by Jason Foss
*
Strefi Hill gives a view back over Exarhia and towards the Archaeological Museum. Idiosyncratic landscaping has created woodland grottos and mock castles rambling around the prominence. Lounging in wooded shade was a welcome escape from the maze of anonymous apartment blocks, hard streets and dark libraries below.
Flint was thinking about Palaeokastro in the Middle Ages, something he’d awarded little attention to.
‘Athens feels like home after a week, don’t you think?’ Lisa broke into his thoughts.
‘Home? No, I love travelling, but I’m never at home and I’m totally immune to that Hellenophile bug which seems to bite the English. Greece is a great place, but I feel like an alien. I don’t belong here, I could never even pretend to belong here.’
‘The Greek half of me would stay here forever,’ she said in a languid, dreamy voice. ‘The Greeks have a special way of doing things. Their attitude to life is simply wonderful.’
Flint groaned, ‘Sorry, I don’t believe that twaddle about Greek lifestyle you travel people are always pushing.’
Lisa came back sharply. ‘You sound as if you don’t like the Greeks.’
‘Oh, the people are wonderful when they’re not trying to arrest you. I just find that romantic Zorba-the-Greek-aren’t-the-peasants-wonderful notion terribly ethnocentric.’
‘God, you’re on form this morning — that was a mouthful even for you. You’ve no romance,’ Lisa asserted. ‘Well, I love Greece. I don’t miss Real Ale and fish and chip shops and Test Match Special.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘Fibber, I saw you reading the cricket scores yesterday.’ Lisa grimaced. ‘Hey, we’ve only been married for a week and we’re already squabbling.’
He hugged her close to squeeze home his opinions. ‘Intellectual discourse is not squabbling. You win: Athens is marvellously, splendidly, extravagantly grand! Tomorrow, I’m going to go the British School to look at local saints and martyrs.’
Lisa let out a long moan and dropped onto her back. ‘Bloody Palaeokastro. Why didn’t someone just build an airport on top of it, or a leisure centre?’
‘Perhaps someone wants to,’ Flint suggested.
‘I’ll drive the bulldozer,’ Lisa said.
He could see how total obliteration of the site would be appealing. ‘Okay, fantasies apart, I’ll stock up on references tomorrow, so you can hit the Gennadeion on Tuesday.’
‘So I get a day off tomorrow?’
‘No, no, I want you to hunt for maps. Start in the Blegen Library at the American Institute, I can talk you in. My friend Jules is good buddies with the student on the desk.’
‘You academics all stick together don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he snapped, then softened his tone. ‘That is, when we’re not sticking the knives into each other’s backs. Chin up, Lisa. We’re building up masses of information, the pieces will start falling together soon, we’re getting closer.’
‘What about the other people?’ she asked. ‘You’re not the only one who can do research. Are they getting closer too?’
*
So another week began, with Flint slouched back in a library chair, eyes barely seeing the text resting on the edge of the desk. Pottery? Were there any books devoted to pottery in the Argolid? No, too trivial. Metalworking? Goldsmith’s hoards? Any evidence that Greek settlers buried their wealth to keep it out of the hands of the Romans? With a heavy sigh he scribbled down his latest wild ideas, with no facts to support them. He had skimmed virtually every volume of The Greek and Byzantine Journal. There was nothing new, nothing left to say about Palaeokastro. Grotty, insignificant little dump.
*
Thymios K. Angelos sat within his white Citroën, parked in one of the expensive side-streets at the foot of Lykavettos. Lunch on expenses was always a pleasure. He folded the Daily Express neatly and thoughtfully. Tourist resort death case shock re-opening! British communist activist framed for murder. Greek government cover-up. Greek police corruption. Greek provincials in sinister conspiracy. He tapped the dashboard of his car in rhythm to the music then snapped off the radio. Straightening his suit he left the car and walked around the block to the British School.
Angelos slipped inside with practiced coolness, hardly glancing at the undistinguished academic in a second-hand jacket who passed him in the doorway. The two photographs he produced brought only frowns from Mrs Hopkins, but within his sophisticated English vocabulary, the word ‘no’ had an elastic, negotiable meaning. He talked his way into the library, with teeth so white, grooming so immaculate, and his enquiry surrounded one word: Palaeokastro.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mrs Kondyaki fed them breakfast each day for a modest price, which included listening to her constant chatter. She soaked up the lies Lisa was forced to invent to spin out conversation. Flint would sit with eyes glazing as the Greek passed to and fro. Afterwards, in the intimacy of their room, Lisa would relate annoying snippets of news; ‘She wants us to meet her neighbour,’ or, ‘She’s been telling all her relatives about us,’ or ‘She hopes her son will be coming home next weekend.’ Flint had no doubt that he would shortly hear Mrs Kondyaki on local radio, informing all of Athens about her lodgers.
*
Lisa had bought a bottle of turpentine-grade retsina and drank most of it in an hour. Adopting the Christine Keeler pose astride the chair, she watched her lover as he sat cross-legged on the bed, reading. Wearing only boxer shorts, with the faded virgin and child just above his head, Flint could have been a guru selling sex and instant enlightenment.
She had followed her instructions and obtained more information for Flint. Palaeokastro had featured on a map of American forces’ road building programme of 1949 and Lisa had been thrilled with her discovery; to find any mention of the place seemed a miracle.
‘I thought it was a funny place to build a road.’ Lisa seemed to crave conversation.
Flint had read a little about the Greek Civil War; a war fought between rival factions of abbreviations: EOK, EKKA, EAM, ELAS and even a group known as X. The communist ‘Democratic Army’ had resorted to the customary democratic techniques of murder, kidnapping and intimidation to bludgeon the mountain villages into co-operation and the nationalist government had been equally subtle. The communist defeat was achieved only after a horrific loss of life.
‘I said, it’s a funny place to build a road,’ she repeated.
‘That’s the military for you,’ Flint said, without looking up. ‘The Romans were the same, pushing roads into areas they wanted to control. The Americans were helping mop up in 1949, they might have needed a road into the hills so that the Government troops could move quickly inland and shoot a few communists when they needed to.’
‘So you already know all about my road,’ she said, making her disappointment obvious.
‘Well, yes, it was on our site map. The Americans built that embankment to carry the road over the gully; the one that Embury had me scrabbling about in.’
‘So what the hell are we looking for? Buried treasure?’
Flint spoke with a tired and strained voice. ‘A chance in a million says Embury had stumbled on the lost civilisation of the Argolid, but it’s far more likely he caused some local offence. Theory of the day was that he accidently desecrated a holy shrine or a saint’s last resting place, but I’m crossing that one out.’
Frustration suddenly burst from within her. ‘Jeff! I’m pissed off with wasting time finding out nothing.’
‘It’s not wasting time; collecting negative evidence is important.’
‘What crap you talk sometimes. Negative evidence! What is that supposed to be?’
‘We’re eliminating explanations, daftest first. We’re discovering reasons why Embury wasn’t killed.’
‘Oh brilliant. He wasn’t killed because he had bad breath. He wasn’t killed because he wore a string vest..’
‘Lisa...’
‘It will take forever, I think your brilliant brai
n is going soft; it must be too much sex. It won’t take much imagination for the police to guess where we are or what we were doing.’
‘Police forces don’t have any imagination,’ Flint asserted.
‘God, I wish I had your confidence!’
He began to read again, wishing Lisa would stop undermining his resolve.
‘Take me out on the town, treat me like a lady,’ Lisa purred.
Flint had to ignore her. ‘If Palaeokastro was an English village, we’d ask “what happened there”? The Vikings founded it, the Normans burnt it, it was for Parliament in the Civil War, the Nazis dropped a bomb on the cricket pitch...maybe we’ve been looking too far into the past.’
‘You have — I’ve written a pile of notes an inch thick about modern times and you’ve hardly looked at them.’
He nodded. ‘Second World War, Nazi gold, stolen art treasures, icons concealed by priests...’
‘Flying saucers, the last hiding place of the abominable snowman…’
‘Lisa!’
‘Take me for a walk in the moonlight. We could go up to the Plaka and sniff at restaurant doorways. We could watch people in the real world having fun. You can seduce me on the steps of the Acropolis if you like, but get me out of this stinking box, please!’
He nodded thoughtfully, ‘We haven’t tried travel writing.’
‘Jeff,’ she implored, ‘There is going to be another murder, in this room, in five minutes. Victim: you. Culprit: me. Motive: boredom.’
‘You go if you want, I’ll just finish this book.’
She muttered the words ‘stupid kid’ under her breath as his eyes fell back on the pages. ‘Fine, I will’, she said aloud, taking up her jacket in an effort to draw attention. Flint heard the door slam and felt the mood lift. He quickly finished the book on the history of Greece he had picked up in a cheap bookstore. Nauplion featured in the War of Independence, when it had temporarily become the capital of Greece, but Palaeokastro rated all the attention it deserved: none.
After jotting down a few notes, he took up a paperback account of the Second World War in Greece and began to skim through its pages. Thirty minutes later his eyes came to rest on one passage:
‘One of the earliest successes of the British Mission to Greece was the destruction of a chain of railway bridges linking the Peloponnesse with Corinth. The noted guerilla leader Stylanos Boukaris played a key role in covering for the demolition team. It was in fact the only major success for this nationalist grouping, who were soon driven into the Arcadian mountains by the Germans and virtually destroyed by rival communist bands. Boukaris was to lose his leg later in the war.’
It had to be the Stylanos Boukaris, father of Vassilis, model for an imposing bronze statue opposite Doctor Dracopoulos’ house. The world just kept on growing smaller.
Lisa had been gone a long time, he noticed. At first he missed company, then he began to miss Lisa, now he fretted over her safety. When two hours had elapsed, he started to contemplate a sudden exit of his own. Outside, Omonia was lit by the last glow of evening; backstreet bars, pimps and pickpockets would be starting their nightly trade. Flint looked under the bed, but found only a disturbed patch of dust where Lisa’s canvas handbag had lain. She had taken the money. Her distant apathy had been a warning he had ignored. Without her, his investigation was hamstrung. Flint fell back on the bed and let his eyes rest on a spider beside the lampshade.
Work, work and keep working, it was the only way to keep sane. If he was on his own, so be it. He could bring Vikki over, Tyrone too if necessary. Lisa was not indispensable; Hugh Owlett must speak Greek. To convince himself that he could maintain momentum, Flint sat upright and checked Note 12 at the end of the chapter. In an instant, he felt an icy chill and his skin turned to goose flesh:
12 Arcadian Commando. B.F. Nichols. 1947.
The crushed golden pen lay on the dressing table, a McGuffin without a plot. The coincidence was uncanny, too uncanny. Flint could hear voices above the television set in the adjoining room, but Mrs Kondyaki never received visitors.
It was a sell-out. Lisa — how could you? Flint rolled off the bed and made three steps towards the balcony before the door shot open. Lisa bounced inward, a glow on her full cheeks.
‘Hello inspector, solved the case yet?’
‘God, Lisa, I was worried.’
Her chin twitched as she confessed, ‘So was I.’
‘How far did you get?’
‘Three stops on the underground: I walked back.’
‘Why? Is it my sex appeal or the justice of my cause?’
‘Egotist!’ Lisa was on the point of laughing, or weeping. ‘You’re a self-centred, self-satisfied egotist, but you wouldn’t run out on me would you? You fight racism and sexism and all those other-isms and you’d fight for me, if I were in a corner.’
‘Guess so.’
She tossed aside her handbag, kicked away her sandals, then flopped on the bed. He immediately sat beside her.
‘I need you, Lisa.’
Arms linked around his back, looking up at him. ‘Don’t ask me why, but right now, I need you.’
‘First,’ he said, ‘I want to show you something. You’re not going to believe this...’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Angelos enjoyed his work. He had a softness for northern blondes, so Katrina from the German School naturally attracted him. Athens in midsummer could be claustrophobic, he had told her, too many tourists, too little air. He knew a little place — smooth talkers always know a little place — above the city, above the rush.
Over rice and lamb, they chatted in German, in Greek and in English, switching language as the mood took them. Yes, she knew the academic he was talking about. She half-closed her nordic blue eyes as she tried to describe Paul Adams. Yes, that was his name, he carried a pass from the British School. His spoken German was imperfect, but he would read books extremely quickly, perhaps ten or twenty in a day. He would arrive when the library opened and stay until she closed the doors. Angelos refilled her glass and ordered coffee. He enjoyed his work.
*
Travel writers, military anecdotes, recent biographies. Lisa was within the American Institute, hunting Byron Nichols and Stylanos Boukaris. Flint had gone on the same mission to the American Library at the Chamber of Commerce. They would meet at noon to compare notes.
Over to her left, by the desk, the student librarian caught her eye. He looked away, almost guiltily turning his head down towards a catalogue. A frisson of fear ran through her; she was being watched. She opened another subject index drawer, aware of her pulse rising, trying to remain calm. A glance towards the desk confirmed it; the youth with the spots and the Jehovah’s Witness haircut was staring at her. His eyes shot back to the catalogue.
Lisa controlled the trembling of her hands as she flicked the cards before her.
Military biography/Travel/History (Second World War)
Nichols, Byron F.
Arcadian Commando: memories of a mountain war
Atlanta, 1947.
154pp
She read the card again, blinking, then made a hurried note of the class mark. The drawer squeaked closed. Five minutes of searching amongst the shelves brought her to a slim, grey, hardbacked book kept almost at floor level, in a corner, near a radiator. The name had almost faded from the spine and the cover was blank. Lisa was on her knees as she withdrew it and opened the dedication page.
‘To Stylanos Boukaris and his family’
Excitement overcame nerves. After a moment absorbing the thrill, she allowed herself to slump to a sitting position and began to flick from page to page, having learned Flint’s knack of assessing the worth of books. After twenty minutes, the last page passed her eyes and she looked around. No one seemed interested in military biographies, or that corner of the library. Arcadian Commando was a small book, smaller than the canvas handbag. It slid very neatly inside.
Humming quietly she breezed towards the spotty student librarian,
who gave her a transparent smile. She responded with a hotelier’s practised insincerity.
‘See you this afternoon.’
*
A thunderstorm had rolled overhead and soaked Flint as he had walked to the rendez-vous with Lisa. Dripping below a shop awning, he felt once more vulnerable and conspicuous. No other tourists were in the street. All that was required was one policeman to take a dislike to the dishevelled figure, ask his identity, and it would be a long time before he felt rain on his face again.
He wrung out the sunhat and spread it on a low wall to dry, then sat beside it, staring at the traffic. A well-dressed Greek couple walked sedately along the pavement; he holding the umbrella, she taking his arm. The white-suited man nodded towards Flint, then stopped and felt in his pocket. Before the archaeologist could react, a bronze coin bounced into the hat.
Flint was still looking aghast at the hundred drachma piece when Lisa appeared, smug and happy, walking crisply across the steaming road. A hooting taxi missed her by inches, but Lisa seemed hardly to notice.
‘Find a caff., I need a coffee.’
He showed her the coin and told the story. She guffawed and pulled him to his feet.
‘Do I look like a tramp?’ he asked.
‘Habitually. I remember you telling me you’d get by on charity.’
‘That was a manner of speech.’
The kafenon was totally deserted; even its owner could barely raise the enthusiasm to serve, and a blaring television recaptured his attention immediately afterwards. A pair of plywood chairs and an aluminium-topped table filled the corner by the window, where Lisa waited for Flint to bring the coffees.
‘Prez.’ Lisa pulled the slim book from her handbag as he sat down.
Flint took the small offering, reading the title and the author’s name three times before it sank in.
‘I stole it,’ Lisa added casually.
‘Knowing my luck, they’ll add an extra year to my sentence for handling stolen library books.’
