by Emma Lathen
“I have already pointed out,” he said with offensive precision, “that I do not know where Nicolls is! That indeed is why I have come to Athens—to my regret!”
“I do not believe you,” said the young man savagely.
Gabler merely pursed his lips but the bald man leaned forward and with cunning said: “You have told us many times that you do not know where he is, this Nicolls. All right—no, no, Theo, do not excite yourself! Let us simply drop this point and move on, if we can. We wish to know where Mr. Nicolls is, that is true. But we have other concerns also. We must know what Mr. Nicolls’ business in Greece really is. What is he doing here? What is his concern with Greece? This bank, that you represent, how is it involved?”
These were new questions.
Gabler searched his mind and could see no objection to a reasonably responsive reply. Carefully he outlined the Hellenus project.
The bald man nodded. “Ah yes, the big power project in the north. I have heard of it. Go on!”
As the phrases fell from Gabler’s lips almost automatically, his thoughts were racing. Insofar as he had assigned a motive to his abduction, he had assumed it was all a piece of the ruthlessness of the new regime. The Greek Army had descended on Nicolls in Salonika. Now, less official agents of the regime had descended on him in Athens. But surely no government agent, however unofficial, had to be told of the Sloan’s interest in Hellenus? Hastily Everett rearranged his ideas.
“And so you see,” he concluded, “Mr. Nicolls was preparing for the official conference opening in two weeks. Now that he has disappeared, I am carrying on his work. As well as conducting a search for him, of course. That is the sum of the Sloan’s involvement in Greece.”
“No. That is not so.” The bald man raised a hand to stem Gabler’s protest. “Perhaps you are telling the truth as you see it, but we know better. Let me tell you more of what passed in Salonika.”
He began to tell the tale now so familiar to Gabler. The arrests, the death of Dr. Elias Ziros, the disappearance of the army truck . . .
Everett stirred restively. “I know all this,” he said resentfully.
“Wait! Do you know this? The police have at last released Dr. Ziros’ body to his family for burial. And his family, in going through his pockets, found this!”
Like a conjurer, the bald man whipped his hand through the air and suddenly flourished under his captive’s nose the standard professional card supplied by the Sloan to its executives. Nicolls’ name was in the center.
“Very theatrical,” said Gabler disapprovingly. “But no surprise to me. The police have already questioned me about that, and I will tell you the same—”
“The police!”
The bald man sank back, his pallor deepening. Then he spoke rapidly to the student and called in the ex-seminarian. Excited discussion followed with wide-armed semaphoring. Gabler’s patience came to an end. He cleared his throat authoritatively.
“If you could defer your discussion,” he said, testiness in every syllable, “the explanation is quite simple.” He could not complain of lack of attention. His audience hung on his words as he explained the army surveillance of Dr. Ziros, the arrest of his most casual contacts in the railway station.
“There,” he said, leaning back in satisfaction. “You see, Nicolls had nothing really to do with Dr. Ziros. Like the others, he was arrested simply because of a few polite words.”
But his audience’s reaction to this innocent statement left him plenty to complain about.
“That settles it!” cried the bald man, slapping a knee. “We must find Nicolls!”
The ex-seminarian bayed something menacing in Greek.
“But why an American?” the student exclaimed.
“Elias must have been out of his mind.”
“Or he had no choice,” barked the others.
Baffled, Everett stared at his captors. Then he averted his eyes to the small, untidy heap beneath the piano. Here were Nicoll’s belongings, including the new two-suiter, stolen from the Hotel Britannia. Much was becoming clear.
The bald man seemed to recollect Gabler’s presence with surprise. Visibly he strove for a more placatory manner. When he spoke it was with a grave courtesy that, oddly enough, made him seem older and more dangerous.
“Mr. Gabler, our interests are the same. You wish to find Mr. Nicolls for your own purposes. So do we. I assure you we mean him no harm. But it is essential that we have access to him. Surely, we can cooperate.”
There was almost a siren call of allurement in his closing sentence.
If there is one thing to be said for a lifetime on Wall Street, it is the armor acquired against siren songs. In this respect, Everett Gabler was tone deaf.
“If we are to speak of cooperation,” he said with impressive command, emanating as it did from a frail, no-longer-young man totally helpless in an alien land, “then the first step is to restore my liberty. You say that you intend no harm to Nicolls? On the record, your first act would be to incarcerate him.”
“Incarceration!” fumed Theo. “Who are you to talk to us of incarceration?”
The bald man shook his head sadly. “I am sorry you take that attitude. There can be no question of releasing you. You say that you and this bank of yours think only of the Hellenus negotiations. Very well then! Here you stay! And there will be no Sloan representative at the negotiations. If it is so important to the Sloan, there are things that are important to us, too. Perhaps your Mr. Nicolls will now come out of his hiding. Perhaps your bank will find him. While we hold you, we have something to bargain with!”
Gabler was almost beyond speech. This threat to the negotiations touched him where he lived. It was beyond belief! Everett was not by nature an imaginative man. Hours spent contemplating the future had not prepared him for this. Although he knew full well that men who could snatch him off an Athens street were presumably capable of more and worse.
With an effort he regained control. “Now this has gone far enough,” he said, rising. “I am leaving!”
An iron hand grasped his elbow painfully and pushed him back down onto the sofa. The ex-seminarian had padded up from the rear.
“Listen,” Theo snarled. “We are not joking. You are going nowhere!”
Gabler was about to protest when the older man forestalled him. “You must wait. You do not realize what is at stake, what we are risking. This is the only thing we can do.”
This might have made the blood of a lesser man run cold. Gabler rubbed a bruised arm and said: “You realize that the police, too, are looking for Nicolls?”
The bald man nodded wearily.
“I realize that.”
“And now they will be looking for me as well. Have you thought of the consequences if they find me?”
This time the silence was really dangerous. The young student, eyes blazing, took a step toward Gabler. Everett did not flinch, but the older man intervened, pulling Theo away, speaking in a low persuasive voice. When he had pushed him with rough affection back in the direction of the window, he turned to Gabler.
“That was not a wise thing to say, Mr. Gabler. Not wise at all. It would be so easy for you to disappear permanently if the police pick up your trail.” He nodded significantly toward the sea which could be heard far below. “Do not try us too much. We are already risking our lives.”
Gabler could be astute. He did not reply. For a full 25 minutes silence obtained in the room. The ex-seminarian retired. After a disgusted look at Gabler, Theo went out into the hallway and shouted something to someone else. The bald man settled himself at the desk, switched on the lamp, and turned his attention to a pile of papers which he marked with red pencil.
Gabler tried to sort the various impressions that had assaulted him like blows, but a sudden pang reminded him of his suffering digestive system. He sniffed delicately. A faint unrecognizable aroma was beginning to seep into the room, an aroma both appealing and somehow alarming.
“Ahem,” said Gabler politely
.
The Greek looked up.
“Would you tell me what we are having for dinner?”
The Greek was cold. “Octopus, Mr. Gabler. From the sea!”
“Thank you,” said Everett mildly.
But it was at this point that he came to a decision. No matter how problematical his captors’ intentions, one thing was certain: more meals like this and he would certainly not survive.
Chapter 12
Zeus Descending
Miss Corsa was as good as her word. Accordingly Thatcher was on the six o’clock plane to Athens despite the spirited attempts of his colleagues and subordinates at the Sloan to divert him.
“Listen John, it may be dangerous!” Walter Bowman sputtered.
George C. Lancer chose a loftier approach. “Of course, I realize you want to be where your men are, but the press of business here . . .”
From Caracas, Charlie Trinkam fairly boiled over:
ATHTRIP UNWISE STOP WILLPROSELF STOP GREEKS KNOW STOP REPLY PROMPTEST
Thatcher dismissed these qualms and continued obeying Miss Corsa’s serene instructions. These got him aboard the six o’clock jet to Paris-Rome-Athens where not even boeuf bourguignon as prepared by Chef Maxim of Manhattan’s chic El Rotundo weakened his resolution. By dawn he was in fighting trim for Athens after having beaten off lively attempts to route his luggage to Copenhagen without him.
“I have only what I am carrying,” he said.
“But, M’sieur . . .”
“And I intend to continue carrying it!”
Thus when he landed at Athens airport, to be passed through customs with flattering alacrity, he was well rested and raring to go.
“Despite the singing.”
“Singing sir?” inquired the courier from the Embassy deputed to greet Thatcher.
“In Paris we picked up some Greeks who had been working in France. They sang most of the way home.”
The courier escorted Thatcher to the waiting limousine and glanced at the heavily armed soldiers lounging near the cab stand.
“Well, now that they’re back in Greece,” he said, “They won’t feel like singing for long.”
Thatcher heard but did not comment. After 20 minutes of dust, heat, and extraordinary traffic, he was delivered as had been others before him to the Hotel Britannia.
The manager seemed strangely unwelcoming, but dutifully produced a sheaf of messages, appointments, and telephone numbers.
In short, with the arrival of John Thatcher, conferences between subordinates had ceased and the principals were moving into the arena.
The readiness with which American Ambassadors and Greek Cabinet Ministers made themselves available was only to be expected—it was a response both to Thatcher’s seniority and the increasing gravity of the Sloan’s presence in Greece. But Thatcher suspected that more than a regard for punctilio was operating. Ambassadors and Ministers are after all only human. Like everyone else they wish to be present at the passing season’s more dramatic moments.
And they thought they saw one coming. After all, Nicolls, a very junior trust officer, had disappeared with becoming modesty as part of a random bag by the Greek Army. Gabler, a senior trust officer, had been snatched in broad daylight from Athens’ busiest thoroughfare. It was only natural to expect that Thatcher, senior VP of the Sloan, should go to glory in an even more spectacular fashion. By now, the Ambassador and the Minister would not have been surprised to see a hovering helicopter scoop him up from the amphitheater during the first act of Medea.
Thatcher was not offended by this ghoulish interest in his manifest destiny. He had come to terms with human nature a long time ago. No, what disturbed him were the signs of ebbing faith in the Sloan’s political purity. The Ambassador naturally enough was diplomatic.
“You’ll find the Minister of the Interior a little edgy,” he predicted. “Can’t blame him really. He doesn’t like the way things look.”
Thatcher said that he didn’t either. The Ambassador nodded vaguely and pursued his oblique approach.
“Not as if this were a stable government—or even a coherent one. The military junta has the support of the old-line conservatives as of now. But you know how these things go. And a lot of these conservatives aren’t enthusiastic about American investment. Afraid of it. Money means political leverage. The Minister doesn’t want anything to go sour.”
Thatcher said firmly that the Sloan was not involved in backstage politics.
“Of course not. But you can see how things shape up for the Minister. The Army has given him its story about Nicolls. As far as he’s concerned either they’re lying or the Sloan is.” The Ambassador did not sound happy.
“Other elements might be involved.”
They canvassed that possibility for a while. The Ambassador’s final words were no comfort.
“The Hellenus project is important to a lot of people,” he pointed out. “I suppose you’re sure of your own men.”
As Thatcher was driven to the Ministry, he passed the time trying to visualize Everett as a lone wolf of international espionage. Upon being introduced to the Minister of the Interior and Undersecretary Bacharias his first impression was that they made more suitable candidates for the role. This was not he hoped simply chauvinism.
“The Army has been entirely frank with us,” the Minister told him earnestly.
“Splendid!”
Thatcher immediately wrote off the Minister. If he believed what he was saying, he had no political future. If he didn’t believe it he should be preserving his flexibility until the danger of refutation was past.
Gravely the Minister reproduced the authorized version. The Army’s excellent intelligence had learned that the notorious revolutionary, Dr. Elias Ziros, possessed documents “inimical to the welfare of the Greek Government.” At the Salonika railroad station he was going to pass the papers to a courier en route to Athens. Accordingly the Army had arrested Dr. Ziros and all his contacts. The contacts had been loaded into a truck bound for headquarters. Had the truck arrived safely, of course, Mr. Nicolls would have been cleared at once and released with apologies. Unfortunately the earthquake had intervened. The Army had searched the immediate area and established that Mr. Nicolls had not returned to the Hellenus site. With profound regret it could only suppose that Mr. Nicolls had fallen victim to the natural cataclysm. It remained only to convey to the Sloan and the American Government its heartfelt sense of loss . . .
“Naturally,” said the Minister, “we assume that, had such an innocent man as Mr. Nicolls survived he would instantly have communicated with the proper authorities.”
“Oh naturally.”
The Minister did not volunteer one word about the murder of Dr. Ziros, the abduction of Gabler, or the persistent intrusions into the Hotel Britannia.
“This leaves a good many events unexplained,” Thatcher said mildly.
The Minister replied Everett Gabler was no doubt a man of many excellences. Unfortunately his stay among mortal men in Greece had been so transitory that the Minister had not had the opportunity to make his personal acquaintance.
Bacharias immediately informed his superior that Mr. Gabler’s ability and diligence struck the beholder on first glance.
“But alas,” the Minister continued, figuratively draping himself in black, “the Greek Government is at a loss. Only those with a more detailed knowledge of the activities of your great bank can explain the mysterious events overtaking its personnel.”
Thatcher’s composure remained unruffled as he made his adieux and accepted the offer of Bacharias’ escort back to his hotel. The Ambassador had been right. The Greek Army said the Sloan was lying. And for the Minister that was more than enough.
His Undersecretary, Bacharias, seemed to share this view with modifications. After describing the latest progress at Hellenus and the complexities of the forthcoming round of negotiations, he was forced back to less congenial topics as they were brought to a full halt by Athens’ lunch-time traffi
c jam. As they sat in a limitless sea of cars, with the cacophony of blaring horns, shrieking pedestrians and incensed traffic police ringing in their ears, Thatcher seized his opportunity.
Pointblank he demanded his companion’s opinion: “I understand your grounds for suspicion,” he said bluntly. “But these suspicions are not in fact consistent. Nicolls’ disappearance in Salonika, even if he were involved in some skullduggery, does not explain what is going on in Athens.”
Bacharias threw up his hands. “I am not unprejudiced,” he admitted. “You must realize that I feel responsible for Mr. Nicolls’ troubles. I must be honest. It would be a relief for me if he were something more than an innocent victim, set down in that railroad station by my stupidity.”
Thatcher nodded thoughtfully. Bacharias’ point of view was comprehensible. Thatcher did not pay much attention to over refined feelings of personal guilt. He did understand that a civil servant’s career could be damaged by embroiling prominent foreign visitors in local troubles. Bacharias predictably enough was searching for some other explanation. Thatcher intended to show him that this particular explanation would not solve his problems.
“Let us be frank with each other for one moment,” he suggested smoothly. “Allow me to point out something which you may have overlooked in the confusion of recent events. You have worked with the Sloan for many months and with Mr. Nicolls for several weeks. I leave it to you to decide whether either was likely to be party to Dr. Ziros’ activities. But if you assume that Mr. Nicolls went to that railroad station to meet Dr. Ziros, then there can be no question of your having set him down there. He manipulated the entire sequence of events. It was he who arranged that you should both arrive when you did. In a sense, Nicolls made you party to the transfer of documents.”
Bacharias didn’t like it. Not one single bit. John Thatcher felt his first unqualified satisfaction for a long time. Visibly Bacharias recoiled from this picture of himself as a man who, however innocently, was guilty of insurrectionist activity. He was still struggling with this horrifying vision when the traffic clot suddenly dissolved and they were swept up to the doors of the Hotel Britannia. Thatcher got out and watched the car pull away.
