Sea of Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  The Gestapo asked whether he could maybe share the name of the guest?

  ‘Michael Eugene Doyle, Irish passport, checked in Thursday, checked out today.’

  And who was it who made the bribe?

  ‘A tall Bulgarian… No, he’s not at the hotel but I’ve just seen him go into a cafe across the street.’

  They picked up the Bulgarian straight away and after a preliminary roughing up in the back of the car – nothing too serious, more routine than anything else, just to let him know who he was dealing with – set off for the Gestapo headquarters in Agia Triada.

  But no sooner had they arrived at the imposing turn-of-the-century villa where they were based than they noticed their prisoner was slumped in his seat, his head lolling around and his face blue. There was no question of course: he was dead and nothing on him gave any clue as to who he was.

  Which is when they panicked. Someone decided they needed to get rid of the body and forget about the whole thing and the others agreed. They’d wait until night to dump it, a task which was imposed on the two most junior officers. They drove the body to wasteland near the Jewish cemetery in the north of the city and left it there, but not until one of the officers decided to cut the man’s throat to make it look more like a common crime.

  Which was a disaster, naturally. Even a Greek traffic policeman, let alone a junior Gestapo officer, ought to have known that cutting the throat of someone who’d been dead for the best part of twelve hours would result in minimal blood loss, which meant whoever found the body would be even more suspicious.

  A disaster.

  * * *

  It was a quarter past six on the Friday evening of the first day of October when the ship’s horn burst into life with a suddenness which caused Richard Prince to jump, even though he’d known their departure was imminent. Moments later the horn was still echoing around the dock at Thessaloniki as the Adelina slipped anchor and began its journey down the Gulf of Thermaikos towards the Aegean.

  He and Moris were in a cabin well below deck, the porthole shut tight with a shutter firmly closed over it. The cabin was comfortable enough, with a bunk bed, two chairs and a table fixed to the floor, a sink in the corner and a small toilet behind a metal door.

  Although there was no common language between them, the boy seemed surprisingly relaxed in his company. Prince looked up from where he was sitting on the lower bunk: Moris was at the table, colouring in a picture in one of the books he’d brought with him, his tongue sticking out in concentration. Moris shot him the broad grin Prince had grown accustomed to in the short time he’d known the boy. It was the kind of smile which exposed all his teeth, including the ones at the back. It was the same smile as his own son Henry’s.

  * * *

  He’d not left the room in Bar Parnassus since he’d been brought there on the Monday morning. Georgi had returned an hour later with his case and then disappeared. He was going ‘…to sort things…’ he said. It was the last Prince saw of him.

  Apostolos appeared later in the afternoon, lugging a camp bed up the stairs and informing Prince this was where he’d be staying.

  ‘I need to find a ship to take you and Moris to Istanbul.’

  ‘Do many ships travel that route?’

  ‘Plenty of ships travel that route but we need to find one we can trust. With this war, things change every day – which flags are safe to travel under, which aren’t – and then when I find the right ship I have to be sure about the captain and the crew – I need to know they’ll be satisfied with the fare. Alvertos is going to be worried – you and Moris won’t be on the train tonight and it’s too risky getting a message to him.’

  Apostolos returned the next day, his face white and his body almost shrunken. He had bad news, he told Prince. He was trembling as he lowered himself into a chair.

  ‘Georgi is dead.’

  ‘What! How did this happen?’

  ‘His body was found on wasteland to the north of city early this morning. Theodoropoulos heard about it. After Georgi came back here with your things he went off – he said to sort things out, didn’t he? We know he sorted everything out at the hotel, so I’ve no idea what happened. I don’t know where he went or who killed him. Theodoropoulos says his throat was cut in a suspicious manner – that’s the police for you, eh… when is a throat being cut not suspicious? If you wanted me to speculate, it was the Gestapo. They may have somehow established a link between him and you and wanted to send out a warning, but I don’t know… that’s a guess. Theodoropoulos is worried sick, I can tell you. He thinks sooner or later they’re going to find out about him. Why he should be thinking that I don’t know, but the sooner we can get you and Moris away, the better.’

  On the Wednesday Apostolos returned with better news. He’d found a ship.

  ‘I thought I had one last night. A Turkish skipper was in the bar downstairs and said he was sailing back to Istanbul tonight but there was something about him I didn’t like, I just didn’t trust him – Turkish vessels are always searched so thoroughly when they leave Greek ports. Then this morning I heard about an Italian freighter which docked at high tide. It’s a five-thousand-tonne steamship which sailed in from its home port, Naples, with a cargo of wood. It’s due to sail to Istanbul on Friday, on the early evening high tide with a mixed cargo. By a wonderful stroke of luck, we know the captain.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘His name is Stefano Conti and before the war Alvertos used to use him a lot for smuggling – and he paid him very well. They became quite friendly. I went to the port office this morning and when I saw the Adelina was sailing to Istanbul and the name of the captain, I couldn’t believe it. He’s happy to help. He doesn’t even want money – he says throughout the war he’s helped Jews escape the Nazis and now the Italians are out of the war he sees no reason to stop. I think he’ll probably want a favour or two from Alvertos when you land in Istanbul.’

  ‘Is an Italian ship safe?’

  Apostolos shrugged. ‘Who knows? As I say, they’re out of the war now so that could make them safer or it could make them less safe, I’ve no idea. Even during the war Italy was always a safe flag to use, no one was ever sure which side they were on. Somehow the Italians don’t seem to bother people. The Germans are at war with the British, the Turks hate the Greeks and vice versa, but the Italians… who do they offend? It’s a good ship too – apparently it was built in England.’

  Apostolos explained the plan: Theodoropoulos would bring Moris to the bar the next day, Thursday. That night, once it was dark, Apostolos would smuggle Prince and Moris onto the Adelina. They’d remain in the cabin until the boat sailed the following evening.

  Moris arrived early in the morning, Theodoropoulos was bringing him in on the way to work and his demeanour gave the impression he was being relieved of a burden. The boy had a small rucksack and the expression common in young children when they’re somewhere between frightened and excited. Theodoropoulos spoke firmly with Moris, apparently giving him instructions, and Moris stood silently, nodding his head in understanding. The policeman patted the boy on the shoulder, ruffled his hair and left, explaining to Prince he couldn’t be late for work.

  Apostolos told him Theodoropoulos had assured Moris that this man was a very nice man, he was a good friend of his father and he was going to go with him on a boat to see his father. He’d said the man couldn’t speak Greek or Ladino, but Moris would be fine as long as he stayed with the man and didn’t run off or make a noise.

  Later that night Apostolos led them out of the bar. He’d parked a van by the rear entrance and Prince and Moris climbed into the back. It was a short journey to the quayside. When they got out Prince saw Apostolos had parked by the ship, its name picked out by the port lights: Adelina, Napoli.

  Three men in officers’ uniform gathered round the van. One of them picked Moris up, wrapped him in a blanket and hurried up the gangplank. Prince had climbed back into the van to pull out his suitcase and the two backpacks w
hen he heard a car screech to a halt beside them. Apostolos hissed ‘Get back in, hide,’ and shoved him deep into the van.

  From his crouching position Prince listened to a tense conversation in Greek. He could see the torso of a man in uniform standing in front of Apostolos, moving closer towards him. From his pocket Apostolos had removed a large roll of banknotes and was peeling them off, three or four at a time. He hoped this was a routine police patrol, maybe some kind of black market operation, the police happily taking their cut – happens in every Mediterranean port, every day.

  But then another voice, not speaking Greek, distant at first but moving towards them. As it did so the policeman moved sharply away from Apostolos who just as swiftly put the money back into his pocket. The man was speaking German, slowly so the policeman would understand. When his torso came into view it was someone in civilian clothes, almost certainly Gestapo.

  ‘What’s going on’?

  ‘Routine, sir, I’m just checking papers.’

  ‘You sure? I thought I saw one of these officers carry something on board?’

  ‘We are taking provisions on board, sir – we have purchased them quite properly from my friend here.’ It was one of the Italian officers speaking.

  ‘I wonder what it is that makes me not believe you? Let me have a look inside the van.’

  Prince noticed Apostolos move between the back of the van and the German.

  ‘Tell him to move.’

  Prince thought about rushing out of the van, pushing the German over as he did so, but he realised it would be hopeless. He turned towards the open cab of the van, wondering if he could climb into it and slip out the driver’s door. It was then he noticed a gap between the front seats, a well perhaps a couple of feet wide and just deep enough for him. He rolled into it just before a torch beam trained into the van. He knew he’d be discovered if the German bothered to look any further but the light bounced away and the German spoke again to the Italian officer.

  ‘Very well – and has anyone approached you to take them as a passenger to Istanbul?’

  ‘As a passenger? We’re a freighter, sir. We don’t take passengers.’

  ‘I tell you what, if you’re approached by anyone to take them to Istanbul you tell us, understand? Contact the Gestapo desk in the port police office over there. And we’re especially interested in an Irishman, a man called Michael Eugene Doyle. Understand?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  During an uncomfortable five minutes Prince heard the car pull away and the Italians talking anxiously among themselves – it sounded as if an argument was in progress and he worried they may be having second thoughts, reluctant to allow someone on board who was wanted by the Gestapo. They could easily take Moris to Istanbul and abandon him. For an irrational moment or two Prince pondered how he’d explain all this to Gilbey.

  The rear of the van opened and someone threw some clothes in.

  ‘Here, put these on. It’s an officer’s uniform. There’s no one watching at the moment but it’s better to be safe. Leave the bags there. Domenico will bring them once you’re on board.’

  An officer led Prince onto the ship. The three officers gathered in the cabin with Prince, Moris and Apostolos. The shortest of the three men introduced himself to Prince: Stefano Conti, Captain Stefano Conti. He introduced the other two, Domenico and Giacomo, his two most senior officers. They would be the only ones having contact with them during the voyage. Domenico was the younger of the two and looked more worried, less friendly.

  ‘Stay in here and we’ll bring everything to you. This cabin is very safe. The door will be locked throughout the voyage. Do you have any questions?’ The captain’s English was good.

  ‘How long will the voyage take?’

  ‘Ah – that depends entirely on sea conditions and if any navy ships out there decide they don’t like us. The Adelina can do a steady twelve knots, but we’re more likely to maintain an average speed of nine knots. I estimate that if we set sail tomorrow night around six we could reach Istanbul at about the same time on Sunday evening, but I’d rather cut the speed when we’re in the Sea of Marmara so we can dock at high tide on Monday morning – sometime near nine o’clock. It’ll be safer when the port is busy.’

  They left them alone after that. Apostolos bid them farewell, giving Prince a letter to pass on to Alvertos. Every so often either the captain or one of the other two officers would come to the cabin, usually with food or just to check on them.

  Moris was easy to please, happy to spend his time with his colouring book or playing with his jigsaw puzzles. Whenever he and Prince made eye contact Moris would break into that beaming smile. He rarely even attempted to speak.

  * * *

  Just before midnight on the Friday the captain came into their cabin. Moris was fast asleep on the bottom bunk and Stefano Conti gestured for Prince to join him at the table. He spread a chart out across the table.

  ‘You asked how long the voyage will take. Let me bring you up to date. The sea conditions are good and the weather forecast looks promising too. Our route will be to sail south through the Gulf of Thermaikos into the Aegean, past the southern tips of the three Halkidiki peninsulas: Kassandra, Sithonia and Athos. I then intend to sail up towards the coast before heading south… here… keeping east of the islands of Samothraki and Imroz before entering the Dardanelles which I estimate will be early Sunday morning. We’ll sail through the Sea of Marmara and I still intend to dock in Istanbul on Monday morning.’

  Domenico slipped into their cabin late on the Saturday morning carrying a metal tray with their lunch which he placed on the small table, ruffling Moris’s hair after he’d done so.

  ‘Can I have a word with you?’ The Italian signalled for Prince to join him in the corner of the cabin.

  ‘Don’t worry, you can speak – the boy doesn’t understand a word of English.’

  ‘My English is not good, but I have a problem.’

  ‘What is that?’

  The officer shrugged. ‘I have a son too, maybe younger than the boy. My wife is expecting another baby soon. The Germans can stop this ship and search it and I’m worried that if we are caught smuggling you then I’ll be in trouble – serious trouble. And my family would have no money. I told the captain, but he and Giacomo…’

  Prince tried to work out what the Italian was after; his worried tone had changed to a more menacing one and he edged uncomfortably close to the Englishman.

  ‘Look, I don’t see eye to eye with Captain Conti, or Giacomo for that matter. I’ve always supported Mussolini, they couldn’t care less – they support whoever is winning.’

  ‘I’m not sure why you’re telling me this, Domenico, I would hope that—’

  ‘…your Greek friend, at the port…’

  ‘…Apostolos?’

  ‘Yes. He had a lot of money with him, didn’t he? I saw how much he gave to the police officer. I know you’ve given money to the captain also. He treats me like I’m a waiter in a trattoria, small tips… maybe if you could…’

  Prince hesitated as he mentally calculated how much money he had on him and how much would satisfy the Italian. He glanced at Moris who looked up and smiled at him. And then Prince was overwhelmed by anger. He grabbed Domenico by the collar and shoved him against the cabin door, leaning close to him.

  ‘I have no money, and even if I did, you can forget it! If you have a son you’ll understand how precious that is – I’m simply trying to reunite this boy with his father. I promise that if I hear so much as a whisper from you I’ll ensure you’ll be dealt with once this bloody war is over – which as you should well know will not be long now and your precious Mussolini won’t be able to help you. Understand?’

  He realised he’d forced his fist into the Italian’s windpipe and he was turning red, his eyes bulging. He looked terrified as he nodded and hurried out of the cabin.

  Prince sat down, shocked at how he’d behaved. He had no idea what had come over him to make him act in su
ch an unprofessional manner. He was breathing deeply, trying to calm himself down, convinced his action had placed him and Moris in jeopardy.

  For the rest of the voyage he was waiting for any sound that would tell him the Adelina had been stopped, for a sharp knock on the door, for the barking of orders in German.

  He never saw Domenico again during the journey. At lunchtime on the Sunday a noticeably relaxed Captain Conti came into the cabin, evidently unaware of what had taken place with his junior officer. They were now in the Sea of Marmara, it had been an uneventful voyage and he couldn’t foresee any problems ahead.

  ‘The port police may well come aboard when we dock but we’ll look after them, don’t worry. As long as we give them a generous fee then they’ll be satisfied so long as they can inspect the cargo.’

  This obviously went as the captain described because at half past ten on the Monday morning Captain Conti returned. ‘Everything is fine. I’ve just been to telephone Alvertos. He’ll be here any minute now. Wait here.’

  Moris appeared to sense something was up: every time he looked at Prince the two exchanged beaming smiles. He was no longer interested in his colouring book or his puzzles as he watched the door, alert for any sound.

  When Alvertos burst into the room father and son both froze for a brief moment, open-mouthed, staring at each other. Moris was the first to say anything, the first time Prince had heard him speak.

  ‘Padri!’

  * * *

  Prince experienced enough emotions as he left the ship to fill one of its holds.

  The most powerful emotion he felt had been while watching the sheer joy of Alvertos and Moris being reunited. Tears flowed as he watched them hug each other, Alvertos ferociously planting kisses on his son’s forehead. At the same time, he found himself thinking about his own son. How would he react when he was reunited with Henry? Would he ever be reunited with Henry?