Mayhem in Greece

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘That’s true; and, knowing me to be Václav’s wife, it’s perfectly understandable that he should be unwilling to trust me.’

  ‘I didn’t give him any particulars about what happened, but gave him simply to understand that you were on our side and that it was only by your help that I had so far kept out of the hands of the police.’

  ‘He would put that down to the belief that we ran away from Athens together as lovers; but that doesn’t make me any the less a Czech. You were absolutely right, though, to accept the compromise he suggested. Václav may not take the bait I offered, and this gives you another chance to justify your having killed Cepicka. That’s the all-important thing. How about our plan, though? If Václav does come to Heraklion, do you intend to let Henry know?’

  ‘No, I don’t think there’s anything to be gained by doing that. Quite apart from getting all I can out of Barak, I’ve got a personal score to settle with him and I don’t want any interference.’

  It was half-past-six by the time they were back in Heraklion. Parking the car in Morosini Square, they went over to a café to have a drink. They noticed then that little groups of people were standing about, either moodily or arguing excitedly together. As they gave their order to a waiter, they learnt the reason. At midday Russia had issued an ultimatum to the United States. Either the submarine must be surrendered intact within seven days or mines would be exploded in the ice under which she lay, to drive her out.

  That was grim news. Actually to attack the submarine would almost certainly lead to war. The Americans were a proud and courageous people. In every country, there was always a ‘peace at any price’ party, but the majority would not submit to the humiliation of allowing their warship to be destroyed without retaliating. The Russians must realise that so, had they really wanted a ‘showdown’, surely, instead of issuing an ultimatum, they could have blown New York off the map without warning. Even so, things had now reached a point where an impatient finger on a trigger might cause that to happen at any moment.

  When Stephanie and Robbie had talked over this latest news and finished their drink, it was time for him to walk up the street to the Heraklion Club. Next day, there might be a letter for Stephanie from Barak; so it was agreed that, after she had called at the G.P.O., she should come in the car to their usual meeting place at ten o’clock. If there were no letter, and Mahogany Brown had not asked Robbie to give him his help in some way, they would spend the day motoring to the east along the northern coast of Crete, to see other remains of the Minoan Age and the bay of Malea with its scores of windmills.

  Robbie found the entrance to the Club without difficulty and a lift took him up to the premises, which proved to be airy but bleak. Mahogany Brown was waiting for him at the cloakroom counter and led him straight down a long passage, past a room in which some men were playing billiards, to the restaurant. It was a large, lofty room that had only about twenty tables in it, although it could easily have held double that number. There was a bar in one corner and, beside one end of it, a serving door to the kitchen, which stood open, revealing a chef and three women all talking at the tops of their voices. Apart from them and a solitary waiter the place was empty, as it was well before the hour at which the Greeks usually dine.

  The waiter served them drinks and they carried them over to a table in a far corner of the room, then got down to exchanging information. It soon transpired that all the groups which either of them had investigated were carrying out exactly similar operations, the drilling of a single, deep hole about a foot in diameter, with long screws having in their centre a hollow eight or more inches across. It was not until Robbie gave an account of the conversation he had overheard at Gortyne that morning between the two Czechs that Mahogany Brown showed sudden interest.

  ‘So he wanted to drop one down the Zeus Grotto, eh?’ he said. ‘Well, anyway, that confirms my guess that they mean to put something down those holes. But what? Have you any sort of idea?’

  ‘Atom bombs,’ replied Robbie promptly. ‘Or rather, I suppose, by this time they’ve got cobalt bombs.’

  ‘I thought of that. But there’d be no sense in it. Even the site we saw today on the bay of Mesara is several miles from our big, new air base, and none of the others are anywhere near important military installations. What would be the point of blowing great holes in the Greek coastline and several of the islands?’

  ‘At one time, I thought they might be installing some form of radar gadget which would, in some way, assist Russian submarines,’ Robbie remarked.

  ‘That would make more sense, but why the holes?’

  ‘I don’t know a thing about science, so I couldn’t even make a guess. From tonight’s news, though, it looks as if we may soon be given the answer in a way we won’t like. Or are you still of the opinion you expressed at lunch?’

  Mahogany Brown shook his fair, crew-cut head. ‘What I said at lunch was all hooey, except for one thing. That was that, if the big bang is coming, we’re as well placed here to survive as anywhere, except the outspots like darkest Africa or Peru.’

  ‘You think it really looks like war, then?’

  ‘I wouldn’t wager more than evens that it won’t come to that. We’ve been at maximum alert since midday, and whatever declarations may have been made from the White House, I wouldn’t put it past one of our top brass in the Pentagon letting off the fireworks rather than risk letting the Russians have first crack at us.’

  ‘If we are as near the edge as that, why in God’s name don’t your people go right into these sites and stop the Czechs doing whatever they are at?’ Robbie asked.

  ‘Because the Greeks won’t let us.’ Mahogany Brown beckoned the waiter over to replenish their drinks, then he went on: ‘That’s the big handicap the West has been up against all the time. Moscow has only to say the word to get done in any of the Iron Curtain countries anything the Kremlin boys want—and done at once. But N.A.T.O. has to say “Please may we?” to the Governments of each separate sovereign State in the Alliance when she wants some action taken in that State’s territory. To get a reply usually takes months and, when it does come, often as not it’s “No”.’

  ‘Yes, I realise that. But surely, in a case like this, you could have got the Greek Government to send their own people in to inspect these sites and find out what the Czechs are up to?’

  ‘That’s what my Chief tried to do. But the Greeks wouldn’t wear it. The trouble is that West and East have played at Brinkmanship for so long that most people simply won’t believe that it will now ever come to a hot war. Stockholders get the jitters, but they do that anyway every year or two when there’s a threat of depression, or it looks as if a disarmament agreement is at last going to put half the world’s heavy industry out of business; tourists get out in a hurry because, rather than face even a remote possibility of being cut off in a foreign country, folk naturally incline to beat it for their homes. But Governments don’t scare all that easy. The Greeks are getting what they regard as a lot of money for nothing out of this tobacco-oil deal and, so far, they’ve had only a ten per cent payment on signing of contract so, naturally, they don’t want to upset the Czechs before they get the rest.’

  ‘One couldn’t blame them for that if the Czechs really were prospecting for oil. But we know they are not. They are not using the right kind of apparatus. If your Chief made that clear to the Greek Government—’

  ‘He has, but it’s cut no ice. The Czech story is that they are using an entirely new process, and it is their secret. That’s why, when it was tentatively suggested to them that they should allow an inspection, their refusal sounded quite reasonable to the Greeks. And Greece is a poor country, remember. Think what it would mean to the Greeks if the Czechs really did strike oil. Looked at from their point of view, one can’t expect them to risk busting their chances of a bonanza just because an American sub has got herself stuck in Soviet waters and there is one more of those recurrent crises that we’ve had during most of our lives.’


  They went out to the kitchen, where the fat, cheerful chef produced in a ladle for their inspection various bits and pieces from his row of big, bubbling pots. Mahogany Brown chose one of those mysterious stews. Robbie hesitated over chicken; but as, owing to lack of corn, the hens in Greece were always so small and skinny he settled for fried meat balls.

  By then, half a dozen men had come into the dining room, but none of them was near enough to the table that Mahogany Brown had chosen to overhear their conversation; so, when they were settled at it again, Robbie asked:

  ‘If the Russians do bore through the ice to depth-charge the submarine, what will happen? She must have a dozen or more missiles on board, so could fire them off. Won’t the Russians be afraid that she may, and might blot out Moscow?’

  ‘No, she couldn’t do that. If she were clear of the ice and at sea, she could. But the several feet of ice on top of her would be certain to deflect the aim of the missiles. I don’t know enough about it to speak for sure, but I think the chances are that hitting the solid ice would cause them to go off prematurely. In that case, the back blast would blow her to bits. Of course, it would put paid to any part of the Soviet Fleet that was within miles. But the Russians regard ships and men as expendable; so they wouldn’t lose much sleep over the sinking of a few mine-laying vessels and, perhaps, a couple of cruisers.’

  ‘Say the worst happens,’ Robbie enquired. ‘How do you think things will go?’

  Mahogany Brown poured some more vinegar over the stew he was eating, and shrugged. ‘Your picture is probably as good as mine. Even if the Russians do strike first and blot out New York, Chicago, Detroit, London, Paris and various other big centres of production, we’ll flatten Moscow, Leningrad, Kiev, Kharkhov, Warsaw, Prague and so on. But the earth is one hell of a big place and there’s a limit to the damage that the I.C.B.M.s can do, even allowing for fall-out. After a few days the missiles will have been used up, then what’s known as the “broken back” war will begin.’

  Having tossed back half a glass of the Cretan red wine they were drinking, he went on: ‘As I see it, the big problem is going to be getting rid of the millions of dead before a plague sets in. But, providing an epidemic doesn’t kill off those of us who are left, the survivors in the fighting services on both sides will gradually get themselves organised and set about having old-fashioned battles.’

  ‘If they do, they will be pretty well back to bows and arrows.’

  ‘Oh no; not necessarily. When I said old-fashioned, I meant sort of 1914-18, or maybe even 1939-45. There should be quite a few ships, aircraft and tanks left around, and the winner is going to be the side that’s got the oil to run them. That’s why, strategically speaking, the Aegean is so important. Nine-tenths of Russia’s oil is concentrated in the Caucasus and Rumania. The nearer our subs can get to those fields, the more accurate the aim of their missiles will be. They daren’t go through the Bosphorus into the Black Sea. That would be too risky. But you can be sure we have a number of them sitting on the bottom of the Aegean right now, ready to blast off at the word “go”; so as to make certain of putting the Soviet oil wells out of business even before the “broken back” war gets going.’

  They finished off their meal with slices of an incredibly sweet cake that consisted mainly of crystallised fruit, then had Turkish coffee and Greek brandy. As they were about to leave the table, Mahogany Brown said: ‘I shall get on to my Chief tonight, to let him know that bit you picked up today about dropping things down grottoes, and urge that he have another crack at the Greeks to go in and find out what it is the Czechs mean to drop. For the moment, I don’t see what else we can do. But I’d like you to keep in touch, because a lone wolf like you can sometimes do things that I’m barred from doing unless I go against Standing Orders and risk blotting my copy-book. Look in at the Candia Palace, just along the street here, round midday tomorrow, will you?’

  Robbie promised to do so, then the American said: ‘Just one other thing. I’m holding you to your word not to mention to Madame Barak anything we’ve discussed. How she saved her pretty neck after she was supposed to have gone over that precipice in your car I wouldn’t know, and I’m not asking. But one thing I am certain about. It is that the Czechs fixed it that you should take her with you when you left Athens, so that she could report back to them how much you were finding out. Maybe that’s news to you. If so, I’m sorry to have spoiled any illusions you may have about her having gone with you all for love. But there it is. She started out on the other side, and maybe is so still. So, for the sake of the Europe that you evidently like, not to mention the old U.S. that means a lot to me, you’ve really got to watch your step with her.’

  With a rueful grin, Robbie replied: ‘Since you know so much I’ll admit that, to begin with, she was acting under her husband’s orders. But after we met Barak on the mountain road, he pushed her over the precipice and I had the luck to save her. As a result of that, she is completely through with him and has come over to us.’

  ‘Maybe she is through with him as a person. If they had still been turtle-doves, it’s odds-on he would have found some other cutie to lead you up the garden path. But, in my experience, once a Communist always a Communist, with only remarkably rare exceptions; so keep on loving her plenty if you wish, but do it with your mouth shut.’

  After spending another far from comfortable night in his draughty hide-out, Robbie went to a barber’s, had himself shaved, then met Stephanie on the corner of Liberty Square. As soon as he was in the car, she said with an excitement which she could not altogether conceal: ‘At the G.P.O. I picked up a letter from Václav. He is arriving by the evening’s plane and, as I suggested, has asked me to meet him.’

  ‘Thank God for that!’ Robbie exclaimed. ‘I can’t say that I am looking forward to taking him to pieces, but the way things are developing, it has become terribly urgent to force him to talk. I’ve just got to put any scruples about fair play behind me.’

  ‘How did you get on last night with Henry?’ she asked.

  ‘Very well, although he’s still no wiser than we are about the so-called oil prospecting. I told him that your husband had tried to do you in, and that you had since come over to us. But he wouldn’t take my word for that. I have to meet him at the Candia Palace at midday.’

  ‘Then that knocks on the head a trip down to Malea to see the windmills. We couldn’t possibly get back in time. How would you like to fill in the morning?’

  ‘We might run out to Knossos and spend an hour there. I’m sure there are lots of it that we haven’t yet seen.’

  Without comment she accepted his suggestion and, twenty minutes later, they left the car in the parking place, took tickets and again made their way across to the vast pile of ruins.

  After exploring the treasury and store-rooms on the eastern side of the slope and admiring the giant oil jars which—shades of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves—could each have held four men, they made their way up again to the reconstructed parts with their curious red pillars, broader at the top than at the base, and gaily painted walls. For the second time they strolled through the room of the Double Axes, the room of the Dolphin frescoes and the Throne Room, in which the throne—a leaf-back stone chair with a hollowed seat, and the oldest throne in the world—still stood.

  In all the principal rooms, to one side or in a corner, steps led down to a sunken area several feet below the level of the floor. On their first visit, a guide had told them that these pits had been filled with sacred water, because the Minoans were so superstitious that they were constantly feeling the need to purify themselves by total immersion.

  Looking down into one of the pits, Stephanie remarked: ‘You know, I can’t believe that a people so civilised as the Minoans were so obsessed by their religion that, every time they ate or kissed or told a naughty story, they felt such a compulsion to cleanse themselves by jumping into holy water that they couldn’t wait but had to have a bath of it in every room.’

  Robbie s
miled. ‘No, I’m sure the guide was wrong about that. The Minoans were so far advanced as architects, with their drainage and that sort of thing, I should think it certain that these pits in every room have something to do with minimising the effects of the earth tremors. That ties up with the established fact that the Minoans held all their public ceremonies in the great open courtyards, and built only small rooms indoors; so that they would stand up better against earthquakes.’

  As Robbie said this last word, his mouth remained open on the last syllable and his eyes suddenly grew wide.

  ‘Whatever is the matter?’ Stephanie asked, giving him an anxious look.

  ‘Earthquakes,’ he repeated. ‘Earthquakes; earthquakes. My God, I’ve got it! That’s the answer.’

  After a quick look round to make sure that no guides or visitors to the ruins were within earshot, he hurried on: ‘Don’t you see? Every site to which we’ve been has suffered from a series of earthquakes. All the Aegean islands are subject to them. Many were thrown up by them, even, according to the ancient chronicles, the great island of Rhodes. Barak and Co. mean to drop H-bombs down those holes and, when the time comes, explode them underground. Explosions in a confined space have many times the power that the same amount of explosives would have in the open. These won’t only rend vast holes in the earth; the shock will operate downwards, too. The crust of the earth is thin here and violent fires are always raging beneath it. The shock of each explosion will link up with that of the next in the chain. Rents scores of miles long will be torn in the land and under the water. The sea will boil, whole mountains will come sliding down. It will be just like another war of the gods and titans. The bomb at Corinth will destroy the isthmus so that the Peloponnesus will become an island. All round Greece, and right up to the Dardanelles, the whole coastline will be changed.’