Mayhem in Greece

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘Are you quite certain the accommodation Krajcir was asked to book was not for batches of ordinary tourists?’

  ‘Yes. Each group was divided into engineers and several grades of technicians. I’d bet anything that they are up to some game or other that won’t do the Western Powers any good.’

  Luke stood up. ‘In that case, I’d be the last person to dissuade you from finding out all you can. Anyhow, I’ll be keeping my fingers crossed for you these next few days. Should the worst happen, and H.E. does let the police cart you off, give me a ring, and I’ll get you a decent lawyer. Now, I think it’s time for bed.’

  As Robbie escorted his friend back to the side gate and let him out, he said again and again how grateful he was for his advice. Then, after a last good night, he re-crossed the garden and went up to his room. Suddenly, he felt very tired. In spite of the anxiety he still felt about the outcome of the animosity he had aroused in the Czechs, almost as soon as his head touched the pillow he fell sound asleep.

  In the morning, knowing that his uncle disliked unpunctuality, he was first down in the breakfast room. Euan Wettering arrived a few minutes later, gave him a surprised stare and said:

  ‘Well, who would have thought of seeing our young fellow-traveller. What’s the latest news from Moscow?’

  Robbie reddened. ‘You know jolly well that I only pretended Communist sympathies to get a job. Uncle must have told you that.’

  ‘He told me that you had suddenly got the bit between your teeth and nothing he could say would prevent your disgracing the family.’

  ‘He has been at me often enough to get a job,’ Robbie muttered sullenly. ‘And I got about the only sort of job I could be any good at.’

  Euan grinned. ‘Am I to assume, then, that you have come back to tell us how successful you have been at it?’

  At that moment, Sir Finsterhorn entered the room and Euan went on sarcastically: ‘Look who’s here, sir. The Kremlin’s latest and most brilliant protégé. He has come back to tell us that he has just been appointed to lead the Glorious, Boneheaded, Thugminded Youth Movement of Czechoslovakia.’

  ‘Shut up, Euan! Shut up!’ Robbie burst out in desperation. ‘Mind your own damned business.’

  The expression on the Ambassador’s face had shown no perceptible change. As he sat down at the table, he asked in a calm voice: ‘When did you get back, Robbie?’

  ‘Last night, sir,’ Robbie told him. ‘And please don’t take any notice of the things Euan is saying. The truth is that I’ve got the sack, and I felt I ought to come back and tell you about it.’

  ‘I don’t mind betting one thing,’ Euan chortled. ‘You didn’t get the sack for pinching the bottom of one of those plump-breasted workers’ joys that the Iron Curtain countries send abroad as typists in their Legations. Did you sock your boss, or was it just laziness?’

  ‘Euan!’ Sir Finsterhorn intervened sharply. ‘Why you should display so much malice toward Robbie, I have no idea. You will kindly refrain from baiting him. It will do us no harm to eat our breakfasts in silence. As for you, Robbie, I should like a few words with you in private afterwards.’

  In the belief that the presence of a third party, even if antagonistic, tends to make matters easier during a dreaded interview, Robbie had hoped to get through his ordeal over breakfast. Now, Sir Finsterhorn’s ban on speech condemned him to fifteen minutes’ agonising introspection and growing panic. At last the meal was finished, and he followed the Ambassador across the hall into his study.

  Sitting down at his desk, Sir Finsterhorn put the tips of his fingers together, looked over them at Robbie and said only: ‘Well?’

  ‘I’ve not much to say, sir,’ Robbie announced awkwardly. ‘I didn’t exactly get the sack. They put me into their Travel Agency, and I spent simply hours sorting folders and stamping envelopes. After a week of it, I was completely fed-up, and last night I had a row with the Manager, a chap named Krajcir. And I … well, I just decided to leave.’

  ‘Does this mean that you are not going back; that you have broken with your Czech friends permanently?’

  Robbie nodded violently. ‘Oh yes, Uncle.’ Then he added with unconscious candour: ‘I’m sure they wouldn’t give me another job, even if I asked for one.’

  Sir Finsterhorn allowed his expression of severity to relax a trifle. ‘You are, I trust, aware that this escapade of yours caused me grave embarrassment?’

  ‘Yes, Uncle. I’m afraid it must have. I’m terribly sorry about that.’

  ‘And I told you that if you took this job, I would not have you back at the Embassy?’

  ‘I know. I realise now that I ought not to have gone against your wishes. But … well, I was terribly keen to prove myself.’

  Again Sir Finsterhorn’s face became a shade more amiable, and he said: ‘I’m not blaming you for that, Robbie. Your upbringing has been so very different from that of a normal young man. It’s only natural that you should suffer at times from a feeling of inferiority and wish to show people that they underestimate your capabilities. Even so, it is most unfortunate that you should have chosen to attempt to do so in a manner that has brought such discredit on yourself and embarrassment to all of us here at the Embassy. What have you in mind to do now?’

  ‘Well, Uncle. I … I was hoping that you would forgive me and let me remain here ….’

  Robbie had been about to say ‘for the next few days’. But Sir Finsterhorn cut in with a quick shake of his head. ‘Forgive you, yes; but let you remain here, no. Your having proclaimed yourself a pro-Communist makes that impossible.’

  Robbie caught his breath. His heart seemed to rise up into his throat and choke him. His dread of arrest and prison surged back, leaving him for the moment tongue-tied. Luke had said so very definitely that if he left the Embassy during the next forty-eight hours, and the Czechs demanded police action against him, his number would be up. If his uncle expelled him here and now, he might find the police waiting round the corner, on the chance that he would be fool enough to come out, and they would be able to pull him in without going to all the trouble involved in making representations through diplomatic channels. At last, he managed to stutter:

  ‘Uncle … please! Can’t you let me stay here for a day or two? I … I mean, it will take me quite a time to pack. Can’t I stay here just till Monday night?’

  Sir Finsterhorn suddenly smiled. ‘My dear Robbie, there’s no need to take what I said like that. I’ve no wish to hurry you unduly. Of course, you must have time to pack and make your arrangements. In my view, your best plan would be to return to England. At least you have shown us that you are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself; and if you can do that in Athens, you can certainly do so in Cheltenham. No doubt you could arrange matters so that you leave here by the end of the week.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Uncle; thank you,’ Robbie murmured, almost overcome with relief. Then, seeing that the interview was over, he turned and quickly left the room.

  He had won his reprieve, but he knew that he was still very far from being out of the wood. At any time that day or the next, the police or a representative of the Greek Foreign Office might come to see his uncle, and blow everything wide open. He could only pray that Luke was right and the Czechs would decide that they had not a strong enough case against him to press for action. But if Luke proved wrong, the line he had taken of concealing the truth would make his case worse than ever. He had burnt his boats, and with them any hope that his uncle would give him protection.

  10

  Who Knows What is Round the Corner?

  That Sunday proved the worst day that Robbie had ever spent in his life. It seemed interminable and, as though drawn by a magnet, he could not resist spending the greater part of it hovering in the vicinity of the hall. As his uncle’s secretary was off duty, he used his room as a listening post, sitting in it with the door ajar and a book, on which he found it impossible to concentrate, on his lap. Every time the front-door bell rang, he jumped up and pee
red out, waiting with pounding heart to find out who the caller was.

  So absorbed was his mind with the fear that it could be only a matter of time before he would have to face exposure, that it was not until after twelve o’clock that it occurred to him that he ought to do something about the belongings he had left at the Grande Bretagne. Glad of the chance to occupy himself with something that would temporarily take his thoughts off his nerve-racking vigil, he went in search of his uncle’s valet, Loadham.

  This lean, cadaverous individual also pressed Robbie’s trousers and looked after his clothes. He took a gloomy pleasure in describing life in the great houses in which, when younger, he had served masters much more blue-blooded than Sir Finsterhorn, and Robbie was a good listener. Moreover, with his habitual generosity, Robbie gave Loadham a handsome tip every week; so their relations were distinctly cordial.

  Having run Loadham to earth, he opened matters by giving him his usual weekly tip, although he had been away for the past week. He then asked him to go to the Grand Bretagne, pay his bill and collect his things. A little nervously, he added: ‘I came back here last night because some thieves broke into my suite at the hotel. The management don’t know that, so they may expect me to pay for the damage to the doors. If they do, don’t mention the thieves; just pay up without argument. And … er, Loadham, I’d be awfully grateful if you didn’t say anything about this to anybody.’

  As Loadham took the blank cheque that Robbie had made out, he gave him a pained look that almost amounted to a reprimand. ‘As though I should ever dream of such a thing, Mr. Robbie. None of my gentlemen has ever had to complain about my discretion.’

  Satisfied that Loadham would not give him away, Robbie hastened back to the hall, fearful now that a bringer of explosive tidings might have appeared on the scene in his absence; but an anxious enquiry of the footman on duty reassured him. No one had called during the past half-hour.

  Both Sir Finsterhorn and Euan were out for lunch, so he ate the meal in solitary state. Afterwards, knowing that his uncle would not be back for some hours, he determined to be firm with himself and spend the afternoon lying down in his room. Up there, he found that Loadham had accomplished his mission. The valet had put away all his clothes, but his other belongings were in their usual places and, with heartfelt thanks, he saw that his precious manuscript was on his desk.

  After an hour of attempting to doze, he gave it up and went downstairs again. It had crossed his mind that, if the police did call while his uncle was out, at least he would know that he must expect the worst and be prepared for a second visit from them. It was not until after six that the awful tension from which he was suffering began to ease, as Greek officials would be certain to consider an Ambassador’s convenience. It seemed unlikely, therefore, that they would put off seeking an interview until an hour when he might be entertaining people to drinks.

  It happened, too, that Sir Finsterhorn had invited a number of people in for cocktails that evening, and afterwards he was giving a small, bachelor dinner party to introduce a newly arrived Military Attaché to his French, Italian and Turkish opposite numbers. So, from seven o’clock onwards, Robbie’s apprehensions perforce nagged at him only intermittently; but by the time he got to bed, he was thoroughly worn out.

  That nothing untoward had occurred on Sunday should have reduced his fears considerably. Yet soon after he woke, the horrid thought came to him that, the Greek Foreign Office being manned only by a skeleton staff on the Sabbath, the police were unlikely to have made the necessary contacts there on that day. Therefore, his period of maximum danger had yet to be faced.

  Again, like an uneasy ghost, he haunted the hall and staircase until several people had asked him what he was waiting for. Driven by this up to the first-floor landing, he hovered there for a while, cold shivers going down his spine at every ring of the front-door bell. A lunch party forced him to endeavour to behave normally from one o’clock until nearly three. Then, so that he might continue to keep his tormented watch on the hall, he adopted the expedient of pretending to go into the matter of his return to England. At intervals, he rang up in turn every travel agency, air line and shipping company he could think of, and made copious notes of flying times, sailings and fares. Somehow, he got through the afternoon and it was drink-time again. Euan was entertaining a party of American archaeologists on Sir Finsterhorn’s liquor, and their talk meant little to Robbie; but he helped himself liberally to cocktails and stood about keeping an anxious eye on his uncle, in case one of the staff came in to say that someone was asking for him.

  By eight o’clock, Robbie was three parts tight, but the amount he had drunk had made him take a rosier view of things. He was at last beginning to believe that Luke must have been right, and that he need not have feared exposure after all.

  Having just seen off two of his guests, Euan passed within a few paces of him and, noticing that his face was chalk-white, paused to ask: ‘What’s the matter, Robbie? You look as if you’d just seen a ghost.’

  Robbie was feeling distinctly queasy. Gulping down the hot saliva that was running in his mouth, he mumbled: ‘Nothing. Well—nothing much. It’s only that … that I’m not feeling very well.’

  Euan shot a quick look at Sir Finsterhorn, then said with a kindness unusual in him: ‘Your trouble, my lad, is that you’ve been knocking it back too hard, and if you make an ass of yourself at dinner, the Old Man will have your head off. Better go up to your room. I’ll re-arrange the places at the dinner table and tell him that you’ve eaten something that has disagreed with you.’

  ‘Thanks, Euan,’ Robbie nodded. ‘Jolly decent of you.’ Then, with an uncertain smile, he straightened his shoulders and left what remained of the party.

  Upstairs he was sick, had a bath and felt better. Flopping into bed, he at last relaxed, and the lingering fumes of the alcohol he had imbibed helped to dull his brain into sleep.

  On the Tuesday morning, he came downstairs to breakfast with a ravenous appetite, but still not entirely easy in his mind. It had struck him that, instead of calling on his uncle, the Greek authorities might take up the matter of his criminal activities by sending the Ambassador a written memorandum. If they had done that, it would have been drafted only the day before, and so would arrive in that morning’s post.

  Once more on tenterhooks through breakfast and after it, he hung about in the vicinity of his uncle’s study until a quarter past ten, fearing that at any moment the secretary might emerge with a dread summons for him. But when the secretary did appear, he gave Robbie a smiling nod, and by that time the morning’s post must have been opened and dealt with. It was only then, after what seemed to him an unending nightmare of uncertainty, that he felt he might dare to think of the future.

  During the past two days, he had found it utterly impossible. But now he had to make up his mind whether to return to England, as his uncle wished, or remain on in Greece. Whichever way he decided, he must now begin making arrangements in earnest, for he had to be out of the Embassy before the end of the week.

  It was a lovely day, and he badly needed a change of scene; so he rang up a garage from which he sometimes hired cars, and asked them to send one round. When it arrived, he told the man to drive him out to Sounion. There, he felt, on the headland between sea and sky, at the southernmost point of the peninsula of Attica, would be as good a place as any for him to think things out.

  Within five minutes, the car had passed Hadrian’s Arch and swung into the broad, straight boulevard that leads to the coast; but when they reached the Gulf, instead of turning right towards the Piraeus, it turned left and passed the Athens Airport at Phaleron. The road then followed the shore, twisting in and out along a score of charming bays in which blue seas broke on golden sands. Here and there, for some fifteen miles, there were clusters of villas, small hotels and cafés. These, later in the year, would be crowded with Athenian holiday-makers, but for the last thirty miles modern buildings were comparatively few and the rugged grandeu
r of the scene hardly differed from what it must have been in the days of the ancient Greeks.

  It was a little after twelve o’clock when the car turned inland, ran up a steep, twisting road and deposited Robbie at the Tourist Pavilion below the headland. In front of it was an array of tables under gay umbrellas, but only one coachload of tourists was scattered among them enjoying iced drinks or an early lunch. In the kitchen of the restaurant, he found that a fisherman had just brought in a catch of kalamarákia, so he ordered a dish of the baby squids to be put aside for him and fried at a quarter past one. Then he set out to trudge up the last half mile to the temple of Poseidon, which crowns this lofty promontory.

  The temple was built in the Great Age, under Pericles; it is made of pure white marble, and twelve of its original nineteen Doric columns are still standing. To either side of it, the coast falls away, so that it dominates the scene for many miles around. In the background, the green slopes of olive groves and vineyards merge into the brown of uncultivable land broken by stony outcrop, then rise to rocky heights, sharply outlined against a bright blue sky. To the east, south and west, the much darker blue of the sea again meets the sky, broken only here and there by a fleecy white cloud. Seen from whichever angle, the Temple presents one of the loveliest sights in all Greece.

  But today Robbie had no eyes for its beauty. Walking past it to within a few yards of the edge of the cliff, he sat down there and, pulling a long stem of wild grass, began to nibble at it. Apart from a few tourists strolling round the ruin in his rear, the place was deserted, and the only sound was the ceaseless pounding of the surf on the rocks far below.

  Although he had told Luke during their midnight talk that, if he escaped arrest, he wanted to continue with his self-imposed mission, he had been so scared during the past two days by the results of his initial efforts that he had almost decided to return to England. But now that harrowing episode appeared to be behind him, and he was once more greatly tempted to make use of the information he had secured.