by Emma Lathen
“Makris too?” asked Bowman. Governments were one thing. A commercial establishment was something else again.
“That’s what they said,” Charlie said irritably.
“The lines are chaotic, but calls have been straggling through since this morning. What’s more, they expect no delay in the consortium negotiations.”
“Oh, they don’t, eh?” Thatcher grunted.
It is a sad commentary on modern business practice that the prospect of the Sloan’s partners opening communications with Greece and proceeding with Hellenus in the absence of a responsible Sloan agent put everybody on his mettle.
“Where the hell is Nicolls?” Charlie demanded. “That’s what I want to know!”
“And we’re going to find out.” Stabbing the buzzer with a martial forefinger, Thatcher summoned Miss Corsa.
“Miss Corsa, the lines to Greece have been opened. I want Nicolls’ hotel. Presumably he’s not there. So, I’ll talk to the manager.”
To Trinkam and Bowman, he said: “I suppose it’s remotely possible that he’s ill or something. They ought to know at the hotel.”
“If his story is that he was too sick to telephone,” Charlie growled, “he’d damn well better be unconscious!”
Thatcher made pacifying noises. “Well, we’ll soon know,” he said in one of the least accurate forecasts of his career.
Four hours later, Thatcher was again at the telephone. Miss Corsa, who had coped with overseas operators, a maniacally disorganized Athens exchange, and several sinister unidentified persons, was resting.
“Hello?” said Thatcher. “Hello? HELLO?”
Miss Corsa had assured him that a responsible, English-speaking member of the staff of the Hotel Britannia was ready and waiting. The only response to his yodeling was expensive, transatlantic static and a distant wail.
Miss Corsa stirred slightly.
“HELLO?”
“‘AIlo! Wait please!” It was a breathy squeak. “They said . . .” Miss Corsa began, but Thatcher waved her to silence.
“HELLO?” Listening intently, Thatcher detected distant human voices, apparently arguing. There was a sudden loud crash.
“What did they say to you, Miss Corsa? Hello? HELLO?”
A different, but still frantic voice, burst onto the line: “Wait, mister! Please!”
“Now, just a minute!” Thatcher bellowed.
To no avail. There was only electronic punctuation. This was the sort of thing that Miss Corsa normally spared Thatcher. For the first time, he began to get an accurate measure of the disruption obtaining in Greece.
“Confused, I suppose,” said Charlie sleepily. It was long past normal working hours and he required bright lights to maintain evening sprightliness. “But they always are.”
Thatcher was about to reply when a sudden explosion of noise temporarily deafened him. Hastily, he removed the receiver an inch from his ear, and heard:
“‘Allo? Here, Lycurgos Diamantis, Assistant Night Manager of Hotel Britannia, at your best service.”
“I am calling to ask,” Thatcher began firmly, only to be drowned in another torrent of speech.
“Come to Athens, sir! Come to Beautiful Greece!” The phone spoke fair-to-middling American English with a Mediterranean gusto around the consonants. “We hold all reservations, just as normal. No danger! Beautiful! You are welcome! If you will please tell me your name . . .”
Searingly Thatcher identified himself, disabused Mr. Diamantis of the notion that he was a potential tourist, and demanded news of Ken Nicolls.
The phone was not downcast. On the contrary, Lycurgos Diamantis grew a shade more vivacious. “Ah! Mr. Nicholas. He is a very, very nice man.”
Mentally saluting Charlie Trinkam who had been dealing with Greeks for many months without showing signs of strain, Thatcher agreed and indicated that he wanted news of Nicolls’ whereabouts.
“Aha!” It was a great light dawning. “One little minute, Mr. Thatchos . . .”
“Wait . . .”
But there was a delay, during which Lycurgos Diamantis ascertained that Ken Nicolls was not currently in room 375 of the Britannia. The announcement was muted, tragic.
“What I am trying to learn,” said Thatcher, very slowly, “is whether Mr. Nicolls left any information of where he was going.”
“O ho!” said Diamantis, again on the upswing. It took several frustrating moments to establish that no messages were immediately obvious at the desk, nor was there any evidence that the Britannia had arranged a sightseeing tour for Mr. Nicolls. On the contrary, with growing animation, Diamantis assured Thatcher that all of the Britannia’s tourists, including 42 Pakistani industrialists, were safe and very, very happy. Diamantis showed an inclination to dwell on this happiness at length, but under prodding promised to consult colleagues and leave urgent messages for Nicolls. He did this with conspiratorial zest, but his last words were on another subject.
“So please remember, Mr. Thatchos, all Greeks very much like Americans. No reason to not come. See Athens! The Acropolis! Delphi! We will arrange many interesting expeditions, with car and driver. . . .”
Without compunction, Thatcher hung up and, for the first time in many years, mopped his brow.
Charlie grinned at him. “They’re a gabby bunch,” he said.
“Nicolls is probably trapped somewhere, being talked to death,” said Thatcher. “I think that what we do now is wait for him to get in touch with us. In the long run, it will save time. He’s bound to get through soon.”
He was not the first man to recoil before the onslaught of Greek volubility.
Athens might be very very beautiful, but the Salonika railroad station was not. Dismayed, Ken Nicolls and Bacharias came to a halt. “I had not considered . . . that is . . . the grounding of planes and these restrictions,” Bacharias faltered.
As well he might; the wholesale disruption of transportation in Greece had left the Salonika terminal a howling maelstrom. Thousands of people paced, stood, slumped, sat, talked, ate and slept. They were on the benches, on the floor, against the walls. All of them radiated a stubborn endurance. Silently Ken followed Bacharias. The older man led him to a newspaper kiosk.
“Reading material,” he suggested, looking around with undisguised horror. “I think you had better prepare yourself. There is certain to be a long wait, a very long wait. I will go to the office to see about your ticket . . .”
“Don’t you want me to go along?”
“It would be better if you remain here. There may be some difficulty.” Bacharias was grim. “I had not realized the extent of the crowd. And I had hoped to get you a berth. But now—” He shrugged to end the sentence.
In spite of his common sense, Nicolls found his spirits rising when he examined the kiosk. There were periodicals in English, German, French, Italian, and Spanish. And now that he cocked his ear critically he could distinguish amidst the great choral rushes of Greek, antiphonal responses in more familiar languages. This was reassuring. So, too, was the fact that the stall-keeper, who had heard him speaking with Bacharias, addressed him in English.
“It is better to get a book, no? You will want to read a great deal.”
Ken decided to prepare against all contingencies. He bought the thickest paperback novel available in English, the New Yorker, and The Economist.
“I am going to run out of the New Yorker and Der Spiegel,” the stall keeper predicted.
“It’s good business for you,” Ken offered.
The stall keeper duplicated Bacharias’ shrug. Then, having established amicable relations, he suggestively advanced a round contribution can as he handed Nicolls some change. Ken, embarrassed as always by the smallness of satisfactory contributions in Greece, dutifully dropped in his three drachmas. The stall keeper handed him a little metal lapel ornament.
“Put it on,” he urged. “Then you won’t be bothered again.”
Ken examined the pin first and noted approvingly that it was the sign of the Intern
ational Red Cross. Now was no time to be advertising himself as a contributor to the Center Union party.
“And a word of advice,” the stall keeper continued. “Keep a hand on your suitcase. The baggage thieves are lying up for their old age tonight.”
Ken had been in banking long enough to know that every event, no matter how apocalyptic, finds a reflection in local business practices. He was gripping his case firmly when Bacharias hurried up with a buoyant step.
“It is satisfactory,” he reported. “Unfortunately there was no question of a berth. But here is your ticket for a reserved seat. Thus far, there is no announcement of any delay in departure time. Let me show you the waiting room. And then I am afraid, discourteous as it must appear that I have an engagement.”
Warmly Nicolls rejected the proffered apology. “You have been more than generous with your time and trouble. I have imposed on your good nature.” Leonard should hear me now, he thought.
Bacharias sketched delight at having been of service, walked with Nicolls to the waiting room, pointed out the most strategic spot for an alert response to the announcement of the Athens Express, and took his leave.
Mentally calling down blessings on the head of an old hand at the Sloan—the one who had advised him to travel with a suitcase which could be sat upon—Ken upended his valise near the wall. He had no faith in the punctuality of the Athens Express tonight, nor in the reserved status of his seat.
When that train was called, there was going to be a mad stampede which had nothing to do with silly little arrangements by functionaries. And the train would go out with people hanging from the window sills. Ken flexed his shoulders against their rigid support. His faith lay in a different direction. He was young and strong. Also, he thought as his eyes surveyed the other participants in this mob scene, he was not encumbered by small children, elderly relatives or miscellaneous household possessions. Why, he asked himself, did the current emergency make it necessary for that woman over there to carry a large black stove with her?
A polite Greek voice sounded above his left ear. It came from a small, brisk man busily inserting himself into the space between Nicolls and an adjacent pillar and, no doubt, represented apology for intrusion.
Ken edged over companionably. “I’m sorry,” he said, ready for conversation, “but I don’t speak Greek.”
The little man’s eyebrows went up. “You are a foreigner? Involved in this?” He spoke English with a fluent competence and a thick accent.
Ken was pleased with his luck. All urban Greeks of a certain education speak some foreign language. Too often it was not one that Ken did.
He disposed his legs more comfortably and tried to induce a chatty atmosphere. “Foreigners, too, can be caught up in Greece’s difficulties,” he reminded his companion.
“Of course, yes. How stupid of me. And you are an American, are you not?”
Ken knew that this assumption did not evidence an ear for accents, but simply an eye for Dacron suits. “Yes. Originally from California,” he amplified.
“Ah, California. Then you have something in common with us.”
“Yes, we both live in lands of sunshine,” Ken agreed, not feeling inclined to go into the distinctions between Northern California and Southern California. “But I have left California behind me.”
“Naturally. Now you are here and on your way to Athens. But I hope you have seen some of the beauties of Salonika.”
This, as a matter of fact, was Ken’s first entrance into the city. He had arrived at the airport and been driven straight to Hellenus. And from what he had seen of Salonika so far, he could do without any extension of his knowledge.
“Unfortunately the press of business has prevented me. On my next trip I certainly hope to do so,” he said courteously.
“And you must allow me to be your guide,” was the polite response. “I am in a favored position when it comes to antiquities. You will find me at this number any day.”
The large calling card which on the Continent passes between two professional or business men within seconds of their meeting was produced. Nicolls furnished his own and then read with interest that his new acquaintance was Dr. Elias Ziros, Senior Archivist at the University of Salonika. The acquaintance, however, was to be short-lived.
“I am afraid I must ask you to excuse me,” the archivist murmured. “I see a friend of mine over there, and he seems to be having some difficulty.”
It would be exceptional if he were not having difficulty in this madhouse, Nicolls thought, as he settled himself to wait for what the heavens would bring. The fates brought first a married couple on his right, far too preoccupied with their own spitting quarrel to have any time for strangers. Then there came a pallid youth who certainly spoke no English, though it was by no means clear from his total silence and unchanged expression whether he spoke anything at all. After ten minutes of restless straining at some metaphorical leash, the youth departed. It was just as a woman who looked hopeful was disposing her suitcase that Ken was again hailed from above.
He looked up to find an assortment of soldiers standing before him. The Greek phrase was repeated impatiently. Inspired by the mute performance of his last neighbor, Ken simply shook his head. A flush darkened the officer’s face. Suddenly the woman, with a quick frightened intake of breath, hissed one word: “Passport!”
She, too, could recognize a Dacron suit.
Ken obligingly produced his passport. The officer took one look and frowned. “American?”
“American.”
The officer mentally solved whatever problem he had encountered and spoke briskly. “You are under arrest. Please follow my men.”
With that he turned and marched abruptly off, leaving Ken goggling in his wake.
“Arrested!”
He was still gasping as he was unceremoniously hauled to his feet, spilling a welter of reading material at the feet of the lady.
“You had better go with them,” she intervened once again.
And go with them Ken did. He was too shocked and incredulous to resist. He was hustled out to some sort of baggage yard before he could recover his breath. When he did recover his breath it did him no good. The soldiers spoke no English. Nor were they in the mood for questions it seemed. For when they arrived under the brilliant arc lights, they found another threesome—two more soldiers sandwiching a burly Greek carrying a black medical bag. The doctor was rapidly shouted into silence. He looked as confused as Ken felt.
They stood in a shuffling, clanking silence as their party was slowly augmented, each time by a threesome. It was with the sixth trio that the officer in charge made his reappearance and Ken saw his first familiar face. The figure dwarfed by two soldiers was that of the Senior Archivist, Dr. Elias Ziros. A livid bruise down the side of his face and the heavy panting of his guard suggested that Dr. Ziros was as energetic as he looked.
The officer barked a crisp command into the shadows outside the pool of light. A long black shape moved slowly forward. Ken had never seen one before, but he knew that this was Greece’s version of the paddy wagon. More unintelligible commands followed. The soldiers lined their charges up in a single file which threw grotesque elongated shadows on the metal siding of the truck. The guards prepared to step aside. Suddenly Ken was infuriated at his own docility.
“Now look here—” he began to storm.
A hard hand clamped down on his shoulder in a paralyzing grip. He swung his head angrily to one side and the guard raised his other hand to strike.
It was then that the single shot rang out.
Ken and the guard stood as if turned to stone. For two long breaths, Ken was rigid, convinced in that sickening moment that the shot was a reply to his own insubordination. Then he realized that the others were looking down at the ground.
Looking at Dr. Elias Ziros, sprawled at their feet with half his head shot away.
Chapter 4
Classical Ruins
Nobody in the vicinity of the Sloan was
wielding firearms, but the situation there was deteriorating as well. Hellenus and the Sloan’s investment seemed safe. Still, the news from Greece did not have a happy impact.
The colonels continued their wholesale transport of political opponents, union officials, and ex-diplomats to filthy overcrowded prison camps—and silence. They banned beards and classical plays. They lifted the citizenship of those of their nationals who did not support them. Those of their nationals abroad, needless to say. Those in Greece either kept their mouths shut or ended up in prison. They banned miniskirts.
“I wish to God,” said Thatcher wearily, “that people would stop this nonsense about profits to be made in Pago-Pago and Timbuktu! The best place in the world to make money is the United States! I wish I could get that across to everyone at this bank!”
Walter Bowman and Charlie Trinkam were both familiar with Thatcher’s dislike for the new wave in banking. Moreover, they both appreciated the merit of his old-fashioned position. But there are styles in banking as well as haute couture. The Sloan was an international power these days.
And as such, Charlie Trinkam pointed out, this meant they had to steel themselves. “After all, John, if the State Department can stomach this we can!”
Thatcher did not waste more time shooting down that proposition. Instead he reverted to a more immediate concern. The Hellenus situation was critical and the Sloan appeared to have no acting representative on the spot. In the normal course of events, this would have been serious enough; with final ratification in the offing, it was beginning to be more than that.
Ken Nicolls had still not been heard from. Fifth Avenue specialty store buyers had relayed tidings of their own safety and the continuing availability of Arachova rugs; domestic science teachers were assuring Congregational authorities that all was well at Patras; stunned parents of smart jet setters were learning that Glyfada was still magnificent.
Under the circumstances, the Sloan was disappointed in young Mr. Nicolls. But nobody was bothering with that now; first on the agenda was getting somebody to Athens.
Unfortunately there were other calls on the bull pen. Charlie was due to represent the bank at important meetings in Caracas.
