil tankers and supply ships were also covered. Where warships had been in, or lying off, ports, estimates were given of the number of men given shore leave, the state of their morale, and such political opinions as the majority of them appeared to hold. In a few cases, the names were given of men who nursed grievances against their officers, or who there was reason to believe were secretly pro-Communist.

  It was evident that, for some reason, the Czechs considered it safer to have these secret reports sent to their Travel Agency rather than their Legation, and that Nejedly collected them from Krajcir once a week.

  Robbie was naturally delighted with his haul. Although it was only a side-product of the mission he had set himself, he felt that indirectly it might prove a great help to him. That none of the names and addresses of the writers of the reports was given obviously detracted greatly from their value but, even so, it seemed certain that they would be of considerable interest to N.A.T.O. Intelligence, if only as a means of informing it of this great network of spies which was being run by the Czechs, no doubt at the orders of their Russian masters.

  Sir Finsterhorn and Euan Wettering had poured scorn on Robbie’s proposal that he should become a secret agent. Now he saw a rosy picture of himself casually presenting the results of his first coup, and of their regarding him with awe and a new respect. Blissfully he envisaged his uncle patting him on the shoulder, encouraging him to go on with his mission, and promising him the official help that had previously been denied.

  So pleased with himself was Robbie that, his pains by now reduced to no more than dull aches, and feeling a little peckish from having skimped his dinner, he decided to celebrate by treating himself to an epicure’s supper. One of the discoveries he had made while living at the Embassy was caviare and, having no idea how costly it was, he always regretted that it was doled out there in quite small portions. Picking up the house telephone, he rang down for six portions to be sent up to him with plenty of hot toast, then he ordered a bottle of French champagne to wash it down.

  Scooping up the collection of reports, he thrust them back into the brief-case and snapped it shut. Then he went into his bedroom to tidy himself up. He had been sitting in his shirt and pants, but the collar of the shirt had become dirty and creased as a result of his fight and the cuffs had got wet when he washed his hair. Now he changed it for a clean one of white silk and, as he felt in festive mood, he put on a dinner jacket and black trousers. But he kept the towel wrapped round his head in the form of a turban from fear that, if he removed it, that might start his scalp bleeding again.

  Perhaps it was the rather rakish air that the turban gave him but, as he glanced at himself in the mirror, it suddenly struck him that he was quite a fine-looking fellow. Yet his next thought saddened him a little. Although he might appear a fine figure of a man to himself, it was clear that women did not find him in the least attractive, for not one of them—that is, of anywhere near his own age—had ever taken more than a passing interest in him.

  Theoretically, he had nothing to learn about sex. Some years before, while on holiday with his Aunt Emil
y at Scarborough, he had gone into a second-hand bookshop and bought several books on mythology. Seeing that he was a young man with plenty of money, the bookseller had persuaded him to add to his purchases a two-volume edition of Forberg’s Manual of Classical Erotology which had the English as well as the Latin texts. He had had only the vaguest idea what the word ‘Erotology’ meant, but the bookseller had assured him that Forberg was a great authority on the customs of the Ancients, and that he certainly ought to add a copy to his collection.

  When he got back to his hotel, he was surprised to find that the ‘customs’ referred to were not, as he had expected, accounts of betrothals and marriage rituals, possibly embellished with stories of the love affairs of the Immortals, but dealt entirely with the physical relations between men and women. Leaving nothing whatever to the imagination, Forberg described in detail every conceivable way in which a couple might gratify their passions. Further, to Robbie’s astonishment and disgust, it then disclosed to him that certain people were not content with making love in a natural manner, and gave descriptions of homosexual practices. Finally, it gave an account of orgies held by the Emperor Tiberius on Capri, in which numbers of the guests indulged in the most extraordinary gymnastics.

  Robbie was, therefore, even better primed in the ‘facts of life’ than many young men of his age, although he had never found an opportunity of making use of his knowledge. That was not because he had not wanted to, and at times he was troubled by a strong urge to demonstrate his virility. But he had been hopelessly handicapped by his extreme shyness where girls were concerned, and had not the first idea how to start an affaire.

  To those he met socially he would not have dreamed of even hinting at the provocative thoughts they sometimes aroused in him, and the younger ones soon found him too dull to bother with. Had he but known it, during the past year a few married women he had met while at the Embassy had seen in his stalwart figure the makings of a very satisfactory lover; but he had proved so gauche and tongue-tied that, after a while, they, too, had decided that he was too much of a bore to be worth seducing. There had remained the possibility of scraping acquaintance with some pretty piece strolling in the park or sitting on her own in a café, and he had often contemplated some such adventure but, at the last moment, his courage had always failed him.