When in Greece

by Emma Lathen

  “Oh, I think so. After all, they must be looking for me by now.” Hastily Ken pulled himself up. He had almost forgotten his role as student activist and revealed himself as a responsible businessman who does not simply drop out of sight with no questions asked.

  Mrs. Andreades did not notice the slip. She was staring out at the street in horror. Then she found her tongue. “They are coming back! And Marcos is in plain sight! They must not see you together.”

  Ken was almost immobilized when he saw that the car blocked their return to the shop and the sanctuary of the second floor. But Mrs. Andreades was made of sterner stuff. Grabbing both his arms she drew them into the shelter of the tiny shed, as the two men advanced on Marcos.

  Huddled together they could hear every word of the exchange through the gaps in the battered board door. Mrs. Andreades hissed a running translation.

  “You there!” the leader called. “Where is the owner? She was here a minute ago.”

  Marcos’ surliness was a byword in Elasson. Without any idea of what was going on, he was instinctively unhelpful. “Is it her business to wait for you? She’s gone out. She’ll be back.”

  There was a hasty consultation between the two men. They wished to set off for the north immediately. “How long?” they pressed.

  This time Marcos did not bother to reply. He shrugged, indicating the futility of predicting a woman’s absence.

  “It’s no use,” said Pavlos.

  Yanni made one last attempt.

  “Did you see the American yesterday morning?” Marcos peered at him suspiciously.

  “American?”

  “Yes, yes. The American who was here yesterday morning and bought clothes.”

  Marcos, for all his rheumy eyes and misogynous age, did not miss much. He knew perfectly well that there had been an American resident for the better part of two days. And what business was that of these two?

  “There are always Americans. But me I go on my rounds. It is for her to be a fine lady and sit in the shop. I am out and about, I drive the cart, in rain, in winter, at my age I drive the cart. I am not one of the fine ones . . .”

  As he spoke, Yanni and Pavlos were in full retreat. They knew this litany could go on forever. Even as Marcos reached for the further privations of his life, they were in the car starting the motor.

  As it pulled away, Mrs. Andreades and Ken subsided on each other in a surge of relief. Ken should have been more careful. As Mrs. Andreades clutched him she made a great discovery. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes slid upwards. “But,” she exclaimed, “You are not such a young boy after all.”

  Ken had also made a discovery. Mrs. Andreades was by no means an old woman.

  Chapter 11

  Prometheus Bound

  Dictatorship encourages civic myopia. In a few short weeks Athenians had learned to turn blind eyes on tank deployments, on padlocked schools, on royal appearances designed to demonstrate the love of the people for their monarch, and on non-royal disappearances.

  But there are limits to the tactful blindness that can be expected from any Mediterranean people. It is one thing for booted men to swoop down on unsuspecting victims in the small hours of the morning and prod them, barefoot and dazed, to prison cells or firing squads; recent history has presented Greece with too many instances of this.

  But to snatch an American tourist in broad daylight from Omonia Square, possibly the busiest spot in Athens—well, that was too much. As the small Fiat sped away with Everett Gabler, perilously negotiating a corner and narrowly missing a vendor of chestnuts, there was a moment of unbelieving silence. Then, as if summoned by a choirmaster, there came a tremendous release of Greek indignation.

  “Po! Po! Po!”

  “Did you see that!”

  “Panos I feel sick!”

  The important personage overseeing the chaotic stream of traffic was drawn by the crowd. With tremendous dignity he halted all cars, then advanced slowly, demanding instant enlightenment. Inevitably, a rich cacophony of claxons, bells, and automotive curses was added to the forceful, if conflicting, accounts which rained down upon him.

  Within minutes the din was insupportable.

  Peter Chiros had briefly reverted to type by shouting furiously at his nearest neighbor. But almost immediately, he came to his senses. Unnoticed amidst the mounting maelstrom—and the chestnut vendor had joined the group, claiming bodily injuries as well as property loss—he disengaged himself from what was, by now, a gathering of private citizens far in excess of the number currently allowed in Greece.

  Chiros pushed through the mob, courteously murmuring signome but scowling hideously in thought. Like any Greek Chiros first responded to drama, then accepted the inscrutable workings of fate with an expressive shrug, acknowledging both the capriciousness of life and man’s frailty under forces bigger than he was.

  But Chiros was an employee of Makris as well as a Greek; he knew that fatalism would not wrap this one up. Not when the man so unceremoniously bundled off was Everett Gabler of the Sloan.

  “Signome,” he said again, elbowing his way to the entrance to his office. If he had affected worry beads, he would have been clicking them at a staccato clip by now. There were too many questions, too many perils, there was too much at stake.

  Chiros pushed his way indoors and ignoring the elevator which tended to be chancy took the stairs two at a time. His first goal was the phone. Others might be misled by the New York office’s assurance that, in Athens, Chiros had full authority to act; Peter Chiros was not.

  “I’m calling Makris,” he declared, abruptly gesturing a colleague to follow him into his office. He relayed a terse but colorful description of what had just happened on the street below their windows.

  The colleague was less well-tailored than Chiros. But he too was a Greek and an old Makris hand. He fingered a jowly jaw.

  “Not so good,” he decided. “A little overdone, don’t you think?”

  “That is not for us to say!” Chiros said harshly.

  “Well, someone will!” Jowl-jaw riposted. “Or do you think that the Sloan will take the position that this was a one-way trip to Giaura Island?”

  Chiros thought of that filthy, overcrowded prison island used by the colonels. Then he shook his head. “Two of them? One right after the other? I do not think anyone will be offering simple explanations.”

  “And the explanations will really have to be complicated when Nicolls and Gabler reappear.”

  “Reappear!” Chiros snorted. “Only if they’re lucky!”

  The colleague, startled, sent up a ritual call to the Holy Virgin.

  Chiros snarled several epithets at the Athens Exchange, then looked up: “What I’m afraid is that, sooner or later, two bodies will be washed ashore someplace!”

  Jowl-jaw whistled soundlessly. “O ho! It’s like that, it is? Well, that’s what comes of playing with fire.”

  Chiros shrugged. “I don’t know what’s going on. Maybe we’ll understand more after we speak to Makris. But I’d give a lot to know what he’s up to!”

  24 hours passed. Everett Gabler was not washed ashore on one of Greece’s rocky promontories. But he was not in evidence on dry land, either. He had disappeared as completely as Ken Nicolls.

  As the softly plump Army officer across the desk repeated this refrain, Bill Riemer undiplomatically interrupted: “Captain Cotronis! You, and your superiors, must recognize the very grave implications of this situation! Mr. Gabler was forcibly abducted in broad daylight . . .”

  Cotronis arched pudgy fingers and said: “Crimes occur, my dear Mr. Riemer. Even in your own great country, I understand. Do not think that we underestimate the seriousness of the whole affair. Colonel Patakos himself said to me: Cotronis, this is serious!”

  Riemer had orders to throw his weight around. It was a pleasure. He was developing a deep dislike for the representatives of the new, purified Greece with whom he was forced to deal; in addition, Cotronis’ thin dark curls glistened with pomade.
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  “Captain, I am instructed to remind you that your campaign to encourage American tourism . . . .” Touched on a sore point, Cotronis quickly pointed out that the tourist season was progressing very nicely, despite lies and calumnies spread by Italy, France, Spain, and other tourist centers.

  “Not enough to fill those new hotels on Mykonos,” Riemer contradicted him. He had just noticed that Cotronis let the nail of his little finger grow long. “You have to increase dollar tourism by 20% each season in order to justify the capital expenses you have been undertaking. We have made studies that I would be glad to lend to you.”

  Cotronis was baffled by percentage numbers and capital expenditures, but he was shrewd enough to know an insult when he heard one. “Mr. Riemer, you forget—”

  “And it’s not going to do any good to your plans for encouraging U.S. investments if important businessmen disappear into thin air! You know that it is your government’s policy to encourage U.S. investment, don’t you!”

  Cotronis’ simulation of friendliness was betrayed by the vicious glitter in his eyes. Yet his voice remained ingratiating. He even managed a small smile.

  “Ah, you Americans! How you like your jokes! Please, Mr. Riemer, remember that Colonel Patakos himself asks me to reaffirm the profound friendship of Greece—”

  “What kind of friendship is this?” Riemer asked grandly. “Friendship that allows Americans to be snatched from the streets of Athens!”

  Cotronis controlled himself with visible effort.

  “Now to get down to brass tacks,” said Riemer in another tone of voice. “The Ambassador and the highest sources in Washington want to know what steps are being taken.”

  “Steps?” Cotronis trembled with rage. “Steps? What steps can we take, Mr. Riemer? We know no more than you! The police, the militia, they are searching for Mr. Nicolls and for Mr. Gabler. But we have no clues . . .”

  “What about the car?”

  “It was stolen!” Cotronis wailed.

  “And the eyewitnesses?”

  Cotronis wiped his brow and explained that there had been 27 eyewitnesses and hence 27 different versions.

  So it went for some time. But there was nothing more to be learned from Cotronis. Riemer, although outranked, rose to indicate that the interview was terminated. He was a thin, pale man with a prominent Adam’s apple, personally insignificant compared to Captain Cotronis, who was magnificent with ribbons, medals, and epaulettes. It gave Riemer considerable pleasure to reflect that behind him stood two hundred million people, the Sixth Fleet, and other support factors.

  “Captain Cotronis, I am afraid that I must report to my government that your government is not cooperating fully . . .”

  An hour later, Riemer was describing the scene to the Ambassador. Like Riemer the Ambassador was bone-tired. He was as fed up with colonels as Riemer was with captains. And, if the whole truth were told, he was also tired of urgent high-level phone calls, cipher messages, and other communications concerning the Sloan and their wandering personnel.

  “I pushed him pretty hard sir,” said Riemer.

  “Good,” said His Excellency absently. He himself had been struggling with an impulse to go further. “And you’re convinced that the government didn’t have a hand in any of this?”

  Wearily Riemer summoned his thoughts. “I wouldn’t say I’m convinced, sir, since this bunch is absolutely outside the limit of anything I’ve ever encountered!” Riemer’s previous post had been the Congo. “But on the whole I don’t think so. Cotronis would like to assassinate me I know. But I think he was really sincere—or as sincere as anything so unsavory can be. But Cotronis may not know everything that’s going on. I do know that they are making inquiries about Nicolls and Gabler. Of course, that could be window dressing—but they’re so simpleminded—well, frankly, I don’t think they’re clever enough to think of it.”

  The Ambassador growled but he did not deprecate these intemperate utterances. “That gibes with the line they’re feeding me.” He took a turn around the room. “But then what the hell! I’m not convinced that the colonels know everything their supporters are up to! They might not even approve. First Nicolls, then Gabler! What do you think . . .”

  Riemer brooded darkly. Then: “Frankly, I think Nicolls must be dead.”

  “And Gabler?”

  Riemer closed his eyes against reality. “I think he’s either dead—or damned near!”

  Everett Gabler was not dead. He was, however, far from well. A very disagreeable nervous headache was pounding relentlessly at his temples. Moreover his stomach, always delicate, was in a state of outright mutiny. Yet despite vile personal discomfort, in danger as in safety, Everett retained a strong sense of dignity due him, both as an individual and as a representative of the Sloan.

  Therefore instead of sinking back in comfort, he sat bolt upright on the modern Danish sofa. He had no idea where he was. Presumably, it was still Greece. Yesterday’s wild automobile ride, while seeming endless had taken an hour at the most. Since then he had been imprisoned—yes, imprisoned!—in what appeared to be a small country house. Certainly, sounds heard at dawn suggested that the house was in the country. And a small window revealed a sparkling sea with islands stretching to the horizon. Otherwise for all that Everett could tell, he might have been in an apartment in New York. A rather expensive apartment at that. There was a grand piano in the corner of this room; in the hall that led to the bedroom where he had been immured—immured!—were shelves of books, including many English titles. A beautiful plant filled a large terra cotta vase now glowing in the lengthening sun rays. It was tastefully luxurious. Everett was infuriated.

  “No thank you,” he said icily to the elderly woman mutely urging tea upon him. “No thank you!”

  The dark young man slouched against the open door to the balcony responded to the flow of speech this elicited.

  “Eleni, she says it is the chamomile! It will make your stomach feel better!” He then relapsed into silence.

  Everett merely glared at him frostily, shook his head at the old lady, and remained silent.

  Eleni looked from one to the other, then, with a shrug of the shoulders, left the room.

  The bald-headed man sitting opposite Gabler exchanged a few words with the young man at the window. From the kitchen the old woman’s complaints wafted back, interpolated with low masculine rumbles.

  Gabler, whose suffering stomach cried aloud for tea, felt his resolve stiffen. Out there, in the kitchen, were two of the three gorillas who had had the effrontery to bundle him into a car, drive him around for an hour—with a blanket over his head!—then frog march him up the stairs into this very room. No doubt other toughs were patrolling the grounds! Well, let them! He would show these people the stuff that bankers are made of! The bald man sighed.

  “Mr. Gabler, why can you not cooperate?” he asked plaintively, echoing, although he did not know it, many of Everett’s colleagues at the Sloan. “We are reasonable people . . .”

  This was too much for Everett.

  “Reasonable?” he exploded. “Well that is certainly a very strange way to put it! You’re a band of cutthroats, that’s what you are! Reasonable? Hah! Kidnapping people from city streets may pass for reason in Greece, but I have another word for it!” Since he was speaking, he felt if incumbent upon him to add: “I demand that you release me immediately!”

  There ensued a vigorous Greek exchange. Inwardly Everett smiled. Demands for reasonableness had been continuing ever since he had been delivered to this room. The only interruptions had been a few hours sleep, with two mustachioed villains watchfully stationed inside the bedroom, and a dinner composed of egg-lemon soup and fish with garlic sauce. Delicious Everett had to admit that it had been. But poison to a man with his stomach. Yet Everett Gabler had held out; his own indignation was undiminished. The Greeks were beginning to sound disheartened.

  The young man at the window left off his moody fingernail chewing and came over to station himself n
ear Gabler. His dark, rather handsome face glistened with earnestness.

  “Mr. Gabler,” he said hoarsely, “you must understand that this is serious for us, very serious. Already, you have driven us to action that we deplore—no!” His voice rose above Everett’s expostulations. “No! We did not wish to abduct you. Do not force us to take other action that we—and you—would regret! But do not doubt that we will do—what you force us to do!”

  A quivering silence fell. Both interrogators fixed their eyes hypnotically on Gabler. From the kitchen there was the clatter of pans punctuating the flow of conversation.

  “We are serious,” said the young man after an enigmatic look at his companion. “We are deadly serious. You must believe us, Mr. Gabler.”

  He had misjudged his man. Everett was already so ruffled that neither cajolery nor threats of bodily harm could get through to him.

  “Disgraceful,” he announced firmly. “This whole performance is disgraceful, and I demand . . .” As he continued, the young man threw his arms into the air and exploded into profanity. Gabler settled back and mulishly confronted his tormentors. Curiously enough his stomach felt better. Possibly it was the diversion. Because Everett, to do him justice, was not an egoist; he thought of self only when it was right and proper. At the moment, his attention was centered elsewhere—namely, on these two men. Once Gabler had assimilated the fact that the younger man was a student of architecture and the bald man was owner of an importing firm—somewhere—his sense of affront had known no bounds.

  This is not to say that for several hours Everett had not resigned himself to being in the hands of desperadoes. He had tried to compose himself to meet his Maker. But the villa, together with an architect student and an importer and the two brigands in the kitchen were identified as an ex-seminarian and a professional photographer, although Gabler did not believe it informed him that he was involved in something more complex than simple villainy.

  The young man wheeled. “Enough! We must know where this Nicolls is!”

  Everett had one tone for students, Greek or American, hostile or friendly.